The Wife Read online

  I glance over at the TV screen and focus on the local news programme that’s just started, and then I remember I need to call Rachel. Let her know we may be running late. So I quickly call her, and once I’ve done that I check the time. I don’t think he’s coming back for his phone. And it’s there now, calling to me.

  I pick it back up and head towards my office at the far end of the orangery. But the second I open the doors of the pool house, I stop walking. I stand perfectly still, and, as I always do when I come in here, I remember. A lot of people still find it strange, that I have my office here, in this place, considering what went on just a few feet away from where I’m standing. And I can’t always explain the reasons why I’ve forced myself to come in here on an almost daily basis. Facing up to what happened is just something I need to do.

  I look down at the water. I’ve always liked being surrounded by water. I grew up by the coast, spent a lot of summers at the beach. My grandma and grandad used to take me there a lot after my mother died. I think they sensed it was like an escape for me. Somewhere that allowed me to forget. Somewhere that made me feel happy. All they’d wanted was for me to forget the bad times and get on with my life. And that’s all Michael wants me to do too, isn’t it? Forget, and move on with my life.

  Crouching down I drop my hand into the water, let my fingers trail through it, backwards and forwards. It’s almost hypnotic … What am I doing? I’ve been gifted this window of opportunity, and I can’t afford to waste it.

  I snap myself out of that near-trance-like state I was close to falling into and head over to the small room in the corner that now serves as my office. There’s not a lot of space in there, but it’s big enough to house a decent-sized desk, a couple of filing cabinets, and some shelves. And there’s a huge window that means the room always gets a lot of light, as well as a decent view out over the garden. A view of the summer house that was once my haven. The space beside it that was supposed to be our child’s play area. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes, my fingers tightening around Michael’s phone as my breathing quickens, the pain of losing that life I wanted, that life I was living; it still hurts in a way nobody will ever understand.

  Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, I pull myself together. Sitting down behind my desk, I switch on my laptop and lay my own phone down beside Michael’s, my heart beating like a jackhammer as a mixture of nerves and— am I finding this exciting? So many emotions are fighting inside me these days, it’s hard to tell which ones win out. And maybe exciting is the wrong word, but I’m feeling something. The anticipation of relief, perhaps. That I will soon know so much more about my husband than I clearly do at the moment. First I need to check his messages, even though I don’t expect to find anything. Michael is clever; if something were going on, if he was doing anything he shouldn’t, I doubt he’d leave any evidence on his phone. My scan over his texts proves me right – there’s nothing even slightly incriminating there. I still know something about my husband, then.

  I start tapping away at the keyboard, watching as a list of instructions pops up on my screen, and my stomach dips as the realisation of what I’m about to do hits me again. But this is necessary. I can’t have him accepting that this life of distractions, silences and resentment is our life now. I can’t. I won’t.

  Picking up my phone, I follow the steps listed in the instructions, and I watch as my plan kicks into action. The knot in my stomach tightens because of what I’m doing here – I’m tracking my husband. I’m installing an app on his phone that allows me to see where he is, where he goes, who he calls and texts. I’m still amazed at how readily available this kind of thing is. And yes, there is part of me that knows that this is wrong, but I also know that this is the only way that I can begin to rebuild my sense of trust in Michael.

  Sitting back in my chair, I close my eyes. I don’t feel guilty for doing this. I have nothing to feel guilty about. I’m trying to save our marriage, trying to put our life back together, because he’s given up. He’s too scared to face up to a guilt he doesn’t need to feel, and if he’d only let me tell him that, let me talk, I wouldn’t have had to do this. He gave me no choice. This is his fault. His doing.

  I open my eyes and lean forward, checking both phones before I log out and shut down my laptop, but not before I’ve quickly cleared my search history. I have no reason to think Michael would ever check that, but I’m playing this safe. I’m done now. I’m going to fix this.

  Sliding both phones into the back pockets of my jeans, I make my way back through the pool house, the orangery, out into the kitchen. But only to put Michael’s phone on the countertop. I need to get ready for this dinner party now.

  I wander upstairs to shower and change, and I’m busy pinning up my hair when Michael returns.

  ‘Ellie?’ He walks into the room looking slightly flustered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did I leave my phone here?’

  I turn back to face the mirror, sliding the last pin into my hair. ‘It’s downstairs, on the kitchen counter.’

  ‘Oh. Right … Any calls?’

  I turn back around to face him. ‘Were you expecting any?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘There were no calls. And you need to get changed.’

  I sit down on the edge of the bed and slip on my heels – bright green strappy sandals to match the dress I’m wearing. Bright clothes, bright shoes. Both match my slightly brighter mood.

  ‘Ellie?’

  I stand up, my eyes looking straight into his. After what I’ve done tonight, I should probably feel guilty. I don’t.

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  He used to tell me that all the time. Not so much these days. And I think it’s his guilt that’s making him tell me that now. I didn’t miss the slightly panicked look in his eyes when he asked me if he’d left his phone, whether there’d been any calls. I saw it.

