The Silenced Wife

by Collette Heather

  ‘Okay,’ I said slowly, taking a sip of my coffee so that I wasn’t forced to elaborate.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ he said gently. ‘Becky can have supervised visits with Buster so that she’ll be safe. They’ll be no chance of Buster going for her because someone will always be watching over them.’

  I couldn’t help but bristle slightly at his words. Was he implying that she wouldn’t be safe with me? That my mother and I were inadequate in our roles of Becky’s legal guardians?

  I did my best to shrug off the feeling, telling myself that I was being unfair to him, because this was the best solution. And if he remained locked up at Aaron’s, then there was no chance of him ever biting a random stranger again.

  Then the most obvious thing occurred to me, and mum’s words echoed in my mind:

  ‘Who will look after him when you’re in London?’

  ‘I’m retiring, and if I have my way, I’ll never have to see the inside of someone’s head again. During the brief times I have to go to London, I’ll either take Buster with me or put him into kennels for a few days. I want to sell my flat in London and be done with the damn place altogether.’

  When he said that “damn place”, I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the flat, or to London. I giggled a little bit for no other reason than I was feeling lightheaded, and then, to my utter horror, hiccupped. Dear God, I thought, I’d had far too much wine. My emotions were all over the place.

  He appeared not to notice and carried on talking: ‘But for the most part, it will just be me and Buster in that big old house, and we will never go to London again.’

  For the briefest of seconds, I fantasised that me, Becky and Buster were all living together in his mansion. I pictured my daughter and Buster laughing and running in the vast, clifftop garden that I had never seen in the flesh but could picture so clearly in my mind’s eye. I could all-too-easily imagine me and Aaron watching fondly on, our arms wrapped around each other…

  As soon as I thought it, I was overwhelmed with feelings of self-loathing. I barely knew him, but there I was, fantasising about living with him. Yes, I decided, I’d definitely had too much wine.

  ‘Would you like another coffee?’ he asked when he saw that I had drained my cup.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘How about a brandy?’

  ‘I think I’ve had way too much to drink already,’ I sighed.

  ‘Okay then,’ he smiled, turning his head to catch the attention of the passing waiter. ‘Could we have the bill, please?’

  More than a little part of me was disappointed. Secretly, I had wanted him to insist upon another drink. And another, entirely treacherous part of me, wanted him to insist that I go back with him to his for a nightcap…

  The waiter appeared a few seconds later with the bill, and try as I might, I couldn’t ignore the feeling of utter deflation.

  ‘Shall we go halves?’ I asked.

  I had brought my debit card along with me just in case, but I hoped that he would be chivalrous enough to pay for the meal. He was the one that had asked me out, after all. Yet again, he didn’t disappoint.

  ‘Don’t you dare. I asked you out, this is on me.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘No, thank you, Joyce. This is the best evening I’ve had in as long as I can remember.’

  I blushed in pleasure. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Will you at least allow me to order a taxi? I know you live less than a mile away, and I know you walked here, but I would be most uncomfortable allowing you to walk home alone this time of night. We can share it.’

  My stupid, treacherous heart lurched in anticipation, just thinking about sharing a taxi all the way back to his place…

  ‘Sure,’ I said as casually as possible.

  Yes, I might have been fantasising about taking this evening further, but that’s all it was: a fantasy. There was no way I would actually do anything.

  Yeah right, I thought. Keep telling yourself that.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, getting to my feet to put an end to the jittery, inner dialogue that was spoiling my repose. I so wanted this evening to end on a dignified note. ‘Must pop to the bathroom.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, standing as I did.

  Did men still do that? I wondered. Well, apparently they did. Aaron did, anyway.

  SEVEN

  When I had emerged from the bathroom, a little calmer and with a voided bladder, Aaron stood up from the table.

  ‘The taxi will pick us up in ten minutes. Would you like to wait outside?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said breathlessly.

