Before
It seemed often I would hear people remark on how quickly time passes when having fun. My time passed painfully slowly, watching and learning. I stopped walking your path; I just didn’t tell you. I wasn’t ready for you to know. All I could do was safeguard the happiness of Jack, riding the waves of loneliness and heartache. All the time, the lies were stacking up. I couldn’t afford to trip over them. Why did I still not leave? It was compulsory I played the game, or you’d always be with me. A creepy, climbing plant, strangling its support system, tightening its grip, obscured, unnoticed. All the time, sucking away at vital nutrients. No, I needed to be cleverer than you.
*
‘Oh. My. God. A chauffeur-driven trip to Wimbledon. Centre Court tickets. A three-course lunch, wow. How amazing! I’m so jealous!’ She assumed much, while juggling the arms of an octopus into his coat at the end of Jack’s music group. She asked, so I told her; I wished I hadn’t. She was nice, kind and funny, but I kept her at the required distance, our conversation couldn’t go any further than surface-level banter.
I tackled Jack to the ground, still wriggling, wedging his shoes onto chubby feet. ‘Hmm, I suppose.’ I could understand where she was coming from; I wanted to be excited. The thought saddened me. She thought she knew me, but she didn’t.
‘Well, don’t sound so happy about it, will you? Listen, I’m more than happy to go in your place, you know. Just give me the nod,’ she jested.
If only she knew. But how could she? I needed to make connections, join the obligatory groups for Jack’s sake. He was two years old, needed to be amongst other children. I, too, needed to be around other adults, other females. But it was tangibly painful. Gradually, I developed methods for hiding the truth. Not just from others but myself too. It was my only way to cope, a desperate attempt at normality. I daren’t allow anyone to get too close; for their protection and mine. Expert in dodging questions, ignoring invites, imaginative excuses. Friendships were amputated anything beyond the acquaintance stage.
From the outside we looked like the ideal family unit. So much so, sometimes I’d catch myself querying, was it me who was the problem? Did I overreact? Were you correct in suggesting I was mentally sick? Could it be a case for postnatal depression? But then, why did the other lives, the ones I watched and heard about, look so normal and simple? Why did I crave so much, for these lives? Ironically, others often articulated their envy of our life; it was purely a conceptual envy. They didn’t know of the life, the other side of the front door.
It was irrelevant how they saw us; they only had an obscured pinhole view. By then, I’d pushed myself so far into the corner, I couldn’t figure out a feasible escape route. It was harsh, cold and isolated. The veiling of my life and constant pretending so brilliantly disguised the facts and hid the evidence. So much so, a cry for help would appear fraudulent. It wasn’t that I didn’t consider leaving. I thought about it every day. But it was hopelessly complicated. Alone in the midst of night with a two-year-old child, a self-esteem buried somewhere under the rubble; it felt unbearably impossible. Day by day, week by week, and month by month, increasingly cut off. Jack was my only living reason to keep my flame alight, but also the reason I needed to be more than sure of my decisions, my timing.
*
You stood upright and tall, checking your reflection in the full-length mirror on the galleried landing. An apparent piece of fluff on the arm of your dark suit catching your attention. How could you care about such things? In the beginning, I found it quite sweet, but these ways soon became peculiar and abhorrent. I turned away, conscious of my lack of time to finish getting myself ready. I fingered the soft silk of my cornflour blue 1950s-style dress. You’d reactivated my credit card, so I could choose a suitably expensive dress for the occasion. Your corporate occasion. I hadn’t realised my cards were cancelled in the first place, until an incredibly embarrassing moment at the children’s farm with other mums. They’d had to pay for me whilst I’d fumbled for feasible excuses.
‘Don’t worry about it, it happens to me all the time. The next one’s on you.’ I bet it doesn’t happen to you, I’d thought. Not like this. Not as a punishment.
Kind words to soothe my blushing cheeks. How could you have done this? To teach me what exactly? There was always a lesson to be learned in all these actions. I’d called you as soon as I’d managed to free myself from the group; maybe there had been a genuine problem with our account. You always took charge of the finances; I was not to be trusted.
‘Gregg, I’m at the farm, my card’s just been declined?’
I’d felt the smirk before the words had come. ‘Yes. It will have been.’ I’d imagined you sitting, self-preening, satisfied. I’d wished I hadn’t called.
‘Why?’
‘You know why, Eve.’
‘No, I don’t!’
‘The matter of the missing supermarket receipt. From your last statement?’
I’d bitten my tongue. Visualising wiping the smug expression from your face. ‘Why didn’t you at least tell me you’d cancelled them?’
