I saw a lot of Hels and Rupert those first few weeks after James and I split up. One of them would ring at least once a day and they’d take me out – to the cinema, the pub, their house for a meal – two or three times a week. I’m not sure when, or why, we started to drift apart again. Maybe it was after their holiday in Greece, maybe it was when Rupert had to put in a lot of overtime at work or maybe it was because I’d stopped bursting into tears each time James’s name was mentioned and they assumed I was over him. Either way, I stopped going out as much and that’s when the rot really set in. I’d lie in bed at night, poring over the details of my relationship with James – trying to work out when it had all gone wrong, trying to pinpoint the moment the magic disappeared. I was haunted by guilt and regret – if I hadn’t opened up to him about my sex life on our second date he’d have carried on thinking that I was a precious angel, if I hadn’t told him about Rupert maybe the four of us would have been the best of friends, if I’d dragged him out of the pub a couple of hours earlier maybe his mum wouldn’t hate my guts. I wanted to rewind time – to go back and do everything again differently. Maybe that way I wouldn’t feel like I’d lost the love of my life.
The more I thought, the more miserable I became and the more I drank. I’d sit by my phone, repeatedly snatching it up to check it was still working or repeatedly dialling James’s number. The first few times I called his mum answered and told me that James wasn’t at home. The next time I called the phone went dead at the sound of my voice. By my fifth day of calling there was a ‘number not recognised’ message on repeat – they’d changed their number.
I started making excuses not to go into work – particularly on a Sunday when I knew rehearsals were on. I lost track of the number of times I had a tummy bug, a migraine or had to rush up north to see my mum – and, when I did go in, customers would comment that something was wrong with my face and ask what had happened to my smile.
Last week my phone rang. I snatched it up, sure it was James ringing to tell me he missed me but no, it was Steve from the Abberley Players. He was in a pub with the other actors and they’d been discussing my mysterious disappearance. They’d figured out that James and I had split up from his surly appearance (I was glad to hear that) and the fact he’d stalk off if anyone mentioned my name in his presence and they wanted to check I was okay (and if their costumes were near completion!). I laughed at the last comment and Steve said, ‘See, I told them you wouldn’t have lost your sense of humour. Come out with us. We miss you.’ I was touched but said no, I was already halfway through a bottle of wine and enjoying listening to my Nina Simone records and chain-smoking. Steve said that sounded like an excellent way to spend an evening and he’d be over with another bottle of wine and some more cigarettes. I tried to dissuade him but he went on and on, wheedling at me for my address until I finally gave it.
Within two hours of that phone conversation we were in bed.
The sex was perfunctory and drunken and, when he pulled me onto his skinny, hairless chest afterwards and told me how he’d fancied me for ages and that James was a fool to let me go, it was all I could do not to weep. I thought that, by having sex with another man – particularly a man that James despised – I could exorcise his ghost but it just made me miss him more. Steve was everything James was not. I felt no intensity when he looked at me, no passion when he kissed me and no ache in my heart when he curled up behind me and nestled his face into the back of my neck. I felt more lonely with him lying next to me than I had alone.
I couldn’t get rid of him fast enough the next morning. I could see the disappointment in his eyes when I turned down his suggestion of a fried breakfast in a greasy caf, followed by a browse of a local flea market, instead claiming I had a terrible headache and just wanted to go back to bed. He said he’d come with me, that, thinking about it, he could do with a snooze too but just the thought of his naked body touching mine again was enough to make me feel sick. I was brusque, made it clear I wanted to be alone and practically marched him to the front door. Steve stepped onto the street then turned back. His eyes met mine.
‘He doesn’t deserve you, you know.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m not an idiot.’ He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, suddenly looking impossibly young. ‘I know you still love him. I just thought … hoped … that if you spent time with me, someone who’d cherish you, someone who’d never be cruel or hurt you then maybe, maybe you’d …’ he tailed off and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Look after yourself, Susan.’ He touched the back of my hand. ‘Please.’
Chapter 19
Brian hasn’t left my side for four days. I’ve told him over and over again that he should go back to work because I’m not mad and I’m not going to do anything stupid but he won’t listen. He keeps telling me that this isn’t about me being ‘mad’, it’s about me getting a bit of R&R after a stressful few months and he’s only taking time off to ensure that I do actually put my feet up and relax.
‘Tablet time!’ he says, breezing into the living room with a cup of tea in one hand and a small, white pot of pills in the other.
‘Brian—’
‘You did promise, Sue,’ he says, setting the steaming mug of tea on the table beside me and handing me the tablets. ‘You told the doctor you’d take your medication.’
I smile at my husband, unlock the lid of the pill box with a sharp twist and shake two small, white pills into the palm of my left hand. I regard them dispassionately. They’ll make me calmer, Dr Turner said. I rotate my wrist so the pills tumble over each other. What is it like not to feel anxious? To feel secure instead of scared? It’s been so long I can barely remember.
‘Water,’ Brian says, standing up suddenly. Five minutes later he returns, a glass of water in one hand, his newspaper in the other.
‘There you go,’ he says, placing the glass on the table beside me and glances meaningfully at the pills lying on my open palm. I clench my hand shut. I’ve taken tablets like this before and they work quickly. Within an hour of swallowing them I’ll be a more relaxed, immobile, docile version of myself. So docile I will be unable to protect my family from danger.
‘Brian,’ I say. ‘Would it be the end of the world if I didn’t take—’ but I’m interrupted by the trill ring of the study phone.
‘Damn it,’ he grimaces, ‘I’ll have to get it, it might be important.’
‘Of course.’