'Joel was stubborn, a bit of a perfectionist, but he treated me well. He took care of me, as though I was a china doll,' I say, cringing at my own words.
I almost retch at the sudden image of a broken doll lying on the floor of the nursery, something which will always haunt me. It was another metaphor. This is what your precious child will look like, if you don't behave.
I glance down. I'm holding the cup a little too tightly, and gently prise my fingers away from it, as I place it down onto the table. I hold my hands together to stop them from trembling, and look up to see my dad's impartial face.
'I never did like the man.'
'I know.'
'But, he was good to you. I'll give him that. I'm sorry you've had to go through all this, but you're not alone. You and Lily can stay as long as you like.'
'Thank you, Dad.'
I watch his eyes wander from me, and over to the closed kitchen door.
'What are you going to tell Lily?' he says.
'I don't know.'
PAST
One Month Ago
JOEL
Lily stands behind Erica, and frowns at me. The girl dislikes me, but I can't think why. She is my daughter, after all. It isn't as though I'm a stranger. But, that's how she treats me—like I'm somebody she lives with, but doesn't know. I suspect Erica has turned her against me, just as she did with her dad, and that interfering bitch Rose.
She wears her hair in bunches, and hides behind her mother's legs, as I walk through the house, wondering why it's still a mess. It isn't as though Erica has anything better to do all day. She never bothered to begin her so-called course in clinical psychology—the only thing she had spoken about before Lily was born. She doesn't seem to care about anything anymore, not the state of the house, or her appearance. She looks especially awful today. Her hair has thinned, and has been left to grow far too long. The ash blonde hair falls down her back, unbrushed. There are dark circles below her eyes, and her skin has paled. Probably from the lack of sunlight, but I doubt she even notices.
I walked into the bedroom several months ago, to discover the mirrored wardrobes had been covered with large silk scarves, covered in threaded beads, woven through an Indian pattern. I hate them, but I let her keep them. Rose brought them back from her and Jared's travels abroad.
They took almost four months away from work to take the trip, and came back with the brownest tans I've ever seen; they looked like two walnuts. Their skin hasn't been the same since. How anybody can allow themselves to get into such a state is beyond me, but then I look at Erica, and see that it's possible.
She stands in bare feet. I dislike shoes being walked through the house. The laminate makes an irritating clip-clopping sound. Lily moves aside, her face startled by my sudden movement, as I take the keys from the unit beside the door, and kiss her goodbye.
Erica no longer speaks to me, unless I ask her a question. The quietness of the house bores me half to death, as does her meek and mild attitude. The least she should do is reciprocate my advances. Or better still, show some emotion, but she doesn't. She's like a living, breathing zombie, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why.
She must have mental health problems. I suspected she had depression long ago. What causes her sluggish movements and heightened state of awareness at any sudden noise when we're alone, I have no idea. Perhaps, like her mother, she has some kind of deficit.
I always thought her mother's death was a little quick. It turns out she suffered from bipolar disorder. Maybe it was a suicide, and not as Erica would have me believe, a fatal car accident, which killed her. Having birthed such an irritating child, I'm sure she hoped her time would come as soon as possible. Erica isn't the easiest person to live with, far from it. She angers me most days, but I try not to show it in front of the kid, and certainly not in front of anyone else. It wouldn't do for people to witness me snap, and think I'm the one with problems, when it's her.
We haven't had the displeasure of seeing Erica's dad, Graeme, for some time, and Rose keeps her distance. I assume Rose knows I dislike her. I did tell her I'd prefer her not to visit the house anymore. If she must see Erica, I'd rather it was on neutral ground. It would only take a few minutes for Rose to grind Erica down, until she broke, and told her I hit her sometimes. I could do without the questions, and the media frenzy of a divorce. Especially now I've been made partner of the firm. It wouldn't look good; all that publicity, all those lies casting a shadow over my good nature and work ethic. I cannot allow that.
Erica steps aside to let me pass, and I close the door behind me, making my way toward the new Audi. My recent purchase is a huge regret. It has problems. From the moment I bought it, it's been in and out of the garage more times than I care to remember. At the moment, it's running, but I refuse to visit another garage, for as long as I live. The sweaty mechanics, with their oily hands all over my hard-earned vehicle, is not something I take to very well.
The last garage I took it to actually refused to service it for me. They blamed their busy workload, but I know it's because last time I used them, they found a condom wrapper in the foot well. They know Erica can't have more children. They know her well, because I used to bring her everywhere with me, in the early days of our marriage. She used to be a pleasure to take out, not like the quiet puppet on a string she is now.
I head into work, aware of the time, and how I should have called in to let them know I would be late, but I wasn't planning on having to guarantee Erica's obedience, before I left the house.
She plays the happy wife role very well, but only I know, beneath the facade of dutiful, elegant and good-natured, she can be controlling and manipulative. She has to have the last word on all of my decisions, however strongly I feel for them. She doesn't seem to understand silence is the virtue of perfection. If you cannot keep your mouth shut, then do not speak at all.
