The Wife Page 13

  Two days later we met up again, this time at a pub in the centre of Durham. Our first date. A beautiful evening, one that was warm enough for us to sit out in the riverside courtyard, drinking beer and sharing stories. He’d wanted to know about my family. I hadn’t wanted to tell him. I’d thought it was too soon; thought the truth would scare him off. He was so handsome, looking at him took my breath away. He could have anyone; why would he want me? But he did. And that’s when I knew – that’s when I was certain he was the one, the man I was going to marry. That’s when I fell in love, so hard I still feel my stomach flip, even now, when I remember that night by the river.

  We’d taken a walk through the city after dinner at the small Spanish restaurant, the one I now spend my lunchtimes in, waiting for him to turn up with his distraction. We’d walked, his hand holding tightly onto mine, and for the first time in my life I’d felt happy. I’d felt free of all the crap my father had caused me to feel. Michael had taken that and tossed it away; he’d fixed me. Until now.

  Hauling myself to my feet, I check my watch, slide my bag up onto my shoulder and walk away from the cathedral, back down the bank towards the streets of Durham city. I spend another half an hour or so staring blankly at shop windows, feeling the calmness that had filled me such a short time ago slowly begin to drain out of me. I start to panic. My heart starts to race. I suddenly feel exposed, as if everyone can see so clearly the fear that lives within me now.

  I head into the marketplace, cutting through the crowds of people milling about by the statue in the centre of the square, sitting on benches, taking in the afternoon sun. And as I walk, that’s when I notice something; it’s just a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye, but it’s enough to make me stop. To take a longer, second look.

  I sidle up beside the statue, peek around the side of it, glance over towards the pub across the square. It’s him. It’s Michael, standing outside, talking into his phone. I keep my eyes on him, but his conversation is short. He slides his phone back into his pocket and checks his watch. Is he alone? I don’t shift my gaze. I keep watching as he glances back inside the pub, leans against the wall outside and folds his arms. Is he waiting for someone? My heart is racing even faster now, hammering violently against my ribs, and I try really hard not to let my breathing get out of control. But as I continue to watch my husband, outside a pub in Durham City Centre, in the middle of a weekday afternoon, that suffocating panic only becomes more stifling. And yet, I don’t want the safety of my car now. I want to see who my husband’s waiting for, what he’s doing here. Why didn’t I check my phone earlier? I would’ve seen where he was; I could’ve come here sooner. That was a lapse on my part. My mistake. I’m not usually so careless.

  I blink quickly in case I miss something, and then he glances behind him again, and I feel my heart beat even harder, even louder, as someone comes out of the pub. Someone. Her. Ava. His pretty little student. His distraction. She comes outside, and he smiles at her, rests his hand on the small of her back, and my stomach knots up so tight I feel sick.

  They start walking towards the bookshop side by side; he’s pulled his hand from her back now. They aren’t touching each other, but that means nothing. It doesn’t mean he isn’t taking her to a cheap hotel later for an afternoon fuck – he’s fucking someone, because he sure as hell isn’t touching me any more.

  I watch them until they disappear from my view, and while part of me wants to follow them, confront them, confront him, I don’t. I can’t. Not yet. I don’t have the proof, nothing concrete, not even this afternoon’s meeting is enough, despite the fact I’m more than sure that I’m right now. He’s sleeping with her, he’s using her to distance himself from me. His wife. The woman who lost our child because another of his deranged, deluded, obsessed students thought she loved him. He was only mentoring her, that’s what he told me. Like he’s mentoring this one? My husband is a very caring man; he looks after all his students. He cares about his students. Their futures. But I worry about his methods now. I didn’t think twice about it before. I had no reason to. He gave me no reason to. Until that night. Michael always has been the kind of lecturer who goes above and beyond the call of duty for those he feels warrant that level of attention. Is that what caused that crazy bitch to lash out the way she did? Was she just reading the signals wrong, or had there been something going on? What did he do to make her think he was hers to take? Is that what this one thinks, too? Does she think she can have him? Take him from me? Has he told her what a burden I am to him now? How I aggravate him, irritate him; how every time I open my mouth to speak he winces, because he assumes I’m going to start asking questions I still need answers to? He thinks I don’t see that expression on his face, don’t notice it, but I do. I see it all too often, and I know that’s why he’s been driven to this. By me? Have I driven him to fuck other women?

