The Wife, Part 2 Page 5

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 from 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.’

  He looks at me, ignoring the wine. And then I realise he’s also ignored my earlier question. Have I done something to upset him?

  ‘I didn’t tell him. What you’re doing. I didn’t tell him anything.’ Liam’s eyes fix on mine, holding my gaze. He wants me to believe that what he’s telling me is true. I believe him. He hasn’t told Michael anything; if he had, I’d know.

  ‘I didn’t think you would.’

  ‘That sure, huh?’

  My eyes remain locked on his. ‘That sure. Yes.’

  The corner of his mouth twists up ever so slightly, it’s barely a smile. It’s not even a smirk, but it’s something. ‘You need to do what you need to do, Ellie.’

  I lean back against the counter, sipping my wine.

  ‘And you shouldn’t be drinking, if you’ve taken painkillers.’

  ‘You’re not a doctor.’

  ‘I am, actually. Just not that kind of doctor.’

  I smile at him, grateful that he’s here, that I don’t have to be alone in this house tonight. ‘What did you mean, before? I need to do what I need to do?’

  ‘If you think he’s having an affair…’

  ‘I do.’

  His eyes meet mine again, but again he stays silent for a good few beats. ‘Okay.’

  That’s all he says, he leaves it at that, and I frown. I’m a little confused now. But I don’t push it. ‘I saw him. Michael. I saw him today. This afternoon, in Durham.’ I down another mouthful of wine. It’s helping to dull the ache in my hand; helping to dull the pain, bring that numbness back. ‘He was with her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Ava.’

  Once more I spit out her name, and Liam almost flinches, my tone is that harsh.

  ‘He was coming out of a pub, the one just off the market square. She was with him. I saw them walking away together.’

  Liam doesn’t respond, doesn’t ask what my reaction was to seeing my husband with another woman. A much younger woman. He remains silent, and I look down into my glass and realise I’ve downed that wine in a stupidly quick amount of time. It’s gone straight to my head. I feel a little woozy now. A little dizzy.

  ‘Put the glass down, Ellie.’

  I can just make out Liam’s words, although he sounds as though he’s speaking from far away now, like he isn’t in the room with me, he’s somewhere else.

  I reach behind me and place the glass down on the countertop, the sound of it toppling over onto its side, crashing onto the work surface, it makes me flinch, but the glass doesn’t break. It just rolls from side to side, until Liam comes over and uprights it. Uprights me, because I feel like I’m falling, my knees are so weak now.

  I feel his hand on my lower back, guiding me away from the counter, tiredness sweeping over me like a blanket of darkness until I have no choice but to close my eyes. My head feels heavy, my entire body sagging against his, but his arms catch me. I hold onto him, my fingers gripping his shirt as he sits me down on the armchair by the pantry door.

  ‘You need to be careful, Ellie. Are you listening to me? You need to be careful.’

  I blink rapidly, try to re-focus. Everything feels blurred. Surreal. I try to wake myself up, but I’m still so tired. It must be the wine and the painkillers and the fact Michael chose to walk out on me. Again. As always, we try to start a conversation, it comes back to the one thing he can’t cope with, and he walks out. It’s an exhausting cycle that neither of us can seem to break free from, but at least I feel like I’m trying. I’m not sure he even wants to.

  ‘Ellie? Look at me, Ellie. Did you hear me?’

  Liam’s face slowly comes into focus, his eyes fixing on mine. He’s so serious sometimes, Dr Liam Kennedy. ‘You – you said I had to be – had to be careful.’

  He crouches down in front of me, takes my uninjured hand in his, squeezing it gently. ‘I care about you, Ellie. I care about Michael. But you – you’re the one I’m worried about. What you’re doing … You just need to be careful, okay?’

  I nod, pull my hand away from his. I’m still a little confused. But the wine and the painkillers have exacerbated my light-headedness. I might not even be hearing him right.

  ‘Okay.’

  He stands up, strides back into the kitchen, opening cupboards and taking out coffee, mugs, milk. ‘I’ll stay with you until Michael comes home.’

