‘It wasn’t a bloody bird. Aren’t you going to go and look?’
He pulled a face. ‘Go and look at someone walking past the house? What’s wrong with you?’
The words stung like a slap to the face. Not What’s wrong? but What’s wrong with you? As though all their problems could be traced back in a Freudian flowchart to the lunatic mother rather than the absent, possibly philandering husband. He disappears in the middle of the night and yet there’s something wrong with me?
Did he know who was out there? Was that why he wouldn’t go and look? Karen’s words came back to her as clearly as if her friend was sitting beside her. You really haven’t noticed anything unusual? Any signs that someone has been in the house, watching you and the baby …?
Eleanor felt sick at the very thought. She hadn’t noticed anyone, but would she? She was always so busy, her attention taken up by one or other of her children. Would she spot someone walking behind her or watching them from afar? Karen must have had a good reason to say it. What did she know?
But it couldn’t be anything like that. The noise from outside was like Adam said, someone walking their dog, or kids on their way home from the park. Nothing more. Because if he knew there was someone out there, he would put a stop to it. He would never put their family in danger.
25
I went to her house.
Afterwards I sat in the lay-by at the end of the street, seething quietly at my stupidity, at my total disregard for the rules I had set myself. Your life, I told myself through gritted teeth, is defined by the rules you have vowed to abide by. If you lose sight of those, you lose everything. It could all come slipping down round you, the snowdrift that is your life becoming an avalanche that will bury you alive. It wasn’t the fear that I could have been caught that caused self-loathing to bubble under my surface like tar on a hot road – when you have had the worst possible thing happen to you, that kind of fear is as ridiculous as being afraid of monsters under the bed. I hadn’t been caught. But I had lost control.
The house was as different to mine as our lives were to each other. This home welcomed you towards it with a magnetic pull; even empty you could practically smell the freshly baked bread and hear the sounds of children’s quickly forgotten squabbles. Sounds that had choked and suffocated him, I tried to remind myself.
There were no cars on the drive, but still I approached with apprehension. I had no desire to rush this. I wasn’t looking for anything specific here, I just wanted to look.
I’d kept the key in my hand throughout the entire journey, its warmth and the way it sat comfortably in the creases a silent affirmation that I was doing the right thing. That this was long overdue and I couldn’t avoid her forever. I’d expected it to refuse to turn in the lock, unwilling to betray its master and let the enemy over the threshold, yet it had slid smoothly in and turned without resistance the first time. I stood for a second with my hand on the door handle and my mind stuck in that place between before and after. I was still closer to before; there was still time to walk away from this place with my discipline intact. The minute I pushed open that door it would become after, and I would have to consider at some point what that meant for me, how far I would slip and whether I could pull myself back from where this was all heading.
But I knew myself, and I knew, even as I hesitated, that I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t fully intended to walk through that door. There was a big part of me that had wanted her to be home so I wouldn’t have a chance, but now I was here and the house was empty. Better just to get it over with, rip off the plaster without stopping too long to think about the pain it might cause.
The hallway was sparsely decorated – built to be family functional, with coat hooks that each held one coat and a shelf for the post. I turned my face from the crisp white envelopes ripped open at the top and the letters crammed back in the rush of the school run. The thought of seeing his name on them in this place that felt so unlike him caused my stomach to cramp uncomfortably.
I lifted a man’s jacket off the hook. A heavy wax jacket, expensive and functional, the kind of thing you’d wear to walk a pack of dogs across the countryside on a bitter Sunday morning. Dark green, with a black sheepskin trim on the inside of the collar. I raised it to my face and inhaled deeply, the scent pervading my nostrils like poison. Expensive aftershave that reminded me of the cold side of my bed – how I’d spray it on the pillow so that I could smell him when he wasn’t there, so I could pretend he was still with me when I closed my eyes. Did she do the same?
Something was missing from my memory of the scent that lingered around him when he was with me. Cigarette smoke. Triumph tugged at my insides – it was a small victory but an important one. Here he was a non-smoker, here he had to be that better version of himself. When he was with me, he was free to be the real him.
I wandered around this house like a ghost, an echo barely even there, breathing in the very essence of who this other woman was. My head felt as though it was under water; every move I made carried with it the weight of what our lives had become.
I was in her bedroom, pushing open the mirrored wardrobe doors and slowly flicking through the clothes inside. As my fingers slid through silk and cashmere, thick wool and other expensive-looking fabrics, one jumper in particular caught my eye. A cornflower-blue soft woollen V-neck. I pulled it from the hanger and held it to my face – it smelled of Lenor, and a faint trace of jasmine, but despite the difference in fragrance, it was identical in every other way to the jumper that hung in another wardrobe, in another house far away in distance only.
I slipped the jumper over my head; the fit was perfect but it felt warmer than mine. This whole life was warmer than mine. It wasn’t that she was much better off financially; just that her life was richer in colour where mine was grayscale.
