‘You don’t have to answer,’ Emma tells me.
‘Yes, I do. I can’t not answer my own husband, can I?’ He might come round and create a scene, if I don’t.
His voice echoes down the line, the signal surprisingly loud and clear. ‘Carly, where are you? What the hell are you doing?’
‘Tell him you’ve left him,’ Emma whispers by my side.
‘Who was that? Who is with you?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Yes there is, I distinctly heard someone speaking. Are you with him, your lover?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Oliver, don’t start on that nonsense again. That’s why I left the house, left you. I can’t stand your obsessive jealousy, or you telling me what to do all the time.’
‘Who are you with? Just tell me that.’
I sigh. ‘Only Emma.’
There’s a short silence, and then Oliver says, ‘Do you want to know where I am? I’m out in my car, looking for you. I can’t live without you, Carly. You are my wife and I love you. You are the reason I get up each day. I couldn’t survive if you left me.’
‘Don’t say that, it’s not true.’
‘It is true. And if you don’t come home to me, now, tonight, then you’ll be reading about me in the paper tomorrow.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve got a length of rubber tube in the boot. I’m getting it out now, even as I speak. I’m fixing it on to the exhaust.’
‘What? Oliver, stop that! Stop it!’
‘Then tell me you love me. Either come home tonight, this minute, or I’ll end it all. Now! I can’t, won’t, live without you.’
‘Oliver, don’t say such terrible things. You know that I love you, but I can’t live with you, not the way you’ve been behaving recently.’
‘Come home now, Carly, and we’ll talk about it. Otherwise, that’s it. I’ll do it, I swear. I’m closing all the car windows, I’m running the engine, the tube is here in my hand . . . I can smell the fumes. . . ‘
‘I’m coming, I’m coming. Please don’t. . . I’ll be home in half an hour.’
I thrust the half drunk chocolate back in Emma’s hands. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’
She rushes after me to the door, catches hold of me and gives me a little shake. ‘Think what you’re doing, Carly. Don’t go. Stay here tonight at least, till he’s had time to cool off.’
I’m shaking my head, frantic to free myself from her grasp. ‘No, I can’t stay. I’m sorry, but Oliver needs me.’
As I drive home, heart pounding with fear that he may have done something desperate, I feel certain that despite everything that must be true. Oliver does need me. Because he loves me. Otherwise, he would have let me go, wouldn’t he?
He’s touchingly grateful that I’ve returned home, as he begged me to do, and I’m so relieved that the black clouds have lifted, that he still loves me, I let him hold me, wincing slightly as he presses against the fresh bruises on my arms.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I lost it again, didn’t I? Oh, God, I don’t know what comes over me,’ he says as he examines a nasty purple bruise on my back which I got when he knocked me against the table. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I swear it. At least we fooled the cops, eh? The last thing we want is for them to start poking their noses into our affairs.’
Oliver makes his feelings on my behaviour very clear. His voice is calm but menacing, and I don’t argue. There is to be no further discussion about this oh-so-embarrassing visit from the law. I am never again to cause him to lose his temper to such an extent he starts smashing things. The fault was entirely mine and if I’d kept off the drink . . . blah, blah, blah.
‘I’m sorry too,’ I tell him, although he hasn’t actually apologised.
As always he begs my forgiveness for the beating he gave me, which was, he says, quite against his better judgement. And I, as always, forgive him. His remorse seems genuine, which I feel I must believe, otherwise what future do we have? I’m still nursing an increasingly forlorn hope that he’ll change and turn back into the attentive, gorgeous man I first fell in love with. Yet I’m bitterly aware there’s a pattern developing and I can’t think how to get out of it.
I repeat my apology for my foolish behaviour at the lunch, although I know in my heart that I was reasonably sober when I first voiced my regret at having married in a hurry. The reason I drank too much wine afterwards was because I couldn’t bear to examine the reality of my life.
