Behind Her Eyes

My guilt over taking a fake sickie is totally washed away by the tidal wave of sadness when Adam leaves for the month, racing out of the flat with the casual hurt that only children can inflict in their excitement. As soon as the door is closed behind him, our tiny flat feels too big and too empty. Like everyone’s moved out and left me behind. I don’t know what to do with myself. I prowl around the flat until I can no longer ignore the lure of the wine bottle. As I reach for the corkscrew I see where I threw the notebook Adele gave me into the drawer. I stare at it for a long moment before taking it out.

On the inside cover of the book, high up in the corner, a name is carefully printed. ROBERT DOMINIC HOYLE, and those words interest me more than the list of instructions on the opposite page. ‘Pinch myself and say I AM AWAKE once an hour.’ I ignore these for now – but at least these are things I can do at home – and stare at the stranger’s name. I’ve always loved books with names hand-written in them, like those you pick up in charity shops that were once gifts and have greetings scribbled on the inside, whole stories hidden behind a few words, and this one is no different. Who is this boy? Are Adele and David still friends with him? Did he think that this whole thing was as stupid as I do when Adele first tried to help him?

I turn the page and expect it to be more instructions, but the scribbles, tight spiky writing in Biro that doesn’t entirely stay within the lines, are more than that. A record of attempts I think. I open the wine, pour a large glass, and settle back, curious at this time capsule of writing, this snippet of Adele’s past, and start to read.

If I keep pinching myself like a twat then my arms are going to be so bruised the nurses are going to think I’m using again (I fucking wish) but at least it’s marking off the hours in this shit place. Two days of counting my fingers and looking at clocks and pinching the shit out of myself and nothing. Adele says I have to be patient. At least she says it with a smile. I’m not good at patience. I am good at making her laugh though. She makes me laugh too. Thank fuck for Adele. Without her this do-goody up its own arse place would be enough to make me throw myself in the lake with boredom. I did fucking rehab. Don’t know why they had to send me here and punish me twice. So typical of fucking Ailsa. It’s free so do it. I’m sure she talked the doctor into referring me so I wouldn’t clutter up the flat and she could shag whoever whenever.

Adele is different. I’m only trying this shit for her. The dreams don’t really bother me, I like them sometimes in a twisted way. They make me feel more alive than I do in my real life. Sometimes that feels like walking through water. Everyone’s dull. Everyone’s predictable. Everyone’s out for themselves. Me included, but then what do people expect? Have they seen where I fucking live? People are inevitably shit and deserve to be treated as such. Not Adele though. Adele is properly beautiful inside and out. Of course now I’ve written that she can never see this book. I don’t want her laughing at me. I may be funny and clever but I know I’m also skinny and spotty and have these stupid braces on my teeth. She wouldn’t get it. She’d think I wanted to fuck her (which I really don’t). I guess I just don’t like most people. Most people don’t even exist to me, not in any real way, but I like Adele. I like being around her. I’m happy around her and my skin doesn’t itch to get high so much when I’m with her. We’re friends. I reckon we’re probably best friends. I can’t remember the last time I had a best friend. Adele Rutherford-Campbell is my first best friend. It’s actually – weirdly – a pretty good feeling.

When the doorbell goes, I get up so fast I nearly knock over whatever’s left in the bottle of wine by my feet. The notebook is instantly forgotten as I race out of the sitting room. It’s Adam, it’s got to be. He’s changed his mind. He doesn’t want to go away for a month after all, and, crying and kicking, he’s demanded Ian bring him home. To me. His mother. Mummy. The centre of his universe. Despite the over-excited squeals he was making when he left at five thirty, Paddington clutched under his arm, I’ve so convinced my tipsy brain that it’s going to be him coming home that when I open the door, all I can do is stare, confused.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘It’s you.’

‘Hey.’

It’s not Adam. It’s David. David is at my front door, leaning against the frame as if it’s holding him up. My eyes are seeing him, but my brain is struggling to believe it. David is here.

‘You called in sick. I thought I’d check on you.’ He looks awkward, but that somehow makes him better looking, and I’m suddenly very very aware of the glass of wine in my hand. What the hell is he doing here? Why would he come here? Why haven’t I got make-up on? Why is my hair a mess? And why, like an idiot, do I care?

‘It was a headache. I’m feeling better now.’

‘Can I come in?’

My heart races and I’m blushing. I look like shit. Not that it should matter. It doesn’t matter. I also feel like I’ve been caught out with my lie to work, and under all of that is the stupid secret I’ve got myself trapped in. Hey, I’m friends with your wife!

