‘The poor man is in pieces.’ Viv handed her a mug of tea. ‘He sounds quite suicidal. He really does regret that silly affair, which he very reasonably points out was over months ago, and he’s desperate not to lose you. At least come and talk to him. Better still, pack your bags, stop being so holier than thou, and go back home and mend your marriage.’
The spell of good weather is over and spring has turned cold and bleak, exactly as I feel. I’m sick of my own company, sick of my unhappy marriage, weary of life in general. I feel totally alone, without any support from anyone, not even my own family.
Most of the time I feel unwell and just get through each day as best I can. I’m suffering from constant headaches, sickness and depression. My periods are erratic, I can’t sleep, can’t eat. I’m having problems with my stomach and sometimes throw up whatever I’ve eaten, and I constantly experience panic attacks, some days feeling quite incapable of even stepping out the door.
I’m lying in the bath now, my face wet with tears as I gently soap my latest collection of bruises. I feel utter despair. I seem to spend my entire life apologising to my husband for my failings, yet I’m quite sure that even if I suddenly turned into Little Miss Perfect, Oliver still wouldn’t be satisfied. There would be something he’d find fault with. Even my apologies irritate him. Nothing I do can ever be right.
He treated my ‘running home to Mum’ as a personal insult; furious I had again showed him up in front of my parents. And, as always, I was duly punished.
‘You’re my wife!’ he shouted at me. ‘You belong to me. I hope you didn’t shoot your mouth off. What we do in our own home is private, and nothing to do with anyone else! You keep schtum, right? You stay here, where you belong, and behave yourself, or you’ll live to regret it. You really wouldn’t like to know what I could do to you if you really pissed me off.’
He has me by the throat while he’s saying all of this, shaking me till my teeth chatter in my head.
I don’t have the strength to argue with him, to point out that I’m not a possession, like his car, his mobile phone, or his lap top. In fact they probably come first, before me. But I no longer care. I no longer have the energy to stand against him. I’m certainly not capable of properly explaining to anyone what is happening to me. My life is a mess. I am a mess. I’m broken. Destroyed. I truly believe that I am a useless wife and a hopeless mother. I’m no good in bed. I have let myself go. I’m boring and dull, and ugly, quite unworthy of anyone’s love. Not even my own mother cares about me, and my sister is too wrapped up in imagined problems of her own.
They all like Oliver because he appears so charming, so friendly and affable. This morning, being a Sunday, he’s gone to help Dad to clip the hedges. After that Mum will no doubt cook him a snack, despite his already having enjoyed the breakfast I cooked for him earlier, and he’ll butter her up some more with his charm.
But underneath all that glossy good will is a darker, far more cruel and complex personality. He’s nothing but a sham, a complete lie. Oliver likes to be liked. He loves to look good in front of others. I too was once fooled into thinking him a wonderful, caring, attentive and loving man. Even his possessiveness didn’t trouble me, not at first.
I begin to wonder if I love someone who doesn’t exist, who never did exist. I thought I could cure his problems with love and understanding. I can see now that was a false hope.
There is no way I can change him. Oliver’s bad attitude towards me, perhaps towards women in general, is entrenched in him. He sees no reason to change, would deny there was even a problem. He absolutely refuses to accept responsibility for his own behaviour, believing I am the one at fault, that he has the right to treat me as he does, that he is entitled to be so demanding.
He once seemed to like the fact that I was strong and independent, a woman with a mind of my own, with ambitions for my new business. Now he sees me as some sort of threat. He is adamant that he must remain in charge, and in order to achieve that he intimidates me and puts me down all the time. I fantasise sometimes about killing him, or of him being involved in a tragic car accident. I’m always ashamed of such thoughts afterwards, filled with fresh guilt. But I manufacture these evil thoughts because I’m aware of what he is doing to me. I know that he bullies me psychologically, mentally and physically, that I’m powerless to stop him, powerless to escape. Too conditioned to his abuse, too afraid of what else he might do to me.
