My Husband's Wife (11 page)

Rosie had been wrong. The passing of the goldfish was not the worst possible end to a really crappy day.

Jamie Oliver burbled away in the background. He was wearing a brown checked shirt and his hands were waving about as he sprinkled something from a great height. He was cooking outside; she caught the green of a garden in her peripheral vision. Naomi and Leona’s brightly coloured floral beach towels were strewn about the floor and the Lego table was on its side, the tiny bricks littering pretty much the whole carpet. A blonde-haired boy, possibly one of the von Trapps, whizzed by on the pavement outside. She heard the rhythmic bump of his skateboard over the paving stones and noted the way he seemed to bob up and down under their window like a well-spoken jack-in-the-box.

Phil’s scent was woody, unfamiliar and quite overpowering; not as pleasant as she’d first thought. A torn corner of green tissue paper sat on the arm of the sofa. She picked it up and rolled it between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. Her toes, splashed with remnants of bright pink nail polish, poked like fat, pale sausages from under her tucked legs and she noticed that her heels were a little grubby around the areas where the skin was cracked. She unwittingly stored away the smallest of details, as if she knew they would become important. It would in the future help her to replay this scene, this moment, replicating it perfectly until the day she died.

Rosie thought she had to worry about the impending burial of her kids’ dead goldfish, she thought she was nervous about reading a letter from the mum she had never known. But she had much, much more to worry about than this; she just didn’t know it yet.

Call it sixth sense, call it intuition, but as Phil sat up straight, rubbed his palms on the thighs of his new jeans, looked at her and opened his mouth to speak, Rosie raised her left hand and splayed it. As if this little shield could prevent the devastation that was about to come at her, could ward off the tsunami of hurt that was on its way, already set on its unalterable course.

There was, however, nothing she could do.

It was coming at her faster than she could run, quicker than she could think and this realisation was enough to paralyse her. Her breath quickened as he began.

‘Rosie.’ He swallowed.

No! No! No! No! No! No!
The word screamed inside her head. She stared at him, noticing that he looked a little different: new haircut, new clothes, new scent.

Oh God! Oh my God! Please! No, no! Please, no! Don’t say it! Don’t!

‘Rosie,’ he repeated.

I can change! I can change! I can! I’ll be better, I will. Please, please! Stop it! Stop talking!

‘I’ve met someone.’

His words were clearly delivered, calmly rehearsed. She heard them, but it was as if he was speaking another language. She stared at him and a smile formed on her face. It was a strange feeling, as the last thing she wanted to do was smile. It was as if someone had pulled the rip cord without warning, only to find there was no parachute, as if she was in freefall, not knowing if the ground was an inch or a mile away. Her body felt heavy, as if it was made of rock and might plummet through the sofa, the floor and the foundations, all the way down into the middle of the earth. And strangely, this thought, as she tried to make sense of his words, was quite comforting.
Let me disappear...
Her head, however, was light, floating above them, looking down on proceedings. This feeling of disembodiment was to last for quite some time.

She stared at him, unable to speak or move. The atmosphere was eerily calm, with none of the hysterics she might have imagined. The exchange that followed was delivered slowly, punctuated by uncomfortable pauses and punches of pure shock. It was as if someone had pressed the button on the remote and slowed everything down.

‘It’s been going on for a while.’ He filled the silence with words of self-incrimination and then he coughed, quite unnecessarily. A nervous cough and she was happy that he was nervous. A sound like a high-pitched note rang out in her head, clouding her thoughts.

‘But... but... I’m your wife. And I love you.’ She whispered the words, as though this cure-all that she’d been uttering in apology, lust, celebration and greeting since she was a teenager might make a difference. ‘We... we can get over this. We’ll work it out. Work harder. Things haven’t been easy, I know, but we can move on, Phil, we can go on holiday, maybe? I’ll get your mum to have the girls and—’

‘No, Rosie. I’m leaving you.’

And that was when the fear bit.