‘You won’t ever leave me again, Carly, is that clear?’ He captures my face between the palm of his hands and smiles gently into my eyes. ‘You are all that matters to me, remember that. You’re my wife. How would I live without you? You wouldn’t wish to have my suicide on my conscience, would you?’
I’m horrified by this, try to say this is blackmail, totally unfair, but can’t quite find the courage. What if he means it? What if Oliver is so badly damaged by an abusive childhood, and by our disastrous marriage, that he does take his own life? How would I live with the knowledge that I’d driven him to it?
This morning I wake to another day and the bleak awareness that things are getting worse, not better. I look at him asleep beside me and feel his rejection like a block of ice in my stomach. I love him still, despite everything, and long for him to relax and enjoy life, for him to be able to enjoy a joke and be happy again.
I’m all too aware I must take care not to say anything which might upset or provoke him, but sometimes the restraint gets to me, as it did after one glass of wine too many. Yet at the same time I’m growing strangely used to these attacks, these furies that suddenly beset him. I’ve started to take them for granted, half-expecting a bad reaction to some innocent remark or other. I’m learning to suffer his slaps and chastisements in silence. That way they’re over and done with much quicker.
But why does he care so little for me? That’s what hurts the most.
I know that he loved me once. He saw our future together as something wonderful, a world where I was always sexy and beautiful, where I was never tired or overworked, had no independent life of my own and was completely captivated by his charm. In his imagination he pictured a perfect house where we sat on white sofas drinking red wine, entertained friends to dinner with cordon bleu food which I cooked with elegance and charm.
He never saw a house that looked lived in with a wife dashing home late after a long tiring day. Nor did he envision having to play his part in keeping that home running smoothly. Oliver expects to live in an unrealistic world without frustrations or everyday cares and responsibilities, and one devoted entirely to his needs. A fantasy world with a fantasy woman.
A day or two later, as I go over and over the latest incident in my mind, I realise that I must do something. I can’t go on like this, allowing him to abuse me, to treat me like a punch bag he can use to take out his frustrations on.
I feel trapped, too fearful of what he might do if I leave, either to me, or to himself, to ever find the courage to risk it again. I’m not even sure which I’m afraid of most. Yet if I don’t leave, what kind of life can I hope to have?
If only he would speak to a counsellor. But if he won’t, then maybe I should. Surely there must be some way for me to deal with this. I look in the phone book and find a help line number. It takes me several more days to pluck up the courage but finally I punch in the numbers, using the code which disguises the origin of my call before I do so. A woman’s voice comes on the line asking if she can help.
‘I’m not sure . . .’ My voice cracks and I immediately run out of words. I can’t think where to begin, how to explain the confusion and despair that I feel, the shame that fills me, the certainty that this is all my fault, even when I know deep down it can’t possibly be. Can it?
‘I’m here to listen and help if I can,’ she says. ‘Would you like to tell me your name?’
I hear a car outside and I panic, thinking it might be Oliver coming home unexpectedly, as he sometimes tends to do. I inst
antly click off the phone. It turns out not to be Oliver after all, but I don’t try the number again. Best not to risk it, I think. I’m really not ready to bring strangers into this mess. Not yet. Maybe I’ll try talking to Mum first. Just as soon as I can find the courage and an appropriate moment.
In any case, what happened at the lunch on Sunday was as much my fault as Oliver’s, I realise that now. I’m appalled that I expressed regret over our marriage, and in front of my sister of all people, ashamed that I let a glass of wine go to my head and that I showed him up in front of everyone. No wonder he was angry with me.
Chapter Ten
I’m speaking to my mother on the phone. I rang her in the hope of arranging an opportunity for us to meet up and talk properly, for me to unburden my heart to her. But she doesn’t sound her usual cheerful self, her voice cool and distant, filled with reproach, so I fall at the first fence and don’t even dare ask her. She comes straight to the cause of her grievance. ‘Have you and Jo-Jo been at it again?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘She tells me you’ve had another falling out, that you put the phone down on her the other day. Cut her off in the middle of a sentence.’
