Лиана Мориарти - Nine Perfect Strangers

Pete’s eyes had gotten suspiciously shiny after the scratch incident last month. “Scratchgate,” they all called it.

“Jealous fuck,” Pete said when Ben showed him the long deliberate scratch left by some evil person’s key on the passenger door. Ben couldn’t work out where and when it had happened. He never left the car in public car parks. It felt like it had to be someone they knew. Ben could name multiple people who might resent him and Jessica enough to have done it. Once he would have found it hard to name a single enemy in his life. Now it seemed they had a nice little collection. He knew Jessica thought it was Ben’s sister who had done it, although she never accused Lucy out loud. He could read her mind by the thin fold of her lips. Maybe she was right. It could have been Lucy.

Pete fixed the scratch with the same care as if he were restoring a priceless painting, and Ben had been vigilant until right now, when he’d put the car at huge, unforgivable risk by driving down that hellish road.

Ben should never have given in to Jessica. He’d tried. He stopped the car and told her, calmly and without swearing, that driving a car like this down an unpaved road was negligent and that the consequences could be catastrophic. They could, for example, rip out the exhaust system.

It was almost like she seriously didn’t care about the exhaust system.

They’d yelled at each other for ten minutes straight. Proper yelling. Spitballs flying. Their faces red and ugly and contorted. The head-exploding frustration he’d felt during that argument was like something half-remembered from childhood, when you couldn’t express yourself properly and you had no control over your life because you were a kid, so when your mum or dad said you couldn’t have the new Star Wars action figure you wanted with all your heart you totally lost your shit.

There had been a moment there when he’d clenched his fists; when he had to tell himself, Don’t hit her . He hadn’t known he was capable of feeling the desire to hit a woman. He folded right then. He said, “Fine. I’ll ruin the car. Whatever.”

Most guys he knew wouldn’t have even stopped for the yelling. They would have just done a U-turn.

Most guys would never have agreed to this crazy idea in the first place.

A health resort . Yoga and hot springs. He didn’t get it. But Jessica said they needed to do something dramatic and this would fix things. She said they needed to detox their minds and their bodies to save their marriage. They were going to eat organic lettuce and get “couples counseling.” It was going to be ten days of pure torture.

Some celebrity couple had come to this place and saved their marriage. They had “achieved inner peace” and got back in touch with their “true selves.” What a load of crap. They may as well have handed over their money to Nigerian email scammers. Ben had a horrible feeling the celebrity couple might have got together on The Bachelorette . Jessica loved celebrities. He used to think it was sweet, a dumb interest for a smart girl. But now she was making too many life decisions based on what celebrities did, or what it was reported they did; it was probably all crap anyway, they were probably getting paid to support products on their Instagram accounts. And there was Jessica, his poor innocent, hopeful Jessica, soaking it all up.

Now it was like she thought she was one of those people. She was imagining herself at those trashy red-carpet events. Every time she got her photo taken these days she put her hand on her hip, like she was doing the actions for “ I’m a Little Teapot, ” then turned side on and thrust out her jaw with this maniacal smile. It was the weirdest thing. And the time she took setting up these photographs. The other day she spent forty-two minutes (he’d timed it) taking a photo of her feet .

One of their biggest fights recently had been about one of her Instagram posts. It was a photo of her in a bikini top, leaning over, pushing her arms together so her new boobs looked even bigger and pouting her puffy new lips at the camera. She’d asked what he thought of the photo, her face all hopeful, and because of her hopeful face he hadn’t said what he really thought—that it looked like she was advertising a cheap escort service. He’d just shrugged and said, “It’s okay.”

Her hopeful face fell. You’d think he’d called her a name. Next thing he knew she was screaming at him (these days she could go from zero to a hundred in a second) and he felt sucker-punched, unable to understand what had just happened. So he’d walked away while she was in the middle of yelling and went upstairs to play the Xbox. He thought walking away was a good thing to do. A mature, manly thing to do. To disengage and give her time to calm down. He kept getting these things wrong. She ran up the stairs after him and grabbed the back of his T-shirt before he reached the top.

“Look at me!” she screamed. “You don’t even look at me anymore!”

And it killed him to hear her say that, because it was true. He avoided looking at her. He was trying really hard to get over that. There were men who stayed married to women who were disfigured by accidents, burns or scars or whatever. It shouldn’t make a difference that Jessica was disfigured by her own hand. Not literally her own hand. Her own credit card. Willful disfigurement.

And then all her stupid friends encouraged her, “Oh my God, Jessica, you look incredible.”

He wanted to yell at them, “Are you blind? She looks like a chipmunk!”

The thought of separating from Jessica was like having his guts ripped out, but these days being married to Jessica was like having his guts ripped out. Whatever way you looked at it: guts ripped out.

If this retreat worked, if they got back to the way they used to be, it was even worth the damage to the car. Obviously it was worth it. Jessica was meant to be the mother of his children—his future children.

He thought of the day of the robbery, two years ago now. He remembered the way her face—it was still her own beautiful face back then—had crumpled like a little kid’s, and the rage he’d felt. He’d wanted to find those fuckwits and smash their faces.

If not for the robbery, if not for the fuckwits, they wouldn’t be at this place. He wouldn’t have the car, but at least he wouldn’t be stuck here for the next ten days.

On balance, he still wanted to smash their faces.

“Ben!”

Jessica beckoned him over. She was all social and smiley, like they hadn’t just been yelling at each other. She was so good at that. They could drive to a party and fight all the way, not say a word to each other as they walked up someone’s stairs, and then the door of the apartment opens and—bang—different person. Laughing, joking, teasing him, touching him, taking selfies, like they were so having sex tonight, when they were so not having sex tonight.

Then, back in the car on the way home, she’d restart the fight. It was like flicking a switch on and off. It freaked him out. “It’s just good manners,” she told him. “You don’t take your fight to a party. It’s no one else’s business.”

He straightened up, adjusted his cap, and went over to stand beside Jessica to perform like her monkey.

“This is my husband, Ben,” said Jessica. “Ben, this is Frances. She’s doing the same retreat as us. Well, probably not exactly the same …”

The lady smiled up at him from the driver’s seat. “That’s a very fancy car, Ben,” she said. She spoke as if she already knew him. Her voice was snuffly and hoarse, the tip of her nose bright red. “It’s like something from a movie.” He could see straight down the huge chasm of her cleavage; he couldn’t help it, there was literally nowhere else to look. It wasn’t bad , but she was old, so it wasn’t good either. She wore red lipstick and had a lot of curly gold-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail. She reminded him of one of his mum’s tennis friends. He liked his mum’s tennis friends—they were uncomplicated and didn’t expect him to say much—but he preferred them not to have cleavage.