by Hazel Hayes
‘Looks like I’m staying put.’
‘I heard,’ I say, trying to conceal a smile.
‘I’m supposed to work from home,’ says Theo, ‘but I don’t really have much to do.’
I pull back the duvet and lightly pat a patch of bed with one hand.
‘I’ll give you something to do.’
Theo laughs in spite of himself.
‘You’re actually ridiculous,’ he says, but he’s already unbuttoning his shirt.
*
The day is warm but overcast and the odd rain shower patters by outside. We roll out of bed around 11 a.m. and Theo whips up a batch of fluffy, American-style pancakes. I make us a big pot of tea and a pan-full of bacon, fried to a crisp, then we smother our food in maple syrup and we sit to the table to eat. I can’t remember the last time we had breakfast together like this; I started working from home around six months ago and despite being here more I feel like I’ve seen Theo less. Maybe I’m just imagining it – being alone so much might have skewed my perspective – but either way, having him here today is a very welcome change.
We stay at the table a while, picking over the last scraps of food as we talk and laugh and catch each other up like old friends who haven’t seen one another in ages. After that we retire to the sofa, pull the blinds, and squabble over which movie to watch until finally we settle on 500 Days of Summer. It’s been years since either of us has seen it.
I’m beginning to doze a little, all curled up with my head resting on Theo’s chest, when I’m woken by him muttering angrily at the telly.
‘Fuck’s sake, Tom,’ he says.
I’m only half awake.
‘Hmm?’
‘Well, he’s making a right tit of himself, isn’t he?’
‘Mmm.’
‘She’s not into you, mate – get over it!’ says Theo to the TV.
I’m smiling to myself as I drift off to sleep.
*
When I wake up, the room is silent. Theo’s gone and there’s a blanket over me. I have no idea how long I’ve been out for, but my body feels better rested than it has done in a long while. I stretch and yawn and I’m nuzzling back into a cosy position when Theo arrives home with two big bags of shopping.
‘Hello, angel.’
‘Hello,’ I purr from the sofa.
Theo looks at me and smiles, then he walks over and crouches down in front of me.
‘I love you,’ he says and I’m a little taken aback by his sudden sincerity.
‘I love you too,’ I say.
Theo kisses me gently on the forehead and again on the lips. He strokes my hair and I press my head against his hand, smiling.
‘You’re like a big cat,’ he says, laughing as he goes to put away the groceries.
We cook dinner together, both dancing around one another from counter to cooker to sink as music blares. We belt out the choruses and we twirl one another about – we even slow dance while the broccoli boils – then we eat at the table again, this time by candlelight with a bottle of wine.
After dinner we watch another movie, then I go to bed and read while Theo potters about, getting his things ready for the next day – he got an email from his boss to say the pipe’s been fixed and everyone’s expected back in the office tomorrow.
He takes a shower before climbing into bed and pulling me in towards him for a cuddle. His fair hair is still dark with damp, and I run my fingers through it as we talk.
‘Theo?’
‘Yes, angel.’
‘I had a really nice day.’
He doesn’t open his eyes. But a soft smile forms on his lips.
‘Me too.’
‘Can we have another one just like it soon please?’ I ask.
‘Of course we can.’
I’m not sure what it is I liked so much; there was nothing special about today, except that it was perfect.
Bodies
I’m lying awake in bed when the phone rings. It’s Theo. I don’t pick up. Two minutes later I call him back.
‘Are you drunk?’ I ask when he answers.
‘No.’
‘Are you done ignoring me then?’
‘I wasn’t ignoring you,’ he says.
‘Well it sure fucking felt like it.’
There’s a pause.
‘My gran died,’ says Theo. His voice cracks slightly. He sniffs.
I sit up in bed and switch the light on.
‘Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.’
