“Apparently Andrew wants to go to Dubai.” My words are expressionless. I’ve still no idea why he even mentioned it, unless it’s lip service to his role as dutiful husband. “I won’t be going with him.”
There’s an odd look on Sophie’s face. “Have you told him?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.” It’ll cause another fight I don’t have the energy for; like everything else to do with Andrew, it would be pointless.
She frowns at me. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.” I sip my drink, unable to taste the vodka, putting it down. Then I close my eyes for a moment. “Actually, I’m not. My vision’s gone blurry.” Sophie knows I get migraines. I search my bag for my pills. “I can’t believe it. They’re in my other bag.” I glance around, noticing Andrew deep in conversation, on the other side of the room. “Do me a favor and tell him, would you? I should go home and take a pill before it gets any worse. Can we catch up another time? I want to hear about Goa.”
Sophie’s concern is genuine. “He should take you home. I’ll get him.”
I’m shaking my head. “Please, don’t. We’ve only just got here. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“You’re sure? Would you like me to walk with you?”
I shake my head. “If you could just tell Andrew...”
Slipping outside unnoticed, I take a deep breath. I have no migraine, just an intolerance for an evening wasted with people I don’t want to see. I’d rather be alone. As I walk home, I know Andrew won’t come after me, or even call me to check if I’m alright. I have no guilty conscience about the lie. In a life that’s full of them, one more makes no difference. I think of the expression on Sophie’s face when I told her I wasn’t going away with Andrew, and it creeps into my mind that she could be his latest. But she’s been in Goa, I remember, relieved, because Sophie’s the only person around here that I actually like.
Through the darkness, the sound of an owl reaches me. When we moved here, I thought I’d grow to love the countryside and the changes of the seasons, but I haven’t. Instead, it suffocates me. In a small village, there is no privacy. Everyone sees you. I wonder how much longer I can keep up the pretense that Andrew and I have a functioning marriage, just as I wonder how many people already know we don’t.
Just before I reach our drive, I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps running on gravel, then Hollie springs through the open gate, her hair caught in the dim glow from the lamps on top of the gateposts. Without looking round, she carries on up the lane, and I hear her sobbing. Hollie’s always been melodramatic, but lately . . . I shake my head. There’s something different about her. But the trouble with Hollie is her hype. When nothing small ever happens to her, it’s impossible to know what to believe.
Inside, I linger in the kitchen. Upstairs, I can hear Niamh moving around; then she comes downstairs, no doubt checking why I’m back so soon. If she’s surprised to see me, I can’t tell.
“I have one of my migraines,” I explain. “Have you eaten?”
Niamh’s face is blank as she looks at me. “We had pizza.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see the empty box on the side. “Was Hollie OK?”
“She’s fine.” But Niamh’s answer is too quick.
“I passed her just now.” Hollie clearly wasn’t fine. I wonder if something happened between them in the hour I was out. “She came running out just as I got back. She seemed upset about something.”
As Niamh shrugs, I know she isn’t going to tell me anything. Then she wanders out of the kitchen and I hear her light footsteps on the stairs. Fetching a glass, I make myself another drink—full strength this time, not like the insipid version the pub serves—then go over to the sofa at the far end of the kitchen, flicking the TV on.
The kitchen is my favorite room—calm, light yet cozy. Looking around, I imagine Andrew in the pub, no doubt smugly holding forth to anyone who’ll listen. I allow self-pity to wash over me, but only fleetingly. Sipping my drink, I remind myself, I chose this life, just as I choose to stay, not because I love this lifestyle or this house, because I don’t. It’s for Niamh. It won’t last forever.
* * *
By the time Andrew gets home, I’m in a vodka-induced slumber, which absolves me of having to talk to him and from which I awake late the following morning to find the bed empty. As I lie there, the sound of Andrew crashing around the kitchen reaches my ears, then the quieter sound of Niamh’s bedroom door opening, her footsteps fainter as she goes downstairs.
Closing my eyes, I think about staying in bed. I’m often on an early flight—the two of them are used to mornings without me. But propelled by a sense of maternal duty, I force myself to get up.
“Are you better?” Andrew barely looks at me as I walk into the kitchen.
He misses my nod as he grabs his keys. “I’ll be late,” he says abruptly. “I have a meeting.”
“Fine.” Then I look at Niamh, her face implacable as she watches him. For her sake, I add, “I hope it goes well,” making my voice sound caring, trying to counteract that his is anything but.
“See you tonight.” Grabbing his jacket, he marches outside. Niamh glances at the clock and pulls on her coat.
“Have a good day, Niamh.”
“Bye.” I watch her walk outside, then push the door closed behind her. Her face is paler than usual, bleached by the negativity between me and Andrew, a storm cloud she can’t escape from. I wait for the sound of his car starting, but instead I hear him swear loudly. Then he marches back inside. “Some little shit’s been at my car.”
“What?” I’m incredulous. Nothing like that happens around here. “What’s happened to it?”
“The fucking tires have been slashed.” Andrew’s face is white with fury. “I’ll have to take yours.”
I frown, wondering when it happened, how none of us heard. “You should tell the police. Just a moment...” As his eyes search the kitchen, I reach for my keys before he sees them. “You’re not helping yourself to my car, Andrew. I have plans.”
“You can change your so-called plans,” he says nastily. “You have a day off, don’t you? Whereas I don’t. I have a job to go to, patients waiting to see me... I’d say that’s far more important than anything you might be doing today.”
His arrogance renders me speechless. He has absolutely no idea what I’m doing. And I wouldn’t mind betting it isn’t his patients on his mind, more the so-called meeting he has after work, probably with her.
“No.” My fingers close around my keys.
“For Christ’s sake, Elise.”
“Call a taxi, Andrew.” Slipping the keys into the pocket of my pajamas, I turn around and go upstairs.
4
Elise
I could have offered to run Andrew into work, or to arrange for someone to come here and fit new tires, so as to save him the trouble, but I don’t, nor do I give in to his demands. In a marriage based on lies, on infidelity, there is no kindness. Instead, I wait upstairs until I hear a taxi arrive to take him to the medical practice, then change into running clothes.
It’s another chilly February morning as I set off down the drive, pausing beside clumps of pinprick green shoots pushing up through the grass. They’re the first snowdrops, their subtle green and white a prelude to the soft yellow of the wild daffodils that have colonized under the oldest trees. A desire to fill the house with flowers grips me. I want beauty, color, fragrance to neutralize the odor of my marriage. Breaking