by Dawn Goodwin
‘Oh?’
He lowered his fork without eating.
She frowned. ‘Is your steak okay?’ Was that feigned innocence on her face? He couldn’t tell. Just his paranoia? Is this why she had made dinner? To confront him? Felicity’s claim that Veronica knew about them echoed in his ears.
‘Yes, yes, perfect,’ he replied, his voice sounding strangled. He busied himself with the mushroom sauce.
‘Anyway, so last night you know I was out with Scarlet. We went to the new place on the high street, which was great. We should try it sometime. I admit we had far too much wine and my shoes were killing me by the time we left. You know, those grey ones with the red bows that I haven’t worn for ages?’
Tom was staring at her intently now, his steak forgotten. This was the most she’d said in months.
‘So I walked home barefoot and I must’ve dropped my shoe at some point, because Felicity found it in the park this morning when she was on her run. But the funny part was that it had been mauled by a fox! Scarlet and I were laughing about it earlier, saying how there are some very well-dressed foxes in this neighbourhood.’ She chuckled again.
He tried to rearrange the choked expression he knew he was wearing. Irrationally, part of him was still expecting some sort of accusation, perhaps that Felicity had finally confessed their affair after what she’s said on the phone the other day about suspecting that Veronica knew. His heart was hammering in his chest and the belt had tightened another notch.
‘What did Felicity say?’
‘Oh, she was loving the whole episode, as you can imagine. Lording over me the fact that she had made such a discovery. Anyway, I put her in her place.’ He watched her closely, looking for any clue as to whether she knew. She looked up at him, then said, ‘It’s a real shame about the shoe, but I guess you had to be there to see the funny side.’
Tom smiled tightly. ‘I guess so.’ He couldn’t read her. ‘What did you say to her then?’
‘Oh, it’s not important.’
He let out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding as she changed the subject.
The rest of the meal passed in a series of pleasantries and polite small talk. Veronica asked Tom about Gerald and he said that he had passed on her best wishes. They then turned to current affairs, touched on the economy, discussed strategies for the Middle East – she seemed surprised to hear that various wars were unfolding around the world and said, ‘I hadn’t noticed above the sound of the gunfire in my own head.’
Her honesty jolted him. He reached across the table to take her hand. ‘You know, the counsellor I’ve been seeing has really helped me to begin working through—’
She pulled out of his reach abruptly and stood to clear the table, signalling the end of the dinner and the conversation. He sighed, then went to help her, the chores completed in silence. It was becoming apparent that they had both pledged silent allegiance to not talk about what he clearly wanted to and she clearly did not.
Later, as they lay in bed, Tom hesitantly reached for her for the first time in months and he wanted to think that it was affection and honesty that propelled her to respond this time, but part of him recognised that it was more likely the wine warming her into it – and a sense of duty. He tried not to let his mind draw comparisons with Felicity, hating himself all over again for his betrayal.
*
The house is in darkness and I have complete freedom of movement. I’ve done this before, quietly moving between the rooms as they sleep, her plush, fancy carpets cushioning my footsteps. The moonlight illuminates the framed photographs above the fireplace in the lounge and I pick one up. My thumb fits perfectly over her face in the photo, blocking her from view. I replace the photo, leaving remnants of a thumbprint behind to smudge her features.
I move soundlessly into the kitchen and note the evidence of a shared meal: two empty wine glasses; a jug with the drips of a creamy sauce on the lip; two plates stacked and waiting for the dishwasher to finish its cycle, with blood from the dinner now cold and congealed. I don’t really feel anything as I take inventory of it all.
I have learnt on my previous expeditions that it is best to creep along the edge of the stairs, close to the wall, to avoid creaks and floorboard groans. The main bedroom door is ajar. It yields to my touch and I glide through the ghostly light filtering through a gap in the curtains to peer down on them.
