The scene had a dreamlike quality and Opal felt calm as she watched Martin approach. He, on the other hand, looked sheepish.
‘You’re up early, darling.’ His shoes were wet from the morning dew. Opal had barely seen him since the party nearly three weeks ago. And she couldn’t shake the thought that he looked older.
‘Am I?’ Opal asked dreamily.
Martin glanced at his watch. ‘It’s barely 6 a.m., so yes, I’d say so.’
‘Not that part.’ Opal cocked her head to one side. ‘AmI your darling?’ She had imagined how this moment would playout a thousand times since that fateful afternoon, which now felt so long ago. But as it happened, she felt almost outside of herself, a film director watching from the other side of the screen, unable, now that all the actors had memorised their scripts, to change the course of events.
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, Pol.’ Martin couldn’t keep her gaze; maybe it was the being caught off guard sneaking back into the house that had unsettled him. For the first time, though, Opal could swear there was a glint of shame in his eyes.
‘I really hate it when you call me that.’
Martin looked exasperated. ‘Where is all this coming from? Not darling, not Pol, got it – what exactly should I call you then?’
‘How about by my name? It’s Opal, in case you’d forgotten.’ Opal’s tone was steady, unemotional, firm.
Martin seemed taken aback, stumbling over his words ‘OK, Opal, yes, of course; sorry I thought you liked that nickname …’ He trailed off, as though only now realising that this had nothing really to do with her name.
‘Where have you been, Martin?’
He ran his hands through his damp hair, and Opal found herself wondering if he’d gotten so comfortable in Debbie’s house that he was taking showers there. ‘I’ve been working, Pol … Opal – you know that.’ His words were pleading, but there was no conviction in them. ‘And you’ve been busy anyway, haven’t you? With your little art school thing.’
Silence hung between them; Opal scrutinised his face, willing him to, at least now at this final point, show a bit of courage. His blank, dumb gaze made her stomach churn with contempt.
‘Something else you’ve shown absolutely no interest in …’ Opal muttered. Shaking her head, she turned back to her easel. She was done with this man.
‘Pol … Opal, I thought you wanted it for just you, and you know art isn’t my thing.’ There was something about the hint of self-pity in his voice just then that lit a fire in Opal. She turned back to him and he stepped back just a touch, alarmed by the blaze in her eyes.
‘So you have no opinion even on your portrait in the hallway?’ Opal realised she had been craving his reaction this whole time. He had denied her so much, and even when she screamed for attention, in the form of a grotesque five-foot-tall naked portrait of him, hung for everyone to see, he couldn’t muster up enough care to even mention it. Her dissatisfaction was invisible to him.
Martin shrugged, flustered now, as though he truly had no idea what he was supposed to say next. ‘Is that supposed to be of me?’ he mumbled finally. Opal thought for a second she might burst with white-hot rage. Instead she burst into maniacal laughter.
Martin stood, dumbfounded. ‘I think you’re losing it, Pol.’
‘My NAME IS OPAL,’ she screamed and the exertion of it, the thrill, left her feeling dizzy. Martin just stood there blinking. She was never going to get what she needed from him; it was so obvious to her now. No guiding, no coaxing, no instruction could rewire his behaviour into the kind of love she wanted. The kind of love she needed.
She was going to have to take matters into her own hands. Why had she been waiting so long for him to come clean? Why had she given him, even now, that last vestige of power over her life?
Opal took a deep breath, and held his grey gaze as she spoke the words: ‘I want a divorce, Martin.’
He looked down at his feet, and Opal continued, ‘I know about you and Agnes. I saw you in fact, at the beginning of the summer, fucking in the guest room. I don’t want this to drag on, so if you could move into the London flat permanently that would be appreciated. My lawyers will be in touch.’
As she spoke, Opal felt as though a coil of something dark and heavy was being unwound from around her heart. The persistent knot in the pit of her stomach loosened, and the fog of her anxious thoughts began to clear. Her mind had finally caught up with what her body already knew. She needed to cut Martin loose.
She was surprised to see that when Martin finally looked up at her, there were tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Opal, I … I didn’t mean for it to happen. I love you. I can be better.’
It was only once she heard him say the words that she understood that any hope she might have been tempted to hold on to was futile. It wasn’t only that she didn’t believe him, it was that she found him now irreproachably pathetic.
‘No need, Martin. I’ve realised, finally, that what matters now is thatIcan be better, and in fact that requires me to no longer be your wife.’ She turned and started walking away then, leaving him to snivel.
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ he called, and she stopped, but didn’t turn around. In that office they laugh at me, for my accent, for where I come from, for the fact that I live in my wife’s house. All those old boys that went to the sorts of school that your family went to; they will never let me belong. It doesn’t matter how much money I make for them, my bloodwill never be blue. That Hong Kong trip, I got passed over and they didn’t say it but I know why; it’s the same reason I haven’t been promoted in two years.’ Opal listened as he swallowed down a sob. ‘And the only other thing they can respect in me is …’
Now she turned to face him again. ‘Cheating on your wife with a fucking teenager?’ She finished his sentence for him and when he nodded meekly, she felt a renewed disgust. ‘So you’re telling me that the reason you’ve been having an affair in my house with my best friend’s daughter is to impress your colleagues?’
It was laughable. Here Opal had been, imagining that maybe Martin carried some unhealed wound from the loss of their daughter that had putrefied into this perverse affair. All the time, it had been simply about impressing other men. It was almost comforting to know how little she had to do with his indiscretions. Once again she felt a pang of pity for Agnes; hopefully it wouldn’t take her as long to see Martin’s true colours.
He sniffed and swiped at his nose with the cuff of his shirt. Opal couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. ‘You know where the door is.’
