‘Bullshit.’ The nerve he had to turn this back on me. I wasn’t the one with a secret wife now, was I?
‘Not bullshit.’ He held a finger up. ‘Are you happy?’ A second finger sprung up in support. ‘Do you love him?’
Struggling to not let him see the tears in my eyes, I turned on my heel and walked away. The entire trip home, I repeated in my head: I am happy. I am very happy. He is just trying to throw me off kilter.
But, why?
* * *
When I arrived home to an empty apartment, I considered my options: television, dinner, wine, and a whole lot of dwelling on stuff I couldn’t change, or I could go to the gym and channel my frustration into something a bit healthier. So, I hit the treadmill. Twenty minutes on that, and I felt game enough to waddle into the next Pilates session. I tied my hair back in a bun and hoped for the best.
There was a blue foam mat with my name written all over it in the far corner. Somewhere quiet I could zone out and work through my problems. I pressed the soles of my feet together and sat quietly as I waited for class to begin. I closed my eyes and listened to the room around me as, slowly, it filled with other students.
Listening to everyone was like sitting in a melting pot. The jangle of keys being dumped was coupled with girlfriends gushing excitedly about their weekend plans, while simultaneously reminding everyone that they were the only thing keeping their workplace afloat. Mothers bemoaned the second lot of headlice this year, wives complained about rubbish bins, and a few random guys were keen to get to the golfing green this weekend. One of them would just be happy if his boyfriend got the weekend off. It was a good way to take the focus off my own problems.
I took a deep breath and tried to zone out one shrill, insistent voice.
‘Did I tell you what has happened this week?’ It was her – the raven-haired woman I’d met previously. Oh boy.
The Whinger. Every class had one. That one person who sits in the corner and boo-hoos everything. I’d only seen her at a few classes before. More owing to the fact I’d skipped some in the last month in favour of doomed movie nights and random sit-ins at home. But, there she was, bold as brass, and ready to tell everyone about her awful husband. Again. Whoever he was, I felt sorry for him. The poor guy couldn’t catch a break. When her companion remained silent, she kept going.
‘Tells me he needs to work late. Likely story, right? And I say to him that if he had as much interest in saving our marriage as he did his job, we wouldn’t be in the hole we’re in now.’
A few sympathetic noises urged her on.
‘And then I asked him, straight to his face, “What are you going to do about our marriage?”. Do you know what he said?’
Opening my eyes felt like inviting trouble in, so I kept them closed and moved into another stretch. A guiding hand on my stomach and back helped steady me.
‘He said, “You can move out. That’s what you can do.” And I said, “This is not about me”.’
‘Jesus, I wish she wouldn’t,’ said a familiar voice in my ear. ‘Do me a favour, and don’t engage?’
I sniggered. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘It’s good to see you back.’
‘Thanks.’ I opened my eyes, stretching out of one pose and moving into the next.
‘I’m Caroline.’ She held out a hand and we shook.
‘Emmy.’
‘Mind if I join you?’ She gestured to the mat next to me.
‘Please.’
Like a pair of synchronised swimmers, we shifted into a new stretch. Our teacher walked through the room, mat rolled up under his arm. He inspected and fixed, pushed people into shape, and took his spot at the front of the room.
‘I mean, it’s not like he’s even that attractive, really,’ the whinger continued. ‘Cock.’
Caroline and I shared a look, one of disgust mostly. Who did that to their husband? In public? He wasn’t even here to defend himself. This was exactly like high school bullying. She probably got home, smiled, and offered to do his bidding for him. The rest of the room looked horrified. Obviously, the neon green Buddha statue in the corner wasn’t wearing off on her. I was grateful when the class finally started. At least she shut up for forty minutes.
‘Her poor husband probably looks like Henry Cavill.’ Caroline rolled her mat up. ‘She’s probably right about the cock thing, just not in the way she’s thinking.’
‘I did consider whether this resistance band would double as an elastic band,’ I said, laughing. ‘Give her a good old snap in the eye.’