She is turned away from him, perched on the edge of the mattress with the covers pulled up to her chin, stiff and unmoving like a corpse. He is spread out, lying on his back with his mouth open, his breathing coming deep and raspy, as though his nose is blocked. I consider them for a moment, then take in the room around me.
It is as bland as I imagine their relationship to be, made even more so by the grey shadows of night-time, with no splashes of colour to suggest any hint of passion or frivolity lying beneath the surface.
The bathroom door is standing ajar and I can hear the overhead fan whirring gently, the sound masking my movements. I head towards the shower with my arm outstretched. My finger squeaks lightly as it traces shapes into the faint soap scum marks. I stand back to admire my work as a ghost of a smile plays on my lips, then I retreat.
I take a moment to sit in the chair next to the bed, perfectly still, watching over them again, marvelling at the depth of cold detestation that floods through me, coupled with the hedonism of knowing that they do not suspect a thing. Nothing would thrill me more than to… No, a better idea comes to me and I return to the bathroom, knowing exactly what I will find in the bathroom cabinet.
I retrace my steps and leave as soundlessly as I entered.
Veronica
In the first few seconds of consciousness, everything is as it should be. The sun is shining outside the window, the day is full of promise, Tom is making tea downstairs, and Grace is happily playing outside my bedroom door, her bird-like voice talking animatedly to her teddy as they scale the mountain that is the bannister. For one brief moment, I believe everything is normal. For ten delicious seconds, I am happily disoriented, not entirely sure what day it is. Then glaring reality swallows me whole, quickly followed by the sense that I had failed again last night.
Okay, so I had certainly made more of an effort with my husband than I had in months, but I was expecting to feel a small sense of achievement at least; instead, I felt just as empty as before.
Sure, we had eaten together, slept together, for all intents and purposes acted like any normal, happily married couple would, but for most of the evening I had felt like I was holding in a scream.
Last night, as I lay in the dark listening to his breathing slow and feeling his arm thrown casually over me, I wanted to feel warm, loved and safe, but instead I felt like the weight of his arm was crushing me, trapping me in this bed, marriage, reality. I had lifted his arm gently and turned on my side, curling into a tight ball and shifting my body as far over to the edge of the mattress as I could until there was an expanse of white sheet rapidly cooling between us. That had felt better and I finally fell asleep.
Tom had left early as usual, but not before he had brought me a cup of tea and a biscuit in bed and gave me a light, but lingering kiss on my brow. Little gestures I remember from before.
I took longer than usual to get up, slowly sipping the tea and chewing the biscuit, which tasted like cardboard in my mouth. Eventually I forced myself into the shower and stood under the hot spray.
Then I saw it. Cold goosebumps sprung up over my skin. I turned the water even hotter until it was unbearable, in the hope that it wasn’t real, but I couldn’t get warm and the billows of hot steam fogging every glass surface served only to accentuate the ghostly message low down on the glass shower screen in front of me. Childish letters spelling out ‘Grace’ had appeared with a smiley, almost lunatic face drawn underneath. I couldn’t believe Tom hadn’t noticed it when he had showered earlier. Unless he had written it? No, surely not. I smeared my hand through the spectral image before shutting off the torrent of wate
r, keeping my eyes down in case there was more to see - or nothing to see at all.
I felt sick to my stomach. Lethargy wanted to propel me back into bed, but I resisted, knowing that if I gave in to the feeling, I wouldn’t get up again. Instead, I stood in front of the rows of bright colours and fabrics in my wardrobe, before finally settling on my usual dull attire. I had good days and bad, never knowing what to expect from one to the next; the signs were that today would be a particularly bad one.
Every footstep down the stairs felt wooden and heavy, but I forced one foot in front of the other. Then I realised that I would be late for the school run if I didn’t give myself a shake, which kick-started a flurry of activity: shoes, coat, brushing hair, putting a presentable face on for the world. I emerged into the weak sunshine and the familiar scene of rushing mums, dawdling children and busy traffic, and paused on the front step to take it all in. I could hear the school bell ring from my house. That bell had brought Grace and I running into the street on many previous mornings.
