I feel I’m walking a tight-rope, striving to remember all his little rules of what I may and may not do, the things I’m allowed to do and the things I’m not. I’m nervous of upsetting him, constantly afraid of making a mistake. Yet I’m beginning to recognise a pattern. It’s as if he likes to pick fault with me in order to assert his authority, to prove he’s the one with the power, the one in control. Does putting me down in some way make him feel better about himself? I wonder.
He’s been calm and content in recent weeks, quite his normal self and in a good mood, yet I’m only too aware that he’s watching my every movement like a hawk. The more he picks on me, the more I feel the tension mount and I daren’t risk upsetting him. He could easily go into a sulk which can last for days as he gradually gets more and more edgy and the anger simmers to boiling point.
There are even no-no’s with regard to suitable topics of conversation, certain subjects I mustn’t mention, such as my job, or a book I’ve read which he knows nothing about. He doesn’t care to hear me talking about my friends either, and certainly not Em, whom he sees as some sort of threat.
I realise with a chilling certainty that my husband enjoys belittling me, actually takes pleasure in putting me down; and the more he does that, the harder I strive to please him. Otherwise he might hit me again.
Perversely, he can also be kind and loving, good fun when he puts his mind to it, and a wonderfully generous lover. I always feel so grateful for the times when he shows me some love and affection. I feel this great surge of relief and gratitude whenever he shows any kindness towards me. Is that because I feel I don’t have anyone else to turn to? Because I’m not brave enough to confess the bleak truth to my family, that I might have made a bad mistake in my choice of husband?
I still love Oliver, still hope and pray that one day he’ll grow up a little and change, that it’ll all work out. Love isn’t something you can turn off like a tap.
Or am I just in denial that this is even happening to me?
I can’t seem to think clearly, can’t get my head round even the most mundane task, let alone make long-term decisions about the future. I’m simply concerned with getting through each day with the least possible problems.
At least our social life is improving and we’re starting to go out a little more. We have a lot of fun over the coming weeks going on car rallies with friends, and once we take a boat out on Lake Windermere. Sometimes we’ll just drive up into the Central Lakes for drinks or a meal at a pub. It’s such a relief to get out and about again and I’m beginning to feel less isolated, far more relaxed.
And every week, without fail, he brings me flowers, telling me that he loves me, that he finds my new wifely skills endearing. Thankfully, these do seem to be improving despite my apparent incompetence at ironing his trousers, which I never manage to get right.
Everything is going to be fine, I tell myself. Every marriage has its teething problems, which we seem to be resolving at last. It’s early days yet but we do love each other, very much, which is surely all that matters. I must continue to have faith.
I admit though that there are still irritations, like when he sits down to dinner and expects to be served as if he’s a client and I’m the waitress in some restaurant. He’ll send me scurrying for horseradish sauce, ketchup or whatever, as if he doesn’t possess the capabilities to fetch it himself. I never object. Where’s the point? He’s a hopeless man, after all.
Sadly, his image of our respective roles is not mine, and I’m having one devil of a job to change his attitude.
He also insists that I keep proper household accounts and note down everything I spend. I realise that being an accountant makes Oliver a bit fussy in this respect, so do my best to make sure the details are accurate.
My own new business isn’t bringing in much of a profit yet, and I do worry about money a great deal. Everything seems to be far more expensive than I’d bargained for. Oliver does too, I realise, and he hasn’t yet got the partnership he’s been promised. He’s generous enough with my housekeeping allowance yet time and time again when I go to my purse expecting to find a twenty pound note still in there, I find it empty, or in fact I only have a fiver. I try to be more frugal and better organised, visit thrift shops and look out for bargains at the supermarkets but money doesn’t go nearly as far as it should.
Oliver constantly reminds me how expensive this house is to run, demands to know where my money goes because he insists every penny be accounted for. It never occurs to me that he might be taking money out of my purse for himself, and then one day I happen to walk into the kitchen and catch him rummaging in my bag.
‘Were you looking for something?’ I quietly ask, and see him start, looking almost guilty for a second although he quickly recovers.
‘I was checking that you weren’t overspending again. You really are rather careless with money, darling. Very wasteful with food too.’ He opens the fridge door and points to some left-over chicken. ‘Look at that,’ he says. ‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘It’s for my lunch tomorrow,’ I tell him, beginning to feel edgy, as if I’m the one who has done something wrong.
Next he goes to the pedal bin, opens it and shows me the leftover remains of some spaghetti bolognaise we had yesterday. ‘Look at that, pure waste.’
‘It’s not always easy to judge how much to make,’ I bleakly respond.
‘Try harder to get it right next time. I can’t afford to see the good money I earn being thrown away. Surely that too could warm up for a snack for your lunch,’ he snaps.
‘A sandwich on the hoof is usually all I have time for, but you might be right,’ I hastily agree, as I see his expression darken.
When he goes off to his den I check my purse. One ten pound note, a fiver and a few pound coins. I’ll swear there were also a couple of twenty pound notes in it the last time I looked. What is going on? Surely Oliver isn’t taking my money? I look at his closed study door then put the purse back in my bag. I can’t be certain. I could be mistaken. I make the decision to check more carefully in future, and to keep proper accounts.
