I look at the photographs of our friends; they were all from university. It’s not quite Four Weddings and a Funeral. No Duckface. No Hugh Grant. But the clothes are similar and the church is nearly as pretty. We had lovely flowers. I spend ages reminiscing and probably doze off as it’s 11 pm when I hear the news pips coming from our bathroom. Boris Johnson has prorogued parliament. We have all learned a new word. I carefully return our wedding album to its new resting place, and wash my hands. Michael still isn’t home. No missed calls or messages on either my mobile or our landline.
Instead of calling the police, I visit my next-door neighbour, Matt. He’s a writer and spends huge amounts of time sitting at his computer at home. He has a small white dog – a Shih Tzu – which is as fluffy as it is yappy. I ask him if he has seen Michael. He invites me into his mews house which is identical to ours only the mirror image. He lives there on his own. I am so tired that I gratefully take up his offer of a drink. I move a stack of magazines and old books off the armchair and place them carefully onto the rug near my feet. I didn’t know a single person could make so much chaos. He sees me examining the room and is immediately rather defensive. Apparently, it’s a creative mess; helps his juices flow; it isn’t normally this bad. I apologise for appearing to be judgemental. I’m just concerned, that’s all. Worried about Michael’s whereabouts. He’s gone on some mystery tour around Rome. As I say it, I know that it sounds ridiculous. I’m worrying about a forty-nine-year old man who is probably having a mid-life crisis. Why didn’t I think of that?
I return to our empty little house and brush off the dog hair that has attached itself to my clothes. I open the fridge and start preparing something for supper. I prepare for the two of us. Whilst I’m listening to the radio and chopping up vegetables, I receive a phone call from the police station at Heathrow Airport. My breathing quickens. The phone call is not prefaced with “There’s nothing to worry about” or anything like that. Sergeant Jameson establishes that he is talking to Sophie Boswell (that’s me) and that I live at 12 Daleham Gardens Mews, NW3 etc. I concur. My heart is still beating too fast. I am immediately worried that Michael has been attacked. Perhaps he has provoked someone? He has been acting rather strangely lately.
I am wrong. He hasn’t been attacked. It is rather worse than that. He has been arrested for indecent exposure. I am flabbergasted. Michael is being held at Heathrow Airport Police Station. The Sergeant gives me the precise address: Unit 3, Polar Park, Bath Road, UB7 ODG. He has to repeat it three times. He explains to me that Michael was “under the influence of alcohol” and admitted assaulting the woman before exposing himself. The Sergeant speaks to me as if English is my second language. Now that he has sobered up a little, Michael is suitably contrite, ashamed and embarrassed. I offer to pay the bail tonight but Sergeant Jameson is inflexible. I have to collect my husband tomorrow. He thinks he should stew overnight, like a casserole.
Despite having the bed to myself – the whole house in fact – I hardly sleep at all. I ignore two phone calls from Olivia and one from Eddie. I can’t lie to them. I text them to say that I will definitely call later. I try not to alarm them. I dress fairly conservatively as I know that I will be judged on arrival. I wear dark jeans; a navy jumper; a white shirt and very little jewellery. Nothing ostentatious. I wear ankle boots rather than trainers. I take an Uber from our house all the way to Bath Road; it’s nothing like Bath, unfortunately. It’s very industrial. I still haven’t got used to not paying the driver. My Uber account tells me that the journey cost £48. I can see a long line of miserable looking people, hanging around the Police Station. Wives, mostly. They’re all smoking.
As I enter, a very junior looking Police Constable takes down my details. He asks me to hand in my mobile and any sharp objects. I don’t think he wants me to produce my manicure set or my emery board but I do. I have never been to a police station before. I empty out the contents of my handbag until the young Constable is satisfied. He admires my Mont Blanc fountain pen. After a few minutes, the same young Constable escorts me to Michael’s cell: number 3. I am immediately struck by how bright it is. But not in a good way. There’s something harsh about the light. The walls have been tiled in small creamy coloured squares. There’s a large and heavily barred window that not even Peter-the- Principal could reach and a bed-cum-bench arrangement with a very thin plastic blue mattress on it. There’s also a metal toilet. I can’t see a wash basin or any loo paper. The cell is clean but characterless; clinical but cruel. There’s a lot of shouting and bawling on either side of Michael’s cell. He can no longer hear it; it must have been going on all night. It has become white noise to him.