‘Eh, it’ll just give her something else to complain about.’
Out in the foyer, The Whinger still held court with her gaggle of friends. It struck me that this woman, who was so stupidly beautiful, could be so unhappy with her lot in life. I don’t mean everyday beautiful, I mean she was billboard-make-up-selling beautiful. More fool me, she caught me looking somewhere in her immediate direction and waltzed over, bag slung over her shoulder.
‘Hello.’ She smiled. ‘You’re new here.’
‘A little, yeah.’ I caught sight of Caroline at the counter.
‘A few of us are about to head out for drinks. Would you like to join us?’ she asked. ‘There’s this great little spot around the corner.’
‘No.’ I gave my head a quick shake. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Shame.’ She grinned. ‘See you next time, then?’
‘Sure.’ I nodded and shrugged. ‘Maybe, yeah.’
‘If you’re so unhappy, why don’t you just leave him?’ Caroline called after her. The Whinger stopped by the doorway, shoulders taut, but she didn’t turn around. ‘I mean, you spend all class pissing and moaning about this guy. You’ve only got one life, right?’
Without another word, The Whinger lifted her haughty chin and walked away.
‘I think you just became my new best friend.’ I laughed as Caroline and I swapped numbers. ‘That was brilliant.’
Caroline waved her hand in the air, brushing away the compliment. ‘We were all thinking it, someone just needed to say it. Don’t be fooled by her drinks invitation, either. It’s a black hole you’ll never be able to get out of. I made that mistake once. Worst six months of my life.’
‘Duly noted.’ With promises that we’d both be at next week’s class for moral support, we said our goodbyes and went in the opposite direction.
Chapter 17
Heather shuffled into the kitchen and switched on the light above the stove. Thankfully, she didn’t scream when she found me sitting at the dining table, inhaling leftover apple crumble with half a pot of double-thick cream. The clock on the wall reminded us of the ungodly hour, and the gym schedule on the fridge pointed an accusatory finger at me.
‘Jesus,’ she said in a loud whisper.
‘Not quite, but close enough.’ I shoved the spoon in my mouth and held the bowl up. ‘Want some?’
‘Yes, actually, I do.’
Watching her try and get a chair out from under the table silently was like watching a mime artist who just wasn’t quite sure of their craft. She tucked a foot under her and leant forward, spoon at the ready.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Today, about three minutes after I was invited to a party, I found out that William is actually, in fact, married.’
‘Shit. Okay. Wait, how long has he been married?’
I shook my head. ‘No idea. He was single when we met, or so he says.’
‘What an arsehole. And how did that make you feel?’ she asked, sounding more and more like her psychologist mother every day.
I sighed and tipped my head back. ‘You know, I don’t know. There’s no reason for me to be jealous or angry, or any of it. He’s not my boyfriend, or my exclusive friend. He’s had a life while I’ve been gone, just like I have had a life. A life, by the way, which is turning to shit with each passing day. But, he’s had one all the same. I can’t expect that he sat around playing Tiddlywinks waiting for me to come back.’
‘Do you know of any cheap rentals floating around?’
Great blobs of cream dropped to the table as the spoon stopped mid-air. ‘What? Em, have we done something wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘No, of course not. Don’t be silly.’
‘Then, why? Is it Craig? Does he not like being here?’
I met her eyes. ‘I meant for me. On my own.’
Her whole being seemed to deflate. ‘Really?’
As I scraped the last of the cream from the tub, I let it all out. Once the verbal diarrhea began, I had a hard time stopping. We talked about William and the disappearing letters and shouty street fight, the quiet moments at work and how I’d caught him watching me on more occasions than I had fingers to count or wanted to admit. We tried piecing together a timeline but tumbled over each other so often we gave up.
Then there was Craig, with his work-life balance that was so far out of whack he wasn’t sleeping properly and grinding his teeth, the Craig who’d gone from sweetest friend in the world to someone whose grumpy demeanour and demands for attention made him barely tolerable, let alone recognisable.