  If he comes home. He’s never stayed out all night before, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. We just haven’t reached that stage, not yet. But we probably will at some point. I seem to be pushing him more than usual, making him less inclined to stick around when we’re alone. When we’re with others, he lights up, becomes the Michael I fell in love with. I quite obviously can’t become the Ellie I once was, the Ellie he loved. I’ve changed too much. And that scares me. So much scares me these days; the things I’m willing to do now; the things I’ve already done…

  ‘I need to sleep,’ I say quietly, staring down at my bandaged hand. The blood seems to have stopped seeping through, just the odd tiny speckle of red showing up on the cream coloured bandage. And the pain seems to have dissipated for now. But it’ll be back. It always returns. It never leaves.

  I look up as Liam crouches back down in front of me, his expression warmer. Kinder. No, I don’t think I’m pushing him away. He’ll always be here, he promised me that. He promised he’d always be the friend I needed. Always. The only friend I can talk to.

  ‘Okay, let’s get you to bed.’

  He holds out his hand and I take it, letting him pull me up from the chair, and I keep hold of his hand as we make our way upstairs. I just want to sleep now. I want to close my eyes and forget this day happened. Forget every day since that night happened. I want to close my eyes and wake up in a world where I can turn back time, live that life I was living before, with my handsome husband and our beautiful baby and that little dog I’d always wanted. Our perfect family. Our perfect life.

  But we were never perfect.

  Nobody is.

  We really weren’t…

  Chapter 20

  ‘You should have called me. Last night.’

  I don’t even turn my head to look at him as he joins me in the living room. I’m sitting on the couch, legs curled up underneath me, a mug of tea cradled in my hands. The hot liquid irritates my injured hand slightly, but I get a strange kind of comfort cradling a hot drink like this.

  ‘Would you have come home?’

  I don’t move my eyes away from the TV. I’m watching breakfast television, but I have no idea what the presenters are talking about. I think they’re interviewing someone about their latest TV show. I’m not really listening. Everything is just white noise. And I’m aware of Michael still in the room, of him sitting down on the arm of the chair to my left, but I don’t look at him; I keep my eyes on the TV screen.

  ‘You were hurt, Ellie. Of course I would have come home. Why didn’t you call me? Why call Liam?’

  ‘Liam wasn’t busy.’

  ‘Neither was I.’

  I finally turn my head to face him. My husband. Handsome and rugged with his grey-flecked hair and sexy stubble, those ice blue eyes of his so beautiful and bright. Does Ava look into those eyes and love him like I do? The thought of her looking at him in any way makes me feel sick, and I turn my head away again, stare back at the TV.
They’re doing the weather now. It looks like it’s going to be another sunny day here in Durham.

  ‘I wasn’t busy, Ellie. I just needed some air, a breather. I needed some time out.’

  ‘Time away from me?’

  He doesn’t even attempt to hide his sigh. It echoes around the room, heavy and laden with frustration. And I feel my insides twist up, pull tight until I’m breathless. Until the pain becomes real, until I feel tears start to prick at my eyes; but I refuse to let them fall. I can’t cry. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to let him know how much this is tearing me apart.

  ‘I want you to talk to me. That’s all. Is that really too much to ask? Because – because I can’t understand why you find that so hard to do.’ I turn to face him again, but he’s looking down at his hands clasped between his knees. We let this happen. Us. We were to blame. We let that night pull us apart, let its consequences crush us, destroy us. We let that happen. It’s no one else’s fault. ‘I just – I just want you to understand how empty I am, inside.’

  He doesn’t say anything, he just keeps looking down at his hands.

  ‘Why can’t you talk to me, Michael? Why can’t you bring yourself to listen to me? Don’t you care what I’m feeling…?’

  ‘You should be over this by now, Ellie.’

  His words slice through me, unexpected and brutal, his tone harsh. And I want to retaliate, I want to fight back, but the words won’t come out; they’re stuck in my throat, choking me.

  ‘I’ve done everything I can, to make this go away…’

  ‘Make this go away?’

  ‘I’ve done everything I can, Ellie, to try and make this better. I’ve done everything I can. What happened – I didn’t encourage her, do you understand that? I was her lecturer, that’s all I was, whatever else she read into that, that wasn’t my fault. She gave me no signs, no signals, nothing to make me think she would do what she did, and I’m so sorry that she put you through all of that. It kills me every day to think what you went through. What she did to you. But it has to be over. It needs to stay in the past. Things need to change. You need to change. It’s time you started making an effort now, for everyone’s sake.’ He stands up, heads towards the door. But he stops when he reaches it, turns back around, and he looks at me. ‘I love you, Ellie. That will never change…’