Michael stands up as soon as he sees me. He looks dishevelled: a broken man. I don’t say anything. I just embrace him and he envelops me like an eagle caressing its prey. We don’t need to talk. We have permission to leave but our feet are rooted to the linoleum floor. After what seems like hours but is really only minutes, we collect our things from the Duty Sergeant. Mine are stacked neatly on a black tray. Michael’s are stuffed into a brown jiffy bag. He also has a small black rucksack with him; I presume this has his clothes and washbag inside. I notice that his eyes are welling up and I can see that if I don’t get him out of here soon, he will cry uncontrollably, just like he did a few weeks ago.
I pay the exorbitant bail: £750. The Sergeant won’t let me leave until this transaction has been fully processed. I order another Uber and tell Michael not to say anything until we are at least two miles away from the Police Station. The Uber driver is Algerian and his English is limited. We feel able to talk and do so. The worst thing for Michael was having nothing to do, nothing to read, nothing to watch, nought to focus on other than four sour walls and a metal toilet. He has no wish to tell me about the assault. Or the indecent exposure. I don’t press him but I hope to extract the information from him eventually. Offenders usually feel the urge to confess; I know this from school. Everyone has to tell someone. Michael might as well talk to me. Seven hundred and fifty pounds is practically two weeks’ pay for me. I have decided that he’s clinically depressed and no longer in control of his sanity. I tell Michael that we need to bring his appointment with the GP forward. He doesn’t argue with me. He offers to reimburse me for the Ubers and the bail: out of the joint account. It’s almost funny.
Now that we are home, I feel that I can phone the twins except that it’s too late. I send them both a text and insist that we speak whenever they want to, even if it’s 3 am in the UK. I just want to hear their voices. I’ve rehearsed a story with Michael and I write down the key points onto square yellow post-it notes. His short-term memory isn’t what it used to be. I am struggling to come to terms with the change in his behaviour and personality. He seemed so normal last summer.
Michael hasn’t washed in days and his smell is becoming more of a stench. I run a bath for him – even though he prefers showers – and add bubble bath so that the room doesn’t smell of him, Rome or the police cell. I’m not convinced he even got to Rome. He hasn’t mentioned a word about it. It is as if he is living in a virtual world and I am not in it.
After his bath and a shave, which he doesn’t do precisely, Michael reappears dressed from head-to-toe in Eddie’s clothes. They don’t fit him properly and make him look fatter than he is. He sees my expression and runs back to the bathroom to cover himself up with his blue towelling robe. He looks even more ridiculous now. I offer to help him shave as his hands are trembling. I hope I’m not making him feel insecure in his own home. It’s as if he’s in a vortex, spiralling out of control. Although it’s Saturday, Daleham Health Centre is open and the receptionist takes my call. I tell her that I need an urgent appointment for my husband. Today, if possible. I’m too late, because the surgery is about the close; however, she will give Michael an appointment at 11 am on Monday. She is clear that this is a very good offer. I immediately accept it.
I feel it’s only fair to inform Matt-the-neighbour,
that Michael is home. I tell Michael to stay on the sofa and watch the news. He seems very out of touch for a man that has only been out of work for a week. I ring Matt’s doorbell and almost fall into his hall-cum-sitting room. I’m a bit suspicious and think he might have been eavesdropping on our conversation. After all, he is a writer. God knows what he might put in his next book. He clears his throat and perches on a barstool. Matt’s face is unshaven. The grey stubble is not unattractive. He has something to tell me. And I am not going to like it. Before he speaks, I explain that I am feeling quite fragile. I can see that he finds this hard to believe. He thinks I am always in control; this could not be further from the truth.
