17
BALLS OF MERCURY
‘What difference does it make?’ David said when I told him the police had found Seamus’s caravan. I was hoping to pre-empt David finding out from Alex that I’d been at the woods – the rest I planned to deny – but so far Alex has said nothing. ‘Nobody knows who he really was,’ David continued. ‘And they’ve got nothing on you. If you’re going to cover up something as big as this, you need to carry it through. God, you’re so paranoid. Get a hold of yourself.’
David was on his way out of the house, our conversations these days shunted in between appointments or tacked on to exits, strategies that mean we need only scratch the surface. In front of the mirror, David’s lips stretched wide around his lock-jawed teeth as he picked a piece of food from between his molars. He flashed his eyes back at me. ‘What the hell were you doing up there anyway? Do I need to keep tighter reins on you?’ He turned to go, collecting the pile of unopened Christmas cards on his way out. At the office he would have given the correspondence to Kelly. She’d have opened the cards, sent replies, and our house will continue to be free from the clutter of friendship.
Since my first time in the car park nearly two weeks ago, I’ve been online and discovered other locations – supermarket car parks, picnic areas in the woods – and I’ve been hot-wired back to my prolific student days, to before I met David. Away from my husband, I’ve not lost my ability to oscillate between my fractured selves. In the old days I’d believed that pleasure was the endgame of these encounters, but perhaps even then I was deluding myself, and this sport has always been a joyless addiction, a futile attempt to fill the void.
The circuit is very interested in single women; I’m an anomaly. So many texts come through that I keep my phone permanently on silent, and I haven’t been able to fulfil even a fraction of the requests. I always try to get home before David suspects I’ve been out – he works late and has dinner with clients most nights, anything rather than come home to the wife he can’t bear to be near any more. To keep me in check, my petrol money is kept to a minimum. I leave home when it’s light and find the nearest pub to whichever secluded car park is hosting the evening’s events, then park and go inside the pub for an orange juice. I top the glass up when the barmaid’s not looking from the half bottle of vodka I carry in my bag. After I finish the drink, in case I’m being followed, I make my way from a back exit and find a bus, walking some of the journey along country lanes in my dad’s big overcoat. The land rises up to greet each of my footsteps, and with the wind at my back, my pestering thoughts are calmed by the simplicity and rhythm of the pace. I could live like this always. If only I never had to arrive. If only I need never go back.
At home, things start slower for me these days now that the efficiency I used to apply to work – the compulsive order which kept me rooted and sane – is gone. There is no more Will to look forward to, and I do my best to forget the danger I may have put him in. Today is a Saturday, and I stay even longer in bed, sleeping off yesterday’s hangover and topping up a new one with nips of vodka from my bag. There seems little point in doing anything until the evening’s events. The soup of painkillers and alcohol dulls the pain, but today the concoction has created a complexity of remorse from which there’s no escape. Hushed up in the airless hollow of the duvet in the guest-suite bedroom, I lie motionless, hoping to convince myself that all the days that have ever been, never were.
Brisk and energetic from his trip to the gym and walk with the dogs, inspired by the remote possibility of a warmer day, David comes wordless into the bedroom, opens the window then goes downstairs. I peep from the covers. Outside a tepid blue teases through a wrung-out sky, but there’ll be more rain later. Enough is enough, the window says, so I get up and shower – my fifth since yesterday. Cold air amplifies my damp skin under the dressing gown, and I slide the window across, leaving a small gap in case David comes back in; I don’t know why it matters to him what I do with my time, it’s not as if we spend any of it together any more, but I no longer have the energy for a fight.
A text comes through from Alex: ‘I’m losing patience. Do you want me to tell David?’ This is the ninth text I’ve had from him since we saw each other that night in the car park. He wants to meet me on his own and keeps suggesting times and places, but I haven’t replied, nor have I gone back to the same place where I last saw him. I swing between which would be worse: to go to Alex, or for David to find out how I spend my time. For now the car parks hold enough shame for my purposes, and I’m not sure I really believe Alex will tell.