Your voice had been muffled. ‘Thank you, Patricia. I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ you’d oozed to some poor fool in your office. Her slinking away with your compliments. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes… now, if I had warned you, how would that have taught you a lesson, Eve?’
I’d been able to feel my cheeks reddening with blood pressure. ‘You’ve taken all the cash from my purse too!’
‘Yes. Actually, no, that’s not quite true, I left you enough change for parking. Perhaps next time you’ll make sure you keep all your receipts. Everything has consequences, Eve, everything.’
I didn’t spend a fortune on a dress; what was the point? Just another way of dressing up the lies. But I did want to make an effort; not for you but because I desperately needed to feel nice. I was off to Wimbledon for the first time. I slipped my feet into bronze-coloured high-heeled strappy sandals, admiring them from each angle. So pretty. I felt your eyes on me, saw you smirking before walking away, shaking your head. Pulling myself up, I blushed with the thought of being girly and silly. Clumsy and awkward was how I felt next. I observed my reflection in the mirror. Even my make-up, especially my signature coral-red lipstick, now appeared puerile. Reaching for a tissue, I dabbed at my mouth to make it less obvious. I tucked my shoulder-length ashen strands behind my ear, exposing diamond studs, a present from my parents. You didn’t like them. But they allowed me a surreptitious closeness to my memories of warmth and love. I loosened my hair again, to cover them up.
I could hear you downstairs, parading up and down the oak floors whilst charming our babysitter. A perfect gentleman. You knew how to make people feel good about themselves. Jack was giggling away, chatting in an animated, jumbled-up, nonsensical manner. He was happy; that was enough for now. I imprisoned my finger with my wedding and engagement rings. I only ever wore them in public. They made me feel bound and suffocated. I always took them off as soon as I walked back through the door. You never noticed, or at least you didn’t comment on it. Or perhaps you just didn’t care.
A few minutes later we were collected from our over-elaborate statement gates by a black funeral-like car. Thankfully, David and Sue, a senior partner at your company and his wife, were already in the car, so some animated conversation with good-humoured banter covered for us. I knew the couple reasonably well from the numerous corporate events, enough to relax a little. Still, the feeling of it all rolling out before me, around me, as I watched life go by out of the window; such a façade, all of it. How long could I keep it up for, fake smiles, forged banter? Was I becoming as good an actor as you? I was aware of a muffled you, floating over my semi-conscious state; talking about me, us, in a vivacious manner. As if you thought of me in a positive light, as an intellectual equal. My skin was beginning to crawl.
Sitting back against the leather seats, I listened as you enlightened them how I was due to return to the hospital soon, to work within the brain-rehabilitation clinics. So this was what it must feel like to have true appreciation from your husband; for a moment, I tried to embrace it as if it were real. Fascinated at your eagerness to express your appreciation of my work, your compassion for the unfortunate families and loved ones. I could feel myself slipping between the two worlds again, a twisted form of reality. Was I on the edge of psychosis? I caught your dishonest eye before returning to the world outside the window. Only yesterday you loomed over me, mocked me for even considering returning to work.
‘What?’
‘I’m thinking of returning to the hospital. Not full time, a few hours each week. They called me last week, asked me to consider it. So, I’ve given it a lot of—’
‘Huh. Really? You seriously believe it’s a sensible move, given your state of mind at the moment? You in a position of helping others?’ You guffawed. ‘I’ve heard it all now. No wonder so many people die in our hospitals. Bloody public sector.’
‘Actually—’
‘Have you told them?’
‘About what?’
‘Well, I think you’ll find they’ve only asked you because they’re assuming you’re as you used to be.’ You snorted. ‘They have no idea.’ You swaggered back over to your desk, flipping your Apple screen into action. ‘Why you’d even want to is beyond me. Especially on your salary.’
Your mobile trilled, cutting through the air. ‘Hold a minute, will you?’ you said to the caller.
‘What about Jack?’ you said to your Apple screen. ‘Have you for one minute considered him in all this babble? You are, then, able to live with yourself, knowing full well you’ll be sacrificing his needs for your own selfish ones? Grow up, for Christ’s sake. You’ve responsibilities. Poor Jack, whatever did he do to deserve a mother like you? Seriously, you are bloody unbelievable.’ You returned to your call.
