Authors: C. L. Taylor
I wait until Brian leaves for work the next day before I go through his things. It’s nippy in the cloakroom, the tiled floor cold under my bare feet, the windowed walls damp with condensation, but I don’t pause to grab a pair of socks from the radiator in the hall. Instead I thrust my hands into the pockets of Brian’s favorite jacket. The coat stand rocks violently as I move from pocket to pocket, pulling out the contents and dropping them to the floor in my haste to find evidence.
I’ve finished with the jacket and have just plunged both hands into the pockets of a hooded sweatshirt when there’s a loud CRASH from the kitchen.
I freeze.
My mind goes blank—turns off—as though a switch has been thrown in my brain and I’m as rigid as the coat stand I’m standing beside, breathing shallowly, listening, waiting. I know I should move. I should take my hands out of Brian’s fleece. I should kick the contents of his wax jacket into the corner of the room and hide the evidence that I am a terrible, mistrusting wife, but I can’t.
My heart is beating so violently the sound seems to fill the room, and in an instant, I’m catapulted twenty years into the past. I’m twenty-three, living in North London, and I’m crouching in the wardrobe, a backpack stuffed with clothes in my left hand, a set of keys I stole from someone else’s jacket in my right. If I don’t breathe, he won’t hear me. If I don’t breathe, he won’t know that I’m about to…
“Brian?” The sense of déjà vu falls away as the faintest scraping sound reaches my ears. “Brian, is that you?”
I frown, straining to make out anything other than the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of my heart, but the house has fallen silent again.
“Brian?”
I jolt back to life, as though the switch in my brain has been flicked the other way, and I pull my hands out of his sweatshirt.
The hallway carpet is warm and plush under my feet as I inch forward, pausing every couple of seconds to listen as I head toward the kitchen. The smell of bleach fills my nose, and I realize one hand is covering my mouth, the scent of disinfectant still fresh on my fingers from cleaning the bathroom earlier. I pause again and try to slow my breathing. It is coming in small, sharp gasps, signaling a panic attack, but I am no longer afraid that my husband has come back to retrieve a forgotten briefcase or a lost house key. Instead I’m scared of—
“Milly!”
I’m almost knocked off my feet as an enormous golden retriever bowls down the hallway and launches herself at me, front paws on my chest, wet tongue on my chin. Normally I’d chastise her for jumping up, but I’m so relieved to see her I wrap my arms around her and rub the top of her big, soft head. When her joyful licking gets too much, I push her down.
“How did you get out, naughty girl?”
Milly “smiles” up at me, tendrils of drool dripping off her tongue. I’ve got a pretty good idea how she managed to escape.
Sure enough, when I reach the kitchen, the dog padding silently beside me, the door to the porch is open.
“You’re supposed to stay in your bed until Mummy lets you out!” I say, pointing at the pile of rugs and blankets where she sleeps at night. Milly’s ears prick up at the mention of the word “bed” and her tail falls between her legs. “Did silly Daddy leave the door open on his way to work?”
I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who’d refer to herself and her husband as “Mummy and Daddy” when speaking to a pet, but Milly is as much a part of our family as Charlotte. She’s the sister we could never give her.
I shut Milly back in the porch, my heart twisting as she looks beseechingly at me with her big, brown eyes. It’s eight o’clock. We should be strolling through the park at the back of the house, but I need to continue what I started. I need to get back to the cloakroom.
The contents of Brian’s pockets are where I left them—strewn around the base of the coat stand. I kneel down, wishing I’d grabbed a cushion from the living room as my knees click in protestation, and examine my spoils. There’s a handkerchief, white with an embroidered golfer in the corner, unused, folded neatly into a square (given to him by one of the children for Christmas); three paper tissues, used; a length of twine, the same type Brian uses to tie up the tomatoes in his vegetable garden; a receipt from the local supermarket for £40 worth of petrol; a mint candy, coated with fluff; a handful of loose change; and a crumpled cinema ticket. My heart races as I touch it—then I read the title of the film and the date—and my pulse returns to normal. It’s for a comedy we went to see together. I hated it—found it rude, crude, and slapstick—but Brian laughed like a maniac.
