Читать книгу The Wife: A gripping emotional thriller with a twist that will take your breath away - ML Roberts - Страница 14

‘Do you want some breakfast?’

Michael throws a pile of files down onto the countertop and reaches for the coffee. ‘No, I don’t have time. I’m already late for a meeting with my research students. I’ll grab something at work.’ He takes a sip of coffee, slides a hand onto the small of my back. ‘And where are you going to be spending your day today?’

I turn to face him, his hand moving around to rest on my hip. ‘The spa.’

He smiles, and for a moment everything feels like it used to. He cups my cheek, leans in to kiss me slowly, and I close my eyes and take this moment because it’ll soon be over.

‘I’d better go.’ He steps back from me, throws me one last smile and grabs those files he’d discarded not thirty seconds ago. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Hang on … Michael!’

He stops before he reaches the door, and I can tell from the way his shoulders sag that he’s frustrated. He just wants to get out of here.

‘How about I cook tonight? I’ll get a bottle of that wine you like, make you your favourite …’

‘What’s going on, Ellie?’

I’m actually quite stung by his question, by his tone of voice. It’s verging on suspicious, as though he thinks I’m doing this because I have some kind of ulterior motive. And maybe I do, but only because I’m trying to save something here. I’m trying to save us.

‘I want to cook my husband dinner. There’s nothing strange in that.’

‘You’ve just opened a new business, and when you open a new business you’re usually there more than you’re here. You don’t have time to cook dinner.’

‘I’m making time. Maybe I need to do more of that.’

He throws back his head and sighs quietly, backing off towards the door. ‘No, Ellie, you really need to stop this.’

‘Stop what, Michael?’

‘You’re fishing. I know you want to talk, but it’s over. Done. Finished. I don’t know how many times I can say that. And dragging it back up, it isn’t going to do anyone any good. So you need to stop pretending to be housewife of the year and let’s get back to normal. Okay? Let’s do that.’

I lean back against the counter. My fingers grip the edge. Tight. It makes me angry that he issues instructions and expects me to obey them. He thinks he can control how I’m feeling, but that isn’t his right. He doesn’t get to tell me what to do.

‘Ellie? Look at me.’

I do as he says. I raise my gaze and I look at him, right into his eyes. He has the most beautiful eyes. Piercing. Bright. Almost cobalt blue in colour. Eyes that looked into mine that first night we met, and I knew then that I wanted to be with him.

And his voice, it’s a little less harsh now.

‘We need to move on, Ellie. What happened …’

For a second there’s a connection. Something we very rarely have any more, but right now, I feel its brief but powerful presence.

‘It’s going to be okay. And I need you to believe that, Ellie. I can’t keep telling you, every day. So, I just need you to believe it. Believe me. Please.’

I want to believe him.

I watch as he drops his head, runs his hand along the back of his neck, and then he raises his gaze and his eyes lock on mine. ‘I understand that what happened – what I did … nobody expected you to get over it in a heartbeat, but you said you would. You wanted to. It’s been a while now. Hasn’t it? It’s been a while. Long enough.’

There’s that silence again.

‘You can’t let it take over, Ellie. You can’t, so please, let’s just try and move on. All right?’

He briefly drops his gaze again, and I hear him breathe in deeply, see his shoulders stiffen.

‘I need to go. I’m late.’

I smile and I nod, I let him think he’s won, but I know what he’s doing. I’m the one in control here, not him.

I encourage the kiss he plants on my cheek. I let him go. Watch him leave the kitchen, hear him out in the hall collecting his things together, and I wait until I hear his car drive away before I move. I need to be at the spa in a little over an hour but there’s something I have to do first.

I head upstairs, along the first-floor landing to the set of stairs that lead up to a small roof-space conversion that houses Michael’s office. I know what I need to do. As I approach his office there’s a louder voice inside my head telling me I have no choice.

My husband is distracted. More distracted than usual. He may try to cover it up with charm and smiles and kisses but he needs to be focused on me. His wife.

I push his office door open and walk inside. The room is a cluttered mess of books and files, a wall of shelves filled with more books and papers that have spilled over onto his desk, the floor, but he knows where everything is, or so he tells me. It’s an organised mess, but not the kind I could work in.

I head over to the window, peering outside, just to make sure that he’s gone. It’s all quiet out there, nothing but the sound of birds chattering and the distant noise of traffic. It’s an ordinary, everyday morning.

I sit myself down at his desk, looking at the photographs he’s got scattered about the surface, in amongst the piles of papers and books – us on our wedding day; on holiday, in Andalucía; one of us with Liam taken at a university Christmas party a few years ago. So happy. The three of us. There’ve been no photographs taken in the past year. Nothing on display, nothing anywhere to act as a reminder.

