by S. E. Lynes
He closed my head in his hands and kissed me on the nose. “You’re amazing. You get it, don’t you?” With a comic old man groan, he turned away and got up. Rearranging his boxer shorts, as he always did, he wandered towards the bedroom door. He was whistling happy birthday.
We never celebrated Isla’s first birthday. My God, it’s hard to keep hindsight out of this, it’s nigh on impossible.
TWENTY-ONE
Having agreed not to invite anyone to Isla’s birthday party, I asked if I could invite Red and Val over again, as a compromise. Initially reluctant, once he’d agreed, Mikey’s enthusiasm bordered on the evangelistic. Not only did he offer to cook – I was only too delighted to let him – but, before I knew it, he’d ordered a rotary barbecue affair for the back garden and a whole rabbit from a butcher in Banchory. I couldn’t help but laugh when he announced all this the moment he got home – like a kid with big news.
“Bloody hell,” I said. “You never do things by halves, do you?”
The day came. It was the middle Saturday of his time at home. I was happy to get out into the garden and prepare the fire, which I did in the very early evening. It was – well, it was fun.
“We need red-hot embers,” I told him, once I’d got the fire going, finding him in the kitchen with his chef’s pinny on. I went over to where he was standing at the counter, put my arms around his waist and laid my head on his back. “You know, to roast the poor, innocent beast.”
But he didn’t hear. Headphones on, too busy doing things with rosemary and cider marinades. I left him to it, singing Bright Eyes at the top of my lungs, and carried Isla upstairs to bed.
And this is where I have to stop. I have to stop what I’m telling you and say this.
Had I known that this was to be the last happy moment of my life, the last time I would ever feel safe, or loved, or like I even had a home, I would have made sure I lived that moment second by precious second. I would have held Isla for longer. I would have sung her one more song. I would not have been impatient to get back downstairs and start the party. I would not have rushed her to bed. In fact, if I’d had any control over the world, over time and space and the cosmos, I would have stayed upstairs, closed my eyes and held onto her forever.
So.
I was still on the landing when I heard Valentina’s voice, the conspiratorial sound of her throaty chuckle.
The two of them were in the hallway. I saw them from halfway down the stairs. She was standing close to him, her hand laid flat on his chest, her left foot kicked up behind her. She was giggling. I remember that most of all. Her, giggling.
The cloudy feeling in my gut returned. No, I thought. No. But what I knew was: yes.
All that had gone before came back in one wordless rush and, as the air left me, I gripped the bannister tight. My husband and my best friend were not the casual acquaintances they claimed to be, not any more. They were something much more intimate, something that violated me, that ripped the heart from my entire life. Did I have it as clear as that in my mind? Not in that moment. The knowing was bodily, as it had always been, only now that knowing came stronger, filling me up with a kind of white heat.
“Hello,” I said. I was still polite. Still friendly. Still holding onto the bannister for dear life.
Why, I have no idea. Conditioned response, maybe, of a working-class girl brought up to be nice, or maybe I was simply newly and badly injured, bleeding out, waiting for the pain to start. “What are you two up to?”
Valentina swung round to face me, all smiles. “Hey, babe. Michael reckons he’s burning a bunny in the backyard.”
“Nice alliteration.” Is it possible I could have said that? I remember myself saying it. I was on the bottom stair, one foot in the hallway with no idea how I had got there. I could feel my legs trembling and wondered if she could see. Upstairs, Isla’s wind-up toy plinked its plastic lullaby. “Where’s Red?”
She threw up her hand in a stop sign and rolled her eyes. “The bastard double booked. Frickin’ idiot. I am so furious with him right now I can’t even go there. He was meant to book the babysitter and he couldn’t even manage that. I’ve had to bring Zac with me, I hope you don’t mind. He’s in the living room, out for the count.”
“Let me get you some of the wine Val brought,” said Mikey. “It’s sparkling Shiraz. It’s red but you serve it cold, apparently.”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” I took the drink, drank half a glass in one go.