The last time we spoke was in Paris – he’s working there temporarily and I decided to surprise him with a visit. To say it ended badly would be an understatement; as it stands I’m not actually sure if we’re still together. I flew home over two weeks ago and he hasn’t answered my calls since; he just texts me every few days to say he needs more time. For what, I’m not entirely sure. To calm down? To decide if he still loves me? To work up the courage to leave me?
Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to carry on life as usual, which is proving more difficult than I’d expected; emotional stress aside, the logistics are a nightmare – our friend Trinny is waiting for us to RSVP to her wedding, there are several outstanding bills in Theo’s name, and I can’t find the number for the pest-control guy. Last night I accidentally left a packet of Jacob’s Cream Crackers on the table and the mice burrowed a hole clean through it.
‘Okay,’ I say to Theo, switching into crisis mode. ‘How can I help? Do you need me to book you a flight home?’
‘I’m already home,’ he says.
‘Oh. When did you get back?’ I ask, thinking he might be calling from the airport.
‘Three days ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘My mum called and I came home and …’ He trails off, then comes back. ‘She says my gran died peacefully, in her sleep.’
Sniff.
To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t care less how she died. Theo’s grandmother, Augusta, was a cruel, carping, racist old bitch who spoke with great fondness of a post-war Britain, when ‘people knew their place’. From what I could glean, Augusta had never been particularly kind to Theo – and she grew even meaner when he brought home an Irish girl – but he loved her in the same way he loves his mother, with naivety and a selective blindness.
Theo’s still talking but I can’t focus on what he’s saying. He’s been back in the country for three days and he didn’t even tell me? I’ve been over here climbing the fucking walls. I almost got a flight to Paris yesterday. What if I had? What then?
‘When’s the funeral?’ I ask.
‘Tomorrow.’
Tomorrow!?
‘Right,’ I say.
‘Will you come with me?’ asks Theo. Another sniff. Followed by him blowing his nose directly into the phone.
‘Of course I will.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, ‘I’ll be over first thing to get my suit. Then we’ll drive down.’
‘In whose car?’ I ask.
‘I’ve rented one.’
‘Right,’ I say and then, unable to restrain myself, I ask him what he’s told his mother about us.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ says Theo. ‘We had a fight, that’s all.’
‘Well, that’s not all. You haven’t spoken to me in two weeks. And you’ve been back for three days without telling me.’
‘Please don’t make this about you,’ he says, and I bite my lip hard while he continues, ‘I didn’t want to see anyone, okay? I just wanted to be with family.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. See you in the morning.’
I hang up before the part where we’d usually say ‘I love you’, knowing somehow that he won’t.
The next morning, I’m in our bedroom deciding what to wear when I hear Theo’s key in the door. It’s just gone 8 a.m. I’ve barely slept.
I tiptoe down the hall in a black dress and bare feet and find him standing in the middle of the living room, head down, shoulders hunched, like a child who’s been forgotten at the school gates. I notice he’s
brought his suitcase home, which puts me at ease a little. I wonder how long he’ll stay before he goes back to Paris.
‘Nothing’s changed,’ Theo says, glancing around the room.
‘Why would it?’ I ask.
‘When will you be ready?’
‘Ten minutes,’ I tell him.
‘Cool. Just gonna grab my suit if that’s okay?’
‘Of course,’ I say, and he moves towards the bedroom. As he passes me I catch his right hand with my left and he stops.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Hey,’ says Theo, looking at the floor now.
I tilt my face to find his and finally, I catch his gaze and hold it.
‘Hi,’ I say again and instantly Theo’s energy softens. I squeeze his hand, he squeezes back, and with that he lets out a long, shuddering breath, like he hasn’t exhaled in days. He drops his forehead to my shoulder and instinctively my free hand rises to stroke his hair. We stay this way a while, facing in opposite directions, his breath coming and going in little stops and starts. I feel his hot tears run down my arm and collect in the crevices of our interlaced fingers.
