I feel sick, and drink more wine, my head already buzzing slightly. I haven’t eaten much today and now my appetite is totally gone.
The doorbell goes twice before I hear it, I’m so lost in my own thoughts, and I scurry back inside.
‘Hey.’
It’s him. Barely 6 p.m. and he’s at my door for the first time this week. I’d thought he was never coming back, and I’m too surprised to say anything as I let him in. He’s brought wine and immediately opens it and gets another glass out of the cupboard.
‘Make yourself at home,’ I mutter, a whirl of conflicting emotions.
‘I wish I could,’ he says, with a sorrowful – or self-pitying, I can’t decide which – half-laugh. He drains his glass and then refills it. ‘What a fucking day,’ he says, tilting his head back and letting out a sigh. ‘What a fucking life.’
He drinks a lot; I’m realising that now that I’ve cut back so much. Is he a mean drunk? Is that what happens? I look at him. A fight, a fist, a face.
‘I can’t stay long,’ he says, and then reaches for me, pulling me into his chest. ‘But I had to see you. I keep telling myself to stop, promising myself I’ll stop, but I can’t.’
‘You see me all day.’ I’m stiff in his arms. Is that brandy I can smell? A terrible thought strikes me. Does he drink in the office? He kisses the top of my head, and under the booze and the aftershave I catch the scent of him, and I can’t help but like it. I crave it if I’m honest, when I’m alone at night. But if he thinks we’re going straight to bed now, or to bed at all, then he’s wrong. He’s hardly looked at me in days, and now he just breezes in. I pull back and take my drink. Screw him. I look at his hand on his wine glass. Strong. Big. I see the bruise on Adele’s face. For once, I’m going to be the friend she thinks I am.
‘But not like this,’ he says. ‘Not when we can be us.’
‘Us.’ The word sounds dead as I repeat it. ‘There’s hardly an us, is there?’ I lean against the kitchen counter rather than leading him into the sitting room or bedroom like usual. I haven’t spoken to Adam today, and I won’t miss that, not for a cheating-maybe-wife-beating man. I suddenly feel tired. Adam’s home in about a week, so all this craziness is going to have to stop anyway. Maybe it will be a relief.
He frowns slightly, realising my bad mood. ‘Are you okay?’
I shrug. My heart races. I hate conflict. I’m shit at it. I tend to revert to being a sullen, silent teenager rather than spitting out what’s wrong. I gulp my wine and then take a deep breath. Fuck it. This is the only chance I’m going to get to talk about their marriage. This is something I can legitimately know.
‘Sue told me what happened. With Anthony Hawkins’ parents. What they said?’
‘Thank God that’s cleared up,’ he says. ‘I didn’t need that today.’ He looks at me then, sees my questioning suspicion, and his face falls.
‘Wow, Louise.’
‘What?’ I sound defensive, and I feel it too. Now that he’s here in front of me I feel stupid for half believing he could do that. Even Adele didn’t say that he’d hit her. But there’s so much going on that doesn’t make sense, and I can’t figure any of it out.
‘You seriously don’t think I hit my wife?’
‘I don’t know what I think,’ I say. ‘You never talk about your marriage. Your wife. You’re doing this,’ I gesture around my pathetic little flat as if he’s fucking it and not me. ‘When it suits you at least. We talk, but you never talk about your marriage. You close down every time I try to ask you anything, and you always seem so fucking unhappy that I can’t understand why you’re still there. With her. Just get a fucking divorce!’
It’s pouring out of me, all my pent-up confusion and hurt, bubbling in hot rage from my lips. I’ve seen Adele’s bruise. I know how fragile she is. I know about the phone calls. I can say none of these things, however much I want him to explain them to me, so all I can do is bring it back to the mess that is us. The mess he only knows half of.
He’s staring at me as if I’ve stabbed him, but I keep going. ‘I mean, this isn’t exactly fair on her either, is it? What you’re doing?’
‘You really have to ask me if I hit her?’ He cuts through all my bullshit. ‘Do you know me at all?’
I almost laugh at that. ‘Know you? How could I possibly know you? You know me – I’m an open book. You know just about everything about me. We talk about me. But you? I don’t know what I’m supposed to make of you.’
‘Of course I didn’t bloody hit her.’ He slumps, the life gone out of him. ‘She says she opened a kitchen cupboard onto her face. I don’t even know if that is true, but I know I didn’t hit her.’
I tingle with a flood of relief. At least they’re both giving me the same explanation.