The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

  But it’s after the door slams and the last one leaves that my body tenses and my stomach rolls. I hear David move around, hitting furniture as he heads upstairs, and I try to gauge how drunk he is. Just the right level to go to his room, or enough to make him want to come and find me? He rarely bothers with me nowadays, only when the alcohol takes over and he remembers I have another use aside from just cooking and cleaning. How much of the talk tonight has been about women, about tits and arse, to make him want to come and find mine? On those days he leers over me, breathing his stench of cigar smoke, alcohol and barbecued meat, stale sweat from the day, drunk rough hands and heavy pushing body.

  ‘My wife,’ he slurs, ‘I can make love to my wife,’ when making love has nothing to do with it.

  Tonight, I hear him pause outside my room, and place one meaty hand on the wall with a thud. I hold my breath, I don’t move. Every cell of my body is repulsed by the thought of him flailing around on top of me, but I know it’s not my decision. He sniffs loudly, and I hear Johnny murmur in his sleep, distracting him. David snorts and moves again, going down the corridor to his own room and shutting the door behind him.

  I breathe out, and lie back on my pillow. I don’t want this. I don’t want him near me, but I miss my husband, that other David who seemed to care. That other man who used to look into my eyes, touch me gently, who gave a shit who I was as a person. I fall into an uneasy slumber, restless and worried, pillow damp from my tears. Where did he go, that man, and would he ever return?

  6

  Saturday morning I throw open the windows and let some clean air in, whatever the season, however cold it is. The stale odour of testosterone, cigars and dirty burps lingers for hours. I clear up the glasses, discarded plates, and cigar stubs put out in the half-eaten bowls of dip.

  I vacuum first, scouring the carpet for any stray fragment of nut. I have to be careful: Johnny’s nut allergy induces itchy red hives on him at the very least, and coughing or more at its worst.

  The first time it happened, a year ago, we were lucky: the first responder arrived within minutes, a man in leathers on the back of a luminous green motorcycle. He took one look at Johnny, his lips turning blue, and administered an injection without hesitation. By the time the proper ambulance arrived, Johnny was looking much better, even managing to enjoy the trip to the hospital, sirens blaring. I phoned David’s mobile; it rang twice then went to voicemail. I phoned his PA, asked for him to call me back immediately, it was an emergency. He didn’t.

  David swung home that night without a care in the world. Johnny and I had been home from the hospital about an hour, warnings about peanuts and allergies and anaphylactic shock echoing in my head. We were both exhausted, so I put him to bed, hovering outside his bedroom door for much longer than was necessary.

  ‘Where were you?’ I hissed at David, trying to avoid waking Johnny.

  ‘What?’ David said, baffled. ‘He’s fine, isn’t he?’ he added after my explanation.

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘But what?’ David said, going into his study. ‘What’s the problem?’

  No problem, David. It was only the scariest moment of my entire life. When I thought my baby was going to die. When I stood powerless and panicked as he struggled to breathe, watching the oxygen drain out of him, growing limp in my arms. All caused by my own carelessness with a peanut butter sandwich. No problem at all. How ridiculous of me to want some support, how silly to want my husband there.

  Ever since, I’m a woman possessed, checking the back of wrappers, and glaring at strange lunch boxes in public places. Especially since the idea of a poker night without nuts is unthinkable in David’s eyes. Worse than his son dying, apparently. So I vacuum, I get down on my hands and knees, I wipe and I clean. I don’t argue.

  Johnny likes playing with the poker chips, so until David comes downstairs, I let him. He puts them into small even piles, then knocks them over with a chortle, placing them carefully into various buckets and the trailer of his truck. It takes a while to find them all again and put them back in order in their little box, but it’s worth it to see his enjoyment. He helps me put them away, lining up the colours and markings exactly, as I fold up the green felt, count the cards and put them back with the aces on the top.

  I know David won’t be downstairs much before midday. After the excesses of the night before, he is left to sleep, a deep sleep. He calls it his weekly cleanse, when the sins of the week before are washed away. Sleep may have many remarkable properties, but miracle-working isn’t one of them.

