by Edwin Dasso
11
The first thing I did was open a Word document on my laptop and started a list of the things I needed to do. I needed to work out where I would go, how much money I could lay my hands on, and what I would take from the house.
I couldn’t keep the house. Although I had paid half the deposit, since I left my job and set up on my own, Clara had been taking care of the lion’s share of the mortgage payments. With what I made from the business, I couldn’t afford the mortgage and would only have enough to rent a small place, which was actually all I would need.
Where?
My work was location independent. All it required was a good internet connection. The only thing keeping me in Winchester, although admittedly a pleasant town, was Clara. I had no family here, a few friends, but that was it. The friends were shared with Clara, and quite frankly, it didn’t matter to me if I didn’t see them again. If I stayed in the town, the odds were I would bump into her or her friends from time to time, and I wanted a clean break. I wanted to start my life afresh as a new person. I owed that to myself. I had spent a major part of my adult life, molding myself, changing, and adapting to fit into her idea of a perfect husband. I wasn’t me anymore.
I paused typing and sat back in the chair, staring out the window. The leaves were changing color with the beginning of autumn, but the sky was clear and blue, filled with promise. I imagined the things I would do when I was finally on my own, living on my own terms. I would watch sport whenever I wanted, binge on action movies, and never watch another rom-com again. I’d even open a beer midweek and put my feet up on the coffee table—she hated that.
I allowed myself to smile. Simple pleasures. Looking back at the screen, I ran my eyes down the list, wondering if I had missed anything. I would need to investigate the legal side of things. How does one actually go about a divorce? I was sure she wouldn’t make it easy, but there had to be a procedure to follow. I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t get caught out on a legality. I added it to the list.
Now I had a rough plan, I felt an unfamiliar emotion run through me, something I hadn’t felt for a long time—excitement. I was actually looking forward to taking back control.
I got up from the table and walked into the kitchen. She hadn’t left any coffee for me, so I turned on the kettle and while I waited, leaned back against the countertop and stared out the kitchen window. The lawn needed mowing, but that was the least of my priorities right now.
Southampton… that’s where I would move to. A city with a population of around two hundred and fifty thousand, more than double Winchester’s, it would be easy for me to lose myself, be anonymous, and start again. No-one knew me there, I’d have good internet, and a large pool of potential clients. It wasn’t far from Winchester but far enough. The kettle clicked off, and I poured hot water over the coffee grounds, just enough to cover them, waited thirty seconds for the coffee to bloom, then poured in more hot water up to an imaginary line on the French press. I couldn’t be bothered measuring, approximate was good enough. Grabbing a mug from the cupboard, I carried it and the French press back to the dining table and set them down beside my laptop. Sitting down, I opened the browser and started searching for cheap rentals in Southampton.
12
By that evening, my resolve had weakened. By the time I heard the characteristic burble of the Audi’s four-liter V8 engine in the driveway, I had prepared dinner and laid the table for two.
I said nothing as she walked in, ignoring her, and continued washing and drying the dishes I had used while cooking dinner. I heard her walk into the kitchen. Standing beside me, she turned and leaned her butt against the countertop, facing in the opposite direction. We remained like that for a while, her saying nothing, me concentrating on the saucepan I had dried and was now polishing. There was no way I was going to say anything.
Eventually, she leaned over, placed a hand on my shoulder, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Dinner smells nice,” she said, then walked off to get changed.
Just like that, I could feel the tension melting away from my neck and shoulders, and everything was okay again.
We ate together, mostly in silence, just a few words here and there, but by the end of the meal, we had relaxed enough to almost have a normal conversation.
After dinner, we sat on opposite ends of the sofa, watching something mindless on Netflix. By nine p.m., my eyes were closing, so I made my excuses and headed off to bed. The tension and stress of the last day and night had taken their toll, and I was physically and mentally exhausted. All I wanted was a good night’s sleep in my own bed.
Clara followed not long after. Turning off her bedside light, she slid to my side of the bed and draped an arm and a leg over me, tucking her head between my head and shoulder. Lying on my back, I stared up at a thin beam of light from the streetlamp, streaming through a gap in the curtain and painting a thin amber line down the opposite wall. There was a time when I would have turned to face her, wrapping my arms around her, but I didn’t move except to place one hand over hers.
“We shouldn’t fight,” she murmured.
“No,” I agreed and closed my eyes. I was all for minimizing stress and living a peaceful life, but then I didn’t start the fights.
“Do you still love me?”
I wasn’t sure. Last night, definitely not, but now... I honestly didn’t know. Was this how things were between two people who loved each other? Surely not? But that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Fearing I had hesitated too long, I quickly replied, “Yes,” and moved my head just enough to kiss the top of her head.
“Don’t ever leave me,” she mumbled before her breath lengthened and deepened as she dropped off to sleep.
My eyes blinked open, all thoughts of sleep turned to dust.
