The House Swap(53)
‘I know you don’t,’ he says. ‘It’s not going to be easy for me either. But there’s not much choice, is there.’ It isn’t a question. He’s said this kind of thing before, several times. Last time, he went further. I’ll be thirty in a few years, and what have I got to show for it? I’m living in a flat share with no girlfriend and I’m seeing a married woman with a child. When this is over, you’ll have him to focus on, but I’ve got nothing. I’ve got to live my own life. I need to get on with it, without you. And I had recoiled in near-shock and surprise, the hurt written across my face as clearly as if he had shouted it, and he had placed his hand over mine, apologizing silently, but not taking it back.
We lie there in silence for a while longer, and sadness filters through the room like smoke. It’s seeping in more and more when we’re together, this indefinable melancholy that colours every look and touch. We used to spend our time laughing like teenagers, entertaining each other effortlessly. It seems we’ve conducted everything on fast-forward. In five months, we’ve aged ten years, already sensing the shadow of separation.
He turns on to his side to face me and moves my face towards his. Even as it’s happening, I’m thinking that I’ve never been kissed so carefully – with such attention, as if he’s trying to imprint the way our lips fit together on to his memory. I know what it means. I don’t want to lose this. The desire is primal, and I push myself up against him wordlessly and hard, willing him to read what’s in my head.
‘We’d better get out of here,’ he says after a while. It’s not what I wanted, but glancing at the time, I see that he’s right. I nod silently and reach for my clothes.
It’s barely half an hour before I’m home, but it’s already getting dark, and I realize I’ve stayed out later than I thought, later than I would plausibly be working. I brace myself as I turn the key in the lock, but as soon as I enter the hallway I hear the sound of Francis’s snoring coming from the lounge, uneven and jagged.
I check on Eddie first, finding him sleeping serenely, tucked up in bed. I stroke his hair softly, feeling guilt surging through me. It feels as if I’ve barely seen him this week. Tomorrow, I’ll come home early and spend some time with him, maybe take him to the playground. Quietly, I back out of the room, then close the door.
Tiptoeing into the lounge, I peer at Francis where he lies sprawled on the sofa. With a shock, I see that he’s left a pill packet out, tossed next to him carelessly. I can’t remember how many there were last time I looked, but the foil is torn all the way along now and there’s nothing left. The sight of it lights a bright flare of anger inside me, white hot and hopeless. I reach out and shake him roughly by the shoulder, redoubling the pressure when he barely stirs. He makes a noise, something that might be a greeting or a command to leave him alone. His eyelids peel open for a fraction of a second, then droop closed again.
‘For Christ’s sake, Francis,’ I say, hearing the hysterical rise in my voice and knowing I’m on the path to losing it. ‘What the hell are you doing to yourself? Do you even understand what’s happening here? Have you got a fucking clue?’
His eyes open again, a slow, painful movement, as if he’s wrenching them up with pliers. There’s little recognition in the glazed look he gives me, and even less acknowledgement of what I’m saying. I stand there in the middle of the room, my arms wrapped around myself, and I can still feel and smell Carl all over my body, and all at once my heart lurches sickeningly and I have no idea how we’ve got here. Tears are pushing themselves out of my eyes, choking my throat. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ I hear myself saying. ‘You’re supposed to be looking after our child, for God’s sake. What if he woke up and needed you? How can I trust that you wouldn’t just ignore him?’ It’s my own hypocrisy as much as the fear that’s driving the tears. I have no idea what trust means now, between my husband and me.
Francis struggles aimlessly in his seat, wiping a hand across his face and trying to collect himself. ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he says. ‘I know my responsibilities. I look after him.’ The words are placatory, but there’s a bite behind them and his frown is thunderous. It’s all I can see.
‘Well, that’s good to know,’ I spit back. ‘It’s good to know that you’ll do it for him, but—’ I pause for a second, unsure if I really want to say the words that are trembling on my lips. ‘But not for me,’ I force out.
He frowns again, as if confused, thrown off base. Perhaps it’s the emotion implicit behind what I have said – an emotion that seems to have no place between us these days. I don’t even know myself why I care any more. His mouth opens briefly, then snaps shut, and he leans his head back against the sofa cushions, closing his eyes again.
Anger is still burning through me, making it hard to breathe. ‘I don’t want to do this,’ I say, loudly and clearly, spacing the words out. When there is no response, I grit my teeth, hug my arms tighter around myself. ‘I don’t want to be married to you any more,’ I say. ‘I think I’m done here.’
His eyelids flicker minutely, but still there is no response. I stare at his dark eyelashes, the mouldings of his face that remind me of Eddie’s, the shadow of the bones that I once used to trace with my fingertips while he slept, trying to transmit my love for him secretly through his skin.