Matt drops a bombshell. He thinks Michael is gay. I immediately dismiss this as rubbish. I have known Michael for thirty-one years and in all that time, he hasn’t even looked at a man in that way. I am so annoyed that I appear to be homophobic. I am not. He tells me that my response is “telling” and that I should be ashamed to call myself a Deputy Head. I can’t see what this has got to do with him. I am so angry. I walk out of his house and straight into mine. Michael is drinking water out of a large coffee cup. I snuggle up next to him and cry into his chest. I feel safe in his care. I am no longer his gaoler.
The whole week has taken its toll on me. I have been desperate to talk to someone about what’s going on at school; the problems with Fran; the stresses and strains of monitoring all the staff and pupils. But sadly, I am starting to fear for Michael and for myself. We don’t seem to talk anymore. He is loving and kind one morning and angry and volatile the next; it’s no way to sustain a marriage. We used to talk about everything and now we talk about nothing. We just cry all the time.
I cannot wait until Monday morning. Thank God it’s half-term.
Chapter 3
Half-Term
I have never looked forward to a Monday morning with so much apprehension and trepidation. And it’s half-term. It’s fairly mild outside but the rain is teeming down like tears. The Google doctor has given me a diagnosis for Michael’s condition but I can’t bring myself to repeat it. I want the real doctor to diagnose him. Not me. Michael appears in the kitchen looking relatively normal. He’s wearing a blue tailored shirt and his navy suit trousers. He looks professional and respectable. I tell him this. We eat breakfast: porridge and raspberries. I regret the porridge as it sits heavily on my stomach. We gulp down mugs of tea and brush our teeth. Michael needs a surprising amount of prompting even for the most basic tasks. I still can’t quite get my head around this. His deterioration has been rapid.
We have plenty of time before the appointment. I suggest we walk down to Roni’s café in Belsize Lane. We normally reserve this treat for Sundays and read the papers cover-to-cover. Michael is remarkably acquiescent this morning. We stroll down to the village; it’s so pretty and quaint. The café is swarming with people. Doesn’t anyone work these days? I buy two coffees – which neither of us needs – and we take the Guardian off the newspaper rack and split it up between us. There’s an amusing caricature of Boris Johnson on page 5. We talk about what’s going on in the news; which year it is and everything that’s current. I know that I am prepping Michael and I absolutely shouldn’t be doing this. I am in denial. The café is full of women. Michael is outnumbered. Not that this bothers him in the least. As I said, he’s totally uninhibited.
It’s ten past ten. Unexpectedly we are having to run to the doctor’s surgery. I can barely keep up with Michael’s long legs. We arrive, slightly out of breath, even though it’s not exactly a marathon in distance, and we sit in the reception. There are stacks of magazines to read; a large goldfish tank with carp in it and plenty of patients. All of them are either elderly or pregnant.
The receptionist calls Michael’s name. Michael Boswell? and says it as though it were a question. My friends used to say that I only married him for his surname. They were so jealous. We make our way to Dr Blackstone’s door; it has his name on it. He’s not our regular doctor. He is looks too young to be in General Practice. Or perhaps he has sold out before he has really started? He is taller than me but shorter than Michael. He is boyishly slim. He’s wearing a white shirt, no tie, a burgundy cashmere jersey and jeans. Doctors are so casual these days. He invites us to sit down but speaks directly to Michael. I am determined not to be a backseat driver in this appointment.
The doctor starts with a few simple questions about Michael’s health; his workload, whether he is stressed, sleep-deprived, any changes in his blood pressure, eating habits, relationships and mood swings. Michael answers all his questions succinctly. He explains the mistakes he has made at work, and how these are totally out of character. Dr Blackstone nods reassuringly and tells us that everyone is human. I hope this doesn’t mean he is going to make a mistake too. He takes Michael’s blood pressure; it’s much higher than usual, and he feels for his pulse. He can’t immediately find it but perseveres.
