A Perfect Husband

by Hilary Boyd

Chapter 52

  The following morning, as soon as Freddy had gone out to a meeting, Lily phoned Seth Kramer and described what her husband had told her.

  ‘God, poor man,’ the doctor said. ‘It explains the gambling, though.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I think he should get help, some sort of therapy, but he says he feels better now he’s told me, and that bastard father of his is dead.’

  ‘That won’t be enough, Lily. He needs to process what happened to him. The feelings won’t just go away because he’s finally articulated them to someone, although he will feel like a huge burden has been lifted from his shoulders right now.’

  ‘Could you recommend someone good? They’d have to be in London or he won’t go. Maybe if I give him the names of a couple of therapists you really rate, he might consider it.’

  ‘It would have to be his choice. It won’t work if he doesn’t want to go.’

  ‘No, but I can encourage him, can’t I?’

  There was a short pause from Seth. ‘You can encourage him, Lily, but you can’t save him.’

  Lily frowned. ‘I’m not trying to save him.’ She was irritated: the suggestion seemed to be almost an admonishment. ‘But seeing someone you love in that sort of pain . . . Of course I want to help him. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m sure you already have helped, just by being there, by listening.’

  ‘Please can you email me some names? I’d like to give them to him, anyway.’

  ‘Of course.’ Seth paused. ‘How are you coping?’ His voice was gentle. ‘It must have been distressing, hearing about such dreadful violence, realizing your husband isn’t who you thought he was.’

  It had been, but it wasn’t until this minute that Lily grasped just how distressing. Her thoughts had been so focused on processing Freddy’s pain she hadn’t had time to think of how it had affected her.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. It was so harrowing, Seth. I keep imagining him as a little boy and I can hardly deal with my feelings because I’m so angry with that vile man. He’s still Freddy, but now he’s opened up all these images of his past . . . I don’t know what to think.’ She felt tearful. ‘I can’t work out what it means for him. For us.’

  ‘If you need to talk . . .’

  ‘Thanks. I’m fine, Seth, but thanks.’

  She didn’t feel fine at all, and she sensed from his silence that Seth knew that better than she did. But he didn’t press her.

  ‘No need to come on Friday if you’re dealing with stuff,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’ll be there. I’ve done the latest batch of tapes and I’m meeting your friend Janice while I’m up.’ She tried to sound enthusiastic, but although the prospect of more transcription work was not exactly thrilling, she had listened to David and Prem and knew she couldn’t do what Freddy was urging her almost daily to do: give up work.

  *

  Lily sat across from Prem in the café on the corner of Moxon Street, round the corner from the chair shop, both women with a bowl of chilled beetroot soup and black bread.

  ‘That’s horrible,’ Prem said, her dark eyes wide with shock as she listened to Lily describe what Freddy had told her the previous night. ‘Christ, how do you live with all that terrible stuff and not tell someone?’

  ‘Why do you think he didn’t trust me enough to tell me till now?’ Lily asked. ‘If his dad hadn’t died, maybe I’d never have known.’ She knew she was being stupid, feeling hurt that Freddy hadn’t been able to confide in her. This wasn’t about her. But still.

  ‘Buried too deep, I suppose,’ Prem replied. ‘Don’t forget you’ve known him less than five years. He’d already kept the secret for a lifetime before he met you.’

  Lily thought about this. ‘I don’t understand when he says he feels so ashamed. Ashamed of what? Being beaten to a pulp by a violent sadist? He was a child.’

  ‘Sounds like the man fundamentally humiliated him. It’s what they do, these abusers, reduce their victims to a pulp so they can control them. Poor Freddy.’

  They sat in silence, eating their soup.

  ‘Do you think he’ll get help?’ Prem asked.

  Lily shrugged. ‘Seth says I can’t make him. And maybe he doesn’t need it. Maybe telling me will be enough.’

  Prem raised her eyebrows. ‘You don’t believe that, Lil. This sort of damage is a couple of years’ worth of shrinking, believe me.’