Rosie opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She fought the instinct to throw herself on him, pin him down and keep him anchored to the place where he belonged, the house where he lived with his family. Instead, she pointed to the ceiling, eventually finding the words that her mind rummaged for among the jumble of confusion. ‘The... the girls...’ she managed, as if the two little children upstairs might be the glue that could make him stay.
If not for me, for them, please!

His tears came then, as he nodded. ‘I know, but I’m not going far, I’ll still see them.’ He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath, as though the tears justified the words, proof of his own hurt. ‘It’s not unusual nowadays. They have friends in similar situations.’

His almost flippant justification floored her. ‘I...’ She tried but failed to speak.
Please don’t do this! Please, please, Phil...

‘I’m going in the morning. I’ve already packed.’ He nodded towards the hallway, where his bags were waiting. She hadn’t noticed them, too preoccupied, as ever, with life, the kids and the next mini-crisis that needed attending to
. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for not listening more...

‘It’s the woman in Mortehoe, with the two pools, isn’t it?’ She stared at him. ‘The one who was nice to me in the Spar. Geraldine.’

‘Yes,’ he confirmed, his eyes downcast.

‘But... but you said she was a pain in the arse, you said you could never kiss a mouth covered in lipstick—’

‘Please don’t do this.’ He shook his head, too embarrassed to have that conversation. Now he held up his palm, also in self-defence.

‘I saw her today. She looks...’ The words failed her. They were silent for a second or two.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

‘I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’ She spoke aloud.

‘I am sorry, Rosie.’ He sounded cool, calm.

She wished he would stop saying that. Sorry was what you said when you were prepared to act to put things right; sorry was the first step towards making amends. But that wasn’t what Phil meant; he was just trying to make himself feel better, although it gave her a glimmer of hope that all might not be lost.

‘If you’re sorry, then don’t do it. We can... we can figure it out. We are married and we have two lovely girls and we can work it out, Phil, we always do. You’re my husband! You’re my family. I haven’t got anything else. I love you. I love you. And I forgive you, I do, but please don’t go.’ She slithered forward until she was on the rug. ‘I am begging you. I’m on the floor and I am begging you, Phil, not to destroy our little family. Please, please don’t do this to my girls, to me, please...’ Her tears came in a steady trickle.

‘Get up, Rosie. You need to understand, as harsh as it sounds, that those words don’t mean anything when there’s been a change of heart.’

And there it was, the silver bullet: he had had a change of heart.

He stood up, unable to meet her eye as she grovelled and begged, lying on the Lego bricks that were strewn all around. With her hand touching his ankle, she looked up at him. From where she lay on the floor he appeared very tall and powerful. He stared out of the window, seeming uncomfortable and... something else, an expression she recognised. It was irritation; he was irritated at having to have this exchange, offended by her collapse. And this made her feel ashamed. Once again, she wished that she could just disappear. She pictured Laurel smiling and yearned more than ever to fall into her arms.

Rosie stared at his distracted face, could see that he was already miles away – less than two miles, to be exact. A change of heart indeed. She realised then that it was too late; his love for her had drained away and been replaced by a new, all-consuming love, making theirs appear tarnished, unfit for purpose. When he pictured love, sex and a future, it was not her face he saw, but the Mortehoe woman’s, whose name had gone clean out of her head.

‘Are... are you going to come to bed with me?’
For the last time, Phil, for the last time!

He coughed. ‘I was going to sleep on the sofa.’

‘I need you to hold me,’ she managed, her voice faint, desperate and ashamed of her need.

Rosie clambered up, holding the side of the sofa for support. She swiped at the two Lego bricks that had stuck to her palms and trod the creaky stairs. She didn’t clean her teeth, wash her face or close the bedroom curtains. It was as if all her normal rituals had to be ignored in recognition of the fact that there was nothing normal about this night.

