ML Roberts - The Wife – Part Two - For Better, For Worse

‘Ellie?’

I don’t turn around. I don’t reply. I continue to stare out across the garden. I feel him come up behind me, and I flinch slightly as he touches my hip, causing him to pull his hand away. I want him to touch me, yet there are times when I hate it. His touching me. No wonder he’s looking for a distraction. And maybe that’s also why his touching me makes me flinch – because I know he’s touching someone else?

‘We really should think about redecorating that room…’

‘Because a lick of paint will help erase the memory? You tried that once before, remember? And I told you not to touch that room again.’

‘Ellie, will you look at me, please?’

No. I won’t look at him. Why should I? Why should he get to say how this all works?

‘This isn’t helping. This behaviour…’

I swing around and stare at him, this man I fell hopelessly in love with all those years ago. And I know he’s changed. Forgetting and moving on, that’s how he’s dealt with it; but I’m not him. The repercussions of those events spread wider than just that one night, and Michael blames himself. But he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t blame himself. Like I said, we’re both to blame. We both made mistakes.

‘What we did…’

He shakes his head as he backs out of the room, and I start to feel that barrier slowly rise up between us again. ‘No, we’re not doing this, okay?’

‘Because you don’t want to?’

‘Because you’re going to make yourself ill if you don’t stop this. Every time I think you might be…’

‘What, Michael? Every time you think I might be what ? Getting over it? Forgetting it?’

He turns his back to me and walks out onto the landing.

I let him leave. I have to think of another way to win this. I have to find out what’s really going on with my husband. Only then can I start to fix what’s broken … if I want it to be fixed at all.

My father wasn’t a good man. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good father; he was, in the beginning. Before I knew the kind of man he really was; before I realised why my mum was always so sad, so reclusive. Their marriage was a lie, from start to finish. A web of deceit that ended tragically when my mum took an overdose of whisky and pills that saw her go to sleep and never wake up. Because she didn’t want to wake up. Because of what my father did. Because of his cheating. Because of his lies.

And I couldn’t stop it from happening. She hid how she was feeling just a little too well, even though we all knew something wasn’t quite right. Everyone knew she was unhappy; that much was obvious, even to me, and I was barely a teenager when I lost her.

Nobody had known just how deep her sadness had run, even after she’d found the courage to leave my dad. She kept it hidden from me, as much as she could – tried to make life after my father as happy as possible – but it became too hard for her. My mum was a good woman. She was one of the best. Kind. Caring. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for anyone, including my bastard of a father. She didn’t deserve what he did to her. His selfish weakness destroyed her, and I never forgave him. I never will. He killed my mum; that’s how I see it. Cheating, lying, deceiving – those actions destroy people. So to think that my own husband could be part of something like that … I won’t let it happen. I’m not my mother. She didn’t fight. I will.

Digging my hands into my pockets, I continue my walk through the centre of Durham. It’s one of my favourite places. Wandering around the compact streets of this small city is something I love to do. It’s calming – a chance to gather my thoughts, think about everything more clearly – and when the sun’s out and the weather’s a little warmer, as it is today, it fills me with peace. Out here, amongst all these people, I’m exposed, yet I don’t feel scared. Not today. Today I’m focused. I’m not feeling fragile or frightened; I’m fine.

Passing the small university bookshop on the corner, I start walking along a familiar street. One Michael and I know very well. We’ve been here so many times. I’m heading towards the Spanish restaurant we used to visit frequently, before that night. The same restaurant I know he’s been to recently, without me. I found the receipt, I saw the evidence, and that bill was for two meals. So, he didn’t come here alone. Maybe he was just having lunch with another staff member; it’s a possibility, but I doubt that was the case. He wouldn’t come here. Not here. He wouldn’t use this place for anything work-related; it was always our special place. And the thought of him sharing that with someone else…

I reach the restaurant and push open the door, the smell of paella, garlic and freshly baked bread hitting me head on, causing my stomach to rumble. I didn’t even realise how hungry I was until I came in here.

I look around until I catch the eye of a young waiter, someone I don’t recognise. I haven’t been here for so long that most of the staff seem different. New. This is a city with a big student population, and a lot of them find work in the many restaurants and bars, so it stands to reason there’ll be high turnovers of staff in places like this. Is that why Michael felt it safe to come here without me? Because no one would recognise him, no one would care; no one knows us well enough to tell me he’s bringing someone else to our restaurant?

The waiter throws me a friendly smile as he comes over, and I ask if I can have a table away from the window, a quiet table, at the side of the restaurant. I’m looking for somewhere with a good view of the room, a place where I can easily see the entrance but also remain slightly secluded, and the table he seats me at is perfect. I thank him and take the menu he offers me, ordering a glass of Rioja Blanca and some bread and olives before I’m left alone to check out the rest of the menu, although I already know what I’m going to order. My favourite Tapas dishes – Gambas Pil Pil, Albondigas and Escalivada. I feel like something familiar, and I haven’t been here for so long, just the thought of those spicy prawns, the beautifully cooked pork meatballs in that wonderful tomato sauce and those Catalan style roasted, chargrilled vegetables … it’s making my mouth water. I’m almost forgetting why I’ve come here. It isn’t for the food at all; I’m here on the off chance that I might see something, anything, that can help me work out what’s going on in Michael’s world, because for too long now it’s felt like we’ve been living in two completely different ones. And I know that that receipt I found means something – I know it was only one, just one receipt. There’s no evidence he came here any other time. I have no reason to think he’s going to turn up here today; no reason to think he’s made this a regular haunt with someone new. But I have no reason to think he hasn’t. So I’m here, and maybe I’ll continue to come here for lunch more often. Maybe I need to put more time in at the Durham salon. Spend more time at the spa, so I can be closer to here.

I take a sip of wine and glance around the restaurant at the random mix of people all enjoying their lunch. I’m the only one dining alone, but that doesn’t bother me.

A fresh group of people are entering the restaurant now, and I can hear the waiter asking them to follow him to their table. I turn my head to see if any of those people are my husband and for a brief second that small, rational part of my brain makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Do I really expect Michael to walk in, with another woman, on the day I decide to come here?

Sitting back in my chair, I continue to watch everyone around me, and I wonder if any of their lives are as messed up as mine. I’m not sure anyone’s could be. But I know that what people choose to show to the outside world isn’t necessarily the reality. And I allow my mind to wander back to memories of my parents’ marriage; the way they’d acted happy, put on a united front whenever they were out in public, at family parties, gatherings, trips to the supermarket; anything that involved them being seen together. As I grew older, I could hear the arguments that quickly blew up once they were back behind closed doors; I was old enough to hear those rows, but not the accusations. I had no idea what they were arguing about, not at first. But once I realised what was really going on, that’s when I knew how quickly things – lives – could start to fall apart.