by Sue Watson
‘I only let them watch what’s on our agreed list,’ I say defensively. ‘I can’t keep an eye on them all the time. I don’t know what they see at school… the other boys…’
He flashes me a look and I shut up. We walk on and I decide if I don’t speak for a while it might help – this is his day off and Simon doesn’t need me antagonising him. I stare ahead and my stomach lurches as I spot her at the far end of the car park, climbing into a shiny, sporty car that looks like the roof comes off. I imagine her driving along a lonely coastal road, hair flying, sun on her back – the tight, perilous turns. The car swerving… it could so easily go right off the cliff, plunging hundreds, no, thousands of feet below, smashing on rocks… I must stop thinking like this. I have no evidence at all that she’s more than a colleague, except for the fact that just seeing her causes every pore, every hair follicle, to open.
I watch her drive off, breathing a sigh of relief, trying not to imagine her upturned car at the bottom of windswept cliffs. Simon doesn’t seem to see her, and if he does he isn’t letting on; besides he’s too busy commanding the boys to ‘walk not run’. His jaw twitches with tension and I glimpse the real man behind the smiling charmer witnessed by the checkout audience.
‘Simon, they’re okay. Let them work off some energy,’ I say quietly.
He turns sharply. ‘What?’
‘They want to run; they’re just being… boys.’
‘Oh, well, that’s okay then, isn’t it? I suppose that’s what the mothers of thieves and murderers say – “they’re just being boys”,’ he says in a whiney voice, presumably to emulate mine. I don’t answer him; there’s no point. ‘Perhaps if you paid more attention to our children’s behaviour and less to mine…’ he hisses under his breath.
But I can’t, I have to watch him. I am compelled to listen to his phone calls, check his texts, because if I don’t, everything will fall apart, and our family will be over.
Chapter Four
The first time I suspected Simon was cheating on me was before we were even married – two weeks before, in fact. He went out for drinks after work and turned up quite drunk at 4 a.m. I was frantic and tearful, but he said it was nothing, just a night with colleagues that had gone on later than expected. But I didn’t believe him and the following day I sobbed and pleaded with him to tell me the truth. I just knew. Exhausted from my near hysteria and unwillingness to drop this, he finally admitted to a mild panic setting in about the future. He described a drunken evening with work colleagues and guiltily confessed that he’d ended up talking to a young nurse from surgical until the early hours of the morning. He said he liked her – nothing more than that – and swore to me that nothing had happened, but at the time I was so devastated I threatened to cancel the wedding. Thank goodness he talked to me, showed he really cared and convinced me I’d be throwing everything away. ‘I will make it up to you every single day of our lives,’ he’d said earnestly. ‘I adore you, there could never be anyone else – ever. You’re the moon to all of my stars.’
I melted at this. It was just what I wanted to hear, what I needed to know. And, as he said later, I completely overreacted. Though sometimes I wonder if I’d merely heard what I wanted to hear – and buried those suspicions so deep they still live inside me. That he could leave me at any time. That he could have any woman he wanted. I feel it inside the marriage even now, eroding the very heart of who we are, changing who we could be if I could only let it go.
It’s an uphill struggle keeping him to myself, keeping our family safe. It’s not his fault he’s faced with temptation every day; women have always fallen at Simon’s feet. He has the looks, the wit, the intellect and charm to make a woman feel like a goddess. I know how that feels, because he used to make me feel like that. Even now, despite everything that’s gone before, I would give anything to have that back. All that we’ve been through, all the terrible stuff that’s been said, and all it takes is one caress, one night, to put me right back there in my veil on my wedding day, before all our lies.
