Even so, I remove my hand from his hair and place the edge of the knife against his throat. The touch of the blade is light against his skin, no more than a whisper. It would be so easy to just press. I can all too vividly envision in my mind’s eye the way the blood would well in the long gash then spill over his bare chest and shoulders, soaking into the surrounding bed linen.
Good sense wins out, and I remove the knife from his throat, shut down the blade and place it back inside my pocket.
Soon, I promise myself. I will have my revenge. But not yet.
Silently, I retreat from the room. It is time to pay Tess a visit.
In the other room, I stand over Tess, gazing down at her sleeping form. She too, is snoring, but it’s a gentle snore, unlike Shane’s thunderous impression of a road train, drifting my way from down the hall.
She is so innocent in many ways, I think sadly. And she is completely unaware of the evil, quite literally hanging over her. I feel a strong pang of something approaching maternal affection for her. A feeling that borders on sadness, or maybe even nostalgia. I have fallen in love with Shane, but that love has turned into something rotten and twisted in my mind. Love and hate can be so closely interwoven sometimes, it can be hard to tell one from the other.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper softly to the sleeping woman. “I’m doing it for you. For us.”
Fleetingly, I think about pulling out my knife, and slitting her throat. She probably wouldn’t even wake up, she’s so exhausted from all the vomiting and the blackout effect of the concoction of painkillers and wine coursing through her system.
It might be the kindest thing to take her life, then she would never have to live with the way her husband has so callously betrayed her trust.
But no. I don’t want to kill her. At least, I don’t think I do. I suddenly realise how tired I am, too. Exhausted, in fact. It is too late for me to arrange a hook up with Jack, or go out on the town. And I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes open for any of it, anyway.
I creep around the bed and gently ease myself down onto it. As softly as a feather drifting on a breeze, I lay down next to her. Pure exhaustion steals over me, my bones aching with weariness.
I’ll just close my eyes for a second, I tell myself.
I am taking a huge risk, but this is so worth it. Lying here next to her is the best feeling in the world – it is just so comforting. I feel at peace, tinged with an underlying sadness. This is where I’m supposed to be.
Don’t fall asleep, I warn myself. My eyelids are now so heavy and it feels like pure luxury to close my eyes.
I’ve got this, I tell myself. I am not going to fall asleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TESS
I awake with a start from a long, dreamless sleep, lurching bolt upright in the bed and clutching my wildly beating heart through the pink pyjamas I still wear. I gasp down air, confusion swamping me, convinced that I haven’t been breathing, that my sleep was so deep my body had simply shut down.
For a terrifying moment, I am sure that there is someone else in the room with me. In the bed with me. I am so disorientated by the strength of this feeling, that I’m not even sure which bedroom I am in. I think that I must be in the marital bed, with Shane sleeping soundly next to me, that going into the spare room after the violent bout of vomiting had been nothing more than a dream…
But no. I am in the spare room. And I am alone. The presence in the room hadn’t felt like Shane, anyway, as crazy as that assertion is. It had felt threatening.
“God,” I mutter shakily to myself. I really am losing the plot.
I fumble for the phone on the bedside table, squinting at the screen. It is just gone ten. That’s not too bad – at least I haven’t slept away the day. Lying on my back with my hands palming my eyes and elbows pointing up at the ceiling, I realise that I am not in pain. No residue headache, no hangover, no stomach cramps.
How strange, I think. Last night I had been so violently ill, and now nothing. Like the sickness never was. In the cold light of day, I feel ashamed of myself that I could even think for a second that Shane would try to poison me.
Sighing, I sit up in the bed. There’s no point in hiding away, I decide. I have the day – and a probably sulking husband – to face.
Just as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my gaze is drawn to the glass door that leads onto the tiny balcony and the wrought-iron staircase that spirals down into the garden. My heart leaps in my chest because the door is standing ajar. Just seeing it open like that makes me think of the noises I heard last night. Noises that I imagined, but even so. It would be easy for a person to break into the house through that door…
I’m sure that door is always locked, I think in a burst of anxiety. And I don’t remember opening it.
But you must have done, I tell myself. You must have opened it to get some fresh air when you were feeling unwell.
But for the life of me, I don’t remember doing so.
*
Shane isn’t in the kitchen when I go down after my shower. I have thrown on a pair of skinny black jeans, and an oversized, red, chunky knit pullover. I have even put on a layer of BB cream and a sweep of blusher. It isn’t much of an effort compared to a woman like Alice, but for me lately, it is. I don’t want Shane to be too horrified every time he has to look at my face. A minor beauty overhaul it may be, but it’s a step in the right direction.
By the time I have made myself a black coffee, Shane still hasn’t made an appearance in the kitchen. The coffee is good and strong, and I take a sip. The caffeine instantly perks me up and I wander out into the hallway in search of my husband, clutching my coffee mug.
I figure that he is in the living room, laptop on his knee in one of the comfy leather seats, as he sometimes does of a morning if he doesn’t fancy the hard kitchen chairs.
