by Carrie Elks
* * *
Life goes on. Max settles back in nursery, I go to work, and I try not to flinch every time he coughs. I don't want to be one of those suffocating mothers who squeal when they see a graze or a scratch. I see them everywhere, fussing and cooing, wrapping their kids in layer after layer, even while the autumn sun still warms the air. I want him to be strong, be free. Grow up to be a man.
It's hard, though. I still jump when my phone rings at work, and shudder when I hear his cries of pain. He's started to pull himself up on everything, and I know it won't be long before he's cruising between furniture.
He's growing up. I love it and I hate it.
One night a couple weeks later, Alex calls me before midnight. I'm wrapped in that cosy blanket between sleep and wakefulness, my voice low and drugged when I answer the phone.
“Hi.” I'm breathy and deep. So relaxed I'm not thinking about the way I come across.
“Babe.” His voice is lower; gravelled and thick. He's winter walks in the wood and smoky bonfires. “Did I wake you?”
“No.” A smile curls into my voice. “I wasn't asleep yet.”
“You in bed, baby?” He sounds like pure seduction. I'm too comfortable to do anything but absorb it.
“Yeah. Under the covers. Nice and snug.”
“Wish I was there with you.”
“I wish you were, too.” I say the first thing that comes to mind, and it's so damn true. I wish a lot of things.
“I want to come home. Look after you.”
I open my eyes. “Alex...”
“I love you, gorgeous. I love our son. Let me come back.” There's the merest of hint of a slur to his voice. The product of no more than a couple of drinks. I can almost smell the beer on his breath, warm and musky. “What's it gonna take?”
It's a fair question. One I've asked myself. Weeks of introspection and I'm still not sure of the answer. I'm the stubborn one, clamming up every time we talk. I know I have to tell him eventually.
“Just give me some time.” It's my familiar refrain. Time and space.
“I will, if you give me a chance.”
A fair exchange? Quite possibly. I can't keep stringing things along, not when there's more than us at stake. It isn't fair on Max to have this indecision over his head. And yet when I squeeze my eyes closed all I can see is that photo. The way his fingers rested on her stomach. Holding her.
Touching her—another woman.
It's like a brick wall between us. One he doesn't even know is there. He's made it clear he wants to be with me, that he wants us back, yet I can't bring myself to wipe the image from my mind. If I was counselling myself I'd look deeper, try to work out the reasons behind my obsession with it. But I'm too tied up with fear, scared to hear the answer. Instead I let it fester like an infected wound.
The more I avoid asking him, the bigger it looms between us. And he doesn't even know.
“I should get some sleep. Good night, Alex.”
“Sleep tight, babe.” I hear the hurt laced in his voice. It makes me want to tell him I'll give him a chance. To offer him a hint of hope. But instead I stay silent, ending the call with a slide of my finger.
Sleep is elusive that night.
* * *
The following day, there’s an emergency at work. A girl holes herself up in the bathroom, threatening to slash her wrists unless social services give her baby back. I spend three hours, leaning against the red-painted door, trying to talk her down.
I fail.
She ends up being blue-lighted to the accident and emergency room, while we all put on protective equipment to clean up the blood. All I can think about is her baby girl.
It doesn’t matter how many times this happens, each occasion makes me want to scream. We’re supposed to be here to help people, and yet there’s still a girl fighting for her life tonight.
By the time Max and I return home to our empty flat I realise there’s only one person I want to talk to, and not about the suicide, either. He’s been honest enough with me, it’s time to lay my cards on the table. To tell him what I’m really thinking.
Putting the kettle on, I warm up Max’s dinner—an elegant concoction of mashed carrot and potato—then I grab my phone and text Alex.
Can you come over tonight?
His reply is as fast as lightning. What time?
If you get here before seven you can put Max to bed.
He arrives at quarter to. While he finishes off the bedtime routine, I clear up the kitchen and pull a bottle of wine out of the fridge, filling two glasses and putting them on the counter. I need some liquid courage for the conversation we need to have. Perhaps Alex does, too.
When he strolls out of the bedroom, carrying a now-empty bottle of milk, I can see contentment softening his features. It’s the same expression I know I have after seeing Max sleeping cosily. The knowledge he’s safe and happy. Protected.
“Everything okay?” I ask, handing a glass to Alex. He raises his eyebrows at the gesture but doesn’t comment on it.
“He’s fast asleep. They must really wear him out at nursery.”
“Thank God,” I laugh out, lightly. “I’m still recovering from the last string of sleepless nights.”
Alex leans on the counter, his arms stretched out in front of him. The tendons in his forearms flex. “How are you doing?”
I take a long, deep sip of cool white wine. “It was a bad day at work. But I’ll be fine.” For now I need to concentrate on Alex. On Max. On finally getting everything out there. Over the past few days I’ve realised that hiding the one thing that’s still niggling at me isn’t only unfair, it’s counterproductive. It’s been weighing on my mind for too long.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
I know he’s referring to work, but I nod anyway. “There’s something I need to show you.”
