‘Funnily enough,’ Meg laughs as she pulls up a chair to sit at her desk, ‘that’s exactly what he said. Now, sleep. Talk to yourself in your head, whatever, but I have to study.’
‘I’m going.’ I move to get out of the bed.
‘Lie the hell down,’ she shouts at me, and there’s that flash in the eyes again. ‘You have to stay here until tonight. Then I have to drive you home since you have no clothes.’
‘I’m fine.’ I sit stubbornly on the side of the bed, ignoring the hammering in my head.
‘Dad, you’ve used the “f” word. You’re anything but fine, so be a good boy and lie down.’ Her voice softens. ‘Please?’
I do what she says. My head is fuzzy, crowded with imaginary scenes. Beth getting the call from Meg; Emma, unable to call me since my phone was still at hers. Harold, would he be damaged, having attacked his mother’s lover? Did Meg say something last night about Beth being in therapy?
I watch my daughter at her desk, surrounded by books on her chosen subject, criminology. Faces of famous serial killers stare up at her from large hardback tomes. Her room is a weird space – a pink draped bed with fairy lights on the headboard and every free gap crammed full of books on vicious minds. I notice she holds herself so upright, years of her mother teaching her not to slouch. She’s only pretending to read a particularly thick book with small writing, but I can tell she’s not concentrating.
‘Have you seen your mum lately?’
‘Last night, earlier, I was on my way back here when you called,’ she replies, without lifting her eyes from the page.
‘I sent her an email.’ I don’t tell Meg about the return one telling me where to shove my kisses. ‘How is she?’
‘Better than the last time I saw her. She’s getting there.’
I wonder where ‘there’ is. ‘Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?’
Meg seems to ignore the question.
‘Meg?’
She lifts her eyes to mine. ‘Would you?’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s not the first time, is it, Dad?’
I flinch. My past is obviously now out there for debate by all and sundry, but I find myself unable to answer the question. I try to imagine how I’d feel if the roles had been reversed. Not nice, more stomach-churning, and I wonder why I do what I do. Why I can hurt the people I love, why I assume forgiveness should be their first port of call. My brain nudges images of my parents forward, and I’m reminded how their tutoring meant I was always expected to do the forgiving. I close my eyes …
‘I didn’t think so.’ Meg returns to Ted Bundy, preferring the antics of a serial killer to occupy the space in her head.
Just as I think I couldn’t possibly sink lower in my daughter’s eyes, the expression on her face when she opens the door to my brother Ben’s flat with her spare key tells me otherwise. Emma has got there before us.
‘Darling! I’ve been so worried.’ Emma leaps from the sofa, which is visible from the front door. She sees Meg immediately and I watch her face process the facts, putting two and two together. ‘Your keys …’ She points to my jacket and the rest of the clothes she’s returned, my CK jocks taking pride of place on top of the pile. ‘They were in your pocket. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Well, it seems you’ll be okay from here.’ Meg turns to leave.
‘Don’t go.’ I grab her jumper.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she hisses.
My fingers immediately release her.
‘It’s good to meet you, Meg.’ Emma tries. ‘I’m sorry it’s under such strange circumstances.’ She raises both her shoulders upwards.
Meg nods in her direction, then bolts.
‘Darling,’ Emma repeats as the door closes. She nuzzles into my neck. ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry. I don’t know what came over Harold. I left him with Alan, told him to think about his behaviour, told him I expect him to apologize to you.’
I can see both our reflections in the tall windows of the living room. The sliding door to the tiny balcony is open and I can hear the sounds of the busy road below. In the glass, Emma’s tall body almost dwarfs mine as she holds me. I see myself, a forty-three-year-old idiot with a gash in his head.
‘I am just so angry all the time.’ I try to explain. ‘Angry and frightened and confused …’ I tell her that Karen came around with her builder brother, Brian, and they fitted a punchbag in the garage.
She grins. ‘Have you used it yet?’
‘Oh yes.’ I hold my hand out to show her the tiny bruise on the second knuckle of my right hand. ‘I convinced myself I was working out, but actually I have a picture of Adam on it.’
‘So, why exactly are you angry, Beth?’ She puts it so simply that I find myself getting annoyed at her too.
‘I’m angry because my dickwit of a husband cheated on me. I’m angry because I bet he’s stupid enough to think he’s in love. I’m angry because his fragile forty-three-year-old male ego needs to be massaged by another woman. I am angry because he’s greedy, immature and selfish. I’m angry at myself because I forgave him once before when he was greedy, immature and selfish, and I’m angry because he’s made us just another statistic.’ Tears pool in my eyes and I reach for the tissue she hands me.
‘Before, you know, it took ages … It was only a one-night stand, at least that’s what he swore to me, but it took a long time to rebuild that trust again.’
Caroline is still handing me tissues. ‘Research shows,’ she says, ‘that it takes between one and three years to recover from a breach of loyalty within a marriage, so why do you think he did it again?’
‘Because he could? Because he’s a bastard? I don’t know, are you trying to say that this could be my fault; something I didn’t see?’
‘No, no, of course not, but if you raise the point, is it valid?’
Now, I’m furious. I resist the urge to march out through the door and never come back. But something keeps me here, rooted to the chair, and she at least has the grace to avoid my eyes. Silence.
The fact is, she’s right. There were signs. We weren’t as physically close as usual and he seemed uncommunicative, emotionally detached for months before the night I found out. I ignored it. I can feel my neck colour, feel my part in this whole mess crawl up my face. My defences are now on red alert. Since when has it become my burden to stop my husband dropping his pants?
‘Apparently,’ I break the silence,
