The Other Us

by Fiona Harper

  After a while – I don’t know how long – I turn the water off and stand there, dripping. When I’m ready, I peel my hand from the wall and I reach for a towel, rub my hair and my face, then wrap it around me.

  Oh, God. What am I going to do? Help me! I think I may have messed things up once and for all. Dan is never going to forgive me for this.

  I walk across the landing and into the bedroom and let out a scream. Dan is sitting there on my side of the bed, his feet avoiding the damp clothes I hurled on the floor. He must have got the fast train back. Unsurprisingly, he’s not looking much happier than the last time I saw him, around two hours ago.

  He shakes his head. Eventually he looks at me and says, ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  I look at the floor. Maybe I have. It certainly feels a bit like that this evening. I really want to get dressed, but I also really can’t face being naked in front of Dan at this moment, so I reach for my robe and put it on top of my towel, tying it tightly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I just thought – ’

  ‘I know what you thought!’ he says, his volume rising. ‘God, Maggie! Why would you think that I’d do that to you?’

  ‘Because you lied to me about where you were going,’ I say. ‘Because you’ve been lying to me about this for a very long time!’

  That takes the wind out of his sails. He stops looking so appalled and rubs his hand over his face.

  ‘Thursday nights?’ I ask. ‘What are they?’

  He looks at his feet and then up again. ‘Writing group at the library,’ he mutters.

  I think of all the things I imagined it would be, how far I let myself run with it, and never in a million years would I have guessed it right. I’d laugh if it was in any way funny. But this isn’t funny, because the fact Dan didn’t even feel he could confide in me, and the fact it was so easy for me to believe it was so much worse than it actually was, is a sobering indicator of just how far our marriage has sunk.

  I walk over to the end of the bed and sit down. Dan joins me. There’s two feet of space between us, but it feels like the Grand Canyon. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’ I ask, and I’m not blaming him. I just want to understand.

  ‘I don’t know … It was stupid. It’s just become a habit to keep all of this from you, I suppose. I would have told you if something had come of the meeting.’

  Oh, flip. The meeting. I look sideways at him. ‘Did I ruin it for you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think he really saw what was going on, and once you’d left, we talked. He judged a short-story competition I won, and he’s interested in seeing something longer if I can write it.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ I whisper, but all the while I’m thinking that Dan won a competition and he didn’t tell me. What kind of bitch must I have been to him to make him behave like that?

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ he says. I can see the truth of it in his eyes. ‘About my writing, about any of it. I don’t even know how it started, but when I first found out about the writing group we weren’t doing so well, and you seemed to be so anti me doing anything like that, so I just made up an excuse that first time. I mean, I might not have gone back.’

  He looks so sad that I want to put my arms around him, but I keep them carefully stapled round my middle, holding my dressing gown closed, despite the double knot. ‘Why not tell me when it became a regular thing?’

  He lets out a long sigh. ‘I just don’t think I could have faced one more fight,’ he says and shrugs. ‘I was a coward, I suppose. It was easier.’

  I inhale then exhale, aware of how seductive ‘easier’ can be. It’s easier to protect yourself, to blame and resent and complain than it is to build a proper relationship. We were both guilty of choosing what was ‘easy’. It strikes me that marriage – a good marriage – is the reverse of those operations they do to separate conjoined twins, one lump of flesh being separated into two. On your wedding day, you start off as two distinct people, but that’s the moment the process begins. Or it should. Of integrating and joining, of becoming ‘one flesh’. The problem is that no one tells you it’s just like the operating theatre, where you have to be naked, where you have to open yourself up and expose your most vulnerable parts, and it takes courage and guts and selflessness to do that. Why don’t they mention that in the service, I wonder?

  But then I think of that reading, those few short verses, and I realise it was there all along. I just didn’t know it. I heard the words but I didn’t really understand them. I think I might be starting to now. Just starting to.

