‘Anthony came to see me on Sunday night,’ he continues, ‘but I was in the shower. He must have seen her face and made up the story to get my attention, or hurt me or whatever.’
Maybe it’s true. It sounds true. And now I feel terrible for doubting him, for doubting her, but what am I supposed to do when there are all these questions trapped inside me? About them, about us, about where all this is going?
‘Why don’t you ever talk to me?’ I ask. ‘Properly talk to me. About your life.’
He stares into his wine glass. ‘I really wouldn’t know where to start,’ he says. ‘And it’s not your business. I don’t want it to be your business. I don’t want to …’ he hesitates, looking for the right word. ‘I don’t want to taint you with it all.’
‘What does that even mean?’ I ask. ‘Look, I don’t expect you to leave her for me. I know I’m not important to you—’
‘Not important to me?’ He cuts me off. ‘You’re the only good thing I have. That’s why I have to be so careful. That’s why I don’t want to talk to you about my marriage or my life. I don’t want any of that to be inside us.’
He drains his glass, several long mouthfuls. How can anyone drink like that and not want to throw up? Glass after glass, so fast. His self-pity isn’t attractive, but my neediness loves that he thinks I’m important. It makes me feel stronger.
‘Take me out of the picture for a minute,’ I say. ‘You’re obviously unhappy at home. So leave. That’s what my husband did, and it didn’t kill me. It hurt, but I got over it. Life moves on.’ And now Ian’s having a baby with my replacement, and I’m like a ghost in my own life. I keep that thought to myself. ‘I don’t see what the problem is.’
‘You can’t possibly see what the problem is. You’d have to know us. Really know us, for that. And I’m not even sure we know each other any more.’ He’s bitter. His words are sharp with it as he stares into his glass. ‘But something has to change,’ he says, eventually. His words slur slightly. ‘But I need to figure out how to do it. To get rid of her safely.’
‘Maybe talk to her,’ I say, trying to be as loyal as I can to Adele in this completely disloyal moment. ‘She’s your wife. She must love you.’
He laughs then, at first with sudden humour, but then the sound sours. ‘Oh, she loves me. For what that’s worth.’
I think of my fragile friend, running to answer calls and take pills and cook dinners, and I’m angry. How can he treat her like this? With such contempt? If he doesn’t love her then he should set her free to love someone else. Someone who’d treat her as well as she deserves.
‘Go home,’ I say, cold. ‘Go home and sort your shit out with your wife. I can’t deal with this right now.’ He doesn’t say a word, but stares at me, his eyes starting to glaze with alcohol. Is he driving? I don’t care, I decide. That’s his problem. Right now, I just want him gone. ‘Go,’ I repeat. ‘And stop drinking. You’re a fucking mess.’ I want to cry, for him, for Adele, and for me. Mainly for me. I don’t want to fight with him. I want to understand him.
I don’t look at him as he leaves, and I don’t return the squeeze he gives my hand as he passes.
‘I’ll fix it,’ he mumbles from the doorway. ‘Somehow. I promise.’
I don’t look up. I give him nothing. I may be a bitch and duplicitous, but enough is enough. I want him, but not like this. I can’t do this any more. I really can’t. Him and Adele are tearing me in two.
After he’s gone, I pour another glass of wine and fight the stupid urge to cry by calling Adam. Even his bubbly joy can’t lift my spirits and as he tells me about their day at the water park and the slides he went on with Ian, part of my mind is playing back the conversation with David. I make all the right sounds, and it’s lovely to hear my baby boy, but I’m also relieved when he says he has to go. I need the quiet. I feel empty and exhausted and sad and a whole heap of other stuff I don’t want to examine. It’s our first argument and maybe our last. I also realise, too late, that I don’t think he hit Adele. Not deep down. Not any more.