Close to Me Page 6

  ‘We’ll talk about it when I get home, okay?’ Rob says, hanging up.

  I put the phone down and then the spoon, Rob’s words repeating in my head. He’s right, of course, we should spend this time together as a couple, embrace the new status quo. Our lives have changed, we need to reconnect, learn how to be together without the daily exchanges required to raise two children. We’ve kept them alive into adulthood, made sure they had a good start; now it’s our time. It’s only one week away, an entirely feasible proposition. One which I should find attractive. Rob had meant well and I’ve sucked all the joy out of the surprise. I pick up the phone to call him back, then think better of it. He’d been preoccupied with the rush-hour traffic and his signal was breaking up. It will be better to have the conversation once he’s home, as he suggested.

  I leave the sauce to reduce down, another hour or so until the meat is soft and the flavour concentrated. Spag Bol was the kids’ favourite, not so much Rob’s, but he’ll eat it. I walk through to the den, sitting down at the glass desk which was intended for Rob’s new study upstairs but was too big for the small room. Rob was annoyed at his mistake, but I’m pleased I inherited it; it makes the den feels even more like my domain. It’s a pleasant spot to sit at my laptop; beneath the window and with a view over the back garden. I think this is my favourite room, the only one in the barn that feels cosy, the proportions less grand. It was meant for the kids and their friends, an addition we added to give them their own space, or maybe as a sweetener to extend the allure of living at home, which it clearly didn’t do, although I’m hoping Fin will come back for a year or two after university. I open up my laptop and type in ‘Dominican Republic – Five Star’, distracted by a robin in the garden as I wait for the intermittent Wi-Fi signal to catch up. The light is fading now, I should close the blind, but as is so often the case these days, inertia slides over me, pinning me to the chair as I stare straight ahead.

  I find the website of the resort relatively easily – it’s the only one on a private island. Five star, as Rob had said. The reviews look amazing, the guest photos like an advert for paradise. It’s just a week; what can go wrong in a week? But even as I talk myself into it, I can feel the swell of panic rising; all those thousands of miles between us and the kids. And I know they’re not technically children, but they’re not adults either. Sash still needs us for this and that, mainly to sort out problems with her grotty rented flat, and Fin hasn’t even left home properly. He’s only been at university for a couple of weeks and although he says he’s fine, who’s to say he really is? We haven’t seen him, and his messages are brief and infrequent. He could be depressed. Or on drugs. ‘He just needs to find his tribe,’ according to Rob, and on the whole I allow myself to be persuaded by this argument, but Fin’s always been a quiet soul, sensitive and insular. We wouldn’t necessarily know if something was wrong.

  I still my thoughts, walking back into the kitchen to stir the simmering sauce. I’ll feel better once Rob’s home; he’ll talk me round, he always does. And anyway, it’s hardly a problem, being taken to a five-star island paradise. I can almost hear my daughter saying, ‘First World problems, Mum.’

  5

  Three Days After The Fall

  I abandon sleep and open my eyes to the darkness, a cast of faces still before me; the players in a lost year, some known, some not. I look across at Rob, his breathing slow and almost silent, then I close my eyes again. There are two distinct faces amongst the many, a man and a woman, both equally transfixing, both strangers. I need to separate them out, examine each one carefully. I’m drawn to the man first. He’s younger than me, not handsome as such, but he has presence, and confidence, a smile emerging from the shadowy features.

  Afraid I may betray myself, even in the dense blackness, I force the image of him away, my breaths shallow as I glance across at Rob once more, his prone figure a dark mass; inert.

  I look for the woman now and she stares straight back at me, her stance at first defiant, her face unknown, hidden beneath the layers of memory which elude me, but then she changes, her whole body contorted with emotion, her hands covering her eyes, then reaching out to me. I don’t want her, she repulses me, although I pity her too. She’s pulled apart by terror, or perhaps grief; all-consuming. I need to sleep, but even as I feel myself unlatch from the world, they both follow me into the hinterland of my subconscious, walking at my side, tugging on my thoughts, demanding I remember them.