  I followed Aaron down the restaurant stairs, out onto the seafront. Shelley’s was situated above an art gallery, which was long-closed for the night. I wrapped my plain, long woollen coat more tightly around my body, and pretended to be interested in the overpriced watercolour of St Ives harbour, propped up on the easel in the window. Behind me, I could hear the hightide rhythmically slapping against the promenade wall. In that moment, the sound seemed charged with eroticism, and I shivered.

  ‘Cold?’ Aaron asked from close behind me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, more than happy to attribute my trembling to the dismal March temperature.

  ‘It’s supposed to be getting warmer by now, but it never does,’ Aaron said.

  ‘No. It doesn’t.’

  ‘Joyce,’ he said, his voice low and silky.

  My heart kicked up a notch as I turned round to face him. He was wearing the same, long, black trench-coat he had been wearing earlier that day when I had met him on the beach. Had it really only been today? I wondered. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  God, he’s so handsome, came the entirely distracting thought.

  His face was illuminated by the spotlights from the gallery, casting his features in a greenish glow. He was standing just arm’s length away from me and even in the dark, I could see the way his eyes glittered. I sensed something about him then, that he was different from other men. It wasn’t quite a fully-formed, conscious thought, and neither did I know what it was, precisely, that made him supposedly “different”, but I’m sure it was in that moment that I fell in love with him. The sheer magnetism of the man was breath-taking.

  ‘Joyce,’ he said again, moving in towards me.

  Before I could so much as draw breath, yet alone manage to formulate a reply, his lips bore down on mine.

  The kiss was brief, but no less devastating for being so. His lips were warm and bone-dry, unyielding on mine. His hands curled around my upper-arms, but no other part of our bodies touched.

  Then just like that, it was over. Abruptly, he broke off the chaste kiss, leaving me stunned. He was stunning. I could only stare at him open mouthed as the taxi pulled up next to us. I only became aware of it when Aaron opened the front passenger door, and gestured for me to climb in.

  ‘Why don’t you sit in the front?’

  On shaking legs, I got in, not even seeing what the taximan looked like.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked me in a broad Cornish drawl.

  ‘Cargreen Hill,’ I said, flying on automatic pilot now.

  I was painfully aware of Aaron sitting behind me and I closed my eyes for a second, wishing I was back there with him. Images of me pressed against him blazed in my mind. I imagined him kissing me, holding me tight to his chest with one hand while his other snaked up my bare thigh beneath my dress, sliding ever upwards, his long fingers nudging at the edge of my knickers…

  ‘Here we are. What number?’ the taximan asked, shattering my fantasy.

  Were we there already? I could hardly believe it, I had been in the taxi less than ten minutes.

  ‘Last house on the top,’ I said, my voice sounding a little strained to my own ears.

  The taxi pulled up outside my house, and for what felt like an eternity although it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, all I could do was sit there unmoving like an idiot.

  ‘Thanks, Joyce,’ Aaron said from beh
ind me. ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow at twelve. You and Becky can have lunch at mine.’

  His voice – which now sounded all business – jolted me into action, and I fumbled for my seatbelt and threw open the door.

  ‘Thanks,’ I called lamely over my shoulder as I climbed out of the car.

  ‘You’re welcome, love. Good night,’ the taximan replied.

  Aaron, however, said nothing. As soon as I had slammed the car door behind myself and pushed open my front gate, the taxi had sped away. I stared after it in dismay, standing there on the pavement feeling very much like the proverbial lost lamb.

  Weary and emotionally rung-out, yet still buzzing from the wine and the kiss, I made my way back inside my home.

  Once inside, I leaned against the wall of the hallway as everything titled around me.

  You’ve had waaaay too much to drink, I chided myself. A strong feeling of self-loathing washed over me. Aaron was too good for me. A woman like me didn’t deserve a man as successful, brilliant, kind, compassionate and just as flat out wonderful as Aaron.

  He wouldn’t want you, if he knew what you were really like, a dark little voice whispered in my head. What would he think if he knew you had been institutionalised?

