As I got out of the car I turned back to him one last time. I don’t know what made me say it. Maybe it was three glasses of wine on an empty stomach. Maybe both our lives would have been different if I’d kept quiet.
‘Just so you know, if you weren’t my boss I’d be asking you inside now.’
JULY 2016
Fran
She cries herself out on Will’s shoulder that afternoon as the rain continues to fall in the garden outside. Slowly her breath returns to normal and she pulls away from her husband, the rise and fall of her chest steadying. Outside, the sun breaks through the clouds for a moment.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
Will runs his left thumb over her cheekbone, wiping away a tear.
‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he replies.
The shaft of sunlight that breaks into the living room that grey afternoon makes Fran think of new beginnings, makes her think again about the second chance she has been offered.
‘I want to try again,’ she says. ‘When I get back from Spain, I want to try again.’
She watches Will’s brow furrow.
‘I don’t know if I can …’ he begins and she suddenly realises what she has said.
‘No,’ she interrupts. ‘No, I mean I want to try again with us. I want our marriage to work.’
‘You and I can be happy again, I promise.’ He kisses her then, gently, and they sit quietly together holding each other. They feel like a team again, like equals. They’ve come a long way since last summer.
She pulls away from him a little to look at him. He looks so vulnerable. He isn’t as strong as he likes people to believe.
‘The weather’s clearing up,’ he says, quietly. ‘I might go for a run. Do you mind?’
She shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I need to pack and I might have a bath.’
He goes upstairs to change. ‘I’ll cook tonight,’ he says as he leaves.
Looking back, Fran will remember everything about that moment with the surreal clarity of a dream – the sunlight in the room, the logo on Will’s shirt, the way he smiled, the feeling she had that maybe he was right and that they could be happy again.
It was the last time she saw him before everything changed.
*
She lies back in the bath feeling it cocoon her. The bathroom is her favourite room in the house and she probably spends far too much time in here submerged in water that is just a little bit too hot, watching her skin turn pink and the pads of her fingers wrinkle.
This was the first room Will renovated when they bought the house. He and Jamie ripped out the old bathroom suite, stripped down the floorboards and created the bathroom Fran had always wanted: with a double shower and a double sink and, resplendent in the middle of the room, the claw-footed bath she’d dreamed of since she was a little girl. Unless they had visitors, nobody but her ever used this bathroom – Will preferred the en-suite – but Fran knew it had been a labour of love and being here made her feel close to her husband, even when things had seemed as though they could never be fixed.
Will renovated the bathroom first because he wanted to make her dreams come true – he always said he wanted to make her dreams come true. But Fran couldn’t help thinking that all the work he’d put into this house was just a mask, a cover – papering over the cracks that were getting deeper and deeper as it started to become apparent that she could never make his dreams come true.
After last summer she would spend hours in here, locking the door so Will couldn’t come in. Back then she used to wonder what it would be like to disappear into the water and never re-emerge, but she doesn’t think like that any more. She doesn’t lock the door any more either, but she does keep it closed – not like before, when she’d keep it wide open so she could still see Will if he walked past. Some evenings he would even come in, sit on the edge of the bath, and talk to her. She didn’t think he’d been in here for months; it had become her private sanctuary, as his study had for him.
After it had happened it had taken her months to let him touch her, let him kiss her. She couldn’t bear him to be near her; she couldn’t bear anyone to be near her. Other people’s sympathy, other people’s emotions, made everything worse. She couldn’t cope with her own feelings; she didn’t have the space to think about Will’s.
Things had gradually got back into a semblance of normality after New Year, once Fran had felt ready to go back to the yoga studio. Once she finally did, it had helped more than she thought it would – being with her friends again, doing something that mattered to her, something that made her happy. Sometimes the only time she felt alive was when she was teaching.
She thinks about the previous night, about falling asleep in Will’s arms, and it dawns on her that it was the first night they’d slept the whole night through together in months. It had taken them so long to get there after those first fumbled attempts at normality.
On their wedding anniversary in March, Will had come home from work with a takeaway from their favourite Thai restaurant in the next village. He’d laid the table, lit candles, opened a bottle of Prosecco, and encouraged her to join him, to share a meal with him.
‘I know it doesn’t feel like we have much to celebrate,’ he’d said. ‘But we still have each other.’ She’d tried to let herself relax, to just enjoy his company for a few hours, to try to eat something.
Afterwards, they’d watched a film together just like they had this afternoon. She’d lain back against him and tried to concentrate on the future, tried to concentrate on the film. She’d let Will choose and it was full of action and loud noises and bright colours with an unnecessarily complicated plot that she hadn’t been able to follow. It had made Will happy though, and she had let herself sink back into his contentment, even if it was only fleeting.
Later, when the film was over, she had become aware of the sensation of his arms around her, the warmth of his breath on her neck. She had turned around to face him, felt his lips on hers. It had been six months since she’d last kissed her husband properly. She had wanted to feel something, anything. She hadn’t been sure she would be able to and, as it turned out, it was months before she truly started to feel anything again, but she wanted to try before the gulf that had opened between them became too wide to traverse.
