Page 38 of Behind Her Eyes

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 –wedecided – that it was better if he just stayed in charge of everything. And then we got married and so it wasourmoney 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 Ihavebeen 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 oflonginghe 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 wehave 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 Idowhen 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 Iknowwhat’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.

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