  The morning arrives with a blinding headache and the sense I may not have slept for more than one continuous hour, the disturbing images prompting even more alarming questions now I’m awake; as though I were assessing a stranger’s actions over the last year, not my own. I pull myself up to a seated position, then lean back to rest my aching head against the pillow as Rob bangs around in the bathroom next door. He frowns with concern as he walks out of the ensuite, his continual assessment of my every move exhausting. ‘I’d like my laptop, please,’ I say.

  ‘You need to rest,’ Rob says, tucking the duvet around me. ‘And if you won’t, then I’ll simply have to work from home again today. There’s some toast and juice there when you’re ready.’ He points to a plate on my bedside cabinet.

  I tell him to stop fussing, I’m much better, but he’s insistent I mustn’t do anything but stay in bed today. I fall silent, thinking I can do what I like once he’s gone; watching him as he walks across to his wardrobe, pulling open a drawer to select a pair of grey balled-up socks. I must have paired those, I think, probably in the last few days; a simple task, not noteworthy, but another memory gone.

  ‘That’s what your consultant said when he rang,’ Rob says, glancing at me over his shoulder. ‘Rest is the most important thing.’

  ‘When? I didn’t hear the phone.’

  ‘You were still asleep,’ he tells me, closing the wardrobe door. ‘I told him you were feeling much better and he said that’s great, but not to overdo it.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I reply, smarting at his high-handed attitude.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t agree,’ Rob says, sitting next to me on the bed. ‘The doctor said you need complete rest. Maybe I should stay at home today . . .’ He smiles. ‘Keep an eye on you.’

  I’ve already endured two days of his constant surveillance, losing count of how many times he’s asked how I’m feeling. ‘No, I’ll rest. I promise,’ I tell him, adding a smile.

  ‘Great,’ he says, standing up again and passing me my new phone, which he tells me arrived early this morning. ‘Everything’s on there: email accounts, contact details; no need to go downstairs.’

  ‘Thanks, but I could have done all that,’ I reply, taking the new handset and clicking on the Mail icon, surprised at the anticipation I feel.

  ‘I checked your mail just now,’ Rob tells me, looking over his shoulder and smiling as he tosses the balled-up socks in the air. ‘Nothing exciting I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’d have rather checked that myself,’ I reply, scrolling through the recent emails.

  He’s right, they are dull: an overdue refund to our account for two over-ripe avocados in a supermarket delivery, a few discount codes for chain restaurants, and a dental appointment missed. I discard the phone on to the bed beside me.

  Rob’s seated at the end of the bed with his back to me, shoulders hunched over his knees as he pulls on his socks. His long thin legs are bare beneath the tails of his crisp work shirt, his bony feet raised, one then the other, the skeletal outline visible beneath the skin. I watch him, his head bent forward over the task, the tanned skin above his collar picked out by the neat line of his haircut. He stands to place one socked foot, then the other, into his suit trousers, then he walks over and plants a kiss on the top of my head before he stretches up to his full height. I wait silently for him to make a move, but he just smiles at me and then regards me again, as if he’s still weighing up the pros and cons of leaving me on my own all day.

  ‘Go!’ I shout. ‘Just go to work!’ I want to say
more: how I can’t bear another day of his micro-management; every word, every movement analysed. It’s like I’m his science experiment, to be prodded and managed, surveyed and inspected. I can’t breathe for his concern. But I don’t, for I see the hurt and shock in his eyes.

  Rob steps back and looks at me, his face now filled with regret, not the animosity I’d expected. He says he’s sorry, he had no idea he was upsetting me. ‘Look, I know I might seem . . .’ He looks away. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll back off a bit, okay?’

  His apology reminds me of how he has been in the past after a major row. Not the daily squabbles of normal married life, but the big blow-outs we’ve had; so infrequent I could probably count them on one hand. Those quarrels had been about money, or kids, or the barn; his anger often followed by a period of over-compensation. I wonder what the row was about at the top of the stairs which has prompted this contrition, but my memory of it is so unclear. What might he be atoning for?

  ‘You need to get back to work,’ I tell him matter-of-factly. ‘You’re driving me crazy.’

  ‘Charming,’ Rob replies, affecting amusement. ‘I know when I’m not wanted.’

  He opens up the wardrobe again and picks out a tie, standing in front of the mirror in the ensuite to fasten the knot. I wait for him to speak, unsure what I’m expected to say; it’s the truth after all: he’s not wanted.