Through the gap in the window comes the noise of a car pulling into our driveway. I must have been in the shower when the visitor buzzed at our perimeter gate. Peering outside, I see Alex’s Aston Martin parking close to the house. He gets out of the vehicle and walks towards the front door holding his key behind him. The car locks with an electronic bleep. Hazard lights double flash. At the door he taps a friendly rhythm, and the dogs bark. I pull on the nearest skirt and top – flung over a chair last night, no time for tights or trousers – slip on shoes and run downstairs to fend off Alex, but David’s footsteps are already clicking across the hallway. Circles of muddy paw prints trace his trajectory to the front door where he now stands with his hand milliseconds from the handle. I freeze on the middle stair. On either side of the front door is sandblasted glass, and through this barrier is the motionless shadow of Alex.
David opens the door. ‘Alex, how lovely! What a surprise.’ The two men shake hands. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you until next week. Come in, come in.’
With the door open wide, David stands to one side to let Alex through. The dogs are at our guest immediately, barking and leaping. He walks through them as if they are liquid and looks ahead at me. Behind him, David shuts the door.
‘I have some paperwork I wanted to drop off to you,’ Alex says, tilting his head to David but keeping his gaze on me. ‘Thought it would give you more time to consider your options before we meet next week.’ He turns to look at David. ‘Sorry to barge in on you like this. I tried calling but my mobile had no juice.’
I hold the banister with one hand but can’t move. Alex brushes drizzle from his hair, and the moisture darkens his grey, making him look younger.
‘Very thoughtful of you,’ David says. ‘Do you have time for a coffee?’
Alex has already begun to shrug the black mac from his bony shoulders. He hands the coat to David. Rain studs the waterproof fabric like balls of mercury. ‘Wonderful, thank you.’ He looks at me again and smiles. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Rachel, be a darling and make us a coffee, would you?’ says David.
‘I have to go out,’ I say.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He smiles at Alex then looks back at me. ‘Your hair’s still wet from the shower.’ He walks towards the stairs and holds his arm out to me. I come down a couple of steps and touch his hand. ‘Anyway, whatever it is you need to do, we always have time for friends, don’t we, darling?’ He pulls me to the bottom stair and pecks my cheek with gravel lips. Only his eyes betray the effort of this pantomime. ‘It will do you good to have some company.’
The two men walk into one of our less formal lounges, David’s palm flat on his friend’s back, and I slide off to the kitchen. The dogs are in the boot room pacing for their food. After my time locked away with the animals, I let David do their feeds.
At this distance, the men’s voices are a murmur: laughter, no silences – it can’t be that bad. I relax a little and put the kettle on, heat milk and set a tray with two cups and a cafetière. The tray is melamine: bright red with large graphic flowers. The price of this tray would have fed Mum and me for a week. We didn’t get new things. Like when our chesterfield sofa was ripped by scissors during one of Mum’s dressmaking enterprises. Her designs were floaty numbers with scarves attached to the sleeves, like a toddler’s dressing-up wardrobe, and the sofa was where she cut out the patterns. She planned to sell them at coffee mornings and town fetes, sa
ying that once she’d made her fashion fortune we could buy as many sofas as we wanted. One day she strutted down the street to get a loaf of bread, dressed in a sheer creation with her feet bare. To me she looked so beautiful until she held two fingers up to Mrs Simpson across the road. ‘Up yours, you old prune!’ she shouted. Mrs Simpson stood with her hands on her hips and heckled back, ‘You might enjoy giving it away to all and sundry, but the rest of us don’t need to see what’s underneath your clothes.’ After that the scissors were put away, and the sofa was covered with the old throw.
A sudden burst of laughter from the other room. The kettle boils. I pour water into the cafetière and a dense bitter smell lifts from the coffee grouts, turning my stomach. There’s a hiss from the milk pan as a wave of froth bulges over the sides and settles on the hob. The edges of the liquid char. I pour what’s left of the milk into a jug and set everything on the tray, the china and glass chinking together as I carry it through to the lounge. David hears the rattle.
‘Rachel,’ he calls, ‘we’re dying of thirst in here. Hurry up, will you, darling.’
