‘No, right. That’s what I’m saying. There are loads of other symptoms. Like ones to do with mental health. Some women get very paranoid, forgetful; they might make bad decisions or even imagine things. You know, experience actual psychosis.’
‘Matthew is not a bad decision.’
‘No, but—’
‘I didn’t imagine the attacks.’
‘Right, but—’ We stare at one another.
After a long beat, I say, ‘Gosh, I hadn’t realised it was that time already. I really must get going. I’ve got a thing I need to attend to.’ I gather up my bag and coat. I leave the bottle of champagne on the table. Up until this moment, I hadn’t imagined there was such a thing as a forlorn-looking bottle of champagne. I call a hasty goodbye up the stairs to Lottie and then dash out the door.
Gina doesn’t ask me what the ‘thing’ is. Why would she? We both know I’m lying.
23
July
Since the wedding, I haven’t once set an early-morning alarm when I am at home with Matthew. I still sometimes manage a run at some point during the day, but the impetus to get out of bed at the crack of dawn has gone. Honestly, I can’t really understand why I believed such a strict regime was necessary for all those years. However, this morning, it’s Matthew who gets up first. He accidentally wakes me as he’s sneaking out of bed.
‘Morning, handsome.’
‘Morning, babe. I’m sorry I woke you. I wanted to let you sleep. I know you’ve been working around the clock recently.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’d rather be awake with you than asleep.’ I throw back the duvet, revealing my naked body. ‘Come back to bed,’ I murmur. After years of thinking of my body as nothing more than an efficient vessel to get me from A to B, I now think of it as something much more lascivious and decadent. Something sexy and sexed up. I glow with the thought of pleasing and being pleasured. I crave Matthew’s touch. His cold hands on my skin when I’m hot under the duvet, his warm hands when I come home late and he’s cosy in bed. Right now, I feel the luxury of a weekend unfurl in front of us. We got back from the Maldives three weeks ago, but this is the first Saturday I’ve woken up at home since we’ve been a married couple. I feel alert and ready. Celebratory. I have plans.
So I’m disappointed when he says, ‘Oh babe, don’t tease me. You know I’m working today.’
‘What?’ My entire body slumps. I pull the duvet back over me. Suddenly cold, or maybe self-conscious.
‘I told you. I’m photographing three young chefs. You remember, the ones who are all ex-prisoners.’
I do recall him telling me about how these men raised enough money through celebrity chef endorsements and crowdfunding to open a new little eatery quite close to the place they used to be incarcerated. The idea being that they will serve excellent food to prison visitors and anyone else brave enough to go to the less salubrious parts of London to be served smashed avocado on sourdough toast for a tenner. He’s right, we did talk about it. It sounds an interesting project; I just hadn’t appreciated it was happening today.
Matthew goes into the bathroom, and I hear him turn on the shower, then humming above the sound of the gushing water. I can’t resent him working at the weekend, considering I often do, and I can tell he’s excited about this commission. While he showers, I think about how I’m going to spend my time.
I consider what can be done around the house. It’s fun to see Matthew’s face when I announce that I’ve unblocked a U-bend or mowed the grass. ‘You dinosaur, women can do these things, you know,’ I joke when he comments that he’s surprised by my independence and abilities.
‘It’s just that Becky and I had distinct pink and blue jobs. She wouldn’t even take out the bins.’
I get out of bed and follow him into the bathroom. As I clean my teeth, I comment, ‘You’re clearly looking forward to the shoot.’
‘It beats taking pictures of middle-aged white men in suits for their corporate websites,’ he replies.
‘Excuse me, you are talking about my tribe.’
‘Well, last time I looked, you were all woman,’ he responds, smiling in that way he has; the way that makes me weak and momentarily happy to be so. He steps out of the shower. Still wet, he leans towards me and lands a long kiss. I breathe him in, and my stomach lurches.
‘I need to shower. We could go back in there together,’ I offer.
‘I’d love to, but I really do have to get on the road. I want to beat the traffic.’
‘I’m not going to overthink the fact that I’m standing here naked offering to have sex in the shower and you’re turning me down because of the flow of traffic on the M3.’
He grins. ‘I’m sorry. You could come with me.’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll be in the way.’