  I sink to my haunches, lean back against the statue and close my eyes, breathing deeply in and out, until I remember where I am. I’m not alone out here, so I drag myself to my feet and start walking again, in the opposite direction to where Michael and his distraction went. His distraction … I think I need to stop calling her that. Has she distracted him? Has she turned my husband’s head? Is this one different, or is it just as I imagine it was with the other one? Is my husband getting too close? Are his mentoring methods giving these girls signals they can’t help but act upon? Either way, this one has become an unwelcome part of my life now, and I don’t want her there, but I can’t help but acknowledge her presence. Ava.

  I don’t share, Ava, and you need to know that.

  Every fibre of my being still wants to turn around and follow them. Confront them. But I know I can’t do that, not yet. I’ll have to make do with tracking his movements. Listening to his calls. Reading his texts. Which is why I pick up pace as I make my way to the multi-storey car park, hurrying up the concrete steps to the floor where I left my car a couple of hours ago.

  I climb into the driver’s seat, pull the door closed and lean back, closing my eyes again, I feel safe now. I’m alone in my car, cocooned in my own private fear, my paranoia. My guilt? No. I still feel no guilt. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. I think he has.

  Reaching into my bag, I pull out my phone and log onto my spyware account. I need to see where he is. Where he’s gone. If only it could tell me whether she was still with him.

  I feel hot, angry tears start to burn behind my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away. It’s been a hard day, one full of memories of a life I’d loved living. One full of fear for the life I’m losing. For the man I can feel pulling further and further away from me.

  Michael was different.

  Michael loved me.

  He really was different.

  But now I don’t know.

  Chapter 19

  I stand by the window, looking outside at the garden. That corner by the summer house still lies empty, still waiting for me to plant that tree, another thing I’ll probably never get around to doing.

  I look down into the empty wine glass, my fingers gripping the stem so tight they’re almost turning my knuckles white. I don’t even remember drinking the wine, but I must have. At some point. There are a lot of things I don’t remember these days. And a lot I’d rather forget. Why do the bad memories so entirely smother the good ones?

  I hear him – Michael – come into the kitchen, but I don’t turn around. Instead I watch his reflection in the window, watch him open the fridge and take out a beer. Watch him pull off the top and drink down a mouthful before he places the bottle down on the counter and leans back against it, his eyes glancing over towards me.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Ellie.’

  So have I. Too much. I don’t enjoy it, thinking. It hurts; it’s confusing. Painful. ‘About what?’

  Do I say something? What I saw this afternoon, the image of him looking at her, walking alongside her; it’s imprinted in my brain, embedded there on a loop. So, do I say something? Or do I s
tay quiet? Keep bottling this all up, until what? Until he leaves me? Until I lose him forever?

  ‘Why don’t we get a dog?’

  I swing around so fast I almost lose my balance and fix him with a look of disbelief, but his expression is just confused.

  ‘You always wanted a dog, remember?’

  I wanted a dog as part of that little family we were about to create. I wanted a dog for our child, so they could grow up with a pet, a little companion to play with, I wanted that fairy-tale perfect world.

  ‘I don’t want a dog, Michael.’

  He frowns. ‘You used to.’

  ‘I used to be pregnant.’

  His expression changes, the confusion evaporates, and I can see fear in his eyes now. Fear that I’m about to broach that subject.

  What are you scared of, Michael?

  ‘Maybe a dog would help, you know?’

  ‘Help?’ I splutter the word out; it almost escapes as a laugh. I really can’t believe I’m listening to this; that he’s saying this.

  ‘Help you get over…’ He stops. He shuts up, kills that sentence dead, because he knows that completing it is wrong. It’s so fucking wrong. But I can’t pretend he didn’t start to say it. And neither should he.