‘I’m going to play devil’s advocate, because I’m allowed to.’ Heather pushed her empty bowl away. ‘Is one angry because the other exists?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think it’s that.’
‘Can you promise me there’s been nothing happen on your weekend outings? I feel like an ass calling them dates. Please say you’re just friends.’
‘No, nothing’s happened.’ I rubbed at my nose. ‘We are just friends.’
‘But how do you feel about him? William, I mean.’
‘I don’t know.’ I rubbed at my mouth. ‘I don’t know if I’m confused about him or because of him.’
‘Here’s the thing. When we first moved here, Josh and I fought a lot,’ Heather whispered. ‘It’s hard. You’re each out there trying to make new friends, all while trying to get your jobs rolling properly and adjusting to a new city. You think it’s going to be easy because it’s London. We speak the same language; how hard can it be? But it is, and he’s still finding his footing, while you’ve hit the ground running. Not quite the same as us, we were both starting from scratch, but do you understand what I’m saying?’
Footsteps creaked above us. Josh was on the move and heading for the bathroom.
‘He’s still so heavy-footed,’ I whispered.
‘Oh, Em, he’s his own herd of elephants.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘How was your weekend away?’ I desperately wanted to change subject, if only to avoid anyone who was awake hearing it.
Heather grinned like the cat that got the cream. ‘Lots of nasty holiday sex.’
‘Oh my God,’ I groaned, laughing too loudly for this time of morning. ‘I don’t want to know about Josh in that context.’
‘Well, I do.’ She drew her knees up around her chest. ‘Now, are you serious about moving out? Because I’m going to be the mum here and say that I’ll need to talk to Josh. Not for anything bad, I just want to keep him in the loop.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘It’s perfectly understandable.’
‘Can I give you my honest opinion, or will that just confuse your head more?’
‘If you can’t be honest with me, who can?’
‘I think you’re so far up a river in Egypt that you’re about to be crowned Cleopatra. And I think that means you need to clean your house.’
‘What?’
‘Denial, Emmy.’ She stood up and collected our plates. ‘Which means you need to decide what, or who, it is that you actually want. Go to William’s party, or don’t.’
Leaning down, she gave me a peck on the cheek and my shoulders a gentle squeeze. ‘Sort things out with Craig, or don’t, but that will give you your answer.’
Chapter 18
Are you awake?
Let’s grab breakfast.
I need to talk with you.
Please?
I squinted into the bright screen. The sun wasn’t quite fighting its way into the sky yet, but William was already awake and ready to start the day. Craig rolled over, the mattress rolling like a ship at sea as he tugged the sheets away and buried himself like a cocooned moth. I had hoped my presence in bed might inspire a rather more positive reaction than that, but alas. I tapped out a quick response and got dressed.
A shade after 5 a.m., my day had started.
William sat in the corner by the window of the café, fingers threaded through shorter hair. A notepad and pen rested next to whatever he was reading, and a waiter topped up his coffee. I waited for the bus to pass and scuttled across the pedestrian crossing, narrowly missing the gift of a personal traction set courtesy of a Volkswagen Golf.
‘Morning.’ I dropped my bag by the side of the table and sat down.
‘Hey.’ William lifted his eyes to mine. ‘Just reading up on heart disease.’
‘And breakfast is a practice session, right?’
He chuckled and raised his mug. ‘Emmy, I am about to treat you to the best fry-up this side of the Thames.’
I smiled gently, watching him as he went about behaving like last night hadn’t happened. Move along, nothing to see here.
He held two fingers in the air. ‘And an extra coffee, please. White and none.’
For all of William’s theories about the best fry-up ever, it was just us and the old European guy behind the counter. He looked happy enough with his lot in life, grinning at William like they’d known each other for years. He tinkled his fingers at me like everyone’s favourite uncle at a wedding before disappearing behind the strip door curtain. The décor was like any number of takeaway shops in the area, suspiciously grubby floors and a sheen of oil in the air.