David and Alex are seated opposite each other on identical white leather sofas. In between them is a chrome and glass coffee table. Unread financial and interiors magazines fan out on the tabletop, and there’s a pen pot identical to the one we have at the office with our company logo striped along the pencils inside. The men look as if they’re in a casual office meeting, and it strikes me for the first time that everything in our house, even the artwork that was bought to match the decor, is corporate and flat. The effect of style without taste. I’d like to drive a bulldozer through the window, cover the floor with earth and watch how long it would take the weeds to grow.
The two colleagues sit with their arms stretched along the backs of the sofas and their chests full and strong. All that’s missing are antlers. David’s foot hangs on his opposite knee, and his leg lolls out to the side creating a confident triangle of space in the middle. Alex copies. A thin sun leaks through the clouds and sparkles on the glass table.
‘At last,’ David says with a smile as I walk towards him.
I put the tray on the coffee table and turn to leave. In the background the dogs’ hungry barks have become more frantic. David twitches with each yap.
‘You not joining us, Rachel?’ Alex says. ‘Do sit for a bit. Jane’s been asking after you. I said I’d report back on how you’re feeling.’ He frown-smiles at David. ‘Anyway, this might interest you too. I have the latest forecast for the completion of the development. We’re finally getting through all the building regs and contractors’ quotes, it’s really steaming ahead.’ He wafts a folder up and down, then slaps it on the table. ‘Now all the opposition has subsided, there’s nothing to stop us meeting our deadlines. The new broom sweeps clean, eh!’ He leans forward and removes some of the plans and finance sheets, then angles his head to look at me. ‘We’ve completely taken over the site now, no room for public access any more.’
‘I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ I say. ‘I’ll leave you two to talk shop.’
‘Nonsense, Rachel.’ David’s voice travels up and down the syllables in perfect husband mode. ‘It’s a Saturday. Come and sit with us.’ His eyes fix on me, telling me I’m not permitted to break the facade.
I go to sit next to David and trip on the rug, launching myself closer to him than I intended. Our legs touch. Immediately David springs up, the proximity too much to bear.
‘I’m so sorry, Alex,’ he says, ‘I forgot to feed the dogs. If you don’t mind I’ll do it now before they drive us all mad. Please excuse me for a moment. Rachel, could you pour?’
He leaves the room and takes the shortcut to the kitchen. I stand also, but before I can turn Alex grabs my hand and pulls. It’s a persistent drag not to be refused. I sit on his left. Still holding my hand, he leans forward and with his other hand pours himself a coffee – black with one sugar. He brings the cup to his mouth and winces – I made it strong – then he sets the coffee back on its saucer and heaps in another large spoonful of sugar. He stirs and the metal scrapes round and round on the china.
From where I’m sitting I can see into the garden, and the dogs bound across the grass and disappear into the trees. David must have thought it would be quicker to let them outside for now, and feed them later. There are growls and manic barks; not the usual noise of fun and play, more competition and pursuit. They’ve probably got another rabbit. David shouts at them, and I watch him striding across to the trees. The last time the dogs went on the hunt, we found bits of the animal across the lawn, torn apart and scattered but uneaten. The crows cleared what was left within minutes.
Alex continues to stir. ‘Well, that’s a turn-up,’ he says, watching his cup. ‘I didn’t know how I was going to orchestrate getting you on your own.’ He smiles and looks at me. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Rachel. You really are full of surprises.’ He lets go of my hand and pushes my skirt up my leg towards my thigh. His palm is hot and damp and he holds his hand in place on my shaking leg, my skin a shade of blue next to the white sofa. Small blonde hairs sit upright. He takes the spoon from the cup and lays the scalding metal on my thigh. I jump but don’t call out. Won’t give him the satisfaction. He holds the spoon in place and looks at me. ‘David doesn’t have to know about any of this, but that’s up to you.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ I say.
‘Man to man, he’d understand. I have my needs. I’d tell him I tried to protect you but you refused.’ He moves his hand up my leg, closer to my crotch. ‘Everyone knows you’re losing your mind, Rachel. Who do you think David will believe? And how much more do you think he’ll tolerate? He’s not a man to be messed with, we all understand that. Some of the things we’ve had to . . . well, I never thought he had it in him, but then there’s too much at stake these days.’ His index finger skirts the hem of my knickers. ‘I choose my battles carefully, Rachel. I make very, very sure I’m covered, and this time, believe me, David will be on my side.’
