Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

‘If only!’ Jilly looked aghast. ‘No one’s groped me lately, unfortunately. You should bring him along and let him see for himself. He might be surprised.’

‘He wouldn’t come in a million years. Whenever I mention anything in the least alternative he laughs and says I’m losing my marbles.’

Jilly was sympathetic. Her husband didn’t share her interest in meditation either.

Suzanne walked slowly to her car. It would be wonderful, she thought, to be able to share this part of her life with Paul.

By the time she’d driven home it was nearly 10.30pm.

The street was quiet. Driveways were filled, curtains closed. Infrequent street lamps did little to relieve the darkness. Pushing open the gate, she glanced up at the house. It was imposing, rather than welcoming: its tall, elegant windows and deep eaves suggesting a house in deepest France rather than Wimbledon. Paul had fallen for its charming period features; she’d pointed out it would be dark and chilly in winter. Still, it was their home now.

She turned her key in the lock. The TV was blaring from the living room. She opened the door, saw Paul slumped in his armchair, a bottle of beer on the table beside him. He hadn’t changed out of his suit.

She went closer. ‘Hello, darling.’

He seemed not to notice her. She would have bent down and kissed him, but sensed that was not a good idea.

‘So, you decided to come home after all,’ he said, in a caustic tone, not looking away from the TV. Gun-toting cops were chasing the bad guys again.

‘You didn’t forget, did you? I always have the group on Tuesday evenings.’ He flicked channels, to a bird’s-eye view of a glossy car being driven around a hairpin bend.

‘Have you eaten?’ She knew she ought to go upstairs and leave him to it. He flicked to the next channel. ‘There’s some risotto in the fridge, I can heat it up if you like?’

‘Don’t trouble yourself. I can do without yesterday’s leftovers, thanks.’

A flash of anger. ‘Do you have to be so goddamn rude? What’s the matter with you?’

He swigged from the bottle then looked at her.

‘If you really want to know, I’ve had a shit day at work. Chris dropped me right in it again, making me look like a prize idiot in front of the directors.’

‘Why, what happened?’

‘He pulled me up for giving the customer an earful about fucking us around with their requirements – he said I was harassing the customer and the whole project was in danger. Carlton was sitting there, lapping it up.’

‘I’m sorry. You’ve been working so hard on this project. I know how stressful it is at the moment.’

Paul laughed, a mirthless eruption from deep in his throat.

‘That’s a joke. You go rushing around like a twenty-five-year-old, forgetting you’ve got a husband at home.’

‘I’m not your slave, you know. I have a right to my own life.’

‘Well, why don’t you fuck off then?’ He got out of the armchair, pointing the remote control at the TV. ‘Go back to that pack of weirdos you hang out with.’

Her composure vanished, along with any trace of compassion and willingness to understand.

‘For God’s sake, Paul, you should hear yourself! What the hell gets into you?’

‘I’d like to be able to come home once in a while and know that you’re going to be here and not getting up to God knows what.’ He stood over her, glaring. ‘The house is a fucking disgrace, if you hadn’t noticed. When did you last get round to cleaning the bathroom?’

Her mouth fell open. For a moment, she was unable to speak.

‘Well,’ she said at last, anger overtaking her, ‘if you weren’t so bloody paranoid, accusing the cleaning woman of snooping around your things, I wouldn’t have to fucking well do it all myself!’

‘Oh, give me a break, will you?’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you? Is it my fault you don’t turn me on anymore?’

She had a fleeting urge to pummel her fists into his body.

‘You can talk, you…’ She couldn’t think of any words strong enough. ‘You arrogant bastard. Who do you think you are, Robert bloody Redford? You’ve got all the charm of a… fucking gorilla!’

She stomped upstairs, slamming the bedroom door. Then she undressed and climbed into bed, teeth unbrushed, face unwashed. His words swirled around in the darkness, making her seethe. How dare he sneer at her and everything she believed in? But, what stuck in her mind, what really hurt, deep down, was his final thrust:

‘Is it my fault you don’t turn me on anymore?’ As if she were a sack of potatoes. If that was true, then what was left?

Suzanne opened her eyes. Chill morning light leaked through the drawn curtains. The images in her dream lingered, and with them a sense of profound sadness. Snow hurling in through gaps in the ceiling, swirling into her face, covering the furniture. Piling up into deep mounds, trying to obliterate her. She must get out, before she was buried forever.

I’ve hung on too long. This wasn’t the life I was meant to have .

Paul was kissing her brow, she suddenly realised. She turned her head away, pushing herself up in bed. The night before came back.

‘Darling,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘I want to apologise for the things I said last night. I shouldn’t have got so angry. It was just that I so much wanted you here with me last night, after what happened at work.’

He was trying to find his way back into her heart. It was uncanny how easily he could do that. The hurt welled up again, strong as ever.

‘Is it true, what you said to me?’ She held her breath. ‘I don’t turn you on anymore?’

‘I didn’t mean it, Suzanne. I just wanted to hurt you.’

She caught sight of her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Her face, crumpled with sleep, the texture of an old apple. She turned his words over in her mind, examining their inflection. He might be telling the truth, or half the truth, or none at all.

‘Darling.’ His voice suddenly anxious. ‘Please, I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t.’

‘Just go away and leave me alone. I’m going back to sleep.’

He rustled around the room getting ready for work.

‘How about dinner this evening? That French place you like in the village?’ She opened her eyes. Paul’s hand rested on the door handle. He wore his pinstriped suit, the one she liked best. ‘I can call and book from work. You can get all glammed up.’

‘No, thanks, I’d rather not.’

‘Come on, Suze. Don’t be so hard on me.’

He waited, but she stayed silent.

She heard the front door close, the Porsche’s low, powerful rumble and, for a long time after he’d driven away, the resigned, melancholy tone of his last words.

I’ve been too hard on him . I should have let him make peace with me .

No, he’s gone too far. He has to understand that.

Her thoughts came and went. A sort of deadness seemed to have taken root inside her. Through the window, the sky was flecked with cloud, promising a fine day ahead.

She could go downstairs and make a cup of tea. Or she could just lie here and do nothing. She looked at the pair of thin, wavy cracks that travelled along the ceiling then diagonally down the wall. They had been there for months; Paul said it was from the speed bumps, there was nothing to worry about. Even so, sometimes she couldn’t help thinking that if it were to rain very hard one day, the ceiling might cave in.

It came back suddenly, another strange dream she’d had, a few hours before. With it came the sense of desolation. She’d been alone, clinging to the side of a hulking ship. There’d been no lifeboats or survivors, only endless iron-grey water all around. Again and again, the ship lurched down, taking her with it, towards the water.