‘Two what?’ I asked.
‘Full breakfast. It’s amazing, won’t need to eat all day.’ He flashed the screen of his iPad at me. ‘Heart disease can be tasty.’
‘I think that would have to be one of the worst ways to go, wouldn’t it?’ I asked.
‘Certainly not the best way.’ He sighed and began rattling off facts and figures, applying it to a patient he’d seen during the week.
I huffed a little laugh. ‘Do you want me to start? I feel like you’re stalling.’
‘Yeah.’ He stretched out across the table like a freshly woken cat. ‘I’m stalling.’
‘I thought about you a lot last night.’ I placed my hands over his, trying not think about perfectly well they fit with mine.
‘You did?’ he asked, his face a perfectly balanced mix between wariness and confusion.
‘I did.’
‘And what were you thinking?’ he asked.
‘That we were never waiting for some point or event or whatever with each other. We were just really, really good friends. I do wish you’d told me sooner, but you’re also too important to me for me to be angry about any of it.’
His bottom lip quivered. ‘Emmy, it is so fucked up.’
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ I snatched up the sauce as two overfull plates appeared at the table. ‘We’ve got plenty of time before work.’
Post-Edinburgh, William’s life had been a mess. The camping in Yorkshire, the offer of a room to rent, and a drunken night that ended in a shotgun marriage and supposed miscarriage. Throughout it all, all his descriptions and explanations, he remained calm. Only occasionally his voice gave him away, a tiny tremble as he danced over parts that felt too hard and elaborated on others.
‘I just felt like a complete and utter moron, Em, you know? I’m supposed to be the smart one, but I failed to see what was right in front of me. Or wasn’t, in this case.’ He dabbed at his breakfast with toast. ‘Like, there I was at this conference, surrounded by colleagues and mentors, and her doctor just says, “Son, I don’t know what you’re talking about”. Okay, fair call you can’t say anything about
your patient, but he pulled me aside later and said she’d been in the week before for a smear test and had most definitely, “not ever been with child” like she said she was’
‘And you didn’t kick her out then?’ I asked. God, this woman sounded horrible. How could a person lie so blatantly about something as important as this? ‘Because that’s lock-changing stuff for me.’
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’ he said.
‘What’d you do?’
‘Naturally, I was furious. I’d started buying things for this child, you know. I was excited, even if it was a bit of a strange situation. When I confronted her about it, she broke down and said she’d been to a different doctor and how dare I doubt her. She can be very convincing, so I felt like a right shit.’
‘Oh, come on.’ I sank back in my chair. ‘That old chestnut?’
He shrugged. ‘I should have just kicked her out and taken the blow. I tried, but somehow managed to be relocated to a spare bedroom while she, quote, “looked for a new place to live”.’
‘Is this only recent?’
‘The last few months, yeah. I mean, the wedding was late 2012. I found out about the miscarriage that wasn’t about six months ago.’ He stopped. ‘It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I mean, I’m a doctor. I should know this stuff inside out, right? I know how babies are made, I know about pregnancy and miscarriage, and this whole lot happens under my nose and I am completely bloody clueless.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, there’s not a lot to see. It’s not like we break out in Baby On Board stickers, so it wouldn’t be hard to fake, would it? I could tell you now that I’m pregnant and you wouldn’t know.’
‘Are you?’
‘Please,’ I scoffed. ‘I’d need a boyfriend who wanted to touch me for that to happen.’
William made a noise.
‘So, what happens now?’ I asked.
‘I kind of look at her like a bit of a parasite. She finds a host, latches on, sucks it dry, and leaves a husk in her wake. We currently occupy separate floors of my house and keep out of each other’s way. Monday mornings we go to couples’ therapy. I have no idea why, it makes absolutely no sense, but it’s at her insistence. I agreed to try that before calling in the lawyers.’
An Impossible Thing Called Love Page 14