After a few minutes he rights himself and goes to our bedroom. I’ve hung his suit on the wardrobe door and placed his shoes beneath it for him. He thanks me, and as he begins to pull his suit off the hanger I see him notice the pile of black dresses discarded on the bed.
‘I couldn’t decide what to wear,’ I explain.
‘Well, luckily we’re going to a funeral, not a fashion show.’
He says this with a quick flippancy, but the anger behind it is palpable. My stomach clenches.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, then he looks me up and down. ‘The one you have on is nice. Want me to zip you up?’
‘Sure,’ I say, and I turn around and gather my hair up out of the way. But as Theo steps behind me, I feel as vulnerable as if I were facing the edge of a cliff. He zips me up and, without hesitation, returns to his suit. This in itself is of course unremarkable, except that for the past few years, every time Theo zips me in to or out of a dress, he stops to kiss me on the back of the neck. I used to think the only way a man could hurt you was by lashing out, but it turns out the absence of action can cause just as much pain.
‘I wanted to wear something your mother would like,’ I say, with my back still turned. I pick up my shoes and go, knowing he’ll read the subtext.
It’s no secret that Theo’s mother and I don’t like one another; Jocelyn is a difficult person for anyone to get along with, but being the object of Theo’s affection makes me the competition in her eyes, and so she treats me like a scorned wife might treat the other woman, with unabashed jealousy and contempt. I learned a long time ago that it’s best to keep my head down, let her have all of Theo’s attention, and give her absolutely no ammunition to throw at me. That’s why I tried on twelve different dresses today and that’s why, instead of choosing the one that I liked best, I chose the one that’s not too short, not too low-cut, not too figure-hugging, not too cheap, not too extravagant, and indeed not too plain. I’m keen to see how Jocelyn manages to find fault with it anyway.
A few minutes later Theo emerges from the bedroom in his suit. I’m absentmindedly thinking how handsome he looks when he asks where my overnight bag is.
‘I didn’t know we were staying,’ I say.
‘My mum’s booked us all into a B&B for the night. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No,’ I say, pushing down a wave of anxiety about the plans changing. ‘But that’s fine, I’ll grab a few things.’
He mumbles an apology as I clack back towards the bedroom in a pair of high heels, which I rethink and swap for flats, partly because they’ll be more practical in a graveyard and partly because I don’t want to appear ‘too tall’. As I zip up my bag I realise that Theo probably brought his suitcase for the stay tonight. Silly girl, I think, he’s not coming home.
We hardly speak the whole way to the funeral and I’m glad to be behind the wheel; the road is a welcome distraction from the noise in my head and the silence in the car. It’s a grey, blustery day. Rain spits sideways at us and a pair of balding windscreen wipers scrape doggedly back and forth across the glass. I ask Theo several times if he’s all right; he says he’s fine and continues staring out of the window. At one point he turns on the radio, scans through the stations and, unsatisfied, turns it back off. I offer him a cable to play music from his phone but he just shakes his head.
I begin to wonder if Theo’s being intentionally vague and erratic to throw me off guard – calling me at the last second, withholding information and affection as a form of emotional manipulation – but I realise that while his actions may seem cruel, it wouldn’t occur to him to be cunning. This is just how Theo fights; he doesn’t attack, he avoids.
I, on the other hand, become a detective in the midst of an argument, desperately searching for clues as to his feelings or intentions, piecing together every shred of evidence that might prove my current theory; that he’s staying, that he’s going, that he loves me, that he never wants to see me again. There’s a certain amount of confirmation bias at play here, but being aware of that doesn’t stop me.
Of course, he could just tell me how he’s feeling, but that would require self-awareness and communication skills, neither of which Theo possesses. So I settle for speculation. Today he’s an enigma; he’s gone from ignoring me to crying on me to insulting me to complimenting me to ignoring me again and I don’t know what any of it means. My head hurts. I check the map. Another hour to go.
