The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

  ‘Mad engineer, maybe, but monkeys, no, sorry.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not that interesting.’

  ‘Girlfriend, wife?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Girlfriend,’ Jack said. ‘Lizzie, been together two years.’

  ‘Right,’ Annie said, suddenly very interested in the life of this person she knew so little about. ‘How do I know what you’re telling me is true?’

  Jack smiled. ‘How do you know it’s not?’ He gestured at the scene in front of them. ‘Nothing here is real, or so I’m telling you. How do you know that this is a dream?’

  She pointed at the neon signs, a mess of bizarre lines and circles, every single word incomprehensible.

  He finished the doughnut and wiped the sugar from his fingers. ‘Just so long as you know.’ He stood up and brushed the sugar from his coat. ‘Thank you for the doughnut.’ He gave a quick salute, two fingers of his right hand to his head, and faded from view.

  Annie sat alone, the bustle of the fairground escalating, growing louder by the second. The flashing, the dazzle, the bombardment of colour. Too much of an assault on her already fried brain. She left and went back into the endless white, the blank nothingness, and then finally into a long, dreamless sleep.

  20

  In the morning I wake, and for a moment I forget. I forget who I am now and I look in confusion around the room. My head is still dozy from sleep, and I expect to be back in my old flat, floor strewn with clothes, discarded glasses and wrappers by the side of my bed, head fuzzy from a hangover and lungs aching from too many cigarettes. But then I hear a little voice in the next room and it all comes back to me – my life, my husband, my son.

  I remember the smack around the face, the hidden letters, the snide comments and the belittling remarks. I remember the memory stick: the breasts, the buttocks, the blow jobs. The camera watching me, all this time. I sit on the edge of my bed and screw up my eyes. I’m not ready to deal with this now, to face this reality. Surely this is something that happens to other people. Not me, not this boring middle-class wife. I have no fucking idea what to do. And in the absence of an alternative, I do what I have to do, and prepare breakfast.

  Later, after a morning of distractions and play, I walk into my bedroom and take in the crisply made bed, the dust-free windowsill and the evenly stacked pile of books. I turn round and look back into the hallway, where the curtains hang in the window, just the right shade of white against the painted walls, not a trace of cobwebs in the architrave, no dust on the skirting boards, carpets still showing the tracks from the vacuum that morning.

  I move and stand in the doorway to Johnny’s room. The curtains are closed as he takes his midday nap, the whole room hidden in shadows. I quietly walk in and stand over his cot. He is sleeping on his back, his arms thrown out above his head, Rabbit’s ear clasped in his tiny grip. His cheeks are flushed, his hair tousled and messy. So much innocence and love wrapped up in one tiny precious bundle. My chest aches just looking at him.

  I move around his room, opening drawers quietly and slowly gathering up two pairs of trousers, two pairs of socks and two T-shirts. A jumper joins the pile, along with five muslins and Johnny’s spare coat. His baby blanket. His summer trainers.

  I turn back into my own room, softly closing the door behind me, and open my wardrobe, removing a dress from its hanger and placing it on the bed. I open a drawer next to it and take out a pair of jeans, folding them in half and putting them on top of the dress. Next I take out three basic pairs of black cotton pants, then reconsider and put another two there, with five pairs of socks.

  I’m moving slowly, almost on autopilot. A jumper. Two T-shirts. A scarf and a woolly hat. A pair of pyjamas for me, then back into Johnny’s room to get some for him.

  I’m moving faster now, and quickly run downstairs, pulling the sofa away from the cupboard door and digging out my old trundle case, a battered-looking thing with a broken strap. Dragging it upstairs, I pull off the old airport luggage tag, allowing myself a moment to think about the last time I used the case. Four years ago, on our honeymoon, when my husband seemed like a completely different man.

  I still don’t think about what I’m doing, I still don’t let myself acknowledge what I’m considering. I carefully place each item in the case, filling it to the top, then throw in a few more bits and pieces for good measure. Toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, a spare toothbrush from the cupboard for me, and one for Johnny. A tube of moisturiser and a stick of mascara. A chequebook from a bank account I don’t use any more. My engagement ring. Johnny’s birth certificate. Our passports.

