Before
I observed you getting ready most mornings; the 06.00 rise through to the 07.10 departure paralleled a military operation. Hindsight nags me: how did I not see the signs? Everything planned, nothing happened in your world. When I think back, even simple bathroom procedures exposed fanatical behaviours. Me, an expert on the human mind?
You stood, a white fluffy towel wrapped around your waist.
Steam filling the air. ‘What the…?’ You interrogated your aftershave balm. ‘Bloody cleaner, for Christ’s sake, why do I have to be landed with the thickest cleaner? Leave my goddam things where they belong, woman. Have you ever wondered why she’s just a sodding cleaner? Jesus, how hard can it possibly be?’
You always hate the cleaners, I thought. In your eyes, she meddled with your day, challenged your authority.
Your eyes met mine through the mirror. ‘Are you listening to me, Eve?’
‘Of course,’ I told you. ‘I was just…’ wondering if Jack was awake, I was going to say.
‘If I wanted my shaving balm there, I would have bloody put it there, wouldn’t I? How many times before she gets it?’ You caressed the lavish ointment into smooth skin. ‘You’d think even she has the intelligence to work it out. How am I supposed to get ready when my stuff is all over? Simple-minded idiot.’
You grabbed at my face wash and launched it from your perfect shelf into my basket on the floor. ‘That’s not even mine. Eve, perhaps if you were not so bloody chaotic with your things, she might have got it right.’ Past tense, the cleaner was in trouble.
I liked my chaotic basket. I wanted a home, not a clinic. I wanted a husband, not a computer. Your personal vindictiveness towards others made me blush. But then, you didn’t often reveal it in person; you were far too shrewd. Everything occurred behind the scenes. Meddling cleaners came and went. So did the gardeners, window cleaners and anyone else who interfered. Frequently replaced, discarded as easily as a once-used dish cloth.
‘Having strangers in the house... It’s not right. I don’t trust any of them. Perhaps, if you were at home a little more often, we—’
‘I work too, Gregg!’
‘Hmm. So you say.’
‘I think you’re being a little harsh, to be honest, if—’
‘For pity’s sake, why do you always have to try and understand people? Drives me insane.’ You moved towards your dressing area, running frustrated hands through your hair. ‘Get shot of her before I return this evening.’
‘But she hasn’t really done anything wrong. And she really needs the money. You need to give her a chance; it’s only been a couple of weeks! I’m sure—’
‘Wrong. I’m not required to do anything. I’m not required to give anyone a chance. She should have thought about needing the money a little more, shouldn’t she? Not my problem. Call a different agency, then get rid. Stop making excuses. I sometimes wonder whose side you’re on. Jesus. Stupid woman!’
Me or her? I wondered. What must it be like to be so without conscience, never giving a second thought of repercussions for people? How much lighter and freer must you feel? Freedom or isolation? But then I’d learned: you could never feel isolated, could you? Not with so much ego filling the void. You never lost sleep over such issues, as I would. But then, as you often bragged, ‘Sleep is for the weak. I can survive on a few hours if necessary!’ To be fair, you often did. Were you part robot? A cog for a brain, a casket for a heart?
You were senior partner material in a respected firm of solicitors. You worked ridiculously long hours, demanding the obligatory networking and entertaining at extortionate costs to the clients. There were other things too, though I wasn’t supposed to know about those. And I didn’t initially, leaving my conscience so much lighter then too. But as time bellyached on, I heard things I shouldn’t have. Clumsy speak of clandestine meetings. I heard murmurs; I wished I hadn’t. These changed us for good. I say us, but there never really was an us, was there?
‘Eve? Where are you this morning? You look vacant.’
I bit my tongue. ‘I’m listening.’ How you relished being the centre of attention, exhibiting a burly confidence, fine-tuned into mists of abundant charm. But to me you were becoming a monster, banqueting on compliments and far-reaching praise. This was your fuel, was it not? In so many ways I saw a walking contradiction, a complete enigma, but in others, a straight and concrete operator. You led without followers being aware. A consistent crowd of disciples and hangers-on. Callous motives lay behind those eyes. Nobody else seemed to notice.
You removed your trousers from the overused press. ‘You think too much,’ you said.
I ignored you. ‘Did you sort things with Andy yesterday?’ I asked.
You fished out your belt from the wardrobe. ‘Huh. Of course. I just told him – we’re working late tonight.’ Flashing a smile at yourself in the full-length mirror.
‘He wasn’t amused – “I can’t, I’ve family matters, Gregg.” So I replied, “Okay, fine. But you really should have mentioned your lack of commitment before.” “But, Gregg, I’ve worked late for the last two months. It’s my daughter’s birthday,”’ you mimicked your colleague as you fastened your tie, still smiling.
‘I told him, “As long as we’re both reading from the same sheet, realise where your priorities lie. Of course, join your family. Please do, pass on my very best wishes.”’ You smirked, reaching for your jacket. ‘Sometimes, I can’t resist pulling rank. He’ll learn.’
I bit hard on my lower lip. I wondered at your ability to interchange or amputate your emotions. In the next breath you would send flowers to a senior partner’s wife. A thoughtful anniversary gift. You’d wine and dine and charm your disciples. Deliver compassion, empathy and concerned expressions. Learn of their weaknesses and plot their demise. I take little solace in knowing you deluded even the most astute. Ruthless, spellbinding. You, the sculptor. You didn’t fall at the feet of empathy. You picked it up and stored it. A human emotional jukebox. Selecting and demonstrating appropriate emotions to achieve the required outcome.
‘Don’t worry, he’ll learn. Or lose his job, whichever comes first,’ you said.
Bile threatened my throat. How many people had fallen at your feet? How well you were camouflaged in your professional suit.
‘Don’t wait up.’ You smirked over your shoulder. ‘Oh, and say hi to Jack from his daddy. Tell him I’m going to make us rich.’ You smiled. ‘Very rich.’
A sixth sense forewarned me there was still far worse to come.