Her Greatest Mistake by Sarah Simpson (5)

Before

I notice eyes; they speak to me. I always observe the eyes. Your eyes didn’t see the truth. Didn’t express the truth. They told lies. Lies I was too young and naive to see through. I wanted to believe; my beliefs let me down. I gathered information to fit the perspective I sought to hold. A downward spiral, eventually taking my self-belief with it. Then it was too late. Immersed and pulled under the tidal waves and layers of life. Swimming to drowning. A seamless transition. Then, as I struggled against the current, I cut the very lifelines that might have kept me afloat. You watched me do it, one by one, friends and family; holding tightly to isolation. Cast away from the shore without an anchor. How did I not realise it was all part of your game?

We began so ordinarily.

An evening enjoyed in a plush dining establishment determined the first stage of entrapment. So speedily it happened. After I secured a work experience secondment in a brain rehabilitation hospital. Not long graduated, working towards my doctorate. So much to be happy for. This time highlighted the preciousness of life; unbeknown to me, I was about to lose the freedom to live it. Do you remember how you were so thoughtful, so interested in my work, my clinical cases? And you were, just not for genuine reasons. I was merely one of your textbooks; you bookmarked my chapters as useful or not.

We were introduced through respective managers, by caustic chance. An organised charity meal, mixed tables peppered with professional heads. Following that evening, my manager attempted to warn me; his friend being the senior partner at some eminent solicitors in Birmingham. Apparently you were renowned for being a sharp operator. It didn’t trouble me; I knew better. Being a psychologist, I understood people, no worries. Why was I born pig-headed? Sharp doesn’t come close though, does it? You asked me to join you the following week for a fine dining experience in Brindleyplace, Birmingham.

Why would I not accept?

An eatery I longed to visit, but my student debt persuaded me otherwise. A French chef stolen from a legendary bistro, assured to delight the palate. The surroundings were chic, with colourings and textures of planet Earth. Atmospheric dimmed lighting to complement diners of all shapes, ages and demeanours. Candlelight danced to the sound of the centrepiece waterfall. Extravagant yet gracious. I couldn’t wait.

You were early, I was late.

You hooked me from this first date. You stood to greet me, leapt to pull back my chair ahead of our waiter. In the pretence of a gentleman. I was charmed.

The dawn of the deception.

Didn’t we chat so easily with your sharp sense of humour, such an acute attention to detail, to me? An analytical brain, taking observant notes. You used it to flatter and empathise. Nothing slipped past you, such diverse conversation, so effortless. Considered and articulate. Watching, studying all the time.

‘May I say, your work sounds so incredibly fulfilling, Eve, so meaningful. You must gain an enormous amount of satisfaction. Unbelievably fascinating, isn’t it, the human mind? I’ve always been captivated by what makes us tick. Nothing in your league obviously; popular psychology mostly.’

‘Hmm, there’s a lot of it about, that’s for sure. Not everyone thinks as you do though, trust me; some people avoid me like the plague, thinking I’m some form of witch. I either break up the conversation entirely or I’m expected to know each and every intimate detail within two minutes of meeting someone. Special powers, I don’t have.’

You smiled warmly. ‘They assume you can read minds, am I right? So tell me, what am I thinking right now?’ You chuckled.

I laughed. ‘Exactly, yes, seriously, people do actually believe I can, and say those things.’

You swirled your wine with purpose. ‘How amusing. If only you could, Eve. How incredibly useful that would be. Though I would be an extremely worried man. Tell me more – what’s it really about?’

‘Well, it’s often rewarding, though it’s also incredibly sad at times too.’ You raised your eyebrows as if surprised. ‘I mean, my cases don’t always hold a happy ending. Take last week, a man in his thirties was admitted, following a car accident. Out with his family for the day, his wife was driving, she asked him to pass her something from the footwell. He took his belt off for a few seconds, to reach for it, just as the car left the road, collided with a tree. Two young girls, he has, now he’s in a coma. His prospects are poor. Given the region of the brain damage, he’ll never be the same again, if he wakes. Very probably never recognise his children again. Sometimes it’s crueller still for the families. You’re not really allocated time for the families, but I often give them my break time. Honestly, if you could see the damage it does, you’d do the same. Or we’ll meet up after my official shift has finished in the café at the hospital. They often feel so completely helpless. It’s all so truly heart-wrenching.’

You rubbed your smoothly shaven chin, took a cool swig from your enormous wine glass. ‘Hmm. But at the end of the day – you can’t win them all.’

‘Win?’