I do, indeed, find him in the living room, but he isn’t curled up on the sofa, reading trashy news stories on MSN, but doing battle with the boxes of Christmas decorations. He is currently trying to assemble the plastic tree which comes in eight parts. Historically, it has always taken a few failed attempts before it is constructed in the right order.
“Morning,” I say brightly. “I thought you wanted to get a real tree this year?”
He visibly flinches and spins around on the spot, brandishing a middle section of the tree before him as if it is a lethal weapon. His dark eyes are comically wide in his broad face, his dark hair unkempt and sticking up in every direction. Unlike me, he isn’t dressed yet, and he is wearing a pair of baggy blue boxer shorts, an ancient white t-shirt and a pair of red socks. I can’t help but smile at him in his vulnerable state.
“You scared the crap out of me,” he moans. “You’re up early.”
“It’s well after ten,” I point out.
“I thought you might sleep in, you know, because you had those stomach cramps last night. How are you feeling now?”
“Much better, thanks,” I reply breezily, deciding there and then that I will not mention the vomiting marathon I endured in the dead of night.
“Are you sure? You sloped off to the spare room again during the night. I didn’t notice you leave – I was out of it.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how you’re so sprightly,” I grumble. “ You drank way more than me.”
“Who says I am sprightly?” He grins at me. “It’s called coffee and Paracetamol.”
I take a sip of my own coffee, not saying anything.
“Are you going to help me decorate it?” he asks, waving his portion of the tree at the rest of it, lying in bits on the ground.
“Don’t you have to put it up first?”
“Funny, aren’t you? It might help, I suppose.” He goes back over to the tree, drops his section on the ground, and stands there with his hands planted on his hips, frowning down at it. “I swear, the magic fairies come every year and swap bits out of the damn thing.”
Good-naturedly, I roll my eyes – Shane isn’t m
uch of a handyman, to say the least, and all flatpack furniture defeats him. Even assembling a simple plastic tree is a struggle for him.
“Let me help,” I say, dumping my mug on the simple, white, blocky sideboard by the living-room door.
Shane leans down and picks up almost half of the tree, where three segments have been slotted together. I can, however, clearly see that he’s fit them together in the wrong order, for it curves in and out, instead of forming a triangular ‘tree’ shape.
“It’s not my fault the design of this thing is so unnecessarily complicated,” he says defensively. “I mean, you’re right – I was going to pop out and surprise you with a real tree, but when I was up in the attic, checking that the Christmas decorations were still intact, I just thought, what the hell, you know? I’m here now, so I might as well bring down our usual artificial tree. And anyway, it’s sort of become a tradition to have it up, hasn’t it? I’m not sure I can be arsed to trawl around for a real one when we’ve got one right here.”
I watch him fiddling with the plastic monstrosity, as if he really is nostalgic for the stupid tree. Then something he just said registers in my sleepy brain.
“Why wouldn’t the Christmas decorations be intact?”
He look suddenly sheepish, raking his fingers through the plastic greenery. “I was checking that the mice hadn’t eaten any more of our stuff. I had to put poison down in the attic. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, but I know how much you love animals.” He laughs softly. “You would probably want to keep the bloody things as pets.”
“Yeah. I was going to ask about the packet of rodent poison in the bin.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I know I should’ve told you. But, on the bright side, they didn’t gnaw through the box of Christmas decorations.”
In the cold light of day, Shane’s mouse revelation has left me feeling foolish. As if Shane would ever poison me; it’s just ridiculous. I am ridiculous. But mostly, I’m just relieved that there is a logical explanation for the empty packet of poison in the bin.
“But what did they eat, then?” I ask. “You said you were checking to see that they hadn’t eaten any more of our stuff.”
He clears his throat. “There have been a few casualties with some of the soft furnishings. A few holes in the rolled-up rugs and my Granny’s tablecloths.”
I do not mourn their passing. Most of the crap in the attic is his stuff – when Shane met me, I was in pre-furnished accommodation, and had no relics from my past.
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear their little ratty feet, scurrying around in the attic the past few days,” he says at my silence.
I think of the noises I did hear last night, and there was nothing rodent-esque about it. I shiver. God, I was practically tripping last night, I was that paranoid. I just don’t know what is wrong with me lately.
“You’re not mad at me?” Shane asks, dropping the segment of tree to the floor and coming over to me, bundling me against his chest.
I catch whiffs of his Axe deodorant, stale wine, and the faintest hint of the body odour that is unique to him. I shiver at that last part, his musky, male aroma forcing me to remember last night’s failed attempt at sex.
“Why would I be mad at you?” I mumble into the neckline of his t-shirt. I feel him shrug under the side of my face.
“I don’t know, just the fact I didn’t tell you we had mice.”
“It’s okay.”
I feel obliged to give him a reassuring squeeze, seeing as I have no choice but to wrap my arms around his waist with the way he is holding me. His nearness doesn’t repulse me as such, but neither does it exactly fill me with joy.
“And mostly, I’m just sorry about last night,” he says.
I don’t want to talk about last night, I just want to forget it ever happened – all of it.