And that’s it. Nothing strange. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing incriminating.
Just…Brian stuff.
I sweep his belongings into a pile with the side of my hand, then scoop them up and carefully distribute them among his pockets, making sure everything is returned to where I found it. Brian isn’t a fastidious man; he won’t know, or care, which pocket held the change and which the cinema ticket, but I’m not taking any chances.
Maybe there is no evidence at all.
Charlotte didn’t squeeze my hand when I asked if her secret had anything to do with her father. She didn’t so much as twitch. I don’t know what I was thinking, imagining she might respond—or even asking the question in the first place. Actually, I do. I was following up a hunch; a hunch that my husband was betraying me, again.
Six years ago, Brian made a mistake—one that nearly destroyed not only our marriage, but his career too. He had an affair with a twenty-three-year-old parliamentary intern. I raged, I shouted, I screamed. I stayed with my friend Jane for two nights. I would have stayed longer but I didn’t want Charlotte to suffer. It took a long time but eventually I forgave Brian. Why? Because the affair happened shortly after one of my “episodes,” because my family is more important to me than anything in the world, and because, although Brian has many faults, he is a good man at heart.
A “good man at heart”—it sounds like such a terribly cutesy reason to forgive someone their infidelity, doesn’t it? Perhaps it is. But it’s infinitely preferable to life with a bad man, and when Brian and I met, I knew all about that.
It was the summer of 1993, and we were both living in Athens. I was teaching English as a foreign language and he was a widower businessman chasing a big deal. The first time Brian said hello to me, in a tatty tavern on the banks of the river Kifissos, I ignored him. The second time, I moved seats. The third time, he refused to let me continue pretending he didn’t exist. He bought me a drink and delivered it to my table with a note that said “hello from one Brit to another,” and then walked straight out of the pub without a backward glance. I couldn’t help but smile. After that, he was quietly persistent, a “hello” here, a “what are you reading?” there, and we gradually became friends. It took me a long time to lower my barriers, but finally, almost one year to the day after we first met, I let myself love him.
It was a warm, balmy evening, and we were strolling beside the river, watching the lights of the city flicker and glow on the water when Brian started telling me about Tessa, his late wife, and how devastated he was when she lost her battle with cancer. He told me how shocked he’d been—the disease had progressed so rapidly—and then how angry, how he’d waited until his son was staying with his granny and then he’d smashed up his own car with a cricket bat because he didn’t know how to deal with his rage. His eyes filled with tears when he told me how desperately he missed his son Oliver (he’d left him with his grandparents in the UK so he could fulfill a contract in Greece), but he made no attempt to blot them away. I touched his face, tracing my fingers over his skin, smudging his tears away, and then I reached for his hand. I didn’t let go for three hours.
I push open the door to Brian’s study and approach his desk, instantly feeling that I have intruded too far. I wash my husband’s clothes, I iron them, some of them I buy, but his study represents his career—a part of his world that he keeps distinct from family life. Brian is a member of Parliament. Saying it aloud makes me so proud, but I wasn’t always that way. Seventeen years ago, I was bemused when he’d rail against “Tory scum,” “class divides,” and “a failing National Health Service,” but Brian wasn’t content to sit on society’s sidelines and moan. When we returned to the UK from Greece, still flushed with happiness from our impromptu bare-footed wedding on a beach in Rhodes, he was resolute. We’d settle in Brighton and he’d start a new business—he had a hunch recycling would be big—and then, when it was established and making a profit, he’d run for Parliament. He didn’t have so much as a high school diploma in economics, but I knew he’d do it. And he did.
I never stopped believing in him. I still do in many ways, but I am no longer in awe of him. I love Brian, but I can also see only too well how vain and insecure his career choice has made him. Flattery goes a long way when you’re approaching your midforties, 225 pounds, and balding—particularly when the person doing the flattering is young, ambitious, and works for you.
Brian has changed since Charlotte’s accident. We both have, but in different ways. Instead of our daughter’s condition bringing us together, we’ve been forced apart, and the distance between us is growing. If Brian’s having another affair, I won’t forgive him again.
