Читать книгу The Wife – Part Three: In Sickness and In Health - ML Roberts - Страница 9

I sit back and listen as Michael’s voice floats out from the tiny speaker I’ve attached to my laptop. It increases the sound quality of his recorded phone calls only slightly, but it’s enough. None of his calls have been to her, which makes me even more sure that he has a separate phone he uses to talk to her. But that doesn’t stop me from listening to all of his calls. Even if they’re not to her, I have to listen to them, I might miss something if I don’t. One small, miniscule detail could pass me by if I skip over stuff, so I listen to everything. No matter who he’s talking to.

He ends this particular call to Laurel. A conversation about a staff meeting and a lecture he’s giving at a university in Cardiff next week. See? I didn’t know he was going to Cardiff. Maybe he did tell me, I can’t remember, but I’m almost sure he didn’t. And I’d have missed that, if I’d skipped over that call. Is he taking her to Cardiff? Ava? Is that why he didn’t tell me about the trip? An overnight stay. Time away from me.

The front door opening downstairs signals Michael’s arrival back home, and I quickly log out and close the laptop down. He’s late, as usual, although there’s no such thing as a regular time for him to come home nowadays. But it’s later than it ever used to be, when everything was normal and happy. When we had a future.

He’s in the kitchen when I get downstairs, fixing himself a drink. He accuses me of drinking too much, but he’s no saint.

‘Good day?’ I ask, in a vain attempt to elicit a response.

‘It was okay. Same old, same old.’

I think you’re lying, Michael. I think you do so many things you never used to do before, so I’m not buying the ‘same old’ line.

I wait for him to ask me how my day went, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns away and goes into the orangery. He sits down and takes out his reading glasses. Then he opens his newspaper and hides behind it, because that’s what he does now. He hides behind anything he can to avoid talking to me.

I start making dinner. A stir-fry. Something quick. Easy. Something we’ll push around our plates while we pretend that everything’s okay. That this is normal. But I’m not willing to accept this existence. I’ll expose my husband’s affair and I’ll end it. I’ll make sure his distraction is gone for good because I can’t go through this all again. History is not going to repeat itself. But at least this one – Ava – is going to be easier to deal with.

As I prepare dinner, the only noise in the room is the sound of the TV playing away quietly in the background. I can’t live with the silences, they’re becoming more and more painful to deal with. So I fill them with music or the news, or I switch over to some banal reality TV show in the hope that he’ll react, because he hates them. As do I.

I serve dinner, and he joins me at the table. He folds his newspaper, lays it down beside his plate, picks up his glass and takes a sip of wine. I gulp mine. I need the alcohol hit, more and more as each day passes. Liam and alcohol, my two necessary crutches.

‘How’s the mentoring going?’ I ask, knowing that that will, at least, cause him to raise his head. Which it does.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’m interested in your work, Michael. I always have been.’ I pick up my napkin, scrunching it up in my fist. ‘Look, I know you have this student/professor confidentiality thing, but don’t you think that’s a bit, you know? A bit of an overreaction? I mean, it’s not like you’re discussing their medical records or bank details. Why the need for such secrecy?’

I don’t care now. I don’t. I need to ask questions, it’s the only way I can get to the truth. I need to push him, until he tells me what I need to hear. I can track his whereabouts, listen in to his calls, read his texts, but I want to hear him tell me. Something. And he will. I’ll make him, if I have to.

‘There is no secrecy, Ellie. It’s just not something I think we need to talk about.’

‘Why not?’

He looks at me through narrowed eyes. He doesn’t like it when I talk like this. I’m being confrontational, I know, but I’m starting to lose patience. How many times has he lied to me? How many times has he done that?

‘I have work to do in the office.’

He throws his napkin down, pushes back his chair and leaves the table. But as he passes me he stops, rests a hand lightly on my shoulder and gently kisses the top of my head.

‘Get some rest, Ellie. You work too hard.’

I let him go. I listen as he climbs the stairs. One flight. Two. He’s gone straight up to his office.

