There were two things about the exchange that replayed in Harriet’s head and bothered her still. One: how Harriet had complimented her husband’s mistress, was outdone by her, as she shone brighter than his dull, exhausted wife who hadn’t had time to change her blouse or shower and had settled for a quick spritz under the arm with deodorant and a liberal squirt of perfume. And the second, that Wendy called her ‘doll’.Doll!Something to be played with. Not for the first time she felt the punch of deceit in her gut and it lit the flame of fury. She was hurt by Hugo, of course, but also found the actions of Wendy Peterson unfathomable, knowing that no matter how strong the temptation, she could never do similar to another woman. She gripped her pen.
I want to ask him if he misses her and yet am fearful of his reply. He can’t win, really. If he says he doesn’t miss her then I will doubt his answer, and this will stab at my heart and I’ll stew over it that’s for sure. But if he tells me he does miss her, then what do I do with that information? That’d be it, wouldn’t it? I mean how would we recover from an admission like that? I’d forever feel like his jailer, keeping him here away from Miss Luscious Locks against his will.
I’m thoughtful for much of the day, quiet even. I’m ashamed to say I feel joy when Hugo is distressed. It feelslike penance and in that moment when he is crying and I’m not, it gives me the strongest hope that we might come out the other side, because that’s what we both want. That is, after all, the sole purpose of uprooting our lives and coming here. Ordinarily it’s at the end of the day when red wine seeps in his veins and his guard is down that his smile slips, and with his hair mussed, shirt open, his tears flow freely and he begs for forgiveness ... Yes, that’s when I feel the prickle of happiness on my skin. His remorse is raw and so simply expressed it reminds me that we have something worth fighting for and that I have something worth staying for. It’s a power shift. In that moment I don’t feel like the wronged wife, I feel like the one who holds the sceptre while he sobs and asks me to let him stay.
There are also these minutes in the cold light of day when I get to reflect on how I’ve moved away from the house and village I loved. Given up the job I liked very much, the job where I was held in high regard, hopeful of advancing my career, said goodbye to those neighbours who had smudged the line and become friends – and all through no fault of my own I find myself here. It feels a bit like punishment.
She drew lines through her words with vigour.
No, that’s not fair. It’s a beautiful place and I wasn’t frogmarched here. How to phrase it? It feels like hiding. Yes, that’s it, and it doesn’t feel good. As if I am tarnished with the guilt that covers him. And her. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of it!
I think about her, of course, and I wonder if she feels relief at my leaving, no longer worried about bumping into me in the post office or standing next to me in the pub. And I don’t like the idea of having given her such a gift. Or maybe she feels only sadness at the loss of him. I wonder if she is sitting somewhere right now, thinking about what she’s done, the part she played in creating the tornado in which we now spin. Her actions that have left the thick rind of scar across what I thought was a happy marriage. At least it was for me.
For my husband, I’m guessing not so much, otherwise he wouldn’t have reached out to her, taken her hand, and embarked on an affair that has cost me so much.
My insides feel hollow, scooped out. I’m in freefall. I’m trembling head to toe, inside and out. I want it to stop. I want to rewind the clock. It’s my dream to recapture the solidity of that old life. To know beyond a doubt that I can trust him. Is it even possible?
This is a new beginning in this new place.
The house is solid, a three-storey, higgledy-piggledy cottage, with an open-plan sitting/dining room, square kitchen, sash windows, pretty carved portico above the front door and all the window frames painted white, making them stand out against the pale external walls. A solid house ... and yet I feel that as a person, and we as a family, are on very shaky ground.
She hadn’t heard the front door and was a little startled to look up and see Hugo standing in the doorway.
‘That was quick!’ There it was again, that sing-song voice of pretence.
‘I only got halfway.’ His expression was pensive as he walked forward and took a seat on the wide William Morris covered footstool that had lived at the foot of their bed in their former home.
‘What’s the matter?’ She folded the book down into the seat cushion and sat forward.
‘I just wanted to say ...’ He paused.
‘What, Hugo?’ Her heart fluttered at the thought that he had read her mind, or worse, her diary.
‘You can ask me anything, you know. The idea makes me uncomfortable but I’m aware I have created this God-awful mess and I will do whatever I can to help put it right.’ He spoke softly, earnestly, as he put the empty shopping basket on the floor. ‘That was it, just wanted to say that you can ask me anything and I will answer truthfully. Do you think that might help?’
‘It ... it might,’ she whispered.
Since the day he had confirmed her suspicions, breaking down in tears, curling into a ball on the floor and begging her to forgive him, her whole existence could be likened to feeling her way in the dark. It was, in her view, a miracle she had not plummeted off the edge of a ravine. She had told him sternly to get up off the floor; she didn’t have the time or patience for his self-indulgence, as if it were he who had been so wronged. And he’d stood, dusted off his trousers and sat quietly on the sofa, like a child awaiting instruction. It had nearly killed her, the terrible conflict of missing and loving the man she had thought Hugo was, her forever ... The pain raw and all-consuming, seeing him in this new light, unmasked, revealed, while trying so hard to reconcilewith him, to plot a future, and all the while pretending everything was going to be okay for her little family.
‘We won’t tell the kids, no point.’ She’d spoken while looking out over the garden.
‘I agree.’ There was no mistaking the relief in his words. She decided against pressing the point that this was a decision made to shield them, not protect him.
‘And our decision to move is the right one, isn’t it?’ She’d turned to face him then. ‘To go somewhere I’m not going to be sitting next to her in a traffic queue or bumping into her at the school gates. The thought of seeing her ...’ She shook her head, knowing it required no further explanation. ‘That’s the plan, isn’t it, Hugo? It’ll make things easier, won’t it? If we go somewhere I’m not going to have to smile and make small talk with the woman you have been shagging?’
As if on cue, he’d cried again.
And now he was offering her the chance to ask more questions. It was a prospect as exciting as it was terrifying, but an opportunity nonetheless and one she would not let slip through her fingers.
CHAPTER FIVE
TAWRIEGUNN
AUGUST2024
Tawrie had found it hard to sleep. And not for the usual reasons of sleeping with one ear cocked, waiting for the reassuring sound of her mum safely home. Or listening out for the tell-tale creak of the stairs that meant her nan couldn’t settle and was on the move, no doubt heading to the kitchen in search of biscuits and a cup of tea. This she had done routinely since the day her son had failed to come home.
Last night was different. Tawrie hadn’t been able to sleep because the image of a floppy-haired man in a pink shirt had filled her thoughts. How could she explain it? Not that she’d ever try, knowing if she heard the same from anyone else she’d think they’d lost all reason. And in a way, she had.