13
Things didn’t really change. We had days where everything was alright, even fun like the early years, when we loved every minute of each other’s company. We even managed another five days in a row without a fight. That was the longest stretch, though. I know because I kept a log. Although I loved the peaceful times, I was always uneasy, conscious it wouldn’t last. I knew there would be another fight, even though I did everything to avoid them—always careful of what I said, constantly checking the house for anything that might trigger her. I was only at peace when she was at work, but as the day wore on and the time for her return grew closer, I grew increasingly anxious.
After putting my plans to leave her on the back burner for a while, I soon resumed after a particularly vicious fight that resulted in three days of not talking to each other. The silent treatment always ended the same way. She would come to me, say something, attempt a joke, even hug me, and refuse to let go until I said something. We would start talking again, but after five or ten minutes, she would start listing the reasons why I caused the fight. I would keep quiet, accept all the blame, acknowledge she was right, and agree it was all my fault, then she would switch to complaining that I never came to her and made up.
But how could I? After the abuse she directed at me, the names she called me, the ridiculous things she accused me of... after listening to all that, how could I go and make up?
I had tried on a couple of occasions, but I was always too early. She would still be angry, and if she did decide to talk, all she would do was start again. I couldn’t do it. How was I supposed to know when the right moment was? So, I stopped bothering. If we weren’t talking, as uncomfortable as it was, it was preferable to being screamed at.
So, in the silent time, I planned. I had found a few rental options in my budget, and slowly over time, I went through my cupboards and drawers, removing anything unnecessary or unused—old clothes, shoes I hadn’t worn for over a year, books I finished reading. I did it gradually, so she wouldn’t notice. When the time came, I wanted to leave with the minimum of possessions but also leave nothing behind. I wanted to be lean and efficient.
I caught her staring at the bookshelf one day and tensed, waiting
for her question, but it didn’t come. I breathed a sigh of relief and cast a wary eye over the shelves. I had spread things out, filling the gaps with ornaments or changing the position of the books to make the shelf seem more full.
I opened a new bank account, opting for e-statements so nothing would come in the mail. I still paid money into the joint account but started skimming money off the top of clients’ payments, even skipping one or two payments completely and paying them directly into the new account.
I felt guilty, but I had to be prepared. If I walked out, I knew she would shut off access to the joint account the minute I stepped out the door.
I even changed my passwords, the one on my laptop, and all my email accounts, but I didn’t change the one on the phone. I knew she picked up and read my messages when I was in a different room, and if I changed the password, she would want to know why and assume I had something to hide.
After three months, I was set to go. I had even downloaded the divorce forms from the government website. The website had made it all sound so easy, but I knew it wouldn’t be— but I would just have to deal with that when it happened. In the meantime, I found a motel where I could stay until I signed a lease on a new flat and had enough money put aside for the rental deposit. I also set up a spreadsheet, listing everything I had to cancel or change to the new address.
I could walk out at any minute.
Except I couldn’t.
14
I couldn’t decide if I still loved her or had just become dependent on her. Not dependent financially, it’s just that whenever I thought about it, after the initial novelty, I couldn’t imagine a life without her. For over fifteen years, we had been together nearly every day. We’d bought a house together, shared our successes and failures, and holidayed together.
When I needed advice or just a sounding board, I went to her. She picked me up when I felt down, and I did the same for her. I couldn’t even remember life before Clara.
So, whenever I thought about leaving, despite the planning, I couldn’t take the final step. Each time we fought, I would tell myself, “Right, this is it. I’m leaving.” Then I would dither and procrastinate. Eventually, one or two days would pass, and we would be co-existing again in an uneasy compromise.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to fix it, and I didn’t know how to end it.
Until the dinner party.
James and Sarah had been friends of ours for almost ten years. Actually, Sarah was Clara’s friend. James and I were the plus ones.
Sarah and Clara had met at yoga or Pilates, or something similar. I don’t remember, and I don’t really care. Sarah was cute and funny, and if both of us were single, I would have asked her out, but of course, I could never admit that to Clara. James was alright, although a bit dry. We had little in common but got on well enough to make our dinners and parties over the years enjoyable. As long as Clara was happy.
It was a Friday night, and Clara was celebrating a record month at the dealership, so we met at Giovanni’s, her favorite restaurant, for dinner. Giovanni himself was there and made sure the four of us were given the good table in the far corner, away from the entrance, in a semi-private alcove. He even opened a bottle of his favorite Chianti, one bottled near the village in Tuscany his family came from.
We were two bottles down, the mood happy, our stomachs full, and were waiting for dessert when James made a comment about the waitress, a pretty, petite blonde who had been looking after us all evening. She had a wide smile, emerald green eyes, and a quick wit, which made her a favorite of all the regular customers.
James was making his appreciation known to all of us, and when I grinned in agreement, I suddenly felt Clara’s eyes boring holes in me. Sarah had giggled and hit James on his arm, making some comment about how she wouldn’t be interested in an old man like him. But when I looked at Clara, she glared back, and I had to look away.