I switch on Michael’s desktop computer. He has his laptop with him, but I’m assuming everything he has stored on that will be on here, too. I feel no guilt, no nerves. This is my right. I scan the icons on his screen, looking for the one I need. One I’m sure he hasn’t password-protected, and then I see it. His tutorial timetable pops open, filling the screen, and my eyes flick over the coloured blocks he uses to distinguish his students. They each have their own personal colour. That’s just the method Michael likes to use and my eyes continue to scan the document. A name in a light-green block, and even though the colour isn’t in any way significant, the name might be. Ava. The only female student he has a tutorial with today. Do I know who she is? No, I don’t. But I know what she might be. There’s a twisted sense of relief as I stare at the screen. I have something to work towards now. I have something to focus on.

Her tutorial is at twelve-thirty this afternoon. Scribbling the time down on a piece of paper I shove it into my pocket as I close the timetable down. I go to switch off the computer when my eyes fall on the email icon staring back at me from the screen, my hand hovering just slightly above the mouse. Do I dare? Is this who I’ve become? Yes. I think, maybe, it is.

My hand falls back onto the mouse and I move it slowly towards that email icon, stopping only briefly as a flicker of rationality creeps in, but it’s soon pushed aside and I click down on the mouse. But whatever it was I was about to do, it’s halted. He’s password-protected his email account. So he does have something to hide.

Shutting the computer down, I get up and go over to the window once more, resting my forehead against the glass as I stare outside at the view, at the surrounding houses in neighbouring fields, all of them set in miles of countryside, green fields dotted with more houses here and there. I can see for miles from up here in the roof space. It’s peaceful and beautiful and this house – I loved this house. When we first moved in here we had so many plans, it was our little corner of the world, our hideaway, a place where no one could get to us. After that night – what happened – my initial reaction was to run, to leave it all behind, everything we’d created here, all those plans. Michael thought that staying here – he thought it was for the best. He thought that facing up to it all might help fix what was broken, but maybe it can’t be fixed?

Finding the slip of paper I’d pushed into my pocket just a few seconds ago, I start to play with it, twisting it between my fingers. I can almost feel the lies, they’re so real to me now. I know they’re there, I know he’s telling them. I’m …

Something crashes downstairs.

Jesus!

It’s just the post – that noise that nearly stopped my heart beating, it was just the post being pushed through the door. I know that. The postman is walking down our driveway. I got such a shock I’ve hit my head slightly on the glass. A dull ache spreads across my forehead. I need to stop this. I need to pull myself together.

I get up and walk out onto the small landing here on the top floor. There are only three rooms at the top of the house – Michael’s office, a tiny bathroom and a box room that Michael uses to store his overflow of books, files and papers. I very rarely come up here. It’s Michael’s floor, really. His space.

Back down on the first floor I slip into our bedroom, tidy myself up. I tie my hair back, apply a little more make-up. I’m painting on that mask again, putting up that shield. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Ellie Travers stares back. Confident businesswoman. Loving wife. Loving wife who’s snooping around her husband’s things. What are you not telling me, Michael?

As I turn to head back downstairs, something catches my attention. I can hear something, a noise; it’s vague, a low, heavy rumbling … where’s it coming from? It’s getting louder and there are raised voices now, they’re outside. Shouting. I quickly move into the empty bedroom to my right to get a better look out the window, my heart beating so fast I think it might explode. There’s someone outside. Is it her?

Get a hold of yourself, Ellie. It can’t be.

As the refuse lorry rumbles down the lane my eyes close with relief. All I heard was the bins being emptied. That’s all. My paranoia, that unwelcome rush of anxiety, it’s ramping up when it should be waning now. I should be able to deal with it all, after fourteen months. But I can’t. Or I won’t. I don’t know.

It’s then I realise which room I’m standing in. It’s empty. There isn’t even a bed in here. The walls are painted a bight lemon yellow and the carpet’s a soft, plush cream pile, but that’s all there is – painted walls and cream carpet. Maybe we’ll get around to making this more of a room and less of an empty space one day, but not yet. There’s no hurry. It’s not as if we need another guest room right now.

The view is pretty from this room. It gets a lot of sun in the afternoon, on the days when the sun dares to make an appearance. That’s why I painted the walls yellow, to make the most of the sunshine. I wanted this to be a bright and happy room.

The sound of my phone ringing out from the kitchen startles me. It’s becoming exhausting now, this almost constant fear that something is going to happen. I need to get my shit together.

Closing the door, I run downstairs towards the ringing phone. It’s Carmen, at the spa. It’s time to focus. But as I listen to Carmen’s update, my fingers curl around the scrap of paper in my pocket. This is far from over.

