His apology has caught me completely by surprise – I wasn’t expecting it at all. “I’m sorry too,” I find myself saying. “You were right about one thing; it was hugely irresponsible of me to be so drunk around Bella.”
“Well, maybe a little bit.”
I smirk into the handset despite myself, for I can hear the playful tone to his voice. “I thought you were calling to apologize?”
“I am. I’m finishing work a little earlier today. Please don’t cook, there’s a delightful little restaurant that’s just opened in Kensington, I have it on good authority that the food is out of this world. I’ve already arranged for a takeout to be delivered to us.”
For a moment there, I thought that he was going to take me out to this fabulous new restaurant – something that he very rarely does, and I experience a small tug of disappointment. I mean, we have our regular babysitting girl when we’re throwing dinner parties, and it would’ve been so nice to go out.
It’s probably for the best, I tell myself. We can talk much more freely when we’re at home.
“Oh. Okay,” I say, close to tears.
A mix of disappointment at not going out and sheer relief of resolving the argument washes through me. I only then realise how upset I had been. I’m mostly good at burying my feelings, but Luke’s sudden kindness and contriteness threatens to be my undoing.
“I’m sorry, baby, I know that I can be difficult sometimes. Let me make it up to you tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” I say through the lump in my throat.
“I love you Tanya.”
“I love you, too.”
And I mean it.
I press End Call, lifting my face heavenwards and blinking back the tears, shakily exhaling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Luke comes home that night brandishing flowers. I am in the kitchen, having just finished feeding Bella her tea, and am in the process of cleaning up. I don’t hear him enter as the tap is running, and I flinch and spin around on hearing him say hello.
“You startled me,” I gasp.
He strides over and thrusts the bouquet of flowers at me – a dozen red roses tastefully wrapped in clear cellophane and red ribbon which is clearly not from a supermarket.
“I’m sorry that I was such a jerk the other day. Some of the stuff I said to you was hateful, and I didn’t mean it. I wish more than anything I could take those words back.”
You mean that part where you called me a slut, I think, but don’t say. Instead, I gracefully accept the offered flowers because anyone is capable of spouting utter hateful crap in the heat of the moment, aren’t they?
“Thank you, Luke, they’re beautiful.”
“You are beautiful, Tanya, inside and out. And I am sorry.”
He closes the gap between us and wraps his arms around me. As I am barefoot and he is still wearing his Italian lace-ups in the softest leather, he is almost an entire inch taller than me. It doesn’t happen often, and I revel in the rare, good feeling of being shorter than him, of him protecting me.
He pulls back from me slightly to kiss me on the lips. It’s a tender, chaste gesture with no heat behind it. I know that the kiss is supposed to reassure me that he loves me, but it has the opposite effect. It leaves me feeling strangely empty inside.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs into my neck, nuzzling me there.
At that moment, Bella pipes up from the other side of the room. She is over by the patio doors, sitting on her snakes and ladders rug and trying to click together a six-piece, Peppa Pig puzzle. I had only intended to leave her there for a few moments whilst I cleaned up, but she is making her presence known, babbling nonsense to herself rather loudly.
“And how is my other beautiful princess today?” Luke asks, striding over to where she sits and bending over to scoop her up in his arms.
She squeals in delight – she just loves it when Daddy sweeps her up like that and makes a fuss of her. In my opinion, he doesn’t do it nearly often enough.
Still clutching the bunch of roses, I watch them together from the side lines. Bella is giggling now in earnest as Luke jiggles her around, and as I watch, the strangest thought occurs to me, that he is playing a part. I think how he doesn’t love me, or even love Bella, not deep down. I think how Luke’s entire life is a lie.
The horrible thought that has gone and planted in my brain leaves me reeling, and the breath catches in my throat.
What is wrong with me? I wonder. Why would I even think such an awful thing? I discover that I am trembling and I stagger backwards, suddenly weak, my backside connecting with the edge of the sink.
