The Family Remains(24)

‘And how would you feel? If I were to put that on?’ Rachel glanced at the underwear. ‘And we could just give it a try? See if it’s something you like?’

Immediately, Rachel felt something in the atmosphere curdle and warp. She watched as Michael lifted the underwear, dangled it on his fingertips and examined it warily. ‘You wear this?’ he said. But it wasn’t a casual enquiry.

‘Yes. If you’d like it.’

‘And … have you? I mean, is this something you’ve done before?’

The question landed between them like a thrown dagger. Rachel knew what she should say. She should say no, this would be my first time. Because she knew, in every atom of emotional energy in the room at that moment, that Michael did not want to know about her doing this with other men. And that Michael was not what she’d thought he was. But she could not lie. Rachel was incapable of lying. And so she said, ‘Well, yes. Once or twice. Not often. But yeah.’

‘And you liked it? You liked being tied up? And being … what? I don’t know – spanked?’

‘It’s not spanking. It doesn’t hurt. It tickles.’ She tried to add lightness to the situation, but she already knew it was too late.

‘Wow. Rachel. Fuck. I mean …’ He dropped the piece of underwear and paced back and forth across the wide teak floorboards for a moment or two. ‘I feel – Jesus. I feel like I don’t know you, Rachel. I feel like I married a fucking stranger.’

There followed a moment that was so darkly silent and so tense that Rachel could almost taste it.

She attempted to lighten it. ‘Ah well. Just a thought. No biggie.’

‘Well, I’d say it clearly is a “biggie”, Rachel. I mean’ – he gestured at the objects – ‘these came all the way from the UK. On to our honeymoon. That took some forethought. Some planning.’

‘No. Really. It was nothing, I brought a million things I don’t need, just in case. I even brought a cardigan.’ She laughed, but it sounded hollow. ‘Seriously. Just forget it. Forget this ever happened.’

She strode across the room and started to gather the objects that she now wished to douse in petrol and set alight. She hoped that Michael might touch her as she passed him, might grab her arm and pull her to him and say something to ameliorate the situation. But he stood, rod-straight, pinched-faced, hard. She took the objects to her suitcase in the dressing area and zipped them tightly into an inside pocket. When she turned back, Michael was no longer in the room and the door to the terrace rattled gently on its hinges.

The rest of the honeymoon was tainted, ruined. They still talked over cocktails at dinner, they still held hands to walk along the beach, they still took photos of each other and selfies in front of sunsets. But there was no more sex. No more sex at all. Bright, aqua days faded darkly into moody nights of rejection and cold shoulders. Each night Rachel fell asleep tucked into herself on her side of the bed, swamped with sadness, and resentful of the sound of his snores, snores that should have been post-coital, blissed, the result of a spent libido, but instead were merely the snores of a middle-aged man who’d had a big dinner and too much beer.

They got home to the frozen tail end of February and spent the night at Michael’s place in Fulham. Still no sex. The following day was Sunday. They had lunch at an Italian where the proprietor forced complimentary champagne on them when he learned they’d just returned from their honeymoon and made unwelcome jokes about babies coming now, yes? and as darkness drew over the afternoon and turned it into evening, Rachel said to Michael, ‘You know, I have a huge day at work tomorrow, I’ll want to be in early. I might just spend the night at my place.’

She chewed the inside of her cheek and held her breath, waiting for him to thaw, to melt, to say, no, no, please, stay, I want you. I’m sorry.

But he did not look up before saying, ‘Sure, baby. Sure. Makes sense.’

She wheeled her honeymoon case out on to the pavement and lifted it into the boot of an Uber, cast her eyes up to the balcony of Michael’s apartment, searching out the familiar solid shape of him, maybe waiting to wave her off or even to call her back. Her gaze searched the windows for a blur of movement, a waft of hitched-back curtain, but nothing; the fa?ade of Michael’s apartment remained still and cold. She clicked her seatbelt locked and held on to her tears until thirty minutes later, when she closed her apartment door behind her and wept.





22




June 2019


Samuel


‘Sam.’ It’s Saffron. ‘We’ve got the results back from the textile fibres.’

‘Right. Great.’

‘Towelling, apparently. Cotton towelling. Which suggests that the body was wrapped in towels after death. But, more importantly, there are traces of matter on the fibres. Some blood. And, amazingly, some hair.’

‘Hair? Oh my goodness.’

‘Yes. Exactly. And also a small shred of another fibre. Lab thinks it might be manmade. Probably part of a label from the towel. Traces of text printed on it. Not enough to read full words. But it’s being analysed right now; we might be able to get a brand off it. So we have hair, blood, and possibly a brand of towel. And all in all, I’m pretty fucking ecstatic about that.’

I don’t like the sound of swearing. It bothers my ears. But on this occasion, I fully understand the need for it. This is more than we could ever have hoped or dreamed of.