“Wow,” said Mikey. “You were thirsty. We haven’t even toasted.”
I held up my glass, meeting Mikey’s gaze. “To you, my darling, love of my life. To us.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Valentina.
A loaded silence lowered like mist. Or maybe not – maybe it was just me, my own private mist, my own loaded silence.
Mikey headed out into the garden, saying he had to turn the rabbit. Valentina helped me fetch the salads from the fridge. She was chatting about something – it hardly matters what. I could hear the interrogative rise of her Australian accent, see out of the corner of my eye her languid, confident movements, her arms reaching out when she spoke, her teeth, the way her hair moved as one fluid, shining thing. There were baked potatoes in the oven, a French stick on the table. I had set the table that afternoon, for four. A centrepiece posy, cloth napkins, napkin rings. Valentina readjusted the bowl of home-made coleslaw, straightened the glasses, picked at the vegetable crisps.
“This table is awesome,” I heard her say, then, “a real art.” Then, “Homemaker.” And, “Such an eye for detail.”
Charm. That’s what they had in common, her and Mikey. Both funny, both so affectionate, both a little bit irresistible.
“Are you fucking my husband?” I asked her.
She made no reply, moving instead towards the wine bottle, picking it up, pouring wine the colour of pomegranate seeds. I realised I had not said the question aloud.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve left something in the bedroom.”
I ran upstairs. Breath catching in my chest, I rummaged around in my bedside table for a packet of tissues. I began to cry. I cried silently, suppressed the gasps that I knew would be heard downstairs. I can think of no reason now for wanting to spare them the sound of me crying beyond not wanting to spoil the evening.
My iPhone was on the bedside table. On the screen, the WiFi signal indicated half strength. Had I ever tried to connect up here in the bedroom? It was possible I hadn’t. I usually kept my phone in the kitchen – if I came upstairs during the day it was only to change Isla. I thumbed my way into my email account and watched twelve little white envelopes download. All of them junk, apart from one, from Jeanie, with an attachment. I checked my text messages – there was one from her – sent that afternoon at 5:13pm.
Check your email now.
I opened Jeanie’s email. It said:
FYI. Finally found a picture of Georgia
Smyth-Banks aka Wendy. Got in touch
with the photographer from the parish
newsletter and he had some head shots.
Stroke of luck, eh?
Recognise her at all?
J xx
I downloaded the attachment. I opened the attachment. It was the face and shoulders of a woman with long blonde hair – or rather, a wig – in ringlets. She was wearing a blue dress with a white old-fashioned collar. She was caked in the same dreadful orangey foundation Mikey had worn the first time I met him but her eyes were bare of make-up, her white eyelashes barely visible, her face almost unrecognisable because of that. But her canine tooth caught on her bottom lip and that, yes, I did recognise. It was a photo of Georgia Smyth-Banks. It was a photo of Wendy.
It was a photo of Valentina.
I sat down on the bed.
I got up.
I was about to be sick. The urge became a need. Heaving, I ran into the bathroom and retched into the loo. I was gasping for air, my knuckles white on the toilet seat. I stood, dipped my f
ace under the tap and drank some cold water, let the water run then over my forehead. I gripped onto the sides of the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin grey. I looked older than I was, much, much older.
I walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. I sat on the bed and read the email again. When I had confronted Mikey about the letter, about Georgia, he had told me what a shock that must have been for me. Jeanie called you and dropped that bomb, something like that, he’d said. But I hadn’t told him how I’d found out. I had not mentioned Jeanie. And the only person who knew about the letter, apart from Jeanie, was Valentina.
“No,” I said, my voice high and strange. “No.”
From the garden, I heard her laugh. I looked at the photo. I wanted so badly for it not to be her but there was no room for doubt. Her eyes were big when made up heavily in black but in the photo, without black paint to define them, they were small, almost beady.
