Behind Her Eyes

I sit in the sunshine and sip a glass of cold, forbidden Sancerre and wait for Louise. Louise. It’s amazing how much this wonderful woman can affect my mood. Last night, when David went to her grubby little flat straight after work, I was so hurt I wanted to kill her, even if she had done her pathetic best to defend me and send him home. It was too little too late if I’m honest, and worse than that was David’s choice to go straight to her instead of me, after all I’d done for him on the phone with Dr Sykes. I could have ruined him, but he didn’t take that into account. There was no gratitude. Then he came home and got drunk in his study before stumbling to bed. Not so much as a thank you.

I love David. Truly, madly, deeply, however cheesy that may sound, but I’m stronger than he is. Yes, things have to change, but it’s me who will have to get my hands dirty doing it. I swallowed my hurt last night though. Pushed it deep down inside where it can’t touch me, because we can’t afford another argument. Not just yet. And then, like a miracle, I got Louise’s text. The second door. I smile as I sip my wine, even though I’m alone and probably look slightly mad to anyone passing. She’s seen the second door. Already. This changes everything. It all has to be in place before she opens it. Before she knows.

I tingle with excitement as I see her turn the corner and come down the street. She’s looking good, really good, and I feel very proud of her. She’s even walking taller now that she’s slimmer and fitter, and her cheekbones – while they’ll never be as feline sharp as mine – are soft highlights on her pretty face. My own muscles ache from lack of exercise, and my back is stiff from tension. I’m fading as she blooms. No wonder David is falling in love with her. The thought stings. The thought will always sting.

‘Wine?’ she says, and smiles. She’s flustered, and her bag slips to the ground as she tries to hang it on the back of her chair.

‘Why not? It’s a lovely day, and this is a nice surprise.’ I see her eyes on my face where the dregs of the bruise remain. It’s fading quickly now, as if it’s somehow aware that its work here is done. I signal to the waiter to bring another glass.

‘How come you’ve got time off?’

‘Oh, a problem with my boiler,’ she says airily. ‘The plumber is coming later, but I figured I’d take the afternoon. Be a devil.’

She’s a terrible liar. It’s really quite endearing, given how she’s been fucking my husband for our entire friendship. The waiter appears quickly with her drink and two menus, and we both pretend to scan it as she takes several quick sips of the wine.

‘So you saw another door?’ I ask, leaning in conspiratorially even though we’re the only al fresco diners. I want her to feel close to me. ‘Where? What was it like?’

‘In the pond of my old house. I was there’ – she flushes slightly – ‘with Adam, playing, and then as I was turning to go back, it appeared under the surface. It was glowing.’

She’s not telling me the whole truth of her dream – David must have been there, I can see that in the blush – but I don’t give a shit. If she’d imagined three Davids gangbanging her I wouldn’t care. It’s the door. That’s what matters.

‘Like a shimmering silver,’ she adds. ‘And then it vanished. You ever have that?’

I shake my head, puzzled. ‘No. How weird. I wonder what it’s for.’

She shrugs. ‘Maybe it was my brain having a glitch.’

‘Maybe.’ My heart is racing though. Already thinking ahead to what I have to get done before she opens it.

The waiter comes back to take our orders, and I make a big fuss about not being hungry, I just wanted to get out of the house, and then I see her face, the thoughtful worry in it, and I know how far she’s got in the notebook. I know what this lunch is really about. I have to concentrate hard not to smile and laugh at the brilliant perfection of today and how well I’ve planned everything.

‘You’ve got to eat something, Adele. You’re getting too skinny. Anyway,’ she adds, too nonchalantly. ‘It’s my treat.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I gush. ‘I’m so awfully embarrassed, but when I got here I realised I’ve come out without my wallet. I’m such a scatterbrain.’

She orders us two plates of mushroom ravioli – taking the lead in a way she never would have done when we first met – and then waits until the waiter has gone before speaking.

‘Did you really come out without money, or does David control what you spend?’

She’s blunt, Louise, I’ll give her that. I fluster, as if trying to cover something, murmuring how ridiculous that suggestion is, until she reaches across and takes one of my flapping hands in hers. A gesture of solidarity, of friendship, of love. I do believe she loves me. Not as much as she wants my husband, but she does love me.