What had I done wrong? I hadn’t said anything. It wasn’t my fault the girl was pretty and funny, and I had been nothing but respectful. It was James who had spoken, and his wife treated it like the harmless offhand comment it was. Nevertheless, I felt a pellet of fear forming in the bottom of my stomach. I took a large mouthful of wine and tried to focus on what James and Sarah were saying.
The dessert came, but I couldn’t taste it. I knew what was coming, and the thought prevented me from enjoying the rest of the evening.
I went through the motions. James and I split the bill, even though it was Clara’s celebration, Giovanni called us taxis, and the waitress, Annabelle, fetched our coats. I studiously avoided making eye contact with her, keeping conversation to a minimum, feeling Clara’s eyes on me the entire time. However, James made up for it with some good-natured flirting while his wife rolled her eyes and winked at Clara.
I held the door of the taxi open, waited for Clara to sit inside, then walked around to the other side and climbed in. As the taxi pulled away, I looked over at her.
“That was a fun night.”
Clara just stared out the side window.
I leaned back in the seat, caught the driver looking at me in the rear-view mirror, and looked away.
I was in no hurry to get home.
15
Clara disappeared inside the house while I paid for the taxi. I heard the front door slam, and the taxi driver gave me a sympathetic look. Telling him to keep the change, I climbed out of the car and waited for him to drive off before looking at the house.
The buzz from the wine had worn off, replaced by a dull ache in my temples, and I could taste a burning mix of stomach acid, red wine, and pasta sauce deep in the back of my throat.
I took a deep breath, walked up the path, and fumbled in my pocket for the front door key, cursing inwardly that she hadn’t even bothered to keep the door open.
Shrugging off my coat, I hung it on the coat stand by the door, slipped off my shoes, and walked tentatively deeper into the house.
Hearing her moving around in the bedroom, I went to the kitchen, grabbed a water glass, and filled it from the tap. I gulped it down, the cold water easing the burning in the back of my throat. Filling it again, I drank slower this time, then upended the glass beside the sink.
I turned around and jumped when I saw Clara standing in the entrance to the kitchen, her legs slightly apart, her arms crossed in front of her chest. I hadn’t heard her approach.
“Oh, you gave me a fright. I didn’t hear you.” I added a smile, but it did nothing to change the expression on her face.
“You find her beautiful, do you?”
“Who?” I frowned, but I knew who she meant.
“Don’t who me. You know who I’m talking about.” Her voice was low but filled with menace. I had to be very careful. If I said I knew who she meant, she would take it as an admission of guilt.
“What are you talking about?”
“The waitress. I saw you flirting with her!” she hissed. “You’re pathetic. As if she would be interested in you.”
“I wasn’t flirting with anyone.” I raised my hands in protest. “I was enjoying dinner with you, Sarah, and James.”
“I saw the way you were looking at her. You’re old enough to be her father. You are sick… a sick old man.”
“Hang on a minute.” I could feel heat running through my body and my face turning red. “I wasn’t looking at her any differently than anyone else. She was serving us, and I was polite. Besides, she’s probably only ten to fifteen years younger than me.”
“Ha,” she scoffed. “See, you’ve worked it out.”
I cursed inwardly. I’d made my first mistake.
“Do you even realize how ridiculous you look, fawning over her like a dog in heat,” she continued, her arms uncrossed, her hands on her hips.
I ground my teeth together.
“You haven’t changed at all. You’ve always looked at other women. You’ve never made me feel loved.”
“When have I looked at other women? I’m not in
terested in anyone else. Only you.”
“Really?” She shook her head, and her lip curled in an ugly sneer. “What about Josephine in the showroom? I’ll never forget what you said, how you made me feel. Call yourself a husband? Huh.”
I balled my fingers into fists, and she noticed.
“That’s right, hit me… go on,” she taunted from the other side of the kitchen.
“Why would I hit you?” I relaxed my hands, but the energy born from frustration continued to rush through my body, seeking an outlet. I shook my hands at her.
“What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve never been interested in anyone else. Once... once, I said she has nice eyes, but that was after you asked me if I thought she was pretty. For fuck’s sake, I was being honest with you!” I shook my head. “I have no interest in her or anyone else. I just want you to be nice to me.”
“Nice? Nice?” She stepped forward and jabbed her finger in my face. “Why should I be nice to you? You’re a pathetic loser. You can’t do anything right. Your business is a flop. I have to do everything around here, pay the bills, pay for the house.”
Staring at her finger just inches from my nose, I resisted the urge to slap it out of the way. I stepped back, my butt hitting the countertop, but she stepped closer, her eyes blazing. Her breath was hot and smelled of wine and tiramisu.
“You should be providing for me. You should give me the life I deserve. You should show me I am loved and appreciated.” She punctuated each sentence with a jab of her finger. “This marriage has been a waste. You’ve never made me happy.”
What she was saying cut me like a knife. I always thought, until recently, we’d had a wonderful life together. Even after a fight, I never thought it had been wasted. Tears welled in my eyes, and I felt ashamed—ashamed I was again being made to take the blame for everything and ashamed my emotions were betraying me. I blinked rapidly to stop the tears, but she wouldn’t stop.