  When he finally awakes, he sweeps downstairs, comical in his checked shirt, pink collar raised to protect his neck from the elements, trousers neatly pressed. I have already lined his shoes up by the front door, studs picked free of mud. Saturday is all about the golf, whatever the weather.

  He pauses in the kitchen, where I am washing up the plates from lunch. Johnny has eaten and has run off to his playroom to have one last look at his trains before nap time starts. Nap time for Daddy has ended, and I make a coffee for him before he goes.

  ‘You were rude to my friend last night,’ David says quietly. He raises the mug and sips his coffee slowly.

  ‘Rude? To who?’ I ask casually, tea towel in hand, drying off the plastic bowls and plates and replacing them in the cupboard. I instantly feel guilty, thinking of Full House Man, and turn away from David so he can’t see my glowing face.

  ‘Jim Bakewell. He says he asked for a beer and you ignored him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, David, I can’t have heard.’

  David scowls, then pulls uncomfortably at the waistband of his golf trousers, casting his eye over my dirty plate from lunch, still sitting on the side in the kitchen. He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. I pick it up quickly and put it in the dishwasher.

  ‘And we ran out of salt and vinegar crisps; you know they’re my favourite.’ He slams the coffee mug down in front of me and heads towards the front door.

  I nod, silent, taking solace in remembering the tendrils of backwash and spit dissipating through the whisky. The door crashes shut and the house is quiet.

  ‘Nap time,’ I call softly to Johnny. ‘Time for your nap, little boy.’

  This time on a Saturday is sacred. David has gone to golf, and nothing will bring him home before eighteen holes are done, not hail or floods or even snow.

  Maggie is also busy, doing what she calls ‘visiting my people’.

  ‘One has to be charitable,’ she told me once. ‘It is good to see people less fortunate than oneself.’

  ‘It’s good of you to help,’ I conceded, surprised at her selflessness.

  ‘Seeing these people in such awful states just helps me appreciate what I have,’ she replied. ‘Helps remind me what a good life I lead. Good to put my hard work into perspective.’

  Selflessness is not something Maggie does well.

  So I know she won’t be over for a visit, and Johnny is tucked up safe and sound in his cot. When the chattering on the monitor fades, I sneak up the stairs to check on him.

  There’s nothing better than the sight of my sleeping child. He’s wrapped up in his sleeping bag, rolled on his side, his tiny hands clutching his blue Rabbit firmly by one ear. He has pushed it up against his mouth and his eyes are shut fast, fluffy hair falling to one side. I envy his easy sleep, his innocence. I wonder what he dreams about.

  Outside, it is a crisp winter’s day. I have been up and dressed for hours, but enjoying the quiet, I take a cup of tea up to my bedroom, leaning against my pillow, window open, savouring the warmth under my duvet and the little piece of silence I have been granted. This is my time for escaping into other worlds through the pages of a book. From an early age, I found solace in the words of other people: new friends, boyfriends or family created by the imagination of others, a little bit of respite from my own. It was easier to lose myself there than in reality.

  I haven’t been able to find the time lately. Any spare time after housework is reserved for
Johnny, and David demands my company when he’s back from work. He says he finds my silent reading unnerving. But Saturday is different, Saturday is mine.

  I pull out my latest paperback, hidden in my bedside table, and in doing so see the pink party invitation. I take it out of the drawer and turn it over in my hand. I want to go to the party, I want to see them all so much, but Helen made it clear I wasn’t welcome, despite the invitation. The force of her anger shocked me and I wonder what Becca has told her about the chain of events all those years ago. I wonder how she has poisoned her mum against me.

  I clear my throat and pick up my tea, forcing my mind away from the emotion that threatens to bubble to the surface. Outside, I hear the cooing of a pigeon, the brief revving of a motorcycle and the hum of cars on the main road, miles away. I can see a pale blue sky out of the window and listen to the chatter of excited children and the deeper murmurings of their fathers talking to them, spending time together after a busy working week. Normal fathers, normal lives.