Downstairs, a gust of wind blows through the house and a door slams shut. I jump when I hear the bang. Matthew wraps his arms around me. ‘Hey, scaredy-cat. It’s OK.’ I laugh. He gently kisses me, and murmurs, ‘I wish I believed in some higher power – lucky stars, Cupid, anything – so I could thank them, because my life is great right now. I’ll miss you today.’
I beam. ‘I’ll miss you too.’ The words tumble out of my mouth, excited and simple.
24
The gutters are clogged, a consequence of living so close to the woods; leaves and other debris are in abundance. This used to be just an autumn problem, but here I am at the beginning of July still doing the job. Clearing the gutters is a big, dirty task, one that might require a professional considering the height of my roof, but I decide to take a look. At the very least, I can make an assessment as to how much work might be required before I find someone to come and deal with it properly.
I change into a pair of old joggers and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then dig out a pair of rubber gloves and get to work. My workshop smells of bagged manure and sawdust; surprisingly I find this smell quite appealing, one thing suggesting growth, the other industry. I unearth an old plastic kitchen spatula, tarp, a hose and the ladder. It’s a heavy extendable thing that I bought a few years ago so I could pick apples from the tallest trees in the orchard. I haul it to the front of the house, getting a buzz out of the exertion required for this manual labour. I’ve been at my desk too much of late.
Any YouTube video about gutter-clearing will recommend that you have someone hold the ladder for you. That’s not an option today, and I’m used to circumnavigating my way around being on my own. I realise I no longer have to – I could wait and do this tomorrow when Matthew is home – but it seems silly to waste our time together doing household jobs. I make sure the ladder is securely propped up against the house and avoid uneven ground. I spread out the tarp and then slowly and cautiously climb the ladder.
As I suspected, the gutters are full to the brim with soggy brown leaves and sticks. I start to scoop out the debris and flick it to the ground, mud splattering in an arc. After painstakingly cleaning the filth to my left and right as far as I can reach, I carefully come down the ladder, move it along a metre or so and then go up again and repeat the entire process. I soon get into my rhythm and find it therapeutic. My mind wanders first to thoughts of mulching the debris, creating compost, and then to work. Every time Heidi and Gina come into my mind, I push them away. Not now.
It happens so quickly I don’t even comprehend it has until I’m flat on my face on the ground. The pain of the fall ricochets through my body in heavy, debilitating pulses; everything stings or throbs at once. I take stock, just start to think about what I’ve damaged, and then a fraction of a second later, the ladder falls on top of me, hitting my back. Thwack. This second impact creates a new level of pain; it’s immense. I scream out. My shoulders feel like they are about to be split open, my spine and the back of my head hurt so much I think I’m going to be sick. I reach up, expecting to feel blood; a lump is already swelling on my skull.
For a moment, I can’t move. I just let my body pulse in pain. After a minute or two my head starts to slowly clear enough for me to recall that I did not have my phone with me when I climbed up the ladder. I’d left it on the porch, worried that I’d drop it from a height. I need to reach it. The heavy ladder pins me to the ground and so my progress is hampered, but I start to inch forward with all the strength I have. My wrist aches and my knuckles are grazed and bleeding. I’m shaking, and I’m not sure whether that’s with pain or shock. I need to call an ambulance; this is my last thought as waves of blackness swarm into my head. I taste vomit in my mouth. I close my eyes.
I don’t know how long I’m out for. No idea. I’m disorientated and in so much pain I can’t think clearly. I feel relief that when I wake up, I am no longer under the ladder. My back is still throbbing with the impact of where it fell on me, but I can’t feel the weight of it. Thank God, someone has helped me. Matthew? I look around for him, for anyone; I call out. ‘Matthew? Help someone, please! I need help.’ My voice cracks with distress. No one responds; there is no one around. I must have crawled or rolled out from under the ladder just before I passed out.
I tentatively start to move my fingers and toes, then push myself up onto my knees so that I can crawl into the house. It’s agony moving, or even breathing. I think I might have broken a rib. I grasp the phone and immediately call Matthew, but it goes straight to voicemail. I momentarily wonder whether I should leave a message. I know he’ll be terrified if he hears me in such a bad way, so I hang up and then laboriously jab out a text asking him to come home to me as quickly as he can. I don’t give any details as to why. I can’t say I’ve fallen off a ladder, not considering what happened to Becky. He’ll be insanely panicked and no doubt break speed limits to get to me. That’s in no one’s interest.
