Behind Her Eyes

Watching, waiting, learning, practising. My days are fuller than they’ve been in as long as I can remember, and it’s wonderful. I’ve got heels on when David finally gets home, ones that match my outfit. It’s nice to get dressed up and to be beautiful. The skin between my toes on my right foot is sore and scabby, but the irritation with each step is worth it, just like the increasing itching is worth it. It’s a reminder that I’m in control. It keeps me in control. Anyway, I’ve mastered that now. I’m ready for that part of my plan, and I’m glad that I can now shake adoring Anthony off.

Things are starting to move apace. Louise is my little terrier and she’s gripped the bone I’ve given her and I know she won’t let go. I’m curious to see where she takes it, how she’ll play out my game. I can’t entirely control how everyone will behave in this set of circumstances, but that somehow only makes it all more interesting. I’m playing the odds with their personalities, and thus far neither David nor Louise have let me down. David might be the head doctor, but I know how people tick. And I adapt.

The kitchen smells delicious as he comes and stands in the doorway. I’ve made a fresh pasta carbonara and a peppery rocket salad, which I fully intend to eat even if he doesn’t. He stays on the other side of the threshold to me, leaning against the doorframe. He looks a mess. He won’t keep his reputation at the clinic if this goes on much longer.

‘Still playing Stepford Wife, I see.’ He smiles as he speaks, a twisted humour. He’s laughing at me; at my clothes, and my cooking, and all my effort. I look hurt. I am hurt. He’s not even pretending to love me any more.

‘You should eat something,’ I say. Instead of drinking all your calories.

‘What is it you want, Adele? Really?’ He looks at me with blurred contempt. ‘What is all this for? This prison we live in?’ He’s definitely drunk, and for the first time in a long time I see true, naked aggression in him.

‘I want to be with you.’ It’s the truth. It’s my eternal truth.

He stares at me for a long time, as if trying to figure out what’s going on inside me, who I really am, and what new label he can apply to make sense of it – schizophrenic, sociopath, obsessive, plain batshit-crazy – and then his shoulders slump with the effort and the lack of answer.

‘I want a divorce,’ he says. ‘I want this over. All of it.’

There’s no need to elaborate on the last point. We both know what he means. The past needs digging up and laying to rest properly. The past. The body. He’s said this before, but this time I’m not so sure he’ll change his mind when he sobers up, regardless of what I might do. Regardless of how I could ruin him if I tell.

‘Dinner will be ready in ten minutes if you want to freshen up,’ is all I say. My normality unsettles him more than any verbal threat.

‘You knew who she was, didn’t you?’ He loathes me. It drips from him even more heavily than his self-pity. ‘Louise. You knew when you met her?’

I frown, puzzled. ‘Where’s this coming from, David? How could I possibly have known she was your patient?’ His lie used against him again.

‘You always know things. How is that?’ He’s bitter, but he still sounds weak. Pathetic. Not my David at all.

‘You’re not making any sense.’ I frame my face into a picture of worried concern. ‘Have you been drinking? You’re supposed to be cutting down. You said you would.’

‘Play your games, Adele. Play your games. I’m done. I don’t care any more. And I don’t want any fucking dinner.’

He calls out the last line as he disappears upstairs, and I wonder what’s happened to the person I fell in love with. How far hidden is he inside that shambling embarrassment of a man? I know he’s been to see her. To warn her. He really does love her, which of course pleases me in one way, but in another I want to take one of our Sabatier knives and go upstairs and cut out his ungrateful fucking heart. I squash that urge. I could never hurt David, and I know it. That’s the cross I have to bear.

And anyway, Louise heard his warning as a threat, because she belongs to me. She sees my truths. For now, at any rate. I haven’t answered her text yet, and I won’t. I need her to come here tomorrow. I need her to find me. Another thing she has to understand before she can put all the pieces of our tale of woe together. Show don’t tell, that’s what they say, isn’t it? And that’s what I’m doing. Tomorrow will be another breadcrumb in the trail I’m leaving for her. She’s my little wind-up doll, walking in whatever direction I point her.

God, I love Louise. I love her almost as much as I love David. And after I’ve shared my story with her, she’s going to hate him. I can’t help but think he deserves that.