The Wife – Part Two: For Better, For Worse

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I swing around and stare at him, this man I fell hopelessly in love with all those years ago. And I know he’s changed. Forgetting and moving on, that’s how he’s dealt with it; but I’m not him. The repercussions of those events spread wider than just that one night, and Michael blames himself. But he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t blame himself. Like I said, we’re both to blame. We both made mistakes.

‘What we did…’

He shakes his head as he backs out of the room, and I start to feel that barrier slowly rise up between us again. ‘No, we’re not doing this, okay?’

‘Because you don’t want to?’

‘Because you’re going to make yourself ill if you don’t stop this. Every time I think you might be…’

‘What, Michael? Every time you think I might be what? Getting over it? Forgetting it?’

He turns his back to me and walks out onto the landing.

I let him leave. I have to think of another way to win this. I have to find out what’s really going on with my husband. Only then can I start to fix what’s broken … if I want it to be fixed at all.

Chapter 15 (#u6a9a5795-856c-5e3a-89d2-173fa926b718)

My father wasn’t a good man. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good father; he was, in the beginning. Before I knew the kind of man he really was; before I realised why my mum was always so sad, so reclusive. Their marriage was a lie, from start to finish. A web of deceit that ended tragically when my mum took an overdose of whisky and pills that saw her go to sleep and never wake up. Because she didn’t want to wake up. Because of what my father did. Because of his cheating. Because of his lies.

And I couldn’t stop it from happening. She hid how she was feeling just a little too well, even though we all knew something wasn’t quite right. Everyone knew she was unhappy; that much was obvious, even to me, and I was barely a teenager when I lost her.

Nobody had known just how deep her sadness had run, even after she’d found the courage to leave my dad. She kept it hidden from me, as much as she could – tried to make life after my father as happy as possible – but it became too hard for her. My mum was a good woman. She was one of the best. Kind. Caring. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for anyone, including my bastard of a father. She didn’t deserve what he did to her. His selfish weakness destroyed her, and I never forgave him. I never will. He killed my mum; that’s how I see it. Cheating, lying, deceiving – those actions destroy people. So to think that my own husband could be part of something like that … I won’t let it happen. I’m not my mother. She didn’t fight. I will.

Digging my hands into my pockets, I continue my walk through the centre of Durham. It’s one of my favourite places. Wandering around the compact streets of this small city is something I love to do. It’s calming – a chance to gather my thoughts, think about everything more clearly – and when the sun’s out and the weather’s a little warmer, as it is today, it fills me with peace. Out here, amongst all these people, I’m exposed, yet I don’t feel scared. Not today. Today I’m focused. I’m not feeling fragile or frightened; I’m fine.

Passing the small university bookshop on the corner, I start walking along a familiar street. One Michael and I know very well. We’ve been here so many times. I’m heading towards the Spanish restaurant we used to visit frequently, before that night. The same restaurant I know he’s been to recently, without me. I found the receipt, I saw the evidence, and that bill was for two meals. So, he didn’t come here alone. Maybe he was just having lunch with another staff member; it’s a possibility, but I doubt that was the case. He wouldn’t come here. Not here. He wouldn’t use this place for anything work-related; it was always our special place. And the thought of him sharing that with someone else…

I reach the restaurant and push open the door, the smell of paella, garlic and freshly baked bread hitting me head on, causing my stomach to rumble. I didn’t even realise how hungry I was until I came in here.

I look around until I catch the eye of a young waiter, someone I don’t recognise. I haven’t been here for so long that most of the staff seem different. New. This is a city with a big student population, and a lot of them find work in the many restaurants and bars, so it stands to reason there’ll be high turnovers of staff in places like this. Is that why Michael felt it safe to come here without me? Because no one would recognise him, no one would care; no one knows us well enough to tell me he’s bringing someone else to our restaurant?

