by Sue Watson
How does it feel, Caroline? Oh, wait… I know exactly how it feels.
I show her the spare bedroom, which I’ve styled beautifully and is clearly not the product of a disturbed mind. I stand there a moment like an art gallery attendant, allowing Caroline to take it all in before moving on.
Like anything you see, bitch? Enjoy it while you can – you won’t be seeing it again.
‘Oh… fresh lavender,’ is all she can mumble as I open the door. Staying with the Farrow and Ball palette, Dayroom Yellow smothers the walls in sunshine, broken up only by the grey bed linen and scattered cushions in fifty shades of grey. This is accessorized by a jug of fresh lavender and a diffuser in the same fragrance to give it some oomph. ‘I love a room that smells nice,’ I say, with a bright innocent smile. ‘Covers up any nasties lurking around,’ I add.
She really has had enough. I can tell by her face – she looks like she might be sick at any moment.
Oh, Caroline, but we’re having so much fun, aren’t we?
‘Simon loves this room,’ I say. ‘Sometimes we just snuggle in this little bed and spend the night in here together. He likes to ring the changes – gets bored easily.’ I roll my eyes like he’s a child to be indulged, and, closing the door, I walk with her down the stairs, and try not to think about pushing her all the way down.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Caroline’s clutching the bannister and taking the stairs two at a time. She can’t wait to get him alone and ask what the fuck is going on.
But of course he’s not arrived yet and when we get back into the kitchen, Jen is there like the welcoming committee, canapés laid out, cold champagne waiting in the ice bucket.
I can see the look on Caroline’s face as Jen embarks on yet another story about Simon’s prowess in theatre. I love her but she doesn’t quite get it.
She’s there in the theatre with him, you daft cow – didn’t you hear her, she’s a surgeon too. She stands next to him when he operates. She hands him the bloody scalpel and later, when they’re alone, she does other things and I’m trying really hard not to think about them because she’s here, in my kitchen.
I fill our glasses and down mine quickly – it’s cold and prickly on my throat, and I’m already quite tipsy. Caroline looks like she’s seen the proverbial ghost and I’m announcing the ‘utter’ deliciousness of prawn, mango and cucumber on crispy pitta chips, with ‘a soupçon’ of beetroot when I hear the front door open and so does everyone else.
‘Hide,’ I yell, and guests rush to every corner of the room, but mostly behind the curtains of the large French windows. The women from school remind me of eager meerkats up on their hind legs, waiting for the man of the house as I stand too close to Caroline, longing to wrap her so tightly in my beautiful curtains that she can’t breathe. In palest slate linen, they are certainly to die for – and I have to stop myself thinking about her perfect, lifeless body and concentrate on the task in hand. Eventually, he wanders into the dimly lit kitchen where I can see his face is the usual miserable, unhappy one. I want to laugh hysterically as we all scream ‘Surprise’, making him leap in the air with shock and completely blindsiding him. The uninitiated might think he’s okay with all this because his recovery is swift, but I see the horror turning to fake brightness as work colleagues and drunken school mums appear from behind the curtains.
‘Ah, what a… surprise?’ he gasps, suddenly surrounded by the little gaggle of work colleagues congratulating him on his new position.
I smile to myself – this has been worth it just to see the discomfort on his face – and I rush over to him, gently push through everyone and kiss him full on the lips. I know she’s watching me. I can feel her cold blue eyes piercing my flesh. I don’t hang around to see his reaction to my kiss. I flounce around, digging out more champagne to refill everyone’s glasses. I nod to the catering girls, who do another whip-round with their trays of fabulous canapés, then I sit and watch.
As I watch on though, I notice the ticks in Simon’s behaviour, the little telltale signs that show inside he’s fuming and part of me is scared. I suppose I will always be scared of him to some extent, of the way he manipulates me, the power he has over me. But finally I’m not scared of losing him, and because of that I’m less vulnerable and, for the first time, able to envisage life without him if he leaves me, which, after tonight, I’m sure he will.
Simon is soon fawning all over the professor and his lemon-lipped wife, who apparently also hates beetroot with a passion. #Bingo #TwoForOne.
