The Innocent Wife

by Amy Lloyd

New York

  Twelve

  It was a two-hour drive to Orlando. Sam rested her head on Dennis’s shoulder and listened to his voice through his chest, deep and echoey, her head bouncing up and down when he laughed. The radio played songs he’d never heard before and occasionally a news bulletin about his release would play and they’d all laugh: Dennis, Sam, Jackson; even the driver, every time. Jackson was talking about filming something later, something for the end of the series to complete the story, and Dennis was complaining that his clothes were itching.

  The hotel at which they were staying was surrounded by palm trees. There was a fountain outside the foyer that Dennis stuck his hands under as though he were a child again, water pouring cold over his skin. Every few steps he tripped over himself. ‘I think it’s these shoes,’ he said. ‘I haven’t walked around in real shoes for a long time.’

  The staff met them outside and led them through to the conference room, which was decorated with a banner that read ‘CONGRATULATIONS’. Cakes, chicken wings, tortilla chips, oysters on crushed ice, hummus and celery and carrot sticks were piled on to tables draped in white cloth. People Sam recognised from magazines came towards them and she watched them hug Dennis and hoped he’d introduce her, but he didn’t. Some of the crew arrived behind them. There was more clapping, and Patrick hugged Dennis roughly, patting his back hard. The staff were bringing out more food, hot food: fries and burgers and pizza.

  ‘We didn’t know what you’d like so we decided to order everything,’ Jackson said. ‘Help yourself.’

  Dennis piled a plate high with fresh fruit and vegetables, telling everyone that they were the things you craved most in prison, that you dreamed of the high-vitamin stuff, of fruit that dribbled down your chin, of the crunch of cold carrot sticks: these would make your mouth water when you lay in bed after a day of dry chicken nuggets or hot chilli con carne that sank like a stone in your stomach.

  Sam stood on the sidelines holding a plate of food she didn’t eat, watching the double doors for Carrie. They’d been rushed out and into the car so quickly Sam hadn’t had the chance to look for her, and now she felt terrible for every moment of Dennis’s first day of freedom that Carrie was missing. As people passed they chirped, ‘You must be so happy!’ and Sam smiled, trying to ignore the lurching guilt she felt in Carrie’s absence, as if Sam were never meant to be here and had stolen her place.

  Waiters offered Dennis wine, beer, champagne, but he asked for sparkling water, which made him hiccup as he drank. Jackson handed him several bags. ‘Clothes,’ he said. ‘We figured you’d need a new wardrobe.’

  Dennis disappeared for a while and came back in blue jeans, an open-necked checked shirt with a white T-shirt underneath. The light was dim but he kept his shaded glasses on. Jackson told him, ‘We’ll need to get you some new glasses, some Warby Parkers or something.’

  ‘Some what?’

  ‘Designer glasses, you know?’

  ‘Sure, sure, OK.’ He was rubbing his arms again and someone went to ask the staff to turn the air conditioning down.

  Some people recognised Sam and talked to her, told her again how happy she must be, and she nodded and watched her husband move around the room. Some of the women there were beautiful, more so than she’d thought they would be in real life. She’d hoped that actresses were only as beautiful as the make-up and lighting that shrouded them, but up close she could see it was for real.

  ‘Hey!’ A hand pinched her shoulder. It was Carrie, holding Sam’s overnight bag.

  ‘Oh my God, Carrie! I’m so sorry! I lost you …’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. This is crazy, huh? Where is he?’ Carrie put the bag down at Sam’s feet.

  ‘He’s right there.’

  ‘Oh shit! Look at him! In jeans!’ She called to him, ‘Dennis!’

  He turned, put his glass down on the table and walked towards her with arms open.

  Carrie shook her head and covered her face but kept walking to him, into his arms, letting him hold her at first and then holding him back, her face pressed into his clean white shirt. He lifted her and she laughed, leaned back, her arms around his neck. Sam looked on, sick; it was how it should have been for them, in the courtroom. Dennis was speaking into Carrie’s ear, his cheek pressed against hers. A few people sighed, Aww. Draining her glass, Sam smiled, tight-lipped. They looked, she thought, entirely connected in a way she’d wanted to feel. It was almost like a betrayal.