The woman in my garden with Mikey was Georgia Smyth-Banks, his former lover. No, not former. His lover. The two of them had rekindled their relationship right under my nose. She, she had not sent someone to come and check me out. She had come to check me out herself, had come into my house not to meet me, but to meet him. Again. Disappointed with her own lacklustre husband, she had come here to seduce mine, to lure him back into her bed, her life. That – that was why, when he had come home early and found her here, he had collapsed. It had not been a heart attack, it had not been flu, it had been shock. She had not been shocked. She had walked slowly across the kitchen floor, put a paper bag to his mouth and told him to breathe.
And then? And then later he had gone to her. Of course. He had not left his wallet in the office. He had gone to her. That’s when it must have started. But how could he even think about doing that to Isla and me? How could he risk us and everything we had together? The Mikey I knew would never do such a thing. I did not know him. Who was he?
And what now? What the hell happened now?
I stood. My legs shook so much I had to lean against the wall for support, trace my way out of the bedroom like that. I was crying, I think, my breath was ragged, my insides in flames. One hand tight around the handrail, I lowered myself onto the first stair. Then the second. My legs were shaking too much to continue. I was not sure I could go down without falling. I gripped the handrail with two hands and stepped sideways, got two feet onto the third step. The fourth. Slowly, I reached the bottom. Mikey and Valentina – whoever they were – were still outside. I could hear the crackle of the rabbit, smell the aromatic flesh as it cooked. I reached the back door. They were chatting in low voices by the brazier, at ease with one another. Of course. They had put on their coats against the chill of the February night.
I went out, pulled my cardigan around me. It was cold. A midnight-blue darkness had fallen. Above the glowing coals, the rabbit hung from the pole, tied on by its paws. It looked like it was clinging on for dear life. One sharp knife to the string and it would drop into the fire.
“What have you done?” I asked them. I had my phone in the palm of my hand.
They looked at me, both of them, but it was her I was looking at.
“Why? Because you can, is that it? Because you’re free and easy and you teach yoga?”
“Shona?” Her voice was edged with caution, her head cocked a little to one side. “What is this? Are you all right?”
I took a step nearer, held the phone out in front of me. “Because you’re not bogged down in his crappy domestic life? Because you never have to ask him to take out the rubbish, is that it?”
“Shona.” She took a step towards me, her brow furrowed – the image of concern.
“Because you and he never have to be that couple?” I was shouting, my voice chaos. I turned to Mikey. “Because you’ve got me to raise your child, haven’t you, while you two fuck in hotels? Like dogs shitting on the pavement – because they’re animals and they don’t care who steps in it?” I lunged forward, prodded him hard in the chest, stepped back, afraid of the tremor of murderous violence I could feel rising within myself. I met her eye. “Do you dress up? What do you do, fuck him on his lunch break? Because you can do that, can’t you, while I’m here looking after his child? Looking after yours too, eh? Oh God! Private yoga session? No wonder you have to take a shower before you come back. I bet you’re dynamite in the sack, aren’t you? I bet you can get your feet behind your head, you treacherous bitch.”
“Shona, stop.” She was a metre away – her face still composed, almost questioning.
Mikey stood, impassive, a little behind her.
“It’s weird,” I said. “You both look like human beings. Legs, arms ... the resemblance is uncanny. But you’re not ... you’re not are you? You’re monsters.” I began to laugh. My nose was running, I wiped it with the back of my hand. “What am I saying? You don’t even teach yoga, do you? I can’t get my facts straight, great journalist I am. You’re not a yoga teacher. You’re Georgia. You’re a geologist.” I pointed behind her, to Mikey, but did not look at him. “You took a job up here so you could wheedle your way back into his life and steal him back, is that right? You came to the nursery. My God, I thought ... but no, that was before he left his wallet ... that was before ... you even said you were there to check out the competition.” I dropped forward, rested my hands on my knees. I was panting. I couldn’t see. Only darkness, my feet no more than shapes. “That wasn’t a coincidence at all. You knew I was going there because he told you.”
