by Sue Watson
He looks at me, but I can’t read his eyes. He knows what he said hit right where it hurt and even now he’s probably regretting it, but it’s too late. I’m also regretting my own reaction; the slap was too far and I hate myself as much as I hate him right now. There’s a cocktail of resentment and shame whirling around my stomach and I can’t look at him, so I pick up my cardigan, pull it around me protectively and go upstairs to bed. Once there I cry quietly for the children we never had and for the marriage, which feels like it’s disintegrating under the weight of our disappointment. And I cry for myself, and how my life turned out, the sadness and regret from my past still living in the present. Perhaps I would have been a tiger mother, but that doesn’t mean I’d have been a bad mother, just a caring one. I can’t redeem myself, but I might have been able to erase the past and blot out my own childhood by creating another one.
Later, I hear the front door bang. I sit up, wondering where he’s going. I hear the car start and look at the time: almost midnight. For the next hour I keep climbing out of bed, pacing the room and looking through the window to see if his car’s back. Once, after a big row, he parked round the corner all night – I was absolutely in bits worrying about him: had he been involved in an accident, had he moved out, was he with another woman? I knew in my heart none of these were probable, but nor did I think he’d park round the corner and sleep in the freezing cold just to hurt me. Who knows the lengths nice, normal people will go to when they’ve been hurt? I imagine he’s just gone driving around to let off steam tonight, but the longer he is away, the more I worry that this time he really has had an accident.
It’s almost 2 a.m. when I hear the door bang downstairs, and with all the racket he’s making I assume he’s trying to wake me up. I don’t know if this is just another way of making me angry, or if he wants to wake me up so we can make up after that awful row, but I’m still not ready for that. I can be quite stubborn and I need a night’s sleep before we can be us again.
When he eventually comes into the bedroom, I pretend to be asleep. I’m not ready to discuss what happened tonight. I’m still hurt and angry. I also feel bad about the slap and he’ll probably want to talk about why that happened too. I don’t. Matt will be calm by now but I’m still stinging and am likely to shout and lash out and I’m filled with self-doubt about control and emotion, slipping back to a place I used to be, where I can’t trust myself.
Once Matt’s in bed and safely asleep, I lie there a while and after an hour or so I’ve worked through my feelings and my anger and irritation begin to melt. I love Matt, he’s my husband, and one of the very few people in my life who’s ever loved me.
I roll over and curl my body softly around him; he’s back and we’re safe and in our bed – it’s the best feeling in the world.
Chapter Twelve
Lucy
The morning after our row, I wake up and Matt’s asleep in bed next to me. I feel so bad about the night before and when he wakes he looks at me, kisses me and says how sorry he is.
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I was worried about you, just driving off into the night. Where did you go?’
‘Amber called. She was stranded at work; I had to collect her.’
‘Amber? Oh no, was she okay? Why didn’t she ring me?’
‘Apparently you didn’t answer… It was late.’
I check my new phone at the side of the bed: five missed calls. I’d put my phone on silent after storming upstairs after our row.
‘She came out of work and one of her tyres had been slashed,’ he says, and I’m pleased to see that for once he seems concerned about Amber’s predicament.
‘Oh my God, I knew it! I told her he hadn’t gone away. Did she call the police? Did she see anyone? Was she upset?’
‘Don’t know. She just wanted to get home. She was tired; we didn’t really talk.’
‘Thank goodness you picked up your phone,’ I say. ‘God knows what might have happened if you hadn’t rescued her.’
He smiles at this; I think he likes playing the knight in shining armour – it doesn’t matter who the damsel is that’s in distress.
‘I feel like a bad friend. I’m supposed to be there for her and haven’t even checked my phone since last night,’ I say. I’d been so angry and upset with Matt, I hadn’t given Amber a second thought.
‘She wanted you. I think she was disappointed when I offered to go. I don’t make the same kind of fuss as you.’ He laughs. ‘I just said, “Okay, I’ll come and change the tyre,” but when I got to the studio there was a load of hassle because the security guard wouldn’t let me into the car park. Even when Amber told him I’d come to help her, I still had to fill in loads of forms. They gave me a temporary pass – like bloody Fort Knox. It’s a regional TV studio, not the BBC – ridiculous really.’