Luke is oblivious, still busy making Bella cry out in delight, and as I continue to watch, I don’t notice how hard I have been clutching the dozen red roses. Only when the pad of my thumb suddenly sings out in a sharp, stinging sensation, do I let out a funny little gasping yelp. I look down, relinquishing my firm grip of the flowers.
A thorn has punctured my skin, and my thumb is trickling blood. I spin around on the spot and dump the roses on the draining board, turn on the tap, and stick the pad of my thumb under the running water. After a few seconds, I turn off the tap and suck the end of my thumb.
“You okay?”
Luke’s voice, coming from directly behind me makes me flinch rigid and nearly scream in fright. “Stop creeping up on me,” I exclaim, my thumb jerking out of my mouth.
“Sorry. My God, sweetheart, you’re so jumpy today. Here, let me look at that.”
With Bella still perched on his hip – a significantly subdued Bella hence I didn’t hear his approach – he grabs my hand which is clenched into a fist and prises it open. Instinctively I wince, remembering the rough way he had grabbed my arm as we had stood by the microwave two days ago.
He smiles wolfishly at me and I shiver. “Poor baby,” he says, then, before I know what is happening, he lifts my hand to his lips. For a moment, I think he is going to kiss my thumb, but instead he pops it into his mouth.
I flinch rigid in shock, and for a few seconds I can only stare at him open-mouthed, too stunned to move. “What are you doing?”
Gripping my slender fingers in his large palm to prevent me from snatching back my hand, he removes my thumb from his mouth and traces the tip of it over the firm contours of his lips.
“Kissing it better.”
Bella regards me solemnly. “Pear pear,” she says.
“Please give me back my hand,” I say in a steady voice that belies my wildly beating heart.
He loosens his grip and I snatch it back, faintly sickened by his little, blood-sucking act.
“See?” he says, his gaze dropping to my hand which is clasped against my chest, my other hand cradling it protectively. “All better. Bleeding’s stopped.”
Tentatively, I peer down at my thumb. He’s right. But I can’t say that I appreciate his methods.
“Do you mind if I take a bath?” he asks. “I’ve ordered the food for eight o’clock. I thought Bella would be safely out by a light by then, and we can enjoy some quality time together.”
“Sure.” I reach out for my baby, so relieved to have her back in my arms. It makes me feel complete once more.
“Great. Stressful day, you know? And my shoulders are aching, I’ve been hunched over a computer most of the day. I’ll take the main upstairs bathroom, I know you prefer to do Bella’s night-time bath in our en-suite.” He tickles Bella under the chin. “I think our bath-times are going to coincide tonight, baby girl.”
“Pear pear,” she tells him, but if he understands, he doesn’t pander to it.
He plants another chaste kiss on my lips, and then he is gone, leaving me standing there by the sink. Quite honestly, I’m pleased to see the back of him, to have the half hour or so break. I close my eyes and hug Bella tight. She feels so good in my arms, so solid and real. So utterly grounding.
I shudder when I remember his grin before he sucked down my blood. I know that I’m possibly overreacting, but I didn’t
care for that cold smile one little bit.
It was like looking at a stranger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After Bella’s and Luke’s baths, and Bella has had her milk, followed by cuddles in mine and Luke’s bed accompanied by story time before I settle her in her cot, I back out of the door, gazing at her. She is content, on the verge of sleep. I think about how her cot days are numbered, how we’re going to have to get her a proper bed soon, and I make my back downstairs.
I feel apprehensive, I’m not sure why. Sometimes, like now, I feel like an imposter in my own life. All this luxury, this beautiful house filled with beautiful things – it makes me feel as if I have inadvertently stumbled into somebody else’s life. That, I decide, would certainly explain why I feel so disconnected from Luke half the time.
