The Wife – Part Two: For Better, For Worse. ML Roberts
to blame, really. Both of us. All of us.
I get up off the floor and leave the room. It still hurts to be in here sometimes. But even though people tell me I should change the colour scheme, turn it back into the guest room it originally was, I can’t do it. I can’t … I can’t forget.
I go back into our bedroom, walk over to the window and look outside at the garden – at the higher fences Michael had erected after that night. Security cameras were installed all around the house, locks put on all the outside gates. I couldn’t feel safe until something had been done. It’s just that: I don’t feel safe. I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel safe again.
My eyes shift to the corner of the garden, to that space next to the summer house; that empty spot where a swing used to stand. Michael had bought it just two days before that night. I remember the huge grin he’d had on his face as he’d lifted it from the back of the car and hauled it into the garden. I remember him and Liam trying to build it, testing it to make sure it was safe, and I can’t help but smile slightly at the memory of them pushing each other like a couple of kids – the way I’d laughed so hard at their messing about – and I’d known, right then, that Michael was going to be an amazing dad. And then she came along, that night happened, and our entire future, everything we’d planned, was all ripped away from us, just like that. So yes. I blamed him. For a while.
‘Ellie?’
I don’t turn around. I don’t reply. I continue to stare out across the garden. I feel him come up behind me, and I flinch slightly as he touches my hip, causing him to pull his hand away. I want him to touch me, yet there are times when I hate it. His touching me. No wonder he’s looking for a distraction. And maybe that’s also why his touching me makes me flinch – because I know he’s touching someone else?
‘We really should think about redecorating that room…’
‘Because a lick of paint will help erase the memory? You tried that once before, remember? And I told you not to touch that room again.’
‘Ellie, will you look at me, please?’
No. I won’t look at him. Why should I? Why should he get to say how this all works?
‘This isn’t helping. This behaviour…’
I swing around and stare at him, this man I fell hopelessly in love with all those years ago. And I know he’s changed. Forgetting and moving on, that’s how he’s dealt with it; but I’m not him. The repercussions of those events spread wider than just that one night, and Michael blames himself. But he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t blame himself. Like I said, we’re both to blame. We both made mistakes.
‘What we did…’
He shakes his head as he backs out of the room, and I start to feel that barrier slowly rise up between us again. ‘No, we’re not doing this, okay?’
‘Because you don’t want to?’
‘Because you’re going to make yourself ill if you don’t stop this. Every time I think you might be…’
‘What, Michael? Every time you think I might be what? Getting over it? Forgetting it?’
He turns his back to me and walks out onto the landing.
I let him leave. I have to think of another way to win this. I have to find out what’s really going on with my husband. Only then can I start to fix what’s broken … if I want it to be fixed at all.
My father wasn’t a good man. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good father; he was, in the beginning. Before I knew the kind of man he really was; before I realised why my mum was always so sad, so reclusive. Their marriage was a lie, from start to finish. A web of deceit that ended tragically when my mum took an overdose of whisky and pills that saw her go to sleep and never wake up. Because she didn’t want to wake up. Because of what my father did. Because of his cheating. Because of his lies.
And I couldn’t stop it from happening. She hid how she was feeling just a little too well, even though we all knew something wasn’t quite right. Everyone knew she was unhappy; that much was obvious, even to me, and I was barely a teenager when I lost her.
Nobody had known just how deep her sadness had run, even after she’d found the courage to leave my dad. She kept it hidden from me, as much as she could – tried to make life after my father as happy as possible – but it became too hard for her. My mum was a good woman. She was one of the best. Kind. Caring. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for anyone, including my bastard of a father. She didn’t deserve what he did to her. His selfish weakness destroyed her, and I never forgave him. I never will. He killed my mum; that’s how I see it. Cheating, lying, deceiving – those actions destroy people. So to think that my own husband could be part of something like that … I won’t let it happen. I’m not my mother. She didn’t fight. I will.
Digging my hands into my pockets, I continue my walk through the centre of Durham. It’s one of my favourite places. Wandering around the compact streets of this small city is something I love to do. It’s calming – a chance to gather my thoughts, think about everything more clearly – and when the sun’s out and the weather’s a little warmer, as it is today, it fills me with peace. Out here, amongst all these people, I’m exposed, yet I don’t feel scared. Not today. Today I’m focused. I’m not feeling fragile or frightened; I’m fine.
Passing the small university bookshop on the corner, I start walking along a familiar street. One Michael and I know very well. We’ve been here so many times. I’m heading towards the Spanish restaurant we used to visit frequently, before that night. The same restaurant I know he’s been to recently, without me. I found the receipt, I saw the evidence, and that bill was for two meals. So, he didn’t come here alone. Maybe he was just having lunch with another staff member; it’s a possibility, but I doubt that was the case. He wouldn’t come here. Not here. He wouldn’t use this place for anything work-related; it was always our special place. And the thought of him sharing that with someone else…
I reach the restaurant and push open the door, the smell of paella, garlic and freshly baked bread hitting me head on, causing my stomach to rumble. I didn’t even realise how hungry I was until I came in here.
I look around until I catch the eye of a young waiter, someone I don’t recognise. I haven’t been here for so long that most of the staff seem different. New. This is a city with a big student population, and a lot of them find work in the many restaurants and bars, so it stands to reason there’ll be high turnovers of staff in places like this. Is that why Michael felt it safe to come here without me? Because no one would recognise him, no one would care; no one knows us well enough to tell me he’s bringing someone else to our restaurant?
The waiter throws me a friendly smile as he comes over, and I ask if I can have a table away from the window, a quiet table, at the side of the restaurant. I’m looking for somewhere with a good view of the room, a place where I can easily see the entrance but also remain slightly secluded, and the table he seats me at is perfect. I thank him and take the menu he offers me, ordering a glass of Rioja Blanca and some bread and olives before I’m left alone to check out the rest of the menu, although I already know what I’m going to order. My favourite Tapas dishes – Gambas Pil Pil, Albondigas and Escalivada. I feel like something familiar, and I haven’t been here for so long, just the thought of those spicy prawns, the beautifully cooked pork meatballs in that wonderful tomato sauce and those Catalan style roasted, chargrilled vegetables … it’s making my mouth water. I’m almost forgetting why I’ve come here. It isn’t for the food at all; I’m here on the off chance that I might see something, anything, that can help me work out what’s going on in Michael’s world, because for too long now it’s felt like we’ve been living in two completely different ones. And I know that that receipt I found means something – I know it was only one, just one receipt. There’s no