‘Oh, babe, thanks for going. Sounds like a nightmare. You should have woken me. I’d have come with you.’
‘I didn’t want to wake you… Let’s face it, things were a bit tense between us last night.’
‘Sorry, about—’
‘It’s okay, I shouldn’t have said what I did. I deserved a slap.’
He puts his arm around me and we lie together for a few minutes, regrouping.
‘She shouldn’t have gone home on her own last night. Did you invite her to stay here?’
‘Yeah, yeah, but she said she’d be okay. I went over there when we got back, made sure she was safe.’
‘Ahh, that’s so lovely of you, thank you.’ I kiss him. Perhaps he’ll stop being mean about Amber now they’ve had a chance to bond? ‘Amber thinks I’m making more of it than there is,’ I say. ‘But a slashed tyre? Surely that’s serious enough for her to admit there’s a real problem?’
‘She knows; she was scared last night, but you know what she’s like.’
‘Mmm. She brushes it off.’
‘Yeah she does, but she also loves the attention it brings from you. She’s like a child constantly putting her hand up so the teacher will notice.’ He smiles at this. I hadn’t seen the dynamics quite like that – I felt it was me always trying to get her attention, wanting her to notice me. I’m flattered he thinks differently. ‘Sorry again… about what I said last night.’ He touches my face with the back of his hand. ‘You know I’m gutted we didn’t have kids.’
‘I know. But you really hurt me when you said that, Matt.’
‘I’m sorry. It was unforgivable of me – you’d have made a great mum.’
‘I think I would have too… but I can see what you mean, about me being a little bit overprotective… especially with Amber,’ I say, as his hands pull my nightdress up over my thighs.
‘A little bit protective?’ he murmurs into my neck. ‘Anyone would think you were in love with her the way you go on.’
‘Oh God, Matt, what a thing to say!’
I move thoughts of Amber from my head and my bed as Matt gently moves on top of me. I feel his need, his longing. We haven’t made love in a while – it hasn’t been easy with Amber around. But here, now, he wants me so much. I feel desired, loved. I can feel the hurt, the open wound from our words the night before, beginning to soothe and heal. Sex is the perfect poultice for pain. And when it’s over, we kiss again and say we’re sorry again and we are us once more. We’re Lucy and Matt, the couple from number 7 – the teachers with the lovely home and no kids. That’s our story. I realise I’m a bit much for Matt sometimes, but with no babies to care for there’s a lot of love with nowhere to go. I just need someone to soak up the excess because sometimes my feelings overwhelm us both. Thank God I have the kids at school to care about – and, of course, I have Amber to talk to.
We spend the morning in bed. Matt brings me coffee and toast and we remember again why we’re together.
‘This is nice,’ I say, and while everything’s so good between us, I decide to open up to him a bit about how I’ve been feeling. ‘I know you’re busy with the production, but when you’re up in your office working on sc
ripts and stage directions, I sometimes feel a bit like you’ve forgotten me.’
‘I’m sorry – you know what I’m like, I love what I do. Without drama, who knows where I’d be now?’
Matt never knew his father, and his mother died when he was only fifteen, and he always says if he hadn’t had drama and the theatre he’d probably have been a mess. Like me, he had to turn his life around at an early age to give himself a chance, and sometimes I think that’s what drew us together. We were two lost children looking for somewhere safe, and for someone who would love us.
‘I need to give you more attention, I know that. I love you Lucy,’ he says, and in this moment I feel so lucky. We’ve weathered the storm of loss, and now we’re adjusting to what we are and coming through the other side. Of course there will be ups and downs, but nothing we can’t handle together.
‘I love you too.’ I smile. ‘It’s good to have you to myself, not sharing you with your latest production… for the next few minutes at least!’ I joke.
‘You know it’s important to me though, don’t you? Drama is the only thing that helps me escape all the day-to-day worries. Maybe it sounds silly, but I need it in my life.’
