by Daniel Hurst
She must have finally seen that photo.
40
MEGAN
This cannot be real.
This cannot be happening.
The photo remains on the floor where it landed just after it fell from my hands while I stand and pace around on the other side of the garage. For some reason, I feel like putting a little distance between myself and the image will make things better, even though I know it won’t.
It’s too late to make things better now.
I keep my back to the photo behind me as if turning around and looking at it will have the same impact on me as it had on all those warriors who looked into the eyes of Medusa. But maybe being turned into stone right now would be a good thing. Perhaps that would be preferable to having to stand here and think about what that photo means.
My whole marriage has been a lie. My perfect husband is not the man that I thought he was. The deception started a long time ago, not today. The key turning in that garage door was not the beginning of the deceit.
It was the end of it.
All the questions that I had swimming around my head have almost dissipated, leaving me with just one.
How could this happen?
I’m sure the answer to that question will be there if I look hard enough for it, but that would require me to think back over these last three years of marriage and back to when Craig first came into my life. That’s not something that I’m keen to do, simply because I don’t like to think about my life before I met my husband.
But it’s not as if I’ve got anywhere to go, nor do I have anything better to do. I’m not going to start running on that treadmill, nor can I pick up the heavy weights and try and curl them to pass the time. And I’m certainly not going to pick up that photo again. Therefore, with no other option, I sink onto the camp bed and lie back, resting my head on the thin pillow and closing my eyes.
Then I think back to the night that Craig and I first met.
41
MEGAN
2016
The music is loud, the dancefloor is packed, and I’m standing by the bar trying to get served. You would think that it would be easy for a good-looking woman in a short dress and high heels to get the attention of the male bartenders on shift here tonight, but I’m finding it’s quite the opposite. They seem to be going out of their way not to look in my direction, which is frustrating because I really want another drink.
It’s not as if I won’t tip them. I’ve been more than generous tonight, handing over extra five or ten pound notes on top of whatever I owe them for each beverage. That should ensure that their meagre wage is being topped up sufficiently whilst supposedly ensuring that I get served quicker when I return. But the bar staff don’t seem interested in taking any more money from me tonight. It’s almost as if they have been told to purposely ignore me by their manager or something, which is strange because I’ve been nothing but a model customer. Okay, so I am a little drunk right now, but I’m not being rude or aggressive, nor am I being sloppy and falling about all over the place. I am merely standing alone in this sea of strangers, holding a ten-pound note in my hand and trying to get another drink. But they still refuse to look at me.
If they want me to leave then they should just say so. I would be annoyed, but it wouldn’t be the end of my night. There are plenty of other clubs that I could try and get into around here, although I’d rather stay in this one. This is my favourite club.
This is where Anna and I used to come all the time.
I wish she was standing beside me now like she had been so many times before, her long red hair looking amazing underneath the bright strobe lights that flashed all around this large room. She would probably be wearing something sparkly, a dress that she had found on the high street and bought especially for a night like this when we would let our hair down and dance the night away in each other’s company. She had never needed to work hard to get a man’s attention, but she liked to anyway, her distinctive hair and her sequinned dress proving to be a combination that was impossible to ignore. But her absence tonight was impossible to ignore either, at least for me.
It has been one year since she died, and this is the first time I have been out since I lost her. Saturday nights on the town with my best friend used to be my favourite time of the week, but now they are the hardest. This is when I miss her the most.
This is when I need her the most.
I’m still having no luck getting served by the ignorant bar staff, and I feel like giving up and going elsewhere, which is probably what they are hoping that I do. But just before I turn and leave, I notice the guy standing next to me. He is tall, and his dazzling eyes seem even brighter beneath the strobe lights swirling above us. But it’s his attire that piques my interest the most. He is wearing a suit, which makes him look smart, but also overdressed for a place like this.
He must have noticed me staring at him because now he is looking at me.
Suddenly, I don’t care about the fact that I’m not able to get served in here anymore, nor am I missing the presence of my best friend quite so much.
All I care about is that this man is looking at me and nobody else.
42
MEGAN
2016
“Tell me something about yourself,” he asks me, just as soon as he has been served and we have taken our seats in one of the booths at the back of the club.
“What do you want to know?” I reply, swirling my straw around in the drink that he has just bought for me.
“What’s your favourite colour?”
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
I laugh and take a sip of my drink, which is a double vodka and coke. I appreciate him buying me this because I know how expensive doubles are in here. But it’s that generosity, along with his sharp suit and mesmerising eyes, that makes me willing to forgive his lame attempts at chatting me up.
“My favourite colour is green,” I say, replacing my drink down onto the sticky table. “Want to know why?”
“Sure,” he replies, sipping from his vodka and coke but keeping his eyes firmly on me.
