Sue is in the kitchen, and she can see us from where she’s rinsing mugs for the dishwasher, and so I can’t ask him about his weekend plans – even though I don’t really want to know; Adele is always sitting between us even though she’s never mentioned – and now that the work chat is done, he awkwardly wishes me a good weekend and heads to the door.
He looks back as he leaves, a quick glance over his shoulder. A last look. It makes my stomach fizz with a surge of happiness, and then it twists in jealousy. He’s going home to her for the weekend. Does he think of me at all on those days? I know he must do sometimes because he’s turned up at my door on a Saturday before, but how does he think of me? Does he consider leaving her for me? I wish I knew what I am to him. Where this is leading, if anywhere at all. Surely he should be talking about that by now? It’s not as if we’re kids. I feel cheap all over again and I slump back in my chair. I should end it. I know I should.
I look at the clock. It’s coming up for five. I look away and look back again and the time remains the same. I need to clear out the coffee, finish some admin to leave for Monday, and then it’s time to go home myself.
I think about going for a jog this evening, but I’m so tired from my broken sleep that I know it’s not going to happen. I pinch myself. ‘I am awake,’ I mutter.
22
ADELE
Even though we spent the evening at home like any other couple – dinner, TV, minimal conversation – David still slept in the spare room last night. He blamed it on the warm weather, but this is a big old house and the thick walls keep the airy rooms relatively cool. He didn’t look at me as he went up to bed. It wasn’t entirely unexpected but I still felt stabbed in the guts with a shard of my own broken heart.
When I heard him moving around this morning, I got up and went to the gym to avoid facing him across the invisible bitter split in our marriage. I had to let out some of my pent-up emotions and I ran hard on the treadmill and then did heavier reps on the machines than I’ve done before, but I didn’t take any pleasure in it. It all feels like a waste of time. What does it matter? What do I matter any more?
I got home in time to make us both a light lunch, and then he was gone. Off to his outreach work. Some badly-dressed lump of a man picked him up in an old car. They all look the same, do-gooders. That’s a thing that hasn’t changed since Westlands days. As if dressing badly somehow makes them more worthy. At least the outreach work hasn’t been a complete lie, even though I know he’s used it as an excuse to go and see Louise at least once.
After he’d left I thought about texting her myself to see if she fancied a coffee somewhere – I suddenly felt lonely in the house – but then decided against it. I don’t know where he goes on these days, and even though it’s a busy area we live in, coincidences do happen. I can’t risk everything on him spotting us from a car just because I’m feeling down.
Instead, I cleaned the house for an hour or two, scrubbing the bathrooms until they sparkled and I was breathless, and then I was interrupted by the Saturday post clattering – late as usual – through the letterbox.
When I saw the envelope, the familiar company stamp in the corner and neatly handwritten address, I was glad I hadn’t started an argument today. It would have been too much and it isn’t needed. This will be enough to unsettle him. In my mind’s eye the past is like quicksand and David’s stuck in it, slowly, slowly sinking. It makes me sad again.
I open the envelope and stare at the columns of description and expenditure and glance over the cover letter. Nothing unusual or surprising there, but then there never is. We don’t go back to Fairdale House and no one has lived there since the one wing burned. I reread the letter. A few repairs done on the main building. Fences maintained. Security cameras all working. No new damage to the property. Gas and electric still connected and fees paid. Drainage is fine. Rents are being paid on the outlying fields. The summer report is always cheaper than the winter one. No need to run the heating so much against the Scottish cold. To be honest, I think most people have forgotten the estate is even there: Sleeping Beauty’s castle behind the hedgerows.
I put the letter and the bill down on the kitchen side where David will see it. I place it so it looks as if I’ve casually tossed it there. That will annoy him too. I shouldn’t have opened it. I should have put it on his desk when I saw the company stamp. It’s addressed to both of us, but everyone knows he’s in charge of the money. I’m only the pretty puppet: the tragic wife who needs looking after.