I love my husband.

My husband loves me.

Nothing, and nobody, is getting in the way of that.

*

‘Ellie! How lovely to see you!’

Sue’s smile beams out as I walk into the outer space that houses Michael’s office, and the offices of two of his fellow English professors. It’s a bustling, busy area comprising three desks for the secretaries, countless filing cabinets, a large table with two desktop computers on it at the back of the room, next to a huge wall of windows that look out over university grounds, an old battered leather sofa positioned beside a large, ornate fireplace, which Sue always makes sure is decorated beautifully at Christmas, and a small kitchen area with a kettle, microwave and a Belfast sink. It’s actually all rather homely, given that it’s a workspace.

‘Are you here to see Michael?’

‘I was just on my way to the spa, and seeing as I was passing I thought I might pop in, say hello. Bring him some lunch. Is he in his office?’

‘I think he’s just finishing a lecture, but he’s due back any minute now. He’s got tutorials this lunchtime. Can I get you a coffee? A cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’m fine. I’ll just wait, if that’s okay.’

‘Of course it is … Oh, speak of the devil. Here he is.’

I turn to see Michael stride through the door, his expression a mixture of surprise tinged with something else – is that anger? But then his expression quickly changes and he smiles at me, that easy-going smile I’m all-too familiar with. He wasn’t quick enough. I can tell he’s using that smile to mask something; whatever it is he’s hiding from me.

I know what you’re doing, Michael. I’m your wife. Remember?

‘Darling? What are you doing here?’ He takes a step towards me, leans in and gently plants a kiss on my cheek, that smile still there on his handsome face.

‘I was on my way to the spa and I just thought I’d pop in and bring you some lunch, seeing as you missed breakfast this morning.’

His eyes meet mine. It feels as if he’s searching my soul. ‘Sue, can you stick the kettle on, please?’

‘Of course. Are you sure you don’t want anything, Ellie?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

Michael nudges his office door open with his shoulder. ‘I’ve got tutorials in a few minutes. Did you want to see me about anything in particular?’

‘I was just passing. I thought it might be nice to drop by and say hello, that’s all. Does there have to be a reason for your wife to pop in and see you?’

He glances over at Sue, but she’s in the kitchen area chatting to April, one of the other secretaries. They can’t hear us.

‘It’s just not something you make a habit of. It never has been.’

‘Do you want me to leave?’

I can’t stop the slightly irritated edge to my tone and he narrows his eyes as he looks at me.

‘No, Ellie, I don’t want you to leave. But I don’t have a lot of time. Like I said, I have tutorials.’

Sue comes back over and hands Michael his coffee, his face breaking into a smile as he takes the mug from her.

‘Thank you, Sue.’

He turns his attention back to me.

‘Come inside. I’ve got a few minutes to spare before my first student gets here.’

I follow him into his office and close the door behind me. He puts down the pile of folders and books he was carrying and leans back against his desk, folding his arms, his eyes boring into mine.

I don’t think he wants me here, and I know why. But I’m not going anywhere, yet.

I go over to him, take hold of his shirt collar, my lips brushing the side of his neck as I lean in to him. ‘You said you had a few minutes,’ I murmur, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, my fingers playing with his hair, stroking his skin.

He lets out a low groan as I press myself against him, drops his hand to my bottom as I kiss him. It doesn’t take much, Michael, does it?

‘Do you remember those days when you’d come visit me at work, at the salon?’ I whisper, as his fingers dig into my thigh, push me harder against him. ‘You’d meet me for lunch but we’d always end up never leaving my office. Remember?’ I push his head back slightly so I can look at him, look right into those beautiful blue eyes. ‘Those days when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I miss those days. Don’t you?’

His hand slides up under my dress and I gasp quietly as he touches me, as his lips brush the base of my throat, his thumb stroking my inner thigh.

He takes hold of my hips and swings me around, pushes me back against his desk. I wind my fingers in his hair and pull him down. I kiss him. I breathe him in because I love him. My husband. My husband.

I wrap my legs around him, feel his hand on my lower back push me against him, and then, almost as if a switch has been flicked, he steps back from me, drops his gaze for a second or two. And when he raises it I can see how on edge he is now.

‘What’s all this about, Ellie?’

‘What’s all this about?’ I frown, but his expression doesn’t waver. ‘When did stopping by your office become something you’re suspicious of?’

‘It isn’t, I just …’ He sighs quietly and pushes a hand back through his hair. ‘It just isn’t what you do. Bringing me lunch, dropping by to say hello. That isn’t what you do. You’ve never done that, so why now?’

‘Now I have a business not fifteen minutes away from your office, Michael.’

