What She Left

by Rosie Fiore

  Mum and Dad had agreed to take the girls, and I’d secretly booked Helen and me into this beautiful country-house hotel near Cambridge. I rang her out of the blue on Friday at midday and told her that I had asked Mum to get the girls from school and that I was coming to pick her up for lunch. She was put out – she was busy, as usual – but I insisted.

  She got in the car, and we started to drive. I headed towards the motorway.

  ‘Where are we going for lunch?’ she said, annoyed, and then I told her we were going for a surprise weekend away. I’d packed her a bag – clothes, toiletries, sexy nightie. I could see she wanted to say it was a bad idea, that she had plans, but I had checked her diary, and I knew that she had nothing crucial on that weekend. She knew it would be bad form to kick up a fuss when I’d gone to so much trouble, so she took a deep breath, gave me her brightest smile and leaned over to kiss my cheek and rest her hand on my leg.

  We got to the hotel, which was gorgeous, and went up to our room. There was a big decadent four-poster bed, and as soon as we closed the door, I grabbed her and kissed her, and we had sex. It was fabulous, and after that she began to relax, and it looked like we were going to have a really good weekend. We dozed for a while, then got up and went for a leisurely walk in the grounds before settling down in the hotel lounge for cocktails. Then we went in for dinner, cooked by the Michelin-starred chef. She looked so pretty and relaxed, the place was luxurious and we had two whole days all to ourselves.

  After dinner, we went back to the room and had sex again. Helen glowed – she looked happy and calm and beautiful. It was amazing. Afterwards, she lay with me for a while, then got up and went into the bathroom. I was sprawled on the bed, congratulating myself on the brilliant execution of my plan. Helen came out of the bathroom, holding her toiletry bag.

  ‘Where are my pills?’ she said. Her voice was sweet, but there was tension in it.

  I said, ‘Hmmm?’ like you do when you’re half asleep and you can see there’s the possibility of a fight.

  She kept her voice honeyed and said, ‘You did a great job in packing for me, sweetie. You even put tampons in. I thought you’d be bound to forget something, so it wasn’t a big deal that you didn’t pack my contraceptive pills, because I always have a spare box in the side pocket of this bag. But they’re gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ I said innocently. ‘Are you sure? Maybe you took them out last time we went away and forgot.’

  She stood looking at me, the bag in her hand. She didn’t need to answer. We both knew Helen didn’t forget things. I could see her thinking about confronting me. She was clearly upset, and it was quite possible we would end up having a row, and that would ruin the weekend.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll pop to a chemist tomorrow and get the morning-after pill.’

  Well, I was awake now. I struggled into a sitting position. ‘Why?’ I said, and my voice sounded louder and more aggressive than I meant it to.

  ‘Because I’m bang in the middle of my cycle, and we don’t want an accident!’ Helen said, her tone becoming cheerier in response to my anger.

  ‘An accident?’ I swung my legs off the bed and stood up to face her. ‘We’re married. We’re financially settled. We’ve talked about having kids. . .’

  And for the first time, she let her gentle, smiling facade drop. ‘No, Sam, you’ve talked about having children. I’ve told you I’m not ready. . .’

  ‘But when will you be ready?’ I exploded. ‘Things are good for us now. I’m not sure what we’re waiting for. Marguerite’s in proper school now. . .’

  ‘And so the minute things are a little easier, you want me to be tied down by a tiny baby? Or are you more concerned about neatly spacing your family?’ She sounded properly bitter now. It wasn’t a tone I had ever heard from her before.

  Mostly, though, I was stung by her accusation. ‘Do you think that’s what it’s about? Neat gaps between children? Do I look like someone who’s got his family planning all in order?’

  We stared at each other for a long moment and the air crackled with animosity. I tried to be conciliatory.

  ‘I love you, Helen. You’re my wife. I want to have a baby with you.’

