Behind Her Eyes(40)

I’m stuck on that word, distracted. What he means is he can’t be distracted by wondering where I am and what I’m doing. Even our little phone call routine isn’t enough for him.

Maybe you should cut your distractions by not fucking your fat receptionist, is what I want to scream at him, but I don’t. The pills he made me take in front of him are kicking in, and I’m starting to feel a bit drowsy. I don’t actually mind. Some sleep will do me good.

His phone beeps and his lift is here. He doesn’t take my phone from me – whether on purpose or because he’s still reeling with everything else and has forgotten about it – and I’m relieved. I’ve hidden it just in case, but I’m taking enough, probably premature, risks already. The phone is for another time.

‘We’ll talk more later,’ he says, heading for the door. His words are hollow. Talking is something we really don’t do. We don’t talk about us and we don’t talk about that. He pauses and looks back, and I think he’s going to say something more, but he doesn’t.

We stare at each other for a long moment, once lovers, now silent combatants, and then he’s gone.

I hear the key turning in the bottom lock and I feel entombed in our house. It’s very strange to know I can’t get out. I haven’t felt so helpless in a long time. What if there’s a fire? What if the house starts to burn while I sleep? I’m dozy on medication. What if I put a pan on to boil and forget about it? Has he considered any of these things? It’s not as if a fire hasn’t happened before. Perhaps he thinks I’m resourceful enough these days to get out by myself. And to be fair, the windows would be easy enough to break if I put my mind to it.

I stand in the silence and stare at the glass and think of flames and my mind ticks over with ideas, and then the throbbing in my face brings me back to the present. I’ve taken all his pills, but what I really need is some ibuprofen.

I take two with water and then go into the downstairs cloakroom and turn on the light, leaning over the sink to examine my face in the mirror. The bruise is quite something, blooming high on my cheekbone. My skin has swelled tight, and I flinch when I gently touch it. Last night, it was just a red glare. Today it’s staking its claim on my face. My eye isn’t closing up though, which is a relief. The bruise will have gone within a week, I’m sure.

I hate it. His concern at the growing bruise first thing this morning vanished when my shopping started to arrive, and that was that. More anger and the same demanding questions of last night that I still wouldn’t answer. He wanted to know where I’d been. Why I was out when he got home. What I’d been doing.

I obviously can’t tell him where I really was – I’d planned to be home before him, but my poor timing was another error in last night’s fiasco – but perhaps I should give him something. Or not. I’m quite enjoying this moment of quiet power over him. I may be the one locked in, but what he wants to know is locked in my head. I’ll take that. Still, I feel exhausted now that I’m alone.

It’s not only my face that hurts. My arms and legs ache too. My muscles scream from being strained. Even my ribs hurt a little.

I need a bath. I need to soak it all away and think. I take the stairs slowly, weighed down by my self-loathing and self-pity, and as I start the water running, I move his shirts from our wardrobe to the smaller one in the spare bedroom. I hang them in colour order, how he likes them. I touch them with all the gentleness with which I can no longer touch him. Self-doubt grips me and I feel very, very alone.

I take my mobile phone out of the shoe box at the back of the cupboard, hidden under a satin pair of Jimmy Choos, and then peel off my clothes and lower myself into the hot bubbly water. I keep the phone within reach, on the toilet lid. Maybe he’ll try ringing me. Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe he’ll tell me he wants to make everything better. They’re idle thoughts. We’re too far down this long track for that.

I close my eyes and let the water soothe my muscles. My heartbeat throbs in my face; a steady rhythm pacified by whatever drug he’s made me take. It feels quite pleasant in a strange way. I’m about to drift off when the sharp buzz of vibration jolts me upright. It’s a text. From Louise. I stare at the screen. She never texts at weekends.

I did it!!!!

I stare at the words, and then I smile, despite the pain in my face. She did it. She actually did it. My heart races, pounding its beat in my chest and cheekbone. I love Louise. I really do. I could burst with pride.

Suddenly, I’m no longer sleepy.





25


THEN


The smoke is strong and sweet, and when it hits her lungs it’s such a shock that she coughs it back out until her eyes water and then they’re both laughing, even though her chest feels like it did in the days after the fire.

Rob takes the joint back and smoothly inhales a deep lungful. He blows out smoke rings. ‘That, my dear,’ he says in a faux posh accent, ‘is how to do it.’

‘Where did you get this shit?’ She tries again, and this time manages to fight the urge to choke. The buzz is pretty instant. A warm, tingling light-headed feeling. She likes it.

He wiggles an eyebrow at her. ‘I have my own irresistible ways.’

‘No really. Where?’ Rob is pure energy to her. She loves him a little bit, she knows that. He’s so different. She has never met anyone who gives less of a shit about all the things you’re supposed to find important. All the things her parents found important. The things David finds important. Having a plan. A career. Rob is like the wind. Here, there, and everywhere. Destination unknown. It must be wonderful to be like that.