‘Yes, of course, that’s what I meant. I need the key to my new room, please. Not the old room. You can’t beat your own space, can you?’ I lied.
A telepathic moment transferred between us. It informed me she knew I was lying; I had been well and truly dumped by the charming man I’d arrived with only yesterday. Apparently as man and wife too. I thanked her for her service and passed back a telepathic not so polite message. I considered leaving until I remembered I didn’t have the car keys, or the house keys. I didn’t even have my purse, or change of clothes.
I reached my new, more like staff quarters room. Plonked onto the not so sumptuous single person’s bed and began to ease off what looked like a boot recovered from a murder scene. My thoughts returned to you. I sieved through the events of the previous evening, with no plausible justification for your behaviour today. You were a little uptight. But no one seemed to notice. The pressure of being a climber at a corporate event. Calculating each manoeuvre, each upward step. ‘Watch what you say, Eve’, you’d advised me. I hadn’t realised I was so stupid. ‘No, just think about what you give away’, you’d corrected. ‘Don’t discuss any of my comings and goings. Put on your best performance for me’, you had asked, taking my hand.
Performance? We are who we are, surely? It wasn’t my fault my glass was continually refilled, and then they played the best dance music. You didn’t want to dance, but I had a great time.
I fell in a heap on the bed, with an overwhelming urge to close my eyes.
I slept for some time; it was dark when I awoke. Rudely stirred by a familiar buzzing sound from my jacket, strewn across the floor in a manner you would disapprove of. I shuddered at the thought of you being witness to the rooms Sam and I had shared on our travels. Now, disorientated, it took a few moments to recall where I was, or why I was there. My mobile. I stretched to drag my jacket from the floor by its hood. Sickness crept over me with recalls of our horrible day. A new message from you popped up.
Bet you’re bored out your pants! Soon be over. Give me a call about plans for next weekend. Really looking forward to it. xxx
Odd? What the hell? Was that text even meant for me? I wasn’t bored, I was fed up and in agony. What did you mean about the weekend? You knew I was going away.
You texted me again.
Hope you got the message – from your ‘friend’ Joe. You’ll not be able to find it. I deleted it last night, while you frolicked on the dance floor! Did I not mention – I despise betrayal.
Shit!
Great! So that was what this had been about. You looked over my messages, put two and two together, came up with ten. But you knew about my friend Joe. Talk about a mind-bender.
‘A few too many males in your contact list for my liking,’ you casually joked. It wasn’t jest, though, was it? I thought it was endearing; you were obviously jealous but didn’t know how to show it.
Why did I feel so guilty? I hadn’t done anything, not really. I felt indignant. Why were you sneaking through my messages anyway? Didn’t you trust me? I always considered those who distrusted were the ones to be wary of. Hung without a trial. Angry, guilty or nervous. A train whizzing through the station of all three, no time to stop at either.
Shaky hands flicked to my contacts list. Joe was no more; you’d deleted him. I’d told you I was away the next weekend; I was going with Sam to London. I’d left out the details, sidestepped the issue of Joe coming with us, but only because I knew you wouldn’t like it. Chewing it over, it did look a little bad. But it was innocent. Yet I felt like a dirty cheat.
You texted me again.
I don’t expect to see you at dinner tonight. You have a migraine. What happens next? I haven’t decided.
*
I didn’t go to London. I tried to call Joe; he didn’t respond. You informed me you’d had ‘a little chat with Joe’. And that I needed to decide if it was to be you or Joe? Then Joe wouldn’t be in contact again.
A lesson learned, Eve.
I questioned us, for the first time.
‘Come on, Eve! Do you want to be responsible for hurting your parents? Surely not after they’ve invested so much into our marriage. Especially now they’ve announced they’ll be moving abroad soon. Can you imagine the position you would put them in? Unthinkable. Just be a little more aware of your actions, that’s all. In time I’ll forgive your betrayal. We’ll be good together. It’s early days.’
My parents were in the beginnings of planning to relocate to pastures new, now I was apparently so settled. How convenient for you. You used anyone I cared for as a weapon, didn’t you?
Chapter Eight
Cornwall 2016
He negotiates the stairs; ensuring he doesn’t step on the bottom one. Treading through the small tiled inner hall; he raises an elbow to switch on the light. At the front door, he knocks once, twice, before opening it onto the unfamiliar street to check no one has parked too closely to his beloved car. The cones he placed at either end are still in position. Personal space is so important. He closes the door, sighing. Yet another transitory rental property, it will have to suffice. It certainly isn’t the worst he’s endured, and it won’t need to be for too long.
He turns on his heel in pursuit of coffee, regarding each foot treading the way to the kitchen. His heart rate ups at the sight of a loose lace dragging along the contaminated floor. Sweat threatens his brow, flaunting thoughts of germs, hammering at the sole, creeping up the leather, seeking weakness in the stitching. Resist, bloody resist, come on, he urges. He can’t. And diverts to the cleaning box, still stacked with the others in the dining area. Eight boxes in total. His whole life in eight boxes; it was ten, a few months ago. It would have been seven this time, had he not spread the contents to ensure the even number. With hands now in rubber he removes the soiled lace, from shoe to the bin. This had better not be an omen for today. He unravels a new untainted lace; he has an unlimited supply. A practised hand feeds it through holes without the need to touch.
He looks around his unfamiliar surroundings. It was dark and he was tired when he arrived last night. There is a small but adequate kitchen, reasonably clean to the naked eye. Picking up his kettle – it always travels separately with his suitcase – he removes the lid, peers in, replaces the lid. Yep, still empty. He obeys his orders from above, tipping the spout over the sink regardless. No old water. Measuring sufficient water for two cups, no more. He replaces the lid, returns the kettle to its base, spout facing at forty-five degrees from the switch.
Breathe. Relax. Something about alien dwellings. Dirty buggers everywhere. I am doing the right thing in coming here, aren’t I? He considers. I’ve waited years, but still? No, don’t bottle it now.
The moment he passed the Cornwall border last night, hurtling down the A30, he thought he might be sick. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, with it being so many years since his last visit. Time builds barriers. In another life, he’d have loved it here. But Cornwall’s too diseased now. He quickly spins, nearly missing his moment. Successfully lifting the kettle just before it hits the point of rapid boil. Close. One, two, and a pinch of strong instant coffee hits the base of his mug. No milk unfortunately, it rolled out of the box into the rear footwell last night, where it still lies. A job for gloves later on. He stirs the black liquid four times in a clockwise direction.