I have another drink with Jen and Francesca, whose husband has now arrived – which I’m glad about because it seemed odd just having the yummies without any partners. They like a man to bounce off and Francesca’s husband is easy on the eye, so they’re all having a giggle and Jen’s flirting like mad.
When I look over to Simon’s colleagues, I’m pleased to see Caroline isn’t being included in the work gaggle – and that’s because I haven’t invited any of her friends. I only asked the Prof. and other eminent but crusty old surgeons and their wives, because they have to be here for my speech. The old buggers aren’t interested or even aware of Simon’s surgical ingénue, so with nowhere to hide, she’s now being talked at by Jen, who’s abandoned the yummy mummies to play cat and mouse on my behalf. #GoJen.
Amusingly, she is hurling a torrent of information at Caroline, detailing the minutiae of her family life, including a detailed account of her husband’s lack of talent in bed. Caroline’s face is frozen, and if I wasn’t so busy, I’d take a photo and post it online – #PartyPeople. But I can’t enjoy this for long because I have to play the perfect hostess and I get caught up in some small talk about Christmas with one of Simon’s colleagues.
I eventually extricate myself and glance over to see Jen now has Suzie in a conversational headlock. So where’s Caroline?
I can’t spot her anywhere – maybe she’s in my downstairs bathroom, sniffing my towels and marking her territory. Or I wonder if perhaps they’ve wordlessly made arrangements for him to join her alone in my garden, where he can wow her with his winter-flowering Japanese quince. He seemed to enjoy showing our pretty neighbour Renee round his roses at midnight and judging by their emails Caroline’s no stranger to dropping her thong in the long grass.
I will not have the two of them engaging in some sordid little fumble in my lovely home, tainting the interior with their illicit sex. Besides, I don’t want them to miss the best bit that I have planned so I’m relieved when I spot Simon is still talking to old Cookson.
I wander over, pushing my arm through his. ‘Happy Senior Consultancy, darling.’
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and, raising his glass, he looks around the room and murmurs in my ear, ‘Why would you do this?’
I laugh lightly and put my hand to my mouth as though he’s made an improper suggestion, just as Caroline comes back into the kitchen. I catch her eye and I try to smile warmly, but it comes out as more of a sneer.
I’m finding it hard to hide my feelings tonight. Of course it could be the fact that I didn’t have any pills. Or the three, four, five glasses of wine I’ve had? No more, that’s it, I just have to hold it together a while longer.
‘Simon,’ I suddenly say loudly. ‘This is a party. I don’t want you talking work all evening – come and chat with the ladies.’ I virtually drag him away from a rather irritated Cookson across the room to where Caroline has returned to her perch next to Jen.
Any port in a storm eh, love?
Simon is furious; if there was one saving grace about tonight’s horror show it would be his chance to creep all over Cookson. But now I’ve put a stop to that.
‘Darling, you know both these ladies, don’t you?’ I say, gesturing to Caroline and Jen, sitting awkwardly together but apart.
He looks uneasy. ‘Yes – lovely to see you again, Jen.’ Ever the charmer, he steps towards her, planting kisses on both cheeks and hugging her with fake warmth, but I know he can’t stand h
er. She’s well gone by now and smiles girlishly. ‘… And Caroline,’ he’s saying awkwardly, hugging her with one arm as she softens into it. He gently pulls away and I catch the look that passes between them – it’s so tangible I could grasp it and bang it hard against the kitchen worktops until it dies like a caught, wriggling fish. ‘It seems like only hours ago we were standing over an open chest…’ He laughs, and she shifts on her seat. I’m surprised at the residue of jealousy lodged in my throat; an immovable fatberg of hurt wedged in my thorax forever.
I loved you, Simon, and in spite of everything I think a little part of me always will.
‘So, what do you think of your surprise party?’ I say, reaching up and kissing him full on the lips.
A kiss goodbye?
He’s irritated by my open show of affection and discreetly pulls away. No one seems to notice, thank God. Jen’s pissed, Francesca’s arguing with her husband and Caroline’s pretending to look down into the bubbles of her drink. I don’t care what his crusty colleagues think – well, I do, but not in a good way, as everyone is about to find out in the next few minutes.
