The Road to Zoe

by Alexander, Nick

  ‘Well, you managed it this time,’ she said. ‘So perhaps you can do so again. But in the meantime, you need to make sure that she’s safe.’

  ‘Safe?’ I repeated, nausea rising within me.

  ‘Safe,’ she repeated. ‘No doubts. No excuses. Safe.’

  From that moment on, my relationship with Scott was doomed.

  I’d suspected it for a while, I think, but I understood it as a fact that Monday afternoon. The whole Zoe issue had lit a fuse beneath us, and I knew now that it was only a matter of time before it exploded.

  Within a week of Zoe’s session with Dr McDonald I was conspiring, in unspoken agreement with Zoe, to make sure she and Scott never occupied the same space again. I found myself actively helping her avoid him.

  I’d stopped having sex with him, too – started even to shrink from his touch. I’d see him heading towards me from the corner of my vision and engage myself in some complex fiddly task, to avoid, or at least limit, the kiss that I knew was coming.

  It was ridiculous, I knew that. I had absolutely no proof of anything, nor even any reason to suspect. But I just couldn’t stop my mind going to those dark places. And when I asked Scott if he’d be prepared to meet Dr McDonald with Zoe – something Dr McDonald had requested – and he refused point-blank, refused even to discuss it, I knew my last hope had failed.

  We began to argue about anything; we began to argue about everything. And Zoe saw it all and rejoiced.

  Jude, bless him, actually pulled me to the side on one occasion to ask me what was wrong with me. I’d had a huge, storming argument with Scott. It had been about immigration, of all things, which was ridiculous because we both knew we agreed. But I’d provoked him, knowingly, by taking an opposing point of view, and then pushing him on it until he exploded. And I’d done this for the simple reason that I’d wanted him to leave, because in his presence, the air in the house had become unbreathable.

  ‘I don’t know, Jude,’ I told my son. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  ‘You’re going to drive him away permanently,’ he told me, sounding unnervingly adult. ‘And then you’ll be sad, and I’ll have to hate you for ever.’

  The final straw finally came one Sunday evening. We’d spent a tense weekend together, basically with Scott trying to get close to me and me trying to avoid him doing so. He’d asked me repeatedly what was wrong, and I had obfuscated, insisting that ‘nothing’ was. I don’t know who I thought I was fooling.

  About six o’clock, Jude came down from his bedroom and, no doubt driven out of the house by the electricity that was crackling between Scott and me and by the atmospheric pressure generated by the inevitability of the coming storm, he informed us that he was going to his friend Gary’s house, and vanished through the back door. Zoe, for her part, had been at her friend Sinead’s all weekend.

  ‘So, all alone in the house,’ Scott said, raising one eyebrow suggestively, almost as soon as the back door closed.

  ‘Yep,’ I replied, business-like. ‘D’you want to watch a film?’

  ‘I can think of something else I’d rather do,’ Scott said.

  ‘There’s a new one on Netflix I want to see,’ I told him. ‘A thriller. You like thrillers.’

  ‘Mandy,’ Scott said.

  ‘I think it’s Spanish, but it looked pretty good. You don’t mind subtitles, do you?’

  ‘Mandy!’ Scott said. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Jesus, will you just tell me what’s wrong?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I said for the umpteenth time, walking through to the lounge and picking up the remote control. Scott followed me and hung on the doorframe.

  ‘Mandy,’ he said. ‘You’re avoiding me. You’re avoiding sex. We haven’t done it for weeks. You don’t even want to kiss any more.’

  I forced a fake laugh. ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ I said.

  ‘Is this because I don’t want to see that damned shrink?’ Scott asked. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘What? No! It’s got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Ah!’ Scott said. ‘So you admit there’s a problem.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ I said. But the tension of the moment, the cumulative stress of the last few weeks, had reached a point where it was unbearable. And avoiding Scott while not telling him why was becoming untenable, I could see that. There was no way we were going to avoid the storm. There was no way we were getting out of this alive.