As I make my way down the gently winding staircase, I hear soft, classical music drifting towards me from the direction of the living-room. As if in a dream, I follow the sound. And there Luke is, waiting for me in the living-room, glass of whiskey in hand, the back of his head resting against the leather cushions of the sofa, his thighs spread in a typically masculine stance. Manspreading, I absently think. Luke’s head jolts upright on his neck, snapping in my direction.
“Tanya,” he says with a wide smile that displays lots of straight, white teeth, his dark eyes glittering. “Come, join me. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Subconsciously, my hand clutches my upper arm in a self-conscious attempt to hide my body. As soon as I realise that I am making this gesture of self-comfort, I drop my hand. I’m not even sure why I am doing it – I immediately feel silly.
“I mean it, Tanya, you look good enough to eat.”
The memory of him sucking on the bleeding pad of my thumb leaps unbidden into my mind, and I suppress a shiver. “I don’t know about that,” I say, going over to join him on the sofa.
But it’s true, I have made an effort with my appearance. Not that I ever not make an effort, because my surroundings alone pressure me to put on my best face, so to speak. It just feels wrong to be shabby in this opulent house, like I’m letting the side down, somehow. Being scruffy would make me feel like even more of an imposter than I already do. I think that, partly the reason I dress the way I do is to overcompensate for my feelings of inadequacy, because most of the time, I feel out of my depth in my own life.
Tonight, I am wearing a designer, fitted, wraparound dress in a pale shade of beige. My wardrobe is mostly a pallet of white, beige, and muted pastels, intercepted with the occasional black garment to break things up. I very rarely wear anything patterned. I know that these shades compliment my milky white complexion, vibrant, strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes; so much so that it has undoubtedly become my signature look. My style is classic and timeless, with elements of Nicole Kidman at her minimalist best, and Audrey Hepburn. Just the way that Luke likes it.
I never used to be so neat, it’s only since I met Luke that I went out of my way to reinvent myself. Or maybe, reinvent is too strong a word. Mainly, I have just played up how I used to look at my best, when I was making an effort for a night out, or an important meeting, or some such thing. Now, I am that version of myself constantly, and I confess, it does get wearing.
“Champagne?” he asks me when I sit down next to him on the sofa, keeping a good cushion’s width between us.
I notice that he has got changed out of his suit after his bath and he is shoeless, wearing blue jeans and a white shirt, the tails of which hang untucked. He still looks neat, though. He always looks neat, just as I do.
“Thanks. That would be lovely.”
I push the hair out of my left eye, taking great care not to tuck the full weight of it behind my ear, as I have styled my natural waves into a deep side part, in a classic Rita Hayworth style. It is mostly how my hair falls naturally so it only took me a few minutes to do. Luke leans forward to place his glass of whiskey on the coffee table, then wedges the champagne bottle between his muscular thighs to pop the cork.
As the champagne glugs into the champagne flutes, I am briefly reminded of Beth. We exchanged short texts yesterday; nothing earth shattering, just vague promises to meet up again soon and complaints of hangovers. I worry that I should’ve been warmer towards her, but I figured that she was as embarrassed as me, given how I overshared so much about myself that afternoon. I fully intend to text her tomorrow, deciding it was for the best to leave her alone today.
I accept the glass of champagne with a murmured thank you.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. “To us.”
I echo the sentiment, smiling at him, but feeling something close to detached inside. I’m back to feeling like an actress, reading her lines. Doing her job.
“Do you like the champagne?” he asks me.
“It’s nice.” I reach out for the bottle on the coffee table to read its label. The name is somewhat familiar.
“It is the most expensive one in our collection.”
“It is?” I ask, still examining the bottle.
We, or rather, should I say Luke, has a wine cellar, which is stuffed with hundreds of bottles of the stuff. I very rarely go down there, as there is always plenty of wine in our larder, or our wine cupboard, perhaps. Collecting wines is very much Luke’s thing rather than mine. He is a connoisseur, even if he isn’t really that much of a drinker. I mean, he drinks, and he does so most days, but never to excess. I have never seen him drunk. The last thing I want to do is go into the cellar and accidently pick out a bottle that is some rare vintage from one-hundred years ago, or something.