  *

  That night, Freddy didn’t come home till gone two o’clock. Lily had spoken to him earlier in the evening, and he had said he’d be late: he was having dinner with a man he needed to schmooze for the launch. He hadn’t given any more details.

  Now Lily lay in bed trying to believe him. But waiting for Freddy in the dark reminded her of all the old times when she’d done the same, times when she had stupidly never doubted him, or ever questioned the subsequently fluent narrative of his evening. Times when he had, in fact, spent the night in the casino, losing every penny they had.

  She was almost asleep when she finally heard his key in the door. He didn’t turn any lights on in the sitting room, but there was always adequate from the street lamp right outside the window – the flat was never completely dark. She listened to the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floorboards, the rustle of clothes being removed, a tap being turned on in the kitchen, the splash of urine in the toilet next to the bedroom. She didn’t call out. When he tiptoed in and climbed into bed she still didn’t speak. Her back to him, she waited for the feel of his body against her own – he always snuggled in. But tonight he did not.

  When she turned, pretending she had only just woken, he was lying on his back staring at the ceiling.

  ‘You’re very late,’ she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, yawning, ‘Went on a bit.’

  She waited for the familiar excuses, but Freddy was silent. Moving across the bed, she put her head on his shoulder as he lifted his arm to accommodate her. His body was chilly.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘Did the evening go well?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose. Nothing special.’

  He squeezed her shoulder, but she sensed he was answering on autopilot, not really listening to her at all. She wanted to ask him, to speak the words out loud: ‘Were you gambling tonight?’ But following his revelations yesterday and her concern for him on that count, she didn’t feel able to do so. So they lay there until she kissed his chest and rolled over with her back to him again.

  ‘Love you,’ she said.

  ‘Love you too,’ she heard him reply.

  Chapter 53

  The hospice had sent Freddy a copy of the funeral sheet in the post. He’d been in touch with them: he’d told them he would pay for Vinnie’s funeral if they would organize it and that he would not be attending. The woman he spoke to, one Shona Raskin, did not question his decision. Maybe she was used to it. Or maybe she’d known his father.

  Staring at the proof that his father really had died and been dispatched, Freddy was relieved to see there was no photograph, which seemed to be the current fashion at funerals, some cheesy shot from the past, before the person was sick and dying. This was one C5 sheet, with a tasteful picture of wild flowers in a meadow at the top, followed by his father’s name in bold, the dates of his life, then the time and place of the funeral. It had been held at the crematorium on Groby Road, where his mother also had been cremated. Her ashes were scattered in the garden of remembrance, but with no plaque, no stone, no urn, nothing with which to remember her. At the bottom of the sheet was a prayer:

  God of mercy,as we mourn the death of Vinnie Slaterand thank you for his life,we also remember times when it was hard for us to understand,to forgive, and to be forgiven.Heal our memories of hurt and failure,and bring us to forgiveness and lifein Jesus Christ our L
ord.

  Amen

  Did they know he was a vicious bastard? Freddy wondered as he read the words of the prayer, taken aback by what seemed like a very apposite and personal communication. He screwed the paper up tight, crushing it in his fist until it was the size of a small plum, then stuffed it into the kitchen bin.

  The other letter he’d received in the post that morning was from the firm of solicitors his father had appointed as executors of his will. Vinnie Slater, Freddy read, had left the flat in Malta, plus one hundred and nine thousand, six hundred and thirty-two pounds to his son, the only beneficiary.

  The letter and the words it contained felt almost radioactive to Freddy. He found himself pushing it away across the kitchen table, trying to distance himself from contamination. He imagined the cynical smile on his father’s face at the thought of Freddy enjoying his money. ‘Gotcha! So your old man has some uses after all, eh, son?’ And he knew he would never accept a single penny. The house in Malta was never Vinnie’s in the first place so he would keep that. But, finding the solicitor’s email on the letter, Freddy instructed them to put the money straight into his wife’s bank account when it came through, and gave the details. He owed her. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start.