  ‘You have to promise me you won’t drive,’ he calls through. ‘Or leave the house. Or do anything other than lie in bed.’

  ‘I promise,’ I say, as he walks back into the bedroom, rewarding him with another smile which I hope will settle him this time.

  ‘Text me every hour.’ He gives me a stern look. ‘Or I’m driving straight home.’

  I pick up the shiny new handset again and hold it up. ‘Every hour,’ I tell him. ‘Promise.’

  ‘I was hoping Sash would pop over in her lunch hour to check on you,’ he says, pulling on his jacket. ‘Apparently she’s too busy today, and I can’t get hold of Fin. I can make you a sandwich for your lunch if you’d like?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell him again. ‘I wish you’d just go!’

  Rob looks at me, pausing as though he might say something this time, but instead he walks away, his tall frame filling the bedroom doorway, then he turns back and says, ‘I worry about you on the stairs.’

  I hesitate, wonder if it’s a dare, to see if I’ve remembered anything of what happened before my fall, but I don’t, not properly. I tell him I’ll be very careful, probably won’t even go downstairs, which finally prompts his departure. I watch him from our bedroom window, his laptop case tucked under his arm as he looks up at me, raising his free hand to wave goodbye before the heavy rain forces him to run to his car.

  Even when he’s gone I stare after him as though he might think better of leaving, his car turning full circle at the end of the lane to come home. I wonder if I want him to come back – a perversity prompted only by the emptiness I feel now I’m finally alone. I place my good hand flat against the glass, tracing a line to follow the tracks of the raindrops with my forefinger. Then I rest my sore brow on the cold pane.

  I used to have a routine when the children were here. It went some time ago, I understand that, at least on an intellectual level, but knowing Fin went a year ago doesn’t mean it feels that way. To me, it’s as if he’s just left, Sash too, her move only just preceding her brother’s departure to university. When they were younger those drives to and from school had felt without end. I’d wanted those days to pass more quickly, had cursed the fact I had no time for myself, not a moment to think, but the years have flipped over, one after the other, lost to the very routine which was sustaining me. And now, in a cruel twist, the year in which I should have adjusted to a new routine has been stolen from me by memory loss. In the weeks before Fin left for university I’d tried to imagine carving out a new life, a life beyond my children, a life that would be different, but just as good. I wonder if I did. I wonder if I found something to replace the losses, something which took over my life. Something dangerous and illicit. The thought appalls me; the possibility I may have risked my marriage too awful to entertain.

  I tear myself away from the bedroom window, my feet taking me past unoccupied rooms, the changes disorientating, as if someone is playing a spiteful trick on me. The spare room, now Rob’s study, is filled with masculine furniture which I can’t possibly have chosen, and Sash’s room, fully revealed in the daylight, has had all the personality stripped from it, the effect being one of a luxury hotel room, pristine but impersonal. I can see that it’s been executed with taste, and concede I may have had a hand in its transformation, but why bother? Who do we ever have to stay? Sash, perhaps? But the room appears untouched. Fin’s room is much as I remember it, but that’s even more disturbing – as though he’s still away at university, rather than permanently moved out. I reach the top of the stairs but then double back, unsure of my destination until I’m in our ensuite. I turn on the shower, inspecting my bruises again as I undress. Some are fading, some darker in colour. I remove the elasticated bandage from my wrist and step into the cubicle. The tiny cuts on my inner wrist catch my eye again, but then I’m distracted as the scalding beads of water locate the tender squashy bump on my scalp. Wincing with the pain I steady myself against the tiles, but the exhilaration of washing my hair for the first time since my fall takes over. Afterwards I sink down on the closed toilet seat, my hair wrapped in a towel, my robe damp from the moisture on my skin. I’m faint with exhaustion and shivering with cold, the porcelain hard against my back as I lean against it, resting there until I’m recovered enough to replace the bandage on my wrist, reassuringly tight against my skin.