But then I always do as he asks. Life is easier that way.
‘I’ve had an idea how to cut down on our expenses,’ he tells me the next morning at breakfast as I place a plate of bacon and eggs before him.
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘We could sell your car.’
‘What?’ I’m paralysed with shock. ‘You are joking? You can’t live in the Lakes without a car, and I certainly couldn’t do my job without one. These holiday cottages are often in remote, inaccessible places, and it’s not as if we have a reliable bus service.’
‘I’ve thought about that, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t use Emma’s car during the day. You usually work together, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but not always. Sometimes one of us does the cleaning and the other stays in the office, or we’re forced to prepare property individually because we’ve got so many that need doing. And I don’t exactly work nine to five, my hours vary so much. Sorry darling, but it wouldn’t work. I need my little car.’
‘I could pick you up every day after work,’ he insists, stubbornly sticking to his argument, and I feel a strange claustrophobia creeping over me at the thought of being entirely dependent upon my husband for transport.
‘Would you want to drive me to the supermarket, or into Kendal every time I need a hairdresser or dentist, or to see Gran and Grandpa? I doubt it. Sorry, but you’ll have to think of some other way to economise.’ I get up and start clearing the table and a new thought occurs to me. In any case, the cost of my car is charged against my business expenses, not yours.’
I smile, pleased with this realisation, this small victory. He isn’t smiling back but looks annoyed, as if I’ve caught him out in some way. Surely he wasn’t simply trying to curb my independence, I think, as he strides away, back rigid with disapproval. That would be too silly for words.
Chapter Six<
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Oliver seems to think that if I don’t do exactly as he asks, it must be because I don’t think he’s important, because I don’t respect him or love him enough. Usually I’ve learned to hold my tongue, to tread the thin blue line my husband has drawn for me in the sand of our marriage and do my best to keep to his rules. The trouble is, he has so many requirements it’s hard to remember them all, and the tension does get to me at times.
He sees himself as a person who’s not fully appreciated, and I’m expected to constantly reassure him that this is not the case. But when I agreed to ‘love, honour and obey’, I never expected those words to be taken quite so literally.
Quiche has been very much off the menu since that first dreadful incident. I’ve bought myself half a dozen new cookery books and I’m learning to prepare more tasty meals, using only the kind of food he likes, of course. But it isn’t easy. I buy only his favourite soap and shampoo, watch the TV programmes he chooses, and the remote is very much his toy. I only read when he’s out, and don’t touch his newspaper until after he’s read it. I make certain the house is immaculate with not a speck of dust anywhere, and always remember to put on lipstick and make myself look attractive before he comes home.
I still spend my days watching the clock and worrying about being late home, of dinner not being ready on time, which is sure to cause him to fly into a rage.
‘Can’t you get one thing right, for God’s sake?’ he’ll rail at me. ‘Don’t I deserve a little attention after a long hard day at work?’ He certainly isn’t interested in hearing about mine.
I devise little strategies like quickly plonking a few pans on top of the cooker if I hear his car in the drive before I’ve had time to prepare anything, hoping against hope he won’t lift a lid. When he asks if I’ve remembered to pay in a cheque or call to collect his dry cleaning, I lie and pretend that I have. It’s only a little white lie, I tell myself, but safer that way. So long as he never discovers the truth.
I’m learning to practice deceit, which seems dreadful so early in my marriage.
He’s in a bad mood for days following my refusal to sell my car, which always happens when he doesn’t get his own way in something. Then one evening he comes home all sunshine and smiles, insists on taking me out for a huge steak, and afterwards we make love like teenagers. He can be so loving when he wants to be, once again the charming man I married. If only he could always be this way.
I find it hard to admit that I’m being bullied, probably because I love him so much and still nurture hopes that his temper will eventually calm down and he’ll stop being quite so volatile. How can I admit to anyone that Oliver is abusing me when he can be so charming, so loving and sexy towards me? I’m supposed to be this capable, strong, reasonably intelligent woman, not some pathetic victim.
I don’t feel able to discuss this problem with anyone because everyone else thinks he’s a great guy, so who would believe me if I told them what he does to me? If we go over to Mum and Dad’s he’s soon chatting and laughing with them, offering to mow the lawn or put up curtains to save Mum from stretching.
‘He’s so thoughtful,’ she’ll say.
And it’s true. He can be very loving, tender and caring, considerate and good fun, but I’ve noticed this is mainly when we’re in the company of other people. He makes less effort when we’re on our own, unless he can see that I’m becoming very unhappy, or ‘difficult’ as he calls it, then he will make a special effort to fuss over me, as he has been doing lately. It’s as if consciously, or perhaps subconsciously, he sets out to bewitch and charm me in order to bring me back into line, back under his control. A weird concept I can’t quite come to terms with, yet it must be true because his behaviour deceives everyone, even me at times.