  ‘Get over what, Michael?’

  He looks at me, his blue eyes sad, but there’s no guilt there. He looks at me, and I feel my heart break a million times over as I remember what we used to have, who we once were. ‘Don’t go there, Ellie. Please. Let’s not do this. I just thought…’

  ‘I lost a baby, and at the same time I had any chance of conceiving again taken away from me, and you think a dog is going to help me get over that?’

  ‘You need something else to focus on.’

  ‘I have my work.’

  ‘You’re hardly ever there these days.’

  ‘I don’t want a dog, Michael. Okay? A dog isn’t going to help anything. What would help is you talking to me…’

  He shakes his head, raises his hands in the air to silence me as he starts to back away, towards the door. He’s retreating, taking himself out of this situation before it turns into everything he spends his time avoiding. I want to ask him why he’s doing this to me, why he’s making me feel so angry and frustrated. Why he’s making me feel so lonely. I want to ask why he’s fucking another woman to avoid facing up to this.

  He grabs his jacket from the coat rack, hanging it over his arm as he leaves the house, slamming the front door behind him. I can’t explain how much his behaviour hurts me.

  I sink to the floor, the sound of glass shattering on the solid black tiles echoing around the empty kitchen. I must’ve let go of the wine glass. I place my hand down to steady myself, forgetting all about the broken glass beside me. I don’t even feel pain as tiny, sharp shards stab into my palm. I feel nothing. I don’t see the blood. I don’t register that I’m hurt. I feel nothing. Just numbness. A cold, sweeping numbness.

  I close my eyes, sit back against the window and breathe. I breathe, because sometimes I forget to do that. And still I feel nothing…

  *

  My eyes flicker open, slowly, and I blink a few times as I try to focus, try to read the time on the clock on the wall, but I don’t know how long I’ve been out of it. Did I faint? Fall asleep? Pass out? I can’t remember what time it was when I closed my eyes.

  I glance over at the TV still playing away in the corner of the living area of our open plan kitchen. A familiar soap opera is on, so it isn’t that late. And then I feel it. The pain. My throbbing palm feels like it’s on fire, and I raise it up slowly, wincing as I see the cuts, the blood, the shards of glass embedded into my skin. I tilt my head to one side, slowly and carefully pulling the shards of glass from my palm, which makes me wince again. It hurts, a burning pain that spreads far beyond my injured hand.

  Tossing the pieces of broken glass to the floor, I raise my hand up again, strangely fascinated by the patterns the rivulets of blood are making as they snake their way across my palm, dripping slowly and steadily onto my jeans. But it takes a second or two before I realise I have to do something. Do I need stitches? I don’t want to go to hospital. I don’t want to leave the house. The house I’m alone in, again, because my husband still can’t face talking to me.

  I want to cry. I feel stupidly weak all of a sudden. Or am I constantly weak, and I just insist on ignoring that fact, blocking it out?

  I place my other, cut-free hand onto the floor next to me and push myself to my feet, keeping my injured hand aloft as I head into the kitchen. I grab a towel from the drawer, wrap it around my hand, watching as the blood soaks through the linen and I lean back against the counter and bow my head. I should get it looked at. I don’t think a plaster is going to stop the bleeding.

  Reaching for my phone, I’m about to call Liam when I notice an alert on my screen. Michael’s made a call. Or someone’s called Michael. I check the tracker, try to see where he’s gone; he might have gone to Liam’s. He hasn’t. He’s at the pub, the one close to his university building, and for a second I forget the pain that’s starting to travel up my forearm. I’m too consumed by thoughts of who my husband is with, what he’s talking about. Is he talking to her? To Ava? Does he listen to Ava? Does he let Ava speak, or is it all just sex? What kind of distraction is she? What kind of sex do they have?

  The pain I momentarily forgot comes back with a vengeance, hitting me head on, and I squeeze my eyes tight shut, biting down on my lip even though I know that won’t help. I’ll call Liam, then I’ll take some painkillers. That might ease it slightly.