It was on the tip of my tongue to remind you how you had refused to have any relationship with your own mother for the last three years. But learned self-control took a grip, so as not to cut off my nose to spite my face. I needed to win this one; I turned and walked away. The seed was sown for the time being. I felt your eyes follow me out of the room. Your mobile ringing served me well. You wanted a fight; I didn’t want to play anymore. Things were changing. You knew it, didn’t you? You knew you needed to up your game in order to renegotiate some respect. Power and control. I shuddered at the thought of what might come next, but I also knew it was essential.
How could anyone switch so transiently from black to white to now articulate these words tripping from your mouth? I was caught between not allowing myself to be surprised by such turncoat behaviours, and ensuring I kept them at arm’s length. Otherwise they would become my norm too. How would I escape then? The daily disgust and astonishment kept me within the realms of lucidity. I lived the lie, but I knew it was a lie. I knew it was so wrong in every conceivable way. I wouldn’t ever let go of that. I was brought back into the moment by you kicking my foot, realising I’d absconded from the conversation.
‘Heavens, Eve, this is wonderful. Your work must be unbelievably recompensing. So worthwhile. I’m not sure how you cope with the heartache. I honestly don’t think I could.’ Sue looked from you to me.
For a passing moment, I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to my home life, or the hospital; either way my response was apt. I smiled at her earnest face. ‘It’s hard at times; I’d be lying if I said otherwise. I try and focus on what I can do, rather than what I can’t do.’ Your eyes bore through me, sending me a warning. ‘We see some really sad cases; you wouldn’t be human if they didn’t touch you. But, I’ve come to realise, there’s always hope for change. Even when it seems truly hopeless. Good things can come from bad. I’ve seen it happen, lots of times.’
I wanted to add to this: Look at Jack, for example, I’d never be without him. You continued to eyeball me, trying to decipher any hidden meaning in what I’d said. Anything you would be obligated to deal with later, when we were alone. Your dark eyes piercing mine. Then you smiled that smile at me. ‘All very good, Eve, my eternal optimist. I’m afraid hope is a little too ambiguous for me. I need concrete facts. Charming, though. Really it is. I’ve always loved that about you. Always hanging onto something or other.’
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she? Good job some people keep hope, Gregg,’ Sue added, smiling at me.
You tapped on my leg as you smiled back at her. Sending me a message. Making me squirm at your touch. Please, God. I sat, silently fuming, feeling as small as any adult possibly could. How come no one ever saw through your performances? So cringeworthy and insincere. Was it a case of them not wanting to see? Ignoring all the signs, because it was easier to do so. Wasn’t this human nature? To avoid unnecessary hardship and confrontation, especially if they had nothing to gain by it. Or was I becoming increasingly cynical of the world and its people?
After a couple of hours and plenty of traffic, we eventually arrived. Only ever having seen Wimbledon on the TV screen before, I couldn’t help but feel a slight stir of disappointment. In my mind’s eye, I’d imagined it somewhere much grander. I hadn’t realised we were approaching the entrance on just another suburban residential street. Pleasant, but fit for any ordinary sports club. Within the grounds, and the streams of people, it vaguely reminded me of a lavish village fete; just busier. How the imagination is so proficient in plugging the cavities with what it desires or needs to see. We were immediately guided by David to the marquee-adjoined restaurant, where we would mingle and be served lunch, ahead of the Centre Court excitement.
I sneaked off to call home and check on Jack, before rejoining the swarm for polite conversation. I hovered from foot to foot, aware of an edgy feeling, my confidence threatening to bail. I didn’t recognise myself any more. What had I possibly to talk about? Eventually, we were shown to a white-tableclothed circular tables adorned with unnaturally fixed arrangements of white lilies. I hoped this wasn’t a bad omen. The embarrassing decision of who should sit where, while you scanned the room for the most influential dinner-party partner, was thankfully addressed: set named places awaited us. The only downside being I’d been dumped next to you. The alcohol would be flowing in abundance. We had a chauffeur; you would be under the influence, amplifying the volume levels before long. At least I wouldn’t be travelling back with you alone, in your inebriated body and mindless state.
I was starving and keen to satisfy the low-sugar shaky feeling, so consumed the minuscule smoked salmon starter with speed. Reaching for the basket of bread as you scowled briefly, inconspicuously. I made polite conversation with my left-side companion as my second course arrived. You leant over me, continuing conversation across the table, then glanced up to the hovering waiter holding a bottle of ruby wine. ‘No more here. Not for my wife, thank you,’ you added, covering my wine glass just in time to prevent it from being topped up. The waiter seemed slightly taken aback, as I probably did too. He glanced nervously between us.
‘Oh, so sorry. Would she prefer white instead? I’ll fetch another glass?’ he asked you, obviously thinking I didn’t have a tongue, or a mind. Strangely, I too found myself looking at you to hear your response.
