Behind Her Eyes(47)

The doorbell goes, three sharp rings. Frantic. The poor boy come to grovel, I imagine.

Everything is going so well.





29




LOUISE


I’ve got a glass of wine poured before I’ve even put my handbag down. My nerves jangle and I feel as if there are ants trapped in my head. I don’t know what to think.

I’d gone out at lunchtime for a walk to stretch my aching legs from last night’s jog and clear my thoughts a bit, tired of staring at David’s door and willing him to call me in to explain what the hell is going on. I’ve been on edge all day. He’s been ignoring me as if we were teenagers rather than grown adults, and I don’t understand why he can’t say if he doesn’t want to see me any more. He started all this, after all. Not me. Why can’t he just talk to me? My stomach is in such a tight knot I couldn’t eat even if I wanted to.

I decided that after my walk I was going to go and have it out with him – professional or not – but when I got back he wasn’t at his desk, and Sue, all aglow with excitement, told me that Anthony Hawkins’ parents had come in, and they and David were in with Dr Sykes.

‘Anthony says he saw Dr Martin hit his wife. Right in the face!’ Sue had said it with such whispered glee that I felt as if I’d been punched myself. Gossip for her, more head-fuckery for me. I didn’t see David after that. I sat at my desk, my mind a blur of half-formed thoughts and worries, wanting to get out of there, which I did, bang on five. I wanted a glass of wine. I wanted to think.

And yet I don’t know what to think. The wine is cool and crisp, and I take my e-cig and go and sit on the balcony, letting fresh air into the stuffy flat. Adele says she walked into a cupboard, but Anthony says David hit her. Why would Anthony lie? If it’s true though, how did Anthony see it? Was he peering through windows? David referred Anthony to a new doctor on Monday, and I figured that was because he’d got too attached. But maybe it was because Anthony had seen something David didn’t want him to.

I feel sick, and drink more wine, my head already buzzing slightly. I haven’t eaten much today and now my appetite is totally gone.

The doorbell goes twice before I hear it, I’m so lost in my own thoughts, and I scurry back inside.

‘Hey.’

It’s him. Barely 6 p.m. and he’s at my door for the first time this week. I’d thought he was never coming back, and I’m too surprised to say anything as I let him in. He’s brought wine and immediately opens it and gets another glass out of the cupboard.

‘Make yourself at home,’ I mutter, a whirl of conflicting emotions.

‘I wish I could,’ he says, with a sorrowful – or self-pitying, I can’t decide which – half-laugh. He drains his glass and then refills it. ‘What a fucking day,’ he says, tilting his head back and letting out a sigh. ‘What a fucking life.’

He drinks a lot; I’m realising that now that I’ve cut back so much. Is he a mean drunk? Is that what happens? I look at him. A fight, a fist, a face.

‘I can’t stay long,’ he says, and then reaches for me, pulling me into his chest. ‘But I had to see you. I keep telling myself to stop, promising myself I’ll stop, but I can’t.’

‘You see me all day.’ I’m stiff in his arms. Is that brandy I can smell? A terrible thought strikes me. Does he drink in the office? He kisses the top of my head, and under the booze and the aftershave I catch the scent of him, and I can’t help but like it. I crave it if I’m honest, when I’m alone at night. But if he thinks we’re going straight to bed now, or to bed at all, then he’s wrong. He’s hardly looked at me in days, and now he just breezes in. I pull back and take my drink. Screw him. I look at his hand on his wine glass. Strong. Big. I see the bruise on Adele’s face. For once, I’m going to be the friend she thinks I am.

‘But not like this,’ he says. ‘Not when we can be us.’

‘Us.’ The word sounds dead as I repeat it. ‘There’s hardly an us, is there?’ I lean against the kitchen counter rather than leading him into the sitting room or bedroom like usual. I haven’t spoken to Adam today, and I won’t miss that, not for a cheating-maybe-wife-beating man. I suddenly feel tired. Adam’s home in about a week, so all this craziness is going to have to stop anyway. Maybe it will be a relief.

He frowns slightly, realising my bad mood. ‘Are you okay?’

I shrug. My heart races. I hate conflict. I’m shit at it. I tend to revert to being a sullen, silent teenager rather than spitting out what’s wrong. I gulp my wine and then take a deep breath. Fuck it. This is the only chance I’m going to get to talk about their marriage. This is something I can legitimately know.

‘Sue told me what happened. With Anthony Hawkins’ parents. What they said?’

‘Thank God that’s cleared up,’ he says. ‘I didn’t need that today.’ He looks at me then, sees my questioning suspicion, and his face falls.

‘Wow, Louise.’

‘What?’ I sound defensive, and I feel it too. Now that he’s here in front of me I feel stupid for half believing he could do that. Even Adele didn’t say that he’d hit her. But there’s so much going on that doesn’t make sense, and I can’t figure any of it out.