Emma and I talk about marriage in general terms. She cannot see the necessity for it at all, believing women get a raw deal, and that it pays to keep a man on his toes. I’ve often teased her about these radical views of hers, although I’m always careful not to divulge too much about my own situation. She can be very dismissive and judgemental. She’s suffered from relationships going wrong in the past, been round the block a bit before she settled down with Glen and has rather a jaundiced view where men are concerned. I take great care what I say to her about Oliver, as she doesn’t seem too well disposed towards him for some reason.
One lunch time we’re having a girly chat over a snatched sandwich and a mug of tea at our desks, and I casually mention that Oliver isn’t the easiest person in the world to live with.
‘I haven’t quite got used to having another person by my side day and night,’ I explain with a smile. ‘It takes some getting used to.’
‘Hell, don’t I know it. You should hear Glen snore, he’d lift the roof if it weren’t nailed on,’ she laughs.
‘Oliver thinks my cooking is dire. I never realised how difficult it can be to produce a simple meal. My rice is always soggy, and yes, I do always rinse it through with boiling water, but it’s never quite right. I love jacket potatoes but Oliver hates them, and he won’t touch fish, won’t have butter or any sort of spread on his bread, doesn’t care much for salads. Oh, and he’s not too good on vegetables either.’
She looks at me askance. Emma’s partner Glen is that rare creature a builder who cooks, and food is something they very much enjoy preparing together. ‘Heavens, what a nightmare. Anyway, why should you only cook the food he likes? Give him what’s good for him, and have what you fancy for a change.’
‘Well, I do occasionally, of course I do,’ I hastily agree. ‘He’s just a bit fussy, that’s all.’
‘Huh, never pander to a man, it only makes him more demanding.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
She frowns at me, looking unusually stern. ‘I hope you don’t allow this fussing over your new husband, or this newly wedded bliss, to block your ambitions for the business.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ But the slight criticism snaps me to attention as we get back to work, and I privately concede that I may well be overly distracted at the moment, and really must try to sharpen up and pull my weight more.
Communication, they say, is vital in a relationship, and this evening, as we prepare for bed, we’re talking for once. I’m desperately trying to put things right, attempting to convince Oliver that even if I do like to do my own thing from time to time, if I fall short of the standards he sets, or make mistakes occasionally, I don’t do these things out of malice, or disrespect.
‘I do love you, and desperately want to make our marriage work. I hate it when we row and you get angry.’
He looks at me with strained patience. ‘These things wouldn’t happen if you didn’t provoke me. I wouldn’t need to get angry, Carly, if you did things properly in the first place.’ He’s calmly attempting to explain his behaviour, or perhaps justify it to himself.
‘You must try to stay calm,’ I gently remind him.
‘I only lose it because I have such powerful feelings for you. I love you too much.’
I try to work this out, but it doesn’t make sense. ‘But . . . you love your mother. Would you hit her?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous, Oliver. It’s a perfectly reasonable question. You love your mother but you’d never hit her, would you? You love me, so why do you hit me?’
He gives an exasperated sigh. ‘Because you drive me to it. You’re like all women Carly, you nag, nag, nag, believing you can change the world to suit your own little plans and schemes.’
‘I do not!’
‘What is it they say, behind every successful man is a woman pulling his strings? Giving the poor chap hell more like, in order to get her own way. Women want men to pander to them, and fall in with their little schemes and plans. And there are plenty of men-haters out there, believe me.’
‘Well, I’m not one of them, and I don’t try to pull your strings.’
‘Yes, you do, darling. You don’t think to
ask if I mind your coming home late, you assume I’ll be happy to buckle to after a long day’s work and start cooking dinner, for God’s sake! You don’t check that it’s okay to swan off and baby-sit for your sister at a moment’s notice. Yet I allow you to work, and to see your friends occasionally. Those who are worthy of you, that is. But you’re still not satisfied. Want, want, want. All women are the same. Utterly selfish.’
There’s that word again - ‘allow’. It’s ringing alarm bells in my brain but I smile, anxious to placate him.
‘What is it you think I’m up to, visiting some secret lover?’ Too late I remember the row we had when he accused me of flirting with the waiter. I hasten to reassure him that I’m only making a joke. ‘You have absolutely no reason to be jealous, or to get angry. But these black moods of yours have got to stop, Oliver. It’s cruel and heartless of you to bully me in this awful way. I’m covered in bruises.’
He looks at me in cold fury for several long terrifying seconds while I hold my breath, worrying I may have gone too far. Then his face dissolves into hopeless despair as he sinks down on to the bed and puts his head in his hands. ‘Oh, God, I don’t know what comes over me, I really don’t. I accept that sometimes I do go a bit over the top, but can you blame me, after what I’ve been through? My boss, my parents, friends and neighbours, even my own wife seem to be against me these days. Everything seems to be going wrong, and I’m not always responsible for my actions.’
I can’t follow what he’s saying but I’m so concerned to see actual tears in his eyes that I sit beside him and put my arms about him. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, Oliver. Why do you imagine everyone is against you? Which I’m sure isn’t true.’
‘It’s because I’ve been through all of this before,’ he says, his voice raw with pain. ‘Julie was exactly the same, even though she claimed to love me. You remember we were an item for a while.’
Trapped Page 7