The waiter throws me a friendly smile as he comes over, and I ask if I can have a table away from the window, a quiet table, at the side of the restaurant. I’m looking for somewhere with a good view of the room, a place where I can easily see the entrance but also remain slightly secluded, and the table he seats me at is perfect. I thank him and take the menu he offers me, ordering a glass of Rioja Blanca and some bread and olives before I’m left alone to check out the rest of the menu, although I already know what I’m going to order. My favourite Tapas dishes – Gambas Pil Pil, Albondigas and Escalivada. I feel like something familiar, and I haven’t been here for so long, just the thought of those spicy prawns, the beautifully cooked pork meatballs in that wonderful tomato sauce and those Catalan style roasted, chargrilled vegetables … it’s making my mouth water. I’m almost forgetting why I’ve come here. It isn’t for the food at all; I’m here on the off chance that I might see something, anything, that can help me work out what’s going on in Michael’s world, because for too long now it’s felt like we’ve been living in two completely different ones. And I know that that receipt I found means something – I know it was only one, just one receipt. There’s no evidence he came here any other time. I have no reason to think he’s going to turn up here today; no reason to think he’s made this a regular haunt with someone new. But I have no reason to think he hasn’t. So I’m here, and maybe I’ll continue to come here for lunch more often. Maybe I need to put more time in at the Durham salon. Spend more time at the spa, so I can be closer to here.

I take a sip of wine and glance around the restaurant at the random mix of people all enjoying their lunch. I’m the only one dining alone, but that doesn’t bother me.

A fresh group of people are entering the restaurant now, and I can hear the waiter asking them to follow him to their table. I turn my head to see if any of those people are my husband and for a brief second that small, rational part of my brain makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Do I really expect Michael to walk in, with another woman, on the day I decide to come here?

Sitting back in my chair, I continue to watch everyone around me, and I wonder if any of their lives are as messed up as mine. I’m not sure anyone’s could be. But I know that what people choose to show to the outside world isn’t necessarily the reality. And I allow my mind to wander back to memories of my parents’ marriage; the way they’d acted happy, put on a united front whenever they were out in public, at family parties, gatherings, trips to the supermarket; anything that involved them being seen together. As I grew older, I could hear the arguments that quickly blew up once they were back behind closed doors; I was old enough to hear those rows, but not the accusations. I had no idea what they were arguing about, not at first. But once I realised what was really going on, that’s when I knew how quickly things –lives – could start to fall apart.

Because of them, I avoided relationships; anything that had even the vaguest hope of turning serious, I shut it down. Walked away. I never let myself get involved, fall too deep. I always took a step back from anything that I thought could hurt me. Until I met Michael. Michael was different. The second we saw each other – the first time he smiled at me, the way his hand touched mine as we reached for the same bottle of wine – I knew then that he was different. He was the man who made me realise all men weren’t like my father. Not all men cheated. Not all men lied. Not all men made you feel worthless and alone. Michael was different … or so I thought.

I look up as my food is placed in front of me, and the incredible smells that fill my nostrils help drag me back. I need to stay focused.

I thank the waiter, ask for a bottle of still water and look down at my food, picking up my fork and gently stabbing a large prawn, the garlic-laden juice dripping from it as I lift it up and pop it into my mouth. It tastes wonderful, and as I chew slowly a hundred and one memories of mine and Michael’s trips to Spain flood my brain; memories of a life I loved, and I’m not willing to let that life drift away from me. Not without a fight.

I’ll find out what’s going on.

I’ll find out if he’s lying; if he’s cheating.

I’ll find out if he really is just like my father. I’ll find out the truth.

And I’ll deal with it.

Chapter 16 (#u6a9a5795-856c-5e3a-89d2-173fa926b718)

‘Am I driving tonight?’ Michael throws his bag down onto the kitchen table. He doesn’t even bother with pleasantries any more. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to communicate sometimes, and the fact that he seems okay with that – I struggle to get my head around it.

‘No. I’ll drive.’

We’re going to a dinner party to celebrate the anniversary of a couple we’ve known for almost ten years now. We are both aware that we will need to pretend tonight. Pretend we are still that couple. The ones who managed to pull through together, despite it all; still perfect. The pressure of this pretence makes me want to scream.

‘I’m going upstairs to take a shower. Is my grey shirt clean?’

I nod and take a sip of the tea I’ve just poured as I watch him leave the kitchen, hear him head upstairs. He’s left his bag on the table, his jacket slung over the back of a chair, his phone hanging precariously from the top pocket.

I wait until I hear the shower switch on, I put down my tea and I quickly rescue his phone before it drops to the floor; but instead of putting it somewhere safe, I keep hold of it. I turn it over in my hand and look at the screen, but I stop myself from doing what I really want to do – check his messages. Read his texts. Look at his call history. Am I really that person? That kind of wife?