  I closed my eyes, feeling suddenly sick. I told myself that was all a long time ago. I wasn’t that sixteen-year-old girl anymore, going off the rails because her father had died. Not even James’s death had managed to break me.

  I told myself that, but I didn’t quite believe it.

  EIGHT

  My mother confronted me at breakfast with a barrage of questions. I tried not to be snappy and irritable, but it was very difficult. My head was pounding from the over-consumption of wine and I’d hardly slept a wink, which I put down to indigestion and coffee after the meal at eleven o’clock at night, when in reality it was probably more to do with the lurid dreams of Aaron Bailey I’d been having all night long.

  ‘So, how was it? What did you talk about?’

  I’d barely even poured my coffee at this point and Becky was running around the kitchen in tiny circles like a lunatic. Buster, however, lay morosely in his basket – it was as if he knew what was going to happen to him today.

  ‘Becky, will you stop that? Mummy’s got a headache.’

  ‘You’re referring to yourself in the third-person,’ my mum observed. ‘You only do that when you’re upset. Was it an awful date?’

  ‘It wasn’t a date,’ I snapped.

  I slouched over the breakfast bar, wondering how the hell I was going to tell Becky about Buster’s fate? It was eight a.m. which meant I only had four hours in which to do it.

  ‘Okay then,’ she said, ‘if you say so. What’s happening about Buster?’

  ‘He’s taking him today,’ I said in a low voice so that Becky wouldn’t hear.

  She appeared not to notice, and was chuntering on to Teddy, feeding him a plastic broccoli over by the French doors.

  My mum looked visibly upset. ‘Today? Oh.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, although I had no idea why I was apologizing. ‘How am I going to tell Becky?’

  ‘Very quickly, if he’s leaving us today. You should tell her now, over breakfast.’

  The three of us always ate breakfast together, it was our ritual. That, and dinner too, every day at five o’clock. I liked it. The structure of it had held me together since James’s death. Even when Becky was still a baby, me and mum had stuck to our routine. I think she needed it as much as I did. Sometimes, in my darker moments, I wondered if her Alzheimer’s was more advanced than she let on and our ritual meals were holding her together as much as it was me.

  If I started seeing Aaron, what would happen to her? I pushed such thoughts from my mind; there were far more pressing things to deal with right now.

  ‘I should’ve told her yesterday,’ I said to my mum’s back.

  She was busy making toast and retrieving various spreads from the cupboard and fridge.

  ‘Just tell her now. Is he collecting Buster, or are you taking him there? I must admit, I fail to see the logic of this. What difference does it make if he lives here with us or there with your surgeon?’

  ‘He’s not my surgeon. And anyway, he’s a neurosurgeon. A soon to be retired one so he’ll have plenty of time to look after Buster.’

  ‘He’s retiring? How old is he?’

  ‘Forty-three.’

  ‘Forty-three? That’s a little young to retire, isn’t it? Has he been sacked for professional misconduct?’

  ‘Mum,’ I snapped, cradling my pounding head in my hands. ‘No, he hasn’t.’

  I really didn’t want to get into the ins and outs of how and why Aaron was retiring, because now that I came to think of it, he hadn’t actually elaborated on the precise reasons. From what I understood, he was suffering from a deep-rooted dissatisfaction with his lot and was trying to move on from the death of his wife. But my mum didn’t know about Cynthia, and I didn’t want to get into that now. She’d probably just say he was on the rebound, or something.

  ‘Well, I do beg your pardon. And I still don’t see the logic of this.’

  You and me both, I inwardly sighed.

  ‘He’s got a big garden, and Buster need never leave the premises.’

  ‘So, he’s going to be keep Buster prisoner, then.’

  ‘Aaron has two acres of land. He says he doesn’t like calling his house a mansion, but technically, that’s what it is. Buster will be well looked after.’

  ‘Buster loves his walks on the beach and clifftop.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, far more harshly than I had intended to, but God, my head was splitting. ‘He’s coming to pick us up at twelve, dog and all.’

