‘It’s so weird,’ he says. ‘Weird, but brilliant.’
It’s been five nights since Rob first managed it, and since then he’s been like a natural. She knows he’s not lying – not that she thinks he would – because all the therapists are calling it progress. They’re all feeling smug. He’s the golden boy at Westlands now that he sleeps without screaming – they think they’ve cured him. They think they’ve helped her too. If only they knew they had nothing to do with it. There are doors in the mind to be opened, but not how they think. Not at all. How would they cope with the truth? They’d probably need therapy. She giggles aloud at that. She’s starting to think like Rob.
‘It’s like having the world at your fingertips,’ he says.
‘Yep,’ she nods. ‘And no more nightmares.’
‘Amen to that,’ he says, and passes her the spliff. They’ve nearly finished it, but she doesn’t mind. Her head is swimming and she thinks that much more might make her sick, but she’s loving the way her skin feels odd, and all she wants to do is laugh. Everything is funny. She grins at Rob and he grins back and they don’t need to say anything. After a moment, she rests her head on his arm. It’s thin and wiry, so different to David’s broad shoulder and farm-strengthened bicep. David’s watch would hang as loosely on Rob’s wrist as it does on hers. It feels good to lean on Rob though. She feels safe.
She could never have this moment with David, and that makes her a little bit sad. David barely dreams, let alone has night terrors. David didn’t listen when she tried to tell him. David would never be able to do what Rob has done, and that’s a simple fact. But it doesn’t stop her feeling wonderful that there is someone who can. A friend who can. Someone she can share it with. Some of it at least.
26
ADELE
He’s true to his word and is only out for two hours, and I’m meek when he gets home. Although the text from Louise has lifted my spirits, I’m still haunted by last night’s events and my abysmal failure. I was too sure of myself and now my confidence is entirely knocked and I feel terribly alone.
‘I’ve moved your clothes into the spare room,’ I say, softly, when he finds me in the kitchen, suitably cowed.
He replaces the kitchen door key in the lock and at least has the decency to look uncomfortable for trapping me in here. He stays facing away for a moment and then turns. The fight has gone out of both of us. His shoulders are as slumped as mine.
‘Why did you paint our bedroom and hall those colours?’ He’s asked the question so many times already, but I love that he says our, as if we are still somehow a we.
‘They’re just colours, David,’ I say, repeating the same answer I’ve given every time. ‘I like them.’
He gives me that look again, as if I’m a stranger from some alien planet that he has no chance of ever understanding. I shrug. It’s all I’ve got.
‘Don’t paint the spare room.’
I nod. ‘I hope you sleeping there is temporary.’
This is us talking. This complete non-communication. Perhaps it’s him who needs all the medication, instead of spending his days drinking his brain to dullness. It’s not good for him. It’s not good for the future. It needs to stop, but I’m hardly in a position to put my foot down now. Maybe he’ll stop when this is all over. Maybe he’ll let me help him then.
He goes and hides in his study, mumbling something about work, the conversation over for now. I presume that looking at me has made him want a brandy and I don’t want to analyse the reasons for that.
I let him go and don’t call him on the fact that I know he has several bottles of spirits in his study and that maybe I’m not the only one with secrets in this marriage, however well he thinks he hides them from me. Instead, I do what I do best, and start preparing the roast lamb for dinner. There is something heart-warming about a roast dinner, and we both need that.
I season the meat with rosemary and anchovies driven into the fatty skin, and then, as I chop and sauté and simmer my potato and vegetable side dishes, the steam makes my bruise throb. I’ve covered it with make-up, and David no doubt thinks that’s to hide it from him, but he’d be wrong. It’s to hide it from myself. I’m filled with shame at my own weakness.
I lay the dining-room table using our best dinner service, and have candles lit and all the dishes laid out between us before calling him in. I’ve poured him a glass of wine even though my glass is only filled with San Pellegrino. I’m not sure if I’ve done all this to please him, or to comfort myself after the ugliness of last night. I look for some sign of approval, but he barely registers my efforts.
Our plates are full, but neither of us really eats anything. I try and make small talk about his outreach work – as if I care – but he cuts me off.