‘I read something in the notebook that worried me slightly,’ she continues. ‘And feel free to tell me to bugger off and it’s not my business and everything, but did you really sign over all your inheritance to him? After the fire? And if you did, please, for the love of God, tell me that it was only temporary.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ I say, and I know I look like a wounded deer staring into a marksman’s rifle sight. The classic victim defending her abuser. ‘David’s much better with money than me, and it was such a lot to manage, and oh God, this is so embarrassing …’

She squeezes my hand. ‘Don’t be silly. Don’t be embarrassed. I worry about you. He signed it back over, though right? After you got out of Westlands and were back on your feet?’

Her hand is clammy. She has a vested interest here, and I know it.

‘He was going to,’ I mumble. ‘He really was. But then I had another little breakdown a few months later, and he decided – we decided – that it was better if he just stayed in charge of everything. And then we got married and so it was our money anyway.’

‘Wow.’ She sits back in her chair and takes a long swallow of wine as it sinks in and her suspicions are confirmed.

‘It sounds worse than it is,’ I say, soft and protective. ‘He gives me an allowance and a food budget, and I’ve never really cared for money that much anyway.’

‘A food budget?’ Her eyes are wide. ‘An allowance? What is this, nineteen fifty-something?’ She pauses. ‘Now the shitty phone makes sense.’

‘I don’t care about phones either. Really Louise, it doesn’t matter. I’m happy. I want David to be happy.’ It might be a step too far into the pathetic, but the truth is always believable, and I have been pathetic in my wanting to keep him happy.

‘You don’t even have joint accounts or anything?’

‘Really, Louise. It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. If I want something he gets it for me. It’s the way our marriage has turned out. Don’t worry. He’s always looked after me.’ I push a strand of hair out of my face and let my fingers linger momentarily over my bruise. A tiny gesture, but enough for her to register it and file the bruise and the money together in her head.

‘Like you’re a child,’ she says. And I know her head is filled with our secret friendship, the phone calls, the pills, the bruise, and now the money, locking it all into place. Right now she loves me far more than David. Right now I think she hates David. I could never hate David. Maybe that’s the biggest difference between us.

‘Please, just leave it. It’s fine. When does Adam get back?’ I ask, using her comment on children to change the subject. ‘You must be so looking forward to seeing him. He’s probably grown a little. They grow fast at that age, don’t they?’

Our food comes and she orders us a second glass of wine each as she silently adds my regret at not having a child of my own to her list of David’s shortcomings. Fuel for her growing fire. The ravioli is perfect, but she pushes it around her plate, not touching it. I should probably do the same to maintain my nervous appearance, but I’m tired of good food going to waste and so I eat it – delicately, but still eat it all the same – as she tells me about Adam’s holiday and how glorious a time it sounds like he’s had.

Neither of us is really paying attention to the stories. Her head is filled with rage and disappointment, and mine with excitement at her discovery of the second door. I make the right noises and smile, and she forces words out, but I want this lunch over now. I have things to do.

‘Is that …?’ She pauses mid-sentence, and frowns, staring at somewhere over my shoulder.

‘What?’ I turn.

‘It is.’ She’s still staring and half rises out of her chair. ‘It’s Anthony Hawkins.’

Now I see him, and as useful as he’s been, my irritation rises. He’s following me. Of course he is. ‘Maybe he lives around here,’ I say.

‘Or maybe he’s following you.’ There she is, my great protector. My husband’s lover.

‘Oh, I doubt it.’ I laugh it off, but my eyes are fierce on Anthony and, realising that he’s making me uncomfortable, he has the brains to turn and go into a small corner shop. ‘He’s probably buying cigarettes.’ His adoration of me has been useful, but following me is simply not acceptable.

‘Maybe,’ she says, unconvinced. We both watch the doorway until he comes out, and I hope Louise doesn’t see the glance back of longing he gives me as he walks away, but she’s squinting in the sun and so I’m probably safe. Not that it matters. By tomorrow the last thing she’ll be worrying about is Anthony.

Once our lunch is over and I’ve hurried her back to her fictional broken boiler, I go to the gym. I’m there just before David makes his next call, but I’m not working out as I claim to be; I’m putting the next wheels of my plan in motion. David says he’s coming straight home after work because we have to talk, and then I speak to the receptionist about what I need and claim to be too busy to wait, but tell them to call us at home after six to confirm my request. I don’t doubt they will. This is a very exclusive health club, we pay for the full package, and more than that, I’m always polite and sweet. Polite and sweet is what I do when I’m not at home, and it always pays to be nice to service staff. Some of the other members here could learn that.

