The Wife, Part 2 Read online

  I stare at him, right at him, I look deep into those steel-grey eyes of his. He has no right to question my actions. He probably knows exactly what my husband is up to. He could be hiding shit from me too. I can’t trust anyone now. But even if he did know anything, I don’t think he’d ever confront Michael about it. He has no reason to.

  ‘Look, forget sorting my hair out. Why don’t we go grab a coffee? I don’t have to be at the university for another hour…’

  ‘Like I said, Liam. I’m busy.’

  I’m dismissing him now, avoiding his gaze as I sit back down behind my desk and open the laptop lid. And he leaves me to it. He knows when to let things go, and I’m grateful for that. I’m really not in the mood for this conversation. Am I scared he’ll tell Michael what I’m doing? After all, he’s going to be seeing my husband later; he could quite easily let him know that I’m spying on him. But I know Liam. And I know he won’t say anything.

  Chapter 18

  The lunchtime rush at the restaurant is dying down a little now as people drift back to work or college or wherever it is they’re supposed to be this afternoon. I’m supposed to be at the spa, but I’m thinking of calling Carmen, telling her something’s come up; that I can’t make it for our planned meeting. It’s only to discuss the prospect of putting the spa out there as a possible wedding venue, nothing urgent. One of our clients, a County Durham-based wedding planner, mentioned the idea last week when she came in for a massage therapy session. She persuaded us to think about it, claiming to already have couples who would love to get married in the grounds of my newly opened business after a handful of brides-to-be had contacted her following recent visits to the spa. And I can understand why. The old building I’ve had renovated and transformed is set in acres of beautiful landscaped gardens, both front and back. I can completely see why people would want to get married there. And if the weather’s bad we also have a large, currently empty room at the back of the spa that has no real purpose yet, and rather than me using it as an extension of the café next door, maybe it would make more business sense to turn it into a fully fledged wedding venue. Fran, the wedding planner, was quite confident it would be a viable route to take, and I have been thinking about it. It just hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind, that’s all. It isn’t something we need to do right now. It can wait. There’s a lot more to think about anyway, before I even begin to put that plan into action; a lot more people to talk to, figures to look at. We’re really just at the putting-out-feelers stage at the moment, but as I stir my coffee I wonder if I should put Carmen in charge of getting the ball rolling. At the very least she can make a few calls. I don’t want Fran to think I’m not taking her idea seriously. I am. I’m not that blinkered by Michael and the prospect of our life falling apart that I’m willing to see my business fail, too.

  I glance around the almost empty restaurant. There are still one or two tables occupied, but we’ll all have to leave soon. They’ll need to close up, get ready for the early evening rush. So I finish my coffee, slide my bag up onto my shoulder and get up, pulling my phone from my pocket, dialling Carmen’s number as I walk out into the afternoon sunshine. I leave a lot of the responsibility for the spa’s day-to-day running on her shoulders, and I feel guilty about that, I really do. But she’s one of my best managers, one of my best friends, an absolute gem of a person. I trust her implicitly. She’s been with me since I opened my first salon in Newcastle all those years ago, and I can’t think of her not being a part of my team. That’s why I have to be careful not to take her for granted. But she understands that things have been difficult since – well, since everything. And she understands now when I tell her I have to miss our meeting.

  I start to walk up the steep bank that leads to the cathedral, feeling the early summer sun warm on the back of my exposed neck. I took a chance on the weather, leaving my jacket in the car, which in this part of the country can be a bit of a risk. We’ve been known to have four seasons in one day in this neck of the woods, but today we’ve struck lucky. The weather seems to be pretty much settled. The sky’s almost devoid of clouds; only a few tiny scattered ones have dared to break up the almost cobalt blue colour above me, and I slip my sunglasses down over my eyes as I turn a corner and start heading towards the cathedral. A beautifully imposing building set on a rocky headland, it looks down over the medieval city of Durham and the River Wear below. It’s another of my favourite places. I come here a lot, sometimes just to sit outside on the vast expanse of bright green lawn and people-watch. Sometimes I go inside, lose myself in the stunning surroundings, something that never fails to overwhelm me. I never cease to be in awe of this place, no matter how many times I visit. There’s a sense of calm that can take over the second you step inside, a peace – pure peace. I let nothing else invade my thoughts when I’m in there. The last time I went inside was just after I’d miscarried, when Michael started to drift away from me; and yet, at that time, I had no idea he’d continue to drift so far, seek solace with another woman. That I would become too much for him. That my questions, my need to talk, my constant reluctance to let the past go and move forward would become a barrier he refuses to break down.

  Today, I’m not going inside. I sit down on the lawn and hug my knees to my chest, watching as others file into the cathedral or wander around outside. It’s quite busy due to the sunshine. I’m not the only one sitting out here making the most of the weather; there’s everyone – pensioners enjoying a day out, coach trips full of tourists here to spend a bit of time in this beautiful city, students snatching some sun in between lectures. Students. Is she here? Ava? Even in my head I spit out her name, this woman who’s threatening everything I have.

  So far there’ve still been no calls between them, my husband and his distraction. No texts, no communication that I can see, and for a fleeting second I begin to wonder if my frequent visits to the restaurant are nothing more than a habit I now can’t find it in me to break. And I can’t break it; I can’t stop myself from going there, because the second I do they’ll turn up, I know it. The second I decide to stop going, stop enjoying my lonely lunches, they’ll arrive for one of their illicit ones. And I’ll miss it. I’ll miss my chance to gain that proof. Just because they haven’t spoken on the phone, just because the contact on that score has been zero, doesn’t mean contact isn’t happening. Maybe Michael has a burner phone, a second phone he uses only for her. A phone he uses to set up his sordid meetings; a phone I’m unaware of. I find my skin prickling at the possibility; at my own naiveite.

  I bow my head briefly, closing my eyes, taking a long, deep breath. And when I open them I stare up at the cathedral and let a rare moment of calm flood through me. I breathe in slowly, and exhale even slower. I let my mind almost shut down, free itself of all the doubt and the pain.

  I remember the night I met Michael like it was yesterday. He’d just left university; I wasn’t long out of college. We’d both been at a housewarming party held by a mutual friend, a pretty civilised affair compared to some of the house parties I’d been to. It was all expensive wines, cocktails and Waitrose canapes, and I can’t help but smile slightly at the memory of my friend Isla and me commenting on how our own house parties had never consisted of anything more than sausage rolls, sparkling wine and lager – whatever we could cobble together on the tight budget we’d had to live on at the time.

  I remember Isla wandering off into the garden to talk to someone she’d had her eye on for a while, and that’s when I’d gone into the kitchen to top up my wine; when my hand had brushed against his as he’d reached for the same bottle. When I’d looked up and fell into those ice blue eyes, I was lost from that very second. This young, idealistic English lecturer had me in a heartbeat, but I was still wary. The constant memory of my father made me take a step back from any kind of relationship that veered too far from friendship; and besides, I had no idea if a man like him would want someone like me. Could he see the damage? Could he sense how wary I was?

&nbs
p; But he took no steps back. He talked to me. He asked questions, seemed genuinely interested in who I was, what I was in the process of doing – opening my first hair salon. It was about to happen. Everything was about to happen, my life was about to start, the night I met Michael.

  We sat on the stairs for most of the night, drinking wine and talking. We never really saw much of the party. He made me laugh. He made me feel calm and happy. He was different. He was the one who changed every misconception I had about men. About relationships. He changed it all.

  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 stay 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?’