The Wife Page 3

  I head back inside, back to my office just behind the reception area.

  Closing the door behind me I open a window, just wide enough to let in some air, and I sit down at my desk, leaning forward to pick up the photograph I’ve got standing on it. It’s a photograph of Michael and I, taken about three years ago on holiday in southern Spain. We love Spain. It’s been our go-to destination for years now, ever since our honeymoon in Valencia. We’ve travelled throughout most of the country, stayed in some of the most beautiful and unusual hotels, met the most incredible people; made plans to buy a holiday home out there, one day. Maybe. But that was before. We haven’t spoken about those plans or even mentioned the prospect of another holiday over there, not for a long time.

  I reach out and run my fingers lightly over the photograph as I remember how happy we’d been, back then. I know he feels guilty for what happened. I know that’s partly the reason why he distances himself from me in the way that he does now. It’s because he still feels that guilt. But he shouldn’t. I don’t want him to.

  I put the photograph down and spin my chair around so I can look out of the window. It’s a beautiful spring day, warm for the time of year, the kind of day when everything should feel pretty much perfect. I used to think we were pretty much perfect, it certainly felt that way, at times. And then I drop my gaze, my eyes focused on my hands clasped together over my stomach and I know that we were never perfect. Even before everything changed, before the guilt and the doubt, before all that happened, we still weren’t perfect.

  There’s a niggle in my mind. My gut is trying to tell me something.

  Swinging my chair back around I pick up the phone and punch in the number for Sue, Michael’s secretary. She answers after a couple of rings and I lean back and swing my chair around to face the window again as I wait for her to speak, and when she finally does her tone is crisp and businesslike.

  ‘Good afternoon, Professor Travers’ office.’

  ‘Sue, hi. It’s Ellie.’

  The second she hears my voice her tone switches to informal and friendly, and I smile to myself. I like Sue. She’s worked with Michael for years. I’m not sure how he’d cope without her now. And when it comes to his timetable and schedule she’s got a photographic memory.

  ‘Ellie! It’s lovely to hear from you, how’s everything going over at the spa?’

  ‘It’s all going to plan, fingers crossed. Opening on Friday.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news. I’m so pleased for you. Michael said you’d been working incredibly hard to get the place up and running as soon as possible … Anyway, I’m sure you’re still extremely busy, so, what can I do for you? Do you need to speak to Michael? Only, he’s not in his office right now, but I can take a message.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I don’t need to speak to him. Listen, Sue, I was just wondering, does he have any tutorials this evening?’

  ‘I don’t think so … If you can bear with me for one second, though, I’ll just double check his schedule.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I hear her start typing, and while I wait I reach behind me for that photograph, and I look at it again, narrowing my eyes slightly, tilting my head to one side as I stare down at the smiling image of my husband.

  ‘No, Ellie, he doesn’t appear to have any tutorials in his diary for tonight.’

  Sue’s voice cuts through my thoughts, although it takes a second for her words to register with me. ‘Okay.’ I distinctly remember him telling me that he had evening tutorials this morning. ‘He does have a department meeting, though, doesn’t he? I’m sure he said he did. Five o’clock, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I’m just trying to plan dinner, that’s all. We haven’t spent an evening together, at home, for a while now, what with me getting the spa ready to open and his busy schedule, so – I just hoped we might be able to manage that tonight. Some time together.’

  I wonder, did it seem as though I was over-compensating just a bit too much there? To the outside world we’re over what happened, we’ve moved on. And Michael has moved on. I’m still trying to.

  ‘You work too hard, both of you.’ Sue’s tone is mock-scolding, but she just cares about us. We tried to keep what happened as private as we could, but it was inevitable that people would find out. And some of those people, they still treat me as though I’m made of glass. I’m not. I’m tougher than some give me credit for.

  ‘At least we’re lucky enough to enjoy what we do.’

  ‘That’s very true. You take care now, you hear? And good luck for Friday.’

  ‘Thanks, Sue.’