If only I could feel like that again, but I’ve spent our marriage in a state of paranoia – I’ve imagined I’m competing with shop girls, barmaids and even my best friends. I’ve misjudged, overreacted, and there have been times I care not to think about when I’ve behaved like a wild animal, and in Simon’s words, ‘like a fishwife’ and ‘a savage’. We’ve had to move house more than once, Simon’s changed hospitals, and it’s all my fault. I even have a criminal record – whoever heard of a surgeon’s wife with a criminal record? I’m a total liability, that’s what he says, and he’s right. I’m not the wife he deserves, or the mother his children deserve – what kind of mother does what I did? Why does he even stay with me? I love my home and my family. But I can’t enjoy them because I spend my days worrying that I’m not good enough and Simon will find someone better and leave me, which is why I’m always on guard. I thought I’d shaken it off, but my demon’s back with me. And this time her name is Caroline.
After years of therapy, I really thought I’d finally learned to live with my grief, my guilt and Simon’s imagined betrayals. Moving here to this well-heeled road of elegant, double-fronted Georgian houses has been good for me, but I’m beginning to wonder if we will ever shake off who we are and the pain we carry with us. Being here also reminds me of who I used to be. It isn’t far from where my mother used to live and I spent some of my childhood in the area – albeit on a different side of the tracks. I lived with a foster family just a few streets from here and used to walk past houses like the one I live in now on my way to and from school. I’d catch a glimpse of another world and daydream about what life might be like in these lovely homes. Lit by lamplight on cold winter evenings, a perfect family with good parents, a fire flickering in the grate, hot crumpets for tea. And now at Number 5 Garden Close, in our beautiful home with an elegant, manicured lawn and symmetrical bay trees at the door, I was beginning to feel like I’d almost made it, like I belonged. No one was going to send me away from here, no one was going to leave – it was all mine and I was safe. Until now. Until Caroline.
Our present is informed by our past, the fears, the insecurities – the loss. But why can’t I just ignore these new fears and embrace what I have? When I’ve been ill in the past I planted roses, deep-cleaned the kitchen and baked enormous quantities of organic bread to take my mind of whoever I imagined was Simon’s lover. But this is different; Caroline’s different. She’s not like the others. She’s here all the time, in my head, in my kitchen, and the harder I wipe and polish the more I see her face in the shiny kitchen surfaces, and smell her perfume in the aroma of freshly baked bread. I feel like I’m about to lose everything. But I thought I was better now?
I wonder if I finished working with Saskia, my therapist, too soon? When we decided to move, I felt like this fresh start would be good for me and perhaps I could live my life again without the safety net – I had to start thinking for myself and making my own decisions without checking with someone else all the time. But am I ready? I’ve taken the lessons she’s taught me and used the tools to get me through the day, but sometimes I feel like I need to talk to someone. ‘Be positive, Marianne,’ she’d say. ‘Think about what you do have, not what you don’t.’ Okay, so I have a beautiful home, three perfect children and a gorgeous and loving husband who’s also a great father and works hard to provide for his family – the family I always longed for. So what if my husband has women friends and female colleagues he’s close to? There’s nothing wrong with that. Is there?
Saskia would also tell me to ‘feel the power of positive self-affirmation’, or something equally unfathomable. But I get the gist, so tell myself I’m not unattractive, that I’m not stupid, and I’m worthy of a man like Simon. I am. Aren’t I?
It’s weird to think now that when we first met I was the one who was thriving and poor Simon was a mess. He’d just lost Nicole and was struggling with childcare, so his mother Joy was looking after Sophie – by that I me
an taking her to and from school, making sure she was fed and putting her to bed at seven each evening, so she didn’t have to actually engage with her. The woman, Joy by name, Joy-less by nature, was the coldest, least maternal person I have ever met and sometimes, when Simon’s being mean, I try to remember this. We are the children our parents made us and though Simon can be warm and loving, especially with his kids, Joy’s lack of maternal instinct must have had an effect.
