Pretenders. The

by Zaza, Agatha

  Edmund looked up at him.

  ‘Did she —?’ Jasper stopped and looked at Edmund’s face, which was impassive. He could see his brother deliberately obscuring the answer to his question.

  ‘She hit him?’

  ‘She didn’t …’ Edmund began without conviction. Unable to meet Jasper’s eye, he turned his head away.

  ‘What then? Dropped him? Shook him?’ Jasper demanded even louder, looming over his brother.

  ‘Jasper!’ Anne shouted.

  ‘She did, didn’t she?’ Jasper stepped back, horrified.

  Edmund rose to stand eye to eye with Jasper. ‘Just leave us alone,’ Edmund ordered him, his eyes narrowing and his voice calm and deep.

  ‘She killed her own baby,’ Jasper said, lowering his voice.

  ‘Get out,’ Edmund repeated, menacingly calm.

  Anne seized Jasper’s arm and pulled him towards the door. He complied, allowing himself to be pulled back into the kitchen. John and Holly moved back to give him room.

  ‘You lied for her,’ Jasper yelled to Edmund without turning, knowing his brother was behind him. ‘Someone must have asked, social services, the doctors?’ He visualised the baby in the picture, visualised the child’s eyes — his own eyes. ‘I’ll report her to the police,’ Jasper said to Edmund who’d followed them into the kitchen, still holding his pot noodles.

  ‘No one would believe you,’ Edmund replied flatly. ‘And you wouldn’t be able to prove it.’

  They all fell silent, except for the sound of their fast and frightened breathing.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Holly croaked, clearing her throat.

  ‘Let’s go,’ John whispered to Jasper. ‘This is too much.’

  Seething, Jasper nodded, knowing he was defeated. He let John pull him towards the exit. He’d never filed a complaint for himself, he’d never told a soul. It would be an accusation by a jealous ex. Everyone, his parents, his friends, would call him a liar.

  It was either the noise or fate that brought Ovidia down the stairs, he thought later. He saw her padding towards him in a pair of lion-faced socks.

  He felt the blow. He saw the blur of his hand, balled in a fist, hitting her. He felt a burning thud that, in a split second, sent pain racing from his knuckles, up his arm, lighting every sensor in his body.

  Jasper saw her fall, ricocheting off the wall and tumbling to the floor, a stream of blood escaping from the side of her mouth.

  Anne and Holly screamed, and John’s cursing was drowned out as he and Edmund hurled themselves at Jasper.

  40

  ‘Why now? Why right now?’ John demanded.

  They were standing on their upstairs landing, the door to his office open, the fold-up sofa unfurled. They’d opted not have a dedicated spare room — John’s career had needed the office space to work on his writing. Anne handed him a set of clean sheets. He snatched them from her and shook them out. His life was coming apart; he knew why, but he refused to accept it.

  ‘Would you rather wait until I slap you again?’ Anne replied carelessly.

  ‘Anne, don’t joke about violence — not after today,’ John said, the echo of Jasper hitting Ovidia still reverberated in his mind, hours after the event.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ she replied.

  ‘You can’t leave me,’ John insisted, his words sounding useless and pathetic to his own ears. He spread the sheet over where he’d be sleeping that night.

  ‘I’m going to give it a go,’ she replied.

  ‘Edmund and Ovidia, Jasper and Holly, their relationships are probably going to end tonight, and you want us to do the same?’ John tried another tactic.

  ‘I prefer to see it as starting afresh,’ Anne said. ‘We have to end so I can have a life on my terms.’

  ‘You’re being evasive,’ John said. ‘Please tell me what I’ve done wrong, so I can make it right. We’ve been together for so long. I don’t want to imagine life without you.’

  He knew now he’d been fooling himself about her lack of suspicion. He’d misread her as he’d lied to her. If what she wanted was a confession, he’d make it.

  Anne forced a pillow into a too-small case and handed it to him to add to the mismatched sheets, garish, happily received from his mother a decade earlier.