  ‘But, seeing as we’re on the subject, let’s talk about that,’ I said, some insurgent part of me deciding that now was as good a time as any, as at least the kids were out. ‘Why won’t you come with us to see Dr McDonald? I mean, if you care so much about this family . . . ?’

  Scott shrugged. ‘I don’t have any issues. I don’t need to see a shrink. Zoe has the issues. So Zoe should see him. Simples.’

  ‘It’s a her,’ I said. ‘Dr McDonald is a woman. How come you don’t even know that?’

  ‘So Zoe should see her,’ Scott said, pedantically. ‘And I don’t even know that because I’m not that interested.’

  ‘Dr McDonald is interested in you,’ I said, with meaning. ‘She really wants to talk to you.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to talk to her,’ Scott said. ‘I don’t like shrinks.’

  ‘Which is hardly reassuring,’ I pointed out.

  Scott’s features slipped into a deep frown then. He worked his mouth. I could see him slowly, finally, figuring something out. I could see all the emotions – confusion, concern, disgust – as they worked their way across his features, like ever darker clouds swelling.

  ‘Why would I need to reassure you?’ he said. ‘What the fuck do I need to reassure you about, Mandy?’

  ‘Scott, something happened in Blackpool, you know it did. Something happened on that ride. And Zoe won’t, or can’t, tell us what it was. And apparently neither will you. And we all, Dr McDonald included, think that’s . . . probably relevant,’ I said, doing my best to sound reasonable.

  ‘Relevant?’ Scott repeated. ‘Mandy, nothing happened on the ride. I keep telling you, but you just don’t effing believe me!’ He was starting to sound angry. ‘Nothing happened, Jesus!’

  ‘Well, I’m worried something did, Scott. And so is Dr McDonald.’

  ‘Something like what?’ Scott said. ‘Why don’t you just tell me what you think happened? Go on. Tell me!’

  ‘Because I don’t know, Scott. How could I possibly know? I wasn’t there.’

  ‘OK, why do you think something happened?’ Scott said, visibly struggling to calm down. ‘Despite the fact that I keep on and on . . . telling you nothing did, you still do. So why?’

  ‘Look, she hasn’t spoken to you since, Scott,’ I said. ‘Not once. Not one single word. Do you realise how . . . incriminating that looks?’ I winced at the word ‘incriminating’ that had just escaped my lips. I knew instantly that it was a mistake. And then I thought, perhaps not. Perhaps this needs to happen. ‘She won’t even be alone in a room with you. Not for one second, Scott. And we were all witness to what happened when you touched her the other day. She went completely off the rails. So what am I supposed to think, Scott? Why don’t you tell me how I’m supposed to interpret that?’

  Scott stared at me, a crazed expression forming on his face. He laughed and gasped at the same time. ‘Incriminating?’ he repeated, quietly. ‘It looks incriminating?’ He covered his mouth with one hand. ‘God, you think . . .’ he whispered, speaking through his fingers. ‘Jesus Christ, Mandy! You do, don’t you? You actually think that I . . . I mean, Christ, this is me, here, yeah? This is Scott.’ His eyes were glistening and he was gently shaking his head.

  ‘I don’t think anything, Scott,’ I said, my voice wobbling. ‘I really don’t. It’s just . . .’

  ‘Oh, you do,’ he said, his lip curling. ‘You just won’t say it.’

  ‘I really don’t,’ I said again.

  ‘You . . . wow!’ Scott spluttere
d, now breaking eye contact with me and staring at the corner of the ceiling instead. ‘Wow!’ He shook his head and exhaled heavily through pursed lips, before continuing, sounding increasingly mean, ‘You know, Mandy? It’s bad enough that you can even think something like that. But to not have the guts to own it. To not even have the guts to say it to my face. That’s . . . bad. That’s really fucking evil, Mandy.’ And then, his voice wobbling, his face a tormented grimace, he added, ‘This . . .’ He gestured vaguely at the room, at the space between the two of us, and breathed, ‘This is over.’