I already have the laptop out. I’m logged in to Facebook, and am on the group’s fan page. It looks as though it hasn’t been updated since Alex left the tour.
“What’s this?” Alex leans forward, eyes squinting he looks at the screen. “I haven’t seen this before.”
I guess that explains why he didn’t tell me about it.
“Amy found it. She’s been following you all on there.” I click on the photographs. “There’re lots of these.”
Alex doesn’t reply. Simply clicks through the pictures. There’s a smile on his mouth as he looks at them silently, as if he’s reliving the memories. “God, we look a right state,” he finally says, seeing a photo of them all half-asleep, eating breakfast at some diner in the middle of nowhere.
He clicks through a few more, following the progress of the tour in the same way I did weeks ago. With each image he sees, I feel the nervousness build, my stomach churning.
Finally, he comes to the night in Austin, shaking his head when he sees the photographs of him on stage. He’s never really liked seeing pictures of himself, and he scrolls through them furiously, missing the ones of the after-party.
“Go back,” I say, my heart hammering in my chest. He looks at me curiously, but does it anyway, slowly pressing the button on the laptop, until we’re back at the gig. And because the tension is killing me, I lean forward and scroll to the pictures at the bar, starting with the one of Stuart signing a groupie’s tits.
“Typical Stuart,” Alex mutters. “Why the hell did he post that one?”
I click again, and there’s Alex and the girl. This time I can’t bring myself to look at it. I know it intimately, anyway, as I’ve seen it a million times in my head. I could close my eyes and describe the exact position of his hands. The curl to his lip as he grins at her, the way she clings on to his neck.
“You saw this one?” he asks softly.
“Yes.” I can’t look at him. Instead I grab my wine glass and drain it in one gulp.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“That’s what all the guys say.”
There’s a clink as he puts down
his wineglass. Then his hands are on my wrists, pulling me towards him. “It isn’t, Lara. I promise you. I don’t even remember it being taken.”
“Do you remember her sitting on your lap?” My voice is hoarse. I pull away, not wanting to feel him touching me. It’s making it hard for me to breathe.
“No.”
I take a deep breath, finally looking up at him. “Who is she?”
“I’ve no fucking idea. Listen, Lara, I promise you this is only a shitty picture. I haven’t done anything wrong.” He takes hold of my chin, lifting my face up so I’m looking at him. But I can’t stand it, and twist my head away, closing my eyes.
“You let some random woman sit on your lap.”
“It must have been for a millisecond. No more than that. I’d never do something to hurt you.”
“But you did. You did hurt me.”
Agitated, he starts to pace. “Listen, you can blame me for the smoking, you can blame me for not sorting out my fucking phone. Hell, you can blame me for not getting to the hospital fast enough. But not this. I’d never cheat on you, you know that.”
It’s true. I nod my head. “I do.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
“Because it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back,” I tell him. “After everything else, I had to see that. And it doesn’t make me feel any better when you tell me you don’t even remember it, because it just about broke my heart.”
“But I didn’t do anything.” He sounds hurt. When I finally bring myself to look at him, Alex is standing in front of me, staring down. “You’re not being fair.”
By this point, I’m not even sure what is fair anymore. Even though I hoped this would make me feel better, showing him the picture has only inflamed the situation.
“You were so trashed you can’t even remember a girl sitting on your lap.” I lean back against the counter, putting space between us. “That sort of makes it worse. How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because I’ve been in love with you for the past seven years and I’d never do anything to endanger that.” His voice is firm, almost angry. “To suggest otherwise is pretty fucking insulting.”
“But if you don’t remember what you did…” My voice trails off.
“I could be comatose and I wouldn’t do that. Jesus, Lara.”
“But how do you know?” I persist. Because I need to hear this. I need to know that nothing happened.
He’s glaring at me, and I’m glaring right back. Neither of us moves; the only sound in the room is our heavy breath and the ticking of the kitchen clock. I curl my fingers around the edge of the counter, trying to ground myself, to cling on. My heart beats in time to the second hand and I wait, wondering what’s next.
“You really think I’d cheat on you?” he finally asks. The hurt expression hasn’t left his face.
“No.” My reply is as soft as his. “But I do think it shows you weren’t thinking of me at all. How would you feel if the tables were turned?”
His eyes flash with anger. “Murderous.”
“Then you know how I feel. It’s another symptom, like the weed and the phone.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I can’t argue that one. But I can tell you I’m trying to make up for it.”
I know he is—he’s been trying to make up for it for weeks. I’ve let him, allowing him to call me, send me flowers. Giving him hope we’ll regain what we’ve lost. But this one’s all on me, and I know it. I need to get over it, to stop dwelling on that bloody picture. To stop thinking about it all the time. I need to stop closing my eyes and seeing it etched in the blackness. My worst fears in photograph form.
I need to do a lot of things. I just don’t know how.
24
“Look, you know I’m not his biggest fan, but I do think you need to cut the guy a break.”
I’m walking with David through Hoxton market a few days later, buying big brown bags of fruit and vegetables to make up some meals for Max.
