The House on the Water's Edge

by CE Rose

  I had no doubt that Madeleine continued her subterfuge with Miles, but she called me most days too, asking if I was in for ‘a little visit’. The thought of her looking into my soul with those searching eyes felt overwhelming, so each time I reached for a chirpy voice and said I was out and about with Joe, and that we’d pop in to hers on Saturday. When the weekend came, I couldn’t bear the inevitable analysis, so I sent Miles with Joe alone.

  On the fifth evening of my painful throat, I rummaged through the bathroom cabinet in desperation. I stared at an old blister packet of codeine, then pushed two out and threw them back with a slurp of water from the tap. Convinced they’d rush immediately from my oesophagus to my mammary glands, I laid my head on the pillow, ready for guilt. Instead, blissful unconsciousness was almost immediate.

  Moments later I jerked awake with a thunderous jolt. My nose and my throat were clogged, my heart speeding and thundering. Oh God; my lungs were solid, my chest exploding. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t gasp, I couldn’t even scream.

  A cardiac arrest for certain; if I didn’t do something I’d die.

  I groped for Miles but his side of the bed was empty. Propelled by the horrendous thought of leaving Joe motherless, I forced myself up and leaned forward, battling to suck in air, fighting the faint as the walls caved in.

  It took only seconds, yet the awareness I wasn’t dying but having a panic attack was excruciatingly slow. By the time Miles sauntered into the room with a sleepy yawn, I was sitting cross-legged on our bed. Cold droplets of sweat dripped down my spine and I was shivering.

  ‘Ali?’ He did a double-take. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  ‘I woke up and couldn’t breathe. An anxiety attack, I think…’ Tears fell from my eyes. ‘But I was so scared, Miles. It was horrible; I truly thought I was dying…’

  His concerned expression fell away, shortly followed by resignation, a ‘what the fuck next?’ type of look. He’d clearly never had a panic attack. Until then neither had I, and it was difficult to explain how it had felt, the metallic taste in my mouth, the sharp pains in my chest, the sheer terror, even when reason kicked in.

  He grudgingly asked if I was OK, climbed into bed and turned away, his breathing soon rhythmic and heavy. Pushing away the ragged fear of it happening again, I focused on the comforting sound and his presence, closed my eyes and willed sleep to come.

  The hairs abruptly erect on my arms, my body realised sooner than me that someone else was in the room. Without looking I knew – a figure by the door, inching towards me, its bleached hand held high, a glint of metal catching the light. Was this real? Yes, God yes. I could clearly hear the low hum of busy insects, I could smell the stale blood. Realisation dawning, I stared at Joe’s cot; oh my God, the malevolent presence wasn’t coming for me, but for him.

  Bursting from the nightmare, I sat up and muttered under my breath to reason with myself. Everything was fine. It was simply a bad dream. It was not a hallucination, a vision or premonition. I flicked my head to Miles’s pillow. He hadn’t woken, thank God. The panic attack was one thing, but I knew better than to even hint about this to him.

  * * *

  Miles left a Post-it by the bed the next day: Hope your cold is much better this morning. Please make an appointment for your throat xxxx P.S. Still OK for tonight?

  The anxiety episode wasn’t mentioned in the note, nor when he telephoned and suggested I have a chat with his mum, but the unspoken words were there: You’re not normal, you need help.

  Part of me understood his irritation and reticence. Last night had been embarrassing. Hell, I was embarrassed. I’d shown weakness and vulnerability, and he wasn’t cut out for the role of supporter or carer. He wanted life to be smooth and stable and easy. Clearly Ali wasn’t being Ali again. She was slightly crazy for having such a wacky incident. Or even worse, making it up.

  I did as I was told. Facing the doctor was preferable to Madeleine, but I drew the short straw at the emergency surgery. The list was running late and the look on the GP’s face was not dissimilar to Miles’s when I tried to explain just how raw my throat felt. I embellished by describing the knock-on effect of lack of sleep, but the doctor’s eye contact was with the computer screen and not with me.

  ‘Ah, a few blips along the way with baby,’ she commented. The inevitable questions followed: How was I coping? Had the health visitor stopped coming? Had I had my postnatal check? Was I getting out of the house? Did I feel listless and low? Any feelings of guilt, hopelessness and self-blame?

