‘I suppose.’
There’s something else she’s not saying. Something she believes is even worse than self-harming. I feel sure. The things she won’t talk about when I probe, I’m guessing are the root to her pain. The self-harming is a red herring. A very proficient one. It’s not what we see with Milly that worries me.
Eventually, having explored other possible ways of seeking help, and prodding at potential triggers, I see Milly out and return to gather my belongings. Just as I’m refastening my briefcase, I notice the inside zip is open. I always keep it zipped; it contains business banking details and other personal information. I open the compartment further, to ensure all is still there. It is, but, strangely, so is an alien A4 envelope. Where’s that come from? I remove it to investigate, but I’m interrupted by a resolute knocking at the door. Milly’s GP pokes his head around the door for an update. I replace the envelope; it must be something I’ve forgotten about.
*
Following many more appointments and a particularly stretched day at various clinics along the English Channel, I finally retreat for home. Just as the dark is threatening to creep over, with the early stages of a most spectacular red and orange sunset fighting it for prime position. The coastal waters have taken on an almost charcoal colour and the intermingled sky, cast off the sunset, is coloured with pinks, silvers and pale blue hues holding on for dear life. The pinky aspects remind me of Milly. Earlier, having discovered the name of Milly’s mum’s boyfriend, I made a note to ask Ruan to do some digging. I could be wrong, but Milly’s eyes were unusually bloodshot, especially given her age. She didn’t seem to have the focus of someone I know to be bright, either. I’m hoping I’m wrong. But everything is caused by something.
Then, within an instant it all floods back, the issue of the PTSD guy from Warwickshire. I’d pushed it to a dark far corner of my mind. I need to speak with Ruan. I make numerous attempts to reach him on his mobile – no joy. I envisage him either propping up the bar in our local, The Wheal in St Agnes, or off contemplating waves. But then, with countless reliable haunts for mobile quiet time, where there is zero chance of finding a signal, and the reliable ‘emergency calls only’ words conveniently cover your tracks, the chances of reaching him feel hopeless.
Can I detach until morning? I’m so tired too, but an underlying protest from my belly impels me to deal with it. I refocus on driving, all the time willing Ruan to gain a signal. Until then, just because I’ve a referral from someone who’s relocated from Warwickshire, doesn’t mean it has to be you. Does it? Am I totally losing all perspective? What will Ruan think of me quizzing him at this hour, especially as I practically ignored his earlier attempt to discuss it with me? But if I don’t get hold of him, some point later, in the pitch-black dark of the night, my rationale will bail on me. I leave Ruan a voicemail, requesting him to call or text me. At the end I add, ‘Ruan, this is important. I really do need you to call, tonight, please. Not your usual sometime soon. Oh, and I’m sorry for disturbing your evening.’ Going on Ruan’s past ‘chill, everyone’ demeanour, I thought I’d better communicate my urgency.
I cut away from the main route, opting to take the inland, ‘have to be local or mad to drive’ route. My wing mirrors are now outwardly devoted to both left and right hedgerows. Bracken scraping at my paintwork. I jump as my mobile buzzes from the passenger seat. With no obvious other traffic, I grind to a halt, relief daring to flash through me. Ruan must have received my message; he’s texted me back. He’s probably already swaggering up the hill away from the pub, plodding his drunken way to mine. I feel a tad guilty. He’s so good-tempered – just as well with a neurotic boss.
I illuminate my screen. Strange, why is Ruan’s caller ID displaying as an unstored mobile number? I don’t recognise this number. Something to do with the poor signal? Fumbling to press the message icon, my fingers like sloppy sausages, I open it. My heart rate fast-tracks to the next beat. I impulsively fling my handset back to the passenger seat, as if it’s on fire. Shit. The words trouncing my chest. The screen remains lit. I re-read the text, over and over, in case I’ve misread.
Busy girl, Eve. Not home yet. Jack is home alone again, I see. At least he has a friend with him. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my eye on them until you return. Drive safe, won’t you? No hurry.
Chapter Fourteen
Before
Following the hiking expedition; life seemed to change so precipitously. The Gregg I’d fallen for; the Gregg I’d married, where did you go? I stumble across this situation in clinic, so how did I allow myself to fall into the very trap? The mélange of lies, an existence behind locked doors; the very same I assist other victims with. How many hours have I squandered since, attempting to justify my susceptible-beyond-belief behaviour? Still, I have Jack, and I would never change this, not for the world. Not even for my freedom.
All the same, as most of the others do, I repeatedly feel the need to defend myself. To others sometimes, but mostly to myself. How can an observant, apparently intelligent being behave so obliviously? How does a marriage fall apart in such a titanic way? So you didn’t notice the gigantic iceberg? Nor the monstrous tendencies? There but for the grace of God go I; John Bradford could not have said it better. Cruel words and judgments may not always be voiced, but I see it in the eyes. Do people have the right to judge, with no idea of perspective?
I once made the mistake of opening up to a hospital colleague before we relocated. I don’t know why I was so taken aback by her questions, given I’d already asked them of myself so many times. But when others probed, it felt more like an attack, accusation.
‘I don’t get it, Eve. Why did you get together in the first place? If he was as cruel as you say?’
Her expression morphed from one of sympathy to one of scepticism. I should have lied; said we’d come to a mutual agreement to separate. He was killed in our car accident. Anything but the truth.
‘Obviously, he wasn’t like that in the beginning! I wouldn’t have married him knowing what I do now. If I’d seen what I do now, I’d have stayed well clear. I’m not stupid!’ Or was I?
‘He couldn’t have changed that much, surely?’ she prodded further, a slight frown running across her forehead. Slanted eyes scrutinising me. Wondering if she’d got me wrong. She had a point.
I could feel my defensive barriers begin to lower. ‘Well, he did.’
‘How, so quickly, then?’
‘I don’t know. Clearly, I was utterly blind to all the flying flags. Maybe I chose not to see.’ A ‘surely not’ look cross-examined me. ‘I was a fool. Okay.’
‘Just like that—’ she clicked her fingers ‘—he became a different person?’ God, dog with a bone.
‘If you’re trying to make me feel any more wretched, it’s not possible.’ She jerked her head backwards, offended. ‘Look, it’s not so much that he changed. So much as I woke up, when he began to show his true colours. He didn’t change per se; he’d more… kept his true self well hidden. In the beginning he was, I guess, acting, playing the part. Then, after it was all too late, I’d signed the dotted line, he quit the acting. Only then did I truly see who he was. As much as it grates on me to admit it, he’s a very astute man. A master of disguise.’
‘Why did you stay with him for so long, then? I mean years, wasn’t it?’