  Eventually they disconnected, he kissed her on the top of her head and she smoothed her hair in what Sam assumed, rolling her eyes, was faux-bashfulness. They continued to talk as if she wasn’t even there. She looked at the overnight bag and started to kick it across the carpet, towards the table. When it was concealed behind the white tablecloth she started to walk over to them, refilling her wine glass as she passed a bottle. It took some concentration to walk in a steady line but she felt confident in the clarity of her thoughts, the certainty of her emotions. She stood near them and waited for one to notice her and invite her into their circle.

  ‘This is such a trip, Den. I can’t … Look at you! Oh my God.’ Carrie was touching him, frequently: a pat on his arm, another quick hug, adjusting his collar after it was left askew by another quick hug.

  ‘Thank you, really.’

  ‘No, don’t, because I will literally cry.’

  Sam watched them embrace again and stepped forward, closer.

  ‘Sam! Can you believe this?’ Carrie said, turning to her at last. ‘He looks great!’

  ‘I know,’ Sam said.

  ‘So what’s next for you guys? You going to take her on a date or what?’

  Sam smiled and looked at Dennis, but his face was serious, concerned.

  ‘I don’t really have any money. I have … three dollars. They gave me my wallet back, look.’ From his pocket he pulled a navy velcro wallet. Inside were three dollars and a library card.

  ‘You don’t need money, dude,’ said Carrie, laughing. ‘These people will take care of that shit. Have you been up to the room yet?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘It’s like Christmas up there,’ Carrie said. ‘Listen, if you guys want to get started together somewhere else you can stay with Dylan and me in LA for a while. You’ll be getting a lot of offers for TV, so it’s something to think about, maybe?’

  Dennis and Sam made non-committal noises and shared an awkward glance, not knowing what they would be doing in the next hour, let alone the coming months. Then Sam’s mind started racing again, thinking about how, soon, they would be alone together, and she couldn’t hear what Carrie was saying or what Dennis replied with while she watched him, stared at the way his fingers curled around a glass, the way his other hand moved to the back of his neck, how he stood and gestured in ways she’d never seen before.

  Other guests were circling and craning their necks to see if Dennis was available. Soon he was occupied with others and Sam looked pointedly away from Carrie, spiky with irritation.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Carrie asked in a voice that sagged with the knowledge she was not.

  ‘Not really,’ Sam said, vague, a sigh.

  ‘OK, you’re acting like a dick with me. What’s going on?’

  Sam immediately felt sick with herself, and apologised. ‘It’s just … you’re all over each other and it’s like he doesn’t even want me around. Doesn’t he like me? What if he doesn’t any more? Now he can have anyone.’

  ‘Stop! You’re freaking out over nothing. You’re like his first girlfriend and you’re his wife, that’s a pretty big deal. He’s only all over me because he doesn’t really think about it; it’s nothing, you know? It’s been like five hours, give it some time.’

  Sam knew Carrie was right but even so, she couldn’t stop the creeps, the worms that wriggled. She wanted to ask Carrie, Why would he like me? Even I don’t like me. But she couldn’t.

  So she walked around with him, just to stay near him. Jackson introduced him to various people, Sam f
ollowing, silent and seething each time no one introduced or acknowledged her. She drank more, held on to Dennis’s arm, wanted him to herself, but people just kept approaching. Dennis went to the bathroom and left her standing at the end of the buffet table. She saw Katy Perry and tried to take a photo covertly but the phone slipped from her hand. She squatted to pick it up and check it was still functional. There were hundreds of notifications and missed calls. She closed one eye to focus but the words seemed to sway.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Dennis helped her up, holding her elbow.

  ‘I have so many messages!’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just this is so weird. Don’t you think this is weird?’

  Dennis glanced around him. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself. Perhaps you should go to the room.’