  ‘When the girls get back, we’ll explain, and you’ll leave.’

  ‘I refuse to believe that that’s what you want,’ John replied.

  ‘Why not? You’d rather believe that what I really want is to spend the rest of my life with a man who won’t stop cheating on me?’ she demanded, leaving the room.

  John gripped the pillow with both hands against his stomach. He could see her waiting for a denial, for him to defend himself, and he fought the urge to lie.

  Anne continued. ‘No matter what I’ve done for you, no matter what I’ve given up, no matter that I keep telling myself that it can’t be true …’ Anne trailed off. ‘I thought I was losing my mind, your lies were so good. To make things worse, you keep up this sham about how much you love me and the girls.’

  ‘It’s not a sham,’ John shouted then quieted himself. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. Think anything you want about me, but I love you and our daughters unequivocally.’

  He threw the pillow on the floor and came to stand in front of her. ‘Please, Anne, don’t leave me. All those things I’ve done, they’ll end here.’

  ‘I’m not going to talk about it anymore. There’s no point,’ she said and turned her back to him, hand on the doorknob.

  ‘It’s Edmund,’ John called to her. ‘You want Edmund, don’t you?’

  She stopped. ‘That’s so pathetic, John.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I don’t want anyone. I’ve had enough of liars.’

  41

  Anne closed the door firmly between them. She walked down the landing to what would no longer be their bedroom. Once he was gone, she’d redecorate. She’d take some of the money she’d been saving for her daughters’ room and give herself the urban sanctuary she’d envisioned. She’d create a room, and eventually a house that was all about her and her taste. She picked up her iPad and scrolled through her blog — the one John had never seen and, she knew, he’d never have liked. She logged in and switched to edit mode.

  Anne lives in London with her two daughters and is training to be an interior decorator.

  Too simple, she thought, but she decided it would suffice for that night.

  She’d call or text Ovidia and Holly and offer her friendship on her own terms and not as John’s appendage.

  She caught her breath, covering her mouth with a balled hand. She’d been happy, but her happiness had been predicated on her continuing to turn a blind eye to his infidelity and the subtle ways he steered her life in the direction he wanted.

  ‘Go on, cry,’ she said aloud, as her eyes moistened like she expected them to. She knew this would not be easy.

  She heard a shuffling outside the bedroom door.

  ‘Go away, John,’ she said loudly. ‘You’re never sleeping beside me again.’

  The shuffling quietened.

  She got into bed with all her clothes on and thought about how wonderful it would be to not sleep beside a man wondering if he’d been with anyone else before coming home to her. She’d never lie close to him, trying to catch a scent or tell-tale glimpse of lipstick, or touch the nape of his neck and wonder if some other woman had touched him there.

  42

  Alone in their flat, Jasper threw himself on the sofa, jacket and shoes still on. He’d looked at his hands all the way home, rolling them into fists and unfurling them. He could see the bruises forming on his knuckles, and his fingers ached. The last time he’d ever hit someone, he’d been nine years old. Never once, in all the times Ovidia had been violent towards him, had Jasper ever hit Ovidia back.

  Holly had refused to come home with him at first, but he begged, weeping, and she acquiesced. John and Anne had watched, but Anne had insisted that they part, that this was a situatio
n that Holly and Jasper needed to resolve without them.

  In the lounge, Holly remained standing and wrapped her sweater tightly around herself. ‘You have to explain today to me, please. How could you accuse her of killing her own child? And Edmund, he basically agreed?’

  Jasper opened his mouth and then shut it again.

  ‘Jasper, you have to tell me now. If I’m left to imagine all the possibilities myself, I’ll definitely leave. How am I supposed to get in bed with a man who might punch me in the face? How am I supposed to sleep at night worrying?’

  ‘I can give you some pointers.’ He meant it to be funny.

  ‘Jasper!’ Holly shrieked. ‘This is not funny!’ Then she frowned.

  Jasper saw the notion begin to unfurl in her mind. He watched as she began to understand.