Sometimes, in my dreams, I feel as if I’m searching for something, trying to find myself: that happy, bubbly, affectionate girl I once was, but she’s gone. She seems to be dead. I can see no way out of this nightmare.
The steam is clearing a little and I notice Oliver’s razor lying on the sink. I reach for it and slip out the blade, hold it in the palm of my hand. It would take very little to end all of this agony, to be free of the beatings, the fear, this feeling of utter worthlessness. A few strokes on each wrist, that’s all. I doubt it would hurt much, no worse than the pain Oliver constantly inflicts upon me. I take the blade between my finger and thumb, press it lightly against the warm damp skin of my wrist.
The telephone starts to ring. I guess that it is Oliver ringing from Mum and Dad’s, checking up on me, making sure that I am where I’m supposed to be, here at home waiting for him. For once I do not rush to answer it. I let it ring. The sound seems to grow louder, echoing in the empty house, filling all the deserted rooms, except that it suddenly occurs to me that the house isn’t deserted. Katie is in her cot, and if I do this she’ll be quite alone, not only in the empty house, but forever.
I drop the razor blade in the soapy bath water, instantly swamped with guilt. What am I thinking of? I have a child now, a beautiful baby. I’m a mother! Who else would love and care for her? Not Oliver. Katie needs me. Katie loves me.
I climb out of the bath shaking with emotion, filled with shame. Whatever the answer is, this isn’t it.
######
Chapter Nineteen
A week or two later I pick up the phone and call Emma. ‘I need to see you. I’ve thought things through and I’ve decided that I don’t want to sell out my share of the agency. I’m thinking of returning to work.’
She comes right over, within the hour, bringing cream cakes as a peace offering, and we hug, and brew coffee, and don’t stop talking for hours as we iron out the details. I have no money, no car, and absolutely no confidence in myself, but I explain about Oliver’s affair, using that as an excuse for me to reassert myself.
‘Is it still going on?’ she asks.
‘I suspect so, although he claims it’s over.’
‘Why don’t you have him followed? Hire a private detective or something.’
I give a bitter little laugh. ‘And pay them with what? That’s half my problem, Em, I have no money of my own. I only have the housekeeping, doled out piece-meal, that Oliver gives me. I couldn’t afford to run a car even if I still had one. I have to do something or I’ll go mad stuck behind these dreadful Venetian blinds. I thought I’d start by working mornings only, if that’s all right with you. Then I can get the bus and be home in good time to pick up Katie and make the evening meal.’
‘I take it your sister is having the baby?’
‘I haven’t asked Jo-Jo yet, but I’m hoping to persuade her.’
‘And Oliver, is he agreeable?’
I try not to meet my friend’s shrewd gaze. ‘I haven’t told him yet either, but I will. This time I’m really determined that I’m coming back to the agency, no matter what he says.’
‘Excellent,’ she agrees, giving a wide smile. ‘About time you stood up to that man. He isn’t God, and you shouldn’t do every damn thing he tells you.’
‘He’s my husband.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake! Look, tell me to mind my own business if you like, but are you sure this is the right solution? You staying with him, I mean.’
‘It seems the best solution for now,’ I coolly reply, making it very clear that I’ve no wish to dis
cuss the private details of my marriage.
Emma frowns. ‘But there are problems, aren’t there? Don’t lie, this is me. I’ve seen the bruises, Carly. I’m not stupid. I think you should talk about this to someone. If not to me, then to a lawyer, or the vicar perhaps?’ She sees me wince, and goes on, ‘Or a marriage counsellor.’
I try to imagine explaining Oliver’s behaviour to a lawyer, doctor or marriage counsellor. The prospect is daunting and quite beyond me right now. ‘I admit we have had some problems but Oliver refuses to consider counselling. He’s already made his views on the subject very plain.’
‘But . . .’
‘When I feel ready to talk, I’ll let you know,’ I tell her, rather curtly.
She sighs. ‘I’ll consider my wrists slapped over that suggestion. I’m your friend, Carly, I’m just concerned about you, that’s all. I want to help.’