‘Your cases – some you will be required to let go of, I’m sure, in order to focus on those you can win, help, I mean.’

‘Oh, I see, yes, I guess, it’s a sorrowful fact – life isn’t always simple, is it? Not if you’re human.’

You smile, deep in thought. ‘No, but it’s the challenges that make life fun. Or in your case more, more worthwhile.’ Your eyes so intense.

‘Uh-huh, I suppose that’s one way to look at it. We do have debriefing sessions, but can you ever accept, come to terms with, such appalling sadness?’

You shrugged.

‘But you’re right, focusing on what I can do, rather than what I can’t do, is the only way.’

‘Exactly. No point in dwelling. I’m sure you do all you can, Eve. Detachment is probably key.’ You refilled our glasses, to our hovering waiter’s dismay. I mouthed thank you to him.

‘At the end of the day, I’m lucky to have this opportunity. Working at the hospital, it’s not easy landing a placement. They turn away graduates weekly. It’s so tough to secure the experience required to progress. So, I feel relatively fortunate too.’

‘No such thing as luck, Eve, believe me. You made it happen. You’re obviously extremely talented, so are justly rewarded. Take the credit you clearly deserve.’ You raise your glass to me. ‘Enjoy it. Nothing happens in life by chance. We create our own luck.’

Such confidence, if only I could have a share. ‘Thank you.’ I reluctantly pocketed it. Compliments don’t always sit comfortably with me. ‘What about you? Where do you hope to go with your job?’

You sat back. ‘Job? It’s hardly a job, Eve.’ You ran a manicured hand through thick styled hair, a flicker in your eye. ‘It’s a vocation. As yours is. But in answer to your question, to the top, the very top.’ Your eyes scanned the room. ‘I have allowed myself five years to achieve senior partnership. If for some reason I’m not obliged by then, I’ll go elsewhere. I attract enough offers. I’ll not be waiting around like the rest of the duds. I mean, I do sympathise with them, of course, but, as I said, you need to make things happen in this world. There’s no hope involved either. Just belief.’

‘It must be so reassuring, flattering, to be head-hunted, wanted by others. You’re evidently very good at what you do. So ambitious and determined, I note.’

‘Why waste time? To be honest, Eve, between the two of us…’ you leant into me ‘… it will not be too difficult. The company homes far too much dead wood. It’s being stifled, lacking in enterprise. Too many jobsworths. You must appreciate where I’m coming from, what with working within the NHS. The entire partnership would benefit from a good shake-up, you must agree.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure I have the right to say. We’re NHS but we’re such a specialist unit. Though the amount of paperwork is ridiculous, that I can agree. If we spent less time on compulsory filling out tick forms, assessing targets and debriefing meetings, we’d get to meet more patient targets, for sure. Do you believe you’re the one to take your company forward, then?’

‘Absolutely. Why not?’ You gestured to the waiter to replace the emptied bottle. ‘Let’s have a toast to our future.’ You raised your glass to clink against mine. ‘And, of course, Eve, our new-found partnership.’ You winked a lying eye.

Sold on your self-assured calmness. Your refreshing direct dialogue yet sensitive tongue, eloquent in expressing all the correct words. I had never met anyone quite like you. It was so rare to meet such a competitive nature, fuelled by a robust self-esteem, yet so empathic and telekinetic. A one-off.

The following morning, a striking arrangement of blossoms, shades of white, stippled with greens, smothered my modest desk. A card surreptitiously tucked beside a silky petal informed me:

Caught in a whirlwind. Hindsight judges me now. It informs me the romantic hidden deep inside misled me. Unbelievably foolish. It doesn’t stop, the questioning of my stupidity; if it were a stick, I’d be forever black and blue. It all so quickly became sour.

Sometimes I feel nothing but self-hatred.

We were married in less than twelve months. No obvious telltale signs until then. When the big day arrived, I admit, I was struck numb. I mistook it for nerves; I was told it was, but I now comprehend it was more than that.

‘What is it, Eve?’ Sam, my childhood friend, angled her head at me. ‘You look so worried. Come on, this is your day to shine. It’s what you wanted. Isn’t it?’

‘I feel a little sick.’

‘Of course, you do, silly. It’s called nerves. You look so beautiful, by the way. Scrub up okay really, don’t you?’ She winked at me. ‘Oh, come on, smile! Everyone gets last-minute nerves. It’s a huge moment in your life – it doesn’t get much bigger than this.’ I watch her in the mirror tweaking my veil.

‘I don’t feel nervous, though, just numb. Not real, kind of strange, removed.’

