It happens so suddenly. Almost between breaths.
The silvery edges of the second door appear in the darkness behind my eyes, shining so brightly that I almost flinch, and then, before I even see the shimmering watery surface, I’m through it and—
—I’m standing over myself. But I can’t be, because I can see me sitting on the sofa, my head lolling back. My eyes are closed, my mouth half-open. The wine glass sits, empty on the table beside me. I don’t remember bringing it in. How am I seeing myself? What is happening? I panic and I feel a massive tug at the very core of me – exactly like the tug in my dream of Adam’s room – and then my eyes open and I’m back on the sofa.
There’s nothing calm about my breathing now, and I’m wide awake and alert. What the fuck was that? I look to the side table and see the wine glass there where I must have absently put it down after David left. What the fuck just happened?
41
ADELE
Watching, waiting, learning, practising. My days are fuller than they’ve been in as long as I can remember, and it’s wonderful. I’ve got heels on when David finally gets home, ones that match my outfit. It’s nice to get dressed up and to be beautiful. The skin between my toes on my right foot is sore and scabby, but the irritation with each step is worth it, just like the increasing itching is worth it. It’s a reminder that I’m in control. It keeps me in control. Anyway, I’ve mastered that now. I’m ready for that part of my plan, and I’m glad that I can now shake adoring Anthony off.
Things are starting to move apace. Louise is my little terrier and she’s gripped the bone I’ve given her and I know she won’t let go. I’m curious to see where she takes it, how she’ll play out my game. I can’t entirely control how everyone will behave in this set of circumstances, but that somehow only makes it all more interesting. I’m playing the odds with their personalities, and thus far neither David nor Louise have let me down. David might be the head doctor, but I know how people tick. And I adapt.
The kitchen smells delicious as he comes and stands in the doorway. I’ve made a fresh pasta carbonara and a peppery rocket salad, which I fully intend to eat even if he doesn’t. He stays on the other side of the threshold to me, leaning against the doorframe. He looks a mess. He won’t keep his reputation at the clinic if this goes on much longer.
‘Still playing Stepford Wife, I see.’ He smiles as he speaks, a twisted humour. He’s laughing at me; at my clothes, and my cooking, and all my effort. I look hurt. I am hurt. He’s not even pretending to love me any more.
‘You should eat something,’ I say. Instead of drinking all your calories.
‘What is it you want, Adele? Really?’ He looks at me with blurred contempt. ‘What is all this for? This prison we live in?’ He’s definitely drunk, and for the first time in a long time I see true, naked aggression in him.
‘I want to be with you.’ It’s the truth. It’s my eternal truth.
He stares at me for a long time, as if trying to figure out what’s going on inside me, who I really am, and what new label he can apply to make sense of it – schizophrenic, sociopath, obsessive, plain batshit-crazy – and then his shoulders slump with the effort and the lack of answer.
‘I want a divorce,’ he says. ‘I want this over. All of it.’
There’s no need to elaborate on the last point. We both know what he means. The past needs digging up and laying to rest properly. The past. The body. He’s said this before, but this time I’m not so sure he’ll change his mind when he sobers up, regardless of what I might do. Regardless of how I could ruin him if I tell.
‘Dinner will be ready in ten minutes if you want to freshen up,’ is all I say. My normality unsettles him more than any verbal threat.
‘You knew who she was, didn’t you?’ He loathes me. It drips from him even more heavily than his self-pity. ‘Louise. You knew when you met her?’
I frown, puzzled. ‘Where’s this coming from, David? How could I possibly have known she was your patient?’ His lie used against him again.
‘You always know things. How is that?’ He’s bitter, but he still sounds weak. Pathetic. Not my David at all.
‘You’re not making any sense.’ I frame my face into a picture of worried concern. ‘Have you been drinking? You’re supposed to be cutting down. You said you would.’