At the end of what feels like an interview, the young doctor writes out a prescription and tells Michael that he is suffering from Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). In layman’s term: depression. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s completely normal to be doing through a mid-life crisis before you reach your fiftieth birthday. He notes that Michael’s birthday is on the 1st January. Dr Blackstone can’t be more than thirty. At this point, I want to intervene. I ask him if he’s absolutely sure of his diagnosis. He says he’s 100%. Michael has all the classic symptoms: low self-esteem, loss of appetite, sleep deprivation and low energy. Part of me is relieved. The other part disappointed. I know that there is more to Michael’s erratic behaviour than this. He writes out a prescription for Fluoxetine (Prozac to you and me). He rapidly explains the potential dangers and side-effects of the antidepressants. We know they’re not Smarties. And I honestly don’t think Michael is suicidal. Depressed: yes. Unemployed: yes. Suicidal: no.
We emerge from the surgery as if we have been to separate appointments. Michael is optimistic. I am pessimistic. I still don’t think this is the correct diagnosis. But Michael is keen to swallow the pills and get on with his life. He rings up an old friend of his and arranges to play golf. So, it’s going to be like this, is it? I will end up being the breadwinner on course for a stroke whilst my husband plays house, plays golf, plays at being a husband and generally plays around. Tommy (Michael’s friend and his best man at our wedding) is, by coincidence, free tomorrow. He will pick him up en route and they will drive out to somewhere in Hertfordshire where he is a member. I am pleased for Michael but envious of him too. I am keen for him to seek employment sooner rather than later. He has lost interest, for now.
Tuesday comes and Tuesday goes. The golf day is an utter disaster. It’s not that he has forgotten how to play but he has forgotten that he was never much good at it. Neither am I. Playing Crazy Golf in Brighton is one thing but playing pitch and putt on a proper 18-hole golf course is quite another. I don’t say I told you so because I know how irritating this can be. But I think it. At least the Thought Police haven’t invaded our home, yet. I try to comfort Michael by suggesting that we go and see a film but he’s too tired. Exhausted, in fact. He goes upstairs and throws himself onto our bed. He keeps his shoes on. Part of me wants to cuddle up next to him and tell him that I love him. Part of me wants to shake him up and tell him to look for a job. I hate this part of myself.
The rest of the week is unimaginably dull and it seems to last forever. I am really looking forward to going back to school; this is a first for me. Before I do, I spend an hour on the internet with Michael, helping him to register with appropriate agencies. He’s got to find something to do before we both lose our minds. He has never known quite what to do with himself when he’s at home and the children aren’t around. He has never had to. Michael doesn’t have many hobbies. His whole life has centred on our marriage; our children and his work. He is too young to retire. I am too young for him to retire.
Michael registers his impressive CV with ten
top agencies based in the City and the West End respectively. He takes two of his favourite suits to the drycleaners in the village (Belsize, that is) and buys a bar of Green and Black’s organic dark chocolate as a reward. He seems very pleased with himself. Not depressed at all.
Chapter 4
Back to School
Half-term is over. I leave Michael sleeping soundly in our bed; eat a paltry breakfast and cycle into school. It’s a miserable day. Winter is kicking in early. So much for climate change. Joe is polishing our new door sign; various members of staff are drifting in, dangling their keys, and even some of our pupils are arriving well in advance of the first bell. I linger on the doorstep and chat to the caretaker about Michael being unemployed. Even as I say it, I regret it. The whole school will know my business in a day or two.
I’m slightly anxious about leaving Michael at home as he has nothing to do today. I’m doubtful as to whether he will remember to take his Prozac and worry about the knock-on effect of this. I have no choice. He doesn’t need a babysitter. I head straight to my office. It seems like years since I was in it. I thought I would have plenty of me time in half-term but it transpires that I haven’t had any. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look thinner but older and my highlights need doing. As I said, no me-time. I’m also getting a slight pain in my back tooth and hope this isn’t going to result in root canal treatment. I would rather have an extraction.
Imprisoned by Love Page 6