‘That is nerves.’ She smiled less convincingly. I was making her nervous too; she wasn’t her usual fizzy self. ‘You should know. Affects us all differently, doesn’t it? Some people freak out and some freeze, I guess. You tell me.’

I knew what she meant but it wasn’t that.

‘It’s just…’ I began, thinking back to the previous night.

‘What? What is it?’ A worried look spread over her face.

I decided not to say anything. I wasn’t stupid. Sam didn’t need any ammunition; she hated you, it couldn’t be any more obvious.

‘Nothing, you’re right, as always. Must be nerves. Shall we join the others downstairs, have ourselves a glass of champagne, if they haven’t already guzzled it all?’

‘Sure. I’m sorry, Eve.’ Turning and reaching for the bedroom door, she looked back at me; for the first time I could recall, she was obviously struggling to find the words she needed. My incongruent mood must have put her on edge. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘Oh, Sam, for what? None of this is your doing. Don’t you dare apologise. I couldn’t love and appreciate you more than I do. I know it’s a bit sloppy, but, seriously, what would I do without you?’

I’m sure I saw her eyes sparkle with tears. ‘I’m still sorry,’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘For you feeling like you say.’ She shrugged, her curled tresses falling over her silvery-silk-covered shoulder. ‘Today. I wanted you to be happy. I didn’t ever want it to be like this for you.’ She blew me a heartfelt kiss before leaving the room.

I forced back the threatening tears.

I couldn’t tell Sam; she’d probably think me silly. But I couldn’t get your text out of my mind. So unusually insensitive, uncaring. Not Gregg-like. I’d tried to call you on several occasions. Left a couple of voicemails you didn’t return. Around 23.00, you texted me.

Then, as an afterthought, a following text with a single X. I didn’t reply. I called Sam, but it diverted to voicemail. The feeling in my stomach was new. The cold text played on my mind. Made me question other events. Late nights. Unanswered calls. Cancelled arrangements. Guarded phone calls. But it was too late, so much already invested. So many people I cared about, caught up and expecting. I was probably overreacting, an out-of-character text, nothing more. Stop overthinking things, I chastised myself. But the feeling stirred deep within my gut.

The day happened. Uneventful, lots of expense, beautiful floral displays and delectable food. Witty speeches and much jubilant conversation. Normal. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t feel relaxed, happy. I dutifully beamed but inside I was peculiarly anaesthetised. The day took place within a glass dome; I kept wishing someone would shake it up, change the scene. No amount of self-talking could lift the unsettling tizzy beneath my ribcage. It was a relief when it was all over. When the residual onlookers dwindled away, I gathered my discarded bouquet of white lilies. I hate white lilies; they remind me of death. But they’re a favourite of yours; you insisted I chose them.

I retreated for the night. Exhausted by the façade. Angry with myself. Heartbroken, I had missed my big day. What was wrong with me? Everyone else was happy.

*

Two months later

Just another tool in your box, wasn’t I? You are perfect, resonates through my mind. You forgot to add, ‘for my purpose’. A befitting piece of equipment for senior partnership conditions. Eventually, I would learn your intentions more often than not became your reality. But you had so many other admirable traits. Sucker. I always saw more good than bad. On reflection, the signs were unmistakable, except if you’re not looking, you don’t see. Once you look, it’s obvious. What comes next is judgment. An arrogant human response – we think we know what we would do in the circumstance. But we truly never do.

The first flick of the switch. A deliberate shift in the relationship.

You glared at me across the opulent Georgian hotel room. The word exasperation penned across your face. A new word I hadn’t seen before, or had I simply not noticed? With folded arms, you tipped back against the door. What was your problem? A thick vapour of glacial air filled the room. You observed me awkwardly applying antiseptic spray-on plaster to my heel.

‘Not sure why I’m bothering with this. Talk about inadequate. Still, hopefully it will suffice,’ I attempted to engage you. ‘You wouldn’t think something so silly could be so painful. So much yucky fluid. Eew. Did you see the state of my sock yesterday? Had to throw it. Rank.’ All falling on deaf ears.

You sighed. ‘I did say to wear your boots in. But you don’t ever listen, can’t be told,’ you snapped. ‘It’s your own fault. What did you expect, for Christ’s sake, with new boots? Sometimes, Eve, your lack of thought is flabbergasting. There’s not a chance we’re backing out of today. You do realise the importance of this weekend? Talk about picking your times. Our first corporate weekend. Christ!’ You flicked your mobile to check the time. ‘We need to leave. Now. You’re making us late.’

