I broach the subject when we are dressing.
“Jack.” That slow, timorous voice that I have grown to hate. I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to this weak, sniveling little girl who bows to his every whim. “I’ve been thinking. It’s the group tonight. The first one since I had my little…moment about Mum. I think it might be useful for me to go. Only if that’s OK with you, of course. I just feel that it might help me process it all a little better than I have been?” I raise the pitch of my voice at the end of the sentence so that it sounds like a question. A servant seeking approval from her master. To remind him of how much power he has over me.
I can practically see the cogs whirring in his brain as he computes this question. I know what he’s thinking: It’s a risk—a big one—to allow me to go, but I assured him of my feelings, didn’t I? I made a point of drawing attention to what a good, good person he was. One who has simply lost his way in the world. One I’m willing to help back onto the right path, if only he’ll let me. If only he’ll grant me this one small favor.
A slow, glorious nod, and I turn away to hide my smile.
“But I’ll come with you,” he says, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Annoying, but again not entirely unexpected.
“Great!”
Jack calls in sick to work and forces me to watch yet more drivel on TV. For someone I assumed was fairly cultured, he does watch the most unbelievable crap. But I interject at all the right moments, follow the lead on the canned laughter, and feel him loosen beside me as he takes in this relaxed, giggly woman. The one who laughs at the same jokes as him, and likes the same shows as him, and has sex with him whenever he so desires it.
The hours tick down. Jack follows me to the loo, and I let him. At lunchtime, we go through to the kitchen—together, of course—and I see my phone isn’t where I left it. I make us lunch as he sits at the breakfast bar, conscious of his eyes on me. I don’t break character. Not once.
After lunch, we go back to the sitting room. Watch a film. And then the sky is darkening and the session is almost upon us.
I stand, stretch, note the way his hand hovers midway toward me, as though to grab for my wrist should I try to run. “We should think about heading off,” I say.We.There has never been awe. I see that now. Now there is only him, and only me, coming at this from opposite ends of the playing field.
And then he is unlatching the door, still holding me firmly by the arm, and we step out into the night.
I clutch him and give him a bright, sunny smile. “I’m so pleased we’re doing this together,” I say.
The community center has never looked drabber, and I’ve never been more pleased to see it. Jack steers me toward two available seats and we sit. Rita’s eyes follow us across the room. Her lipsticked mouth purses as she takes in the intimacy between us. Frankly, she can have him. I’m done, dusted, fed up. If she wants locked doors, mediocre skills in the bedroom, and shit TV, she can be my guest. He does have a big house, so I suppose that’s his one redeeming feature.
I turn to give Jack a small, encouraging smile, and he leans gently against me in response.
He has no idea what’s coming. What I’m about to reveal about him, in this forum where he will not be able to retaliate. My smile grows wider.
And then, from behind, there is the unmistakable sound of the vacuum of air created by the swinging door. I frown, do a quick count. Everyone’s here. Well, Matt isn’t, obviously. Surely Fiona hasn’t had the audacity to fill his seat already.
But, sure enough, she’s turning, fixing her welcoming smile to her face, and spreading her arms. I turn, too. And the world stops turning for a second.
Because walking into the room is Greg. Freddie’s Greg. The Greg who figured me out, who outed me to Freddie. The Greg who disliked me the moment he laid eyes on me. The Greg who suspected everything.
My heart gives a nasty little skip and I sink into my chair, ducking my head. I should stand, leave, but Jack—as if sensing this sudden urge to bolt—wraps his fingers round my arm again. And then it’s too late. Because Fiona has pointed to the chair, and Greg has sat down, and he has noticed me.
His eyes widen with shock, then darken with dislike, and I can’t breathe.
Fiona’s prattling on about the type of group we are—her usual introductory crap—and doesn’t notice how the atmosphere has soured.
“And could you tell us what brings you to the group today, Greg?”
“That’s a good question,” he says, in that deep, gravelly voice. He looks at me, and I know then what’s coming, with a certainty that sends bile rising in my throat. “I lost a colleague—a good friend—a few months ago. I’ve been OK, generally, but I saw the advert for this group, and I thought I’d come. I’ve found things hard without him.”
Fuck Fiona and her fucking marketing strategy. The leaflets and the online adverts and the book she wrote. Causing problems left, right, and center.
“Freddie didn’t have a very good end to his life. He was terrified, actually. It’s a hard thing to come to terms with: that someone was so unhappy just before they died. So I think I came to try and get closure.” And the way he looks at me then…as though he is about to get his wish.
“Thank you, Greg. Right,” Fiona says briskly. “Introductions!”
He hasn’t acknowledged the connection yet, and I can only hope that he doesn’t intend to. I’ll have to navigate this very carefully. Jack’s looking at me, as though he can sense my discomfort. Which he probably can. My whole body is vibrating as I wait to speak with a tongue that feels suddenly too heavy for my mouth.
We go through Rita, and Jack, and even Charlie speaks, and then it’s my turn.
I swallow, hard. “I’m Iris. I lost my mum a couple of weeks ago.” I try to leave it there. Try not to look at anyone, but I see in my peripheral that Fiona has raised her eyebrows.
“Anything else to add, Iris?” she says eventually.
