‘You must think of Katie, think of what’s best for her. If Oliver truly regrets what he’s done, there’s no reason why your marriage shouldn’t recover. You may be able to find it in your heart to forgive him.’
I can hardly take in what he’s saying to me, hardly see him for my tears. Of course, I’ve said nothing about the other problems in my marriage, not a word about how Oliver treats me, by now buried so deep that the doors against it are shut so tight. I’m quite incapable of opening them and speaking about this to anyone. I’m too conditioned to keeping it a secret, too well trained, almost brain-washed into silence.
‘But I need your help,’ I beg him. ‘I need you to talk to Oliver. Maybe you can make him see sense, make him understand that he’s destroying everything we ever had together.’ I suppose I’m clinging to the fragile hope that my dad, who’s always been my hero, can somehow resolve all my problems with a bit of straight talking. I seem to expect him to do this without even knowing the whole sordid story. Madness, I know, but I’m not thinking clearly.
A part of me still longs to save my marriage, to make it happy and joyous as I’d once dreamed it would be, as my parents’ marriage is. Another part of me is no longer in denial, sees only the reality and wants to run as far away as humanly possible from this mess, if only I could find a safe place to run to.
Dad is reluctant to interfere but promises that he’ll help in any way he can. He agrees that he and Mum will call this evening, and we’ll talk through what is best to be done.
If I’d hoped that a family discussion would put everything right and my loving parents would provide me with the support I need, then I’m soon to be bitterly disappointed.
I don’t mention to Oliver that they’re coming until the last possible moment, afraid of what his reaction might be. Needless to say I’m right to be concerned. He’s furious to learn that I’ve discussed his affair with my parents and has great difficulty in restraining his anger.
‘How dare you ask them over without even checking with me first?’
I look at him, my eyes blank. ‘Did you ask me if you could have an affair?’
Oliver takes control of the meeting from the start. While I put on the kettle and make tea he gets in first with his defence. I can hear him saying how sorry he is, how filled with remorse, that he never meant this to happen. He’s explaining how we were having a few problems and everything got on top of him. He sounds so genuine even I begin to wonder if this can be true. Did I neglect him, was that why he looked elsewhere? Oliver has a way of making me doubt even my own name.
I carry the tea through and Mum casts me one of her ‘What have you been doing now?’ sort of looks. I ignore her, pour the tea and pass round the cups. I’ve steeled myself to face this meeting and I’m quite certain I was right to ask for their help. I have every faith that Dad can put things right for me, as if by magic. I need someone on my side, and who better than my own parents?
But I have to admit it’s not looking good. Everyone seems edgy and uncomfortable as we all sit politely sipping tea, except for Oliver who is striding about the room in an agitated fashion, constantly running a hand through his hair. He looks very much like a man at the end of his tether.
‘I’ve tried so hard to make our marriage work,’ he’s saying. ‘But everything I do is wrong. I seem to have no importance in her life. All Carly cares about is her job, not me, not the house, not spending time together as a proper loving couple should, just her precious job. I don’t mind confessing that the drinking was the worst, the lowest point so far. Never in a million years had I imagined that my lovely Carly would turn into a wino, practically an alcoholic, smashing crockery, having hysterics, arguing with the police . . . ‘
‘The police?’ Dad is shocked. ‘I knew nothing about any police.’
My mouth has fallen open but Oliver is all conciliatory. ‘It’s all right, Ken, I took the blame. I fobbed them off, let them think I was the one who’d had too much to drink, not her.’
‘For goodness sake,’ I say, unable to hear any more. ‘This is all absolute nonsense, I . . . ‘
Oliver interrupts with something very like a sob. ‘You see how she denies all responsibility. Carly seems to imagine she can behave exactly as she pleases and it really doesn’t matter how much she hurts me.’ He gives me one of his anguished, loving glances. ‘You know how I absolutely adore her, how I’d do anything for her. She is my life!’