  I’m not sure what these are, having never had one myself. For the most part my mother was fragile, prone to having moments that would lay her up in bed for days on end. I’d make her breakfast, go to school, then come home again to cook dinner and clean up the house. She obviously did move during the day – the mess of the kitchen and bathroom confirmed it – but by the time I was home, she was back in her stinking bed.

  My father, I don’t remember. All I know is what Mum told me. About a man who missed his freedom and wasn’t ready to have a wife and a daughter. He left and went off to another country, she said. Whatever the truth, he was never around; it was always just me and my mother. No grandparents, no cousins, no uncles or aunts.

  And then Becca came along, and suddenly, there it was – a normal family. Helen didn’t hesitate to take me in as a semi-permanent fixture when I was barely five, collecting me from school when my mother forgot, feeding me when there was nothing in the fridge. By the age of six, she laid a place for me at the dinner table every night, assuming I would be over. She washed my clothes, bought me new gloves when I lost mine, and doused both of us in nit shampoo when it was needed. She was the matriarch of the household, ruling over her husband, daughter and adopted stray child with brisk repeated commands, kisses on the forehead, and long hugs. What would I have been like if it hadn’t been for Becca and Helen?

  I am glad Johnny’s life isn’t like mine. He has a mummy and a daddy and everything he could ever wish for. I didn’t want children – I didn’t want another child to have to grow up as I had – but when David came along, I saw the life I had always looked for. Family, a home, food on the table, warmth. Security.

  We met in a bar. He was there with some friends; I was there with my workmates. It was quite a posh bar – ridiculously uncomfortable chairs, very high tables, bar staff who would barely look at you unless you were beautiful, that sort of place. But for a change, I felt pretty happy to be there. I was working as a PA to the managing director, I was good at my job, had just had a pay rise, and work was going well. I had made an effort with my hair, which was still in place at the end of the day, new make-up slapped on and lipstick applied.

  And there he was. I was at the bar, buying a round of cocktails, and he appeared next to me, expertly slotting into a gap between people and getting served instantly. It was clear that he received respect wherever he went, oozing entitlement and confidence. Nothing about him was an accident; there was nothing he didn’t deserve. I liked his eyes. They were a soft hazel, with long black lashes and crinkles round the edges. They were crinkling then as he smiled at me.

  ‘Do you want a drink,’ he asked through the din. I instantly forgave him for having pushed in front of me.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I replied. ‘I’m getting some for my friends.’

  ‘I can get theirs too,’ he said.

  I didn’t know how to refuse. He wasn’t the sort of man you said no to.

  I was instantly popular with my workmates. He came over with his colleagues, all attractive single young men in posh suits. All charming and polite, with corporate credit cards they weren’t afraid to flash. Cocktails turned into expensive wine, and singles turned into couples, disappearing to dark corners. Soon it was just the two of us at the table alone. He picked up the bottle of red and poured the last few drops into our glasses.

  ‘What’s next, blue eyes?’ he said, knowing what was going to happen.

  I opened and closed my mouth redundantly, then cleared my throat. ‘My flat’s just down the road,’ I croaked. I was too drunk and too in lust to go home alone. I wanted to see what was under that black suit; I wanted to see what that slicked-back hair looked like tousled and messy in the morning.

  ‘You finish that,’ he said, pushing the glass over to me. ‘I’m going to visit the facilities.’ And he got up, leaving his phone on the table in front of me.

  In the darkness of the club, it suddenly flashed with a text message, lingering on the screen.

  Hey babe, it said, from someone called Sophia. I imagined her dark curls, her smooth tanned skin, her big brown eyes. Are we getting together tonight? I miss you. Love you. Xxxx

  It sounded serious. But when David got back to the table, he looked at the phone and slipped it into his pocket without a word, holding out his hand to me. I was flattered. He had chosen me over Sophia. Over the girl who loved him, who wanted to spend time with him, who would be ten times prettier and thinner than me. I got up and took his hand without a word.

  A scream from outside my bedroom window attracts my attention. Hysterical bawling is joined by a second voice, male and soothing. I get up out of my cocoon and peek from behind the curtain to the street below as the sobbing continues.