‘Oh that, no of course I didn’t cut her off. We must have got disconnected, I’ve no idea how it happened.’ I certainly have no intention of going into the details of my married life with my mother.
‘And you couldn’t ring her back later?’
‘I got caught up making Oliver’s dinner and I forgot. What’s the big deal anyway? We had lunch with them on Sunday and . . .’
‘. . . you upset her again. I’ve heard all about that too; how you were going to wear your scruffy jeans until Oliver persuaded you to change into something more appropriate. Can’t you show a little tact and respect for your only sister?’
‘I didn’t want to overdress because she hates me to look better than she does, particularly when she’s fat and pregnant.’
‘I hope you didn’t say that to her.’
‘Of course I didn’t, what do you take me for? And they weren’t my scruffy jeans, they were a perfectly decent pair, and a lovely new top. What is this, attack Carly week?’
I hear my mother give one of her loud, disapproving sniffs. ‘No doubt you were still in a huff over your last falling out.’
Somewhere, at the back of my head, an alarm bell is ringing. Has all this stuff come from Jo-Jo? Surely Oliver wouldn’t speak to my parents on the subject, let alone try to put me in the wrong yet again, not after all we’ve been through recently. Since I came home everything has seemed to be fine between us. We didn’t talk exactly, as he’d promised we would, but we’re reconciled and trying again to make our marriage work. I would just like some help, some advice. I strive to ignore my concerns, try to convince myself this has definitely come from Jo-Jo. My sister loves nothing more than a good moan.
Mum is in full lecture mode. ‘I won’t have my two girls in a constant state of warfare, particularly when Jo-Jo is carrying. You know how uptight and emotional she gets when she’s pregnant. Can’t you show a little consideration?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling instantly guilty, realising this is a fair point. ‘I really didn’t intend to upset her. We were having fun and being silly and it all got a bit out of hand.’
‘So I believe. Oliver tells me you were somewhat the worse for wear, and after drinking too much wine you had a temper tantrum and broke some of your best crockery, which was given to you as wedding presents. Really Carly, what is going on in your head these days? Can’t you exercise a little more restraint and control?’
‘When did Oliver tell you this?’ I’m appalled, instantly guessing that the alarm bells were right.
‘Does it matter? At least he feels able to pop in the shop and share his concern over your selfish behaviour. Get a grip, girl, for goodness sake! You don’t know how lucky you are to have such a gorgeous, charming man like Oliver.’
How can I begin to explain that this whole, stupid situation was manipulated by my darling husband, whom she thinks is God’s gift to mankind? He’s the one who objected to my visiting my sister in the first place, who pulled the plug on her call, and refused to join in the fun over lunch. He’s the one who checks my petrol gauge, steals money from my purse and accuses me of over-spending, hides my car keys I shouldn’t wonder when I think I’m going mad because I can’t find them. I work my socks off to make him feel happy and well cared for, try to understand his problems, and all he does is thump me and be obsessively jealous over some imaginary lover he’s dreamed up out of nowhere. Mum would never believe the half of it, were I to tell her the whole truth. Nor would I in her shoes. It sounds too contrived, too incredible.
She’s still talking, going on and on at me. ‘Oliver insists that you’re over-stressed, working too hard, and I’m beginning to see he might have a point. Get in a few early nights and stop gallivanting all over the place with that Emma, or whatever it is you two get up to at the end of day’s work. You’re a married woman now, not some silly young girl on a night out.’
I don’t respond to this, but I can see that Oliver has put a spin on my innocent socialising with Emma too. No doubt also accusing me of being an incipient alcoholic. What is there to say in my own defence that Mum would believe? I wearily change the subject and ask about Gran and Grandad. I offer to pop over and see them later in the week, apologise for my recent neglect. ‘And I promise not to upset Jo-Jo again, not while she’s pregnant anyway. Honest!’
‘Family is important,’ she sternly reminds me. ‘If you don’t keep in touch with people, or treat them properly, you lose them. Even your nearest and dearest.’