‘Yeah, I know, but don’t let it take you over. You become so engrossed, it’s like a bloody obsession. During the rehearsals for The Speckled Band last Christmas I barely saw you… I thought you’d run off with the woman playing Sherlock Holmes’ housekeeper.’
He laughs. ‘Did you see her?’
‘Don’t be mean. I’m sure she’s a lovely person.’
‘I promise I’ll try not to let it take over. I do get carried away, but you have to promise you won’t let your obsession take over either.’ He smiles.
‘What?’
‘This obsession with Amber. When you’re not with her, you’re talking about her and worrying about what she’s doing… or thinking her so-called stalker’s hiding in the bushes.’
I groan; not this again. Why didn’t he believe her?
‘I’m not obsessed, I just like her; she’s interesting… fun.’
‘Famous?’
I process that and realise there is some truth to it. ‘Yes, I suppose I do quite love the fact that she might have once slept with a royal prince and danced with George Clooney on a yacht in Cannes, but that isn’t why I’m her friend. I like her because she’s funny, and kind, and has time to listen. I like having a non-mummy friend who makes me feel like I can do anything. I’ve just felt so much more confident since I became friends with her. She’s good for me. And don’t refer to the stalker as a “so-called stalker” – he does exist, Matt.’
‘Yeah, but as I’ve pointed out before, no one’s actually seen him, have they?’
I shrug. ‘Last night you had to rescue her when he slashed her tyres!’
‘Yeah, but given the hassle security gave me to get in the bloody car park, you have to wonder how the stalker got in without a pass.’
‘So you think it might be someone already there… someone who has a pass? A work colleague?’ I suggest.
‘That would be my guess.’
When he’s gone to work on his script, I think again about Matt’s insistence that no one has ever seen this stalker. But he obviously does exist – I’ve seen a text and was there when she found the dead bird, and now Matt’s seen the slashed tyres and I think he’s coming round to at least knowing someone’s out there and that he isn’t a figment of Amber’s imagination. There are other things, though, that I’m not sure are real. I think Amber might tell some little white lies. She told me a couple of weeks ago that she was off to Cannes again with friends for the weekend, but I swear I saw a woman at the window upstairs after she’d driven off to the airport. Amber left at 6 p.m. and I know her cleaner visits on a Monday and Thursday morning, so that doesn’t explain it, and the next day there were two Prosecco bottles in her bin that hadn’t been there the previous evening. Was it Amber, and therefore was she lying about being in Cannes to make herself look good – and if that was the case what else is she lying about? Because if it wasn’t her, who was it? And why did she leave early for work yesterday – the day of the tyre slashing – and wouldn’t say why? She also told me the police had been before I arrived on Wednesday, but she didn’t to want to talk about it and there’s been no more contact from them. As Matt said, has she really spoken to the police or just told me she has? And if so, why? I’m sure all these things are insignificant and can be explained quite simply – but sometimes I feel like she might be hiding things from me. Amber certainly has her secrets, and being the sort of person that I am, and her friend of course, I can’t help but be curious.
On Saturday morning I call her to see what time she wants to meet to go out for our usual Saturday afternoon retail and coffee therapy, as we call it. She doesn’t pick up, so I leave a message, then I text her to ask if she’s okay because she doesn’t always check her voicemail. She’s obviously busy because she doesn’t get back to me, and as Matt’s busy writing I give Kirsty a call. She’s a little frosty at first, but after I’ve warmed her up and told her some slightly scandalous school gossip about the prim music teacher and the head of English, we are somewhat more bonded and she agrees to meet up for a sandwich in the pub, where an hour later I’m filling her in on the latest dramatic events in Amber’s life.
‘Her tyres?’ She’s chewing on her prawn mayo baguette and looking very doubtful.
‘Yes… slashed to ribbons, Matt says.’
‘Well, Matt’s a bloody saint. Pete wouldn’t have gone out in the middle of the night to fix someone’s car.’