  He pulled the lounge door quietly closed behind him and I sat in the armchair and stared at the blank TV screen, the unused remote still in my hand. Behind the door, I could hear Scott moving around the house collecting his things. A little later, through the corner of the lounge window, I saw him load them into his Toyota.

  When he finally reversed down the drive and drove away, I crossed to look out at the empty driveway, at the spot where he’d been parked, and surprised myself. Because instead of feeling devastated, I felt cold, like an assassin – I’d engineered his departure, after all.

  I also felt surprisingly relieved. The tension in the house had been quite literally unbearable these past few weeks and I had needed – my sanity and the sanity of my family had required – that by whatever means, it should cease.

  The feeling of relief lasted until the next day, when the kids left for school. That’s when it hit me that I’d lost Scott for ever. And I was heartbroken this time – truly heartbroken.

  Unable to even think about going to work, I sat in that same armchair and let the feeling wash over me. I alternated between feeling disgusted with myself for having let myself suspect Scott of doing anything so horrendous and being disgusted with myself for having trusted him in the first place. Whatever the truth of the matter, there was no get-out-of-jail card for me. I was guilty, either of letting him in or of pushing him out. Tears followed, shocking quantities of tears, and unbeknown to the kids, I took two full days off work just so that I could lie in my bed staring at the ceiling – so that I could cry into a pillow while they were out at school.

  It wasn’t until Wednesday evening that the kids noticed Scott had taken all his belongings.

  ‘He’s not coming back, is he,’ Jude asked, more a statement than a question.

  I shook my head sadly in reply and ordered my eyes to remain dry.

  ‘I hate you,’ Jude said.

  As time went by, it became clear that, though he was knocked sideways by it, he didn’t actually hate me in the end. Most of the time he put on a convincing show of just how fine he was, despite it all. Just occasionally I’d catch a glimpse of how much the whole mess was affecting him. I’d come into a room and see him staring into the middle distance, an exercise book open in front of him. And when I tried to talk to him about it, he’d say, ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’ And then he’d pick up the book and silently go to his room.

  Zoe was iridescent in her victory. She danced and sang and even started eating her sausages with us at the dinner table. She put on a bit of weight, too, which only went to reinforce my fears that it was all down to something Scott had done, or worse, had been doing. All the same, I hated her for being so happy about my misery even as I rejoiced in her doing better. It was an extremely complex set of emotions.

  The texts started coming about two weeks after he’d left. The early ones were simple messages saying, ‘I miss you’ or ‘You’re so wrong about me.’ But within a few days they’d evolved to the point where they alternated between – late at night – insults at my ‘cess-pit imagination’ or – in the mornings – love-laden pleas that read like Hallmark cards. I never answered a single message – I just couldn’t think what to say.

  At the end of the month I changed my number to make them stop because, without overtly naming my fears, there was nothing to be said. And how could I ever tell Scott my fears? How could I ever put words to any of it? I could barely think about it in my own head.

  Without him, my life seemed like an empty box. Actually, I felt I’d been destroyed by his departure. I felt as if I was subsisting from day to day, without hope, without pleasure, without life . . . I’d had it all, and I’d somehow lost it. I’d loved Scott far more than I’d ever loved Ian, I saw that now. I’d been ridiculously young when I’d married Ian, and it had been a mistake of youth, nothing more. But Scott? He’d been my soulmate. He’d been The One. But perhaps Rolf Harris’s wife had felt that way, too? Maybe Fred West had been Rose’s dream guy? Could desire be relied upon to judge these things?

  Zoe saw Dr McDonald five more times, and surprisingly, she went to the appointments willingly. Even more surprisingly, it was the doctor who suggested we stop. That she’d willingly give up sixty pounds every two weeks gave me a jolt. I began to think that she was genuine, after all.

  Zoe had been playing her from the start, the doctor explained. She was extremely intelligent and understood exactly what was going on. But as nothing Zoe said in therapy was ever true and as she’d proven impossible to hypnotise, there was simply no point in continuing.

