close the door before his car’s left our driveway, flicking the locks and double-checking them before I hang up Michael’s jacket. And I’m about to go back into the kitchen. I should check on that casserole, but I don’t. I stop and I glance quickly up the stairs. I can hear Michael moving around up there. I can hear his voice. He’s talking to someone.
Taking a deep breath, I turn back to look at the jacket Liam’s just returned. It really has come to this.
I slide a hand into one of the pockets and feel around inside but there’s nothing in there. So I try another pocket. Still nothing. But I’m sure this jacket has an inside pocket and I reach around to find it. And the second I put my hand in there I feel it. A slip of paper. A receipt, maybe? I pull it out and look at it. It is a receipt, for lunch at a Spanish restaurant in the city. The same restaurant we used to love going to, but we haven’t been there for a long time now. We haven’t been there, but he obviously has, and I check the date – it was a few days ago, his lunchtime visit. Just a few days ago. I scan the receipt more closely. Definitely a meal for two. He wasn’t alone.
Shoving the receipt back into his pocket I glance up the stairs again. His voice is a little more muffled now. It’s barely audible. He must’ve gone into his office. It isn’t Liam he’s talking to … so who is it?
Climbing the stairs, carefully, quietly, I try to avoid those steps that I know have creaking floorboards. He’s still just that little bit too far away for me to make out what he’s saying.
I make my way along the first-floor landing, again moving slowly so as not to make a sound, but I stop when I reach the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the top floor. His voice is a little louder now, but he’s definitely inside his office and the door is closed, so whatever he’s saying – whoever he’s talking to, I still can’t make anything out. And then it goes quiet, and I hear him moving about again, so I turn to go, but he’s already coming down the stairs. I dart into our bedroom, pretend to look for something I don’t need.
‘Ellie?’
I turn around and he’s standing there, in the doorway.
‘I needed a change of shirt. I splashed something on this one.’
He comes over to me, takes the shirt I don’t need from my hand and tosses it onto the bed. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I need to change my …’
‘Why were you really at the university today?’
I laugh quietly, fold my arms across my chest and step back from him, shaking my head. ‘You think I had some ulterior motive for dropping by to leave you lunch?’
‘I don’t know what to think, Ellie. I don’t. I mean, there are times when you’re fine, you’re good; times when everything is normal …’
‘You think everything is normal, Michael?’
He takes a step towards me, reaches out to take my hand and I let him, his fingers curling around mine. It’s a feeling I’m so unfamiliar with now, him touching me, so when it happens, even under these kind of circumstances, I take it. Because I just want to feel him touch me again.
I drop my gaze and look at his hand holding mine.
‘Please, Ellie, don’t do this.’
‘Who were you talking to? Just now?’
He lets go of me and narrows his eyes, pushing a hand back through his hair. ‘Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you? You turn up at the university, out of the blue, you demand to know who I’m talking to … whatever the hell you think is going on it’s all in your head, okay?’ He jabs the side of his temple hard as he says that, his eyes darkening as he stares at me. Yeah, he’s angry. So am I. I’ve been angry for a long time. I have every right to be. ‘And that call was to Neil Haywood, a colleague of mine from Edinburgh. He’s visiting the university next week for a guest lecture. I just wanted to make sure he has all the details he needs before he gets here.’ He pulls his phone from his back pocket and holds it out to me. ‘Go on. Check my call history if you don’t believe me.’
I lean back against the wall and fold my arms tighter against myself. I don’t know what to feel now. I don’t. ‘I’m not going to do that.’
‘Look at me.’
I slowly raise my gaze, my eyes meeting his. The darkness has lifted slightly. He’s trying to understand what’s going on in my head.
‘Nothing is going on. Okay? Nothing’s happening, everything is fine. And you can’t – you can’t keep doing this, it’s not healthy.’
I pick up the shirt he threw down on the bed and slide it back onto the hanger.
‘Ellie? Are you listening to me?’
‘I’m not one of your students, Michael. Don’t talk to me like I am.’ I swing back around to face him. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer it if I was one of your students.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing …’ I start to walk away, out of the room. I’m done here.
‘No, you don’t get to walk away like that. Jesus … Ellie!’
I stop in the doorway, but I don’t turn around.
‘Ellie?’
I stay still, I don’t move. I just lean against the doorpost and sigh.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly, and I ache for him to touch me, to make all this shit go away. I want it all to go away. I want my husband back. ‘It’s been a long day. I’m just tired.’
Excuses. That’s all they are. He makes them regularly. He’s too tired to talk, too exhausted to go over it all again. Didn’t the counsellor help us? She helped him. Nothing helped me. But even she never got the full story, did she? And he’s still okay with that. I’m not.
‘How about we eat dinner, then have an early night, hmm?’
I slowly turn around. I look at him, but his eyes – he doesn’t look at me the way he used to look at me. There’s always a hint of something else there now. Is it pity? I want my fucking husband back.
‘When I tell you I love you, Ellie, I mean it.’
‘I know.’ Liar.
‘That’s what we need to concentrate on, okay? Us. Everything else – all of that, it’s in the past. It’s over. It’s over. I promise.’
Michael – he needs a distraction, something to stop him from going over and over it all in his head; something to take away his guilt. I think he needs that. And I think he’s found her, his distraction. My husband’s lying to me and that’s not right. None of this is right.
‘It’s over,’ I whisper. I’m just telling him what he wants to hear, and whether he believes that or not – no. He’ll believe it. He’ll tell himself that he’s managed to pacify me. That’s exactly what he’ll do. Because he’s done it before, so many times.
He
