Behind Her Eyes

It’s just awful. Awful. There are no other words to describe this morning. The shouting has stopped, but this deathly quiet is worse. I feel sick. I’m shaking. I don’t actually know what to say, or if there’s anything I should say. Or can say. This is all my own doing.

‘I’m moving into the spare room. For now. For a while. I think that’s for the best. Until we decide what we’re going to do.’ His voice is professionally calm, but he’s livid. I know him. All I want to do is cry, but I don’t. I keep my face haughtily impassive. I don’t want him to know how much he’s hurting me.

‘Where’s the credit card?’ he asks, his eyes cold.

The things I’ve ordered from the shopping channel started arriving at 8 a.m. and were all here by nine. I timed them all perfectly, paying extra for a specific time slot. The buying only took an hour or so of dedicated effort, but David’s American Express account is now hyperventilating at the cost of my random purchases. A new coffee machine – the finest model. A new bread maker – the same. Some jewellery. A very expensive camera. A slicer/dicer/steamer with all the accessories. And the pièce de résistance, a top of the range treadmill. Thousands of pounds gone.

Like a child I take my handbag from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and pass it to him, and then watch as he pulls the precious card from my wallet and cuts it up.

‘I thought this was supposed to be a fresh start,’ he says, as he throws the plastic quarters into the bin. He looks so cold. I want to tell him that everything is going to be okay and to trust me, but I can’t. I’ve started down this path, doing things to push him away from me and towards her, and I have to stay on it. I can’t be weak. I have to have faith in Louise and me and David to make this work.

‘I thought all this was done with a long time ago,’ he mutters, and stares down the hallway where it looks as though we’ve just moved in again, boxes everywhere. ‘I’ll arrange to have everything sent back.’ He pauses. ‘You can keep the treadmill if you want.’

I know what he’s thinking. He can trap me in the house for more of my time with that. ‘It can go back,’ I say. He can’t cancel the gym membership anyway. We’re paid up for the year. It was cheaper that way, and I was trying to please him at the time. Our fresh start.

I stare at him. Does he still have even a tiny ember of love left for me? He must do. He must. He goes back into my bag and takes my house keys.

‘I have to go to the outreach centre. I don’t have any choice. They’ve arranged a clinic, but I’ll only be two hours.’

Of course he has to go out. Work comes first. He always wants to help people. Except us. Except me. He’s given up there. For me it’s just pills, pills, and more pills. I don’t understand why he’s taken my keys until he goes to the kitchen door, locks it, and pockets the key, and then I bark out an unpleasant half-laugh. I can’t help it.

‘You’re locking me in?’ I’m incredulous. Our marriage has felt like a prison for some time, we both feel that, but is he now becoming my gaoler?

‘It’s for your own good.’ At least he has the decency to redden and not meet my eyes. ‘Only for this morning. I can’t be … I can’t be …’ he struggles to find the words, ‘I can’t be distracted.’ He gestures feebly at the corridor and then at my face. ‘By all this.’ He looks away. He can’t bear to look at me. ‘Get some rest. Maybe we need to change your meds again. I’ll sort it out tomorrow.’

I’m stuck on that word, distracted. What he means is he can’t be distracted by wondering where I am and what I’m doing. Even our little phone call routine isn’t enough for him.

Maybe you should cut your distractions by not fucking your fat receptionist, is what I want to scream at him, but I don’t. The pills he made me take in front of him are kicking in, and I’m starting to feel a bit drowsy. I don’t actually mind. Some sleep will do me good.

His phone beeps and his lift is here. He doesn’t take my phone from me – whether on purpose or because he’s still reeling with everything else and has forgotten about it – and I’m relieved. I’ve hidden it just in case, but I’m taking enough, probably premature, risks already. The phone is for another time.

‘We’ll talk more later,’ he says, heading for the door. His words are hollow. Talking is something we really don’t do. We don’t talk about us and we don’t talk about that. He pauses and looks back, and I think he’s going to say something more, but he doesn’t.

We stare at each other for a long moment, once lovers, now silent combatants, and then he’s gone.

I hear the key turning in the bottom lock and I feel entombed in our house. It’s very strange to know I can’t get out. I haven’t felt so helpless in a long time. What if there’s a fire? What if the house starts to burn while I sleep? I’m dozy on medication. What if I put a pan on to boil and forget about it? Has he considered any of these things? It’s not as if a fire hasn’t happened before. Perhaps he thinks I’m resourceful enough these days to get out by myself. And to be fair, the windows would be easy enough to break if I put my mind to it.

I stand in the silence and stare at the glass and think of flames and my mind ticks over with ideas, and then the throbbing in my face brings me back to the present. I’ve taken all his pills, but what I really need is some ibuprofen.

I take two with water and then go into the downstairs cloakroom and turn on the light, leaning over the sink to examine my face in the mirror. The bruise is quite something, blooming high on my cheekbone. My skin has swelled tight, and I flinch when I gently touch it. Last night, it was just a red glare. Today it’s staking its claim on my face. My eye isn’t closing up though, which is a relief. The bruise will have gone within a week, I’m sure.

I hate it. His concern at the growing bruise first thing this morning vanished when my shopping started to arrive, and that was that. More anger and the same demanding questions of last night that I still wouldn’t answer. He wanted to know where I’d been. Why I was out when he got home. What I’d been doing.

I obviously can’t tell him where I really was – I’d planned to be home before him, but my poor timing was another error in last night’s fiasco – but perhaps I should give him something. Or not. I’m quite enjoying this moment of quiet power over him. I may be the one locked in, but what he wants to know is locked in my head. I’ll take that. Still, I feel exhausted now that I’m alone.

It’s not only my face that hurts. My arms and legs ache too. My muscles scream from being strained. Even my ribs hurt a little.

I need a bath. I need to soak it all away and think. I take the stairs slowly, weighed down by my self-loathing and self-pity, and as I start the water running, I move his shirts from our wardrobe to the smaller one in the spare bedroom. I hang them in colour order, how he likes them. I touch them with all the gentleness with which I can no longer touch him. Self-doubt grips me and I feel very, very alone.

I take my mobile phone out of the shoe box at the back of the cupboard, hidden under a satin pair of Jimmy Choos, and then peel off my clothes and lower myself into the hot bubbly water. I keep the phone within reach, on the toilet lid. Maybe he’ll try ringing me. Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe he’ll tell me he wants to make everything better. They’re idle thoughts. We’re too far down this long track for that.

I close my eyes and let the water soothe my muscles. My heartbeat throbs in my face; a steady rhythm pacified by whatever drug he’s made me take. It feels quite pleasant in a strange way. I’m about to drift off when the sharp buzz of vibration jolts me upright. It’s a text. From Louise. I stare at the screen. She never texts at weekends.

I did it!!!!

I stare at the words, and then I smile, despite the pain in my face. She did it. She actually did it. My heart races, pounding its beat in my chest and cheekbone. I love Louise. I really do. I could burst with pride.

Suddenly, I’m no longer sleepy.