‘Sure.’ I step aside, and only then do I realise that he’s not exactly sober himself. He’s not steaming drunk, but there’s a vagueness in his eyes, and he’s not as sure on his feet as he should be. He loiters in the kitchen and I send him through to the sitting room while I get another glass and a fresh bottle from the fridge and then join him. The notebook Adele gave me yesterday is on the side table by the sofa, and as I sit down I quickly slip it onto the floor where he can’t see it. I feel a bit sick. What the hell is he doing here anyway? Am I getting fired? What mood is he in?

He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, out of place in the mess of my life, and I remember the space and neatness of his home, and shrivel a bit. There’s dust on the TV where I haven’t wiped it down in for ever, and the constant whirlwind of Adam is still evident in the abandoned toys and tangled games console in one corner. I hand him the glass and fresh bottle while filling up my glass with the dregs of the one I’ve already nearly finished. I’m going to have a hangover at work tomorrow, but I suspect I’m not going to be the only one. And it will be Friday and at least I don’t have to worry about getting Adam up for school. That makes me feel empty, and I drink some more.

‘How did you know where I lived?’ It feels weird sitting next to him like this. My whole body feels electrified, betraying me even as I try to stay cool.

‘I was worried it was my fault that you didn’t come in.’ He doesn’t look at me. ‘You know, because I was so shitty to you. They said you never take sick days.’

That part’s true. It’s a good job, and close to home. I’d rather drag myself in with flu than risk losing it, and it’s a wonderful break from school mums and children. Adult company three days a week. I feel guilty for pulling a sickie. I should have been honest, but Adele made it seem so reasonable, and to be fair it’s not like everyone else in the country doesn’t do it sometimes.

‘I got your address and phone number from your file, but I thought if I called you’d hang up.’ He looks at me sideways; defensive, sad and drunk. Gorgeous. The kind of man you want to heal. The kind of man you want to heal you. Who is he anyway? Why does he even care about my day off? And why would I hang up on my boss? I think of the pill cupboard and the phone calls and Adele’s sweet smile. Is he trying to control me too? Or is that just my mind seeing suspicious behaviour in all men because I’m angry with Ian for being happy with someone else? Ugh, I hate my over-thinking.

‘You should probably go home,’ I say.

He frowns and looks around, as if he’s suddenly noticed something missing. ‘Is your son in bed?’

‘No. He’s away with his father for a month. They left today.’ I take another long swallow of wine even though my head is already swimming slightly, in spite of the surge of adrenaline at David’s arrival.

‘Ah,’ he says. He might be a bit drunk but he’s not stupid, and I can see the penny of my sick day dropping. Still, not much he can really do about it now, unless he wants to tell Dr Sykes that he was in my flat and drinking, and that would definitely sound odd.

‘It must be nice to have a family.’

‘I had a family,’ I say, and I sound more bitter than I intend. Lisa’s pregnant. ‘Now I’m a single mum in London, where it’s always so easy to make new friends in your thirties. Or not.’ I hold my glass up. ‘Living the rock and roll lifestyle. Anyway,’ I add, ‘you could have children. You’re both young enough.’ I say this almost aggressively – a firm reminder that he’s married. A reminder to me as much as to him. To my body that can’t settle while so close to him.

He drains his wine quickly and pours himself some more, and even in my own far from sober state I think he’s a little too expert about it. Is this part of their problems? His drinking? How often does he get like this?

‘I wonder if it was fate,’ he says. ‘Us meeting in that bar.’

I almost laugh out loud, but instead it’s a weary giggle. ‘I think it was simply bad luck.’

He looks at me then, properly looks at me, right in the eyes, and he doesn’t seem to notice that my hair is a mess and I’ve got no make-up on and I basically look like shit.

‘Is that how you see it?’

My stomach fizzes slightly. I can’t help it. He does something to me. It’s like my brain gets put in a box and my body takes control. ‘Well, all things considered, it didn’t turn out great for me. I finally meet a man I actually like and he’s married.’ It’s flirtatious. A half-drunk half-opening of the door. I could have said it was a mistake and it would never happen again. I should have. But I didn’t.

‘I hadn’t felt that relaxed with someone in a long time,’ he says. ‘We really laughed, didn’t we? People should be able to make each other laugh. That should always last whatever else happens.’

It makes me think about what Sophie said about being best friends with your husband, and I feel sad and lost. What does he want from me?

‘This flat is so cosy. It feels lived in.’ He catches sight of my embarrassment. ‘You know what I mean. A family lives here.’

‘I think the word you’re looking for is messy.’

‘I keep thinking about you.’

He says it with such regret, but my heart still leaps. He thinks about me. I immediately wonder how often and when and what it is he thinks, and all the time my conscience is whispering You know his wife, you like his wife, and He has strange mood swings and his marriage is weird. But still my stomach tightens and I feel a rush of warmth and longing.

