Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

“What!? What the actual! That’s just—that’s ridiculous! Bloody hell, is he all right?” Caro’s shifted up an octave. A businessman swivels in his chair to look over at us. I hush her.

“It’s fine. I mean… he’s not fine, but it is fine. It’s tricky because I really want to be there for him but at the same time I don’t want to…you know, emasculate him by actually helping him, you see? It’s delicate. I have to sort of fluff him up without him noticing. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not because he needs bolstering or anything. It’s because I love him, you know, Caro. I want him to be happy. But he won’t let me make him happy. It’s like he thinks the worrying focuses him or something, like it’s going to help fix it all. I’ve never seen him act like this, you know? He’s always got a plan, but this one’s falling apart. This whole EU situation, fucking Brexit, the bottom falling out of the pound, sterling at an all-time low, the government, the new prime minister, the new foreign secretary, for God’s sake. Donald Trump! Everything is fucked. It’s the worst possible timing for this total shitstorm.”

“Humph.” Caro shakes her head in solidarity.

I charge on. “And I know as well as he does, it’s ruining his chances of getting something else. And not only that, but even if someone is looking, it’s going to be hard to sell the idea to a future employer that he resigned from his job before getting another position. He says they’re going to wonder why on earth he did that. It just looks weird, apparently. Well, that’s what he’s saying. But I say: Just tell people you didn’t like it there. Or say you wanted a break from work before the run-up to the wedding. I mean, it’s not a crime to take some time off. But then, I do see what he means. It looks weak. To them, I mean. Like he can’t handle the pressure and had to ‘take a break.’ Like he had some kind of breakdown or something. Argh! God, it’s so annoying. Seriously, Caro, it’s driving me nuts. I can’t fix it. Everything I suggest gets batted down. I don’t know what to do. So I just sit there, listening and nodding.”

I stop talking. She shifts in her seat. Looks out at the street and nods sagely before answering.

“I don’t know what to say, hon. It’s fucking frustrating. It’d drive me mad. Mark’s a smart guy, though, isn’t he? I mean—come on, he could do anything, right? Why doesn’t he just get another job? He could work in any industry, really, with his experience. Why doesn’t he just look for something else?”

The answer to that is simple. It’s the same answer I’d give if Caro asked me to change my career. I don’t want to do something else. And Mark doesn’t want to do something else either.

“He could, definitely. But, you know, hopefully it won’t have to come to that. We’re still waiting to hear back about a couple of things. It’s just that the wedding’s coming up and it feels like he’s checked out of it a little bit.”

“Of what? The wedding planning? Or the actual relationship?”

“The…the planning? I don’t know. I don’t know, Caro. No, not the relationship. No.” I feel bad now.

“Is he being an arsehole?” Her tone is now uncharacteristic in its extreme earnestness. I can’t help but laugh out loud.

Caro looks instantly concerned; I guess I’m not acting very characteristic myself right now. I must look nuts.

“Sorry! No. No, he’s not. He’s not being an arsehole.” I glance at her worried face, her crinkled forehead.

There’s no point in this conversation, I realize suddenly. Caro doesn’t know what I should do. She has no idea. She doesn’t even know that much about me. Not really. I mean, we’re friends but we don’t really know each other. I’m not going to find any answers here. I need to talk to Mark. I’m just making a mess here, with this conversation. We should be talking about flowers and cake and hen weekends. I snap myself out of it.

“You know what, I think I’m just hungry! No breakfast,” I confess. “Nothing’s wrong, really, I think I’m just getting jittery about the wedding. And low blood sugar. What I need, what I really need, is a Caesar roll and some of those straw chips. And wine.”

Caro’s smile returns instantly. I’m back. Everything is fine, all stress forgotten. Confession erased. Slate wiped clean. I’ve turned a corner and she’s completely on board. We move on. Thank you, Caro . And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why she is my maid of honor.

—

It’s late afternoon when I finally leave Caro, joining the rush-hour commuters, tipsy and slow, as they pour underground.

On the tube home I think about what I’ll say to him. We need to talk properly. About everything, actually.

Or maybe we just need to fuck. That always seems to reset us. It’s been four days now since we slept together, which for us is long. We’re usually a, at least, once-a-day couple. I know, I know. Don’t get me wrong; I know that’s not a usual amount. I know that after the first year has passed, that is ridiculously sick-making. I know because before I met Mark sex was more of a once-a-month ticketed-event type of thing. Overhyped and ultimately disappointing. Trust me, I’ve been in my fair share of shitty relationships. But we—Mark and I—have never been like that. I want him. I want him all the time. His smell, his face, the back of his neck, his hands on me. Between my legs.

God, I miss him. I feel my pulse racing. The woman in the seat opposite me looks up from her crossword. She frowns. Perhaps she can hear my thoughts.

Underneath my dress I can feel the soft brush of peach silk on skin. Matching underwear. I always wear matching, since I started dating Mark. He loves silk. I cross my legs slowly, feeling skin against skin.

The first wedding-related thing we did, after getting engaged, was to look at venues. We dived straight in. We went to a lot of places: quirky, austere, opulent, futuristic, earthy. You name it, we’ve had a walk-around tour of it. But it was clear once we stepped into the bookish wood-paneled reception rooms at the Café Royal that that was what we wanted. Whatever that was.

Today they’re laying on three options of every course for us to taste privately in the reception rooms, along with wine pairings and champagne choices. We’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, but now that it’s here it seems a tiny bit like a formality. It also seems odd celebrating when Mark is going through all this. But we can’t put life on hold.

In the underground on the way there, Mark reads news on his phone. I try to do the same. At Covent Garden he turns to me.

“Erin, listen. I know you’re excited about this but can we just decide now that we’ll go for the cheapest options on food and drink? Like, sure, we’ll try it all and it’ll be an amazing day, but moneywise, at the end of it let’s just go for the cheapest, okay? I mean, it’s a five-star restaurant already, so everything’s going to be good, so, yeah? Can we agree on that? Is that all right?”

I see what he’s saying. He’s right, of course. It’s dinner for eighty people, we do need to be sensible about it. And to be honest, their house wine is fucking amazing. We won’t need anything more than that.

“Yes, okay. Agreed. Can we do it properly, though? Can we make all the right noises until the end? I want to try it all, all the stuff. I mean, why not, right? We’re only going to do it once. We’ll just try it and then we’ll say at the end. Okay?”

He relaxes. “Okay! Great. Thank you.”