  I stop, and sit heavily on the bed. I push the heel of my hands into my eyes, then open them, looking at the passports. Most of the pages in mine are blank, but a few hold the exciting reds and blues of a stamp from a foreign country. The trip to Los Angeles David and I took together, when he patiently hiked up to the Hollywood sign with me just because I was desperate to see it up close. The trip to Egypt where I got food poisoning and David sat by himself by the pool while I chucked my guts up in a five-star toilet, emerging flat-stomached and ready for the all-inclusive two days later. And the stamp for the Maldives – the blissful two weeks of our honeymoon. All that sex and lying around: reading books, talking, scorching our skin in the sun. All those memories, our life together: am I really prepared to throw it away? I wound David up, I made him angry. I just need to be more careful and follow the rules.

  I tentatively move my fingers up to my face, and gently press on my right cheekbone. It’s still tender, and I explore around the bruise, seeing how far it spreads. The redness has gone, replaced by a dirty-looking mark sweeping from the bridge of my nose, under my eye and along my cheekbone.

  David took his cup of coffee with barely more than a murmur when he saw me this morning, but he hesitated, his eyes staying slightly too long on my face. He gave me a gentle kiss on the other side when he left but said no more about it. We moved on, the argument forgotten. But I noticed the door to the study was locked, once again forbidden territory.

  There is a shout from Johnny’s room. He yawns loudly and I hear the thump of his legs against the side of his cot as he gently wakes up and gets himself ready for the excitement of the afternoon. I envy the simplicity of his life. I can hear him now and I imagine him sitting in the semi-darkness, holding a conversation with Rabbit. I can make out sentences and words, mixed in with the garbled jargon of a two-year-old, commander of his world. Would I really take Johnny away from his home, his father, everything he has ever known? He is such a happy, easy-going little boy; what would become of him if I dragged him away?

  I look at the suitcase, open in the middle of my bed. A few things spew out of it, a hotchpotch of belongings, suddenly looking inadequate just for me, let alone for a two-year-old as well. The case is small, too small. I push a jumper sleeve inside and tuck our passports into a pocket at the front. Maybe not now, I think, and close the lid, zipping it shut.

  I pick up the case and open the door to my wardrobe, pushing my clothes aside and tucking it in behind a massive pile of shoes at the bottom.

  Johnny’s chattering has evolved into a regular shout of ‘MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY,’ desperate to get out and crack on with the day. I go into the room, and he laughs when he sees me, a big smile across his face. I open the curtains and peer out at the grey weather that has overtaken the springtime sun. No trips to the park today.

  I turn back to Johnny and pull up the zip to get him out of his sleeping bag. A pair of chubby, wiggly legs pop out of the warmth.

  As we go downstairs, Johnny ready for a busy afternoon of trains and tea parties, I glance back at my closed bedroom door. The packed suitcase and the memory stick lurk behind it, preying on the unease in my mind.

  The day done, I retreat to my bedroom. I’ve already tidied the lounge, straightened the sofa cushions and lined up the coasters on the coffee table, all in a row, symmetrical and neat. The washing-up is done; David’s wine glass has gone with him into his beloved study and
I listen to him now, moving around in the room below me. I feel restless, my legs twitchy even before I take myself off to bed.

  Insomnia is a problem that happens to other people; not me, not ever. I lie with my head resting comfortably on my pillow, warm under the duvet, window open to make sure I don’t get too hot. Food in my belly, teeth clean, ready. But nothing. Not a flicker.

  For the first time, I feel hesitant about going to find Jack. There’s so much I can’t reconcile, so many unanswered questions. Why has my subconscious thrown me Jack to talk to? Who is he? Why does he remind me so much of myself?

  My head refuses to empty. It swims with images: Jack sitting on a deckchair on the beach, David screwing his PA, all those women, so many women. Johnny playing with Georgia. Adam.