  I walked towards her, holding out my arms, trying to pacify her. She hesitated, then let me hold her gently. I could feel the toiletry bag between us, still tightly held in her fist. I took it out of her hand and dropped it on a nearby chair, then bent to kiss her. I was still naked, and I used one hand to untie the knot in her dressing-gown belt and try to shrug it off her shoulders. She twisted slightly out of my grasp, still kissing me, and knotted the belt again, tying a loose bow. I drew her closer and took a firm grip on the end of the silky belt, trying to undo it. She grasped it above my hand and held on to it tightly so I couldn’t pull it free. I smiled against her mouth and pulled harder. She resisted, and I felt the tiniest flare of anger and frustration. I brusquely pushed her hand away, pulled hard on the belt and heard a small rip as one of the silky belt loops gave way. I pulled the gown open and tugged it free of her arms, so she was standing before me wearing a brief pair of panties. It was inexpressibly exciting. I was breathing hard, and I’m sure my intentions were all too clear to her.

  She was pale, and I could see her shaking slightly, but she made no move towards me or away from me, and she didn’t bend to pick up her dressing gown. In that moment, I genuinely couldn’t tell if she was angry or aroused, only that she was in the grip of strong emotions that I had never seen in her before. I took half a step towards her, and she raised one trembling hand to ward me off. Her voice, when it came, was a growl.

  ‘You steal my contraceptive pills and now you’re going to rape me to impregnate me? What kind of animal are you, Sam?’

  I stepped back sharply. ‘What? I. . .’

  ‘You took my pills, didn’t you? Admit it. When you packed the toiletry bag, you took them out.’

  I was too shocked to speak. Yes, as I’d put her toothbrush and moisturizer into the bag, I’d found the packet of pills and I’d removed them and left them in the bathroom cabinet. But it wasn’t some kind of premeditated act; I wasn’t trying to trick her. Of course not. This weekend had seemed like a great opportunity to move the whole baby thing along. I thought she wouldn’t need them, that was all. I was about to start defending myself when she went on.

  ‘Oh my God. It all makes sense now. You know where I am in my cycle. You knew this weekend would be optimum to. . .’ She couldn’t even bring herself to say the word ‘conceive’. ‘I can’t believe I was such an idiot!’ This time she did bend to pick up her dressing gown. She put it on, wrapping it tightly around herself and belting it with a double knot. ‘Well, I’ll take the car in the morning and drive into Cambridge and find a pharmacy.’ Her voice was back to normal. Calm, organized, smooth Helen was back in the driving seat.

  ‘No you won’t.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, and the rage followed swiftly behind.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she said, and she gave me the look she gave Marguerite and Miranda whenever they committed a faux pas of manners, the look that said ‘I’m giving you a second chance to retract and fix that’.

  ‘You fucking won’t. We will discuss this and thrash it out, but this is a decision we need to make together. You don’t unilaterally—’

  And that was when she made the mistake. ‘Unilaterally?’ she said scornfully. ‘You’re accusing me of making decisions unilaterally?’ And then she laughed at me.

  The rage broke, and in one stride I was across the room. I grabbed her by both shoulders and shook her once, hard. ‘You little bitch!’ I yelled. In the split second that I did it, I knew it was wrong. So wrong. I knew that I had overstepped a mark, that I had done what no decent man would ever, ever do. I was about to release her and beg her forgiveness, when I looked into her face. When I grabbed her, I had dug my fingers into her firm, slim upper arms. I wanted to release my grip, but she had gone limp in my hands and I could
feel her legs were not supporting her. It was only my strength that prevented her from sliding to the floor. Her face had gone slack and expressionless and her eyes – to this day I don’t have a word to describe what I saw. There was no anger, no fear or tears. Her eyes were dead flat and opaque, as if she wasn’t in there. As if Helen herself had retreated from her body into another place, where I couldn’t reach her.

  And then, of course, I wept. I gathered her in my arms, carried her to the bed, covered her gently with a blanket and knelt on the floor beside her, begging her forgiveness.

  After a while she returned to herself and gently touched my face. ‘It’s okay,’ she said softly. ‘It was a nasty row. It’ll all be better in the morning.’