He had carried her upstairs that night. It was the first time they had gone to bed at the same time since the previous summer, and while she wasn’t able to feel the things she used to be able to feel, at least her husband had been there with her.
But later, even later, when he thought she had fallen asleep, she had felt his arm slip out from underneath her, felt the mattress lift as he got out of bed. She had heard him slip back into his clothes and pad across the bedroom and down the stairs. She had heard the door of his study open and close and she knew she had lost him again, to his thoughts and to his sadness.
She had wondered if anything would ever be the same. They had kept trying, from that night onwards, to find a new sort of normal, but he had nearly always come to bed after her, always woken long before her, neither of them able to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time.
Until now. Now she understood that, deep down, under all the pressure and the pain, they were still just Will and Fran. They could still find happiness again. Now she began to understand how much he had been through as well.
The bathwater is starting to cool and she needs to finish her packing before Will gets back so they can spend the evening together. She pulls herself out of the water, wraps herself in one of the big, soft white towels, and walks across the landing to the bedroom.
It is then that she notices Will’s phone on his nightstand. It isn’t like him to leave his phone behind. She notices the light flashing, signalling a message, and for a moment she feels something shift – as though the atmospheric pressure has changed slightly.
If somebody had asked her, afterwards, why she did it she wouldn’t have been able to tell them. All she remembers is walk
ing over to the nightstand, still wrapped in the soft white towel, and picking up Will’s phone, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. She’d never looked at his phone before, never checked his messages or emails, never answered a call. But that afternoon she is pulled towards the flashing light on the phone and she will never be able to explain why.
Later, looking back at this moment, she would wonder if she’d made the right choice. But sometimes life isn’t about choices. Some things are just meant to be.
Will has never been secretive about his phone or his laptop. He leaves his emails open in the kitchen all the time and everyone knows his PIN to everything is his birthday. He is just arrogant enough to believe that nobody will ever try to hack him.
Fran walks over to the nightstand and picks up the phone, tapping in 310170. She will remember the touch of her fingers on the phone screen for a long time afterwards. Almost immediately she wishes she had never looked.
I miss you so much, Will. I wish we could be together again like we used to be – just one last time. You know where I am. Kx
The number isn’t saved to his phone, and there are no other texts or calls to or from it. It is almost as if Will had gone out of his way to make sure they were all deleted. Fran knows exactly who ‘K’ is anyway.
She turns the text message back to unread, locks the phone, and returns it to the nightstand. It isn’t until then that she feels it: the sensation of the world tilting on its axis. Nothing will ever be the same again.
She thinks about Karen Barden, a woman who works in the village pub. Someone she barely knows. Fran had seen her flirt with Will sometimes; she’d seen Will flirt back. She hadn’t thought much about it. She’d had bigger things on her mind. She’d barely thought about Karen Barden at all until now.
She unwraps the towel from around herself, hanging it over the back of the door to dry, and slowly dresses. Then, carefully and methodically, she begins to work her way through her list, packing everything she needs for Spain.
One of the things that she has always loved about yoga is the way it has helped her to be aware of the present moment, to focus her mind on the task at hand. The reason she’d taken it up all those years ago, long before she’d even considered teaching, was to help her stress levels at university. Now, in her bedroom, the bedroom she shares with her husband who she suddenly feels she doesn’t know any more, she takes some deep breaths and focuses.
Inhale. Exhale.
Will has already brought her suitcase down from the attic for her, leaving it open on the bed. She feels the shudder of tears in her throat. The little thoughtful gestures, the things he does without having to be asked. She always thought he was perfect, even though she knows there’s no such thing as perfect.
Inhale. Exhale.
She slowly folds and rolls her clothes, feeling the texture of the fabric beneath her fingers. Yoga clothes, sundresses, bikinis, sarongs, shorts, vests.
Inhale. Exhale.
She notices the familiar smell of the fabric conditioner that she’s used for years, the one her mother used. She squeezes socks and underwear and sandals into stray corners of the suitcase.
Inhale. Exhale.
She remembers all the conversations she and Will have had about this retreat over the last few months – about whether or not she should do it. He constantly encouraged her, ignited that flame of excitement and adventure inside her that has helped her to feel alive again, told her how strong she is. Now she wonders if he wanted her out of the way.
Now she needs that strength more than ever.
Inhale. Exhale.
She picks up the small plush Piglet that sits by the side of her bed. She presses it to her face, the toy that will always remind her of everything she and Will have been through. Almost as an afterthought she puts it in her suitcase too. It feels as though she is leaving for longer than a week.
She pushes the suitcase lid down with the weight of her upper body and slides the zip around. Then she sits at the bottom of the bed and waits for her husband to come home.
