The Soulmate(30)

‘I feel better,’ I said to Gabe one day. ‘I feel . . . good. You fixed me.’

The wonder of it was indescribable, a confirmation of what I already knew about the power of my connection with Gabe. I was the fixer; we both knew that. Gabe was the dreamer. And yet, when I’d needed him, he rose to the challenge.

I was intoxicated by it, the yin and the yang. Unfortunately, as with yin and yang, there was a cost to my recovery. As life returned to me, it slowly leached out of Gabe.



It started with sleep.

In the past, I’d always been shocked by how little rest he needed. He was always so full of energy! But suddenly he was yawning all the time, turning in at 8 pm.

We laughed about it at first. Blamed parenthood. Look how wild we are now that we’re parents! Quietly, I was grateful that he was home at night, going to bed early. It beat the days when he stayed out all night.

When the tiredness persisted, though, I told him to stop getting up to Freya during the night. But even after nine hours sleep, he would wake exhausted. Dark circles appeared under his red-rimmed eyes. One Saturday, he slept the entire day, and when he got up around 6 pm he still looked awful. It made me think of the ‘black periods’ he’d described suffering from as an adolescent.

‘I think you should see a doctor,’ I said eventually.

I made an appointment for him with Dr Withers, our local GP, who tested his iron levels. When the tests came back fine, Dr Withers decided Gabe must have a lingering virus. I suggested that he get a second opinion, but Gabe told me not to worry.

He took so much time off work I worried he might lose his job. But, perhaps due to his relationship with the boss, he managed to get by doing the bare minimum. I still had Max’s business card. Several times I’d picked up the phone to call him, then I’d put it down again. After all, the man was a media tycoon! He had enough to worry about without the wife of one of his executives calling him. I almost threw the card out a couple of times, but I always ended up tucking it back into my wallet – just in case.



One night, while watching a British police procedural on Netflix, Gabe started to cry.

We were tucked up in bed with cups of tea. Freya was sleeping soundly. It was the first time Gabe had stayed up late enough to watch a movie in weeks, and I had been thinking how remarkably normal I felt, like the other new mums in my mothers’ group, watching TV with their husbands.

‘What is it?’ I asked him. ‘What’s wrong?’

He didn’t answer. The tears weren’t alarming in themselves; Gabe was a crier, especially in movies. What disturbed me was the fact that it wasn’t a remotely sad film, combined with the fact that the crying continued after the credits had rolled and went on for four days after that.

‘I think you’re depressed, Gabe,’ I said. ‘It happens to a lot of people. I think you should see a psychologist.’

In fact, I’d started to wonder if I should see a psychologist too. I was battling the sleep deprivation of new motherhood and Gabe’s moods simultaneously. The littlest things had started to annoy him. As he lay on the couch, he’d complain that the cars outside were too loud. Freya’s sweet snoring was too loud. It was all interfering with his sleep and that’s why he was so . . . damn . . . tired.

All day long the curtains were drawn, the windows were closed. I forgot what natural sunlight looked like; it felt as if we were living in a cave. If I tried to let air and light in, Gabe recoiled like he was in pain.

More and more, I felt trapped by Gabe’s moods. I mourned our old happy life, and I had no idea how to get it back.

‘Let me make you an appointment,’ I suggested.

But he was adamant in his refusal. ‘I just need to ride it out, Pip,’ he said. ‘I will come good again. Trust me.’

But he didn’t come good, apart from the odd proclamation of love for me or Freya that felt worryingly incongruent with his mood. ‘I’m so grateful to you,’ he’d say. ‘I’d do anything for our family. I really am the luckiest man alive.’

Freya was my solace. I built a little world just for the two of us, structured around Freya’s naps and mealtimes and evening routine, her play dates, doctor’s appointments, first words and first steps. I made friends with other mums and we met in parks and libraries and play centres, where we talked about breastfeeding, baby-led weaning, gross motor skills – new, interesting, distracting things that required a lot of my time and attention. At night, if Gabe had fallen asleep on the couch, I’d bring Freya into our room, bathed and sleepy, and fall asleep to the sound of her rhythmic, steady breath.

The days were full and, for the most part, fulfilling. It was surprisingly easy to forget for hours or even days at a time that there was something very wrong with my husband. Besides, what was the point of thinking about something I was so powerless to change?

Once, I came home at midday to find Gabe at home. It was a Wednesday, and he should have been at work.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I couldn’t stay there,’ he said. ‘I tried, but I couldn’t. It was too loud.’

The noise was becoming more of a problem. The day before, he’d told me he’d unplugged the photocopier because he couldn’t bear hearing it outside his office all day long. He’d also complained that the lights were too bright. Recently he’d petitioned to HR to get dimmers in the offices. I hadn’t heard how that campaign had gone.