Page 58 of We Live Here Now

57

Freddie

My mood matches the foul weather as I pull up at the house. One of the credit card companies called me at work, chasing payment. They’d already rung the London office, which could have gone to shit if they’d said why they’d called. This time, at least, they didn’t. But next time they will. Fuck fuck fuck . That would be a one-way ticket to a polite redundancy. No one wants someone with a mountain of debt working in their accounts department. Also, there are the other people I owe the ten grand to. They’ll come with more than a court order if I don’t get their money back—plus interest—in a month. They’ll bring a baseball bat. The noose is slowly tightening around my neck.

“Dinner will be about half an hour,” Emily says as I come in. The house smells of roasting chicken, and it’s such a change from her mood when I left that it back-foots me. What’s she playing at?

“I would have cooked.”

“It’s fine. I wanted to. I’m not working, so it’s my job to take care of the house.” She leans against the kitchen counter and looks at me, almost awkward. “I do love you, Freddie. You know that, don’t you? I really want us to get through all this.”

“You do?” I’m hoping my face looks grateful rather than just surprised and exhausted.

“Yes. I’m disappointed, but I understand why it happened. And marriage is teamwork, after all, right?” I give her a half smile for the attempt at humor.

“It’s just going to take a little time.”

There it is. That superior and yet still-a-victim tone. She turns back to check a pan on the Aga. “And maybe we should think about moving out of here.” Her words are so light that I know this is what she’s been building to.

“Sure. Of course. If that’s what you want.”

“Get a proper fresh start. You can start going to meetings in a bigger town.” She smiles at me again, as if butter wouldn’t melt. I give her a tight hug so she can’t see my face. Doesn’t she realize how much it costs to move? And with my current credit record? Where would we go? A thought dawns on me. This is nothing to do with a fresh start. She probably wants to take whatever money we’d be lucky to get out of this place and run. Wants her share before the debt collectors come.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower. Is that okay?” My smile feels like a grimace, but she doesn’t notice. Why am I so angry with her? I spent all these months not wanting her to find out in case she left me, and now she knows and is prepared to forgive me and I’m filled with some unquantifiable rage. What is wrong with me?

I head up the stairs, the temperature dropping as I climb, and start the shower running before going to the bedroom to get undressed. I sit heavily on her side of the bed and lean forward to pull off my socks. I’m so tired that every movement is weighed down with lead. I throw the socks in the direction of the laundry basket and then just sit there, slumped. What a mess. I’m about to drag myself to my feet to strip the rest of my clothes off when I notice that her side table drawer is open a few inches. I peer in, curious. There’s a moleskin notebook in there and a Montblanc pen, neither of which I recognize. Has Emily been writing a diary?

My heart thuds as I take it out. What’s she said about me in here? With a glance toward the hallway to make sure she’s not followed me up, I open the soft leather cover to see what’s been written inside.

By the time I get into the shower ten minutes later, the bees are buzzing loud in my head and I let the hot water beat down on me, blissfully wonderful, as I try to take it all in. I knew Emily was having some weird post-sepsis moments, but the stuff she’s written down is crazy. She really does think the house is haunted and that it’s doing these things. Suddenly it all makes sense. The way she’s been creeping around at night. So much paranoia. I don’t need to quietly wish for her to go mad; it seems like all the evidence is there that she has. Evidence , the bees buzz at me. The evidence is there. Despite enjoying the heat, I cut the shower short and hurry back to the bedroom to take pictures of the pages. Why do you need evidence? a small voice inside asks. What for?

I answer my own question by pinging a couple of the images over to the vicar, sharing my concerns. I almost email them to Dr. Canning too, but hold off. It’s enough that Paul has them.

“Dinner’s ready!” she calls upstairs. I check the book is left exactly as I found it, close the drawer, and head down to join her. The bees abate slightly and we actually have a pretty pleasant evening, culminating in my return to the joint bedroom and some urgent if not adventurous sex. Once again, I forget to put on a condom and I should have pulled out, but I didn’t. But anyway, after the miscarriage and everything she’s been through, I doubt she’ll get pregnant again so easily. A baby is the last thing I need right now, especially if she’s planning to take what she can and leave.

That small voice keeps trying to speak up inside me— Why would she do that? Why do you think the worst of her? —but the bees buzz louder and drown it out. A part of me has always resented Emily. Her holier-than-thou nature. The way she judges me for gambling. I know she thinks I’m weak. And maybe I am. But at least I’m not smug. And there’s an unpleasant part of Emily that is definitely smug. And she loves playing the victim.

As she lies on my chest and we both drift into sleep, one underlined sentence from her notebook whispers into my dark oblivion. One I made sure I sent to the vicar.

Maybe it would have been better if I’d just died.