Always concerned about image, Simon has to be seen as the charming host and in spite of himself takes a bottle from the ice bucket. There’ll be trouble when they’ve gone, but until then he’ll play the perfect husband. He refreshes all our glasses, except Caroline’s – she hasn’t drunk a drop. She’s obviously thinking about the baby. She puts her hand firmly on top of her glass when he brings the bottle to her and I get the feeling it isn’t just her glass she’s covering up from him. She seems so stiff, uncomfortable, and I see hurt in her eyes. Thanks to my evening’s work, I reckon she’s going to take some convincing that this marriage is over. Good.
It wasn’t that easy after all was it, Caroline?
‘So, what do you think of your little surprise party?’ I ask again, in front of the throng of mostly school mums.
‘You know I hate surprises.’ He grimaces.
‘I know, but you love Caroline… oh and Jen.’ I smile, as Jen almost chokes. I wonder for a moment if I’ve been too direct but then carry on; it’s nothing to what I’ve got lined up for tonight. ‘I know you’re a bit of a hermit,’ I say, then address ‘the girls’. ‘He’s never liked parties… or anything social really.’
‘I wouldn’t say I don’t like parties…’ he starts, gritting his teeth, flexing that jaw, keen to sell Caroline the ‘party guy’ image that I assume he’s been falsely peddling.
‘But, sweetie, Caroline and I have been planning this for weeks,’ I say, like she and I are conspirators.
He shoots a look at her; she doesn’t meet his eyes.
Turns out Caroline has secrets from you too, Simon.
‘I wasn’t planning… I just gave… her… your wife a list,’ she’s muttering.
‘What do you think of the canapés – we’re loving them aren’t we, girls?’ I say brightly over Caroline’s small voice, watching her shudder at the ‘girls’ inclusion. And for the first time tonight I realise that despite the tension, the threat hanging over me – I’m having fun… Yes, I’m actually having fun, because I’m in charge for once and I like how that feels. In addition to this rather heady autonomy, I feel like Simon’s focus has shifted. He doesn’t care what I do any more, but he cares what Caroline does. ‘So, have we made you happy, darling?’ I say, gesturing round the room. ‘We had to keep this a secret… the guests, the catering… even the champagne had to be delivered after you’d left for work this morning, didn’t it, Caroline?’
‘I have no idea. I merely gave you a list of names.’
I see a look flash between them – he’s clearly annoyed that she was involved, however minor her role, and she’s in denial. And, despite myself, his cold glare chills me to the bone, because it’s a look I know so well, and it’s usually directed at me, but tonight it’s her.
Be careful what you wish for, Caroline.
Could this be the real Simon after all, and not the one who writes the loving emails? The man who writes those is the one I thought I’d lost because of my irrational behaviour, but he isn’t here for Caroline either. Who is the real Simon: the one who is tender and warm and sends flowers every fortnight, or the one who pins me up against the wall with his hands around my throat? Have I been fighting all this time for a man who doesn’t actually exist?
‘Ooh, smoked trout nibbles with beetroot,’ I say, trying to keep it light, taking a canapé from a passing tray. ‘They described it as “a whisper of dill, a crunch of radish and the acidity of pickled beetroot” – but I think it’s just yummy.’
Jen is smiling at me, not sure what it is I’m saying, but enjoying the running commentary. Caroline is itchy. She so wants to leave.
Not yet Caroline. The night is still young; there’s so much more to come.
Simon’s asking if there are actually any canapés without beetroot, when the mini fig tarts arrive.
‘Ah… blue cheese and fig… A nice little tart!’ I say, too loudly.
I take a bite from the miniature slice and make an ‘mmmm’ noise. I don’t know what’s more delicious, the taste of the tart or Caroline and Simon’s deep, deep discomfort.
I will be happy when he’s ruined and she’s leaving with her tail between her legs, the bloom from her bastard child dulled.