  ‘Will you come with me? We’ve hardly even talked …’

  ‘It would be rude if I left.’

  ‘But I want to spend time with you!’

  ‘You should really go to bed,’ he said, walking away. ‘We’ll talk later.’

  Thirteen

  Sam opened the door to their room and stopped, amazed, looking at what people had sent for Dennis. Inside were piles of gifts: a stack of white Apple boxes with a note that said, ‘Enjoy the rest of your life! Johnny Depp’. There were baskets packed with grooming products and wrapped in sparkling cellophane and foil streamers, crisp shirts and suits were hanging in zipped covers, and flowers everywhere with gift cards for designer stores tucked in like love notes.

  Sam ran her hands over everything, dying to open the sealed envelopes, turning over the box for an iPad in her hands. Instead she lay on the bed and looked at the room-service menu. Inside, another note, ‘Tab’s taken care of – Jackson’.

  She had a shower and ordered a Coke and a mineral water, then called back and ordered a pizza. Her mother had been calling; her Facebook was, for once, alive with notifications from people who had seen her on Buzzfeed: ‘Hey! OMG, I can’t believe it! Haha, haven’t spoken in ages, let’s catch up, are you coming home soon??’ Not ready to deal with anything she switched off the phone and buried it in the bottom of her bag.

  The room spun a little, so she took deep breaths and put a damp cloth over her face. After a while she sat up and half watched a double bill of Real Housewives of New Jersey on TV, ate her pizza and let sobriety creep up on her until she felt worried again over how poorly everything was going. Finally, having kicked the pizza box off the end of the bed, she fell asleep, the damp cloth on the pillow beside her head. It was two in the morning when Dennis knocked on the door.

  ‘I can’t get this thing to work,’ Dennis said, waving the key card. ‘Why is there pizza on the floor?’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Sam smoothed down her hair but it felt matted, like straw to the touch. ‘Look, look at all the gifts!’

  Dennis got into bed, kicking his shoes underneath it as he did so. ‘The pillow’s wet.’

  ‘I had a headache and … are you OK?’

  ‘I’m tired. You’ve really made a mess in here.’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’ Sam got in next to him, put her head on his shoulder and he put his arm behind her neck. He turned the TV off and the room fell silent. He sighed. They lay together in the quiet; she rested her head on his chest and listened for his heart but all she heard was the gurgling and growl of his stomach. She tried something, a hand over his torso, hard, rising and falling with his breaths, wanting to feel close to him. To make it real.

  ‘I’m sorry, Samantha, I’m tired.’ He moved away. ‘This has all been a lot to take in. I’d like to just get some sleep.’

  Sam blushed. ‘I understand,’ she said and got up to brush her teeth.

  When she came back his clothes were folded neatly on the chair at the dressing table and a bare shoulder poked over the sheets. As she pulled the covers back he rolled towards her; she saw light hairs on his chest.

  ‘Listen, don’t take this the wrong way but do you think we could just … for tonight, maybe could we have our own rooms?’

  ‘But why?’ Sam pulled her bathrobe tight and crossed her arms over her stomach.

  ‘I haven’t slept in a good bed in more than twenty years. Actually, maybe not ever. And this is all really fast, you know? I just—’

  ‘Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?’ Sam wanted to turn the lights off so she could cry, quietly. So he didn’t have to look at her.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s fine! Honestly.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you’ll be comfortable … And could you turn down the A/C while you’re up? Here.’ He threw her one of the heavy down pillows, the one with the damp patch.

  In the wardrobe Sam found a fleece comforter and made her bed on the sofa, lying curled, neck bent. She ached to be nearer to Dennis, and watched his form in the dark, but she thought of how the bed must feel to his aching bones and knew this was right, even if it hurt like hell.

  ‘It’s so quiet,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yeah.’ The silence soothed her and eventually she too fell into a light sleep.

  Rustling woke her up at just past nine in the morning. In the corner Dennis was searching through a bag of clothes.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said without looking up. ‘I need something to wear to the gym. Do you think they sell anything here? I’d really like to work out.’