We’re driving to Dunkerton, a small village just outside Bath where Theo’s grandmother grew up and where she’ll be laid to rest today. I imagine the gravediggers at this very moment, opening a hole in the earth for Augusta next to her late husband, Jim. This seems like a romantic notion – two people who were once in love, separated by death, resting together for eternity – but the truth is that Jim and Augusta were already separated in life. Not in any official capacity, of course – it wasn’t the done thing back then to leave one’s spouse, even if they made you miserable. They barely spoke save for perfunctory conversation, they slept in separate bedrooms at night, and during the day they occupied different areas of their home; she took the parlour and he the conservatory, or the garden, weather permitting.
I never met Jim – he died when Theo was just a boy – but the stories Theo tells about him all seem to revolve around bike rides in the local park, games of kick-about in the garden and being tucked in at bedtime. Jim sounds like a good man: a soft-natured, altruistic old soul who deserved better than a stern, scathing wife. I’m wondering how two such different people got together in the first place, and why they stayed together for so long, when my thoughts are interrupted by an impossibly loud bang; a sort of guttural, shredding noise that feels like it’s happening inside my own head.
‘What the fuck was that!?’ shouts Theo, grabbing on to the dashboard as the car swerves abruptly to the right. We’re in the outside lane of the M4 motorway and I’m pretty sure one of the back tyres has just burst. My instinct is to steer left out of the swerve, but some blessed part of my brain remembers being told not to do that or it could send the car into a spin. I grip the wheel and hold it straight instead.
‘Stop the car!’ shouts Theo.
‘No,’ I say, pushing my foot down on the accelerator.
‘What are you doing?’ he screams, eyes wide. I don’t answer.
I’m not sure who gave me this information or where it was being stored, but I know that slamming on the brakes is maybe worse than turning the wheel. So once again I ignore my instincts and accelerate.
As soon as I can maintain a straight line and a safe speed, I indicate left and move slowly to the inside lane, by which point Theo’s panic has reached a crescendo and he’s clawing at my arm and begging me to pull over.
‘We can’t change the tyre here,’ I say.
‘WHAT TYRE!?’ he bellows. He has no idea what’s happening. I just keep quiet
and keep going until eventually I can exit off the motorway. Somewhere near Chippenham, we pull into a service station and the moment the car crawls to a stop, Theo unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out. I’m still staring straight ahead as he paces back and forth through my field of vision, holding his head in his hands and grabbing tufts of hair in his fists.
Finally, as though suddenly remembering I exist, Theo comes back to the car and opens my door. The wind catches the door, flinging it open as he crouches down next to me.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, much too quickly. He reaches in and turns the key in the ignition. The engine stops. I notice the absence of the sound.
‘You can let go of the steering wheel now,’ his voice is gentle and far away.
‘Okay,’ I say, but when I look down my hands are still clenched around the wheel, my knuckles turning slowly white. Theo peels my fingers off the wheel, then takes my hands in his.
‘You did good,’ he says. ‘You did so good.’
A teardrop lands in my lap. Then another. I turn to look at Theo but there are no tears on his face.
‘Am I crying?’ I ask. Theo looks at me like he’s searching my face for the answer to a maths problem.
‘Yes, angel,’ he says.
‘Oh,’ I say. Then, ‘I’d like to get out of the car now.’
With one arm around me, Theo walks me inside to a little café down the back of the service station. He bundles me up in his coat and deposits me in one of the booths while he goes to get help. The wallpaper is a grubby shade of maroon, peeling at the seams. I stare at it for an indiscernible amount of time.
When Theo returns, with two cups of tea and a bar of chocolate, he tells me about the nice young man named Derek who’s going to fix our car. There appears to be a slight delay between Theo’s mouth moving and the words coming out, like he’s speaking over live satellite link. He tells me it’s just a burst tyre and the car will be ready in an hour. I hear this about three seconds after he says it.
‘Why are we here?’ I blurt at him.
‘What do you mean?’
