by Sibel Hodge
His words crushed me, but I’d spent a long time trying to hide the pain of my past and my low self-esteem from everybody, so I laughed it off, trying to make it seem like I wasn’t bothered by what he’d said. If he really knew exactly what damaged goods I was, he’d leave me in an instant. ‘Isn’t more than a handful supposed to be a waste?’ I joked.
He just continued studying me as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Why don’t I buy you some breast implants?’
It was only the first of many times he criticized my body, and I tried to ignore it for a while. When I couldn’t ignore it any longer, I tried to minimize the times he saw me naked again.
I block out the memories. They’re not the memories I want to remember. I want to find my lost ones instead.
As I walk into the reception, I take off my sunglasses. A young staff member in a smart uniform sits behind the counter, tapping away at his computer. He looks up as I approach and smiles. ‘Can I help you?’
I force a smile, but it sits uneasily on my face. ‘Hi.’ I pull out Liam’s credit card receipt and place it on the counter, unfolding and smoothing it out. ‘My husband has a credit card receipt from this hotel, and I wondered if you could tell me whether he stayed here with someone else.’
His friendly expression wavers, replaced by something that looks a lot like sympathy. Maybe I’m not the first woman to come here trying to find out if her husband is having an affair, although it doesn’t look like the kind of place that rents rooms by the hour. He looks more closely at the receipt. ‘I’m afraid we can’t give out information about our guests. It’s the hotel’s privacy policy.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but it’s my husband’s receipt. Surely you can tell me.’
‘I’m sorry, madam, but I’m unable to help you. I did tell you that last time.’
My spine goes rigid. ‘Last time?’
‘Yes.’ He turns to his computer again, looking bored now. ‘You came in before asking the same question.’
‘Did I?’
That jerks his gaze away from his screen. He frowns, probably wondering what kind of nutcase he’s dealing with and whether he’ll need to call security to remove me from the premises. ‘Don’t you remember? You were quite agitated when I said I couldn’t tell you anything.’
‘No, I…’ My fingertips reach for the lump on the side of my head. ‘I had an accident and can’t remember anything.’
The frown gets bigger. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I still can’t help you.’
‘When?’
‘Pardon?’
‘When did I come here before? Do you remember the date?’
He tilts his head, thinking. ‘I’m not sure, exactly. Probably a little over two weeks ago.’
I calculate the days in my head. Today is the thirteenth of May, which would mean I came here sometime around the end of April, after I was released from the psychiatric ward.
‘Now, I’m afraid I must get on,’ he says, and I realize I’m staring at him open-mouthed.
I walk back along the road to the bus stop, lost in thought. I’d already visited the hotel, which means I must’ve suspected Liam was having an affair. It also means I must’ve found the receipts once before. What else did I find out?
Was it the discovery of my husband having an affair while I was pregnant that set off the miscarriage? Was I distraught enough to make me lose the baby?
No. That didn’t work. My miscarriage was on the twenty-fifth of March. I didn’t visit the hotel until the end of April, and I remember everything up until the party on the twenty-third of March. So I know for a fact I can’t have found out about Liam staying at the hotel until sometime after that.
And was he even having an affair anyway, or was I just jumping to conclusions? Had I got muddled, thinking he’d said he was staying in Scotland when, in fact, he was staying here? Maybe there was some work conference on at the hotel.
But then, it was only a few miles from home. He would’ve just caught a cab back or driven, not stayed there. I know things aren’t perfect between us, but both of us always vowed that marriage was for life. In fact, Liam’s commitment to marriage and settling down was one of the things I found so attractive about him in the first place. In an era where more and more couples didn’t want to get married, it was refreshing that Liam said he couldn’t wait to marry me. We’d both had the same goals and ideas. We thought that whatever it took, whatever problems we went through, we should work at it. Stay together. And especially with a baby on the way. I didn’t want any child of mine growing up how I did. I wanted them to know love from both parents. Wanted them to feel safe and secure.