  I respond to his comment with a small smile, because I think he does mean what he says when he tells me I look beautiful. But I don’t feel it. I haven’t felt it for a long time. The bruises and the cuts she inflicted on me, they healed, in time. They faded. But everything else … the loss of my child, I’ll never get over that. That pain will never fade, because she not only took my baby, she took away any chance I had of conceiving again. Those kicks to my stomach, they damaged me too much. Physically, as well as mentally. She changed me, hurt me, in every way possible, and that can never heal. The fear she instilled in me – for months afterwards I was afraid of my own shadow. I still am at times, so that – that will never leave me. I’m not who I want to be any more, and I certainly don’t feel beautiful. I feel empty and sad, and I’m angry. I’m tired. But I’m determined to change that, to get me back; get my husband back; get us back.

  I’m not losing this fight.

  *

  I don’t want to be here, making small talk, even with people I love. My brighter mood was only temporary, retreating back into the shadows the second we stepped inside Rachel and Harry’s newly decorated home. I thought it might be easier, this evening, putting on that show. It isn’t. I watch Michael. He seems much more at ease with this act tonight. He isn’t struggling at all; he’s all smiles as he laughs and jokes with Liam and Harry and Ed while Rachel and Claire busy themselves clearing plates and glasses from the dinner table. I’m watching this perfect picture of suburban domesticity play out from outside on the patio. I feigned a slight headache, said I needed some air.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I turn my head to look at Liam as he joins me outside.

  ‘Claire said you had a bit of a headache.’

  He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and I frown slightly. I thought he was trying to give up.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  I shake my head. He slides a cigarette out and lights up, taking a deep draw on it as he looks back at me.

  ‘So? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

 
; ‘What are you doing out here, then?’

  ‘I’m tired, Liam. Of all this.’

  He leans back against the fence and takes another drag on his cigarette. ‘Michael seems okay with it.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Michael. I can see he’s fine about it.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Like what?’

  He shrugs and stubs his cigarette out on the fence behind him before he tosses it into the ashtray Harry’s left on the wooden picnic table. ‘I don’t know. You just seem more on edge than usual.’

  I take a sip of my drink and look at him, trying to force a smile because I’m not really in the mood for a conversation. ‘Nothing’s happened. It’s just that, this all becomes too much sometimes. All this pretending, the way he treats me in public…’ I drop my gaze, staring down at my bright green sandals, my shocking pink nail varnish. Outwardly I’m bright and colourful, yet inside I feel nothing.

  ‘When we get home, it’s like he flicks a switch and all of a sudden I’m nothing to him. I’m just this obstacle, this thing that’s getting in the way of his world carrying on the way he wants it to. But what about me, huh? What about my world?’ I raise my head and my eyes meet Liam’s, but he doesn’t respond. I don’t really expect him to. ‘It hurts, that’s all.’

  He comes over to me, places a hand on my hip and he leans into me, his breath warm against my neck as he speaks. ‘He’s an idiot.’

  His words shock me. I’ve never heard him talk about Michael that way. They’re friends. Best friends. Almost like brothers. So to hear Liam speak that way was unexpected. And I watch as he walks back inside, goes straight to the fridge and takes out a beer, downing a large draft. For a second I can’t move; I just stand there, watching from outside as everyone carries on as though everything’s normal. I’m almost jealous that they’re able to do that.

  I go back into the kitchen, and I start to pour myself a glass of wine.

  ‘You’re driving. You’ve had enough.’

  Michael takes the bottle from me before I can fill my glass, and I close my eyes, just for a second. I need to breathe. He’s right. I can’t drink any more; I have had enough. Unfortunately.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Here.’

  He hands me a glass of lime and soda and I take it from him. ‘Thanks.’ We can’t have anyone thinking our marriage is in trouble. We can’t have people knowing how broken we are. We’ve never rowed in front of our friends; in front of anyone. We’ve never even shared so much as a niggle, a random barbed comment. It isn’t what we do. Not in our friends’ eyes. We’re Ellie and Michael. The perfect couple. That couple who faced tragedy and still remain closer than ever. Yes. That’s who we need to be again.

  ‘You need to make more of an effort, Ellie, or people will start to think something’s wrong.’

  I look at him, my expression one of disbelief. I’m not even trying to hide it. ‘Because everything is just perfect, right?’

  He bows his head, quickly runs his hand along the back of his neck, and then he reaches out, takes my hand in his and pulls me towards him, kissing me gently, an action so unexpected I didn’t even have time to take another breath before his mouth was on mine. Is this real? Or just a façade?

  ‘We don’t have to stay much longer, all right?’ he whispers, cupping my cheek, his thumb lightly stroking my skin, and I feel a million confused, messed up emotions flood my brain.

  I nod, and he smiles – just a small, brief smile – before he pulls away and re-joins Harry, Ed and Liam. And as I look over towards our group of friends, Liam’s eyes meet mine and he throws me a friendly smile – one I return.

  ‘I really admire you, Ellie.’

  Claire joins me at the back of the kitchen, helping herself to the wine I so badly need and can’t have. Not until I get home, and then I can drink until I forget everything.

  ‘Admire me? Why?’

  She takes a sip of her wine and looks at me, narrowing her eyes slightly, her expression telling me I should know exactly why she admires me. I don’t.

