The House Swap(10)

‘What is it?’ I ask. I had meant to sound concerned, but my voice is harsh and accusatory.

He shrugs, still staring out at the greyly lurching water as it rises and falls with the wind. ‘I think I’m going to go home,’ he says. ‘I’m knackered. And this isn’t really working, anyway, is it?’

Even though I cannot disagree, fury surges up in me at losing the day I had planned. I glare at Francis, torn between rage and worry. And above it all, the flat blanket of weariness settling. It’s all piling up: the sleepless nights, the short-tempered moments, the distance in the way he looks at me, the emptiness. We had a few good weeks but, lately, it’s becoming more and more clear that nothing has really changed.

He’s back on the pills. The thought lands like a stone in my gut. I’ve been trying to paper over the cracks, but it’s impossible to ignore. We’re back on this same old grinding merry-go-round. His pointless denials and the increasing loss of control. The refusal to admit that this is still happening. My tears and recriminations and supplications, which count for fuck all, because trying to reason with addiction is like trying to hold back the tide with the palm of your hand.

‘You know,’ I say, ‘maybe you should go back to the doctor. He might … might be able to help you.’ I can taste the irony in my own words. This was how it started, over three years ago now – with my well-intentioned suggestion that he should visit the doctor, maybe get something to help him through a tough few weeks at work. An image of him returning home the next day, jauntily waving a little prescription slip. Got me some happy pills! ‘I mean, sort out some counselling,’ I say carefully. ‘Not just a quick fix.’

Francis shoots me a look of heavy scorn. ‘Fuck off,’ he says wearily.

My mouth opens in shock. It’s not the words themselves but the way in which they seemed to be so close to the surface, so ready to push me away. ‘Fuck off?’ I repeat. ‘Believe it or not, Francis, I’m trying to help you.’

‘You seem really fond of that word,’ he says. ‘Help. I don’t need any fucking help. All right?’

‘Yes, you do,’ I bite back tightly, struggling to keep control. ‘Yes, you do. You’re like a bloody zombie most of the time, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of pretending not to notice—’ I cut myself off, seeing a middle-aged couple ambling towards us.

Francis follows my gaze, and his lips twist unpleasantly in an approximation of a smile. ‘Don’t mind us,’ he says loudly, fixing his gaze on the couple. ‘We can even speak up if you like, if you’re feeling curious?’

‘Francis,’ I hiss. ‘Shut up.’ I’m flooded with embarrassment, my cheeks hot, clothes prickling damply against my skin. The couple give us a look, half pity, half alarm, and move swiftly away, muttering inaudibly to each other.

‘Fucking rubberneckers,’ Francis says, turning to me with eyebrows raised, and with a light shock I realize that he thinks we’re on the same side, complicit. He doesn’t understand at all.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ I say. ‘I’m tired of you showing me up, and I’m tired of living like this. What would you do if you were me, Francis? Seriously, what the—’ Somewhere along the line, my voice has risen out of control and I’m shouting across the rapidly widening space between us. I watch him amble away with his head down, his interest in the conversation lost, pushing through the crowd of tourists and heading for God knows where. I’m crying, tears running down my face and mingling with the rain, and my left hand is still automatically rocking the buggy. I glance down and see that Eddie is oblivious, a fist pressed to his mouth and his eyes starting to glaze with tiredness.

It’s almost an hour before I get him home, and I already know from the nine abortive calls I have made to his mobile that Francis won’t be there. Sure enough, the hallway is dark and cold, and I don’t even bother to call out his name. I peer at Eddie, checking that he’s asleep. He is tightly curled up, his knees drawn against his chest and his head drooping lazily to one side, blond hair ruffled against the fabric of the buggy. When he is sleeping, he looks so like Francis it gives me a confused pang of love and longing, sorrow and loss.

I park the buggy in the hallway, then go to turn the thermostat up and peel myself out of my sodden clothes. I put on my fluffy dressing gown, light the candles in the lounge to try to make the room feel cosy, and do myself a hot chocolate. I drink it slowly, curled up in a blanket, feeling warmth seep gradually through me.

I lean my head back against the cushion, and as I do so something catches my eye – a long, white envelope poking out from beneath the basket next to the sofa. There’s something about it, the way it seems to have been hidden, that makes me lean across and pull it out. It’s bulkier than I expected, and inside are several metallic strips, each containing ten little blue pills. No prescription slip, no official packaging. Source unknown.

I weigh the envelope in my hand, and it isn’t shock that I feel, nothing as sharp as that; a blunted weight of nausea pressing rhythmically at the back of my throat. No, no, no. I’ve known for weeks now, expected it, but it still hurts to be confronted with the reality.

I think about throwing the pills away, maybe confronting him, but in the end I push the envelope back where it came from. I know by now that throwing them away achieves nothing; there will always be more. And besides, if he doesn’t know that I know the envelope is there, I can monitor it. See how fast they disappear.