  ‘But things haven’t always been awful,’ I say. ‘Recently I thought they’d been better.’ I search his face, looking for confirmation I wasn’t just fooling myself.

  He nods and a tear slides down my cheek. ‘They have … I’ve been thinking about telling you, I really have.’

  ‘But the other week … I was even trying to encourage you to write.’

  He looks away. ‘I know you were saying all the right words, but – ’

  ‘But what?’

  He meets my eyes, goes still. ‘You can be awfully dismissive of anything I suggest that you don’t like the idea of,’ he says. ‘And this is special to me. It isn’t just a suggestion of what takeaway to have or whose parents we should spend Christmas with this year.’ His voice goes hoarse. ‘This is my dream, Maggie. I had to protect it.’

  Another tear falls, not because I think he’s being unfair, but because I know he’s right. ‘From me,’ I say quietly. ‘You had to protect it from me. Because I’d stomped all over it too many times in the past.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, and his face twists a little with the effort of holding all the emotion back. ‘I should have told you.’

  I clamp my hand to my mouth and shake my head, unable to speak. I know he couldn’t have done, that I wouldn’t have understood. I was too stuck in my own little spiral dissatisfaction to see.

  Then Dan is reaching for me and I for him. We’re holding on to each other, as if the other is the one point of stillness in a stormy sea, and if we don’t cling on for all our might we might not survive. I wrap my hands around the back of his head, hold his face against my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry too,’ I mumble. ‘I didn’t mean to be so horrible. I didn’t even know I was behaving that way. I was just … scared.’

  Dan pulls back and looks at me. ‘Of what?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. Scared of you writing, scared of what that choice would mean. Financially, yes, but also for you … what if you tried and failed? You’d have been even unhappier than you were.’

  He smiles at me. ‘We can’t just leave the things we want to do unexplored …. unchosen … because we’re scared of what might happen if we do,’ he says softly.

  ‘I know,’ I say, nodding. ‘I understand that now. I didn’t then, but I do now.’

  I have an overwhelming urge to tell him everything in this moment. To let the truth spill out and take whatever consequences come, but this openness is so new, so fragile, I can’t risk it. Maybe one day. Maybe.

  Dan gives me a lopsided smile. ‘We’re a right pair, aren’t we? Me sneaking off into the night … you tailing me.’

  We meet each other’s eyes. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself from giggling, but it does no good. Pretty soon we’re both howling with laughter. I try to stop, but every time I think about this evening it seems like a scene from a particularly bad Carry On… film and I just start laughing again.

  It does us good, though. The endorphins wash away the last of the tension. When the hilarity finally ebbs away, and we’re sighing and wiping our eyes, Dan turns to me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘For not telling me where you were going? Don’t be. I get it now.’

  ‘No, for not trusting you,’ he says. ‘For blaming you for everything I wasn’t happy about in my life.’

  ‘I did that too,’ I say. ‘It must be contagious.’

 
; The corner of his mouth lifts at my attempt at a joke, but then he gets serious again. ‘I know I told you I hated it when you pushed me, but it’s only because, deep down, I knew you were right. I knew I was just marking time, wasting my life, but it was easier to turn it back on you, to push you away, than to do anything about it.’

  I nod, warmed by his words.

  ‘I know that sometimes you were just trying to make me happy,’ he adds. ‘Maybe you did in a way that drove me nuts but, basically, you were coming from a good place.’

  A tear slides down my face, even while I chuckle at what he just said. Yep. He pretty much hit the nail on the head. I found the most annoying way to try and help him, then launched straight in. Dan wipes the tear away with his thumb. ‘It’s time I started thinking about how to make you happy too,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

  ‘And you know there isn’t anyone else, don’t you?’ I look into his eyes. He’s looking back at me, nothing hidden, and I nod. He breathes out heavily. ‘Good. I would never do that. I love you.’