“Because it’s the colour of money,” I tell him, doing my best to keep a straight face.
“Oh, okay.”
He seems surprised, which he should be because it’s a ridiculous thing to say. But I’m in a playful mood, and the answer amused me, so I went with it. But I should probably tell him that I didn’t mean it before he leaves this table and goes to look for another single girl in this bar.
“I’m joking. That’s not why I like it,” I say, and he smiles with relief because I’m not actually a gold-digger. “It’s because it was my nan’s favourite colour. She used to knit me little sweaters and they were always bright green.”
“That’s sweet,” he says. “Do you still wear any of them?”
“Of course not. They were bright green!”
He laughs and the sight of his happy face makes me feel warm inside. I hadn’t come out to meet anybody tonight. I had just come out to get drunk and dance. Yet here I am sitting at a table with a handsome stranger telling him all about my dear nan and the green sweaters she used to knit for me.
Things move fast in Macclesfield.
“What about you?” I say, picking up my drink again while turning the conversation onto him. “What’s your favourite colour?”
“That’s a tough one. It’s a toss-up between red and black.”
“Interesting choice of colours,” I tell him. “Why red?”
“It’s the colour of my favourite football team’s jersey,” he says, and I take a guess.
“Manchester United?”
“Close. St Helens.”
“They have a football team?” I ask, suppressing my laughter at his choice of club.
“Allegedly, although it would be better if they didn’t.”
I like his sense of humour. He seems naturally funny, whereas I have to think about it, and even then, I’m still not f
unny.
“And why black?” I ask, remembering he chose two colours.
“Because it’s the same colour as my heart,” he says with a serious face and I initially think he means it. But then I realise he is still joking.
I laugh again, and I realise I have barely stopped doing that since we sat down. I like this guy, even though we have hardly told each other anything about ourselves other than our favourite colours.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” I ask, after a brief but not at all awkward pause in the conversation.
“That depends,” he replies, picking up his drink while still maintaining eye contact with me. “Are you going to tell me yours?”
I smile, enjoying the ease in which he holds himself in this interaction. A brief thought flashes through my mind in which I wonder how many other women he has bought a drink and taken to this booth before me. Maybe he does this all the time, even though I have never noticed him here before. But I push the thought away, not wanting to let anything get in the way of how much I am enjoying being in his company right now.
“I’m Megan,” I say, extending out a hand towards him.
Even when I’m drunk, I can be ladylike and polite.
“Nice to meet you Megan,” he says, taking my hand and shaking it with just the right amount of vigour. “I’m Craig.”
43
CRAIG
I wonder what Megan is thinking about in that garage right now. If I had to guess, I would say that she is going back over our entire relationship, starting with how we met, in a bid to try and figure out how early the deception started. If she’s clever, she might be able to work some of it out, but there are plenty of things she won’t know unless I let her in on them. Depending on what mood I’m in, I might be generous with the information I give her. But with the mood that I’m in right now?
I’m more than happy to leave her to stew.
Having enjoyed a quiet morning on the sofa with the laptop, I am now in the kitchen whipping up a delightful chicken salad with a Caesar dressing. None of the items in the fridge spoiled when the power was out earlier because it was only off for an hour and not all night like I had Megan believe. I also made sure that she didn’t throw anything away, even though I knew she was tempted to. She would have been happy to put everything in the bin and buy fresh stuff to replace it, but I couldn’t be having that.
Food shopping is the last thing I have time for today.
Dousing my healthy lunch in a generous helping of white sauce, I pick up my plate and carry it into the front room, where I plan on enjoying my food in front of the television. I very rarely eat my meals on the sofa, and never at this time of the day, but I plan on treating myself today.
I’ve earnt it, after all.
Pressing the button on the remote control, I scoop up a couple of mouthfuls of the tasty chicken while the television turns on, then I spend a couple of minutes flicking through the channels trying to find something half-decent to watch. But it’s true what they say about daytime telly.
It’s awful.
I feel a slight pang of sympathy for Megan and the fact that she had to sit at home day after day and find something to entertain herself with amongst this depressing array of broadcasting. But it’s only a slight pang of sympathy.
She doesn’t deserve any more than that.
I finally settle on an old episode of Only Fools and Horses, which isn’t really my kind of humour but will do for now. Beggars can’t be choosers, and there isn’t much choice to be had based on what was on every other channel that I scrolled through.
As I watch Del Boy and Rodney get up to mischief while enjoying my healthy lunch, I think about what time I will serve Megan her first meal later today. I’ll probably give her some food tonight, although I could make her wait until tomorrow morning. That way, she would have started to think that I was never going to feed her. But that would be too cruel. I want her to suffer for what she has done, but I don’t want her to starve.