  Eventually, I crawled on to the bed beside her. I slept as far away from her as I could, afraid to touch her body, but she let me lightly hold her hand in mine. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. She returned half an hour later, and I knew she’d gone to find a chemist that opened early. We didn’t discuss what had happened again. We spent a tentative morning together, walking around Cambridge, and then, by mutual agreement, went home that afternoon, a day earlier than planned. On the surface, everything went swiftly back to normal. Our relationship was smooth, warm and affectionate, and we got on well. But we didn’t have sex again after that night.

  When I finished telling Tim what had happened, he sat staring at me for a long time. I felt I had to say something more. ‘I apologized and apologized on the night, but when I tried to talk to her about it after we got home, she basically said that it was in the past and we should forget it. Somehow, while we were forgetting the argument and my terrible behaviour, we also “forgot” the discussion about the baby. I felt I couldn’t bring it up because I’d been such a pig, and she didn’t mention it again. I somehow imagined that we might find a time when things were less pressured to discuss it. I had it in my head it might be on our summer holiday. But of course she was gone before the holiday could ever happen.’

  ‘So you think that’s why she went? Because she didn’t want to have a baby?’

  ‘It seems the only possible explanation.’

  Tim let out a sigh. ‘Wow.’ He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes full of pity.

  ‘Let’s get another drink, shall we?’ I said. I was itching for one, and the distraction would also stop Tim looking at me like I was a basket case.

  ‘Another one? Really?’ Tim glanced down at his own glass, which was still three-quarters full.

  ‘Bloody hell, you drink slowly!’ I tried to make a joke out of it.

  ‘Not really, mate,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m known as a fairly heavyweight drinker usually, but these days you put me in the shade.’

  I laughed, and glanced towards the bar. I didn’t want to be having this conversation.

  ‘Are you still drinking every night?’ he persisted.

  ‘What are you, my mother?’ I said flippantly. He didn’t dignify that with an answer. ‘So I drink. I’m still functional. Still working. I can still get it up.’

  ‘It’s not great for the girls, though,’ Tim said gently. ‘Is it?’

  ‘What? They’re fine. I drink after they’ve gone to sleep.’ I hoped neither of them had said anything to him about beer bottles or finding me on the sofa.

  ‘What if something happened in the night and you had to rush one of them to A & E?’ he said.

  ‘That’s what Uber’s for,’ I said and stood. I wasn’t going to get into this with him now. ‘I’m getting another. Do you want one or not?’

  Helen

  She barely slept that first night. She had never slept well in a new space, and every small, unfamiliar noise woke her. The futon was firm and comfortable but narrow after the king-size bed she had shared with Sam. And, of course, every time she woke, the thoughts crowded in. She was sure she had done the right thing – it was not a decision lightly taken, and it had been months in the planning. But the reality of it was that she felt crushed by a void, an aching emptiness at being away from Miranda and Marguerite. Had it been a mistake? Should she ring Sam and go home?

  At three in the morning, she sat at the kitchen counter, cradling her phone in her hand, staring out through the open curtains at the night sky. She just needed to dial eleven digits and everything could go back to the way it was. There’d be rows, of course there would be, and fuss, but she could smooth it over like she always did, and within a week or so everything would be back to normal.

  Normal.

  It was the contemplation of that word that helped her to push the power button firmly, switching the phone off. She pushed it away from her until it lay in the middle of the spotless, empty kitchen counter. She had known this would be hard. But it was no harder than what she had done before. The first night was always the worst, and this time she didn’t have Judy’s shoulder to cry on. What had Judy said, that dreadful night all those years ago? ‘You don’t have to do one day at a time. Or even one hour at a time. Just do it one breath at a time. One in, one out. And gradually you’ll get there.’

  One breath at a time. Helen drew her jumper closer round her shoulders and concentrated on breathing in slowly, and out even more slowly. One breath at a time, until morning.

  She slept, eventually, in the early hours. When she woke up, bright sunlight flooded her little flat. She sat up, bewildered, and looked around at its snowy emptiness, its sense of infinite possibility and expectation. And even though the crushing weight in her chest had not lifted one iota, she knew that she was not going back.