  ‘Us? Am I invited to?’

  ‘Good god, who the hell invites their mother along on the second date?’

  ‘So it was a date last night then.’

  Inwardly, I kicked myself. ‘Whatever,’ I muttered. ‘Come here, sweetheart,’ I called over to Becky to end this conversation with my mother. ‘It’s breakfast time.’

  Becky came over, clutching Teddy, her eyes big and round. I put my arm around her and guided her over to kitchen table away from the breakfast bar, near the door. My mum proceeded to bring over the breakfast stuff. I tried to share the cooking with her as much as possible, but Mum invariably took over. I knew that she genuinely enjoyed it, and truth be told, I was more than happy for her to do so because as far as I was concerned, cooking was one of life’s joyless necessities. I didn’t hate it, exactly, but neither did I thrive on it the way my mum did. Sometimes I worried that moving back in with my mother was reverting me back into my petulant, spoilt, teenaged self. I wasn’t sure that it was healthy for either of us.

  When Mum had sat down, I buttered a piece of toast for Becky, then slathered it with Marmite. Mum threw me the look: Get on with it, then, she silently told me.

  ‘Beach, Mummy? Buster, beach.’ Becky said, just as I was about to launch into my carefully rehearsed speech.

  I sighed, knowing perfectly well what that meant; Becky was looking forward to taking Buster to the beach today. Oh God, this was going to break her heart.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Becky, sweetheart, do you remember that nice man we met on the beach yesterday? The one who bought you ice cream in the café? Well, Buster is going to go and live with him, today.’

  She looked at me blankly, then looked down at her toast like she had never seen the stuff before.

  ‘No, Mummy, I don’t like that.’

  I think I felt my heart crack a little, and I reached out to gently cup her small shoulder.

  ‘We’re going to go there today and see his new home. Buster is going to love it there, the garden is really big.’

  ‘Buster has a garden,’ she pointed out.

  ‘This one is bigger. Much, much bigger.’

  ‘No,’ she said, wriggling off the chair and making a beeline for the dog basket in which a morose Buster lay with his chin on his paws. />
  She crouched down before him and I felt a lump rise in my throat.

  ‘Come and eat your toast, Becky,’ I called to her.

  ‘No,’ she said, clumsily patting the dog on his head in the way that he never seemed to mind.

  I had to remind myself that Buster was a biter, that I should call Becky away from him immediately, but somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to. Instinctively, I knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

  But I no longer trusted that instinct, because he had proved himself to be dangerous.

  ‘Leave it,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll get her.’ She threw me a smile, and I suddenly noticed how tired she looked. ‘She’ll be okay, don’t worry. Why don’t I dress her while you eat your breakfast?’

  She didn’t mean to, but sometimes she had a knack of making me feel twelve-years-old again. I picked up my coffee, feeling confused and tearful.

  And to my shame, excited for the day that lay ahead.

  ***

  True to his word, there was a knock on the door at twelve o’clock on the dot. I was ready for him, or as ready as I was ever going to be. I had spent half an hour agonizing in front of my opened wardrobe, wondering what the hell to wear, eventually opting for skinny black jeans and a figure hugging, navy pullover with a scooped neck. The truth was, I didn’t put nearly as much thought into my outfits as I did before Becky was born, and neither had I been clothes shopping for at least a year. Luckily, all my pre-pregnancy skinny jeans still fit me and that was pretty much my staple wardrobe, either teemed with boots and a jumper in Winter, or ballet pumps and a t-shirt in Summer.

  I was a bundle of nerves, and when the knock came, I physically flinched.

  Buster shot up from where he had been lying on the floor in the middle of the kitchen floor and hurtled himself at the front door. He didn’t have his basket in the kitchen anymore because it was piled up with his stuff on the hallway ready to go to his new home. Becky was in the living-room watching telly with the door closed. Since yesterday, we didn’t allow Buster and Becky in the same room unsupervised, which quietly broke my heart.