  I hang up and spin my chair back around, placing the photograph back down on the desk. Was Michael lying to me? Does he put all his tutorials in his diary? I don’t know. But I know that he never used to make excuses to avoid spending time with me. There once was a time we’d do anything we could to grab just a few precious hours together, yet now, it’s almost like we’re living separate lives.

  Breathing in deeply, I exhale slowly, as though I’m ridding myself of those negative thoughts.

  What was my husband hiding?

  Chapter 5

  ‘How did your tutorials go this evening?’

  Michael looks up from his books, takes off his glasses and slides them into the top pocket of his shirt. And his expression – I can tell he’s slightly confused. I don’t usually ask about tutorials, they’re not something we ever really talk about. He likes to keep some kind of student-professor confidentiality thing going, but in this case, there weren’t any tutorials, were they?

  ‘Tutorials?’

  I watch his expression change, almost a little too quickly there. I think he’s just realised what he told me this morning.

  ‘They went fine.’

  He slips his glasses back down and drops his gaze, and that’s how it is. How it’s been for months now. And it isn’t fair, it isn’t how it should be, but it’s his way of dealing with everything – it isn’t mine.

  ‘Did you see Liam? In the pub, I mean.’

  He lets a couple of beats go by before he slowly looks back up at me, and his expression is verging on exasperated now; he doesn’t even attempt to hide that frustrated sigh.

  ‘I’m extremely busy, Ellie. As you can see.’

  He indicates the pile of books in front of him, and I get the message. Sometimes it’s just easier to give in rather than fight.

  I walk over to the fridge, take out the bottle of wine I opened last night and I pour myself a glass. I don’t ask Michael if he wants one. When we’re alone, like this, even those simple, ordinary exchanges are rare. I keep my back to him, taking a long sip of wine, closing my eyes as the cool liquid slips down my throat, settles in my belly – that familiar alcohol-hit my welcome friend once more, though Michael thinks we’re becoming increasingly closer these days.

  ‘Ellie … I’m sorry.’

  He comes over to me, pulls me into his arms, and before I can take another breath he’s kissing me. A beautiful, slow, deep kiss, and I wind my arms around his neck as I push myself against him, his erection digging into my thigh and I gasp quietly as he slides a hand up under my skirt, pushing my underwear aside as he lifts me up onto the countertop. I can’t remember the last time we had sex outside the bedroom; spontaneous, unexpected sex. I can’t actually remember the last time we had sex, the last time we both wanted it. So this is a surprise, and even though I think this might be his way of stopping dead a conversation he doesn’t want to get into, I think we need this. I know I want it, now that it’s happening. I want him.

  Placing my hands palm-down behind me I lean back as he pushes inside me, closing my eyes as I feel him move, feel his hands on my knees keeping my legs apart, and I bite down on my lip as his thrusts start to pick up pace, quicken slightly, almost as though he’s taking an element of frustration out on me, or maybe that’s just me over-thinking this; the reasons why he’s acting this way, now. But the sex is slightly rough, and that was nev
er Michael’s style. And then, as if he’s just realised what he’s doing, he slows down, his thrusts suddenly become more gentle, measured.

  I keep my eyes closed, keep my head thrown back, but then I feel his hand slide around onto the back of my neck, forcing my head up, making me look at him as he comes with a force so brutal it almost tears the breath from my body, his eyes burning into mine, and it’s only when he’s done that he breaks that stare, drops his head, but he keeps his hand on my neck. And nobody says anything. I can’t. I don’t think I could get the words out. My throat feels tight, and my heart is beating so fast and so hard it’s difficult to catch my breath.

  He slowly raises his gaze, but we remain silent. I think we’re taking a moment, to remember who we used to be, what we once were. Who we’ve become. Sex, when it happens, has been almost paint-by-numbers for us since – well, for a while now. He hasn’t done this, hasn’t touched me in this way for so long, and as I stare deep into his eyes I feel as if I’m breaking into a million tiny pieces. I feel as though I’m shattering from the inside out, I’m confused. This – us, this isn’t what we do; isn’t what we’ve done for so long, and there are reasons for that. Have we suddenly got past those reasons? No. So this – this only makes everything all the more confusing.