  I saw where this was going. Give the ‘sore throat’ a name, prescribe anti-depressants, tick the box, job done. It felt like a conspiracy. But perhaps that was just paranoia.

  Laura would’ve been proud. In a suitably clipped tone, I said the check-up had been fine, feeding a breeze, motherhood hunky dory… and would she just examine my bloody throat.

  The mask didn’t last long. By the time I arrived home I was blubbering into Joe’s blue blanket, wondering what had happened to the woman who’d stood in court and ruthlessly cross-examined witnesses until she prevailed. The GP had taken a cursory look in my mouth and declared it a virus that would go eventually, I just had to be patient. The old me would have argued until she wrote a damned prescription, but the current me was a wreck without balls.

  No antibiotics, no miracle cure, I thought as I saturated Joe’s bedding. Miles would not be happy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I was wrong; Miles was on cloud nine when he arrived home, momentarily at least.

  He’d had a drink; I could tell from his sing-song voice. ‘Ali, darling? We’re here! Where’s my beautiful boy?’ I heard him call from the front door.

  I was feeding Joe upstairs, willing him to sleep. ‘We?’ I mused, followed seconds later with a jolt of realisation. Oh God, was it really tonight? Miles had written it on the calendar last week. And, fuck, he’d even mentioned it on this morning’s Post-it. It was only a quick visit from a couple of barristers, but still…

  How had Miles put it? ‘It’s no big deal, Ali. They’ll drop their bags, meet my son and heir. We’ll have a snifter or two before going on to the function…’

  Bloody hell; bloody hell!

  ‘Down in five,’ I called back, popping my wide-eyed boy in his cot.

  I dashed to the bathroom and studied the damage in the mirror. My hair was in a limp ponytail, my dark eyes still stinging from excessive self-pity and my top was blotted with baby puke. I scrubbed my face vigorously, changed my T-shirt for a blouse and sprayed perfume to cover the likely pong. But I hadn’t cleaned the house, so the state of downstairs was out of my hands. My only hope was that Miles’s ‘heir’ would be a distraction.

  Following the sound of laughter, I carried Joe through the lounge, trying to rise above the scattered cushions and toys, the empty crisp packet and half eaten sandwich, the abandoned mugs of congealing milky drinks. Stopping at the kitchen door, I took a deep breath. Oh God; the basket of damp washing, the tower of dirty dishes, the heap of nappy bags I hadn’t yet taken outside… Miles would be angry. He was proud of his house; he’d want it to be gleaming.

  I shook my head. He’d want me to be shiny too, but the sparkle had all gone, replaced by this frail and needy person. The thought burned my nose, but I puffed it away; I had to get a bloody grip.

  I pushed down the door handle. ‘Hello everyone! Here’s baby Joe to say hi…’

  Though I said it brightly, the conversation abruptly stopped. Four sets of eyes stared at me: one cold and annoyed, two polite and attentive. And the fourth? Well, that pair was female and loaded with fake sympathy.

  ‘Ali, you poor thing! Miles said you were under the weather. I guess caring for a baby must be harder than it looks. How’s it all going?’

  Julia bloody Lambert, of course. Had Miles mentioned she’d be one of the visitors? More likely than not she’d got wind of the plan and tagged along with her turned-up nose, polished accent and glossy cheeks.

  True
to form, her attention for another woman lasted all of two seconds. She’d already turned to Miles, now holding Joe, and was positively cooing. ‘Hello little boy! Golly, he’s so like you Milo! Mini-Milo, that’s what I’ll call him. He’s just gorgeous, isn’t he?’

  Fixing a smile on my face, I turned to the two men. Both fairly new recruits to chambers, I had met them before but couldn’t remember their names. ‘Has Miles offered you a drink? Sorry about the mess. I had completely…’ I crouched down to the wine rack. Hoping the dust wasn’t as obvious to them as it suddenly struck me, I plucked out a bottle. ‘This Amarone looks a nice one. We do have white, but it hasn’t been chilled. Sorry, I should have—’

  ‘It needs to breathe, Ali, you know that,’ Miles interrupted, his voice almost staccato. ‘We have gin, don’t we? And tonic in the garage? Surely we can manage that for our guests?’