  The rain is still falling as I pass the bedroom window, the outside world cold and unforgiving, a slate-grey sky sending down hard drops which the wind lashes against the glass. I make a pillow of my towel to protect the bedding from my wet hair and lower myself on to the bed. At first I try to rest, but when I close my eyes the questions return. Giving up on sleep, I pick up my new phone, squinting to see the screen until I retrieve my glasses from the bedside cabinet. Rob has indeed copied across the kids’ mobile numbers, as well as all his contact numbers at work, home and the office, but there were more names on my old phone; I’m certain of it. I try to recall who may be missing, willing myself to remember the missing contacts. But there’s something else which preoccupies me instead, something that lurks between Rob and me, unexpressed and yet a barrier between us; both of us guarded. He’s my husband, he loves me, would do anything for me, and yet his love feels cloying, his attention claustrophobic. Something must have happened in the last twelve months which has changed us both. Something no one is ready to tell me. I felt it more keenly than ever this morning, at times the unspoken words palpable between us, the flashes of those moments before I fell tantalising me. I close my eyes and this time the images are bidden more easily, but it’s not my husband I see.

  I can’t see his face, but I can see his entire body, reclined. The beauty of it catches my breath in my throat, sending a thrill of desire through me. I reach out to touch him, my hand finding the curve of his waist, then the muscles in his back and thighs. The skin is taut, younger than Rob’s.

  This cannot be me with another man. I’ve always been a faithful wife, never once strayed. I need to rest, to push these thoughts away. I turn to feel the cool of the pillow against my cheek as I slide the towel from beneath my head, ignoring for now my tangled hair; the thought of dragging a comb through it, the teeth finding the soft lump on my scalp, causing me to shudder.

  Sleep settles on me some time later; black and blank, no faces, no memories except a recollection of that scene in the holiday photograph Rob showed me. It’s probably just a replication of that image rather than a true memory, but I feel again a sense of unease at our smiling faces. Then that image fades too, leaving only a thickening in my head, a soupy mess of nothingness which I cannot shake off, even when I hear the l
andline ringing.

  October – Last Year

  I look beyond the white tablecloths of the empty adjoining tables to the grouped holidaymakers by the bar, their laughter drifting through to us as they take their first cocktail of the evening. It’s our third night here and the second time we’ve declined an invitation to join them, Rob preferring our own company to those of our fellow Brits. My gaze travels from their bonhomie to the bewildering and eclectic choice of something akin to European cuisine comprising the buffet. I have to hand it to the chefs, the appearance of the dishes is a neat deception, promising flavours which are rarely delivered. Nevertheless, the exotically displayed platters attract a steady stream of grazers, their appetites undiminished by the rather odd combinations we are presented with. I look down at my plate and disregard almost everything on it except a small piece of steak; surprisingly tender.

  ‘It doesn’t bother you?’ I ask Rob. ‘Look!’

  He follows my eyeline to the queue of wristbanded guests, their length of stay indicated by the deepness of their suntan; every one of them European or American, although I did meet a very nice Canadian lady in the lift.

  He frowns at me. ‘What am I supposed to object to?’

  I lower my voice. ‘White privilege.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Rob replies, spearing a piece of salmon. ‘We’re in the Caribbean, of course the staff will be locals.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but not one guest, Rob. Not one.’

  ‘Why would the locals holiday here?’ Rob asks, entirely missing my point.

  It had initially struck me when I’d leant over our balcony on our first morning here; the magnificence of the tiny island spread out beneath me. We’d arrived late the previous evening, exhausted by our epic journey. The nine-hour flight had been followed by a life-threatening four-hour private transfer, our driver having perfected the art of the last-minute overtake, but only just. I’d wondered if it would be worse if I were killed, or Rob. I was tired. I wasn’t thinking straight; the journey was interminable. Finally, when I’d thought we’d never arrive, we’d boarded the resort’s boat for a choppy ten-minute crossing from the mainland, the woman seated opposite us growing ever greyer with seasickness. Our arrival after dark had denied us the view from our suite, its spectacular beauty revealed the next morning: the whitewashed colonial-style villas, manicured gardens surrounding them, then the beach beyond, and at the resort’s centre the blue expanse of the swimming pool, circled by cushioned sun loungers and curtained cabanas (always draped with towels before breakfast). I’d called Rob and he’d looped his arm around my waist, said he knew I’d like it, before turning back to the room in search of his Kindle for by the pool. ‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ I’d told him. ‘Sorry if I was bit unenthusiastic at first.’ And he’d smiled, told me I’d been fine, only a trace of irony in his tone, more of a good-natured tease than a jibe at my expense.