‘I’m nothing to write home about,’ I say, as every nerve tingles and I feel awkward beside him. ‘Your wife is very beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes she is.’ He drinks more wine and so do I. Where is this leading? Is this leading where I think it’s leading? I should make him leave, I know I should, but instead I sit there and swallow hard, my whole body a fluttering of nerves. ‘But you are …’ he looks at me then and I want to melt. ‘But you are lovely.’

‘How long have you been together?’ I need to calm this down. I need to calm me down. I should tell him that I know her. I should, but I don’t. That would be the end of it, whatever it is, and I just can’t do that yet. It’s not as if anything’s happening.

‘A long time,’ he says and stares at his feet. ‘Forever really.’

I think about how she told their story. How he saved her from the fire. Why aren’t I seeing that love for her here? But then, why would he show that to me? ‘Is she a doctor too?’ I ask. Lies and truths and tests.

‘No. No, she’s not. I’m not sure what she is. But she doesn’t work.’ He still doesn’t look at me, but swirls his wine around in his glass before taking another long drink. ‘And she hasn’t made me laugh in a long time.’ He looks at me then, and his face is so close to mine I think my heart is going to burst out of my chest.

‘Then why stay?’ The words are such a betrayal of Adele, but I want to push him. To see if he’ll snap or be filled with remorse and leave or something. Whatever resolve I had is crumbling. If he stays here much longer I’m going to make a fool of myself again. ‘If you’re unhappy then maybe you should separate,’ I say. ‘It’s not so hard once you do it.’

He barks out a short laugh as if that’s the craziest thing he’s heard all day, in a day filled with listening to crazy thoughts, and then he’s silent for a while, staring into his glass. Who is this man he hides beneath the charm and wit? Why this drunk moroseness?

‘I don’t want to talk about my marriage,’ he says, eventually. ‘I don’t want to think about my marriage.’ He touches my hair then, a loose strand wrapping itself around his finger, and I feel as if someone has set me on fire. The wine, Adam leaving, the loneliness, and the awful feeling of victory that he’s in my house are all touch paper to my lust. I want him. I can’t help it. And he wants me too. He leans forward, and then his lips are drifting across mine, butterfly light in their exquisite teasing, and I can no longer breathe.

‘I need to …’ I nod, embarrassed, towards the corridor, and then get up and go to the bathroom.

I use the toilet and splash water on my face. I can’t do this. I can’t. Even as I’m thinking that, I quickly wash myself and thank God that I shaved my legs and waxed my bikini line before the gym trip with Adele. I’m drunk. I’m not thinking straight. I will hate myself in the morning. I’m thinking all these things, but there’s a rush of white noise and drunken lust drowning them out. Adam’s gone for a month. Lisa’s pregnant. Why can’t I have this one thing? My face is flushed in the mirror.

Just tonight, I tell myself. It will never happen again. He might even have gone home already. Realised the error of coming here and gone back to his perfect house and perfect wife. That would be good, I think, even as my body calls that thought out as a lie. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t do this.

When I open the door he’s standing outside waiting for me, and before I can say anything, he’s pulling me close and his mouth is on mine and electricity rushes from my toes to my scalp. I think I mutter that we should stop, but at the same time I’m tugging at his clothes and we’re stumbling, drunk, towards the bedroom. I need to do this once. And then it’ll be out of my system. It has to be.

Afterwards, when we’ve got our breath back and we don’t know quite how to be with each other, he goes for a quick shower while I pull on my tatty dressing gown and go and clear up the wine glasses and bottles in the sitting room. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how I should feel. My head hurts, and the sex and wine have combined to make me drunker than I should be. He’s washing me off.

I try not to think of Adele waiting for him at home with something home-cooked in the oven. My skin still tingles with the feel of him even though my heart feels hollow. It’s been so long it’s as if my body’s just woken up. It wasn’t great sex – we were both too drunk for that – but it was close and warm, and he watched me while we fucked, really looked at me, and he was the man-from-the-bar, not my-boss-Adele’s-husband, and I didn’t let my eyes or hands linger on the scars he got saving his wife from a fire.

When he comes into the kitchen, he’s dressed and he can’t quite meet my eyes. I feel cheap. I deserve to. He’s showered without getting his hair wet, the condom flushed down my toilet, all evidence of infidelity washed away.

‘I should go,’ he says. I nod and try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace.

‘I’ll see you at work tomorrow.’ I expect him to open the door and rush out, and for a moment it looks like he will, and then he turns back and kisses me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I know this is shit.’

I think of Adele’s sweet smile and I want to tell him I’m as guilty as he is of betraying her, but I can’t.

‘Forget about it. It’s done. We can’t undo it.’

‘I don’t want to undo it. But things are …’ He hesitates. ‘Difficult. I can’t explain.’