Except maybe, I didn’t feel safe and secure with Liam anymore. I’d ignored things for a long time. Accepted things. Put up with things. Until I didn’t really know the Chloe I’d become. My personality had been eroded to make room for his. My dreams and wants had disappeared and became his needs and wants instead. But the baby. I remember now being so excited about telling him after the party.
I thought it was a sign. A brand new start for us to get things back on track. Maybe it would make Liam see me again and want to rekindle the loving relationship we’d had in the beginning. Last night he’d said he was happy when I’d told him I was pregnant, but had he really been? If he was having an affair, would it have been an inconvenience to him? A dent in his plans?
I shake my head. No, of course he wasn’t having an affair. What was I thinking? I almost laugh aloud then. It’s completely ridiculous. Maybe I am going mad.
But…what’s the alternative? Why did I go to the hotel before to check up on him? I must’ve suspected something.
I’m so lost in thought I don’t realize I’m crossing the road in the path of an oncoming car. The driver’s horn blares, bringing me quickly back to earth again, and I run across the road to avoid being hit. I take some deep breaths when I get to the other side and wait at the bus stop.
When I get home, I retrieve my list from where I’ve hidden it at the back of the sink with the cigarettes and add this new revelation to it, wondering what else is out there waiting to hit me in the face.
15
‘Have you been out today?’ Liam breezes into the kitchen and puts his briefcase on the floor.
I’m just finishing off dinner. Chicken in a creamy tarragon sauce, green beans al dente, and crushed new potatoes. No mash for Liam. They have to be crushed ever so slightly with just the right amount of butter. Too much and they go greasy and oily. Too little and they’re bland. His words again, not mine. Always his words, until they become my words, my thoughts, my actions, and I don’t know who I am any more except an extension of Liam.
‘No.’ I pull the chicken out of the oven and put it on the worktop. He walks up behind me and slides his hands round my waist, drawing me towards him so my head leans against his chest. He kisses my neck, and I tilt my head sideways to let him.
I close my eyes, and for a moment, I forget the fear and the suspicion. For a little while, I want to believe that everything is all right between us. That he’s not lying to me or having an affair, and everything that’s happened to me is all just some kind of horrific dream I’ve had. It would just be easier to believe Liam’s version of events.
But I don’t. And I can’t.
‘I called you earlier, and you didn’t answer,’ he says into my neck, his words vibrating on my skin.
‘Oh, I must’ve been in the garden and didn’t hear it. I fell asleep out there reading a book.’ I give him what I hope is a vague look and wriggle away to drain the beans so he can’t see the lie on my face. ‘Did you have a good day?’ I make my voice sound even and light and hope he can’t see my jaw trembling.
‘Yes, I managed to get a lot done.’ He picks a bean out of the colander and takes a bite. ‘They’re soggy. You’ve cooked them for too long like you always do.’
‘Sorry.’ I turn away and dish up the dinner onto the plates Liam likes.
‘What else did you do, apart from read?
’ He sits at the kitchen table and loosens his tie.
‘Not much. Watched a bit of TV; made dinner.’ I put the plate in front of him and sit opposite.
He forks in a mouthful of food and studies me carefully. ‘I see the refuse collectors still haven’t been. There are piles of rubbish sacks out on the street. They’ll attract vermin soon. It’s disgusting. How long are they going to be on strike for?’
I don’t think he’s expecting an answer from me, so I don’t give him one. I don’t give a shit about the refuse collectors. Don’t even want to think about something so trivial right now. I push the food around on my plate, taking a mouthful here and there. He’s right about the beans; they’re too soft. But I like them that way.
He talks about how he won his squash game this morning before work with a colleague called Charles. Goes on about how Charles should just not bother playing, he’s so useless, and how it’s hardly a challenge for him when you’ve got someone as unfit for an opponent. I smile, nod, and make appropriate noises in the right places to seem interested. When he finishes eating, he takes his plate to the draining board, rinses it methodically, and stacks it in the dishwasher. Then he pours himself a glass of red wine and says, ‘I’m going on the computer for a while. I’ve got some reports to catch up on.’