‘No. No, I mean, no more wine. Of either kind. Thank you.’ You turned away from the poor lad, who offered me a consoling half-smile. You continued conversation with your pompous-seeming neighbour. An influential figure, I was later informed.
I was aware of my rising heart rate. ‘What did you do that for, Gregg?’ You completely ignored me. I tapped your arm. You turned to me as if to an annoying child.
‘What?’ you said under your breath.
‘Why did you say I didn’t want any more wine? Speak for me?’
You smiled at me, then at the prim-looking lady across from us. ‘Because you’ve had enough.’ You attempted to turn your back on me, so I pulled at your arm. My head told me to back off, my heart urged me otherwise. I was pushing my luck. But sometimes it was so unbelievably testing to follow your path.
‘One glass, that’s all I’ve had. I’m not driving, so why not?’
You regarded me as if I were a simple-minded idiot, and you needed to spell meaning out to me. ‘For Christ’s sake, Eve. Stop drawing attention to yourself…’ you slunk closer to me, lowering your voice ‘… making a fool of me. Keep your voice down. You have Jack to look after later. Remember Jack, your son? The child you left at home?’ You tapped my arm gently, as if consoling me. ‘Stop creating a scene. You’re downright embarrassing,’ you whispered.
Causing a scene to embarrass you was exactly what I felt like doing, self-important idiot. I pushed back my chair, placing my napkin on the table, avoiding eye contact with my fellow diners. Counting in my mind, zigzagging my hurried way through the room towards the ladies. Passing the raucous laughter, drunken slurring and people generally enjoying themselves. A glass screen between them and me. Self-loathing swatting at me all the way. Did I imagine the look from the other diners as I left?
Poor Gregg, his wife really is a handful. He’s so lovely too. Shame. Did you see how she reacted, all over a glass of wine. Maybe she has issues. Maybe she has a drink problem? I do feel sorry for him – she’s clearly out of control. That poor baby they have. How can she possibly be capable of looking after him? Poor Gregg.
I freshened myself in the ladies. Why was I bothering? I was merely a decoration in the guise of a wife, a disliked one at that.
I returned in time for dessert, which I pushed around the plate. Strawberries felt so incongruent to my mood. A flashback, of a time strawberry-picking and abundant eating with Sam, reminded me of how far removed I was from me. Later that night we’d made summer cocktails with frozen strawberries for a pop-up barbecue with friends. The laughter and carrying-on. I sipped at my tepid water. Sober, and sad. You, on the other hand, downed liquor and became merry and merrier. I wished I could up and leave. To add insult to injury, the balls of my feet were pulsating – one thing to wear uncomfortable heels when having an amazing time, another altogether when your experience was soul-destroying.
Eventually, you were beckoned over to another table. I recognised one of the men; he’d visited our house in one of the several after-work congregations. I’m sure he introduced himself as a bank manager, or did he work with you? I decided I didn’t care. He clearly worshipped you, whoever he was. I reached for my bag, took my chance and absconded. Funny, I thought, I’d believed we were at Wimbledon to enjoy the tennis, but no one else seemed to be budging. Intent on mingling and consuming as much free alcohol as possible. Anyway, polite small talk was very overrated.
I perched on the edge of my Centre Court seat, with dejected empty seats to my left and right. Another waste. You and your cronies stayed in the marquee, by then probably downing whisky shots. The atmosphere on Centre Court was thankfully as I’d imagined. Exhilarating and upbeat. It crossed my mind, if I could, by observing the ball pace left to right, de-traumatise myself with a little EMDR therapy. Or maybe hypnotise myself into believing I was happy, having a great time. I remained until the very end, half watching, half dreaming of what ifs, should haves and wish I hads. Still empty seats surrounded me.
I stood as the sweaty players left the court. I had no excuse but to try and find you; assuming you were still prowling the marquee. I fought my way through the inter-court passage, wondering why I always seemed to be travelling in the wrong direction, pushing against the swarms. I pressed on through until someone stopped abruptly in front of me, blocking my way. His entire face smiled softly, an ordinary male with benevolent eyes. I couldn’t help but return his smile. An amiable voice asked me for the time; I glanced at my Rolex, a gift from you on our wedding day. My pulse upped a pace – God, I’d been missing in action for ages. Too long, you’d be furious again. Hopefully you were too blotto to realise. I shared the time with the stranger, he thanked me, smiled then sauntered away. I rotated to allow my eyes to follow him, touched by his apparent gentleness.