I begin to feel a dreadful predictability about this entire discussion. Mum is hanging on to his every word, Dad still hesitating to get involved, perhaps sensing something isn’t quite right, but not sure what. He’s clearly embarrassed and I can see he’s wishing he were anywhere but in my lounge discussing the intimate details of my marriage. He looks at me as if for some sort of clue, but I’m not sure how to react. Doesn’t he see that it’s all lies, that this whole performance is a sham?
Oliver goes to sit next to Mum on the sofa and she gently pats his shoulder. ‘I know I’ve made terrible mistakes, Viv, but I couldn’t bear the way Carly ignored me. She’s been completely obsessed with the baby. She rarely even acknowledges my presence much of the time.’
Mum gently points out that all new mums are like this. ‘It’s fairly normal behaviour but it passes in time, I do assure you, when the child starts to get stroppy.’ Another of her fierce glares comes my way, and I see that this is all going terribly wrong, that I’m the one on the rack here, not Oliver.
‘I do see that now,’ he says, as if making a confession. ‘And I realise that having an affair was a childish, stupid reaction. It was very wrong of me, but is it any wonder I was tempted with the way she’s been behaving? I can see that I’ve made things worse between us, not better, but she still imagines she should have the same freedom she enjoyed when she was single. Carly is so stubborn, so obstinate.’
Dad snorts and admits I always was a little madam in that respect, then quietly adds, ‘Some might see obstinacy as a strength. She might be a bit quiet and shy, but she never gives up if things get tough, doesn’t our Carly.’
Thank you, Dad, I think, and manage a small smile but then, perhaps rashly, I decide this may well be the moment to reveal how Oliver has attempted to knock this stubbornness out of me.
‘Maybe that’s the reason he hits me.’
Silence greets this remark, but I’m unrepentant. There, I think, the words are out at last. I’ve said it. I’ve told them the truth. I look at my parents, from one to the other of them and I’m surprised to see no reaction of any kind. They aren’t shocked, aren’t even surprised, and Oliver simply rolls his eyes heavenward, then shakes his head in mock despair.
‘Didn’t I say she’d bring up that old chestnut again. You see how she never lets it drop. Once - once only did I hit her, a little slap, that’s all, and she tripped over a rug and fell and hurt her head. You remember how sorry I was at the time. I called in the shop specifically the following morning to confess and apologise, if you remember. That was when I was upset over her flirting with the waiter,’ he elaborates, just in case they’ve forgotten the exact details. He sounds so reasonable, so genuinely concerned and upset, and I’m amazed to see there are actually tears in his eyes. What a brilliant actor this man is.
‘But will she forgive me? She never stops banging on about that one stupid mistake. Now I’ve made another, and I doubt she’ll forgive me for that either. You see how difficult she is to deal with. No matter how hard I try to please her she’s never satisfied. And you surely must know - Viv, Ken - that all I want is to make your lovely daughter happy?’
There’s much more nauseating stuff along these same lines but I’ve stopped listening. I can see that my parents are drinking it all in, carried along by his evident sincerity. And it’s true, he is very convincing, utterly charming and plausible. Had I not known better, I would have believed him myself. I am swamped with despair and a sensation of complete helplessness.
‘You made a bad error of judgement,’ Dad tells
him. ‘It’s one thing to look at other women, enjoy the view as it were, but quite another to get involved with one.’ He turns to me then and asks if I’m prepared to forgive Oliver and try again. ‘Do you want this marriage to survive, Carly?
There’s a long awkward silence while I seriously consider the question. The whole room seems to be holding it’s breath. At last I quietly remark that I’m not sure I do. ‘I don’t see how I can go on.’
I see at once how shocked and disappointed my father is. He immediately responds with a lot of spiel about marriage being for life. Dad means well but he’s very old fashioned. He still believes divorce is a shocking thing, viewing it very much as a last resort, a state he doesn’t believe we should have reached so early in our marriage. He’s lecturing me now about pulling together, about give and take. Doesn’t he realise that my husband only takes, and I’m the one who gives, gives, gives? I start to say this but my mother interrupts, sharply reminding me of my marriage vows.
