C.L. Taylor - The Accident

Sunday morning, before he left, he leaned over the bed and kissed me on the lips. He said he’d had the most amazing night of his life, that he couldn’t bear to leave me and he’d ring that evening.

Only he didn’t.

And he didn’t ring on Monday evening either.

By Tuesday night I was so stressed I called Hels. She talked me down off the ceiling and said there were all kinds of reasonable explanations why James hadn’t called and he’d ring when he got the chance. She told me to relax and get on with my life. That’s easy for her to say. She hasn’t been single for years. She can’t remember how torturous it is, sitting in, trying to watch a film but all the time staring at the phone, wondering if it’s working – then getting up to test it to find that it is.

Oh God. The phone is ringing right now . Please, please let it be him.

I’m curled up on the sofa when Brian gets home, a book in my hand, a glass of wine on the coffee table and my feet tucked up under my bum. It’s a familiar scenario, and one that would normally signal a happy, relaxed Sue, but I’m on my third glass of wine and I’ve read the same paragraph at least seven times.

‘Hello, darling.’ My husband pops his head around the living room door and raises a hand in the same easy manner as his son, twelve hours earlier.

I smile in acknowledgement but my body is tense. It’s not the thought that he’s having another affair that’s tearing at me, it’s the fact he’s been using our daughter’s accident to cover his tracks. I’ve been torturing myself all day – poring through my diary and the one in Brian’s study (there was nothing in the drawer, just some headed notepaper), looking for anything to back up, or even discount, my suspicions – but I found nothing. If it wasn’t for the phone call with Mark this morning I wouldn’t have a shred of evidence.

‘You okay?’ He raises a hand as he strolls into the room with Milly at his side. When he reaches the sofa he kisses me gently on the lips and sits down. ‘How’s your day been?’

‘Okay.’

He reaches for the cushion behind his back, throws it onto the armchair, leans back with a sigh and then looks at me. ‘Just okay? I thought you were going to go into town and treat yourself to a new dress?’

‘I …’ For a second everything feels normal – my husband and I, having a chat about our day – but then I remember. Everything is far from normal. ‘I didn’t go. I was too busy.’

‘Oh?’ He raises an eyebrow and waits for details but I change the subject.

‘Oli popped by, this morning.’

‘I missed him again?’ He looks genuinely gutted. ‘What did he want?’

‘Nothing in particular. He was on his way to Southampton for a field trip. I think he’s going to call in again on his way back.’

‘Oh, good.’ Brian brightens again. His relationship with his son is different from his relationship with Charlotte, it’s more complex. They were joined at the hip when Oli was a child, clashed furiously when he was a teen and have developed a mutual respect since. Theirs is a comfortable friendship, tempered by a similar sense of humour and challenged by different political views. They laugh easily but when they clash it’s Titan-like. Charlotte and I always run for cover.

I twist to place my book and my wine glass on the coffee table, temporarily hiding my face from my husband. I feel sure he must have noticed the strained expression on my face. Trying to appear ‘normal’ when all I want to do is rage at him is exhausting, but I can’t scream at him. The last thing Charlotte needs is for me to suffer another of my episodes. I have to be calm. Logical. One lie does not an infidelity make. I need more evidence.

‘You okay?’ There’s concern in Brian’s voice.

‘Great,’ I twist back. ‘How was work?’

‘Urgh.’ He groans and runs a hand through his hair. It was once as bright a shade of auburn as Oli but it’s now ninety per cent grey, what’s left of it. ‘Hideous.’

‘How was the train journey?’

He casts me an enquiring look. I’m not normally so interested in the details of his daily commute. ‘Same as normal,’ he says then reaches across the sofa and pats one of my knees. ‘You okay, darling? You seem a bit … tense.’

My fingers are knotted together. Was I twisting them while Brian was talking? It’s amazing, the little messages a body can leak. I look from my fingers to my husband. His body isn’t saying anything unusual. He looks as relaxed and calm as normal.

‘Why did you lie to me, Brian?’ So much for staying calm and logical.

His mouth drops open and he blinks. ‘Sorry?’

‘You made out you were going to work.’

‘When?’

‘This morning. You didn’t go, did you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘That’s odd, Mark said you weren’t there.’

‘Mark?’ Brian snatches his hand from my knee. ‘Why would you ring my PA?’

‘I didn’t,’ I say. ‘He rang me.’

‘Why?’

‘He said he had something important to discuss with you. Didn’t he mention it when you went into the office in the afternoon? If you went in.’

‘Of course I did. And yes,’ he shifts position so he’s turned square towards me, ‘now I come to think of it, he did have something fairly urgent to discuss with me.’

‘Great. So,’ I maintain eye contact, ‘where were you this morning, Brian?’

My husband says nothing for a couple of seconds. Instead he runs a hand over his face and takes a few deep breaths. I wonder if he’s steadying himself, hiding his eyes from me so I can’t see the lies he’s fabricating now I’ve confronted him.

‘I …’ he looks at me, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘I was going to see Charlotte.’

‘You didn’t! We were both there when the consultant said—’

‘Sue.’ He holds up a hand and I bite my tongue. ‘I was planning on seeing Charlotte this morning. I planned it days ago. I know you can’t bear it when she’s left alone so I was going to surprise you, suggest that you take yourself into town to get a manicure or a haircut or a new dress or something while I sat with her. Then, last night, the consultant told us about the tests and that pretty much scuppered my plans so …’

‘So?’ I say the word so loudly Milly lifts her head from the carpet and looks at me.

‘So I went into town instead. I visited the library, went for a swim, did a bit of shopping and just had a bit of …’ he cringes, ‘I guess you’d call it “me time”.’

‘Me time?’

‘Yes.’ He looks me straight in the eye.

‘So you took the morning off to give me some … me time … and when the consultant told us that we couldn’t visit Charlotte you decided to have some … me time … for yourself instead?’

He shrugs uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you mention it?’

‘When?’

‘When you came in just now? Why didn’t you mention it?’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Sue.’ Brian slumps forward, his head in his hands. ‘I really don’t need this. I really don’t.’

‘But …’ I can’t finish my sentence. The whole situation suddenly seems faintly ridiculous and I’m not sure why I’m continuing to argue. Brian planned a treat for me and it fell through so he took a few hours to himself. That’s perfectly reasonable. So he didn’t walk through the door and tell me all about it – so what? I’m not his keeper, he doesn’t have to report his every move to me – I’d never do that to him, not after what James put me through.

I look at the hunched, tired shape on the other end of the sofa. He looked so fresh, so optimistic when he walked in ten minutes ago. He looks ten years older now.