I’m breathless with excitement and my nerves are jangling with what’s to come. By the time I’m home and preparing dinner, my hands are trembling and I can barely focus. My face is hot, as if I’ve got the start of a fever. I try to take deep breaths, but they’re shallow and shaky. I keep focused on that second door and remind myself that I will probably never get a chance like this again in my entire life.

My sweaty fingers slide on the onion I’m attempting to dice and I nearly cut myself. I don’t know why I’m taking so much care with this dish. It’s all going to end up in the bin anyway, but I have to make things look as normal as possible, and cooking has become a surprising area of pride for me since I’ve been married. Careless onion slices could be a possible clue that I know what’s coming, and David is nothing if not suspicious of me these days.

I hear his key in the lock and my whole body fizzes with tension, and the kitchen lights are suddenly almost too bright. This time I do manage a deep breath. I see my mobile phone on the counter by the sink, sitting in no man’s land between where I am and the landline phone holstered on the wall. I look at the clock. Just touching six. Perfect.

‘Hi,’ I say. He’s in the hallway and I know he wants to go and hide in his study. ‘I bought you a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Come and open it so it can breathe.’

He walks towards the kitchen like a reluctant wild dog being offered scraps of meat. How has our love come to this?

‘So, we’re still pretending everything is fine,’ he says, wearily.

‘No,’ I answer, wounded. ‘But we can at least be civil. We can be friends, surely, while we work on our problems? We owe each other that, don’t we?’

‘Look …’

The phone rings and, although it’s expected, I still nearly jump, and my hand tightens around the chopping knife. I step towards the phone, but David blocks me as I knew he would.

‘It’ll be the clinic,’ he says. ‘I’ll get it.’

I keep my eyes down, chopping at the onion, my skin burning with nerves, as I listen. It’s time for his blissful little secret relationship to get as fucked up as this marriage.

‘Hello? Yes, this is David Martin. Oh hi … You wanted to confirm what? I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m following. An extended guest membership?’

I turn to face him then, I have to, my face all innocent worry that he’ll be angry at my spending, that I have a friend I haven’t told him about. He’s not looking at me. Not yet.

‘For whom?’ He’s frowning.

Then I see it. The shock as he tries to take it in. The confusion.

‘Sorry, did you say Louise Barnsley?’ Then he looks at me, but he’s still trying to put everything in place in his head. His world just turned upside down and then got shaken all over again. ‘And this is an extension on a guest membership my wife arranged?’

I shrug at him, pleading, and mouth She’s a friend I made.

‘Okay, yes, thank you. That’s fine.’ His eyes fall to my mobile phone, and he’s reaching for it as he hangs up, before I can even make the pretence of going for it myself.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘She’s someone I met. That’s all. Just a friend. I didn’t want to say anything. I was lonely. She was nice to me.’

He’s not listening to me, but scanning through the texts in the phone, his face like thunder. I’ve kept most of them. Of course I have. In preparation for this.

He stares at me then, for a long moment, and he’s gripping my phone so tightly I think he might crush it. Whose windpipe would he like to crush most right now, mine or Louise’s?

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

He’s pale, his jaw clenched tightly, his whole body trembling with pent-up emotion he’s fighting to contain. I’ve only seen him like this once before, and that was so long ago. I want to hold him. To tell him everything’s going to be okay. That I’m making everything better for him. But I can’t. I have to be strong.

‘I’m going out.’ The words are forced out between his teeth. I don’t think he’s even seeing me.

He storms towards the front door and I call after him, but he doesn’t even pause in his stride, a whirlwind of rage and confusion.

The door slams and I’m alone. I hear the clock tick in the silence. I stare after him for a moment and then pour a glass of the opened red wine. It should breathe for longer, but I don’t care.

I let out a long sigh after the first sip and then roll my head around my shoulders releasing the tension. Poor Louise, I think. I’m exhausted, but I try to shake it away. I still have things to do. See if Anthony has left the package where I asked him to for one thing. And then see what David is doing. My tiredness is going to have to wait.

After all, I can sleep when I’m dead.