  What is it about Adam? I think about his arms as he pushed the swing earlier that week. Light hairs against the tan of his forearms, strong as he flexed his muscles, pushing Georgia as he chatted to me. His hair, dirty blonde, blowing in the warm breeze, falling messily onto his face. His eyes as he spoke to me, crinkling at the edges as he smiled. Those arms. Oh for Christ’s sake.

  I turn over in bed, trying to get comfortable. I can go anywhere in my dreams, but could I find a real person? I saw David, so how about someone else? I know where I want to go tonight. I want to see Adam.

  I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Am I brave enough? I glance at the clock, glowing in the gloom. 12:56. He will definitely be asleep. Could I? Would it even be possible?

  Only one way of finding out.

  Marlboro Lights

  As the bedroom drifted away, the park came into view. Annie’s usual park; the starting point from which everything else had grown. She sat on her bench, watching the dog walkers, a couple picnicking on the grass, feeling the sun on her face. She closed her eyes and thought of Adam. How she had felt when she spoke to him, how he had looked at her, her feelings of regret, shame, interest, lust.

  She opened her eyes. She was in a dark narrow corridor with rooms off at every angle, lots of people and music blaring. Some sort of house party. The wallpaper was patterned and dated, peeling off in strips, with posters stuck over the top. A bicycle leant against the radiator near the front door.

  She could smell cigarette smoke, mixed with something else. A tinge of burnt leaves, something slightly sweet and herby. It smelt of misspent youth; cold evenings in the park, smoking illicit joints behind concrete public toilets.

  She moved into the kitchen, the epicentre of any good party, stuffed full of people. She looked around and didn’t recognise the room or anybody there. Someone had their head in the fridge, and a large bowl of something green and liquid sat on the counter next to her. The room hummed of old beer and sweaty bodies – more reminiscent of a student party than anything since adulthood. Plastic glasses and cheap decorations. Tiny bottles of inexpensive French beer, boxes of horrible sour-tasting wine.

  The people around her were no more than mid-twenties. They had an air of carelessness about them: they drank alcohol with no worries about hangovers, and wore tight tops with no risk of excess chub. She moved out into the hall and took a look at her own reflection. Badly bleached hair, styled to within an inch of its life, eyeliner expertly applied but undoubtedly not subtle, and bright red lipstick. Yes, this was Annie in her twenties. She looked down at what she was wearing. Short denim skirt, white crop top, no bra! Look at that stomach, flat as a pancake. Long woollen cardigan thing over the top. Shockingly awful, but somehow it worked. She was bloody gorgeous.

  Ha! she thought. If I am here, and about … what, twenty-two? I might as well enjoy it. She grabbed a plastic cup and a ladleful of whatever was in the green bowl and took a sip. She nearly choked. Advanced cocktail mixology it definitely wasn’t.

  She took a look around. Perhaps her skills had fallen short; perhaps it wasn’t possible. Maybe Adam wasn’t here at all. She scanned the kitchen again, and seeing nobody she knew, moved on to the garden.

  Someone had rigged up some dodgy-looking fairy lights on a tree, and Annie could see figures dotted around the lawn. Some sat on the grass, some lying together, and a group at the back clustered around a rickety-looking table on a neglected paved area, healthy green weeds pushing through the gaps in the paving stones. Rather glum-looking stoners occupied the rusty chairs, passing a joint back and forth; one guy was smoking a cigarette. Adam.

  Annie pulled a chair up next to him with a loud grating noise as the rusted metal dragged over the concrete. She sat down heavily and looked over. He seemed happy within himself, enjoying his cigarette, deep in his thoughts.

  ‘Can I bum a fag off you?’ she asked. It had been nearly a decade since she had quit, but she was back in her twenties and feeling brazen.

  He nodded and reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a box of Marlboro Lights. He passed one to her and held out a lighter, flicking it into a flame with expert precision. She leant in to light the cigarette and took a deep breath. Her head was instantly fuzzy with the unfamiliar toxins. She sat back in her chair and exhaled slowly.

  ‘Who are you here with?’ Adam asked. ‘Are you a friend of Fiona’s?’

  ‘Honestly, I’m not sure,’ Annie said, and he laughed. ‘I just sort of found myself here.’

  ‘Enjoying it?’