  The tears pricked my eyes. ‘Of course, I’ll just check. Back in a—’

  ‘And food, Ali? Nibbles, remember?’ Stepping closer, he glared, his jaw tight. ‘We’ve all been at work, we’re hungry,’ he hissed in a low voice. ‘No one was expecting a three-course meal, but there’s an M&S Simply Food in the village, for God’s sake.’ His face was ruddy with irritation. ‘Ready-made canapés, spring rolls, sausages, even bloody crisps.’

  Joe started to bawl behind me. Ignoring it, I scooped up my car keys. ‘They’ll still be open. I’ll go now.’ I smiled at the young men. ‘I’m just popping out for a few snacks. It’ll literally take me two minutes…’

  Pink with embarrassment, they shook their heads, murmuring that it was fine, they weren’t hungry, just a drink would be nice.

  ‘OK; great. I’ll just grab the…’ Praying for tonic water, I headed for the garage.

  Julia’s eloquent tones followed in my wake. ‘For God’s sake let’s just go,’ she said. ‘This kitchen stinks of baby shit and Ali looks bloody dreadful. We’ve only an hour to kill. Let’s go to the pub.’ Then her high-pitched tinkle, ‘Oh come on Milo, cheer up. I’m sure they’ll do nibbles.’

  * * *

  Though dropping with fatigue, I made myself stay awake for Miles’s return in the early hours. I needn’t have worried about missing it. Sleeping through the hum of the taxi and loud conversation with the driver, let alone the slamming front door and thundering footfall up the stairs, wouldn’t have been easy.

  ‘Miles, I’m so sorry about earlier,’ I began when he finally reached the bedroom. ‘It’s just that—’

  ‘Don’t start,’ he interrupted, lifting a hand. His hair was dishevelled, his blue eyes charged. ‘I have an important trial coming up, Ali. I know the last few weeks have been hard, but I need some normality too. A regular wife, a stable home, food on the table, bloody sleep. I’m unbelievably stressed. Can’t you, just for once, stop being so bloody self-obsessed and think about me?’

  It felt like a sharp, unwarranted slap, but I took a deep breath. He was stressed, that was all. The high profile case was listed for several weeks in London. The other parties were represented by Queen’s Counsel, so he’d been lucky to get the brief. He’d always worried about work, and being the only junior barrister on the case was scary, so I suspected imposter syndrome was elbowing in. ‘Nibbles’ and house-cleaning apart, I had neglected him too. He wasn’t used to that: Madeleine had flitted in and out of a hands-on mother role, but he’d had nannies or au pairs in between. He’d always been cosseted and loved; he wasn’t emotionally equipped for the roles to be reversed.

  His speech petulant and slurred, he eventually came to the point. ‘Look at the house! Look at you! You’re a mess, a bloody embarrassment. Mum wants to help. I don’t understand why you won’t let her. Don’t understand you. You’re a stranger. Going to bed now. In there. Don’t wake me.’

  Without even taking a pee, he shuffled to the spare room and banged the door behind him. Trying to rein in the hurt and overwhelming sense of loss, I pulled up the duvet. Did I really smell a woman’s perfume in his wake? Was my marriage imploding? Would Miles leave me? I had a tiny baby; how on earth would I cope if he did?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Though over a week passed, Miles didn’t come back to our bedroom. He worked long hours in chambers, and in the evenings he barely spoke. Only Joe bridged the void between us. ‘I need you, Miles,’ I wanted to say, but did that sound self-obsessed? Knocked by the panic attack and the old nightmare, my confidence was so low that I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. But I had to do something to break the stalemate, so I dragged myself up at six on Friday morning to make him his favourite breakfast. The effort of pulling out the griddle pan felt huge, but I persevered with hash browns, black pudding, crispy bacon and scrambled eggs.

  I couldn’t face eating any myself, but after he’d finished, I put my hand on his. ‘I miss you, Miles. Don’t let’s drift apart.’

  His replete expression turned into a scowl. ‘Why do you always bring these things up when I’m on my way to work?’ he muttered. ‘What am I supposed to do when you push me away?’

  I looked at him questioningly. He was still in his dressing gown, so hardly en route. And how on earth had I ‘pushed him away’? I’d had the baby we both wanted. It had been tough, that was true, but it wasn’t my fault and I was trying my best. There was Mum, but I had barely mentioned her death. And it wasn’t me who’d moved into the spare bloody bedroom.