I soften a little, and smile. ‘You do help, just by being my friend, and I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am for that. I’m so glad we got over whatever it was that created a wedge between us.’ There’s silence for a moment as we both privately acknowledge it was Oliver who did that, somehow managing to drive us apart for a while. I decide this isn’t the moment to go into this facility he has for controlling me, or for being two faced and telling lies. I clear my throat and stoutly go on. ‘But it would be better – safer – for me, if you didn’t get involved. Making a scene with my husband tends to have rather a – a negative affect.’
‘I see.’ She’s looking very sombre. ‘I’m sticking my neck out here, but you know you can always come and stay with me. You still have that spare key.’
I inwardly cringe as I remember the occasion when I attempted to use it. What good did that do me? None at all. Oliver always manages to get the upper hand. ‘I really don’t think that’s the answer. Right now I’ve forgiven him for the affair and we’re giving our marriage another try.’ I fish the key out of my bag while I say this and put it on the table where we both stare at it. ‘Take it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m certain.’
Reluctantly she slips the key into her bag, and a bleakness swells inside me as I watch one possible escape route vanish.
But I’m way past talking about my problems now, can’t allow myself to indulge in self-pity. Perhaps because I’ve come to accept Oliver’s behaviour as normal, a part and parcel of life that I’ve learned to deal with. Even the police would term the problem as only a domestic. I remember how the two police constables were easily put off by his excuses when they were called to the house in answer to a neighbour’s complaint. They automatically believed him and not me.
Emma is the only one on my side, and I can see by her face that she doesn’t believe I’m doing the right thing. I shrug, indicating that I need to give it one last shot. ‘I have Katie to think of. I can’t risk losing her. I’d prefer not to talk about this right now, if you don’t mind. Let’s concentrate on business, shall we?’ I tuck my legs under me and curl up in a corner of the sofa, turning in on myself again, as if trying to escape from reality.
‘Talking might help,’ she persists, looking seriously concerned. When I say nothing more, she sighs and gives in. ‘Okay, when you’re ready, let me know. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do, anything at all . . .’
‘I need to rebuild: myself, my life. . . I need you to help me do that. I just want you to agree to my returning to work.’
‘Absolutely! That’s fine. I’d be delighted to have you back, Carly, you know I would. When can I expect you and what are you going to use for transport?’
‘I shall start as soon as I can fix it up with Jo-Jo-Jo. As for transport, I’m not sure. Initially I’ll have to make do with the bus. One problem at a time, but I’ll manage somehow.’
‘Good for you, girl. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’
The minute Emma leaves I get right on the phone to my sister. It takes some doing but I eventually persuade her to help. Once I make it clear I’ll pay her to mind Katie, she’s all for it. One more baby is neither here nor there, she says, and she could do with the extra cash.
I don’t even ask Oliver his opinion on the matter but simply inform him of my decision. I prepare myself for a row, for the usual battering, but he says nothing. Not that we do talk much these days. There doesn’t seem to be much left to say.
My mother is scathing and deeply critical of my decision, issuing yet another long lecture on the responsibility of motherhood. And this from a woman who has worked in the family shop all her married life, paying any number of child minders to care for Jo-Jo and me. Is this her guilt finally coming to the surface, I wonder.
Only my father seems in favour of my decision. ‘I’m glad to hear you’re going back to work. Maybe getting out and about a bit more will bring the colour back into your cheeks, love.’
‘I do hope I can cope.’
‘Of course you’ll cope. Having a baby doesn’t rob you of your motivation to make something of your life.’
Having a controlling husband does, I think.
‘I’ve every faith in you,’ he says, giving me a hug.
‘I know Mum isn’t too happy about my going back to work. She thinks I should stay at home with Katie.’
‘She’ll come round. I’ll work on her. Never forget, you’re still my princess.’
‘Oh Dad, thanks for your support.’ I kiss him and feel quite choked, my throat blocked with tears, and with all the unspoken secrets.