There was make-up on top of the chest of drawers, make-up I couldn’t imagine her taking the time to put on. Who was she making herself beautiful for? Surely not him – if she’d made more of an effort for him, I might not even have been there. I picked up one of the lipsticks and opened it: an understated coral colour. Understated was the perfect word for her, although she’d undoubtedly have called it ‘classy’ or ‘demure’. Using the mirror, I ran the lipstick over my lips, daubed rose-coloured blusher on the apples of my cheeks and flicked mascara over my eyelashes, lashes that had only needed to flutter at her husband for the briefest of moments. Had I felt superior to her at that moment? Probably, yes. After all, I was the one he had chosen. He wasn’t with me through loyalty or obligation to his children; he was with me because of the way I made him feel.
I opened one of the drawers and fingered the satin lingerie tucked way behind the mum pants. I pulled out a pair of pale pink knickers and laid them flat on top of the rest. My fingers worked automatically, pulling open the button of my jeans, sliding down the zip and pushing them to the floor, shedding my underwear at the same time. Standing semi-naked in that place, I slipped into the satin of this other woman’s life. The underwear felt reassuringly loose on my hips, and I watched myself in the mirrored doors of the wardrobe as though I was watching someone else in another house, one in which they belonged.
I sprayed her perfume on my wrists and dabbed them together then on to my neck, taking a breath, inhaling the scent he smelled when he buried his face in her neck. I flipped open the jewellery box and lifted out a pair of diamond earrings, slipping them into the holes in my own ears. The woman in the mirror admired them; they suited her. This life suited her. With every second I spent in this house, wearing her clothes, touching the possessions she had touched, it felt as though we were becoming more deeply entwined, almost as though by being here I was rewriting our destiny.
The bed stretched out across the room, the centrepiece of this makeshift theatre. I lay down on the clean cotton sheets and stretched out my legs, placed my head on the plush pillow. I curled up into a foetal position as I pictured them lying here together, arms and legs entwined
in post-coital satisfaction. A car door slammed outside, but it barely registered in my mind. I knew that any minute now the front door could open and I would be exposed, but still I couldn’t move. It was as though every muscle in my body was invested in keeping me in this very place at this very time. Let them find me here. Who would have more explaining to do?
But the door didn’t open. No one came in.
The woman in the mirror watched with detached interest as the woman on the bed slid her thumbs into the loose elastic of the satin underwear, hitching it down ever so slightly, enough to slide her fingers underneath, and began to rub automatically, rhythmically. Her lips parted, her breathing quickened as the pressure of her fingers increased. They moved faster now, more urgently, and the woman in the mirror closed her eyes at the same time as the woman on the bed threw her head back and let the climax flow through her, more of a gentle wave than a crash, but exhilarating and exhausting all the same.
When my eyes opened, everything felt wrong. I didn’t know how long I’d been there, asleep in the bed they shared in the house he owned, but I knew I shouldn’t be there any longer. I wasn’t ready to face this situation yet; I wasn’t strong enough. But I felt like I could be.
I closed the door behind me, leaving his other life on the inside. I was walking slowly, but my steps were lighter now, as if part of me had stayed there on that smoothed-down double bed. In the car, I lifted a hand to my ear, touched the small diamond. As I put the car into gear and pulled away, I hesitated in the road to let another vehicle out. The woman from the mirror didn’t even lift a hand in thanks.
26
Eleanor
It had been a bad idea born of desperation: date night. Eleanor had suggested it and Adam had played along, although it had been clear he’d been terrified at the idea of having to sit across a table from his wife and make small talk that didn’t include who-said-what-to-whom and who-started-it. They’d arrived home so early that even her mother looked surprised to see them, walking through the door sober and serious rather than falling through like giggling teenagers the way they had in the old days.
Adam had offered almost instantly to take her mum home, and Eleanor had allowed herself to think for a second that he might be trying to get rid of her so they could snuggle up on the sofa, maybe stick on a film or one of the few programmes they both enjoyed. The reality of the situation had hit, however, when he’d announced as he was heading out of the door that he might as well pop into Chris’s on the way home; he’d promised to look at his computer and if he was going to be out anyway …
Eleanor refused to cry.
She was in bed trying to grab at any sleep she could get before Noah woke in a hungry rage when she heard Adam’s key turn in the front door. Fumbling for her phone, her eyes stung at the bright light it emitted, and it took her a few seconds to register the time: 12.45. Over three hours since he’d taken her mother home and gone to fix his friend’s computer. What had taken him so long? She lay awake waiting for him, but instead of coming straight to bed, she heard the bathroom door open and the sound of the shower running. A shower, at this time of night? He’d be up in a few hours anyway, and he usually showered first thing in the morning. When he eventually pushed open the bedroom door, he looked surprised to see her awake.
‘Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to wake you. How have the boys been?’
‘Fast asleep,’ she replied neutrally. ‘Computer all fixed?’
There was a slight pause before he replied. ‘Oh yeah, we got a bit carried away talking – well, Chris was moaning actually. You know what he’s like.’
She didn’t, having only met Chris a couple of times in their six-year relationship, but she said nothing. She didn’t want another row tonight.