I stepped into the throng of rushing mums and followed their path to school, reached the gates, watched the children stream in, most without a backward glance to the parents they were leaving behind, then took a slow walk back home.
As I approached the house, I could see Felicity leaving her door in a storm of activity, well after the bell had rung, coats flapping, Tabitha dragging her bag with a sulky look on her face. I withdrew out of sight behind a parked minivan until she had passed. I didn’t want to talk to her, partly in case I blurted out what I had seen in the shower. She would think I had lost it completely.
I let myself into the house and stood for a moment, listening to the silence. Then I set about cleaning the kitchen after my culinary attempts of the previous evening, removing every speck of dust and smear of grease, occasionally glancing out of the window as my neighbours went about their routines. With the windows still open, the quiet was punctuated at regular intervals with the sounds of south-west London: planes flying overhead at regular intervals; emergency vehicle sirens in the distance; playing, shrieking and laughter as the playground nearby filled and then emptied with the school routine.
By 11 o’clock, I had exhausted all possible household chores and sat in the lounge, hands gripping a cup of tea that had long gone cold, staring at nothing but the pictures in my head.
With jarring insistence, a shrill ringing interrupted the stillness. The home telephone in the hall. Very few people used the home number any more. My heartbeat shifted up a gear, remembering previous phone calls on this line. It was rarely good news. I put my mug down on the table and approached the phone, as though any sudden movements would make it strike out at me like a viper. My hand hovered above the handset, then slowly lifted it.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is that Mrs Pullman, Grace’s mum?’ a polite, efficient female voice filtered into my ear.
My heart started to race as the floor dropped away from my stomach.
‘Yes?’ I said, my voice cautious.
‘Oh, hello there. I’m calling from the Richmond Music Trust – you applied for piano tuition for your daughter… from my notes quite a while ago, it seems…’ I could hear the faint rustle of paperwork in the background. ‘We got your message asking for an update and I’m just getting in touch to let you know that a space has become available if Grace is still interested? I’ll send out a letter with all the details, but since you phoned last week anyway, I just wanted to let you know.’
I sat down heavily on the stairs, clutching the handset with white knuckles, my breathing shallow.
‘Mrs Pullman?’ the voice persisted.
‘Um, yes… I, er… she… I didn’t ring last week.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s a terrible line – did you say you didn’t ring us? I’m sure you did, left a message?’ the voice persisted. ‘Anyway, how about I send you the details and you can get back to us – as soon as possible please – if she would like to take up the offer.’
‘Um, yes… that would be fine,’ I managed to choke out.
‘Excellent, have a good day. Goodbye.’
I dropped the handset without saying goodbye, but remained sitting on the stairs. I focused on the dust dancing in the stream of sunlight filtering through the window. I considered the purple orchid on the hall table, its smooth, vivid petals velvety against the white walls, and made a mental note to water it. I noted the small flecks of dirt on the mirror that I had missed when I last cleaned it, avoiding my reflection, wide-eyed and haunted. I didn’t want to consider the possibility that I was finally losing my grip on reality. Had I really phoned asking about piano lessons? When? After too many drinks one afternoon? And the shower glass? Who was that? Me again?
The doorbell rang once with purpose, jarring and loud in the silence. Through the frosted glass panel I could make out Scarlet’s familiar, welcome shape in a haze of blurred purple spots. I quickly got to my feet and opened the door, wearing what felt like my first real smile of the day.
‘Well, hello there!’ she exclaimed brightly. Then she frowned, ‘You okay? You look a little peaky.’
I stood to one side to let her in, then closed the door firmly behind her, shutting out the world.
‘It’s nothing, just a weird morning.’ I replied.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘I don’t know. It might be nothing, just me being silly. Come on through, there’s something chilling in the fridge,’ I said, quickly.