  ‘The way you and Michael have stayed so strong, after everything that happened. It would’ve tested most couples to their limit.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy, Claire.’

  ‘Oh, no, Ellie, I know that. I’m not saying it was easy, God … I didn’t mean it that way, I just…’

  ‘No, Claire, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m just a little tired. It’s been a busy week at the spa, problems at the Newcastle salon … It all just piles up sometimes, you know?’

  Claire smiles, and I breathe an inner sigh of relief. These people are the last people I should be taking anything out on.

  ‘I just think the way you and Michael came back from what happened – that would’ve pulled most couples apart. I’m not sure Ed and I would’ve coped as well as you two did.’

  We really seem to have done a good job of lying to our friends. And part of me feels guilty for that, for letting them think that we dealt with everything so much better than we really did. Why couldn’t we have told them the truth? What would’ve been so bad about letting them know that we aren’t so fucking perfect after all?

  The sound of Rachel and Harry’s eight week old daughter crying from the nursery upstairs bellows from the baby monitor on the countertop, and I watch as Rachel says something to Harry before running out of the room. It’s Liam who glances over at me again, not Michael. Not my husband. He can’t even look at me, and that rips me apart inside. The fact it’s Liam who senses that only makes it worse. But it’s Claire’s hand on my arm that pulls me back from a dark place I don’t want to go to right now. I’ve been there enough times over the past few months.

  ‘It must still be hard, Ellie. For you and Michael.’

  I turn my head to look at her, plastering a smile on my face because that’s what I need to do. I need to smile and pretend I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m over it, all of it. ‘It was, in the beginning, but things are much better now. And I have Michael. We have each other.’

  Do we?

  She squeezes my hand, her smile reassuring, not full of pity like it used to be. ‘I envy what you guys have. You’re so strong.’

  She envies us. She thinks we’re strong. How would they feel if they knew the truth? If they knew how weak Michael and I really were?

  ‘Life goes on. Besides, my work keeps me busy. And speaking of which, aren’t you booked in for a pamper day at the spa next Friday?’

  ‘I am, and I can’t wait! Thank you so much for the vouchers; I’m going to use them all.’

  I smile at her, thankful that we’ve finally changed the subject. But I’m still counting down the minutes until it’s an appropriate time for Michael and me to make our excuses and leave. These evenings are tough, which is why we don’t do them so often any more, but every now and again we feel obliged to come out, show our faces. We have to keep up those appearances.

  Claire turns to top up her wine and I stare out ahead of me, watching closely as Rachel reappears, whispers something to Harry. It’s his turn to go and see to their daughter while she re-joins the conversation, and I watch as Michael leans in to her, says something to her that makes her throw her head back and laugh. I watch as he rests a hand on her hip, and I narrow my eyes slightly even though I know he and Rachel would never do anything like that; not to me, not to Harry. This distraction Michael’s found – she isn’t a friend of ours, she’s a stranger, at least to me. A student to him. Michael would never stray so close to home, he’s just a very tactile, very charming, flirtatious man. He always has been; it’s what makes him so attractive.

  I keep watching him, the way he can still charm women he’s known for almost a decade, and I can completely understand why his female students fawn over him so much. But reciprocating those feelings – after what happened, after what she did, for him to take that risk – is he really that insensitive? That naïve?

  Despite their own husbands watching on, Claire and Rachel conti
nue to play up to my husband’s harmless flirting, but they’ve known Michael a long time. They know this is just the way he is, and then I wonder if these people – people I still call my friends – I wonder if any of them would lie for him. Cover for him. Keep his secrets, and me out of the loop. It’s something that makes the knot in my stomach tighten a little more, pulling so hard I find it difficult to breathe for a second or two. Could I be the only one who knows nothing? The last to find out about my husband’s infidelity? Alleged infidelity; I still have no proof. Not yet.

  ‘Come on, Ellie. Come and join us.’

  Claire’s voice breaks through my thoughts and I shake that new paranoia away, although I think it’s already found a home amongst the rest of my jumbled theories. It won’t go away now, I’ll be watching them, all of them, a lot more closely.

  ‘Ellie?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, yes. Yes, of course. I’m coming.’

  I head over to them, and as I approach the group Michael holds out his hand, and I hesitate, just for a beat or two, before I take it. Before I let his fingers curl around mine, squeeze my hand tight in his; before I allow this charade to carry on a little while longer. But I refuse to accept that it will be this way forever. I will change it. I’ve already started.

  Chapter 17

  It’s raining; the kind of rain you usually only see in movies or on TV. The kind that can’t possibly be real because it’s coming down so heavy. Too heavy. But it’s raining like that now, here, as I sit in my car, watching a cascade of huge raindrops pelt down onto my windscreen, the noise they’re making so loud it’s quite unnerving.

  I’m parked up in the back yard behind the Durham hair studio waiting for this shower to pass. Even the short dash from my car to the back entrance of the salon will see me soaked through if I attempt to leave just yet, so I sit tight, watch the rain continue to fall, straining my neck to look up at the sky to see if there’s a break in those dark, threatening clouds overhead. There’s a small sliver of light in the distance. I just have to wait. It’ll be over soon.