  I find my eyes have started leaking again. My chin crumples and I nod again. ‘I love you too,’ I say, and we kiss. Not a steamy, let’s-rip-our-clothes-off kind of kiss, but a this-is-who-I-am-and-I’m-letting-you-see-it-all kind of kiss. I feel lightness as I pull away and rest my forehead against Dan’s, my ribcage rising and falling softly. It’s like we’ve pressed the reset button on our marriage, taken it back to where it started, where it always should have been. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.

  ‘I want you to write,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to be happy.’

  He nods. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Will you show me something one day? Maybe something you’ve been working on at that group of yours?’

  I know this is big for him. I know he might not be ready yet, everything is still to raw and fresh, so I’m pleased when he says, ‘Wait here,’ and heads off for the study. While he’s gone, I turn on the bedside lamps. I feel the need for a calmer environment, not glaring light overhead. I also slip the towel out from under my dressing gown. I hear the printer going in the study and a few minutes later Dan appears and hands me a sheaf of pages, the first chapter of a sci-fi novel he’s been working on for the agent. I prop my pillows up against the headboard, get comfy sitting up there, and start to read.

  When I’m finished, I look up to see Dan hovering near the end of the bed. He’s been full of nervous energy while I’ve been reading, moving around the room, tidying things he usually throws on the armchair in the corner, going backwards and forwards to the bathroom. I could be wrong, but I think he’s brushed his teeth twice.

  I look up to find him in dressing gown and boxers. His shoulders are tense, his face desperately trying to stay neutral but leaking a steady stream of micro-expressions: fear, hope, discomfort. Finally, he says, ‘What do you think?’

  I smile. ‘I think it’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘Really good. I love the fact it’s a good, old-fashioned spaceship kind of story.’

  I pause for a moment, considering what I should say next. In my other life he’s making good progress in another genre. Maybe, if he’s going to get the success he deserves in this one too, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if followed the same path. I know things that Dan doesn’t know, you see. I know boy wizards and hobbits are going to be big in the next few years. Spaceships and such like will have a long wait until it’s their turn again.

  ‘You’ve got such an amazing imagination,’ I say. ‘I wonder if it’s going to be wasted on adults? I think maybe you should write a book aimed at children or teenagers.’

  Dan’s eyebrows raise. He honestly hasn’t considered this, I realise, but I also remember what he accused me of before and I add, ‘Just a thought. I don’t want to push.’

  ‘No,’ he says, sitting down on his side of the bed. ‘You might have something there. I’ll think about it.’

  I start to smile, but it grows into a yawn. I cover my mouth with my hand. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Must be because I’m on the bed.’

  He shuffles closer. ‘I’m tired too.’

  I nod and lean against him. It’s been utterly exhausting, all this turning myself inside out, but I feel calm and peaceful too. We lie there, not talking, not moving, until my eyelids are getting heavy.

  Dan nudges me. ‘You’ll get cold if you fall asleep on top of the duvet,’ he whispers.

  I mumble my agreement and, because I’m nice and warm, I don’t bother with a nightshirt; I just throw my dressing gown off and slide underneath where the sheets are deliciously cool and tuck the duvet around my neck. Dan reaches over and turns his light off. He walks round the bed to do the same to mine. I catch his hand. ‘Stay,’ I say with my eyes closed, even though I have no idea if he’s intending to go downstairs or get in his side. I flap the duvet and shuffle over, making room for him.

  Usually, I’m very territorial about my half of the bed and fiercely protective of my nocturnal space. I can tell he’s surprised because it takes a couple of seconds before he throws off his dressing gown and climbs in. Then it’s skin against skin, warmth against warmth, and I sigh. I kiss him softly on the shoulder, the neck, anywhere I can reach without having to move too much, because as much as I want this contact, I want him, I’m bone-tired and my brain has already begun its shutdown procedure for the night.