‘You don’t run away when the going gets tough,’ she scolds me. ‘Marriage is for better and for worse.’
‘All I seem to have had so far is the worse,’ I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. ‘I can’t go on like this.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve had a wonderful start to married life, but if things go wrong you have to set to and make them come right, not wallow in self pity. You have to pull together.’
‘I can’t,’ I repeat, like a stuck record. There’s a constriction in my throat, trapping any other words, any further explanation, blocked by the sight of Oliver’s cold grey-blue eyes warning me to tread carefully, that if I say too much, I’ll regret it.
The moment Mum glances up at him, his expression changes to one all innocence and concern. ‘You see how stubborn she is? This is what I have to put up with the entire time.’ He holds out his hands as if in desperate appeal. ‘I don’t believe Carly gives a toss about me. She doesn’t love me any more.’ Then he puts his head in his hands and begins to quietly weep.
‘Oh, Carly,’ Mum says, sounding cross, and puts her arms about Oliver, not me.
I stare at them all, dumbfounded. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to take my side, help me deal with my husband’s betrayal, not lecture me about forgiveness and allow him to accuse me of all manner of stuff. I feel as if the world has gone mad, or I have.
‘He’s lying,’ I gasp. ‘Everything he says is a lie.’
‘Stop it, Carly!’ Dad snaps. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere. You have to look at the reality of life, not some rosy, idealised dream. Stop squabbling, the pair of you, and start talking like adults for a change.’
Oliver smirks, evidently still bent on exercising his considerable charm with my trusting parents, maintaining that this silly little affair has been blown out of all proportion, and they are drinking it all in. ‘It meant nothing, a stupid mistake because we’ve not been getting on too well lately. I’m perfectly willing to try again. I swear Carly is the only woman I have ever loved.’
‘But why haven’t you been getting along?’ Mum asks, genuinely puzzled. ‘What on earth is the problem?’ She fires this question at me, in a tone of voice which doesn’t encourage confidences, let alone the revelation of dark secrets, and I’m seeing now that this entire meeting was a bad idea. I feel as if I’m trapped in a corner, damned if I speak and damned if I don’t. It’s all going wrong and I make one last desperate effort. I mention the unofficial overdraft and my having to go to the bank manager and apologise. I tell them that Oliver stole the money from Katie’s piggy bank.
Dad is appalled. He issues a stern lecture to us both on our immaturity and foolishness, on how selfish we’re being by fighting over money when Oliver has such a good job and must be earning well.
Oliver interrupts. ‘I didn’t steal Katie’s money. Carly is absolutely paranoid. I took it because I fully intend to invest it in a special account in her name.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Mum says, patting his hand.
Only I can tell that he’s lying.
‘He sold my car,’ I cry, but even here Oliver draws their sympathy, launching into a long explanation on how finishing off the house has turned out to be far more expensive than he’d accounted for.
‘I’m sure we’ll recover, but I didn’t think a car for Carly was an important issue right now, not while she’s at home with the baby.’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Mum snaps. ‘I certainly never had a car of my own when I was at home with my babies, and you can always ring an order through to the shop Carly, if you want me to bring anything over, or need a lift into town.’
Now I’m being made to seem greedy, like a spoiled child, when all I want is a little independence and consideration. My parents both come from working class backgrounds, have known hard times, including a recession in the early nineties when their business very nearly went under, so my complaints seem trivial by comparison.
The men are talking among themselves but I’ve stopped listening. Mum is still ranting on at me, telling me how I should appreciate my good fortune, be grateful for having such a beautiful baby and really shouldn’t have any problems at all.