‘OK,’ I say to his retreating back. ‘I’ll just clean up and have a shower. I’ll probably get an early night.’ I load up the dishwasher, wipe down the surfaces with cleaning spray until they’re spotless, then trudge up the stairs to our bedroom.
I shower and wash my hair, the soap and shampoo stinging the cuts on my fingers. They’re getting better now, but the scabs soften in the water. As I towel dry my hair in the bathroom, I see a pinkish tinge on the white fluffy fabric where they’re oozing a little blood. Wiping the steam from the mirror, I stare at myself.
I don’t recognize the woman who looks back at me. I’ve got dark rings under my haunted eyes, and they’re red and swollen. My skin and lips are pale, my cheeks hollow. I look like death, which is so ironic I laugh at the woman in the mirror. Fading scratches lace my forehead and cheeks, a result of the branches slapping my face when I ran through the woods. I pull the hair back from the lump above my ear and examine it. The skin is a mixture of colours: jaundice yellow, rotten plum, mottled tomato.
Scratches. Yes, of course.
I lean closer to the mirror, touching them carefully with my fingertips. I can’t hallucinate abrasions, can I? I can’t magic them up from the depths of my imagination. They’re real. They exist on my face, fingers, and wrists. No one can explain the lump on my head. If it were all something I’d concocted in my mind, I wouldn’t have the evidence.
I stare at my reflection for a long time, as if this woman can help me find the answers somehow. In the end, I don’t think she can. Maybe no one can. They’ll just say I fell over and hit my head somewhere or make some other similar excuses.
I turn away and walk into the bedroom where I slide the door to my side of the wardrobe open, looking for a clean T-shirt to wear in bed. My clothes aren’t expensive or designer gear like Liam’s. Only he’s allowed that. They’re cheap. High street brands that look acceptable but don’t cost a fortune.
At first, I don’t notice anything unusual. But as I slide the hangers from left to right, I see a few things are missing. My leather jacket. A pair of skinny jeans. My black boots with the wedged heel. A brown V-neck jumper. Some black leggings. A few T-shirts. A pair of ballet-style flats. I go through it all again, pushing things backwards and forwards, just to make sure they haven’t got jumbled up in between other items somehow
OK, so maybe the clothes are in the washing basket, but what about the boots and the shoes? I rummage around further and discover more things gone. A checked shirt, another pair of jeans. In the drawers underneath the clothes, my knickers appear to be sparser than usual. A polka dot bra and some socks are missing.
I clutch my towel tighter around me and retrace my steps into the bathroom to check the washing basket. I tip everything out onto the floor. Liam’s shirts, trousers, socks, boxers, one pair of my socks, and my pink cardigan. None of the missing items is in there.
I pull on a T-shirt and a pair of knickers and head downstairs, my bare feet silent on the carpet. The door to the dining room is half-open, and I walk in. Liam is in the middle of sending an email to someone.
Emails. Of course! I should check my emails. Maybe I sent one to Sara that can shed some light on all of this.
When he hears me, he immediately clicks the mouse, and the screensaver pops up. It’s a photo of a younger Liam with his cousin Jeremy when they were in their early twenties. They’re at the top of Mount Snowdon, dressed in walking gear. Clouds hang like candyfloss in the bright blue sky behind. Liam is a head taller and has his arm flung around Jeremy’s shoulder. They’re both dark-haired with the same shaped angular jaws and regally straight noses. They each take after their mothers, who were identical twins.
‘Yes? Is everything all right?’ Liam swivels round in the brown leather office chair to face me.
‘Some of my clothes seem to be missing.’
He gives me a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t you remember, darling, you had a bit of a clear out before I went to Scotland?’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. You thought it would be therapeutic to get rid of some things you never wear anymore that were just cluttering up your wardrobe. I took the old clothes to the charity shop for you; that’s why you can’t find them.’