  *

  The two weeks since his father had died and his secret had exploded into the quiet flat had been rocky for Freddy. The balm of revelation, which had soothed his soul for being heard – made all the more powerful by Lily’s sympathetic reaction – had quickly worn off. He was left with a deep insecurity, paranoia and bubbling panic he was having trouble controlling. He felt as if he were literally falling to pieces.

  His secret had been the solid platform upon which he had built his life. Freddy March, his new persona, had not been beaten and humiliated, not scared out of his wits, but nurtured and cared for by loving parents. In his telling of the secret his invention had become destabilized, as if a leg had broken off a table, making it wobble and tip. Now he didn’t know if he was Freddy Slater or Freddy March, or neither of these lonely spectres.

  His instinct was to gamble, of course, and in the first days after his father died, he had not held back. The community centre, with the plastic chairs, the machine coffee, the sorry crew of addicts, was not a serious alternative. He had not, as he was certain Lily thought, been at the tables on the night he’d got home so late: that had been a genuinely drawn-out boys’ night with a rather rambunctious PR. No, Freddy gambled in the daytime, when Lily was working in the flat, sneaking into one or other of his old watering holes and setting himself on the familiar rollercoaster again.

  But he found it wasn’t working for him in the way it always had. Waiting for the buzz, the hit, the high, Freddy was disappointed time and again. Instead of lifting him, it just made his panic worse. And the more he piled up the chips on the numbers, the more extreme the panic became. He was trapped inside his feelings. There was no respite, nowhere to hide. It was making him crazy.

  Lily was cooking supper when he got home after a difficult couple of hours with Max. It was early September – less than a month to the launch – and his friend was wound up about the venture. He had sunk a lot of money into it already and there was now an equation to be made regarding advertising expenditure versus outcome – one of the great imponderables in business. Throw vast amounts of money at it so that no one could miss it? Or throw less, letting it build quietly and find its own level? Freddy, true to form, preferred the former, Max the latter. But Freddy’s head was too woolly to argue coherently, and Max prevailed. It took some of the pressure off, admittedly, but Freddy was annoyed: he felt Max was selling the project short. They’d had a row, something they never did.

  ‘Spaghetti and meatballs,’ Lily announced with a smile as he came in.

  One of his favourites. He went over to her at the stove and kissed her cheek. She smelt of mangoes and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling her perfume, the scent soothing his day-long edginess and irritation. Immediately he felt himself to be in a safer, calmer place. She was his salvation.

  ‘Freddy . . .’ He watched Lily’s face, now serious, as she turned to him, her wooden spoon with traces of tomato sauce held aloft. He didn’t want her to speak: he couldn’t bear to hear an admonishment, an accusation – his gambling secret seemed to hang above them both, like a neon sign. He’d felt her tension in the air for days now, but knew she had held off in respect for his recent bereavement.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of names from Dr Kramer, well-respected psychotherapists he trusts. I thought maybe you could check them out.’

  Freddy frowned. ‘You told Kramer about me?’

  Lily looked taken aback. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s his job, Freddy. He deals with people who have your sort of problem all the time.’

  But he did mind. He minded very much. The thought of his wife gossiping with that bloody man – whom he was completely convinced was in love with her – about his private, deeply personal revelations made him feel physically sick. ‘Who else have you told?’ he demanded.

  ‘No one,’ she said, too quickly, and he knew she was lying: the blush that had risen to her cheeks was a giveaway.

  ‘Who, Lily? Who have you told?’

  She rolled her eyes as if he were being ridiculous. ‘Okay, I told Prem.’

  ‘Prem? For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘She’s my friend, Freddy. I had to talk to someone. What you told me was so horrible . . .’

  ‘So, Kramer and Prem. Who else?’

  ‘No one. I swear.’