‘Yeah, well, I think it broke the ice with them. Matt seems to have come round a bit,’ I say, disappointed with my roast beef on brown and wishing I’d had the prawn too.
‘So where is she today? Don’t you two usually spend Saturday shopping together?’
‘No,’ I lie, wondering how she knows. If and when we’re talking, I rarely tell Kirsty about what I do with Amber. I know it only upsets her and it isn’t worth it.
‘I wonder who hates her enough to slash her tyres?’ she’s saying, clearly relishing this.
‘No one hates her. It’s clearly him, the stalker. And he doesn’t hate her! He’s obsessed, crazy for her.’
‘He must be crazy to be obsessed with her.’ She laughs, and I realise that, try as I might, I don’t enjoy Kirsty’s company like I used to – I never imagined she could be so mean. I ignore her remark and change the subject, but inside I’m angry. Amber never says anything nasty about her, but Kirsty seems hell-bent on turning every little piece of information about Amber into something barbed. I find it uncomfortable, and once we’ve finished our sandwiches I tell her I have loads of marking to do and we head off in separate directions.
Once home, I check my phone and the landline, but there’s still no communication from Amber, so I call her again. I suddenly feel guilty that instead of checking she was okay first, I just went out with Kirsty. ‘I’m worried about you,’ I say to her voicemail. ‘I can see your car outside the house so wonder why you aren’t responding to my calls and texts.’ I remind myself this isn’t unusual, in fact it’s classic Amber. On several occasions I’ve rung and left messages, texts, and ages afterwards she eventually gets back to me saying she couldn’t find her phone/dropped it down the loo/had no signal. The Wi-Fi and phone signals aren’t great here – it’s a bit of a black spot – so perhaps she has sent me a message or tried to call? Perhaps I’m just worrying about nothing.
It’s three hours later when I call her and she finally picks up.
‘I was having a nap,’ she says.
‘Oh, sorry, did I wake you?’
‘Kind of, but I didn’t want to stay in bed all day, so probably just as well.’
‘I had coffee with Kirsty,’ I volunteer, for something to say.
‘Nice. Was Matt working on his play?’
‘No, he went off to the gym,’ I say. ‘He announced this morning that he’s going to work on h
is body as well as his mind. He’s swapped one obsession for another,’ I add, trying to start a conversation, but it seems she’s in one of her moods.
‘Look, Lucy, I’m not being funny, but I have the most awful headache and I just need to sleep.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll let you go,’ I say, hurt. I thought our friendship was beyond her dismissing me when it wasn’t convenient. She did this when we first met. She can be so chilly sometimes, and I’m supposed to be her best friend.
‘Thanks…’
‘I could call round later? We could get a takeaway and watch a film?’ I say hopefully, refusing to let her dismiss me so easily. ‘Matt’s out tonight – still up to his neck in sodding Bugsy at the moment.’
‘Perhaps… Look, can I let you know? Thing is, my head is pounding. I really need to sleep. Let’s talk later, yes?’
‘Oh, okay. I’ll let you get some sleep.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like me to pop round to make you some chamomile tea? It helps with headaches. It’s very soothing.’
‘That’s so lovely of you – but I’m incredibly tired, and not much fun. I think I might just turn off the phone, put my feet up and chill.’
At least that rejection was a little more polite, less chilly.
‘Okay, well, if you need company…’
‘I’ll call you, yes, definitely.’
And she clicks the phone off. I know she says she’s got a headache, but I can’t help feeling put out that she clearly doesn’t want me to go round. We’re friends, and even if you’re not well and want to chill, you can always chill with a friend, and I could have made her some restorative chamomile tea. Her loss I suppose.
I spend this free time doing some overdue marking, but can’t stop my mind wandering back to conversations I’ve had with Kirsty, and though I try to push them away I find myself wondering if she might be right, that Amber just picks me up and drops me at her whim. She’s happy to spend evenings with me when she’s too scared to go home, makes me late for work when she gets horrible ‘gifts’ and needs me there, but today she doesn’t need me, and I know I’m oversensitive, but I can’t help feeling a little bruised.