He prises himself away from me, holding me at arms’ length by my shoulders. I can’t help but squirm with the way he is so intensely scrutinising me, making me feel like a specimen under a microscope, and I lower my gaze, not liking it at all.
“Look at me, Tess,” he says, letting go of one of my shoulders and placing a finger under my chin, forcing my head up and therefore my gaze to meet his. “I’m sorry I was so pushy about sex. You haven’t long miscarried, and it was incredibly insensitive of me. I was drunk, and selfish, and I’ve really missed you.”
“I’m right here, Shane,” I say, aching to move away from him. I hate the way he is looking at me.
“No, you’re not. Not really. I feel like you’re growing distant with me. That isn’t a criticism,” he hastily adds, clearly concerned that I might take it as such. Which I have, because he’s a fine one to talk, considering the amount of hours he puts in with his job. “It’s just, a miscarriage is a big deal, and you haven’t really talked about it with me.”
“There’s nothing much to say.”
“Well, I think that there is a lot to say. It’s a horrible, horrible thing you’ve been through. Not just once, but three times.”
I simply can’t stand the way he is peering at me a second longer, and I disentangle myself from him, as smoothly and casually as possible.
“Really, Shane, there’s nothing to say,” I reply coolly, even though my heart is hammering. I go over to the large box of Christmas decorations and peer dazedly down at the shinty baubles, tangled tinsel and packets of tree lights.
“Tess, I love you, I only want you to be happy. You can talk to me, you know.”
“I know. I’m fine, really.”
This seems to silence him, and then I immediately feel guilty. Maybe Shane is only trying to help, and I’m being cold and distant. I think that perhaps I need to backtrack.
“Why don’t we go out for lunch today?” I suggest, completely spontaneously. I can’t remember the last time we went out on a date.”
This is true. Shane puts in so many hours with his job, and I’ve been so preoccupied, so concerned with getting pregnant, and then being pregnant, that nights out on the town – as well as the occasional lunch – have long become a thing of the past.
“I’m sorry, Tess, but I have to pop into the office today.”
The shift in his tone is subtle, but definitely there. He’s mad at me. Or hurt, perhaps. But aren’t those two emotions one and the same? But it is I who is now those things, because he never said anything about going into London today.
I watch him in disbelief as he drops to his knees in front of the dismembered tree, picking up its segments, suddenly giving the stupid thing his full attention.
“Really? Today?” I say, my voice emerging clipped and strained. “You didn’t mention that you were working.”
“You’ve only been up ten minutes,” he points out, not looking at me. “And I’m telling you now, aren’t I? Something came up, I have to go in… Ah ha! Bingo.” By some miracle, he has managed to slot the tree together in its entirety. Triumphantly, he jumps to his feet, holding the thing by its uppermost point and pulling it upright with his ascent. “Won’t you look at that?” he says proudly. “I am a man of many talents.”
“So now you’ve put up the tree, you’re just going to pop into London for the rest of the day?”
“Pretty much,” he agrees.
Inside, I seethe in a mix of emotions that I can’t even begin to decipher, but outwardly, I remain detached.
“And when was this decided that you are going into work today?”
“Not long ago. I’ve been talking to Brett this morning, going over a few things, and there’s no way around it – I have to go in.”
Is this true? I wonder. Is he just springing this on me now because he’s pissed at me? Or is it something that was already set in motion before I got up and he was just waiting for the right moment to tell me?
“And who else is going to be in the office?” I ask primly. I am thinking of Isla; I guess I am always thinking of Isla whenever he goes to London. It may well be stupid and paranoid and mistrustful and just plain w
rong, but I can’t help myself.
“Just Brett,” he answers smoothly. Too smoothly, me thinks. “Everyone else is working from home.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry, Tess. Lunch sounds great, but I really have to sit down with Brett and sort this thing out.”
Brett is his second-in-command at his graphic design company, and a trusted confidante.
“Right,” I repeat robotically. “Fine.”
I feel oddly deflated, the wind knocked out of my proverbial sales.
“Don’t be cross. This problem we’re having with some clients reached a head this morning, and we can’t ignore it.”
I don’t even bother asking him what this problem might be, because there is only one thing I care about in all of this; Isla.
“And there will be no one else there?” I persevere. “Just you and Brett?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
I want to believe him. I desperately need to believe that he’s not popping into London under the flimsy premise of work problems just so he can see Isla.
“Right.” I am aware that this is the third time I’ve said right.
I can feel the beginning of a migraine coming on – a sudden, sharp, stabbing pain behind my eyes, accompanied by dancing lights.
Well that’s just wonderful.
“I’m sorry, Tess, I really can’t get out of it.”
The headache is getting worse. It’s dulling my thoughts, making me feel confused and irritated.
“Maybe we can go out for lunch, tomorrow?” he suggests when I don’t say anything.
“You have Andrew’s stag night tomorrow,” I point out.
“Yeah, that’s not until the evening.”
“Whatever.”
All I know is I don’t want to be having this conversation right now. All I want is painkillers and to lie down in a darkened room. My darkened room.
In Spite: A terrifying psychological thriller with a shocking twist you won't see coming Page 11
