Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

I feel the bile rise up inside me. I’ve had enough. Enough of this for today.

“Fuck you, Mark! You’re being a fucking arsehole. When have you ever paid for me? When? What am I, a fucking hooker?”

This was supposed to be a lovely day.

“No, Erin, no, you’re not, sadly. Because if you were you’d shut the fuck up about now.”

My heart skips a beat in my chest. Fuck. Mark has gone, just like that, and a stranger is standing in my living room. Fucking hell. My breathing becomes shallow— God. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, Erin. Just breathe. I feel the prickle behind my eyes.

Mark looks at me.

He mutters something inaudible, then turns away and looks out the window.

I sit down in silence.

“I can’t believe you just said that, Mark,” I whisper.

I know I should let it go but—no, no, I shouldn’t let it go. Fuck that! I have to marry this man in three weeks. If this is going to be the rest of my life from now on, I want to bloody know.

“Mark…”

“What, Erin! What do you think we’re going to do after the wedding? If we do have kids? What do you think is going to happen? My job pays for everything. It paid for this house.”

“No, Mark. No! We both pay for it! I put all of my savings into that deposit too. Everything I had,” I blurt out, my voice rising to meet his.

“Okay, great, that’s great, Erin. You put your money in too. But you can’t pay all the mortgage on your salary, can you? I mean, we don’t live in a one-bed flat in Peckham, do we? There’s absolutely no way you can cover the mortgage on your own with what you earn. I don’t mean to upset you, Erin, but you’re just not listening. We’re going to have to sell the house. Obviously!”

Sell it? Oh my God. I must look terrified, because he nods now, satisfied.

“I don’t think you’ve really thought about this at all, have you? Because if you had, then honestly, Erin, you’d be just as worried about it as I am. We are going to go under.”

Oh my God. I am silent. I’ve been an idiot. I see that now. This hurts. None of what he’s saying had occurred to me. I hadn’t thought about the fact that all our plans might simply fall through. That he just might not get another good job at all.

He’s right. No wonder he’s so angry. He’s been dealing with this alone. And I’ve been flouncing around acting as if…But then I remember. It doesn’t have to be like that. Like Caro said, he could just do something else.

“But, Mark, you can get another job! Any job! You’ve got a great résumé, can’t you just—”

“No, Erin,” he interrupts, wearily. “It doesn’t work like that. What the fuck else am I going to do? All I am qualified to do is price and sell bonds, nothing else. Unless you’re suggesting I work in a bar?”

“Mark, please. I’m just trying to help! Okay! I don’t know exactly how your industry works, do I? I just want to be in this together, so please stop saying I don’t understand and just explain it to me. Please .” I know I sound like a petulant child but I don’t know what else to say.

He sags down on the sofa opposite me, drained. His shoulders hunched. An impasse.

We sit in the silence, the low hum of traffic and wind through the trees in the garden just audible.

I get up and go over to sit next to him. I reach out and touch his back gently with my hand. He doesn’t flinch away, so I start to rub it softly with my palm. Soothing him, stroking his warm back through the starched cotton shirt. He lets me.

“Mark?” I say tentatively.

“It’s okay if we sell this place,” I continue. “It’s okay. It’ll be sad, because I like it here. But I don’t care where we live. I just want you. You anywhere. Under a bridge. In a tent. Just you. And we don’t need to have kids straightaway, if it’s the wrong time. And listen, I know you’d hate to do a different job, but it wouldn’t bother me what you did, as long as you were happy. I mean, I wouldn’t think any differently about you. You’re just you. I never loved you for money or anything like that. It’s nice to have it, sure, but I just want to be with you. We can even live with your mum and dad in East Riding if you want?”

He lifts his eyes to me. Smiles in spite of himself.

“That’s great, Erin, because that was another thing I needed to tell you: Mum’s already made up the futon in the spare room.” He’s watching me slyly. A joke. Thank God. We laugh and the tension bursts over us. It’s going to be okay.

“I genuinely think that would make your mum’s year, you know!” I laugh.

He smiles, sheepish, boyish again. I love him.

“Sorry.” His steady look. He is sorry.

“Can you let me join in again?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I should have told you how I felt before. But I will from now on, okay?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay. But, Erin, I know it’s stupid but…I can’t go back to where I started. I can’t do all that again.”

“I know, honey. It’s okay. You won’t have to. We’re going to work this out together. Because that’s what we do.”

He takes my other hand, my ring hand, lifts it to his mouth.

“Mark, should I go back on the pill? Should we wait?”

“You know what they say…” He kisses our engagement ring. “There’s never a good time.” He still wants it. Thank God.

He pulls me close. We swing our legs up onto the couch and fall asleep together, spooning in the afternoon sunlight.

I’m back at Holloway to meet Alexa, my second interview subject. The guard, Amal, has gone; instead we have a guard called Nigel. He’s much older than Amal, mid-fifties, a career prison guard. I’d say by the look of him the novelty of the job wore off back in his early twenties, yet here he stands. We’re in the same room as last time. I think of Holli staring opaquely up at the slice of sky, and her face morphs into Mark’s. Holli’s release date, and our follow-up interview, is set for five weeks from now, but that won’t be till after the wedding and, now, after we’re back from our honeymoon.

—

It’s an odd damp day. I sip the staff room instant coffee that Nigel has made for me as I wait for Alexa to arrive. The coffee is hot and strong and that’s all that matters right now. I like my coffee like my men. I am joking, obviously. Wait, am I? I didn’t sleep that well last night; it’s been two days since our argument. I think we’re okay now, though. Mark and I. Over the weekend, we canceled the wedding venue and rejiggered a lot of wedding stuff together. It was actually pretty fun. I’ve been relieved to discover that I’m not a highly strung bride, not by a long shot. We’ve cut back in some places in order to splurge in others. We’re all set now. And Mark seems much happier. More secure. Back to his old self. I think this whole thing has just shaken his confidence a bit. But he’s back formulating a strategy now.

I don’t care about the wedding as long as he’s happy.

Nigel clears his throat loudly and gives me a nod. I turn on the camera next to me and stand awkwardly, as if I’ll be greeting someone I don’t know. But the funny thing with Alexa is that, since our telephone chats, I feel like I actually do know her, even though I’ve never met her.

I see her through the reinforced mesh of the door’s window, her eyes: warm, calm, serious. She enters looking at me from under soft blond bangs. Her open face. The pale blue Holloway prison-issue sweatshirt, pants, and slip-ons look like they’re from a Scandinavian fashion house on her. Like she’s trying something new for London Fashion Week. Very minimalist, very chic. Alexa is forty-two. She looks toward Nigel and waits for him to nod before pulling out the seat opposite me. I extend my hand across the white void of the table. She takes it with a muted smile.