Behind Her Eyes(70)

Oh God, oh God, oh God. What am I doing? Maybe Sophie is right. Maybe I should walk away. How much of my life do I want to fuck up for this? David could make me look like a crazy person to Dr Sykes. To everyone. I could be screwed for work for ever. I could probably go to prison. It’s all my own fault. My curiosity’s fault. If I hadn’t been curious about Adele I would have made my excuses and not gone for coffee that morning. And what did he mean ‘she never walks to work with me’? She must have done. What’s he trying to make me think?

Don’t trust him, I tell myself. Don’t listen to him. Go with what you know. You know about the pills. You know about the calls. You know about his drinking and the money and the file in the office. These things are solid things. And he just threatened you.

Adele still hasn’t texted me back, but even if I do decide to walk away from it all, she needs to know about what I found in the office. She needs to make her own decisions based on that. I’ll go and see her tomorrow and then I’ll leave it all alone. I’ve said that before, but this time I mean it. I have to mean it.

My head is pounding and I sit on the sofa and let my skull rest against the back cushions. I need to calm down. I inhale through my nose and breathe out through my mouth, letting the air get deeper and slower and forcing the tense muscles of my scalp, face, and neck to relax. I empty my thoughts, imagining them being blown away on a night breeze. I don’t want to think about them. I don’t want to think about my mess. I don’t want to think about anything. I want to leave myself behind, just for a while.

It happens so suddenly. Almost between breaths.

The silvery edges of the second door appear in the darkness behind my eyes, shining so brightly that I almost flinch, and then, before I even see the shimmering watery surface, I’m through it and—

—I’m standing over myself. But I can’t be, because I can see me sitting on the sofa, my head lolling back. My eyes are closed, my mouth half-open. The wine glass sits, empty on the table beside me. I don’t remember bringing it in. How am I seeing myself? What is happening? I panic and I feel a massive tug at the very core of me – exactly like the tug in my dream of Adam’s room – and then my eyes open and I’m back on the sofa.

There’s nothing calm about my breathing now, and I’m wide awake and alert. What the fuck was that? I look to the side table and see the wine glass there where I must have absently put it down after David left. What the fuck just happened?





41




ADELE


Watching, waiting, learning, practising. My days are fuller than they’ve been in as long as I can remember, and it’s wonderful. I’ve got heels on when David finally gets home, ones that match my outfit. It’s nice to get dressed up and to be beautiful. The skin between my toes on my right foot is sore and scabby, but the irritation with each step is worth it, just like the increasing itching is worth it. It’s a reminder that I’m in control. It keeps me in control. Anyway, I’ve mastered that now. I’m ready for that part of my plan, and I’m glad that I can now shake adoring Anthony off.

Things are starting to move apace. Louise is my little terrier and she’s gripped the bone I’ve given her and I know she won’t let go. I’m curious to see where she takes it, how she’ll play out my game. I can’t entirely control how everyone will behave in this set of circumstances, but that somehow only makes it all more interesting. I’m playing the odds with their personalities, and thus far neither David nor Louise have let me down. David might be the head doctor, but I know how people tick. And I adapt.

The kitchen smells delicious as he comes and stands in the doorway. I’ve made a fresh pasta carbonara and a peppery rocket salad, which I fully intend to eat even if he doesn’t. He stays on the other side of the threshold to me, leaning against the doorframe. He looks a mess. He won’t keep his reputation at the clinic if this goes on much longer.

‘Still playing Stepford Wife, I see.’ He smiles as he speaks, a twisted humour. He’s laughing at me; at my clothes, and my cooking, and all my effort. I look hurt. I am hurt. He’s not even pretending to love me any more.

‘You should eat something,’ I say. Instead of drinking all your calories.

‘What is it you want, Adele? Really?’ He looks at me with blurred contempt. ‘What is all this for? This prison we live in?’ He’s definitely drunk, and for the first time in a long time I see true, naked aggression in him.

‘I want to be with you.’ It’s the truth. It’s my eternal truth.

He stares at me for a long time, as if trying to figure out what’s going on inside me, who I really am, and what new label he can apply to make sense of it – schizophrenic, sociopath, obsessive, plain batshit-crazy – and then his shoulders slump with the effort and the lack of answer.

‘I want a divorce,’ he says. ‘I want this over. All of it.’

There’s no need to elaborate on the last point. We both know what he means. The past needs digging up and laying to rest properly. The past. The body. He’s said this before, but this time I’m not so sure he’ll change his mind when he sobers up, regardless of what I might do. Regardless of how I could ruin him if I tell.

‘Dinner will be ready in ten minutes if you want to freshen up,’ is all I say. My normality unsettles him more than any verbal threat.