His cheeks are flushed and freshly shaved. Inside each follicle is the poised black dot of a new hair. Above his mouth he’s sweating. He glides his tongue over his top lip. We hear doors shutting as David comes in from the garden. Alex removes the spoon, puts it in his mouth and sucks. A red circle is left on my leg.
‘I’ll be in touch, Rachel,’ Alex says. ‘We’ll have some fun. Bring you down a peg or two.’ He takes his hand away from my leg and pulls my skirt down with a tug. ‘Don’t ignore my calls or I’ll let David know. Bit of ECT should do the trick.’
As I stand, David comes back in. We pass each other across the rug, but David doesn’t look at me. Instead he directs his focus to Alex with a frown and a smile, his arms wide in apology. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, ‘the dogs have gone feral. These bitches need a good dose of discipline to bring them into line.’ The men laugh and David sits back down. Alex pours himself another coffee. ‘I hope Rachel’s been looking after you,’ David says as I leave the room, shutting the door behind me.
The hallway is dark in contrast with the glare of our south-facing lounge. I slip off my shoes and walk with bare feet on the cold tiled floor, the heating off. On the table by the phone is David’s briefcase. It’s open. David’s need to appear the welcoming and relaxed host has caught him off guard. Poking out is a file and some other papers. I sift through them and find the ledger of cash payments from the office. Inside the book are many more entries, detailing a multitude of outgoings. Names, dates and brief descriptions as before: ‘H’ and ‘Manpower’. ‘Finder’ is written several times next to the name ‘Darren S’. David and Alex’s voices trickle into the hallway, and I hear metal on china as another cup of coffee is poured. I tip the contents of the case on to the floor and drop the bag next to the pile, then run to the downstairs bathroom with the expenses book, which I stuff behind the toilet cistern. From there I speed into the kitchen and find the identical household edition in the drawer. My hands are shaking as I rip out the few page
s that have already been written on. I shove them far down into the waste disposal, and tip the dregs of David’s milky breakfast muesli on top. Later, when David’s not around, I’ll make a new book for home from one of the many blank spares in the study, and grind these old pages to a pulp. I hurry through to the boot room and open the back door, shaking the dog biscuits. The animals come running. I hold the household book out to them, tearing off blank pages which scatter in the wind. One of the dogs chases the paper and I hold the remainder of the book out to the other bitch. ‘What’s this, what’s this?’ I say in a playful voice. The dog snaps at the paper and sinks her teeth into the book. I pull back on it a few times to get her fever up, then let her have it. She runs off into the garden and disappears into the trees. The other dog joins her with excited barks. I leave the back door and boot room open, then scoot upstairs to the guest room where I’ve now permanently decamped. A few minutes later David and Alex come out of the lounge. With my ear to the door, I hear David’s exasperated tones as he discovers his briefcase on the floor, though he maintains a genial timbre while Alex is in the house. The front door shuts. Alex’s car drives away. Moments later, David is in the garden screaming at the dogs.
There are growls and yelps outside, but I don’t expect the dogs have left David much of the book to salvage. From the hallway he shouts up the stairs: ‘You stupid, stupid cow, you left the bloody door open. I suppose you did that on purpose. Have you seen what the dogs have done?’ I go into the bathroom and lock the door. The en suite is the smallest room in the house, and I sit on top of the toilet seat with the light off and only the weak sun coming through the blind. The huge volume of the house presses against me, as if the space is filled with water.
From my handbag I take out the photo of Claire and study her face in the dim light: the way her mouth lifts a fraction at the edges from its letter-box smile, and her wide black eyes with no flicker of a shine, as if someone’s coloured them in with a biro. I think about where I would have been on this same spring day, who I was with and what I was doing. Maybe Claire and I were both writing letters to our dads at the same time, our pens in unison across the sea, scratching out messages of longing to men who were grander and more loved through their absence. Our mums played out their tragedies in front of us, but at least they didn’t leave. The women’s legacy for sticking it out is to get all the blame. But then maybe Seamus’s reasons for leaving were more valid than my own father’s, who jumped from woman to woman every time he felt the expectations of another family.
The Liar’s Chair Page 17