I take another step toward my husband’s desk, and my fingers trail over the brushed silver frame of a black-and-white photograph. It’s of Charlotte and me on a beach in Mallorca, taken on the first day of our holiday. We’ve still got our traveling clothes on, our trouser legs rolled up so we can paddle in the sea. I’ve got one hand raised to my forehead, protecting my eyes from the sun, while the other clutches our daughter’s tiny hand. She’s staring up at me, her chin tilted, eyes wide. The photo must be at least ten years old, but I still feel a warm swell of love when I look at the expression on her face. It’s pure, unadulterated happiness.
A floorboard in the corridor squeaks, and I snatch my fingers back from the photograph then sigh. When did I become so neurotic that every creak and groan of a two-hundred-year-old house sent me catatonic with fear?
I look back at the desk. It’s a heavy mahogany affair with three drawers on the left, three on the right, and a long, thin drawer that sits in between. I reach for the brass handle of the center drawer and slowly ease it open. Another floorboard squeaks but I ignore it, even though it sounds closer than the last. There’s something in the drawer, something handwritten, a card or letter maybe, and I reach for it, being careful not to disturb the mounds of paperclips and rubber bands on either side as I attempt to slide—
“Sue?” says a man’s voice, directly behind me. “What are you doing?”
Sunday, September 9, 1990
James and I had sex.
It happened on Saturday night.
He called me in the afternoon, and the first thing he said was “I’ve barely slept for thinking about you.”
I knew exactly how he felt. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him either. I’d woken up on Saturday morning with the most terrible feeling of dread that I’d never see him again. I was convinced I’d said something unforgiveable on Friday night and that, in the cold light of day, he’d realized that I wasn’t the woman for him after all.
So sure was I that when James rang and said he couldn’t stop thinking about me, I was totally floored.
“Absolutely,” I said when he said he needed to see me ASAP. “If I jump in the shower now then hop on the tube, I could be in Camden in—”
“Actually I was thinking that we could meet for dinner tonight.”
What must he think of me—taking him literally like I had no life and no self-control?! He didn’t laugh, thankfully, but instead asked if I’d ever been to some fancy restaurant in St. Pancras. I’d never heard of it and said as much, so James explained that it had come highly recommended by a friend.
Of course then I had another clothing dilemma (finally settling on my tried and tested little black dress) and was twenty minutes late as I walked in the restaurant at 8:20 p.m., trying not to ogle the stunning décor, the linen and crystal-dressed tables, and the immaculately turned out maître d’ who was showing me to my table. James stood up as we drew near. He was dressed in a three-piece gray suit with a lilac cravat at his throat and elegant silver cuff links at his wrists. I felt dowdy in my three-year-old dress and scuffed heels, but when James looked me up and down and his eyes widened in appreciation, I felt like the most attractive woman in the whole restaurant.
“I can’t stop staring at you,” he said after the maître d’ seated me, handed us our menus, and then left. “You always look beautiful, but tonight you look”—he shook his head as though dazed—“ridiculously sexy.”
I felt myself blush as his eyes flicked to my cleavage. “Thank you.”
“Honestly, Susan, I don’t think you have any idea the effect you’re having on me, and every other man in the room.”
I thought that was a bit over the top, but when my eyes flicked to the two men having a business meeting at the next table, they nodded at me appreciatively.
“So.” James reached across the table for my hand as I drained my first glass of wine. “What do you like?”
I glanced at the menu. “The scallops sound nice.”
He shook his head and slipped his fingers between mine, sliding them back and forth. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
I tried to swerve away from the question, to a more neutral conversation, but James topped up my wine glass and fixed me with that intense look of his.
“I haven’t been able to get you out of my head all day,” he said.
“Me neither.”
“I don’t think you understand.” He tightened his grip on my hand and lowered his voice. “I only spent one evening with you, but I haven’t been able to do anything because my mind and body have been craving you.”
I nodded, too shy to admit how many times I’d luxuriated in the fantasy of him lying naked beneath me.
“It’s killing me,” he continued, “sitting opposite you at the table, not able to touch you, not able to kiss you, not able to”—his voice became gravelly—“fuck you.”