  ‘It’s improving,’ she replied and looked across at him.

  Like her, he had decreased in age, ending up, she guessed, about mid-twenties. His face was smooth and unlined, his jaw strong with a trace of stubble on his chin, and he had a thick head of hair. There was a youthful look about him, full of hormones and energy, his eyes bright. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows, showing his forearms, and they were just as muscular and desirable as they were fifteen years on.

  He leant forward and stubbed his cigarette out in the pot plant in front of them. It had obviously been doubling as an ashtray all evening, judging from the brown fag ends around it.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ he asked, and gestured back towards the house. Annie nodded and stubbed her cigarette out in the same way.

  He held out his hand and pulled her up from her chair. To her surprise, he held on and led her back into the house. Through the kitchen full of people, grabbing two beers on the way, through the sitting room, where people lay snogging in the darkness, out into the hallway, and the staircase. He never let go of her hand, his warmth beating into her.

  Away from the party, the music was quieter, the doors and walls muffling the familiar retro sounds of Oasis whining on. Adam sat down near the top of the stairs, and patted the space next to him, screwing the cap off one of the beers and offering it to her.

  ‘So what shall we do?’ he asked her, a grin forming on his lips. She wondered what it would be like to kiss them.

  ‘Talk?’ she said quietly, suddenly scared.

  She didn’t have time to deliberate any longer. Adam took her chin in his hand and turned her to face him. With a smile he leant in and kissed her. Gently, but deliberately. He tasted of beer and cigarettes and something else. Annie liked it.

  A few people climbed past them on the stairs as they behaved like the couple of teenagers they weren’t far from being. They snogged like they were twenty again, before things got complicated and marriage and kids were thrown into the equation, when snogging was done just for the fun of it. She could feel his hands in her hair, on her neck, her waist, and then on her boobs, her bum, under her clothes. Annie did the same, sneaking her way under his shirt and making the most of the time she had. Here was a body untainted from hours in boring boardrooms with too many pastries. A body before all that pesky male testosterone got involved and things became too hairy. Smooth, muscled, taut. She felt her own body warm into him, moving with the same motion as his. She wanted to be a part of him, she really wanted him naked.

  He moved away from her.

  ‘Shall we find somewhere to go?’ he asked. His voice was quiet and husky.

  Annie nodded, not trusting herself to speak.


  He took her hand again and they went up the stairs, trying one door after another. First the bathroom, and then a bedroom, both already occupied, their residents glancing up guiltily as they were disturbed. Then another door, this time quiet and dark, and nobody anywhere near. It seemed to be a student house, and this was somebody’s room. Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs posters dominated the walls, a huge triple CD player taking up space on the desk, next to a pile of academic textbooks. There was a clip frame on the wall full of photographs of grinning teenagers, and a more formal frame on the desk of a girl and her mother and father.

  Annie felt Adam’s hands on her waist from behind her, creeping up her top again, cupping her breasts. She could feel his warm skin against hers; this was everything she wanted, but she needed to see him, to feel his eyes on hers, his lips on hers.

  She turned round, forcing him to look at her, and he smiled, before kissing her again. She ran her hands through his hair and over his body, every inch of it different from David’s, every moment a different experience, something to relish.

  The desk seemed sturdy, so she pushed backwards, sitting the edge of her bum next to the textbooks and a pot of biros. She tried not to giggle, the experience was so surreal. This was a dream, but was it Adam’s dream too? Poor man would wake up in the morning and would remember – what? Not a lot? He certainly wouldn’t know it had all been down to her, that she had orchestrated it.

  Reassured, she kissed him again, pulling him forward and fumbling with his belt and the buttons on his trousers. She hitched her skirt up and pulled her knickers down and off, over her trainers. He pushed into her and they moved together, her Converse locked round his waist, holding tight onto him, her face pushed into his shirt. The smell of Marlboro Lights, sweat and sex was overwhelming.

  When it was over, both of them half dressed, sweaty, gasping for breath, he rested his head on her shoulder, Annie still sitting on the desk, Adam still inside her. After a second, he lifted his eyes and said, ‘Nice to meet you.’