  ‘Call the front desk. They’ll know.’

  ‘Right.’ He went to the phone. ‘You want breakfast?’

  ‘Do they have eggs Benedict?’

  ‘I’ll order. You should shower, you don’t look so hot right now … Hi, can I get—’

  As he turned his attention to the phone Sam gathered her wash bag and make-up and ran to the bathroom. Inside she studied the lock. Did married people lock the door when they showered? She decided they did not and left it unlocked, but as she put one leg into the bath she changed her mind and quietly, slowly, turned the lock until it clunked into place.

  After her shower she dressed in the bathroom, shy with the sensation of only the door between her and Dennis.

  Back in the room Dennis was piling his gifts into different categories: electronics went on the dressing table, clothes into drawers and wardrobes, cards on the bedside table. The food arrived with newspapers and coffee. They ate in silence, the knife and fork awkward in Dennis’s hands, the shrill scrape of cutlery on plates. When he finished eating he went back to the cards, opening and reading each one before putting them back in their envelopes on the dressing table.

  ‘Don’t you want to put those out?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Clutter,’ he said. ‘Look, a cheque for ten thousand dollars.’ He laughed.

  ‘That’s … so generous.’

  ‘I don’t even have a bank account.’ He folded the cheque and put it in his little blue wallet.

  There was a knock on the door and a concierge dropped off a bag of gym clothes. ‘I’ll see you in an hour,’ Dennis said, and left.

  All the times Sam had pictured their first night together – knotted limbs, lazy half-asleep sex while he kissed her collarbone and told her how much he loved her – she’d never once considered it would be like this. She pushed the trays of food outside the door and fell back on to the bed, her neck aching from the sofa. The pillow still smelled of him. She buried her face into the linen and inhaled. She could wait, she told herself, she’d have to.

  Fourteen

  Dennis was in a better mood after the gym. He walked into their room with red cheeks and glowing skin, ran a hand over his hair and a fine spray of sweat flicked into the air; he dropped his soggy shirt into an empty brown bag and disappeared into the shower, the lock clunking as soon as the door shut. Sam picked the T-shirt up and smelled it. It still had a chemical-tang of newness, the sweat didn’t smell of anything, and she let it fall, disappointed. Before he came back she positioned herself with a book in what she hoped was a cute, un-self-aware pose, her dress tugged up sligh
tly too high. She tried not to look at him when he emerged from the bathroom, a towel tied around his waist.

  His back was striped with scars, some raised and shining pearly white.

  ‘What are those?’ she asked, putting her book down and marking the page she wasn’t reading.

  ‘What are what?’ He pulled on underwear beneath his towel, like a girl at the beach.

  ‘The marks on your back.’ Scar felt like a dirty word.

  He looked over his shoulder as if he was checking what she was talking about.

  ‘Those’ – he pulled the towel over his shoulders to dry his neck – ‘are the scars my dad gave me. He used a belt. He only beat me really bad one time. Most of the others were pretty tame.’

  Sam imagined running her hands over the scars, how Dennis might tremble slightly, and how she’d hold him and he’d know he was safe. Instead, an awkward silence loomed over them both while he chose from the bags of designer shirts and covered himself up. Eventually she turned the TV on just to break the silence.

  But when she did he pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted. It was just like prison, he said, that thing quacking away in the background 24/7 as though people were afraid to hear their own thoughts. Sam switched off the TV and tapped away on her laptop, looking enviously at the unopened MacBook Air on the dresser. Her computer was scuffed and scratched. She was looking up news about Dennis, looking at the pictures of them both outside the court: him, light dripping over every angle in his face; her, hair chalky with dry shampoo and the shadows creating shapes on top of her own shapes that made her look like a beanbag.

  ‘Um, Dennis?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In court yesterday, did you see Lindsay?’

  ‘Lindsay?’ He looked up at her and frowned.

  ‘Yeah. In court.’

  ‘No, I didn’t notice. Why? Was she there?’

  ‘I thought I saw her but I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Oh. Would it matter if she was?’