Dr Sykes, to be fair, at least sounds hugely uncomfortable having to raise this with me. He’s got me on speakerphone; I can hear the slight echo in the call quality. Is David listening? I can only imagine his face when they decided to ring me. Quite panicked. He wouldn’t have wanted this to happen. He wouldn’t know what I was likely to say. That irritates me slightly. He should trust me more than that. I would never damage his career. Why would I? I want him to be successful. I know how important it is to him.
‘To be clear,’ I say. ‘There was no fight. And we would never have words in front of a stranger. And certainly not a patient.’ Have words. I sound just the right amount of indignant. We are all very middle-class after all, and Dr Sykes the most. He must be mortified by now. ‘The young man came to the door and asked for David while I was clearing the kitchen after dinner, and I told him that David had gone to bed with a headache and that was that. He must have seen my bruise and created a story around it. Perhaps he was feeling rejected by my husband and wanted to punish him in some way?’ I know exactly how that feels. That is something young Anthony Hawkins and I have in common.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Dr Sykes says. ‘But obviously when he told his parents that he’d seen … well, what he said he’d seen, they felt a moral obligation to follow it up.’
He sounds relieved. Maybe he had a few doubts. It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s so easy to sow those seeds in people. None of us really knows each other, after all.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘And please do thank them for their concern, but there really is nothing to worry about here. Except perhaps my clumsiness.’ I laugh a little again then, as if the whole thing is still amusing me. ‘Poor David,’ I say. ‘He’s the last man alive who would ever hit a woman. Please tell the boy’s family that I hope he gets the help he needs.’
This can work well for me, I think as we say our goodbyes and hang up. David will be relieved at how well I’ve handled it, and hopefully will give me a little more space and go back to his seedy evenings with duplicitous Louise. If he continues to suffocate me, I can always threaten to tell Dr Sykes I was lying and that he did hit me. It would be an empty threat – compared with others I can make – even if David wouldn’t realise it. Why would I ruin him? Yes, we have wealth, but David has always needed more than that, and I can’t take his career from him. Of all things, that would destroy him.
More importantly, however, I can use this with Anthony. He’ll feel terrible that his parents went to the clinic to report it. His guilt at potentially placing me in harm’s way with my violent husband is something I can use to make him get me what I want, and the icing on the cake is that even if he tells anyone, it will be dismissed as another fantasy. No one will listen to him.
I quickly send David a text.
Are you okay? That boy needs help!! Xx
I know they’re probably all still in the same room, and it’s likely Sykes will see it. A further proof of innocence should it be required. And also a reminder to my husband that when the shit hits the fan we are a team and always will be. It won’t repair our marriage for him – even I know he’s too far gone for that – but it will soften him towards me.
The doorbell goes, three sharp rings. Frantic. The poor boy come to grovel, I imagine.
Everything is going so well.
29
LOUISE
I’ve got a glass of wine poured before I’ve even put my handbag down. My nerves jangle and I feel as if there are ants trapped in my head. I don’t know what to think.
I’d gone out at lunchtime for a walk to stretch my aching legs from last night’s jog and clear my thoughts a bit, tired of staring at David’s door and willing him to call me in to explain what the hell is going on. I’ve been on edge all day. He’s been ignoring me as if we were teenagers rather than grown adults, and I don’t understand why he can’t say if he doesn’t want to see me any more. He started all this, after all. Not me. Why can’t he just talk to me? My stomach is in such a tight knot I couldn’t eat even if I wanted to.
I decided that after my walk I was going to go and have it out with him – professional or not – but when I got back he wasn’t at his desk, and Sue, all aglow with excitement, told me that Anthony Hawkins’ parents had come in, and they and David were in with Dr Sykes.
‘Anthony says he saw Dr Martin hit his wife. Right in the face!’ Sue had said it with such whispered glee that I felt as if I’d been punched myself. Gossip for her, more head-fuckery for me. I didn’t see David after that. I sat at my desk, my mind a blur of half-formed thoughts and worries, wanting to get out of there, which I did, bang on five. I wanted a glass of wine. I wanted to think.
And yet I don’t know what to think. The wine is cool and crisp, and I take my e-cig and go and sit on the balcony, letting fresh air into the stuffy flat. Adele says she walked into a cupboard, but Anthony says David hit her. Why would Anthony lie? If it’s true though, how did Anthony see it? Was he peering through windows? David referred Anthony to a new doctor on Monday, and I figured that was because he’d got too attached. But maybe it was because Anthony had seen something David didn’t want him to.