I want to keep her alive for a while yet.
I like being the controlling husband, but I don’t want to be the grieving widow yet, although I’m pretty sure I could pull that off just as well. I have thought about what it would be like to attend Megan’s funeral, standing there in the graveyard in a black suit while the vicar offers me his condolences. I’m sure I would have just the right amount of tears in my eyes and pain on my face to pass for someone who is devastated, although it would probably be difficult to overplay it if I’m honest. I could stand and stare at her headstone with a stoic expression or I could fall in front of it and scream at the heavens, and nobody would judge me either way. They would never know that I was only acting.
They would never know that I hated my wife with a passion.
Before I know it, I’m lying back on the sofa with my feet up, an empty plate on the table and another episode of the David Jason sitcom starting on the television. I wasn’t planning on having a lazy day, but there is something about being at home during the week that is quite soothing. It’s as if time has stood still and all responsibility has gone out of the window. Usually, this time on a weekday would see me sitting in stuffy meetings or reading through dour reports, yet here I am watching Del Boy try to sell some second-hand goods down his local pub. It’s not the life that I would want to live every day, but it does make a nice change from my usual routine.
As I sit there, getting more and more into the episode on screen, I wonder how Megan is getting on in the garage.
I wonder if she is starting to figure it all out yet.
44
MEGAN
I should have been more cautious. I should have taken things slowly. I should have made him work harder for it.
But I had made things so easy for him.
Craig and I had slept together that first night after we had met in the club, having gone back to my place after several more drinks and a short stint on the dancefloor. I had never made a habit of one-night stands when I was single in my youth, probably having a lot less than other women of a similar age. I know Anna certainly had more than me from what she told me. Her view on things was always that life was too short, which only made what happened to her seem even more tragic. When it came to men, she told me that she had no qualms about going all the way with them on the first night, whereas I was always a little more measured. I didn’t expect romance from some guy I’d just picked up in a bar or club, but I did like to make them work a little bit.
Charm me. Send me messages. Maybe even send me flowers.
At least do something before I let you get into my bed.
But I hadn’t exercised any of that patience when it came to Craig. Maybe that was because it had been my first proper night out since Anna had died and I was living life like her for an evening. Or maybe it was the potent combination of grief and vodka. Or maybe it was just because Craig was good-looking, made me laugh and seemed as up for it as I was. Whatever the reason, we had ended up back at my place barely two hours after first meeting, naked beneath the sheets and tangled in each other’s arms.
The sex had been great, but it had been the sense of safety that had made me smile the most as I lay there with my head on his bare chest, listening to the beating of his heart and the sound of his voice as he told me about himself.
He was an only child, like me. His parents had moved to Australia, so he barely saw them. He grew up in St Helens but moved to Macclesfield after studying finance at Manchester University. He worked at a bank in the bustling city but lived outside it, preferring Maccie’s lower house prices and quieter public spaces to the higher cost of living in the busy city centre. He told me he was single, which had been a relief considering what we had just done, and that he hadn’t thought about settling down with a partner because he was too focused on his career at that time.
I had listened to his life story and been impressed. Not many men his age would choose to live in a terraced house in Macclesfield when they could have had a bachelor pad
in Manchester, but then again, he didn’t seem like many men. He was thoughtful, considered, and sensible, which made it seem a little strange that I had first met him in a noisy nightclub where the floor was covered in spilt drinks, and the DJ played cheesy pop songs from the nineties. But I was so glad that he had been there that night because even then, as I lay there in bed with him in my tiny flat, I had known that he was going to become a big part of my life.
I had felt so calm around him, not at all like the crazy person I had been since Anna had died. Gone were the tears and the regrets, and in their place was a soothing serenity that seemed to tell me that everything was going to be alright. I had lost my best friend, but I had suddenly found a new one. Craig seemed like the kind of person I had been looking for my whole life.
Once I had found him, I had made sure that I didn’t let him go.
I roll over on the camp bed, my mind full of the memories of that seemingly innocent time when Craig and I had first met. But I’m aware of the stark contrast from my situation then to my situation now. Back then, I had shared a bed with that brilliant new man yet here I was now lying alone on a basic bed in the garage while that same man sat on the other side of the locked door, no doubt smiling at what he has just done to me.
But how could I have known then how things were going to turn out? How could I have felt any worry or doubt about pursuing something with the handsome man who had bought me a drink in that nightclub?
It had been inevitable that we would start dating straight away. Things just seemed so easy between us, not only because the sex was out of the way, but because of how compatible we seemed to be. Neither of us had been looking for love that night in the club yet somehow, we had found it. And once we had, neither one of us had dared to let it go.
By the time he proposed to me a year later, there had been no doubt in my mind what my reply was going to be.