Stupid. I hadn’t realised I was being surveyed. Was I set up? I now wonder.
Once, I’d never have believed such an innocent interchange could have consequences, would require me to be taught a lesson. The flame to ignite the noted list for all my other evident indiscretions during the day. I continued along the passage, oblivious. Moments later I was jolted back in my tracks; a sharp pain in my small wrist, squeezed tightly as if to crush my delicate bones, my arm yanked at the socket. I spun around in a flash, twisting my ankle over my heels, creating a burning-hot sting. I didn’t need to ask; I didn’t need to face you or look into your eyes, I already knew. I knew what I’d done wrong, in your sick eyes. I understood, tomorrow I would ache with the marks of tonight. Something told me the wounds would no longer be superficial. Something in your eyes had changed.
Why did I have to wear my watch? But then I was unaware I was being stalked.
Why did I need to smile at the man? He only needed the time.
It was a quiet journey home from Wimbledon, despite the full car; a little civil conversation but you struggled to hide your icy intentions towards me. Your dark eyes attempted to catch mine from time to time. I deliberately avoided them, choosing to natter quietly to Sue instead. All the time the knotting in my stomach squeezed further, a slight shaky feeling seeping through my limbs. The two-hour journey flew by. Before I knew it, we were back at our gates, then imparting goodbyes to our babysitter. I was informed Jack was fast asleep, but as I trod my way up the stairs to check in on him you summoned me to the study.
You lingered at the foot of the stairs. ‘Before you go upstairs, Eve…’ You nodded towards the study and made your way there. Why did I follow? Because it had to happen, one way or another; I would rather have it over and done with. It was dark outside; only the hall light illuminated the room, the air we shared thick with trepidation. Daggered shadows scattered the floor as I stood on unsteady legs, facing your back. Waiting for you to turn. Your dark frame, deliberately facing out of the window. Casual, hands in pockets. Black was all you could see. The whiff of alcoholic fumes burdening the attitude.
Silence deafened the tone as the clock ticked intrusively, fixed to the wall. I observed the second-hand circle, until I could no longer cope with the slow torture.
‘Gregg?’ I appealed.
‘Shush.’ You stamped your foot.
I understood; I must await my fate.
Were you smiling to the outside world? Waiting for the perfect moment? Not wanting to begin, for fear it would be over too soon? Pure excitement pouring through your blood. Your moment to be in control. Finally, you slowly revolved. Deliberately. Calculated. Ominous opaque eyes sought mine. You had decided on my next lesson. My punishment. Just a few premeditated steps forward, you stood in front of me, not uttering a word. There was no point in my running. Where would I go? Jack was asleep upstairs. It was too late. Your hands reached out in slow motion. I was frozen to the spot. I did not protest; I had already shut down. Aware of being walked backwards.
My head whacked hard against the intolerant wall, as I magically slid up it, defying gravity. Defying my self-worth.
Your masculine hands at my throat. My feet floating.
I still did not speak. I couldn’t.
I gasped; fighting for air.
You smiled, then dropped me. I fell to my knees.
Not long now.
A crushing pain gored my ribs, your shoes making the strikes all the harsher.
I dropped flat, then curled up like a fallen leaf, so as to protect my head with my arms.
Blow after blow. Thinking only of Jack and our new life to come.
Then hush, as you inspected your work, looking down on me. You crouched down, to whisper to the child you reluctantly disciplined. ‘When will you learn, Eve? Why do you insist on doing this to us? Take some time, think long and hard. Consider your behaviour. I should not have to do this, but you leave me no choice. You are sick. You do realise this, don’t you? Sick, Eve.’
Hard-done-to footsteps departed the room, the door steadily closing behind them. Darkness but for the moon watching over; I was alone.
My heart banging on the floor, I urged it to keep quiet; it was not the time. I lay listening as the clock ticked on. Then the footsteps trod down the stairs. I hadn’t heard them go up, I’d thought you were still lurking in the hall, listening for my next move. The front door slammed, vibrating shock waves through the floor as the realisation dawned: had you taken Jack? I lay immobile, curling into the shape of a kidney bean to let the blackness take me.
I wondered, did that man understand how much his request would cost me? Did he know his smile would punish me? Why did people have to be nice? Why couldn’t they leave me alone? Through the silent tears I could see the remains of time, my watch; silver crushed to hundreds of tiny pieces. Elements sparkling in the moonlight on the floor next to me.
The gift of our marriage smashed forever.
Time was a great healer, they said.
But time was a parasite of my sanity.