Behind Her Eyes

He’s true to his word and is only out for two hours, and I’m meek when he gets home. Although the text from Louise has lifted my spirits, I’m still haunted by last night’s events and my abysmal failure. I was too sure of myself and now my confidence is entirely knocked and I feel terribly alone.

‘I’ve moved your clothes into the spare room,’ I say, softly, when he finds me in the kitchen, suitably cowed.

He replaces the kitchen door key in the lock and at least has the decency to look uncomfortable for trapping me in here. He stays facing away for a moment and then turns. The fight has gone out of both of us. His shoulders are as slumped as mine.

‘Why did you paint our bedroom and hall those colours?’ He’s asked the question so many times already, but I love that he says our, as if we are still somehow a we.

‘They’re just colours, David,’ I say, repeating the same answer I’ve given every time. ‘I like them.’

He gives me that look again, as if I’m a stranger from some alien planet that he has no chance of ever understanding. I shrug. It’s all I’ve got.

‘Don’t paint the spare room.’

I nod. ‘I hope you sleeping there is temporary.’

This is us talking. This complete non-communication. Perhaps it’s him who needs all the medication, instead of spending his days drinking his brain to dullness. It’s not good for him. It’s not good for the future. It needs to stop, but I’m hardly in a position to put my foot down now. Maybe he’ll stop when this is all over. Maybe he’ll let me help him then.

He goes and hides in his study, mumbling something about work, the conversation over for now. I presume that looking at me has made him want a brandy and I don’t want to analyse the reasons for that.

I let him go and don’t call him on the fact that I know he has several bottles of spirits in his study and that maybe I’m not the only one with secrets in this marriage, however well he thinks he hides them from me. Instead, I do what I do best, and start preparing the roast lamb for dinner. There is something heart-warming about a roast dinner, and we both need that.

I season the meat with rosemary and anchovies driven into the fatty skin, and then, as I chop and sauté and simmer my potato and vegetable side dishes, the steam makes my bruise throb. I’ve covered it with make-up, and David no doubt thinks that’s to hide it from him, but he’d be wrong. It’s to hide it from myself. I’m filled with shame at my own weakness.

I lay the dining-room table using our best dinner service, and have candles lit and all the dishes laid out between us before calling him in. I’ve poured him a glass of wine even though my glass is only filled with San Pellegrino. I’m not sure if I’ve done all this to please him, or to comfort myself after the ugliness of last night. I look for some sign of approval, but he barely registers my efforts.

Our plates are full, but neither of us really eats anything. I try and make small talk about his outreach work – as if I care – but he cuts me off.

‘What’s going on, Adele?’

I look up at him, my stomach in knots. He’s not worried, he’s cold. It’s all part of my plan, but it’s not what I want. And I certainly don’t want it yet. I try to think of something to say, but my words have dried up. I only hope I look beautiful in the candlelight, even with the mottled bruise he’s trying not to see. He puts his knife and fork down.

‘What happened before we moved, that was—’

‘That was your fault.’ I find my voice now, even though it’s almost whiny, nails on a chalkboard. ‘You know it was. You said it was.’

‘I said it to pacify you. I didn’t mean it. You wanted a fresh start and I’ve tried to give you one.’

I can’t believe he has the audacity to say that. He’s fucking his receptionist. Some fresh start. I lower my own knife and fork, carefully placing them on the edge of my plate. My efforts over dinner are going to be wasted.

‘I admit I’ve made some mistakes,’ I say. ‘And I’m so sorry. You know I have problems. I think moving unsettled me.’

He shakes his head. ‘I can’t contr— I can’t look after you any more. I’ll ask you one more time. Where did you go last night?’

Control. That’s what he meant to say. He can’t control me any more.

‘I went for a walk,’ I say. ‘I lost track of time.’

We stare at each other and I try to look innocent, but he’s not buying it.

‘Honestly,’ I add and immediately regret it. It’s the word everyone uses when they’re lying. Honestly, she’s just a friend. That’s what David had said when we lived in Blackheath. And okay, he might not have fucked her, but she was more than just a friend.