I watch as his expression turns from one of suspicion to one of guilt, almost. But he still wants me to leave. He isn’t making a secret of that. It’s written all over his face. He wants me to go. But that only makes me more determined to go through with this, because I need to know now. I need to fucking know.

‘Look, Ellie, I know things have been a bit strained lately …’

He leaves that sentence hanging and I almost laugh at his simplified summing up of the past few months. He thinks things have been strained lately? Things have been strained for a long time now; he just chooses to ignore that fact. But I don’t want him to be suspicious of anything, not now. I can’t risk that. If he thinks I’m being irrational or that my behaviour is changing – if he is hiding something, that would only alert him to that fact, give him a chance to cover his tracks. And I need to know if something’s going on. I need to know if there’s something – someone – standing in the way of me getting through to my husband. Something that threatens us. I need to know that. I need to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself, because he sure as hell isn’t doing that. I have a mission now, something to focus on, something that’s giving me back a little bit of that control I felt I was losing.

‘Anyway, I really need to prepare for this tutorial …’ He slides his hands into his pockets and walks behind his desk, firing up his laptop, ‘and I’m sure there are things you need to be getting on with.’

I watch him for a few seconds, his gaze dropping to the laptop screen, and then he checks his watch and I’m sensing a slight hint of irritation coming from him now. He really does want me to go, right now. Is there a reason for that? Is it guilt? More guilt? He doesn’t want me to come face to face with this student who’s about to turn up here, at his office, for their lunchtime tutorial, is that it? Is that why he wants me gone? Because his body language, Jesus, it’s screaming at me to leave.

‘Yes. You’re right, there are lots of things I need to be getting on with.’

I look back over my shoulder, outside into the outer office, but there’s no one out there except Sue and April. It’s quiet, even though it’s lunchtime.

‘I should be home for dinner.’

His voice causes my head to shoot back around.

‘Providing nothing comes up, of course. You know how it is sometimes.’

Yes. I know how it is. I know how it’s become. I know ‘sometimes’ is turning into ‘most of the time’, and I feel my stomach twist itself up into a tight knot as I catch him checking his watch again.

‘Okay, well, I’ll see you tonight.’ I reach into my bag and take out a small plastic box, placing it down on Michael’s desk. ‘Your lunch.’

He looks down at the box, but he just leaves it there. He doesn’t touch it.

‘Are you going to be working late?’ he asks, raising his gaze, and I look at him. His expression is verging on hopeful. Is that what it’s really come to now? How desperate he’s become to make sure we spend as little time alone together as possible?

‘No. I don’t intend to be. I’m learning to delegate more, Michael. I’m trying not to drown in my work quite so much, not when there are other things I need to concentrate on.’

I don’t know whether he can read between the lines of that sentence, whether he realises that that was a dig, a hint. I don’t know if he’d even acknowledge it if he had. But even though I leave his office, leave the outer office, I don’t leave the building. I didn’t come here to waste this chance, to not see what I need to see, I came here for a reason, and it wasn’t just to bring Michael lunch. That was nothing more than my excuse.

I remain outside in the corridor, stepping back against the wall alongside a large display cabinet and I pull out my phone. I check the time. If she’s the punctual type she should be here any second. I’m feeling strangely invigorated. The rush of adrenaline is both breathtaking and frightening and I don’t know who I’ve become, how I got to this point. I just know I can’t leave it alone now.

The sound of chatter coming from the entrance invites my attention and I turn my head slightly, putting my phone to my ear as I embark on a fake conversation. A group of three young women stop outside the open door to the outer office I’ve just left. They chat for a few seconds before saying their goodbyes and I watch as two of them head off in separate directions, leaving one still there outside the office. I’m guessing that’s Ava. She’s dressed in an unflattering long sweater and boyfriend jeans, her dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, but she seems pretty enough. And as she glances back over her shoulder, casting a wave in the direction of someone I can’t see from where I’m standing, she smiles and her whole face lights up. She’s really pretty, actually. The knot in my stomach returns, pulling tighter as I see Michael come to the door, watch as she turns around to face him, and her expression changes again, her smile growing wider. As does Michael’s. They start talking, but I obviously can’t hear what they’re saying and I shrink back into the shadows, just in case Michael’s gaze wanders, but he seems too focused on her.

I keep the phone to my ear, although I’ve stopped pretending to talk into it, I’m too busy watching my husband. I watch Michael lay a hand gently on the small of her back, guiding her inside. I’m almost sick in my mouth.

I slide my phone into my pocket as I calmly walk outside, but the second air hits me I have to stop and lean back against the wall. My heart’s still beating wildly and that knot in my stomach is so tight now it hurts, but I know what I saw – the way he smiled at her, touched her; the look on her face the second she saw him. I know that look only too well.