  He suddenly lets go of me, and without saying a word he heads off into the hall, to the downstairs bathroom. I stay where I am, leaning back against the counter, turning my head slightly to stare outside. It’s dark now, but our decked terrace and part of the garden are illuminated by various solar-powered lights, and for a few seconds that’s what I focus on – the lights. It’s only when I hear Michael come back into the kitchen that I pull myself together, take a deep breath, and I smile at him. Just a small smile, and I have no idea if it got as far as my eyes but it was a smile.

  ‘I’d better go and get cleaned up, too.’

  But as I edge past him he gently takes hold of my arm and stops me, swinging me back around to face him.

  ‘I really am sorry, Ellie.’

  He keeps saying that, all the time, he keeps saying he’s sorry, keeps apologising.

  I turn around to face him. ‘What for?’ Given our circumstances, that’s a loaded question, and he knows that.

  He bows his head, runs a hand along the back of his neck, and he’s about to say something when his phone rings, and I’m not sure whether I’m irritated by the interruption or relieved that it may have stopped us from embarking on another of those conversations we just can’t seem to handle.

  He picks his phone up from the table and looks at the screen. ‘I need to get this.’

  I nod, and the second he gets up and turns his back to me I practically run upstairs, not stopping to take a breath until I’m safely behind the privacy of our bedroom door. That’s when I take a second to breathe, to compose myself. He’s lying to me. I’m almost sure of that now. He’s lying to me. And there has to be a reason for that. He wouldn’t lie to me unless he had something to hide. Or maybe he’s just trying to protect me. Maybe that’s all he’s doing, but I don’t need protecting. All I want is for what happened … I don’t want him to lie to me.

  I head into the en suite. I need a shower. And when I’m done I pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt and I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror by the window. Turning sideways I lay a hand on my stomach, and I close my eyes, keeping them squeezed tight shut as my breath catches in my throat; as I feel my heart start to race, my skin become clammy, I can’t breathe, for a second or two. I can’t breathe. I get them every so often, these brief panic attacks that come from out of nowhere, sweeping over me with a brutal force. But I’m learning to handle them, or I’m trying to. And once again I flick that switch that pushes everything to one side, drop my hand, and step back from the mirror, swallowing down breath as it finally dislodges itself from my throat. I need another drink.

  Back downstairs Michael’s nowhere to be seen, he’s not in the kitchen. I go into the orangery, but he isn’t in here either. And then I look towards the double glass doors at the far end of the orangery, the ones that lead through to the extension that houses the swimming pool. He’s there, poolside, pacing up and down, still talking into his phone, his hand running continuously along the back of his neck, and for a second or two I don’t move, I just stand there. Watching him. And then he stops pacing, faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the garden. He leans forward, presses his forearm up against the glass, drops his forehead so it rests against it.

  I move a little closer, my eyes fixed firmly on him. He’s still talking to whoever it is who’s decided that calling him this late is a good thing. Maybe it’s just Liam, but their phone calls to each other usually last about three seconds, just long enough to make sure they both know where they’re meeting, what time their squash game or football match is. They’re not exactly your heart-to-heart kind of friends. Are any men?

  I go back into the kitchen and pour myself another glass of wine before I head into the living room, switch on the TV, trying to keep things as normal as possible. Until Michael walks into the room.

  He places a fresh bottle of wine on the table beside the couch and throws himself down onto the chair by the fireplace.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, not missing the slightly weary expression on his face.

  ‘Everything’s fine. It was just one of my students. She needed some help with a project I’ve set for a group of them, that’s all.’

  I feel my shoulders tense up. She needed some help? What kind of help?

  He sits back in his chair and he smiles at me. ‘Come here. Come on.’ I get up, let him pull me down so I straddle him, and I close my eyes as he kisses me; as his fingers lightly stroke the base of my spine, causing my skin to break out in goose bumps. ‘I’ve told them they shouldn’t call this late, but, you know, they keep telling me I’m their favourite professor, who am I to let them down when they need me?’