She's learning. I'll give her that. She's not as strong-willed, or as feisty, as she used to be, but for some reason, I find that more annoying. She doesn't have any fight left in her. None of the confidence I once loved about her remains. She is a mere shadow of herself, and I do not care to explain how she came to be that way. Lord knows I've tried to figure her out, but it always leads me in circles, and back to the one moment she says changed everything for her. The day I married her.
It was such a perfect day, but she had to ruin it. She had to make a bitchy comment about my inclusion in the wedding plans, which made her come across as ungrateful, and for whatever reason, I snapped. I hit her. It was just a slap, but it stopped her talking, at least for a few minutes. And the sex afterwards was very satisfying. She let me do everything I wanted to her. She just lay back, and let me get on with it. It was probably the best sex we've ever had. Although, there have been good times since, like the day Lily was conceived.
It's funny how I've always thought the world worked in mysterious ways. It took less than a month after our wedding for Erica to discover she was almost two months pregnant. I didn't really care if it was a girl or a boy. I just hoped the child would bring us closer. We lost some of the intimacy we'd shared before we'd married. However, Lily's birth was the catalyst for things to come.
More and more often, I found Erica in a state of undress, feeding, sleeping, shitting, eating, and attempting to tidy away the evidence of a day at home doing nothing but reading picture books to the little girl I doubted was mine, but pretended I didn't notice. Her hair is fair, like Erica's, and her eyes a shade bluer. I swear babies inherit most of their genes from their fathers, so I doubt it's a possibility she's inherited mostly her mother's DNA. It just doesn't seem right.
Yes, back to Erica. She was a slob. In those early days, I felt as though I had to pressure her to do anything. When I called the midwife, seeking advice, she told me it was perfectly normal, but I suspected post-natal depression from the off. It just didn't seem normal to me for a house containing only one very small extra person to be constantly in a state of disaster.
But,
whatever the reason, Erica soon became the dutiful wife. After much coaxing, she made me a packed lunch to take to work. It was only ever half decent, so I almost always threw it in the bin the moment I got to my office, but I didn't have the heart to tell her for over a year.
She would spend her days tidying up, cleaning, cooking, and would often take Lily out to the park, or to a toddlers group, but I had to put a stop to that. She started inviting other mums back to the house, and gossiping. It would only have been a matter of time before she began telling them all about her wonderful lawyer husband, and then they'd be googling me, and interfering in our lives. It isn't right.
I am a very private person. I cannot help the way I am. It must have something to do with having a father, with a very demanding presence, and a mother who argued the hell out of anyone. It's never right to act like a fish wife, and it's certainly not okay for a man to allow himself to become so withdrawn from society, once he becomes redundant, that he takes a step back, allowing his wife to wear the trousers once he's out of work.
For the following thirty years of their lives, my parents swapped roles, and my mother became a loud, arrogant woman. I'm surprised my father never slapped her face a few times, but that's his story. His problem. Not mine. In fact, I don't allow other's lives to become my problem. I think that's one of the many things Erica dislikes about me. I don't understand her need to put herself in the position of consoling friend. I've never had the kind of relationship, with anyone, where I'd ever consider leaning on them for support. I always deal with things myself. It's better that way.
Talking of problems, at least one other has been dealt with. Sophie is no longer with us at the firm. She made an accusation about me, and Roger King suggested she leave. He gave her a good reference, but she never forwarded it on. I'm not sure why.
Roger has always been a good friend to me, and when he asked me to become his partner, after his son left for a well-paid job in the Crown Prosecution Service, I readily agreed to accept his invitation. He has never questioned me over my affairs; neither has he ever disclosed any of my private rendezvous to Erica, and there have been many. The trouble is, when you have a wife who cannot bear to undress in front of you, there comes a time when you are forced into the arms of another woman. It makes sense.
I reach the office in record time, having driven slightly over the speed limit. Once inside the air conditioned building, I'm greeted by Roger, as he closes the door to his office and shrugs, raising his eyes to the ceiling. I take it to mean the client inside the office is one of those you're never quite sure of; an obvious guilt emanating from their closed-off exterior, but a charm exuding from them which might draw you into their bullshit, if you weren't as experienced as I am.
I tread the stairs, and round the sharp corner, where a large, leafy plant greets me, as I kick it aside to enter my office. It's probably the cleanest room in the building. I take great care in the things I am proud of.
I open the drawer to my desk, and pull out a small bottle of whisky I use for medicinal purposes. Any man would drink, if he had to return home to a dead-brained woman and her weird, timid child each night. It's a wonder why I haven't set the house alight one night while they're both asleep, and got rid of them once and for all, just as I'd hoped to do to Rose and Jared's place. But, things got in the way of that idea. Patrick's untimely death, for starters.
It isn't as though anyone would miss Erica and Lily, if they burned to death. But, there would be too many questions asked. She's made quite an impression on people over the four years we've been together. For some reason, my colleagues and acquaintances are fond of her. I can't for the life of me think why.
Perhaps they feel sorry for her, she does give people cause for sympathy; the poor woman whose husband works ungodly hours and takes trips away from his family often. I'm sure they believe her to be nothing less than perfect, but I know better.
