Behind Her Eyes

From having felt so refreshed, I’m now exhausted. I’ve barely slept in two days, the fight with David playing around and around on a loop in my head, and I’ve only left the flat to shuffle to the local shop for wine and bad food, my hair pulled up in a ponytail as a poor disguise for the fact I haven’t even showered. Sophie sent me a ‘how’s it going?’ text, which I deleted without answering. I don’t need any smug ‘I told you so’ coming from her right now.

I nearly threw up when I sent my resignation email. I typed it out four times through tears of self-pity before I finally pressed send. I cc’d David into it, and seeing his name there in the email made me want to cry some more. Dr Sykes rang straight away, full of concern, and that made me cry again, which backed up my ‘personal family business’ story.

I didn’t give details and he didn’t press for any. He told me to reconsider in a month and he’d consider it a hiatus. They could get a temp in to cover my days. I didn’t fight that. Maybe in a month things would be different. Maybe David would have calmed down. Maybe they’ll move away. I don’t really understand either of them, so I don’t know what they’ll do. The polite and courteous email I got from David – with Dr Sykes cc’d in – was as if from a stranger, not a man who’d raged at me in my sitting room the night before. I was right. I don’t know him at all. Adele is the only one who has been my friend. He’s damaged us both.

I’m worried about Adele though. I’d half-hoped that she’d show up at my door at some point, but so far she hasn’t, and I’m not surprised. She’s so scared of upsetting David, she probably wouldn’t take the risk. I’ve seen him angry now. I’ve felt that awful loathing coming off him. I can’t imagine being on the receiving end of that for years. Maybe he’s even working from home and claiming illness or something. When I’m not completely absorbed in my pity party for one, my mind is on fire with it, imagining him as some Hannibal Lecter type monster. Mainly I need to know Adele’s okay. I promised to stay away from her, but how can I? David was so cold at the end of our fight. What did she face when he got home? I can still see that bruise on her face, and despite his insistence he didn’t hit her, don’t all abusive husbands deny their actions?

I’m so tired and emotional, all logical thinking has gone out of the window. All I know is that I have to check on Adele and I’m running out of time to do it. Adam comes back the day after tomorrow, and then who knows what spare time I’ll have? It’ll definitely be more limited, and I don’t want Adam dragged into this mess. I need to close a door on it. It still feels surreal, the thought of no David and no Adele. And no job. I bite back more tears. Even I’m getting bored of my crying. It’s your mess, I keep telling myself. Suck it up.

Tomorrow. I’ll see her tomorrow if I can, but how, without risking more trouble for both of us? I pour a glass of wine, not caring that it’s barely two in the afternoon – these are exceptional circumstances – and slump on the sofa. I also need to clean the flat. I don’t need Ian judging me when he gets back. I take in the disarray, and my eyes fall on my laptop, discarded on the floor by the TV where I tossed it after sending my email to Dr Sykes, and then the thought comes to me.

Dr Sykes told me to take a month. This isn’t like I’ve been fired – even though you wanted to fire me thank you very much Mr-bastard-from-the-bar – and so they won’t have deleted my remote log-in.

I sit cross-legged on the carpet, my wine beside me, and, with my heart racing as if somehow they can see me, I log into the clinic server. My palms are sweating, and even though I’m not technically breaking any rules, I feel like I’m going through a lover’s emails and text messages. I bring up David’s diary for tomorrow. His afternoon is pretty fully booked. He won’t be leaving work until at least five. Even if he goes home for lunch, he’ll have to be back by one thirty. I log out and sip my wine, making my plan.

In the morning I’ll double check his diary and make sure he hasn’t cancelled any appointments last minute. I’ll go to Carphone Warehouse on the Broadway and buy a cheap pre-paid phone. Adele needs to have a phone, and I don’t know if David’s kept that crappy one she had. At least if I give her one to hide somewhere I’ll know that if she’s in serious trouble she can call me. I’ll feel more relaxed about letting them both go then. I have to be. I have no choice.

I feel better for having a plan, and as I take my wine out to the balcony and the afternoon sunshine, I realise I also feel better for defying David. Screw you, I think. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?

I try not to think about how it felt having him in my bed and how I miss that closeness even though I hate myself for it. I don’t think about how he’s always there in my constructed dreams playing happy families through that first door. Instead, I think about how hurt I feel and how he’s to blame and I’m fucked if he’s going to tell me what to do like I’m a little nervous Adele.

Tomorrow. I can put it all behind me tomorrow.