  I can’t help smiling too. This is what he does, how he reeled me in all those years ago with that disarming smile and those bright blue eyes. But I still want to ask him questions, ask exactly who he was talking to, why they were calling so late, was this really just about help with a project?

  ‘Michael…’

  He gently pushes my hair back off my face, lightly kisses my slightly open mouth.

  ‘This is what I do, Ellie. It’s what I’ve always done. And I know what you’re going to say but I’m not going to compromise my students in any way. If they need my help, at any time, I’ll give it to them. I thought you understood that.’

  ‘I do, it’s just …’

  ‘It’s my job. To look after my students. It’s my job. Okay?’

  He looks at me, his blue eyes burning deep into mine. He’s ending this conversation. He’s told me as much as he’s willing to tell.

  I climb off him, go back over to the couch, and I anticipate the coming silence. He won’t want to do this, he won’t want to go where I’m heading.

  Silence. Loaded with secrets. Hurt. Guilt.

  ‘It’s been over a year, Michael. And nothing’s changed.’

  He drops his head, a sign that he doesn’t want this. And I can see what he’s been trying to do, all night. He’s been using his charm, using that smile, using sex to try and distract me. To try and stop me from doing this. But that only works for a short time. And this, what I’m seeing now, his body language, I’ve seen it all too often over the past few months, and a knot of frustration pulls tighter inside my gut. We’re done here. And he doesn’t make any attempt to stop me as I get up and leave the room, and that breaks my heart. It kills me.

  I feel tears start to stream down my cheeks as I run upstairs, and I hate that I’m still crying. Is he really just accepting this as us now?

  I get ready for bed on auto-pilot, going through the motions until I can finally crawl under the covers and wait for sleep to take over. But it’s not coming easily tonight, and I lie there, staring at the wall, until I fe
el Michael slip into bed beside me; feel his arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me back against him and I close my eyes as his fingers slide between mine. We’ll go to sleep, wake up in the morning, and everything will be back to that new normal that fills our days now. A kind of normal I’m having to get used to, even though it’s not one I want. But this is the way it’s been for over a year now. The way I fear it’s always going to be. And while Michael may be willing to accept that, I’m not sure I can …

  Chapter 6

  ‘Hey! What are you doing here?’

  I’m surprised to see Michael at the spa. He hasn’t set foot in the place since he came with me to view the building a few months ago.

  ‘You left your phone on the kitchen table. I thought you might need it.’

  ‘Oh, right… thank you.’

  I look at the screen, see that there are about a dozen missed calls I’m going to have to return.

  ‘Sorry … I was in such a rush this morning, I forgot to make sure I had everything. I hope this hasn’t made you late.’

  He smiles at me, jerks his head back towards himself and I step out from behind reception, let him pull me into his arms, quickly kiss the tip of my nose, and I scrunch it up, laughing quietly.

  ‘I haven’t got a lecture until ten-thirty. You haven’t made me late.’

  ‘Can you stay for a coffee? I could show you around …’

  I feel his body stiffen, almost as if a switch has been flicked and he lets go of me, pulls his phone from his pocket and looks at it. ‘I’d better get going. I still have to prepare some notes.’

  Disappointment floods me, but I’m not going to push it. There’s no point. ‘Okay. Well, thanks for this.’ I hold up my phone and he throws me another smile before he turns away and heads out, stopping to talk to a couple of staff members who are hovering around in reception before he leaves. I watch closely as he exchanges pleasantries with Gillian, one of my masseurs, laying a hand gently on the small of her back as he leans in to her, both of them laughing at something he says. He’s a born flirt, my husband. He’s always been that way, he can’t help himself, charm oozes from every pore, and I think a lot of women find the fact that he’s an English literature professor but looks more like a movie star quite appealing. It was probably half the reason I was attracted to him, if I’m being honest. But the way he’s talking to them, when he finds it so hard to say anything to me, it’s like a knife in the back.