Our love story would make a great film: struggling young widower meets party girl who’s going places and against all the odds they make a go of it. I lived in London back then and my flatmate, who was in PR, asked me to go to a book launch with her, promising free champagne, so naturally I tagged along. It was a launch for a memoir about a pioneering surgeon, at Waterstones in Piccadilly, and as I knew no one and most of the guests were over seventy, including the ‘distinguished’ surgeon, I positioned myself near the refreshments. I was drinking cheap champagne like it was lemonade when I saw Simon in the ‘medical books’ section. Our eyes met – he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen – and when he walked over and introduced himself I was bowled over. I loved his confidence, the way his thick, shiny hair flopped over big blue eyes that twinkled like he knew how to have fun. I was working for a fashion company and he was a surgeon, and though we had little in common, we somehow just clicked. He invited me out the following evening and while eating oysters in a champagne bar we shared our stories.
Mine was very boring really. I lost my mum when I was ten and a foster mother spotted my potential for art and suggested I study it at A level. I then went to art school and became the head fashion buyer for a big Swedish company that was doing well. I loved my job and was good at it too, but after a few dates with Simon my career wasn’t the most important thing in my life any more. My previous relationships had all been casual, without commitment, but here was the man of my dreams and not only was he kind, funny and charming, within weeks he had asked me to marry him. I was smitten, couldn’t believe my luck, and despite my friends suggesting I was rushing into this, I also saw the looks of lust and envy on their faces when they met him.
Sophie clearly needed love and understanding (she was getting neither from Joyless Joy) and so as soon as we’d booked the wedding, Simon chose a new flat close to the hospital where he was working, and the three of us moved in. Unfortunately, the flat was perfect for Simon’s work, but the commute was too far into London for mine, so I gave up my job. I was sad to say goodbye to a career I loved and had worked hard for but it was important that Simon was near to where he worked. I’d hoped to become freelance, but success in the world of fashion is about being in the capital, attending all the shows, and out in the suburbs I couldn’t keep on top of things. Besides, I now had a ready-made family to look after. Simon worked long hours, Sophie had to be cared for, and within a few months I’d abandoned the idea of working from home and embraced a new life. And the first time Sophie called me ‘Mum’ made up for any glamorous fashion career I might have had. I cried with happiness. I was home.
I loved spending time with Sophie. It was good for both of us as she missed her mum so much, and to build our bond and fill the void left by Nicole’s death I’d read to her, we’d go shopping and to the cinema, and we also shared a hobby. While she was at school I’d wanted something to do so started making small shoulder bags and hair scrunchies from scraps of fabric and bric-a-brac. And at weekends when Simon was working we’d scour second-hand shops for lovely fabric and old paste jewellery to decorate them with – and I taught her to sew. This was a happy time and most evenings, with Simon working late, we had great fun designing and sewing – and Sophie seemed to love it, with her wobbly stitches and scary but cute colour combinations. I planned to rent a market stall in the town at the weekends and sell what we’d made, but Simon was worried the whole ‘project’ was distracting for Sophie and she should be concentrating on her schoolwork.
‘I’m sure the little bags and bits are lovely, darling, but I’d rather she did something more academic,’ he’d said one evening when he came home unusually early.
This was a fair point, I had to admit. So I suggested I would perhaps continue alone – I’d had some interest from my old boss who’d asked me to bring my handbags in to show them to her. But, as Simon pointed out, they were ‘eye-catching but not exactly Chanel’. ‘And,’ he added, ‘it’s not like you’d make any money. I mean, they’d bring in a few pounds, if you were lucky – but they wouldn’t pay for our children’s education.’ I’d loved it when he’d mentioned ‘our children’, even though we hadn’t yet had any of our own.
I know this sounds almost crazy in this day and age, but after struggling through my twenties to make ends meet, I welcomed being looked after by Simon. This was my chance to take a breath, to care for Sophie, to stop and smell the roses and look after our home, or ‘play house’, as Simon jokingly referred to it. ‘You love playing house, don’t you, Marianne,’ he’d teased one evening after a particularly good dinner cooked lovingly by me. This was so true. Yes, I’d loved my party life but was now ready to grow up and move on. It had been a great job and I’d worked damned hard to get there, but I felt being with Simon and Sophie was the real meaning of my life. Simon, Sophie and our future children were now my career and I was ready to give them my all. When you spend your childhood in care and foster homes, you take nothing for granted and to be included in someone’s future plans, and be cared for, was all I’d ever wanted.
