‘But they’ll think I don’t want them.’ I see panic on her face, and it strangely reassures me to know that she cares about how they must be feeling. She may not remember her children, but she still has a mother’s instinct.
‘They’re fine, I promise you, Ava. I told them that I need time with you to help you remember some things.’
Her eyes fall to my chest and flit across the material of my Ralph Lauren shirt. She’s thinking. ‘I do want them,’ she says on a frown. ‘I know I want them.’ Looking up at me, she takes her hands to my T-shirt and fists the cotton. ‘I know they’re mine.’
I nod as I breathe in, my eyes glued to hers. ‘I know you know.’
She returns my nod, thankful for my faith in her, as she smiles through a suppressed yawn. She’s knackered. She needs to rest.
‘You should get some sleep.’
She looks down her front and then feels her ponytail. ‘I’d love a shower.’
A shower. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve showered together. The times I’m oblivious as I’m washing myself and that waft of cool air hits me, a sign my wife is about to join me under the spray. Now isn’t going to be one of those times, and it hurts so bad.
‘Sure.’ I stand and set her on her feet, backing up, reluctantly showing my intention to let her get on with it.
A tiny frown wrinkles her brow. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
I close my eyes briefly, gathering air into my dying lungs. Of course. She needs a tour of her own home.
‘I’ll show you.’ Resisting claiming her hand, I take the stairs, my feet heavy, my heart heavier as Ava follows, gazing around as she does.
I enter our suite, trying not to be nervous of showing my wife where we sleep. ‘The dressing room is through there,’ I say, pointing across the bedroom to the double doors. ‘And the bathroom is there.’
Her dark gaze drags across my body as she passes me, taking tentative steps towards the dressing room. Uncertain whether I should, I follow, standing on the threshold as she absorbs the space. ‘You keep your underwear and nightwear in that chest,’ I tell her.
She slides open the top drawer and surveys the contents. Then she moves to the next, pulling out one of my favourite negligées, feeling it for a while before sifting through the rest of the drawer. ‘There’s a lot of lace,’ she says quietly, making me smile a little. ‘Where are my cotton pyjamas? The cosy stuff?’
‘You like lace.’
Her eyebrows slowly rise. ‘Clearly.’
‘And I do, too.’ I shrug when she shoots me an interested look. ‘A little.’
‘You buy all my underwear, don’t you?’
‘It’s my favourite kind of shopping,’ I admit, unabashed.
She nods, slowly and unsurely, our eye contact never wavering. But the lust I always find so hard to control when we’re alone together, especially when lace is thrown into the mix, isn’t as strong today. Not for me, and not for her. It’s brutal, but I know sex isn’t going to fix this.
‘So I guess I should put one of these on?’ she finally asks.
I hate that it’s a question. And I hate even more that I have to answer with the answer I don’t want to give. ‘Wear what makes you comfortable.’ I push my shoulder off the door. ‘I’ll leave you to shower. I have T-shirts in the drawer if you’d prefer.’
I make my way downstairs, trying so hard not to feel defeated by such a trivial thing. Lace. It’s trivial but means so much to both of us.
I grab a beer from the fridge, then make my way into the games room and plonk down heavily on one of the leather couches. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I find my Sonos app and put on some music, if only to kill the unbearable sound of my thoughts. Gnarls Barkley’s ‘Crazy’ comes on, and I don’t bother changing it. It seems too apt.
My eyes fall to the bar in the corner, where every liquor known to man is stashed. Not for my enjoyment – I haven’t touched the hard stuff for years – more for that of our guests when we entertain. But that vodka . . .
What I would do right now to escape from this nightmare. To get blind fucking drunk and pass out, and hopefully wake up to my life as it should be.
I tear my gaze away, drop my head back, and let my thoughts continue to torment me as the track goes on. Let the pain penetrate deeper, because she’s upstairs showering alone. And I’m down here feeling useless.
I finish the bottle of beer but resist getting another, and go to the office. I sit at the desk and fire up the iMac, and then search through the files until I find what I’m looking for. The photos. Thousands snapped from the very beginning, to just recently at my fiftieth. Moments captured in time, faces smiling, and sometimes even scowling. Endless happy memories, every photograph loaded with love. I click through, my pain worsening with each image. How can she not remember any of this? How can she not remember me? I drop the mouse and scrub my hands down my rough face, feeling so fucking knackered – physically, emotionally. I need a shower, too.
I leave the folder open, ready to let Ava scroll through the years when she’s ready, then drag myself upstairs. There’s not a peep from our bedroom, and when I push into our room, I find Ava snuggled up in our bed. I can’t help feeling hurt. She’s always claimed it’s impossible to get to sleep without lying on my chest. Then I feel a little hopeful, because she’s wearing the lace instead of the T-shirt I offered. I ignore the fact that she has always slept naked. Baby steps.
After creeping to the bathroom, I take a quick, lonely shower, and then I trim my stubble, taking it down to the three days’ worth that she loves so much. I spend only a few seconds taking in the man before me. I’m a fucking mess. I feel weak, disheartened and sad. I’ve been in hell before, and I feel like I’m free-falling back there now. Why? Why is this happening? What did I do?
I brace my hands on the sink and breathe deeply, trying not to let the anger that’s brewing erupt. I don’t like it when things are out of my control, and right now, my world is spiralling into fucking bedlam. And there’s nothing I can do about it, only hope. My shoulders rolling with the strain of keeping my temper contained, I growl, my teeth clenched, desperate to hit something.
I look up and face myself again. And before I realise what’s happened, the mirror shatters and my knuckles split. It’s okay, though. Now my reflection looks exactly how I feel.
Broken.
Chapter 14
I can’t stand how quiet it is around here. I can’t hear the kids tearing through the house, can’t hear the coffee brewing, can’t hear Ava shouting at the twins to get their little arses into gear for school. It’s deadly silent.
I stare at the coffeemaker for a few seconds, feeling anger building. It’s just a coffeemaker. But it’s a coffeemaker that’s always brewing when I get downstairs in the morning, because my wife has switched it on. It’s her thing. That’s what she does, and today she hasn’t. Because she doesn’t know.
I yank the cupboard open and search for the coffee. Finally, I locate it, pour it in, and fiddle with the stupid fucking machine, cursing my way through it. I don’t even know how to work the fucking thing. I don’t know if I’ve done it right, but I switch it on, hoping for the best, and silently will it to hurry the hell up to rid the kitchen of the god-awful quiet.
I collect a cup, add milk, and then tap my fingers impatiently on the worktop while I wait, scowling down at my scuffed knuckles. My eyeballs feel like they’re being scratched every time I blink, my lack of sleep catching up with me. I think I got an hour last night. An hour slumped in the chair by our bed, the rest of the night spent watching her sleep, desperate to crawl in behind her and cuddle her in my usual fierce way. But I dared not.
As I pour coffee, I hear my phone from across the kitchen. I fetch it and answer without looking at the screen. ‘Morning, Elizabeth.’
‘How are things? She settled in okay?’ Her voice sounds as desperate as I’m feeling.
No. And things are fucking awful. ‘As well as can be expected,’ I say. ‘How are the twins?’