  It was Thursday morning. She wondered what had happened the night before. Had Sam gone to the police? Had he contacted the press? Cautiously, she logged on to the BBC website on her phone, but there didn’t seem to be anything there. She tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, anyway, what people were saying. It wouldn’t change what she had planned, and she had sufficient confidence that she had taken the necessary precautions. No one had seen her on the move, and the changes to her appearance meant that she wasn’t going to be spotted by chance by someone who had seen a picture of her. Equally, the distance from her home meant that it was unlikely she’d bump into someone who knew her well.

  She showered and dressed. In her handbag she had the small tablet computer she had bought some months ago and kept hidden in the house in north London. It was with this computer, and using a new email address and identity, that she had made all the plans for her escape. She left the flat and found a coffee shop which advertised free Wi-Fi in its window. She bought a coffee and took a table in a back corner before logging on. She couldn’t see anything on any of the mainstream news sites. She knew it was way too risky to log on to her social media accounts or open her email – if they were looking for her, they would be monitoring any electronic communications. After a moment’s hesitation, she logged on to Facebook using Sam’s details. There was something wrong with the site. There was a red number at the top of the screen, indicating that Sam had thousands of notifications. There was obviously some kind of bug. But as she clicked through to his profile page and saw the post he had written, with the picture of her, she realized what had happened. As she watched, the number of notifications clicked up and up as people commented and shared. She could feel her skin crawling as the picture of her in the blue dress (the dress which lay rolled up in the handbag at her feet) spread across the world. She felt as if her face was projected hundreds of feet high on the side of every building.

  Somehow she hadn’t imagined this. She’d thought that there might be the odd small news item, but not this social media eruption. As she watched, more iterations of the post popped up, and more people commented. She didn’t dare click on any of them – if Sam was also online, he’d wonder why the notifications were disappearing before he’d even looked at them. Troubled, she closed Facebook and clicked back to the BBC site. And there, from the middle of the page, her own face stared back at her. With mounting unease, she went through the news sites again. Clearly in
the last half an hour or so, a press release had gone out. When she opened the Daily Mail site, she saw that Ella Barker had managed to give an interview already – and had had time to get her hair done before the photographer took the pictures. Ella spoke as if she and Helen were inseparable, close confidantes, and Helen gave a wry smile. She’d listened to Ella talk incessantly about herself at various committee meetings for years. But Ella knew nothing, less than nothing, about Helen. As she was no doubt discovering.

  She read through all the articles and was brought up short by a line which said: ‘Mrs Cooper’s children were looked after by a friend until their father was able to return from Manchester.’ Manchester? What the hell had Sam been doing in Manchester when he was supposed to pick up the girls? She felt a flash of pure fury. No doubt he’d had some work ‘emergency’ and had texted her to collect the kids, without checking to see if it was convenient. Typical.

  She felt wobbly with worry. So the girls had been left at school and had had to go home with a friend. Which friend? She wished she knew. It couldn’t have been Ella, because she would have shoehorned that into her interview.

  The waves of panic crashed over her again. Were they all right? What had she done? Once again, the thought intruded that she could give it all up and go back. Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. She turned back to the drama unfolding on her tablet. In a strange way, this blanket press coverage made it easier to resist the urge. When she had been tempted to go back last night, she’d imagined a call to Sam, a quiet return, a private debate. But now? She’d return to the house in a hail of flashbulbs, requests for media interviews and speculation about what happened. Things had already progressed too far for her to go back. However impossible it seemed, the only way was forward.

  She felt exposed, sitting in the coffee shop, so she gathered her things and left. There was a mobile phone shop nearby, and she went in to ask if there was a way to purchase internet access for her tablet. The assistant showed her how she could use her mobile phone as a Wi-Fi hotspot. She offered to pay for his time, but he waved away her thanks and blushed. The old Helen, perky and confident, would have taken his admiration as her due. But this new Helen, fearful, paranoid and hiding behind her long fringe, found it surprising and suspicious.