I felt like I was damaged goods, but Simon took me on, whisking me away from the nightlife, the travel, the wine and the coke – the endless search for something to quell the raging sadness sitting heavy in my belly. He took me straight to his bed, made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world, helped me forget the pointlessness and tragedy of the past and handed me a shiny new future. He was the beginning of everything and brought me to a new and perfect world, something I’d never thought possible – and for the first time I felt how I’d always longed to feel: just like everyone else.
Our first summer holiday together was spent in sunny Dorset where he’d grown up. His mother still had a holiday home there and our days were filled with picnics on the beach, acres of rolling lawn, open fires on cooler evenings and jam and scones for tea. It was magical, the kind of holiday I’d read about and dreamed of as a little girl and never had. Unfortunately, his mother joined us for a few days and took an instant dislike to me because I hadn’t been to the right schools and, apparently, didn’t know my cutlery. She was horrified and made it clear she thought I was beneath her son. But I was so happy, I didn’t care. I was in love; so was he. And we had a secret – I was pregnant.
I think about that summer of hope, when everything lay before us, now as his phone lights up on the kitchen table. Recently, I’ve tried to stop snooping, but there’s something in the air and I just know it’s a message from Caroline. He’s gone upstairs and I know I shouldn’t, but I wander past, glancing over at the first few lines. It’s from someone called Roger – which I don’t for a minute believe. I just know it’s from her.
Chapter Five
I stand over the phone and lean over to read it, totally wired to the fact Simon may walk in any minute but unable to stop myself.
What about tomorrow evening? Can you tell her you’re…
I can’t see the rest of the text. And I can’t open the phone because it’s fingertip recognition, nor do I know his pin code. It’s so frustrating, so horribly tantalising. Even if I could unlock it, I daren’t because then he’d know I’d read it.
I remind myself this isn’t the first time I’ve been convinced he was having an affair from a half-read text on his phone. Last year I’d found myself in a similar situation when spotting the first few lines of a text message. ‘You have my heart…’ the message had said. I was desperate, convinced he was seeing someone else, but I didn’t know who and was so crazed, so compelled to open it, I couldn’t leave it alone. I tried the children�
��s birthdays, and after a couple of misses, I guessed his pin code, which was the date he received his consultancy position – I knew it was one of the most important days in his life. I unlocked that phone with tears streaming down my face, hating myself and the new low to which I’d sunk. But in spite of the self-loathing and guilt, I clicked on the message, braced for the tidal wave of pain I was about to inflict on myself. ‘You have my heart patient…’ was the opening line. Just one word, one wonderful word, transformed the message from a lover’s text to a request from one surgeon to another. Of course I was completely wrong. I should have known, and I should have trusted my husband.
I remember laughing maniacally as I read the message, which went on to talk about some procedure that had to be adhered to when treating this particular patient. I was tearful, overjoyed, then worried about the fact that Simon would know I’d checked his phone and opened a private message. The information was sensitive and vital. I knew this, but I deleted it. I had to. It was pure madness, but I would rather delete the message and risk the possibility of someone coming to harm, than admit to Simon that I’d unlocked his phone. But afterwards I couldn’t live with myself, and two tortured days later confessed to him. Understandably he was really upset and said as a result of this he hadn’t been able to act on the information and the patient had died.
‘It will be on your conscience forever,’ he’d added, as I sobbed quietly, disgusted with myself and how, through my paranoia and wickedness, I’d as good as killed someone.
I’d cried for weeks. I couldn’t cope with what I’d done and my self-hatred was at an all-time high, as was my medication dosage. Then, one day, out of the blue, Simon said the patient hadn’t died, but my ‘reckless and selfish actions’ meant they might have died.