  Freddy realized he was gripping her arm, swinging her away from the stove. He felt betrayed, exposed, humiliated all over again. How dare she? He’d thought he could trust Lily, of all people, to protect him. His heart raced, his breath was hot in his chest, his muscles burned, his eyes were filmed and scratchy with rage. He tried to blink it away, but all he could see was his wife talking to that smug fuck of a shrink. They were laughing, flirting, as she poured out Freddy’s intimate secrets to be chewed over, passed judgement on. So they thought they knew what was best for him? Christ!

  He heard her cry from a long way off, another world, as he yanked her up by both arms and threw her violently against the tasteful Parma Grey kitchen wall. There was a crack, and for a second she seemed suspended, then she crumpled gracefully onto the wooden floor.

  Silence.

  He looked down, bewildered. The noise in his brain had stopped, leaving an eerie calm. Lily was slumped, not moving. Feeling a sick terror in the pit of his stomach, Freddy knelt down beside her.

  ‘Lily?’ He shook her shoulder, ‘Lily? Please . . .’

  It seemed an age, but she was moving, opening her eyes. Thank God. Her expression was dazed as she raised her hand to the back of her head, the fingers coming away wet with blood. Freddy reached out to help her up, but she pushed him away.

  ‘Lily . . . I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – are you okay? Tell me you’re okay . . .’

  She was struggling to her feet, unsteady, holding out her hand to find support on the work surface. He tried to help again, but she angrily batted his arm off.

  ‘Get away from me,’ she said, her voice low and dangerously quiet.

  ‘Please, Lily. Please, I don’t know what came over me. I – I was just upset that you’d told people about my dad. It freaked me out, my past being blabbed all over town like that. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.’

  His wife stared at him, but he could read nothing in her eyes. They were veiled, blank. She was shaking. Without a word she moved slowly to the fridge, where she took the ice tray out of the freezer compartment. She bashed it on the side, collected the loosened cubes and twisted them into a tea towel, which she pressed to the back of her head. Then she pushed past him and went into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Freddy was shattered. Oh, God, oh, God, w
hat have I done? The words repeated themselves over and over as he collapsed on the sofa, his hands to his face, heart hammering in his chest. He had hurt Lily. He had hurt the woman he loved. Never in his life had he so much as laid a finger on anyone in anger. He didn’t understand what was happening to him.

  As he sat there in the fading light, the smell of the meatballs pungent and mocking him from the stove, he wanted to do what he always did: run. Run and hide behind the soothing click of the chips, the bored voice of the croupier, the soft sweep of the rake on the baize, the clack, clack, clack as the ball bounced across the number sections. But he wouldn’t leave Lily.

  He had no idea how long he sat there, his mind in turmoil, his thoughts fixated on the woman behind the bedroom door. But he was suddenly aware of her ghostly presence across the darkened room.

  ‘Freddy?’ Her voice was thick with recent tears.

  He leaped to his feet, went towards her, but stopped short of reaching out. He dared not try to touch her. She was in her dressing-gown – the blue one he had bought for her last birthday – her arms clamped tight around her body, her dark hair falling across her pale, tear-stained face.

  ‘Lily, please. Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?’

  She didn’t answer, just indicated the sofa and went to sit down.

  When he dropped down beside her she turned to him, pulling her dressing-gown across her bare legs. It was a moment before she began to speak.

  ‘Look, I know how hard it’s been for you recently, with your father and then telling me about the abuse.’ She swallowed, took a long breath. ‘I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. It must have been utter hell, your childhood.’ Another breath. ‘But I can’t stay here with you.’

  Freddy had expected her to say those exact words. But, still, the impact was like a body blow. He held his breath as she went on. ‘I know you’re gambling.’ Her eyes were sad.

  ‘I . . .’ He began to deny it, but her expression was resolute. She knew. What would be the point? ‘I have, but not . . . only a few times, honestly. It was just a lapse after I heard about Dad . . . I . . .’ This wasn’t true, of course, but Lily didn’t question it.