‘Right.’ I nod vaguely, knowing full well I wouldn’t have given those things away because they’re either new or my favourites. And who in their right mind gives away used underwear?
He smiles and pats my hand. ‘Is that all?’
‘Er…yes.’ I turn to leave and feel his gaze burning into my back, unease winding its way through every fibre of my body.
Hours later, I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I can come up with a rational explanation for all of this, but I can’t. I keep circling back to the only conclusion that seems logical. I must’ve found the receipts and suspected Liam was having an affair. I went to the hotel to try to confirm it. Maybe I found some other evidence, too. Then I waited until he went to Scotland before doing something about it so there would be no confrontation.
I’m certain now that the letter Liam showed me wasn’t a suicide letter at all. I was leaving him. That’s what the letter was about. He’d obviously found it and knew I’d left him. It would explain why my bag, phone, and some of my clothes are missing. I would’ve taken them with me. And if I did, Liam is lying to me again about me giving them to the charity shop. I wonder if he’s trying to convince people I’m mad, or actually trying to make me go mad.
As I said to Dr Drew, everyone has a breaking point. Maybe that was mine. Perhaps I thought enough was enough and couldn’t cope with Liam controlling me, criticizing everything, deciding what I should wear and what I should do. Maybe I realized there was more to life than the one I was living.
Jordan’s face flashes into my head then, but I squash it back down.
But where did I go? Sara’s would be the obvious choice. She’s still away, and her flat would be empty. Summers said we’d called each other. Maybe it was to arrange for me to stay there. That’s the only thing that makes sense.
So I went to Sara’s, and then what? What happened next? What led to me being kidnapped and left somewhere underground in the woods? Was it someone I encountered after I left home who put me there? Or did Liam do it? Did he ply me with sleeping tablets then bundle me in his car and leave me in that place? Was he really in Scotland at all? After all, he’d said he was going there before, when he stayed at the Royal Lodge Hotel. Who’s to say he wasn’t lying about being there this time, too? Does he hate me so much that he’d leave me for dead?
As Liam creeps into the darkened room and gets into bed, goose bumps rise on my flesh, and I wonder just who the hell I’m married to.
&n
bsp; 16
I mustn’t let him suspect a thing. Must act normal. Well, as normal as I can, under the circumstances. So I get up the next morning with a bright smile on my face and make him toast and marmalade, even though just the smell of it makes me gag. It’s on the kitchen table, ready and waiting for him when he comes down after his shower.
‘Thanks.’ His gaze slithers over me. ‘Why are you wearing those tatty old jeans, darling?’
I glance down at them. The denim is soft and has faded over time. I love them. ‘They’re comfortable.’
‘They make you look fat. Put that other pair on. The black ones. You know how I like you in those.’
‘Hmm,’ I mumble as I make tea for us both. ‘I’ll do it in a minute. It’s not like I’m going out anywhere.’ I pour milk into mugs, just the right amount. Stir. Put his in front of him and sit opposite.
‘You really should start taking more care of how your appearance,’ he goes on. ‘Your face looks awful.’ He points at the scratches. ‘Why don’t you book yourself into the hair salon? You could do with a cut. It’ll be a nice treat for you. It might make you feel more like your old self again. But make sure you don’t go out in that state.’ And just like that, he veils a criticism as something kind and caring. Good old Liam; give you a compliment with one hand and take it away with the other.
But he’s actually given me an idea, so I smile and nod. ‘I think I will, actually, yes. Can I have a front door key? You haven’t given me a new one yet.’
He pushes his empty plate away and stands up. Taking a set of keys from his pocket, he unclips one key from the key ring and puts it on the table. Then he takes his wallet from his other pocket and says, ‘How much money do you need for a haircut?’
‘I’m not sure. Since I can’t find my purse, I don’t have any until my new bankcards come through. Can you leave me fifty pounds?’
‘Fifty! That’s rather a lot, isn’t it?’