It’s not that difficult, I want to say. People cheat all the time. The reasons are always selfish and base, it’s the excuses we make that are complicated. I stay quiet though. My head is throbbing and my feelings are all over the place.

‘You need to go,’ I say, giving him a shove towards the door. I don’t want him to say anything else that’s going to make me feel worse than I already do. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t bring this to work.’

He looks relieved. ‘Good. Sometimes she … I don’t know how …’ He’s not making any sense, but I let him carry on. ‘I don’t like to … things should stay out of the office.’

He compartmentalises. That’s what Adele had said. If only she knew how much.

‘Go,’ I repeat, and this time he does.

Well, I think as the door closes leaving me suddenly alone and terribly lonely, that’s that then. A new low reached. Even Sophie wouldn’t have done this. After all my concerns for how he treats Adele I’ve still had sex with him the first chance I’ve had.

I pour a glass of water and get some ibuprofen and shuffle back to my bed. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about them. I don’t want to think about me. I just want to sleep it away.

I wake up in the kitchen with the tap running and my arms waving around my face, beating my dreams away. I’m gasping, my head full of heat. It’s light already, and I blink and pant rapidly, for a moment thinking the stream of early sunlight is flames around me, and then I slowly settle back into the world, but the dream is still clear. The same one as ever. Adam lost. The darkness coming alive to trap me. This time was slightly different though. Every time I got close to Adam’s voice and opened a door in the abandoned building, I found Adele or David in a burning room, both shouting something at me that I couldn’t hear.

It’s 6a.m. and I feel like shit and my stomach is churning with hangover and guilt and the embers of the dream, and I’m exhausted. It’s too late to go back to sleep, and for a brief second I think about calling in sick for a second day, but I’m not going to be that person. Sue will already have noticed that I’m not getting in as early every day as I used to, and another sick day will make her worry. Also, I want to get things back to normal. To pretend last night never happened. I am such a shitty person, but even as I think that, I’m tingling a little with the memory of the sex. I didn’t come – I never do first time – but he woke my body up, and it’s going to take a while before it settles back into my sexless life.

I make coffee and go into the sitting room and see the notebook lying on the floor. It makes me feel guilty all over again. Adele’s been trying to help me, and I’ve slept with her husband. How have I let this happen?

I need to put what happened with David in a box in my head, separate from Adele, because otherwise I might do something stupid like tell her just to make myself feel better. And I won’t feel better, but she’ll feel worse. I think about Sophie and her affairs, and how no one ever tells the wife and how everyone’s life is probably a mess of secrets and lies when you boil them right down. We can never see who someone really is underneath the skin. In some kind of solidarity with Adele I pinch myself.

‘I am awake,’ I say and feel stupid hearing my words aloud in an empty flat. This whole thing is stupid, but I persevere. I look at my hands and count my fingers. I can’t be arsed to get up and look at the clock in the kitchen. I figure I can do that bit at work. This is no real penance though. Not for what I’ve done. Being a good student hardly makes up for this betrayal. God, my head hurts. David and Adele – I don’t really know what they each are to me. A lover now? A new friend? Neither? I am fascinated by them – individually and as a pair, but maybe that’s all it is really. Other than a mess waiting to happen. I can’t keep both of them. I can’t. I need to choose.

My phone, still in the bedroom, starts ringing, and my heart races.

‘Bonjour Maman,’ Adam says and then giggles. ‘Hello Mummy! I’m in France and I haven’t eaten snails yet but Daddy said I should call you before you go to work …’

In that moment, listening to his excited, breathless morning babble that makes my tired eyes well up a bit, I could kiss Ian. He knows, deep down, how much this has cost me, to let my baby go away with them, especially now, especially now the pregnancy is amongst us. He knows how important it is for me to hear from him without having to be the one to call. He knows I don’t want to feel needy, even though Adam is my baby and always will be. He knows I’m proud and capable of biting off my nose to spite my face when I’m hurt. He knows me. I might hate how he treated me, and I might hate that he’s happy, but he knows me. After last night with David, it’s a strange comfort.

I laugh along with my little boy for a couple of minutes and then he’s racing off somewhere, and Ian tells me that everything’s fine, the weather’s good and there were no delays. It’s the usual polite conversation, but it makes me feel better about things. This is my real life, even if I’m now feeling insecure on the edges of it. This is the life I have to make my peace with.

If and when this terrible mess I’m making explodes, at least I will still have Adam, and Ian in our own way. We’re tied together by our child.

By the time we hang up, I’m feeling better, and the shower clears away the worst of my hangover. I look down at my hands under the water spray and count my fingers. I pinch myself and say that I’m awake. I try not to think about the sex I had with David even as I wash it away. I’ll wear trousers and minimal make-up today. Whatever happened last night can’t be repeated. It really can’t. I need to do the right thing. And that isn’t choosing David.