‘This can’t go on,’ he says.

Is he talking about us or me? Does he want me locked up somewhere? Another residential home where people can help me, but this time on a long-term basis? While he swans off with my money and his freedom? It makes me want to cry.

‘I think I missed a few pills,’ I say. It’s a risk. I don’t want him popping back from work to make sure I take them. I need a clear head and my mind is working just fine anyway. ‘I’ll level out. You know that.’

This is like the early days all over again, but now he doesn’t have the wealth of love for me that sustained him before I got myself together. That well has run dry.

‘You know you can never leave me, David,’ I say. It’s good to say his name aloud. ‘You know that.’ It’s a threat. It’s always been a threat.

And there it is, the past sitting between us alongside my untouched roast and creamed leeks and glazed carrots and three types of potato, and I know that, despite everything, I’m doing the right thing to save my marriage.

‘I know,’ he says, pushing his chair back. ‘I know.’ He doesn’t look at me as he walks towards the door. ‘I’m going to have a shower and an early night.’

‘I’ll repaint the bedroom,’ I say, to soften my last words. ‘If you’ll come back to it.’

He glances back then and nods almost imperceptibly, but the lie is in his eyes. There’s only one bed he wants to share, and it isn’t mine. I wonder what Louise is doing. I wonder if she’s thinking of me or him. I wonder if all my planning is going to go to shit.

Dinner, it would appear, is over. I watch him leave, and then, once I hear the heavy tread on the stairs, I get up and drain his wine. I look at the china. The leftover food. This life I fought so hard for. My bruise throbs hard as I fight tears. I take a deep shaky breath. I never used to cry at all. I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’ve changed. I almost let out a weepy laugh at that. At least I still have my sense of humour.

I’ve got the roasting pan soaking when the doorbell goes. A short, sharp, burst. I go into the hall and glance up the stairs, but the shower is running and David hasn’t heard. I feel breathless. Who can it be? We don’t have passing visitors. We don’t have friends. Only Louise. She wouldn’t come here. Would she? This is not the time for her to confess. That would complicate everything.

I open the door an inch or two and peer out through the gap. The young man stands nervously on the second step to the front door, as if almost afraid to come right up.

‘Can I help you?’ I ask quietly, opening the door wider.

‘Is Dr Martin in?’ he says. ‘It’s Anthony. Tell him it’s Anthony. I’m a patient of his.’ He’s been keeping his eyes down, but then he glances up at me, and I see myself as he must see me. A fragile beauty with a black eye. Suddenly, I find some use for last night. I look over my shoulder, as if nervous, before answering.

‘He’s gone to bed with a headache. I’m sorry.’ I keep my voice low. I’m glad I didn’t dress up too much this evening. Even with the bruise I would have looked too aloof, out of reach. I’m wearing a long summer dress with spaghetti straps, and my hair is loose. His eyes have stayed on me, and I know that look. I’ve seen it on many men before. Surprise and longing and lust. I have that effect on them. I think he’s forgotten about David already.

‘I’m his wife,’ I say, and then, for good measure, I add, ‘I can’t talk to you.’

The skinny dark-haired boy’s hands twitch, and one foot taps on the step, but he’s not aware of it. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, and I can see the traces of track marks on his arms. I recognise what he is.

‘You have to go away,’ I lean out and whisper, knowing full well that by tilting forward slightly I’m giving him a teasing glance of my breasts. ‘Please.’ I lift one hand almost to my face, to where the growing bruise mars my skin. ‘This isn’t a good time.’

‘Are you all right?’ he asks. His accent is so middle-class, at odds with his look.

‘Please go,’ I repeat, ‘I think he’s coming.’ I make sure there’s a wonderful hint of urgency in my voice, and then I close the door. Through the glass I can see that he lingers for a few moments longer and then the dark shape of him disappears.

I lean against the wood. Anthony. His name is like sweet ambrosia to me. My shoulders relax as my shame at last night’s failure fades. Maybe it’s all going to work out after all.