TIN
A malleable silvery-white metal soft enough to be buckled by hand and cut with minimal force.When a tin bar is bent or broken, the arrangement of the molecules produces a unique cracking noise, known as a ‘tin cry’.
CHAPTER ONE
JESS
I flinch as my husband’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it and continues to stare straight ahead through the windscreen of the taxi. It’s been doing that all evening, although, most times, he’s swiftly left the room to check it. Occasionally, I heard his voice, low and rumbling, somewhere else in the house.
My arms are braced on the back seat, keeping me sitting ramrod straight. Much to my surprise, after he puts his phone away, he also puts his hand on the seat between us, close but not touching. I want to reach my little finger over and stroke his, but those few millimetres are a gulf that’s too hard to cross.
We argued before we left the house. It was stupid, actually. We’re sitting here, choking in this thick, awkward silence because of toilet paper. Yes, I’m not kidding. Toilet paper.
We have a house rule – if you take the last roll from the wicker container near the loo, you’re supposed to refill said container with more rolls from the big cupboard on the other side of the room. Only, I always seem to find half a sheet left on the roll, so I reach for a replacement, only to find the basket empty. It drives me nuts.
And this evening, there I was, in my floor-length velvet dress and heels, only to have to waddle across the room with my knickers round my knees to get another roll. Luke sauntered into the bathroom just as I was washing my hands and I couldn’t help it, even though tonight of all nights wasn’t the time for one of our spats.
Imayhave been snarky, said something passive-aggressive about the loo roll fairy obviously having a day off today. He looked as if it was complete news to him that toilet rolls didn’t walk themselves across the bathroom and deposit themselves within easy reach, even though we’ve had this conversation a million times before.
And so that’s how we started arguing about toilet roll. Except … we weren’t actually arguing about toilet roll at all, were we? It was just a safe outlet for all the unspoken disappointments that have been piling up, like skeleton bones in our closet, but it’s getting harder and harder to shut the door and pretend they’re not there.
I don’t know how to describe it. Nothing that’s happening is a dealbreaker; it’s just not what I thought marriage would be after all this time. I thought Luke and I would have the fairy tale, even if others didn’t.
‘I’m sorry if I went off about the loo roll,’ I say, sneaking a glance at him. ‘I was just in a bit of a rush and … you know. Even if I was annoyed, I could have brought it up in a nicer way.’
‘Yes, you could,’ he replies, staring straight ahead.
I feel the air molecules between us vibrate with tension. So much for being the bigger person. ‘Listen, Luke, I’m trying to—’
‘I don’t care about the stupid loo roll, Jess, even if you were snippy at me for something so insignificant.’
I have to close my eyes and count to ten. Insignificant tohim, maybe! I turn my head so I can see his face properly. ‘Then why have you been giving me the silent treatment ever since?’
He presses his lips together and the shake of his head is almost imperceptible. ‘I haven’t been giving you the silent treatment. I’ve spoken to you.’
I don’t count monosyllables and grunts as full and free communication. ‘Well, if you’re not upset about the toilet roll, what are you upset about?’
Luke blinks slowly. This is not a good sign. That one tiny gesture usually means he’s about to go into full shutdown mode, portcullis down, drawbridge up. I’m ready to scream. We’re going to be there in less than five minutes. We don’t have time for this.
‘Luke … ?’ I say, my tone both warning and pleading at the same time.
Eventually, he huffs out a breath and turns his head – not all the way to look at me, but more than he had been. ‘You didn’t seem overly impressed with the present I got you.’
My stomach hits the floor of the cab. ‘No … It was … It was very … thoughtful.’
My husband snorts softly. ‘You’re a horrible liar, Jess.’
I swallow, unable to deny my reaction to his gift. But I also can’t pretend it was anything close to what I would have chosen, given the chance.
‘You didn’t even take time to look at it properly,’ he says, and the angry tone is mixed with something else. Hurt. Disappointment. It makes me feel like a total bitch, even though I’m disappointed too. But I can’t tell him that, can I?
‘We were running late,’ I say, keeping my voice low and calm, trying to sound much more reasonable than I feel. ‘And I neededto finish getting ready.’ And I was already pissed off after the whole knickers-round-the-knees thing, which didn’t help. I didn’t realize that a) he noticed I wasn’t thrilled or b) he’s been stewing on it all this time.
‘Fine,’ he says, turning to look out of the window as we pull into the driveway of the Bickley Court Hotel, a converted manor house that was probably once deep in the countryside but now sits next to a golf course on the outskirts of London. ‘Never mind.’
How could I have done anything else but pretended that I loved it? If I’d said how I felt out loud, he’d be even more upset than he is now. Besides, it wasn’t that what he got me was horrible. Someone else might have loved it.
And that’s my point, I suppose. I want to feel as if my husband knows me inside and out, that helovesme inside and out. And he can’t, can he? Not if he doesn’t even see what’s really there?
