Behind Her Eyes

‘Oh, honestly,’ I say. ‘Really? Is that a serious question?’ My laugh is a delightful tinkle into the telephone and I can almost hear Dr Sykes relaxing slightly on the other end. ‘I’m sorry,’ I continue. ‘I know it’s not a funny subject and I’m not laughing at it, but David? That’s funny. Yes, I do have a bruise on my face, but it was my own silly fault. A clumsy moment in the kitchen. Surely David told you that?’

To be honest I do feel quite amused as Dr Sykes witters into my ear. How typical of a junkie to exaggerate, and of course Anthony wants to save me so he’s embellished what he saw. How wonderfully perfect. I told David about him turning up at our door on Sunday evening – of course I did. He was likely to find out anyway if the boy went to a session. But I didn’t tell him that I’d given the impression of being afraid. And I haven’t told him that Anthony’s been back, almost causing an awkward moment when Louise was here. I got rid of him quickly, but not without hinting that I was glad to see him. He was worried about me, apparently. Quite sweet.

Maybe I should start lunching with Louise in town instead of here in case he’s loitering at our door and she sees him.

David went into work on Monday and immediately recommended a new therapist for Anthony, quite disturbed that he must have followed David home at some point to find out where we lived. Maybe more than once. Perhaps he’d spent several evenings studying our home from the end of the road, trying to pluck up the courage to approach. According to David, Anthony is a junkie only because he’s an obsessive, and he’d developed a fixation on him. I could hardly blame the boy for that. I love David madly too, and have done since I first saw him, but it would seem Anthony’s obsessions are rather more fickle. One look at my beautiful, bruised face and his fixation shifted to me. And now here I am on the phone defending my poor husband against allegations of wife-battering.

Dr Sykes, to be fair, at least sounds hugely uncomfortable having to raise this with me. He’s got me on speakerphone; I can hear the slight echo in the call quality. Is David listening? I can only imagine his face when they decided to ring me. Quite panicked. He wouldn’t have wanted this to happen. He wouldn’t know what I was likely to say. That irritates me slightly. He should trust me more than that. I would never damage his career. Why would I? I want him to be successful. I know how important it is to him.

‘To be clear,’ I say. ‘There was no fight. And we would never have words in front of a stranger. And certainly not a patient.’ Have words. I sound just the right amount of indignant. We are all very middle-class after all, and Dr Sykes the most. He must be mortified by now. ‘The young man came to the door and asked for David while I was clearing the kitchen after dinner, and I told him that David had gone to bed with a headache and that was that. He must have seen my bruise and created a story around it. Perhaps he was feeling rejected by my husband and wanted to punish him in some way?’ I know exactly how that feels. That is something young Anthony Hawkins and I have in common.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Dr Sykes says. ‘But obviously when he told his parents that he’d seen … well, what he said he’d seen, they felt a moral obligation to follow it up.’

He sounds relieved. Maybe he had a few doubts. It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s so easy to sow those seeds in people. None of us really knows each other, after all.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘And please do thank them for their concern, but there really is nothing to worry about here. Except perhaps my clumsiness.’ I laugh a little again then, as if the whole thing is still amusing me. ‘Poor David,’ I say. ‘He’s the last man alive who would ever hit a woman. Please tell the boy’s family that I hope he gets the help he needs.’

This can work well for me, I think as we say our goodbyes and hang up. David will be relieved at how well I’ve handled it, and hopefully will give me a little more space and go back to his seedy evenings with duplicitous Louise. If he continues to suffocate me, I can always threaten to tell Dr Sykes I was lying and that he did hit me. It would be an empty threat – compared with others I can make – even if David wouldn’t realise it. Why would I ruin him? Yes, we have wealth, but David has always needed more than that, and I can’t take his career from him. Of all things, that would destroy him.

More importantly, however, I can use this with Anthony. He’ll feel terrible that his parents went to the clinic to report it. His guilt at potentially placing me in harm’s way with my violent husband is something I can use to make him get me what I want, and the icing on the cake is that even if he tells anyone, it will be dismissed as another fantasy. No one will listen to him.

I quickly send David a text.

Are you okay? That boy needs help!! Xx

I know they’re probably all still in the same room, and it’s likely Sykes will see it. A further proof of innocence should it be required. And also a reminder to my husband that when the shit hits the fan we are a team and always will be. It won’t repair our marriage for him – even I know he’s too far gone for that – but it will soften him towards me.

The doorbell goes, three sharp rings. Frantic. The poor boy come to grovel, I imagine.

Everything is going so well.