‘I’ve loved you from that first date.’ She still pictured the night fondly, one of the best of her life, as if she knew that it was important, more than just a fling, a snog. He’d made her feel special, and she had wanted more and more of that feeling, more and more of him. ‘That night at uni when you turned up with a bottle of rum and you’d put eyeliner on.’
‘Guyliner.’ He corrected and smiled, but not even his quip could cut the tension.
‘And it was like every milestone we reached – sleeping together, meeting parents, our first holiday, getting engaged, marrying, buying the house, the kids – every single thing felt like a tightening of our commitment, stronger glue, locking us in. I had no doubt. Have never had any doubt, didn’t question whether we were right for each other or whether there might be someone more suitable. It was a fait accompli. I fell for you. I committed to you and that was that. And crazy as it sounds, I’m still in shock. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully accept the choices you made.’Or how you hoodwinked me.This she kept to herself.
‘It’s not crazy,’ he whispered, shaking his head. ‘I’d feel the same. I can’t imagine it. I don’t know how I’d survive if it was you who’d strayed.’
She supposed there was a compliment buried in his trite phrasing.
‘I’m glad you can’t, Hugo, because it’s utter shit. The worst.’ Her hands flew to her throat and she rubbed where the hurt gathered in lieu of tears. She swallowed. ‘I still wake each morning and there is this split second where I don’t remember what’s happened and I feel how I used to feel: excited to face the day, happy. Then Iopen my eyes, look up at the strange ceiling in the room that’s now ours and I feel—’
He cut her short. ‘I’m sorry, H. I’m so, so sorry. And if I could turn back time ...’
‘Oh yes, the old time-travelling wish. Wouldn’t that be something?’ Her sarcastic tone leaked from her. ‘I used to wish we could go back too, but then sometimes I wonder if it’s maybe better that I know the real you. Good that I’ve had the scales removed from my eyes.’ She wanted to wound him a little, wanted him to feel how she felt every waking second, stumbling in disbelief and distress, doing her best to get through the day.
‘You do know the real me! You do! We’ve been together since we were twenty!’ he pressed.
‘You’re right, Hugo, I do know the real you –now.’ She couldn’t help it, knowing these verbal daggers came from a place of hurt. He sat back and let them pierce his skin. ‘I don’t see how we stop the kids finding out.’ This was one of her fears: how to manage the fallout and protect their children. Their son and younger daughter, just the thought of their distress, brought to their door by the very people who were supposed to make things better, the people they trusted to keep the ship afloat caused her stomach to roll with nerves. She would do all she could to keep it from them, but she hoped that if they did ever find out, enough time would have passed so she and Hugo would be in a better position, unified, stable, and able to keep them all steady.
Hugo buried his face in his hands.
‘I can’t stand the thought of it.’ He rubbed his face and shifted in his seat. ‘I worry about the rumour mill, you know how people love to talk, and so I guess that if there came a time when we couldn’t keep the information from them, we’d need to concentrate on keeping the worry from them; show a united front. And no matter what they hear or when they hear it, we answer theirquestions fully and we don’t give them any reason to fret, because all they would worry about is that we are okay as a couple, that we are solid, as a family. Right?’
It was Harriet’s turn to nod and sip her tea. She prayed silently that it wouldn’t come to that.
‘Can I askyousomething now?’ He spoke slowly, sitting up straight in the spindle-backed chair.
‘Sure.’ She put down her mug.
‘Are you ever going to be able to get over this enough so it doesn’t sit between us like a spikey thing that we have to navigate? And I don’t mean to sound flippant, I genuinely want to know.’ He licked his lower lip. ‘I wonder if you are ever going to get over it enough so that we can have sex again?’
The wry laugh that escaped her mouth was born of nerves. ‘Is that your biggest concern? When you can get your leg over again?’ It was coarse and she knew it but couldn’t care less. A low blow.
‘No!’ His whole demeanour slumped as he pushed his fingers into his hair, looking close to tears. ‘No, it’s not that. I ask because physical intimacy for us was always a marker. If we were having a great time, when we were laughing, the kids were happy, sex was a priority, just another lovely aspect to our lives. But when we’ve been stressed or tired, whatever, there’s been a bit of a drought and so I guess what I’m asking is, will you ever forgive me, Harriet? Do you think we will ever get back to a point close to where we were before?’
She took her time in forming a response, his words a reminder of how their marriage lay in fragments all around them, shattered. It filled her with a sadness tinged with anger. Why had he done this to them, to her? What an idiot! Maisie’s words of support came to her now. Her niece was right, he was a bloody idiot.
‘I-I know I miss you. I know I miss us.’ This was her truth.
In that moment she could only hope it was enough.
‘I miss us too, but that’s why we’re here, right?’ He sounded desperate as his eyes misted. ‘Starting over, a fresh beginning, new place, new house, new everything!’
Hugo’s phone rang. Its ring was invasive. Her jaw tensed as he reached for it with a certain reluctance.
‘Hey, buddy!’ His face broke into a smile and he pinched the bridge of his nose. The sound of their son’s voice floated from the mouthpiece. She could pick up the odd word, something about a bike chain and a can of oil on Aunty Ellis’s garage floor.
Leaving them to their conversation, and with hurt and pain swirling inside her, she took the remainder of her tea and sought refuge in the warm embrace of the leather library chair.
Dear Diary . . .
Still don’t know how I’m supposed to start?
Dear Me . . .
How about ‘Dear Future Me’ – as I hope to impart wisdom that might someday be good to read. Who am I kidding? Writing this is for me an exercise in mental water-treading, which I need right now, a moment of escape. Conversations with Hugo can feel like a weight that pushes me down, crushing me, and sometimes I need to wriggle free and write alone, quietly.
It’s quite nice, retiring to the chair, flipping open this book with so many blank pages and filling them gradually with whatever is in my head. I doubt anyone will ever read this. And would I really want them to? Probably not. I shall decide what to do with it when it’s full or finishedor I get lazy or bored with the exercise, or maybe when I’m fixed, when we’re fixed – how about that?