“You don’t want to know how much it costs,” he laughs. “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
“A special occasion?” I rack my brains, momentarily alarmed that I’ve missed a birthday, or our wedding anniversary, but I’m sure that I haven’t.
“Yes. Today is the first day of the rest of our lives together. I know that I work long hours, and we don’t do as much together as we used to, but from here on, things are going to change. We are going to be spending more time together, as a family.”
I take a big gulp of champagne. “You don’t ever have to make any grand gestures on my behalf, Luke. I just want us to get back to the way things used to be.” I pause, not sure how to word what I want to say. I’m not even sure what it is that I’m trying to say. “All I want is for you to be here, with us. I mean, really here, you know?”
He plucks the glass out of my hand and places it on the coffee table next to his glass, before taking both of my hands in his. “I do know. I’ve been neglecting you and Bella, taking you both for granted. I get so caught up in work, I know that I can be distant. But you make me be a better person. And I want to be the person that I am with you. I want to be that person all the time.”
A little shiver courses down my spine, I’m not sure why. He squeezes my hands that are laced together in my lap, and for some unfathomable reason, I wish to snatch my hands out of his. Instead, I smile at him.
“I love you, Luke. No grand gestures, okay? Just be you. Let’s just be us.”
“So do you fancy a couple of weeks in the Maldives, then?”
I gawp at him, I can’t help it. “Are you serious?”
His dark eyes sparkle at me. “Deadly. I though that we could book it for two weeks time, give me a chance to tie up a few loose ends with work.”
“That would be amazing,” I reply honestly.
I can’t remember the last time we went on holiday. Well, that’s a lie, the last holiday we went on was a family weekend to the Isle of Wight. Prior to that, pre-Bella in the giddy courtship stage, we’d enjoyed a romantic weekend together in Paris. Those are the only two times that we have ever been away together. I, of course, plastered a million photos on Facebook of our family trip, but the truth of the matter was, it was pretty boring. A few carefully-posed snaps on the beach and in nice restaurants aside, we barely spoke a word to each other the entire trip. Luke spent the e
ntirely of the weekend in video conference calls and sifting through endless emails, leaving me to babysit a grouchy toddler who had been unceremoniously wrenched from her daily routine and who was vocally opposed to All The New Things.
“I work too hard and I’m sorry. It will do us good to get away.”
Feast or famine, I think, perhaps unfairly. It’s either two nights somewhere relatively uninspiring and close to home, or two weeks on the other side of the world in the lap of luxury.
“Yes. I’m sure it will.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t sound exactly thrilled about it. Why don’t I get my laptop? We can choose somewhere special together. We’ll go all out, no expense spared. It will be heaven.” He jumps to his feet. “I’m getting my laptop.”
I know exactly where his laptop is – in his briefcase that he takes with him to work every day, which is out in the hallway porch – and I watch him stride from the room.
In the brief moments that I am alone, I slump against the sofa, clasping my eyes and forehead, wondering what the hell I am doing with my life. Just, how did I get here? My life is soulless, I only then realise. The only real love I feel is for my daughter. And that is enough, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes I miss that deep, meaningful, adult connection.
Maybe I am asking too much. Can anybody, hand-on-heart, honestly say that they have that? And I’m damn sure that I’m lucky, that I have it better than most.
I am so ungrateful.
But everything is so empty.
Stop it, I tell myself. Just stop.
“You choose where to go,” my husband says on re-entering the room.
I straighten up like invisible hands have a pulled a string connected to my spine, because I am on again. Back to living my perfect life.
He has his laptop tucked under one arm, and proceeds to plonk himself down next to me, simultaneously flipping open the laptop lid in one fluid motion.
From the Inside Page 13