Despite the thought clouding my vision every so often, I couldn't burn down my own home. The police would rake up every little thing about my past, twisting it to suit their own agenda. The media would have a field day, concocting their own story about why the wife and daughter of such a highly paid, well-educated lawyer, died in a fire so unexpectedly, so tragically. Besides, how would I be able to keep a drawn face for all those months, pretending to be consumed with grief?
There is another reason I haven't killed her, yet. Erica has pushed my hand far too many times for me to count, but I have restrained myself. It wouldn't look good, and she's actually quite a nice person, beneath the ugly exterior, lack of grace, shitty sense of dress, and quiet demeanour. Somewhere, buried beneath all that, is the same woman I fell in love with. I just haven't been able to uncover her yet.
I undo the cap of the whisky bottle, and glug down several sips of the warm liquid, enjoying the feel of it burning my throat. It filters down into my blood stream, taking away the stress of the morning, while I leaf through the paperwork for my next case.
The Corran case has technically been ongoing for a year. I used to excuse my busy schedule, and the stress of work, for my behaviour, reminding her she couldn't possibly understand how demanding my career was, but there is no point in trying to explain this to her. I don't think she believes me anymore. Besides, why should I seek an excuse for my actions, if she is the one who causes them?
ERICA
I sit the shepherd’s pie on the counter top. The smell of potato, encrusted with cheese and rich gravy, makes my mouth water, but I won't eat it. I'll wait, as always, until Joel returns home from work, whatever the time, sitting beside him, and tucking into the food, if he allows me to.
Lily is quiet. Too quiet. She sits at the table, watching my movements, her little tongue lapping at her mouth, and her stomach growling with hunger, but she knows better than to ask for something to eat. She must wait for her father. I look into her eyes, and wonder what her life might have been like with another mother. Would she have been happier?
I'm sure she hears things her little ears shouldn't, but there's nothing I can do to stop it. Joel enjoys it when I fight back, so I stopped doing it long ago. It's better to just lie there, and let him get on with it. Despite a large part of my brain screaming at me to try harder to fend him off, allowing him to complete his dark fantasies gives me as much a sense of courage as trying to prise his filthy hands away from me. I no longer feel scared when he enters the bedroom, nor do I feel as though I have to endure his sick, twisted games, because now I hold the power within me. I learnt to switch off the first time he raped me.
The first time, he had forced me down onto the bed after he came home, elated at having secured another man's chance of getting away with several hundred thousand pounds in one of his tax evasion cases. He was in a good mood that night, but I just wasn't feeling up for anything, except a long soak in the bath, and an early night with a good book. I didn't want to make love to him.
I'd just fed Lily for the third time in five hours, and had only just got her settled. She fell asleep in my arms. I breathed in the soft scent of her baby head, and placed her down in the cot. The moment I heard the front door open, I knew he had a spring in his step. For a few minutes, I felt hopeful it wasn't going to be a repeat of the night before, assuring myself he wasn't going to find an excuse to punish me.
I followed the sound of his footsteps into the living room, and asked him about his day. He seemed pleased I'd taken an interest in his work, in spite of how wretched I felt, having slept barely six hours in two days. He opened a bottle of whisky, something he did every night, and poured himself a glass, gulping it back as though it was water. Then, he took the plate of food I'd made him from the fridge, and passed it to me to heat up in the microwave. He ate it slowly, and sat back in his chair afterwards, rubbing his stomach.
'That was lovely. You're an exceptional cook. Almost as good as my mother.'
I tried to ignore the hint of sarcasm in his voice, having grown used to the putdowns and belittling comments, and decid
ed to pretend—as always—not to have noticed.
'I'm glad you liked it. Shall I put a film on? It's still early.'
'I'd much rather go to bed, if you don't mind?'
'Not at all.'
I thought we were going to catch an early night, as we did most nights, at his request. He was also a very light sleeper. The slightest sound would wake him. That's why I hadn't left him, yet. I could never get out of the house while he was at work, and he didn't sleep deeply enough for me to make my escape at night.
I've thought of nothing else for the past three years, going over potential escape plans in my head every night as I lay beside him. If it wasn't for Lily, I'd have left him by now. But, I can't do that to her. She needs both parents, a stable home. I cannot be the one to take that away from her, regardless of the suffering I have to endure in order to keep up the pretence.
But, getting back to that night, I was so tired I could have fallen asleep standing up, but I knew the moment he waited for me to undress he had something other than sleep in mind.
It was the first time I felt uncomfortable in the bedroom. To me, it had always been the one room in the house which gave me safety. He'd never hurt me in there, because Lily's room was only down the hall. But, that night, the way his eyes glazed over, turned my blood cold. It was as though something else was within him, acting out the things he wanted to do to me.
Afterwards, I lay there, sore and ashamed. I wrapped my legs up tightly against my chest, and tried to still my breathing. I didn't want Lily to wake up, so I buried my head in the pillow, covered in snot and tears. I thought if I closed my eyes to sleep, I would wake up, and the horror he had inflicted on me would have all been nothing but a dream. But, I awoke the next morning, with blood smeared across the sheets, and some of his hair still trapped beneath my fingernails where I'd tried to wrench him off me.
Beautiful Liar Page 17