  ‘She seems happier since Scott left,’ the doctor told me, in our final phone call. ‘She looks healthier, too. So I think it’s best we just leave it there for now.’

  I understood that day that I was never going to find out. I would never get closure on what had happened in Blackpool. I would never know for sure if I’d been wrong about Scott. Well, I’d clearly been wrong about him, but I would never understand if I’d been wrong at the beginning for loving him, or wrong at the end for letting him go.

  About a month after Scott’s departure, Ian reappeared on the scene.

  It was about six weeks before Christmas, and at first I feared he wanted to gloat. But as time went by, I saw that he was genuinely concerned for me. I’d let myself go to pot a little, and I’d been assuring only minimal service around the house. It was hard to deny that I needed some support.

  Ian seemed healthy and happy, and after all the drama surrounding Scott’s final months with me, his calm, good-tempered, familiar presence felt reassuring.

  So things between us became civil once again; even friendly, I suppose you could say.

  He started to take the kids away to give me a break on weekends, which, though I’d do little but watch soppy films and get drunk, was welcome. People say you shouldn’t drink alone, but I honestly think I needed it back then. I needed that time to wallow in my misery, and only alcohol seemed to open the floodgates.

  Ian would rent a place, sometimes in Manchester or in the Lake District; one time on the Scarborough coast. There, he’d spend the weekend alone with Jude and Zoe, basically spoiling them rotten. He almost always kept them separate from Linda and her kids, and I never dared to ask why. I was happy that he was taking them and relieved that we were getting on. I didn’t want to cause waves.

  Sunday nights, when he brought them back, he’d stay for dinner before heading off to his other, duplicate family. On one of these evenings, once the kids had vanished, I told him what had happened with Scott. I’d downed half a bottle of wine before they arrived, so that’s probably why my tongue was so loose.

  Ian, tactfully, gave no opinion on the matter. He’d only met Scott a few times, and fleetingly at that, so he had no real data on which to base an opinion anyway. But when I’d finished and I’d dried my eyes, he crossed the room and pulled me from my seat to give me a hug. As he left, he promised to find out the truth. I was convinced that was never going to happen, but I was grateful for his concern, all the same. I was thankful that he understood how important it was that we knew.

  Zoe was going from strength to strength back then. She was heading for her sixteenth birthday, so it was a huge relief that her school grades had picked up. Her eating problems had eased considerably, too. She’d added potatoes, pasta, green beans and tomatoes (pulped, never whole) to the Quorn and bread on her food list. And I’d invented a surprising number of recipes using just t
hose few ingredients.

  One cold February evening, Ian brought them home after a weekend away. As I opened the front door to greet them, Zoe pushed past me and ran upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, kissing Jude’s head as he entered the house, then turning to Ian. ‘You didn’t force her to eat broccoli or something, did you?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Ian said, missing, as usual, the fact that I was making a joke. ‘Why would I do that? She hates broccoli! No, I told them some news, actually. And Zoe wasn’t thrilled about it. And now I need to tell you.’

  I invited him into the lounge, and over a glass of white wine he informed me that he and Linda were to be married. She was pregnant as well, which actually surprised me more than the marriage. I had assumed she was too old to have kids. I wondered if yoga had the power to stave off the menopause or if, on the contrary, it had just made her look older than she really was.

  ‘Does Zoe not like Linda?’ I asked, confused. I had always heard that they got on OK. ‘She’s not doing a rerun of the whole Scott thing, is she?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Ian said. ‘I mean, they’ve never been best mates, but nothing major. It’s just the shock of it, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s it. I’m sure she’ll get over it,’ I said.

  ‘I was wondering if perhaps . . .’ Ian started, before pausing and sipping his wine.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was wondering, in the car, if maybe we could organise something before the wedding. With you and the kids and Linda and the girls. I thought maybe showing Zoe we can be one big happy family might make her see things in a different light.’

  I nodded and shrugged simultaneously. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’d be up for that?’ Ian asked, concernedly. ‘It wouldn’t be too . . . I don’t know. It wouldn’t be too hard for you?’