The landline suddenly rings out, its sharp, shrill tone jarring against the silence, causing me to almost drop Michael’s phone. The slightest sound still has the ability to make me jump, and I reach behind me for the TV remote, switching it on for that background noise that helps drown out the perpetual, threatening silence. The ringing stops, abruptly, so Michael must have answered it. Sure enough, he calls down from the top of the stairs.

‘That was Laurel on the phone.’ I hear him run downstairs, and I quickly slide his phone into the back pocket of my jeans. ‘She needs me to pop back to the university, sign a couple of things concerning grants for a new research project. I should have done it before I left … I forgot. You know how it is.’

I don’t, actually, but I leave it at that. I don’t think he’s lying to me this time. If that had been her, this woman, this girl, she wouldn’t call him on the landline. She wouldn’t be that stupid. That indiscreet. I think he’s telling the truth for now. He has to pop back to work. Fine.

‘Call Rachel and let her know we might be a few minutes late, okay?’

He issues that instruction without even looking at me, out the door before I have a chance to acknowledge him. And it’s only when I hear his car leave the driveway that I realise I still have his phone. He threw his jacket back on without even checking it was still there in his pocket.

I reach around and pull it out of my jeans, laying it down on the countertop. I look at it. I don’t do anything else, just look at it, because he could still come back for it if he realises soon enough. But if he doesn’t…

I glance over at the TV screen and focus on the local news programme that’s just started, and then I remember I need to call Rachel. Let her know we may be running late. So I quickly call her, and once I’ve done that I check the time. I don’t think he’s coming back for his phone. And it’s there now, calling to me.

I pick it back up and head towards my office at the far end of the orangery. But the second I open the doors of the pool house, I stop walking. I stand perfectly still, and, as I always do when I come in here, I remember. A lot of people still find it strange, that I have my office here, in this place, considering what went on just a few feet away from where I’m standing. And I can’t always explain the reasons why I’ve forced myself to come in here on an almost daily basis. Facing up to what happened is just something I need to do.

I look down at the water. I’ve always liked being surrounded by water. I grew up by the coast, spent a lot of summers at the beach. My grandma and grandad used to take me there a lot after my mother died. I think they sensed it was like an escape for me. Somewhere that allowed me to forget. Somewhere that made me feel happy. All they’d wanted was for me to forget the bad times and get on with my life. And that’s all Michael wants me to do too, isn’t it? Forget, and move on with my life.

Crouching down I drop my hand into the water, let my fingers trail through it, backwards and forwards. It’s almost hypnotic … What am I doing? I’ve been gifted this window of opportunity, and I can’t afford to waste it.

I snap myself out of that near-trance-like state I was close to falling into and head over to the small room in the corner that now serves as my office. There’s not a lot of space in there, but it’s big enough to house a decent-sized desk, a couple of filing cabinets, and some shelves. And there’s a huge window that means the room always gets a lot of light, as well as a decent view out over the garden. A view of the summer house that was once my haven. The space beside it that was supposed to be our child’s play area. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes, my fingers tightening around Michael’s phone as my breathing quickens, the pain of losing that life I wanted, that life I was living; it still hurts in a way nobody will ever understand.

Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, I pull myself together. Sitting down behind my desk, I switch on my laptop and lay my own phone down beside Michael’s, my heart beating like a jackhammer as a mixture of nerves and— am I finding this exciting? So many emotions are fighting inside me these days, it’s hard to tell which ones win out. And maybe exciting is the wrong word, but I’m feeling something. The anticipation of relief, perhaps. That I will soon know so much more about my husband than I clearly do at the moment. First I need to check his messages, even though I don’t expect to find anything. Michael is clever; if something were going on, if he was doing anything he shouldn’t, I doubt he’d leave any evidence on his phone. My scan over his texts proves me right – there’s nothing even slightly incriminating there. I still know something about my husband, then.

I start tapping away at the keyboard, watching as a list of instructions pops up on my screen, and my stomach dips as the realisation of what I’m about to do hits me again. But this is necessary. I can’t have him accepting that this life of distractions, silences and resentment is our life now. I can’t. I won’t.

Picking up my phone, I follow the steps listed in the instructions, and I watch as my plan kicks into action. The knot in my stomach tightens because of what I’m doing here – I’m tracking my husband. I’m installing an app on his phone that allows me to see where he is, where he goes, who he calls and texts. I’m still amazed at how readily available this kind of thing is. And yes, there is part of me that knows that this is wrong, but I also know that this is the only way that I can begin to rebuild my sense of trust in Michael.