  But Miles shook his head and scraped back his chair. ‘You always were a cold fish, Ali,’ he said over his shoulder before leaving the room.

  His description stayed with me throughout the morning. While Joe napped, I tried to focus on chores – the dusty surfaces, the grimy bathroom, the flaming ironing pile which seemed to grow faster than knotweed – but listless thoughts consumed me. Perhaps he was right. Maybe I was cold. Unloveable, too. But capable of deep love, surely? I’d instinctively held back any unguarded devotion after Dad died, but as his own mother had said to me, ‘But darling, who wouldn’t?’

  And what about my mum? Had I ‘pushed her away’ by not taking those calls and cutting off her need to say something? Oh God, probably. And now I’d never know what it was…

  The sound of the knocker interrupted my contemplation. The condolence cards and flowers had petered out, but I hoped it was the DPD guy with a parcel for Joe. Still dressed in my pyjamas, I cracked open the door. Bloody hell; Madeleine. I’d just thought of the devil and now here she was, carrying her white Bichon Frise. Before I’d had chance to take stock, she’d swept into the house.

  ‘Hello darling. I was just passing,’ she said, as though that would wash.

  Her eyes huge and soft, she studied me for longer than was comfortable. Then she put down the dog, sighed deeply and took my face between gentle palms. ‘Oh, look at you, my poor darling. You’re so busy looking after our dear little man, you’ve forgotten to look after yourself.’

  My head wanted to protest, but my heart immediately contracted. The words were said sweetly and the angle of her eyebrows was kind. When she held out her arms, it was too much to bear and the tears hurtled out. Drawing me to her, she rocked me like a child.

  ‘I’ve a whole host of cleaning products in the car, but let’s start with you,’ she said, finally pulling away. ‘Have you eaten today, any breakfast?’ She took a handful of my hair. ‘Oh, Alison. When did you last have a shower? Food first, then I’ll wash it.’

  Too weak to resist, I stepped aside. Eventually following her to the kitchen, I stood against the jamb and observed her open cupboards and the fridge, shake her head and quietly sigh. Finally, she turned with a beam.

  ‘Hallelujah, we have muesli! The oats will give you energy. Sit down, darling.’

  She poured cereal, added honey and a scoop of Greek yoghurt, then she sat across the table and watched each spoonful go down. Finally satisfied I’d left a clean bowl, she led me up the stairs to the bathroom, whisked off my dirty top, knelt me down by the bath and washed my tresses over the side, her fingers brisk on my scalp.

&
nbsp; She seemed so elated and full of energy, she made me feel tired. ‘I love this part at the hairdresser’s, don’t you? A good old massage, shampoo twice, then conditioner? Leaves you feeling super clean.’

  Hanging back after she’d finished, I wrapped my hair in a turban and covered my modesty with a towel. When I stepped onto the landing, Madeleine was at my bedroom door, her hand on her tiny waist, scanning the room. ‘Oh, Alison!’ she tutted. ‘I won’t ask when the bedding was last changed. Be a darling and crack a window, would you?’

  Conscious of the stain on the front, I slipped on my dressing gown and observed her strip the bed, collect a selection of dirty tumblers, then open my wardrobe door. Like an infant, I dumbly watched her move along the hangers, throw several items in the direction of the laundry basket, others in the bin and a selection to me, which I meekly put on.

  ‘Right, let’s look at you,’ she said, when her mission was complete. She tilted her head and squinted at me. ‘Perhaps a touch of blusher on those pale cheeks?’ Lifting her palm, she stilled and listened. Her eyes widened with pleasure. ‘Oh how lovely! I think our little man has woken. Shall I do the honours? You go to the lounge and get comfortable for his feed. I’ll have a little cuddle, then bring Joseph down.’

  For a moment the name threw me. ‘You can’t just call him Joe,’ she’d stated at the hospital shortly after his birth. ‘Shorten it if you wish, Alison, but give the poor chap a few choices.’

  ‘It’s going to be just Joe. Miles and I have agreed,’ I answered firmly, the Ali-before-pregnancy-and-birth still there, albeit deeply hidden.

  But Madeleine had tagged along with Miles to register Joe’s birth. Joseph Charles Henry Alexander-Jones, they’d named him. How I’d loathed her interference, but even that didn’t rile me just now. There was no energy, no fight; it was so much easier to simply comply.