I look down at the napkin bunched up in my fist and I squeeze it tighter, so tight my knuckles turn white. When I loosen my grip, it falls onto my plate, into my half-eaten food. I watch as it slowly becomes soaked in soy sauce, and as I watch I’m aware of a sharp pain coming from my hand. I look down. I’ve been picking at the scabs on my palm, scratching away until I drew fresh blood. I hadn’t even been aware I’d been doing it, but now the soy sauce-soaked napkin is peppered with droplets of blood, the red and the brown slowly merging together in a dark, mud-coloured mess.

I inhale deeply before I finally get up from the table. I fetch the small first-aid kit from the cupboard and I wash the reopened cuts, carefully placing plasters over them; there’s not enough blood to warrant a bandage. And then, like a robot programmed to carry out these everyday tasks, I clear the table. Stack the dishwasher. Fill up the coffee machine and switch it on. I pour myself a glass of whisky and down it quickly, closing my eyes as the warm liquid settles in my stomach. That one was for medicinal purposes. But then, aren’t they all?

Raising my eyes to the ceiling I wonder if Michael really has got work to do. I doubt he does. It’s his go-to excuse when he doesn’t want to talk – he has work to do.

Sighing quietly, I head out into the hallway, stopping at the foot of the stairs. I turn around, look at his jacket hanging on the hook by the door, and without hesitation, without any hint of guilt, I rifle through the pockets, finding nothing more than a receipt for his newspaper and his glasses case. But that means nothing. It’s easy to cover your tracks when you’re doing something you don’t want anyone to find out about. I should know. Which is why I don’t trust him. I know the signs, I’ve been playing this game for a while now, and I’m good at it. Is he?

I go into our room, check my reflection in the mirror. I look okay. Not too tired. You could even describe my complexion as slightly glowing, and that’s all down to Liam. Sex and time away from this charade fills me with a renewed energy, something that keeps me going until I need to keep running on empty. And I briefly wonder if this was how I looked before everything happened. Did my complexion ever glow back then?

A sudden noise from outside on the landing jolts me from that thought; makes me spin around. Even when I’m not alone in this house my nerves are on edge. It’ll be nothing more than a beam creaking, but for the briefest of moments I’m wracked with memories I won’t ever forget. The fear. The noise. The blood …

My phone vibrating in my pocket drags me back from those memories and I quickly take it out. There’s an alert flashing up on the screen; Michael’s making a call, to a number I recognize as Bill Franklin’s, a member of his faculty. Another work call, but I’ll still listen to it, later. When he’s asleep.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket I look up at the wall facing our bed, at the picture hanging on it. Me and Michael on our wedding day. Sunshine, happiness, laughter, that’s what I remember about that day. A darkness hides the sun now. I can’t remember the last time I felt true happiness. I’m happy, for a few brief minutes, when I’m alone with Liam. It’s a kind-of happy, anyway. Something that masks the sadness, for a while.

‘Ellie?’

I turn to face him. He looks tired as he stands in the doorway, his reading glasses in one hand, his other pressing down on the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, his head down, eyes closed. ‘I thought you were working.’

‘I am. I just need something from the car. I left some papers in there.’

I turn back to look at the picture on the wall; let a couple of beats pass before I turn to face Michael again. ‘How is work?’

He slowly raises his head, and I fix my eyes on his. I look right at him, wait for him to tell me about Cardiff, because he just forgot, right? He forgot to tell me he was going away.

‘Work’s fine. I just have a lot to catch up on, that’s all.’

‘Your students keeping you busy, are they?’

He narrows his eyes, that familiar, weary expression taking over his face. ‘Where is this going, Ellie?’

I leave another beat or two before I answer him. He’s defensive. That means I’ve touched a nerve. ‘It’s just a question, Michael.’

You won’t be able to keep her a secret for much longer, Michael. Your car was outside her house, you were in there, with her, I know you were. It’s only a matter of time now, before I find that cast-iron proof I need. It’s only a matter of time …

‘I need to go fetch those papers from the car.’

He’s shutting me down, as he does so often these days. He’s ending it, before I start asking more questions. Before I start pushing him, he’s putting a stop to it. And I’m too tired to fight it tonight. But I will fight it.

I want my life back.

I want Michael back.

I don’t want this …