  ‘You used to hit her?’ Holly said, breathlessly, looking fearful. She took a step back.

  ‘What?’ he replied. ‘No. How could you think that?’

  ‘But that’s what an abuser would say. What am I supposed to believe?’ Holly wiped her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I’ve always believed you when you’ve said you loved me. I’d never have thought that of you last night. But now …’

  She sat down, hesitating as she went, straightening her culottes and pulling at her top.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what really happened between you two, or do I keep guessing until it drives me mad?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Please don’t make me tell you …’ He looked at her sadly. ‘You’re right. I’m not over what happened. Sometimes when I think about it, I just fall apart … well, you know better than anyone. You’re always there for me,’ Jasper said.

  Holly closed her eyes. ‘If I’m going to keep being there for you, I have to know the truth.’

  It seemed a little easier this time, perhaps because he’d already told John. ‘Ovidia was …’ He still had to steel himself. ‘She emotionally and physically abused me.’

  Holly was aghast — her eyes wide and jaw slack. Her mouth moved as if she was trying to speak. For a moment, she stared at the floor, then she cleared her throat.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Holly said.

  Jasper recoiled at her response.

  ‘I’m going to my mum and dad’s,’ she said, standing up.

  Stunned, Jasper watched her leave.

  When Holly was gone, Jasper slithered from the sofa onto the floor. A leftover bottle of celebratory wine was still standing unopened on the coffee table. Ignoring the sets of wine and champagne glasses they kept in the kitchen, he forced it open and drank from the bottle. He fumbled for the remote control, digging it out from between the sofa cushions, turned on the TV, and let the sounds of late-night television engulf him.

  43

  Holly shuddered when she closed the front door. She’d had enough, she said to herself, enough of having to look after a man who gave her too little in return to justify what he put her through.

  And he lied; she took a deep breath to ease the tension in her chest. How could he say such a mean and evil thing about a woman he’d hit? She covered her mouth, replaying the punch in her memory. The sight of Ovidia on the floor, barely conscious. Holly was going to report him to the police for hitting Ovidia. She had to. He’d committed a crime. No, she wasn’t, she shook her head, as she marched down the stairs. No one would believe her: the other witnesses were all his friends, and his family and would lie for him.

  Edmund’s response mystified her though. But the suggestion was ridiculous. Women didn’t kill babies, unless they were on drugs, and they didn’t hit men either, unless they’d been drinking. Edmund was deceitful anyway, she scoffed, a man who dated his brother’s ex-girlfriend.

  All that didn’t matter, she wailed inside her head. How could she have been so wrong about Jasper?

  She paced, contemplating whether to call a taxi, just so she could have something to think about for a few moments.

  She stood in a corner of the corridor and cried for a while. He could at least have tried running after her and begging her to come back to the flat and to talk to him. That’s what men in love do, isn’t it? How was she supposed to stop loving him? She asked herself how she’d get her life back, what she would do on her own in the evenings, and she mourned the time they spent together.

  It was gone. The future that the two of them were meant to build, the wedding, the babies, the love that one day would allow Jasper to heal completely. She would have to come back and collect her furniture, her books, the mementos that the two of them had collected together. He would have to build his own life, she mused and then reprimanded herself for still caring what happened to him.

  She opened the front door and started the journey to her parents’ house, trying to imagine what she’d tell them.

  44

  Ovidia woke on the grey sofa. Her hysterics had left her exhausted. She’d begun after the others had left. Edmund had protested when she struggled off the sofa to use the toilet. As she’d dragged herself back from the bathroom, she’d seen that it was nearly midnight. The image of Oliver, dead, flashed through her mind, and she fell apart.

  Now, she watched the clock on the wall. The numbers were in focus, but she still couldn’t take them in with her face throbbing with pain. Her skin was clammy, and she trembled with an imagined chill.

  Edmund had tucked the grey blanket around her. This time she’d assented, earlier she’d kicked it away screaming. He sat beside her on the floor, scrolling through his phone. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she was glad he was awake with her.

