Claire Allan - Apple of My Eye

‘That would be great,’ my mother says.

‘Good, if you have some bin bags or an old sheet, and some masking tape or something similar?’ he asks. My mother nods and sets about gathering what he has asked for. It all still seems very surreal to me.

‘If you can think of anything at all that might help, or of anyone who we should talk to, please don’t hesitate to call. I’m very sorry you’ve had this upset,’ he says, as he waits. ‘And it probably goes without saying that if you receive any more notes from this person, or if you feel in danger at all, that you contact us immediately. Use 999 if necessary, we’ll have this address flagged with first responders so that any call from here will be prioritised.’

I nod. By this stage I’m exhausted. I just want them to go. I want to sit down. Close my eyes. Pretend none of this is happening. I want to speak to Martin, but what do I say? Do I ask him outright if he’s having an affair? Do I go in all guns blazing? Do I start packing his bags, throw them out into the drive to languish in the rain until he returns? Do I leave? Do I stay and believe him and live in fear of the next note, or the next rock through a window, or the next whatever? Martin, my Martin – romantic walks. Dates. With someone else. I want to scream. This must be what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you.

My mother arrives back with a roll of bin bags, some masking tape and a dustpan and brush to lift the broken glass. I offer to help, but both police officers insist that my mother and I sit down. They can manage. I can only imagine they feel sorry for us – this heavily pregnant woman whose husband might be cheating, and this older lady wandering about in her nightie and dressing gown.

I’m relieved when they finally finish their task and leave, sympathetic smiles on their faces, and I finally give in to the tears that have been threatening for the last hour.

‘Eliana, why on earth did you not tell me about this note?’ Mum’s voice cuts through my thoughts, jolts me into the now. ‘I knew there was something you weren’t telling me – some reason you’d asked me to come down early.’

‘There wasn’t really anything to tell,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know it was about Martin. I didn’t think it could be about Martin. Oh! Mum, what am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to talk to him. You’re going to ask him to come home and you’re going to talk about this face-to-face.’

I nod. I start to cry and she’s beside me, hugging me.

‘Wait until you talk to him, Eli,’ she soothes. ‘He’s a good man. Now, how about we try to get some sleep? This will all seem less insurmountable in the morning. Go to bed, darling. Call Martin just to let him hear your voice and just for you to hear his, but then tell him you need him home. You need to talk. I’m sure he’ll come.’

‘But his work …’ I say, even though at this moment I don’t care about his work.

‘His work will still be there the day after tomorrow,’ she says and kisses my head. ‘Now, young lady,’ she adds softly, ‘go to bed.’

The next time I saw her she looked like a ghost. Her skin was so pale. Her hair lank. I was sure she’d lost weight. She didn’t seem to want to eat. She wasn’t even making an effort with the cup of tea in front of her.

I remember that feeling. After.

I felt as if I were see-through. As if I were floating and no one else could see me. Because if they did, they wouldn’t have laughed and joked with each other. They wouldn’t have huddled together to gossip. They wouldn’t have smiled at me and wished me good morning.

That man? Well, he wouldn’t have said ‘Cheer up, love. It might never happen.’

I wasn’t one for violence, but I relished the feeling of the bare skin of my palm as it struck his face, the bristles of his beard stinging. The look of shock in his eyes. I’ll remember that, just as I’m sure he’ll remember the look of anger in mine.

‘What would you know?’ I asked him before walking off.

He could’ve come after me, of course. He could’ve hit me back. He could’ve called the police. To be completely honest, I didn’t care. Nothing was right or fair in the world any more and I didn’t give a damn about whether or not I hurt other people.

They didn’t care that I was hurting.

That woman, sitting with her moping face over the cup of weak tea she had yet to touch, didn’t care that I was hurting. She wouldn’t want to think about what had happened to me. Even if I sat down opposite her and opened my heart to her, she would’ve backed away. She would’ve covered her ears.

I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to ask her, why wasn’t she happy? Why didn’t she understand how lucky she was? She was going to be a mother. I wonder, has she ever considered what it would’ve been like to have been told that was something she’d never be?

‘Everything okay for you?’ I asked instead with false smile.

She looked at me and offered me a weak smile back. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Her eyes were drawn back to the tea. I wondered what she saw reflected in it that made it so interesting.

‘Is this your first?’ I asked.

She blinked back at me. I nodded towards her stomach.

‘Yes. My first.’

‘Can be a wee bit scary, can’t it?’ I asked, hoping she’d engage. Open up a bit.

‘I suppose,’ she answered, her eyes darting back to the magic teacup in front of her once more. Clearly, she wasn’t the chatty type.

I wished her well but stayed close by. Cleaning the tables around her even though they were already clean. I made a mental note of her shopping, her handbag, the keys sitting at the top of it – anything that would help me to find out more about her.

I could hardly believe my luck when I heard a voice call to her. A man, tall, handsome. Her husband, maybe. He was as handsome as I’d hoped he’d be. Well dressed. Groomed. A hint of a tan. Healthy. A good genetic gene pool. He looked tired but he wore it well.

‘Here you are,’ I heard him say. ‘I was worried.’

I watched as he moved towards her, hugged her. I noted she didn’t hug him back. Just leaned her head in his direction.

I stayed close and Lady Luck rewarded me a second time. Her full name. He used her full name. A jokey comment about her giving him a heart attack. She addressed him by name in return – a jokey exchange despite how tired they both looked. I made a mental note of both and moved on to clean the other tables.

I knew who she was then. I knew who he was. It was all coming together perfectly.

More signs. More prayers being answered.

I knew this was His way of telling me I was on the right track. That if I just kept my faith in God, I’d get what I wanted. As the Bible promised, if I asked, I’d receive.

I press the call button and wait for him to answer. It doesn’t take long. He sounds concerned, or is it guilty? I want to scream at him. I wish he was here so I could do just that.

‘You have to know I have nothing to do with any of this,’ he says. ‘I’ve no idea what that note is about. I swear, Eli, I’m not cheating. I’ve never cheated. You know that. This is someone trying to mess with us.’

I’m almost too tired to speak. ‘Martin, I think we need to talk about it. I think you need to come home. Please, come home.’

He doesn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll book flights as soon as we’re done talking. Get back as soon as I can. I swear, Eli, you have to believe me.’

I imagine he wants me to say that I do believe him. That’s it’s all laughable that my husband would ever cheat, and any time before the last seven months I would probably have said so. But things are different now. I’m different.