Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…
She grabs the sides of the bed that has become a boat and starts to swing from side to side. I try to tell her not to, but I cannot speak.
Life is but a dream.
I close my eyes before she tips us over completely. The water is cold and dark. I cannot swim because I cannot move, so I sink helplessly deeper into the black like a flesh-coloured stone. I can still hear her distorted voice beneath the waves:
Life is but a dream.
There is a loud beeping sound and a lot of watery noise but I’m no longer underwater. There are voices I recognise and faces I don’t.
My eyes are open.
I can see the doctors and nurses fussing around me.
This is real.
Then the voices are silent, except for one.
‘That’s VF, we need to shock.’
Those aren’t my initials.
‘Stand back.’
The faces disappear and all I can see is the white ceiling.
Everything is white.
I close my eyes because I’m scared of what they might see. Then I hear my dad’s voice at the end of the bed.
‘Hold on, Peanut,’ he says. It’s like hearing a ghost.
I open my eyes again and he smiles at me, I realise that I really can see him. He looks so old to me now, so frail, so tired. Everything else is white, it’s just me and my dad and I feel the tears start to roll down my cheeks.
‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ he says. I want to tell him that it’s OK but I still can’t speak. I want to hold his hand one more time, but I still can’t move.
‘If I had any idea that that would be the last time we would speak, I never would have said those things. I didn’t mean them. I love you, we both do. We always did. Life is but a dream.’ He turns to leave and he doesn’t look back. I am her again; that little girl desperately trying to keep up with her father. He’s slower than he used to be, but he still leaves me behind.
Then
Thursday, 22nd December 2016 – Morning
‘And if you’ve just joined us on Coffee Morning, welcome,’ says Madeline. ‘So far today we’ve been talking honestly and openly about adultery. We’ll be discussing here in the studio why some women feel they could never turn a blind eye to a cheating partner, while others have chosen to forgive and forget. We’ll also be talking to women who cheat. I’m joined now by Amber, who says that you can never really know a person, including yourself. Amber, tell us more,’ says Madeline, before rolling her eyes and checking her script to see what’s next on the show. She looks up at me then: ‘Well? What have you got to say for yourself?’ Her voice changes with each word, as though her batteries are dying. Then she is sick all over the desk in the studio. She looks up, wipes her mouth and carries on.
‘Amber?’ Paul’s voice is now coming out of Madeline’s mouth.
‘Amber?’ I sit up in the bed. ‘You were having a nightmare,’ says Paul.
I blink into the darkness. My skin is covered in sweat and I don’t feel right.
‘You’re OK now,’ he says.
But I’m not. I pull off the duvet and run to the bathroom. I grip the toilet bowl with one hand and hold my hair out of my face with the other. It doesn’t last long. I hear Paul get out of bed and I close the bathroom door.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks from the other side of the pine border.
‘I’ll be fine. It’s cold, go back to bed, I’ll be there soon,’ I lie. It isn’t long before he retreats without protest.
I flush the toilet, wash my face and watch myself brush my teeth in the mirror. A crazy woman stares back so I look at the floor instead. I spit out the toothpaste, tiny bits of red mixed in with white, then wipe my mouth. My index finger and thumbs come to meet and my hands move up to my face. I pull at each of my eyebrows in turn and sprinkle tiny bits of hair into the sink. Only when I can count ten tiny black pieces of myself on the white porcelain do I stop. There always have to be ten. When enough time has passed I turn on the cold tap and wash myself away.
I open the door as quietly as I can and check on Paul. He’s already gone back to sleep, gentle snores escaping from his open mouth. I take my dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and creep along the landing to my little study. Everything is neat and tidy, just how I left it. I take out my white gloves and my fountain pen and stare at the blank sheet of paper. I’m too tired to think of what to write and then I remember Mrs MacDonald from school and her Three Things rule. The words come and I smile to myself:
Dear Madeline,
I hope you’ve been enjoying my letters so far. I know how much you like reading letters from your fans.
I am not a fan.
There are three things you should know about me:
1. I know you’re not the woman you pretend to be.
2. I know what you did and what you didn’t.
3. If you don’t do what I ask, I’ll tell everyone who you really are.
I’ll keep writing until you get the message. Ink doesn’t last for ever of course, so let’s hope we don’t have to hear from each other for too much longer. If the ink runs out, I’ll have to find another way to make you listen.
‘What are you doing? Why didn’t you come back to bed? What’s with the magician gloves?’
Paul is peering round the study door in just a t-shirt and his boxer shorts. I’ve been caught.
‘I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make a late start on the Christmas cards but my hands were cold,’ I stutter.
He gives me a strange look. ‘OK. Well, Mum has just texted, she thinks the doctors are trying to kill her. I’m going to have to go back up there.’
I didn’t think she knew how to text.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. She needs me.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I offer.
‘No, it’s all right. I know how worried you are about work at the moment. I won’t be away long.’
He retreats from the door before I have time to reply. I hear the shower being turned on and the boiler rumble to life. He’s not in too much of a hurry then. I fold my letter, place it in the red envelope and put my white gloves back in the drawer. I walk past the bathroom, the door is a little ajar and steam is already billowing out in a bid to escape. I peer through the damp cloud and see my husband, naked in the shower. It’s been a while since I have seen him this way and I feel a curious mix of rejection and relief. I move quickly towards our bedroom and take his phone from the side table next to the bed: 06:55 – I hadn’t realised how late it was, it still feels like the middle of the night. I type Paul’s password into his phone. I remember the first time I tried to guess it a few months ago, putting in our wedding anniversary, my date of birth and then, finally, his. Of course it was all about him. I open his text messages. The last one was over twenty-four hours ago, from me. There are no texts from his mother. I hear the shower stop. I put the phone down, climb back into bed and face the wall. I listen as he dries himself, gets dressed, sprays himself with deodorant, does up his belt and refills the pockets of his jeans with loose change.
‘How will you get there? Train?’ I ask.
‘No, quicker to drive.’
‘I thought the car needed its MOT?’
‘Dave says it’s ready now. I’ll just collect it from the fore-court. I’ve got the spare key.’
‘Did he text you too?’
‘No, he called last night. Why?’
‘No reason.’
He has an answer for everything.