I know that I’ve lost. They want me to sweep my problems under the carpet, forgive Oliver for the affair, accept my lot, and get on with life. They believe I have a romanticised view of the world, should grow up and stop expecting everything to be perfect. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do expect too much. Maybe this is how life is for everyone.
‘Life is messy,’ Dad sternly informs me. ‘Accept that fact.’
‘What you both need is a break,’ Mum informs us. ‘You haven’t been away anywhere together since that weekend in Paris when you got pregnant. Why don’t you go for a lovely holiday by the sea, with little Katie. It’s time you learned to be a family.’
Oliver actually kisses my mother on the cheek, which must be a first. ‘Viv, you’re a treasure. That’s a wonderful idea. Why don’t we do that, Carly?’
Dad is beaming, as if he has single-handedly saved the world, or our small part of it at least.
What more can I say? It’s hopeless. They think Oliver is genuine in his remorse, that he is desperately sorry and still loves me, that the sun shines out of his arse.
To be fair, they remain blithely unaware that there has been far more violence than that single slap he so conveniently confessed to, and which supposedly caused me to trip and fall over the rug. Even that incident was far worse than the tale he told them, let alone how badly his violence has escalated since. But they don’t believe a word I say, so why waste my breath? They’ve been won over completely by his charm, as per usual, and any shreds of courage I managed to dredge up to face this meeting have long since evaporated. I’m rapidly withdrawing into myself again, falling back into my depression, quite incapable of opening that particular Pandora’s Box. I want only to run away and hide.
Unfortunately, hiding isn’t an option. Oliver shows them politely out of the door, shaking Dad firmly by the hand and giving Mum a warm hug. Once they’ve gone, he switches off all the lights and with a silent jerk of his head, orders me upstairs. I know what is coming, yet am equally certain that there is no escape. Where could I run? Nowhere. There's no support from anyone. I’m on my own.
I’m completely trapped in this living nightmare, so I meekly do exactly as my husband says.
Chapter Eighteen
Where am I going? What am I doing? Why have I agreed to forgive Oliver and try again? I can no longer trust a word my husband says. He lies to me, lies to my parents, is a cheat, a bully and a total control freak. Yet I’m trapped. Right now I can’t think of any feasible alternative. I’m beyond hope, so sunk in misery and depression I can’t think at all, although the future terrifies me. I’m haunted by his betrayal, blame myself entirely. If I’d been a good wife to him instead of being so hopeless at everything, so useless and unattractive, perhaps he wouldn’t have felt the need to look elsewhere.
‘I would never have looked at another woman had you and I been getting along as we should.’
He’s so drummed this into my head, I’ve come to believe it. Nor am I convinced that the affair is over, no matter how much he might claim it to be.
I know that I should give up on our marriage and leave, despite what my parents say, and I tell him so. But he swears that he still loves me, that we can still make it work. He weeps and begs me to give him another chance, tells me how sorry he is that he’s screwed up, how much he needs and depends upon me, how we can still be happy.
As always I end up consoling him, and, despite the small warning voice in my head, find myself promising to stay. I know he’s past master at getting me to feel sorry for him but I’m secretly relieved that I don’t have to step out into the unknown right now. I feel so alone, so vulnerable. Who could I turn to?
Certainly not my unsympathetic family. Oliver has effectively cut me off from them. I’ve really no idea what other lies he may have told them about our problems, what tales he has spun to win their support, but they undoubtedly believe his version of events and not mine. I don’t feel able to argue any more, all the fight has drained out of me. I certainly don’t feel capable of coping on my own, or of making decisions of any sort. It’s all too frightening.
Even if I went to Emma’s, what could she possibly do to help? She would be no match against Oliver’s fierce determination to hang on to me.
I feel so tired, exhausted much of the time, nervous and jumpy, depressed, and really rather ill. I’m deeply ashamed of my own inadequacy but quite incapable of doing anything about it. If I left, I’d be constantly looking over my shoulder, expecting him to appear at any moment and force me to return. He might even take Katie away from me. I know he’s capable of anything.
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