You did advise me to wear my boots in; I should have. Best intentions and all that. The shadow of a ten-year-old crawled over me. I shifted my seat on the bed in a befitting manner. Why did my intentions not come to fruition? Badly organised, you advised me often. I preferred too carefree; it’s less harsh.

‘You did, but I forgot. No, actually, I ran out of time. Taking on the extra work case didn’t help, probably. Do you have any proper plasters?’ I smiled, despite not feeling very happy with your ‘I told you so’ comments.

You sniggered. ‘A new case. If that’s what you call it. You shouldn’t have bothered; it’s not as if it offers you any gains. Waste of your and now our time.’ Ouch, how could you? You knew how sad this particular case was.

‘It’s not such a big deal, you know. It’s just a blister. A blinking, big fat one, yes, but that’s all it is.’ Talk about blowing things out of proportion. ‘And I do appreciate how important this weekend is for you. I won’t let you down. I just need to sort this, then I’ll be with you.’

‘Do you, though? Do you appreciate how influential some of these guys are?’ You gestured at the door. ‘Not sure you do. I’m not sure you even care, considering your behaviour.’ You strode towards your side of the wardrobe. Everything perfectly hung, unlike my jumbled side.

‘Yes, I do, that’s not fair,’ I say. ‘But it’s supposed to be fun too. Isn’t it? I didn’t realise it was a resilience test. It’s not like I’ve broken my leg. I’ll be good to go once I’ve expertly patched this up.’

You snatched at the pristine chocolate leather washbag. Of course, you’d have plasters. Always prepared. Strange place to keep a washbag. Then, I remembered how cross you were as someone had soaked the bottom of the bag. ‘Probably the cleaner’, you’d said. Brain-dead, apparently. You launched the unopened packet of plasters. To me or at me? I didn’t look up.

‘Thank you,’ I offered.

As I fumbled to open the new box, your eyes burned through me. A child watched to ensure they appreciate their wrong. A rush of emotion sidled over me. Tired from the all-embracing previous day’s walking. Forced conversation. Washed down by an exceptionally drunken night. With a few hours of tossing and turning and too many spectre-like visits to the bathroom. God, I wished you’d just leave.

How would Sam respond? She’d probably hurl her boot at you, tell you to go on your sodding walk, without her. I daren’t tell her; this would go with the other new filed-away confidential experiences. Their dislike for each other was exasperating. Fed up of being the arbitrator, I increasingly neglected to tell her things. She was incapable of seeing your good points; you refused to see hers. It was easier to keep you apart. My teachers used to inform me I’d make an excellent political negotiator. I hadn’t realised it would end up being between my husband and best friend.

Propping up the door frame, fully attired for the hike, itching to leave the room, you blatantly snorted at your watch at least twice. ‘I hate being late. I’ve fired people for less.’

‘Gregg, for goodness’ sake, go down without me, please. Mr Punctuality.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Your eyebrows rose.

‘I’ll see you all in Reception, okay. I won’t be too long.’ Anything to stop the breathing down my neck. ‘Carry on ahead. Please.’

‘If you’re not down in ten, I’ll leave without you!’ You shut the door firmly behind you. If it hadn’t been a fire door, it would have slammed. Thank God. Why so intolerant today?

The day dragged on from bad to worse, the inadequate plaster overwhelmed by a raw, weeping heel. I couldn’t continue. My stomach knotted; how would I tell you? As I hobbled along, I rehearsed chosen words to soften the blow. Jesus, Eve, get on with it. Eventually, I told you. You uttered the words of a compassionate partner, but your eyes conveyed something else. I would have retreated alone but the kindness of your group forced you to join me. The air throbbed with resentment.

‘No, Gregg, you go back with poor Eve, of course you should. We’ll catch you later for pre-dinner drinks in the bar. No problem at all.’ Why did they have to be so damn considerate?

You walked and I limped back in silence. The pain was excruciating. Silent tears popped. You were aware of my tears; we both pretended otherwise. Back in the centre of Keswick, I asked to rest, grab a coffee.

‘Are you for real? You’ve completely wrecked my day. My chances. Embarrassed me. How the hell’s a coffee going to help? I’m going back to the hotel. Try and work out how to limit the damage. If at all possible. You do whatever you bloody like, sure you will anyway. Just give me some space.’

You paced ahead without looking back. Had I missed something? A shadow of gloom hung, yet I still tried to make excuses. Searched for reasons. I didn’t want to see what my heart was aching to show me. Your puffed-up figure strode into the distance. My hobble interspersed with anger. Humiliation. Then sadness. The rise of my secrecy. The lies, the covering, the deceit. Why? Because I was ashamed. By the time I reached the hotel you were nowhere to be seen. I assumed you were back in our room. I loitered; did I go up to find you, or not, maybe down to a medicinal drink in the bar instead? The latter would have won, if the need to remove my tacky boot wasn’t so overbearing.