She led the way, went straight to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of prosecco while I took out two glasses - a well-practised routine now.
‘Tom and I had dinner together last night. Not out, but at least at the table together. It’s been ages since we did that,’ I said, avoiding what was really on my mind.
‘Oh? How was it?’ she asked.
‘The steak was good – and I did an excellent mushroom and cream sauce,’ I replied wryly as I tore the foil off the bottle, my hands trembling still.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, spill. Is that why you’re upset?’
I twisted the metal ring, feeling it cut into my skin. ‘No, yes… I tried, really I did, but I can’t tell you what we talked about. It was…’ I paused, trying to find the right adjectives as I pulled and tugged on the cork, ‘… polite, mundane.’
With that, the cork gave way with an impressive pop.
‘But you did it. You sat next to each other and connected, even if only for a little while,’ she suggested.
‘Technically, we sat opposite each other.’ I caught her exasperated expression as I poured the prosecco. ‘Yes, okay, so maybe I’m feeling guiltier than I should. I just wish…’ I stopped.
‘What? Wish what?’
‘Nothing.’ I clammed up.
‘Come on, Ron, wish what? You can’t stop there.’
‘I wish I had let him in more, you know? I know what he wanted to talk about, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t give him what he wanted, not yet,’ I said. ‘But…’
‘What?’ she probed, reaching for a glass.
‘It’s just… it felt like he was holding back too. Not like we normally are – you know, avoiding each other because we don’t know what to say. It was more like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. It just felt stilted for more reasons than usual. Maybe he didn’t want to ruin all the effort I had gone to or something. Anyway, I need to focus on the fact that we actually did sit and talk, even if it didn’t set the world alight.’ I sighed, turning the metal cage over in my fingers. ‘I just worry that if I start talking to him, then I’ll never stop, you know? The words will just keep pouring out of me and I’ll say the wrong things, then it’ll be out there, real, and there’ll be no taking it back. It’s probably best not to say anything at all and to carry on living like we are.’
‘But if you avoid it, you’ll never get past it.’
‘True. It’s the emptiness that scares me the most though. I just felt deflated th
is morning, like someone had let the air out of a balloon, and sometimes I can’t shake that feeling. It follows me around.’
‘Oh come on, you’re being too hard on yourself as usual. Chill.’ She looked at me carefully. ‘Or has something else happened to put you in this mood?’
I paused. ‘Just some weird stuff has been happening lately – I’ve been finding things… I don’t know, some days I think I’m just going mad, that’s all. You’re right, forget I said anything. Too much wine last night I think.’ I plastered my smile back on my lips and took a drink. Something was holding me back from mentioning the phone call.
‘Okay, well, I have news.’
‘Oh? Go on then, put me out of my misery.’
‘An old boyfriend got in touch the other day. I was mad about him when we were younger, but he hooked up with a friend of mine. I was heartbroken – you know, the usual story of teenage angst. Anyway, to get my revenge, I bided my time, then slept with him when he was still going out with her.’ She was so matter-of-fact about this detail that I almost didn’t register what she had said.
‘That’s harsh! For the friend I mean, not him.’
‘Why? She knew I liked him at the time.’ Scarlet shrugged. ‘Anyway, she never found out about our fling – it was my sweet little victory more than anything else – but they went on to get married.’
‘It’s funny, that reminds me of Felicity.’
‘Why? It wasn’t her boyfriend I slept with.’
‘No, it’s just that when we were at uni, Felicity was actually supposed to be on a date with Tom and she asked me to go with her because she was nervous. He brought Ian along as a double date, but Tom and I hit it off straight away and Felicity ended up snogging Ian at the table.’ I paused to take a drink. ‘She was seriously pissed off with me the next day for hooking up with Tom though, but she had already arranged to meet up with Ian again, so couldn’t really complain.’
‘I haven’t met Ian, but I think you got the better deal by the looks of the photos of Tom you have around the house. He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he?’