“Shona, listen to me.” I heard her say.
I forced myself to stand up. My head spun, I staggered, laughing, regained my balance. I was still laughing, I couldn’t stop. “You can drop the Aussie accent now, I think.” My God, I could hardly speak for laughing. “I think the time for play-acting is finished, don’t you, Wendy, Georgia, Valentina, whoever the fuck you are?”
“Shona, stop this.” Mikey came forward now, out of the shadows, his face pale in the light from the kitchen window. He still had his drink in his hand. Sparkling Shiraz, a red you serve cold.
“Don’t you say a word,” I said to him. “Your words mean nothing. They’re just – they’re just noise.” I turned back to her, seeing and hating her supercilious expression, hating her hair, her teeth, hating everything about her. I stepped forward and slapped her with all my might in the face. With a shriek, she staggered backwards. Mikey caught her in his arms.
“Shona, please,” he said. “Let’s go inside. Let’s talk about this properly. Let’s work this out.”
I looked at him then, met his eye, saw worry. Was that all? Worry?
“Talk about it? Aye, right, that’d be nice. She followed you here and seduced you. Must’ve been nice having someone go a bit crazy for you, turn up at your house, make friends with your wife, stalk you into having them back? Big thrill, was it, having a bit on the side?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Not like what? You said ...” My vision blurred. My chest hurt. I could taste snot running into my mouth, down the back of my throat. I wasn’t laughing now, not any more. “You said we were your home. Me and Isla. You said that the other day.” I lunged forward and grabbed Valentina by the chin, held it tight. But I was still looking at Mikey. “Offer you a hot date, did she? We can all do that, you know, when someone else is cleaning the fucking house.”
Mikey pushed me off her, held me back, his hand against my neck. “Look, Shona, calm down. Let’s talk about this properly, like grownups.”
“Grownups?” My chest filled, emptied. “I’m the only grownup here. I’m the only one who knows I can’t have everything. Only six-year-olds expect to have everything at once.”
Valentina – my God, I was still calling her that in my head – held up her hands. “Shona, please, calm down and listen to us.”
Her accent knocked the breath out of me. Pure home counties, cut-glass, straight from Merchant Ivory.
I wanted to hit her. I wanted to tear her hair out, thum
p the white teeth from the lush mouth. I could not push aside the thought of her, naked, with him, her flesh on his, hours after, or maybe minutes before or after he had been that way with me.
“I won’t calm down,” I said, my voice shaking. “How can I calm down? Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? You’ve taken away my whole life. So you’re fed up with your husband, so you want mine, is that it? Or is it more? You want to trade? Red for Mikey? So he can come and look after you and your child – make a better job of it than your pothead record-peddling shitty loser husband?”
“It’s his child,” she said, stepping forward.
“What?”
“Zac is Michael’s child.”
She took a step nearer. In her face I saw no remorse, only something superior, almost sneering: victory.
“Georgie, stop,” said Mikey, grabbing her arm, pulling her back.
“But he’s mine.” I was pointing at Mikey – as if no one could see him but me. “He’s my home. He’s my life. He’s mine.”
“I’m afraid he’s mine,” she said. “If we’re talking possession here. He’s my husband, Shona. In law. We’re married.”
I looked from her to him. He had covered his forehead with his hand, stepped back into the shadow – all I could see clearly were the ends of his shoes.
My mouth filled with a sour taste.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “How can that even be possible? When would he have time? He works offshore, for Christ’s sake.”
“Again, no, Shona,” she said. “I really think Michael’s right. I think we should go inside and sit down and discuss this like adults.”
“I’m fine standing right here.”
“All right.” She tipped her chin back. “Shona? I want you to listen carefully. Michael lives with me. He works with me. We’re married. We have a son together, Zachary, who you know as Zac.”
“Georgie, please,” said Mikey, stepping out, striding forward, taking her arm once more.