“You’re right, I know you are.” I hand over my money to the stall owner, waiting for my change. “It’s easier said than done, though.”
“What is it about the picture that upsets you?” David asks. It’s the first time I’ve told him about the photo, and I’ve deleted Facebook from my phone so I can’t even show him. Even if I could I’m not sure I know the answer myself.
“I don’t know, but it gets me in the gut.”
I’ve been analysing my reaction for weeks. From a purely professional point of view, I know I’m overreacting. I believe Alex when he says that nothing happened. It’s like when a doctor hits your knee with a hammer. Even if you don’t want to kick out, you do anyway. A purely instinctive reaction.
“What would you say to me if I was in your position?”
“As a friend or a counsellor?” I ask.
He laughs. “Either.”
Putting the brown bag into the basket below Max’s buggy, I ponder on his question.
“I’d tell you to get over yourself.”
David smirks. “Good answer.”
“Ugh.” I rub my face with my hands, allowing David to take over the buggy-pushing. “I know this, I do.”
I’m being stupid and immature, and I know it’s a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong. I’m homing in on the picture, but there’s so much history behind it. So much angst.
We carry on down the road, passing vans selling falafels and Jamaican street food. The spices linger in the air, drifting towards us, their meaty aroma making my stomach rumble. I stop at a stall selling jewellery, sifting through the beads and bracelets, wanting something bright and joyful.
“How are things with you, anyway?” I ask, wanting to move the subject off myself. In the past few weeks I’ve hardly seen anything of David. He’s been holed up in his flat, rarely surfacing. Blaming workload, tiredness, anything he can. It took a lot of cajoling to get him out today, and I swear when he emerged from his flat and into the sunlight he was blinking hard, like a mole breaking the surface of the earth.
He shrugs, his eyes trained ahead as we push our way out of the market. “Fine.”
“What have you been doing? I’ve hardly seen you for weeks.”
“I’ve heard from my lawyer.”
Oh. I reach out to hold his arm, trying to slow him down. His muscles are taut, tense. Like iron against my palm. “What did he have to say?”
“Claire’s agreed to mediation.”
I can’t understand why he’s being so calm about it. Emotionless. “That’s good, isn’t it?” I want to sound more enthusiastic, but I’m not sure how he’ll take it.
We stop outside a house, leaning on the gable wall. “I have to fly back in two weeks.”
My stomach drops. “So soon?”
“They’ve offered us a slot at the end of the month. I need to fly back as soon as I can. I should be able to wrap things up within a couple of weeks.”
“You’re coming back, though?” I let my voice trail off. What a stupid question. If things go well then clearly he won’t be returning. And the alternative… I don’t think either of us want to contemplate that.
“I hope not.” His thoughts must echo my own. “We’ll keep in touch, though, Lara. I promise.”
“Yeah, of course.” I try not to let him see my miserable expression. I should be pleased for him—and I am—but it’s come as a shock. Everything’s changing, slipping out of my grasp. First Beth moves away, and then Alex is at his mum’s. Now I’m losing David, as well. I push myself off the bricks, rearranging my face into a smile. “Hey, you could be seeing Mathilda again within a month.”
For the first time, he smiles. “Yeah, I know.” Though his voice is still low I detect a little wonder inside it.
“Then why the long face?”
He looks at me through baby blue eyes. When he blinks his eyelashes sweep down his cheeks, sandy and thick. “She’s not going to know me at all. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been thi
nking about her, or that she has my genes and my blood. She hasn’t seen me for months, she won’t even recognise me.”
I glance down at Max from the corner of my eye. Mathilda is older than him by a few months. She must be walking, saying her first words. Maybe ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’. Words that should be meant for David. “She’ll get used to you. It won’t take long. She’ll only have to look at you to know how much you love her. Kids are resilient like that.”
When I glance at him, David doesn’t catch my eye. Instead he stares at his feet, kicking the toes into the dusty concrete slabs. “There’s something else, too.” His voice takes on the tone of a confession, low and pleading. I reach out and take his hand, sensing this need for connection.
“What is it?”
“I’ve… met someone.”
“As in a girl?”
His expression is pained. “Yeah.”
I guess that explains a lot. The reason why I’ve hardly seen him for the past few weeks. I don’t doubt he’s had a lot of work on, but that’s obviously not the only thing that’s kept him busy. I remember the early days of love enough to know how it feels. That opaque fog that surrounds you, the need to be with the other person constantly. The feeling that the world has stopped and the only thing moving is you.
“She lives in London?”
He seems agitated. Stepping back, he wrings his hands together. It’s not until he speaks again I realise the reason why. “It’s Andie.”
I blink, momentarily silenced. It takes a couple of moments for me to process his words. “Andie? As in my sister-in-law Andie? Andrea Cartwright? How the hell did that happen?”
I run through my memories, trying to place them together. I can only remember them being together once, at the festival.
Oh, and the hospital, too. I guess somewhere along the line his librarian fantasies really did come true. My stomach aches for my kind sister-in-law; the one who’s always calm and supportive.