‘Yes, Mum. Take care. Love you,’ and I manage to get off the line without actually cutting her off mid-sentence, but also avoiding a more lengthy lecture, which must be a first. I see that my hand is shaking as I put down the phone. What is happening to me? Why does my life seem to be turning upside down? Why am I always the one in the wrong?
The following weekend Oliver and I enjoy a pleasant evening with his parents. They always make me feel most welcome and I try to imagine how these two lovely, kind people who clearly adore their only son and are supremely proud of his success in the financial world, could ever have abused him. It doesn’t seem possible. The very idea of his elegant, gentle mother lifting a strap to her son is beyond belief.
Oliver tells them how happy we are, how he’d do anything for me, and what a wonderful life we have together. It’s like listening to the story of someone else’s life, not mine.
‘Of course she works far too hard,’ Oliver gently chides me. ‘Don’t you think she looks tired, Mother, and a tad overweight? I suspect she grazes on junk food throughout the day.’
I’m privately appalled that he should think me fat, but manage not to show it. I give a sheepish smile and admit there may be some truth in the latter charge at least. ‘My excuse is that I need to keep my energy up for all the physical work I do.’
His mother Grace insists I look lovely, as always.
‘She’s not in the least bit overweight, Oliver, so don’t be unkind. In fact, quite the reverse. I’d say you’ve lost weight since the wedding, my dear. Never still long enough to keep any flesh on you, I should think. Is Oliver being a pain, expecting to be waited on hand, foot and finger? You really mustn’t let him, must she, Jeffrey?’ She nudges her husband, who grunts something incoherent and keeps on eating his curry.
Oliver smiles. ‘I’m only too glad to do my bit. We’re a great team, aren’t we, darling? And I must say she’s getting much better in the kitchen. I can’t praise her enough for the effort she’s put into learning how to cook. Although she still sometimes dashes off and does something else, forgets to keep an eye on the clock and dries food to a crisp,’ Oliver says with a sad shake of his head. ‘The beef last Sunday was tough, her Yorkshire puddings didn’t rise and her custard curdled. She can’t even make a simple quiche.’
Will I never live that down? I
manage a stiff smile and swear I’ll never make another as long as live. I also privately vow to buy frozen Yorkshire puddings in future. Hopefully he won’t notice the difference. Grace, his sweet, gentle mother whom I already like enormously, leans close and whispers in my ear that in the first months of her own marriage, she burned everything, including the toast.
‘I hardly had a decent pan left, did I?’ she teasingly reminds her husband.
‘Practically burned the house down once,’ he placidly replies, helping himself to a second slice of delicious home baked apple pie.
‘Give her time, Oliver dear. You’ve only been married a few months. She’s new to the job, and a busy lady with her own business to run. Cooking takes practise, though I could lend you a splendid, easy-to-follow recipe book, dear, if you like.’
I politely accept even though my cupboard is already stuffed with similar culinary bibles intended to simplify this mysterious art.
Oliver leans over and gives me a kiss. ‘Not that I care what she does with my food, or the house. I don’t care if she burns everything to a crisp, or if she can’t put proper creases in my trousers, I absolutely adore her, and to prove it I’m taking her away for a few days holiday.’
I look at him in surprise, stunned as much by this unexpected defence of me as this startling news. ‘Taking me where? You never said anything to me about this.’
He looks mightily pleased with himself as he laughingly taps me on the nose with one teasing finger. ‘I was keeping it as a surprise. Don’t you think she deserves a little spoiling, Mum?’
Grace smiles with soft approval. ‘I do indeed. A holiday is exactly what you need Carly, after such a busy season. Where are you taking her Oliver, or is that a surprise too?’
He smiles right into my eyes and my heart flips over, just as it used to.
‘Paris, where else?’
‘Oh, Oliver,’ and I wrap my arms about his neck and kiss him. Maybe our little talk has helped more than I realised.
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