  I can see the top of a blonde head – thick short hair, neatly cut and swept to the side, strong shoulders and a tanned neck. A blue sweatshirt over jeans and trainers. He is sitting on the pavement, a small blonde girl with ringlets in a pink coat sitting on his lap. Even from this distance I can see the vivid red blood on his hand, some fresh, some already drying.

  I put down my cup of tea and race down the stairs. Opening the front door, I pull on a pair of boots and join them on the pavement, crouching down to their height. The little girl is still crying, great racking, frantic sobs, and he is trying to calm her down, talking gently, bending to see where the blood is coming from.

  He looks up at me. ‘She proper face-planted the pavement. I can’t work out what she’s done, and there’s too much blood.’ The little girl’s face is covered with a mixture of blood, tears and snot as she thrashes hysterically in his lap.

  ‘Come inside,’ I say, pointing to the front door. ‘We live just there. We can check it all out properly in the warm.’

  He glances over, then effortlessly lifts the little girl into his arms. ‘I don’t know how she did it. One minute she was running along, the next – bam.’

  Inside, I gesture towards the dining room table. He sits on a chair and positions the girl on his lap. She’s still crying, but in tiny snuffles now, blood still oozing. Her little hands are balled into fists, hanging from the sleeve of her dad’s jumper.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ I say. I scrabble around in a cupboard in the kitchen and pull out our first aid kit. It’s well worn in a practical green plastic box, but enough of the little bandages and plasters are still in their original plastic. I open up a few antiseptic wipes and kneel in front of them both. The girl pulls back from me.

  ‘It’s okay, munchkin, this nice lady is going to clean you up.’

  ‘Annie,’ I say, smiling at the man. I face the girl. ‘I promise I’ll be gentle. Will you let me wipe your face a bit?’

  She nods slowly, pushing the side of her face into her dad’s jumper. I lean over and wipe her cheeks and mouth, removing the mess, the snot and the tears, trying to find the source of the blood. I gently clean around her eyes, and over her forehead where I eventually find a large gash, running down through her left eyebrow. It’s still bleedi
ng, and looks sore and angry.

  ‘She’s got quite a nasty cut there, see?’

  Her dad turns her around and looks at her head, pushing her blonde curls away from the gash. ‘Oh crap,’ he mutters.

  ‘I think it might need some stitches. We could call an ambulance, although it’ll probably be easier for you to take her to A and E.’

  ‘No, no, don’t call anyone, I’ll take her in myself,’ he replies.

  He stands up and pulls his daughter up with him; she clings onto his waist with her legs. His jumper where she’s been resting is covered in rust-coloured blood, drops have scattered down to his jeans and it’s all over her dress and coat. There’s a hole in the knee of her tights and a small graze underneath.

  ‘Your jumper, it’s ruined. Would you like to borrow a change of clothes?’

  ‘No, we’re fine.’

  ‘For your daughter? I’m sure she would fit something of Johnny’s.’

  ‘No, really.’ He turns towards the front door. ‘I’m sorry, we’ve taken up so much of your time. Thank you for your help, we won’t disturb you any longer.’

  He hurries out, his daughter still clinging to him. As they make their way down the road, I watch them like a wildlife expert observing a rare animal. A loving, tender, caring father. Once they have rounded the corner and are out of sight, I sigh and shut the door, climbing back up the stairs to my bedroom and the cold cup of tea, feeling the hole open up in my chest. The weight of all things missed and lost and absent.

  7

  The front door slams and I jump. For a moment, standing by the sink, my mind had wandered back to my first job, washing up in the local pub. The mind-numbingly boring task – a row of dirty pots and pans and cups and dishes and cutlery that didn’t ever end – all made okay when the pub closed and the owner placed the crisp ten-pound note in my hand. Four hours, a crisp tenner and a few pound coins, what a feeling! It was my money, all mine, and I squirrelled it away week after week, hiding it under my bed in a Tupperware lunch box. The lunch box contained all sorts of treasures: the good stuff, the memories I tried to preserve. A perfect grey pebble from my first trip to the beach with Becca. A receipt from the coffee with that boy, name long since forgotten; a ticket stub from an underage viewing of Reservoir Dogs. And a bright yellow pompom.