I realise it will be hard parting from my baby even for a few hours each day. Jo-Jo accuses me of fussing too much when I insist she keep careful record in a little book of what she gives Katie to eat. ‘I have some experience in feeding babies and toddlers,’ she caustically remarks.
‘I want to make sure we don’t duplicate anything, that between us Katie gets a properly balanced diet.’
It feels strange to be giving instructions to my sister, professional earth-mother that she is, but I want to do the best I can for my child. I’m suffering enough guilt over leaving her, although I really don’t have a choice. It’s essential that I start to rebuild my life, that I begin to think ahead.
The day arrives and I put on mascara and lipstick, a touch of blusher to each pale cheek. Perhaps Oliver will find me more attractive if I look more like the woman he fell in love with. I worry that I may no longer be able to squeeze into my office suit since having the baby, but it hangs loose on me. I’ve lost more weight than I realised, which worries me a bit.
But then there’s a lot to worry about: whether I can crank up my rusty brain sufficiently to cope with the many tasks demanded of me at the agency, whether I’ll have the confidence to deal with people’s problems with quite the casual ease I used to. I worry whether Katie will be all right without me, and if I can bear to be parted from her.
I almost don’t have the courage to leave the house. I stand in the kitchen with Katie in my arms, her bag of toys and nappies at my feet. I’m breathing hard and my heart is hammering in my chest. I must do this. If I back out now, if I fall at the first hurdle I may never find the strength to go through it all again.
I strap Katie into the buggy, and deliver her to Jo-Jo with yet more instructions till my sister is sighing heavily and shoving me out the door. ‘For goodness sake, Carly, go. Get to work! Katie will be fine.’
My first day turns out to be far less difficult than I feared. Somehow, the moment I sit at my old desk, pick up the phone and start to answer a query from a client, I become a different person. I catch a glimpse of the old Carly, the one with skills at her fingertips, and little by little as the day progresses my confidence slowly builds. This is the way for me to escape, I realise: step by step. I cannot change Oliver, but I can change myself. I have to rebuild my own identity, and not let him know I’m doing it. I’m determined to succeed, alone and without help, if necessary.
There was a time when I was in complete denial over our problems, then I went
through a stage of looking for a reason to explain his behaviour, which I didn’t find. I came to believe that it was all my fault, largely because Oliver drummed this into me over and over again. His constant complaints and criticisms still pound away at my fragile esteem and make me feel more and more worthless.
But failing to achieve Happy Ever After is as much his fault as mine. More so, since he’s the one in charge. I need to regain control of my own life. I must fight this constant downward spiral of guilt. I seem to have lost everything: confidence in myself as an independent woman, belief in my own judgement, even the rights over my own body. I have to lift myself up, out of this perpetual pattern of abuse and depression, and the way to do that is surely to find myself again and put my own needs first.
Then when I have the strength, and everything in place, I can take that last irrevocable step and finally break free.
‘How did it go?’ Jo-Jo asks, as I pick up Katie in the early afternoon.
‘A bit nerve-wracking at first, but it’s going to be okay. I’m glad I’ve made the decision to go back.’
‘You’re fortunate to have the choice,’ Jo-Jo acidly remarks, unable to resist a barb.
Katie, she assures me, settled very quickly and never noticed I was gone. My daughter apparently played happily with her cousin Molly, ate her lunch without difficulty and enjoyed a short nap. I experience a pang of fresh guilt but I swallow it whole.
‘See you tomorrow,’ I call, as I walk away, optimism warming my heart for the first time in months. It feels good. Hope is reborn.
‘So, madam has decided to return to work, apparently in need of more money, more stimulation, whatever, and is now filled with guilt. Serve the silly mare right,’ Jo-Jo caustically remarked to her husband.
‘That’s putting it a bit harsh. Why shouldn’t she return to work? You did when we only had the one child,’ Ed responded. He was washing up while Jo-Jo warmed milk for Molly’s bedtime feed, the only bottle left in her day which she was still clinging to and Jo-Jo had no wish to stop.
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