  I can tell Liam wants to know what’s gone on, but I don’t go into any detail. I tell him I’ve cut my hand, tell him I’m not exactly bleeding out but I’m not sure whether I need to go to Accident and Emergency, and if I do I can’t drive myself. I tell him enough not to worry him, but I need him to come over.

  He’s on his way, so I take the painkillers, wrap a fresh towel around my hand and go upstairs.

  I run my injured hand under the tap in the bathroom, watching as the blood disappears from my palm and swirls around the white basin, down into the plughole. It’s hypnotic. I stay in the bathroom, mesmerised by my injury, until I hear the front doorbell ring. And the sudden noise cutting through the silence makes me jump, makes me knock my hand on the tap and I cry out as my already tender hand receives a fresh assault. My nerves are still shattered, more so when I’m left alone in this house. And Michael knows that. And still he chooses to leave me here. Alone.

  Wrapping the blood-stained towel back around my hand I run downstairs, check the security monitor on the hall table just to make sure it’s Liam. It is. I open the door to let him in and he kicks it shut behind him, his expression one of exasperation mixed with concern. Is he getting tired of me, too? He’s the only one I can talk to, seeing as Michael wants us to hide the real truth from the rest of our friends. He doesn’t want their pity. Neither do I. I just want us to be honest with each other, how we used to be.

  ‘Give me your hand, come on. Let me look at it.’

  I hold out my hand and Liam removes the towel, tossing it to the floor, and I watch as he runs his thumb lightly over the scattered, criss-cross cuts on my palm. His thumb is covered in my blood now, and I look at him briefly before dropping my gaze back down to my hand.

  ‘Where’s your first aid kit?’ he asks, his fingers now grasping my wrist as he raises my arm up.

  ‘In the kitchen. The cupboard next to the cooker.’

  He keeps hold of my wrist as we head into the kitchen, blood trickling slowly over my arm as we walk, and I look down. Specks of it decorate the tiled floor, but that doesn’t bother me. It’ll wash off. My husband sleeping with one of his students – that bothers me. Blood on the tiles, I can fix that.

  Liam holds my hand under the tap in the kitchen sink and once more I watch as my blood washes away down the plughole.

  ‘Keep it there.’

  He crouches down, retrieves the small first aid kit f
rom the cupboard next to the cooker, and then he’s back up beside me. He switches off the tap, takes hold of my wrist again and checks my palm for any smaller shards of glass that might still be in there. When he’s satisfied they’re all gone, he gently washes my cuts with antiseptic lotion, which stings a bit, but I try to ignore the discomfort and bite down on my lip again, even though that doesn’t help ease anything.

  We stay silent as he washes my cuts and dabs cream onto them, which makes me wince again. But the bleeding seems to be subsiding now.

  ‘You don’t need to go to A&E.’ He reaches into the first aid kit for a bandage. ‘But you will need to be careful with this hand for the next few days.’

  His tone is authoritative, almost like he’s speaking to a child. He’s very business-like, which surprises me. Have I done something wrong? Something to upset him? Or am I just so paranoid these days that I think I’m pissing everyone off? Jesus, this self-pity has got to stop.

  I watch as he wraps the bandage around my palm, fastening it tight, just the tiniest amount of blood showing itself now. And the pain is lessening slightly, but that could just be the ibuprofen kicking in.

  ‘There.’ He steps back from me, starts putting the first aid kit back together, tucking it away in the cupboard. ‘Are you going to tell me how it happened now?’ He faces me, his tone still a little cold, his expression only slightly warmer.

  ‘Have I done something to upset you?’ I ask, walking over to the fridge. There’s another bottle of wine in there, and I need a drink.

  ‘I take it you and Michael have had another row.’

  It isn’t a question, it’s more of a statement. And I can’t stop the snort of disdain from escaping as I twist the cap off the wine bottle with my uninjured hand. ‘I wish we could get to the stage of rowing.’ I pour us both full glasses of wine, sliding one towards him. ‘We rowed in the beginning, but now – it’s pretty difficult to row when you barely speak to each other any more.’