After several minutes of vigorous door-knocking, nothing. No response. I limped back down to Reception, thankful for the authentic albeit slightly rickety lift. Charming, if not in pain.

I checked the bar area.

The thought of a subterranean, warm soapy bath hailed me. Locked out of the room like a naughty teenager, I requested a spare key from Reception. I was duly informed you had made a further reservation for me in a separate room, in the newer part of the hotel. My belongings were in the process of being relocated. A self-conscious blush tiptoed up my neck. I swiftly tried to recover my pride, which was running for the door. The haughty, smug receptionist eyed me.

‘Yes, of course, that’s what I meant. I need the key to my new room, please. Not the old room. You can’t beat your own space, can you?’ I lied.

A telepathic moment transferred between us. It informed me she knew I was lying; I had been well and truly dumped by the charming man I’d arrived with only yesterday. Apparently as man and wife too. I thanked her for her service and passed back a telepathic not so polite message. I considered leaving until I remembered I didn’t have the car keys, or the house keys. I didn’t even have my purse, or change of clothes.

I reached my new, more like staff quarters room. Plonked onto the not so sumptuous single person’s bed and began to ease off what looked like a boot recovered from a murder scene. My thoughts returned to you. I sieved through the events of the previous evening, with no plausible justification for your behaviour today. You were a little uptight. But no one seemed to notice. The pressure of being a climber at a corporate event. Calculating each manoeuvre, each upward step. ‘Watch what you say, Eve’, you’d advised me. I hadn’t realised I was so stupid. ‘No, just think about what you give away’, you’d corrected. ‘Don’t discuss any of my comings and goings. Put on your best performance for me’, you had asked, taking my hand.

Performance? We are who we are, surely? It wasn’t my fault my glass was continually refilled, and then they played the best dance music. You didn’t want to dance, but I had a great time.

I fell in a heap on the bed, with an overwhelming urge to close my eyes.

I slept for some time; it was dark when I awoke. Rudely stirred by a familiar buzzing sound from my jacket, strewn across the floor in a manner you would disapprove of. I shuddered at the thought of you being witness to the rooms Sam and I had shared on our travels. Now, disorientated, it took a few moments to recall where I was, or why I was there. My mobile. I stretched to drag my jacket from the floor by its hood. Sickness crept over me with recalls of our horrible day. A new message from you popped up.

Odd? What the hell? Was that text even meant for me? I wasn’t bored, I was fed up and in agony. What did you mean about the weekend? You knew I was going away.

You texted me again.

Shit!

Great! So that was what this had been about. You looked over my messages, put two and two together, came up with ten. But you knew about my friend Joe. Talk about a mind-bender.

‘A few too many males in your contact list for my liking,’ you casually joked. It wasn’t jest, though, was it? I thought it was endearing; you were obviously jealous but didn’t know how to show it.

Why did I feel so guilty? I hadn’t done anything, not really. I felt indignant. Why were you sneaking through my messages anyway? Didn’t you trust me? I always considered those who distrusted were the ones to be wary of. Hung without a trial. Angry, guilty or nervous. A train whizzing through the station of all three, no time to stop at either.

Shaky hands flicked to my contacts list. Joe was no more; you’d deleted him. I’d told you I was away the next weekend; I was going with Sam to London. I’d left out the details, sidestepped the issue of Joe coming with us, but only because I knew you wouldn’t like it. Chewing it over, it did look a little bad. But it was innocent. Yet I felt like a dirty cheat.

You texted me again.

*

I didn’t go to London. I tried to call Joe; he didn’t respond. You informed me you’d had ‘a little chat with Joe’. And that I needed to decide if it was to be you or Joe? Then Joe wouldn’t be in contact again.

A lesson learned, Eve.

I questioned us, for the first time.

‘Come on, Eve! Do you want to be responsible for hurting your parents? Surely not after they’ve invested so much into our marriage. Especially now they’ve announced they’ll be moving abroad soon. Can you imagine the position you would put them in? Unthinkable. Just be a little more aware of your actions, that’s all. In time I’ll forgive your betrayal. We’ll be good together. It’s early days.’

My parents were in the beginnings of planning to relocate to pastures new, now I was apparently so settled. How convenient for you. You used anyone I cared for as a weapon, didn’t you?