FEBRUARY 2005
For months after Mum died, I missed her so much. We’d spoken on the phone three or four times a week after I moved to London and to not have those conversations any more left me empty. I didn’t really know anyone in Cambridge then and, after Mum, I found myself living a quiet, isolated life. I went to work, I went to yoga, I watched TV, I read, I went to bed. And then the next day I would do it all over again. The days seemed endless, pointless, always seeming to require too much effort – as though I was walking through jam.
Until Will came along.
The first time Will stepped inside my house was a Sunday morning in February. It was one of those days when the sky is the colour of slate and the air completely still. One of those days when it’s bone-achingly cold. A typical East Anglian winter. Will turned up on my doorstep with champagne and eggs to cook me brunch. I hadn’t invited him.
He looked out of place in my tiny house – too big for the rooms – but he brought life and happiness and laughter to walls that hadn’t known anything but my sadness since I’d moved in.
Will had been slowly bringing me out of my shell. I don’t think he knew it at the time, but he was helping me rediscover who I was. I’d always thought of myself as somebody who wanted a big life, who wanted to travel, to drink champagne, to fall in love. Until I met Will I’d never even left the country. He brought me out of my chrysalis, let me spread my wings. He transformed me.
After we’d eaten the eggs and drunk the champagne he cleared the dishes. I sat on the kitchen counter and watched him as he slowly dried his hands, not taking his eyes off me. He was looking at me in that way that made me feel as though I was the only person in the world. And then he walked over to me and kissed me.
It wasn’t our first kiss. That had been in his car the previous Wednesday. Since the Christmas party we’d taken to going out for dinner on Wednesdays. I don’t know why it was always Wednesdays; I don’t know why he never asked to see me at the weekend. When he kissed me the first time I pulled away before it turned into anything. I didn’t want to be that person. I didn’t want to be the secretary who sleeps with her boss and then afterwards, when everything gets awkward, has to leave.
I saw the fleeting look of disappointment cross his face as I pulled away, before he composed his features again. He had no idea how much willpower it had taken for me to do that. Neither of us had known where to look since it happened, our eyes sliding quickly over each other at work, not sure whether to say anything, not sure what to do.
But that Sunday morning in my kitchen when Will’s lips found mine, my willpower deserted me. I knew I couldn’t pull away again. I let him kiss me; I let him slide his hands down my back, finding the gap between my jeans and my top. I ran my fingers through his hair, wrapped my legs around his waist, pulled him closer.
‘I want you so much,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Can I take you to bed?’
Afterwards we lay together, our foreheads against each other, limbs entwined, breathing each other in. I didn’t know what this was; I didn’t know where this was going. He was my boss. He was eight years older than me. This had disaster written all over it.
I moved away from him a little so I could see him properly. He lay with his eyes closed, those impossibly long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. Those eyelashes were wasted on a man.
‘Will,’ I said quietly. He blinked his eyes open and I watched his lips curve into a smile. His hand traced the bones of my spine.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said.
‘I think you already have,’ he replied. He was still smiling.
‘I can’t be the secretary who sleeps with her boss. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m so sorry, Will – I should have stopped this before now. We need to stop this.’
He propped himself up on his elbow. ‘I can’t stop,’ he said. ‘I’m falling in love with you.’
I hadn’t been expecting that. I stared at him. I’d been trying to sto
p myself falling in love with him since the Christmas party.
‘I thought this was just—’ I began.
‘This isn’t just anything,’ he interrupted. ‘Well, not for me it isn’t. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to feel like this again. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to trust anyone else after my wife left me.’
‘But—’ I hadn’t known his wife had left him. I’d always assumed he left her. I was surprised to realise that during all those lunches, all those dinners, he’d never talked about his wife.
‘I know you’re my secretary,’ he interrupted. ‘I know that makes this a bit … complicated, but I wondered if you’d be my girlfriend?’ He smiled, pulled me a little closer. ‘Sorry that sounded really corny. But will you?’
‘I thought you just wanted …’
‘Just wanted what? To shag my secretary?’ He shook his head. ‘No, not my style.’
‘So why was it always Wednesdays? Why did you never ask to see me at the weekends before now?’
He laughed then, gently. ‘Because I thought you’d have better things to do at the weekends than be with me. Until last week I didn’t think I had a chance with you in a million years.’
‘Even after what I said at Christmas?’
‘I thought that was just the wine talking,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t want to take advantage.’
I stared at him, running my fingers over his jaw, over the stubble where he hadn’t shaved that morning. I couldn’t find my voice; I just leaned my head against his chest.
‘Trust me,’ he said, stroking my hair. ‘I promise I won’t let you down.’
JULY 2016
Will
It had turned into a longer run than he’d intended. He’d only meant to be gone about thirty minutes or so, but as he looks at his watch he realises he’s been out for more than an hour. He needed some space to think, away from the house, away from Fran. Time to think about the things he’d said to his brother that morning, the things his brother had said to him.
The Things We Need to Say Page 2