I don’t respond. The words snag in my throat. Why didn’t I cancel this appointment? Because, I didn’t think you’d actually have the nerve to come, because I pushed it to the back of my mind, but also because I don’t know it is you, do I? I could be making a complete fool of myself again.
Ruan regards me, clearly concerned, obviously not knowing how to help. ‘Look, he’s just a normal-looking guy. Kinda does look like an ex-soldier, to be fair. Tallish, darkish, biggish build, I suppose. Quite softly spoken. What else? D’you want me to take a photo then come and show you?’
‘This isn’t a joke, Ruan.’
He moves further away from the door, lowering his voice. ‘What is it about him anyway? Why d’you look so frightened?’
I breathe in deeply through my nose, realising how ridiculous I must look. I shake my head, then usher Ruan out of the room, and prepare to follow in his footsteps. I’m probably just being stupid and it isn’t you anyway. The only true connection I have is that he is from Warwickshire. That’s not a lot to go on. He’s referred under a different name, but that doesn’t mean anything; I wouldn’t put a name change past you. I’ve changed Jack’s surname, after all; from Austin to Sands, before we moved to Cornwall. You’re also a pathological liar, so anything we’ve already been told doesn’t mean anything. Ruan’s description fits you well, but then it would also be appropriate for many other men. And, given it’s Ruan’s description, he could actually be small and blond. Then, a quiet, softly spoken voice – no, you had a commanding, sardonic voice. But then, you could be, it could be, whatever you wanted it to be, in any given situation.
Counting to three, I step out from the security of my room, forcing the fixed, unnatural beginnings of a smile, into the open reception. The man has already stood up and made his way over to the far side. He stands nonchalantly, hands in pockets, looking out onto the street. Is this because I’ve annoyed him, keeping him waiting? Or is it because he doesn’t want me to know who it is just yet? He doesn’t want me to see, recognise his face? He’s planned this moment, wants to be in total control at the point he decides to reveal himself. He will only turn to face me when the instant is right for him. For you. I take in his physique, his stance; a perfect shadow of you stands before me. A gush of sickness upsurges from my roiling stomach as I hear the words fall inelegantly from my anaesthetised lips.
‘William?’ I request of his back. I secretly will him not to turn around. Why am I playing along with your game, calling you William? I imagine you simpering at the window. I urge him to answer me whilst still facing the outside world. My legs begin to subtly quiver; someone has removed the muscles. My pen slips from my sweaty, unsophisticated hand. It drops, but I dare not move to pick it up.
Ever so steadily, he coils towards me. At full twist his dark eyes seek immediate contact. A look of knowing satiates them. Blood drains from my limp body. I notice how his shoulders capitulate. An impression grabs me.
He has found who he is looking for.
Chapter Nineteen
Before
It seemed often I would hear people remark on how quickly time passes when having fun. My time passed painfully slowly, watching and learning. I stopped walking your path; I just didn’t tell you. I wasn’t ready for you to know. All I could do was safeguard the happiness of Jack, riding the waves of loneliness and heartache. All the time, the lies were stacking up. I couldn’t afford to trip over them. Why did I still not leave? It was compulsory I played the game, or you’d always be with me. A creepy, climbing plant, strangling its support system, tightening its grip, obscured, unnoticed. All the time, sucking away at vital nutrients. No, I needed to be cleverer than you.
*
‘Oh. My. God. A chauffeur-driven trip to Wimbledon. Centre Court tickets. A three-course lunch, wow. How amazing! I’m so jealous!’ She assumed much, while juggling the arms of an octopus into his coat at the end of Jack’s music group. She asked, so I told her; I wished I hadn’t. She was nice, kind and funny, but I kept her at the required distance, our conversation couldn’t go any further than surface-level banter.
I tackled Jack to the ground, still wriggling, wedging his shoes onto chubby feet. ‘Hmm, I suppose.’ I could understand where she was coming from; I wanted to be excited. The thought saddened me. She thought she knew me, but she didn’t.
‘Well, don’t sound so happy about it, will you? Listen, I’m more than happy to go in your place, you know. Just give me the nod,’ she jested.
If only she knew. But how could she? I needed to make connections, join the obligatory groups for Jack’s sake. He was two years old, needed to be amongst other children. I, too, needed to be around other adults, other females. But it was tangibly painful. Gradually, I developed methods for hiding the truth. Not just from others but myself too. It was my only way to cope, a desperate attempt at normality. I daren’t allow anyone to get too close; for their protection and mine. Expert in dodging questions, ignoring invites, imaginative excuses. Friendships were amputated anything beyond the acquaintance stage.
From the outside we looked like the ideal family unit. So much so, sometimes I’d catch myself querying, was it me who was the problem? Did I overreact? Were you correct in suggesting I was mentally sick? Could it be a case for postnatal depression? But then, why did the other lives, the ones I watched and heard about, look so normal and simple? Why did I crave so much, for these lives? Ironically, others often articulated their envy of our life; it was purely a conceptual envy. They didn’t know of the life, the other side of the front door.
It was irrelevant how they saw us; they only had an obscured pinhole view. By then, I’d pushed myself so far into the corner, I couldn’t figure out a feasible escape route. It was harsh, cold and isolated. The veiling of my life and constant pretending so brilliantly disguised the facts and hid the evidence. So much so, a cry for help would appear fraudulent. It wasn’t that I didn’t consider leaving. I thought about it every day. But it was hopelessly complicated. Alone in the midst of night with a two-year-old child, a self-esteem buried somewhere under the rubble; it felt unbearably impossible. Day by day, week by week, and month by month, increasingly cut off. Jack was my only living reason to keep my flame alight, but also the reason I needed to be more than sure of my decisions, my timing.
*
You stood upright and tall, checking your reflection in the full-length mirror on the galleried landing. An apparent piece of fluff on the arm of your dark suit catching your attention. How could you care about such things? In the beginning, I found it quite sweet, but these ways soon became peculiar and abhorrent. I turned away, conscious of my lack of time to finish getting myself ready. I fingered the soft silk of my cornflour blue 1950s-style dress. You’d reactivated my credit card, so I could choose a suitably expensive dress for the occasion. Your corporate occasion. I hadn’t realised my cards were cancelled in the first place, until an incredibly embarrassing moment at the children’s farm with other mums. They’d had to pay for me whilst I’d fumbled for feasible excuses.
‘Don’t worry about it, it happens to me all the time. The next one’s on you.’ I bet it doesn’t happen to you, I’d thought. Not like this. Not as a punishment.
Kind words to soothe my blushing cheeks. How could you have done this? To teach me what exactly? There was always a lesson to be learned in all these actions. I’d called you as soon as I’d managed to free myself from the group; maybe there had been a genuine problem with our account. You always took charge of the finances; I was not to be trusted.
‘Gregg, I’m at the farm, my card’s just been declined?’
I’d felt the smirk before the words had come. ‘Yes. It will have been.’ I’d imagined you sitting, self-preening, satisfied. I’d wished I hadn’t called.
‘Why?’
‘You know why, Eve.’
‘No, I don’t!’