Adam slipped into bed next to her and instinctively she moved in closer, snuggling her warmth against his cold body. He responded, letting her into his arms and kissing the top of her head. It had been months since they’d made love – way before Noah had been born. At first it was impractical – Eleanor had still been in pain from the birth and bleeding heavily – but she’d neglected to mention that the doctor had given her the all-clear to resume their sex life nearly four weeks ago. She’d been so exhausted, her breasts heavy and engorged and her mummy tummy permanently encased in unflattering underwear the same size as some of the outfits she used to wear that it just hadn’t been top of her list. Okay, it hadn’t even been on her list. He’d been patient, not pushing her until she gave him the signal, but now, in the early hours of the morning, suddenly it seemed crucial to her that they made love. She slid a warm hand inside the pyjama bottoms he’d taken to wearing and slowly began to rub him, laying a kiss gently on his collarbone. She felt his body respond and all at once felt nervous and excited, as though it was their first time. Then, firmly but tenderly, Adam laid a hand on hers and held it still.
‘Not tonight, babe, I’m shattered.’
The shock of the rejection was crushing. She couldn’t remember a time in their entire relationship – no matter how tired they’d been or however angrily they’d fought – when her husband had refused sex. Tears of shame burned in her eyes and she thanked God Adam couldn’t see her in the darkness. She pulled her hand away as though it burned and nodded slightly.
‘Of course. Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Okay, love.’ Oblivious to her hurt, he kissed her head again and turned over to sleep. ‘Goodnight.’
She tried to reply, but the words caught in her throat and she screwed her eyes closed. Before long she heard the rhythmic sounds of Adam’s sleep as she lay awake in the darkness.
27
My entire body felt as though it were alive with a thousand unseen insects, and I raked my fingernails up and down my arms to stave off the itching feeling. I couldn’t just sit there wondering what they were doing, the words rolling over and over in my head – Why can’t they see? Why couldn’t they see the danger they were in? Why were they all so short-sighted?
And if they did – no, when they did – what would happen then? What would I do? I hadn’t really thought that far ahead; I didn’t want to waste time ruminating on the consequences my actions might have. Consequences couldn’t always be controlled, and my mind didn’t – couldn’t be allowed to – dwell on things beyond my control.
I’d paced so much my calves hurt from the tension that held my body rigid and alert. Waiting like a coiled spring for something to happen, a trigger, a release. An image of a snake hidden in the long grass flitted across my mind, and I quickly replaced it with an image of them laughing, clinking their glasses together as they celebrated all the minor inconveniences in their lives. They could do this, you see, because the things they lamented week in, week out weren’t real troubles. They were minor irritants, fabricated to raise a smile from one another, or spoken out loud to remind themselves how blessed they were to only have these tiny, insignificant worries. They knew nothing of pain and heartbreak, or the kind of demons real people had. Their whole lives were sugar-coated versions of those led by the less fortunate.
And yet as much as I wanted to hold a mirror up to their I Love Lucy existence, a part of me still wanted to protect and preserve it. I craved it like nothing on earth, a life in which I could switch off the minute the children were in bed and fold myself into the arms of a husband who was really mine and lose myself in Celebrity Big Brother or The Great British Bake Off. I longed to pick up the phone and share my petty fears and minor inconveniences with people who had nothing more in their lives than a boss who was a bit of a prick. I desperately wanted my only worry to be forgetting to buy milk or having to change a million shitty nappies from my perfect child in my perfect home. I didn’t want the fetid poison that ran through my veins to be the first thing I thought of when I woke in the morning.
But the mind is a wonderful and terrifying machine. Like Little Albert and his fear of furry white rats, I had spent years being made to believe I was a stupid, bad person,
that I couldn’t be trusted. I had been conditioned to see someone useless and unworthy of love when I looked in the mirror. And like a self-fulfilling prophecy, that was what my life became. A life without a future. So I clung to what I had – is it any wonder I wanted to protect it? You’d do the same if you had to.
The darkness outside was complete and unyielding, and yet I felt a sense of comfort as I stepped out of the back door and allowed myself to be enveloped by the night. This was where I felt most like myself, when I was alone in the dark. My feet moved automatically, my body knowing where I wanted to go better than my mind did. So when I found myself outside Eleanor and Adam’s house, staring up at the window where I knew baby Noah lay sleeping, I wasn’t even a little surprised.
28
Bea
It was Saturday night and Bea was stuck at home. Alone. After sixteen years of steely determination to live a normal life, she could feel herself slipping back into that scared teenager who had woken up in her bed in pain and alone, and the thought petrified her.
‘Beatrice Barker, you need to get a hold of yourself,’ she muttered, flicking off the chick flick she’d been watching just before the ditzy female and the extraordinarily white-toothed male realised that it was really each other they’d been looking for after all. No wonder teenage girls had such an unrealistic view of relationships. The girls in these films were always charmingly perfect; even their imperfections were freaking adorable.
The sound of the doorbell cut through her embittered inner monologue. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but even Geoff the creepy building maintenance bloke would be preferable to an entire evening where she spoke to no one but herself. God, life wasn’t looking great when you were praying there was a gas leak just to get some company.
Before I Let You In Page 10