Still in her clothes, she crept into her side of the bed and laid her head on the pillow. Her thoughts were so numerous and noisy, it was hard to focus. There was a pain behind her eyeballs and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get rid of it; the more she tried, the more it hurt. Her muscles were tensed and a ball of nausea sat in her gut. Staring at her husband’s pillow, she let hot tears run over her nose, along her temple and into the pale blue pillowcase. A strange mixture of numbness and panic rendered her silent, but she was screaming on the inside, her fear balled in fury, trying to escape.

Time was skewed. It might have been an hour, might have been three, but eventually she heard the familiar sound of his footfall on the stair treads as he made his way upstairs, granting her her last wish. He hesitated, first poking his head around the door, already a stranger in the room he had entered thousands of times. He had changed the rules and this was no longer his home. She blinked, taking in his form. The light from the streetlamp along the road sent his shadow leaping up the wall. She stared at the dark, smudged shape of him, knowing that after tonight, that would be all that remained.

She heard his loud swallow as he eased off his suede slip-on deck shoes and, still fully clothed, pulled back the duvet. The weight of him next to her, which had reassured her since the very first time, made her tears flow faster. She cried, missing him before he had gone.

‘Please don’t cry, Rosie,’ he whispered into the darkness.

‘I like you being my husband,’ she sobbed. ‘I never thought, Phil... I never, ever thought in a million years... Not us. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’

She felt his hand snake along the mattress until it found hers and he gripped her fingers under the duvet, knitting them together, secretly, as if hers was no longer a hand he could hold. And that was how they stayed. She was sickened by how grateful she was for the contact, unable to process that this might be the last time.

She lay there trying to control her wild, disordered thoughts. In the background was a flickering movie playing on a loop. She saw the day that he came home on leave, remembered the way she had looked up from the table in his parents’ kitchen where she and Kevin were playing Uno and eating toast, recalled the way he had looked and then looked again, his double-take sending a frisson of joy right through her.

Her friend Kevin had dimmed, becoming as misty in her thoughts as the faded chintz curtains at the window. The only thing that was bright and distinct was the dark-haired soldier. He filled her completely and it was still that way. She recalled his face, wet with tears, as he held his tiny, damp babies for the first time; recalled the way he had looked at her, as though she was something special, something so special that no one would ever want to leave her, not her mum and not him.

His face, scent, smile, voice were never far from her thoughts; every task she undertook, every decision she made had him at the heart of it and try as she might, she couldn’t conceive of a life where this would not be the case.

They spent the night side by side, hand in hand. She continued to cry silent tears, thinking of all the nights she had lain next to him, taking him for granted, all the early mornings she’d woken next to him, knowing he was there to nudge if she heard a noise or had a bad dream. It felt like her heart had been ripped from her body. Her sadness was all-consuming and she didn’t know how she was going to rise from the bed and face the day that was creeping far too quickly over the horizon.

Like a condemned woman, she lay listening to the sounds of the night. The drunken bleats of late-night revellers gave way to the chug of diesel engines in the early hours as the fishermen made their way to the harbour, where their boats bobbed in wait. The clink of the milkman’s deliveries and the shrill gulls who greeted the day with their tuneless cry – she wanted to rage at them all.

She took a deep breath, trying to accept what awaited her. Phil turned onto his side, mirroring her posture and they stared at each other, inches apart, both with their faces resting on hands in prayer position.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she repeated, hoping that if she said it enough times, the answer might come to her.

‘You’ll be okay.’

‘I don’t want to be okay. I want you.’ She sniffed up her tears that spilled. ‘Please, Phil, I am begging you. Please don’t do this.’ She felt her face crumple again.

‘It’s already done. It was done a while ago.’ He blinked.

This was the piece of information that told her there was no point in begging any more. It was like running to catch a train that she’d only just been told had actually left the station ages ago; all she could do was stand on the platform, stare at the space where it had been and listen to the rattle down the line, hinting at its presence, now long gone.

‘What did you want to tell me?’ Phil asked. ‘You said last night that you wanted to say something.’

‘My mum died.’