  Ovidia had refused to go to bed, and they remained where their guests had left them hours earlier. Anne had overseen her care, checking her for concussion, asking her questions to make sure she was lucid. Edmund had stood behind her, repeatedly asking if Ovidia was all right, if he should call an ambulance. Every other minute, Anne had glanced at the door through which John had dragged Jasper, John shouting incomprehensibly, and Jasper too stunned to answer.

  When, finally, Edmund had helped Anne get Ovidia onto the sofa, Anne had said, ‘I should go. I’ll call you tomorrow to see if you’re okay?’ She had turned away too quickly, showing her discomfort in their presence.

  Ovidia hadn’t heard what everyone had been talking about, the conversation in which Jasper had charged at her, but she didn’t ask. She could guess the reason he’d hit her, and if she was wrong, she said to herself, it didn’t matter. He’d hit her, and she wondered if he was as filled with conflict and guilt as when she’d first hit him. She wanted to talk to him, to tell him it was too easy to never stop.

  ‘This is all my fault,’ she said.

  Edmund looked up, surprised to find her awake. ‘Not all of it,’ he replied.

  ‘Could you have imagined a year ago that we’d be planning our baby’s funeral?’ she asked.

  He shook his head and held her hand.

  ‘Please stay with me,’ she began to blubber. ‘What am I supposed to do without you?’

  He squeezed her hand tighter, ‘What about Jasper? I can’t imagine the rest of my life without him. If I’d been more attentive …’

  ‘If you hadn’t been with me,’ Ovidia said.

  ‘Maybe, but I can’t make the same mistake again.’

  Ovidia was silent, looking at the floor, letting the flow of pain free. She winced. Edmund put his arm around her.

  ‘When I saw him go for you, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t stop him. What if you’d been seriously injured?’ He slumped a little, his phone sliding on to the floor.

  ‘You’re texting your mum at this time of night?’ she asked, seeing the profile on the screen.

  ‘And my dad, and John, and our cousin Margret. Jasper won’t answer his phone,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  Ovidia struggled to sit up. ‘What if he?’ she trailed off. ‘You have to make sure he’s all right. You have to go over there.’

  ‘According to John, “He’s finished off two bottles of wine an
d is vomiting in the loo”,’ Edmund read from his texts.

  She pulled the grey blanket around herself and forced herself to remember.

  She had nearly pried the insole out of her running shoe

  ‘Ovidia! Stop mucking around with that shoe and take care of Oliver!’

  Ovidia had erupted at his words. She leapt to her feet and, in a few steps, was on the landing.

  ‘Ovidia! Call an ambulance!’

  Had a second passed? Or a minute? Her hand was empty where it had held a running shoe.

  Edmund had been dazed, trying to get to his feet.

  She remembered not being able to move. She’d stood frozen in place, her eyes fixed on Oliver at the bottom of the stairs — inert — silent.

  Edmund had been a few steps below, holding his head where it had struck the wall on his way down. He’d pulled himself up. He’d snatched his phone from where it had fallen and stumbled down to their baby.

  The details were nebulous. Her memory of the incident clouded by misery and guilt. She’d launched the shoe at Edmund. But, only at Edmund, she’d told herself. She didn’t see Oliver through her rage. Had she assumed he’d already put him down? Had she even thought?

  Edmund had dialled for an ambulance, crying as he begged for help to come as quickly as it could. ‘He’s not moving. Please help.’ He’d put his head against the wall, being sentient enough not to touch the damaged child. He’d wept.

  Ovidia had watched everything from the top of the stairs, trying to understand what she’d done.

  45

  Edmund touched Ovidia’s face, and she flinched again. He could see bruises forming, blue and black on her tender, swollen brown skin. Tomorrow, if Ovidia were to walk out in public, strangers would look at her and assume that he’d hit her. She would be swollen, the victim of a domestic altercation. He could imagine what her family, or his, would think if they saw her.

  He tried to identify what he was feeling inside. It was emptiness. He’d stayed beside her after Jasper’s attack, taking care of her once again.