‘This…’ I announce, holding it aloft, ‘is very good. You love tarts, don’t you Simon?’ Then I laugh, loudly, and glare at him. I know, I know, it’s a cheap shot… and childish, and to quote him, I’m better than that. But turns out I’m not, and I don’t even care. I take another bite. ‘Mmm, these flavours are a marriage made in heaven,’ I sigh, as Simon looks on, horrified. Caroline looks pale, defeated, but I can’t forgive her for the things she’s said, the way she encouraged his plans for me. ‘Talking of marriage, do you think you’ll ever get married, Caroline? By that I mean – will you get your own husband or will you marry someone else’s?’ I say this loudly enough to alert the other guests, who turn to look, half-smiles on their faces, imagining this is some joke I’m making to start a speech. But this is no joke. Caroline doesn’t know where to put herself and Jen titters into the deafening silence.
Simon is looking at me over his glass, not sipping, just holding it to his mouth, ready for what might happen next.
I see Caroline flash a quick look at Simon – she’s threatened and wants him to save her.
He won’t save you, love, he’ll only save himself.
‘Caroline?’ I turn to her, deciding that now is as good a time as any to light the fireworks and let the sparks fly. I’ve been building up to this for a long time, and I will relish every moment.
‘Lovely, fragrant Caroline… Do you mind if I give you some smart advice…?’
She is looking at me with fear in her eyes, which turns to abject horror at my next sentence.
‘… That when you’re looking for a husband, you pick one who isn’t already married. Do you get me?’ I say, my head to one side like I care.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she stutters, her face an embarrassed scarlet.
‘Oh, I think you do. You see, Caroline, I have one hell of a life. It isn’t the easiest, it isn’t the best and it’s far from perfect. But I’ve endured it for so long, put up with his moods, his selfishness, his womanising, his cruelty for so bloody long, I feel like I should have a medal, and I am damned if you think you can walk in here and take over…’
Simon walks towards me – he’s also red, but it’s more on the purple side, and the vein is standing out in his head.
‘Don’t hurt me, Simon,’ I say, dramatically lifting my hands up to protect my face for effect. Simon’s a bully but he’d never hurt me in a room full of people, his pain is private. At this he immediately pulls away lest anyone should even consider this perfect man to be in any way violent towards his wife. Free to continue, I start to bang my spoon on my glass. ‘Speech, speech,’ I shout. I want everyone to hear this.
Silence l
ands with a thud in the middle of my beautiful kitchen.
‘Thank you all for coming here tonight – it hasn’t been easy keeping this from Simon, and thank you all for conspiring with me.’ A faint waft of uncertain giggles. ‘So, tonight’s all about Simon’s wonderful promotion that he’s worked for, fought for, and really, really lost all dignity to achieve.’ I smile; no one else does. ‘Tonight is a celebration of my husband’s amazing skills and talent… and it isn’t just a surgical talent he possesses. Oh no, Simon has many skills – he also has lots of secrets and this wouldn’t be an adequate celebration if I didn’t share some of these with you. It seems that while everyone’s been busy in the operating theatre, Simon’s been busy too. He’s not only been campaigning for his new role as Medical Director, fawning round old Cookson, but all the while he’s been screwing Junior Surgeon Caroline Harker in empty operating theatres, hospital toilets and over the desk in his office.’ I gesture towards a red-faced Caroline, pointing her out so all the eminent surgical minds can clock her and consider her toxic if ever she should go for promotion. Cookson and his wife’s faces are a picture and will be forever be captioned in my head… #HappyDays #PulledItOff.
‘That’s enough,’ Simon hisses and rushes towards me. For a moment it looks like he might hit me, and I flinch dramatically for everyone to see. Francesca’s husband steps forward, my potential bodyguard – I move towards him and continue in safety, knowing Simon won’t tackle me while he’s around.
‘As I was saying, Caroline, the femme fatale of the operating theatre, darling of the triple bypass, and enfant terrible of the Cardiomyoplasty department, also has a little surprise for us all.’ I’m nodding now, building up to the big one – everyone is shuffling, drinking, desperately embarrassed but unable to tear themselves away. ‘Because she is pregnant – with what we can only assume is my husband’s baby!’