  We should have sex, I think hazily to myself, to cement this new us, to put a stamp on the occasion, but I find myself yawning more than I do kissing, touching, and Dan doesn’t seem any more energised. His arm curls around my waist. His palm splays on my naked back. I shift and find a more comfortable place to nestle my cheek against his shoulder. I can’t keep my lashes from meeting now.

  Tomorrow, I think, as Dan’s breath whispers through my hair. Just like that first time, there’s no rush.

  But, as the last fragments of consciousness are drifting away from me, I wonder if tomorrow will be too late. I know I’m ready to let this life go now, that this Maggie and Dan have a chance of happiness now their tide has turned, but before I can move something – lips or hand or leg – to signal this to Dan is some way, to take this chance to know him completely one last time, I have fallen deeply asleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  I’m surprised when I wake the next morning to find myself on the opposite side of the bed from usual, on Dan’s side. I reach for him, my eyes still closed …

  And I find him. The memory of that last thought the night before rises lazily to the surface of my mind again and I open my eyes, make sure I haven’t got it wrong. I could have, you know. I used to feel this way once upon a time with Dan, but nowadays, I only usually feel this way lying next to Jude.

  ‘Hey, beautiful,’ a low voice whispers and I smile, eyelids still resting lightly closed. My heart starts to skip.

  I open my eyes to look at my husband, the one man who has ever felt the need to pledge himself to me body and soul, and decide I’m glad I’ve stayed.

  There was a strange moment there, though, when it all got very muddled, when I couldn’t tell what was past or present, one man or the other. It’s strange. I thought the longer I did this the more my life would diverge down two separate tracks – and in some ways it has – but in other ways everything seems to be blurring together, especially when it comes to who I love and how I love them.

  Besides, this gives me a chance to spend more time with Billy. I know when I go the next time it will be the last one. I feel as if I’m in that bit at the end of a film – the big climax has come and gone, and all that is left is to show the characters taking their first steps into their happy ever after. Credits roll.

  I spend a lot of time watching my son with a strange fierceness, trying to imprint every detail of him into my memory, realising I took so much for granted with Sophie. I was not a good keeper of those memories. I let some of them slide through my fingers, and now they are only vague smudges of thoughts – a colour, a word. A smile. I’m not making the same mistake again.


  How did I drift through my life so unaware before? I’m actually quite cross with myself for not realising what I had when I had it.

  The following night I meet up with Becca as arranged. I ask Dan if he wants to come too, not just because I realise we need to spend more time together, but because I just want him there. I was remembering how it used to be, the three of us at uni, how much fun we used to have. Dan declines, though. He says he’s happy to sit in with Billy, that it’ll give him a chance to start making some notes on a story idea he had years ago but never really did anything with. My mention of children’s books has made him think of it in a new light. Other than that he’s being very tight-lipped about it. I’m doing my best not to pepper him with questions, to back off and give him space. It’s hard, though, because I’m excited for him.

  Becca comes down to Swanham and we grab a bite to eat rather than going out for a drink. We end up at Pizza Express in the High Street. When I suggest sharing a bottle of wine she gives me a funny look and says she drove tonight instead of getting the train, so I end up just ordering a large glass of Pinot and hoping it’ll last.

  We chat about this and that, nothing of much importance at first, and I’m halfway through my Diavolo before I confront the knobbly question that’s been poking at the edge of my consciousness all evening. I keep my eyes on my pizza, making sure I have a bit of jalapeño on the square I’m cutting, and keep my tone light. ‘So … what did you get up to last night?’

  Becca’s knife and fork stop moving. I look up to find her frozen, jaw twisted halfway through a chewing motion, and then she starts again. ‘I told you … I had my belly-dancing class.’

  I give her a look that says, Come on! and it’s not long before her face crumples. She puts her cutlery down. ‘If you tell me what you did, I’ll tell you what I did,’ I say. ‘And I guarantee I was the bigger fool. We’re talking James Bond-type surveillance and lots of humble pie.’