And I think he has cause to be worried.
27
I agree to Matthew’s suggestion that we go out for a pub lunch. I agree because the house feels threatening and claustrophobic. I just want to be out of there. This is sad, because for the past seven years, my home has been my sanctuary and refuge. I’ve always thought of it as restful, wholesome, open. Now the endless glass windows do not create a sense of opportunity and space, but instead make me feel vulnerable, exposed, like an insect under a microscope.
We can’t get a table in the Fox and Crown, where Matthew spent last night. ‘Probably a good thing,’ he says. ‘It looked like hell when I left this morning. Stinking, you know.’ He tries a few other places, but all the charming pubs nearby are booked up, and in the end we have a very average roast in a draughty, unprepossessing eatery with bad service. There are faded prints of nineteenth-century harvests on the wall that look apologetic rather than bucolic, the loos are smelly and the tables sticky. We both try to pretend we are having a better time than in fact we are. Something that is even trickier to achieve when I order a glass of red wine and Matthew catches my eye, literally raises an eyebrow. I feel judged. ‘A glass of red is always nice with a roast,’ I explain.
‘Right, but should you?’ he asks. He orders a Coke, because he’s driving and, let’s face it, hung over. That doesn’t stop him saying, ‘The painkillers are pretty heavy-duty. Should you be drinking while you’re medicating? Did you have a drink last night?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Are you sure?’
I don’t reply.
I don’t really enjoy the Merlot; it tastes sharp and sour. The gravy is greasy and creates a slick in my mouth, the vegetables are overcooked. It’s the sort of meal that hasn’t passed muster since 1995.
‘I wish we’d booked somewhere a little fancier. There’s a restaurant in the next village that has a Michelin star,’ I say.
‘We don’t need Michelin stars to have fun,’ he replies, but it feels like we do when we both decline pudding and coffee and are back in the car heading home after only an hour and five minutes. The pavements are wet, the grass is wet; even the air feels wet, although I can’t remember noticing when it rained. The blue has drained from the sky, it’s now colourless. The entire landscape looks like a reluctant apology. ‘This place must be lovely when the sun shines,’ comments Matthew, admitting that it’s far from lovely now.
This isn’t how I imagined our weekends together as a married couple would be. On the journey home, I rack my brain, thinking of some small talk that might fill the silence, but I am stumped. Too confused to muster the energy. Shouldn’t he be the one making the effort? I’m injured and scared. He’s the one who spent the night in a pub, leaving me exposed to God knows what. The fact that he isn’t making an effort bothers me.
Sometimes I am struck by just how new to each other we are, and it’s disconcerting. I have defended the speed of our relationship to everyone: my closest friend, nosy colleagues – even my brother expressed surprise at it via a text with a string of chin-scratching emojis. I realise I haven’t got the balance quite right yet. On one hand, I expect Matthew to be polite to me all the time, but on the other hand, I recognise that as we are husband and wife, showcasing best manners eternally is unrealistic. I’m not saying spouses ought to be impolite to one another, but I think they should be relaxed and honest, unthinking. It bothers me that I bite back my words, that I am careful with him, he is careful with me. It’s not absolutely right. We should be talking about the books, the ladder and all the other weird unexplained things that have happened. We don’t. We don’t talk about anything at all. The silence exposes how fragile our alliance is. Shiny and new, yes, but also delicate.
Matthew suggests another early night. He insists I need to relax. Initially I think he is suggesting sex. I am unsure how I feel about that exactly. Am I physically up to it? Am I in the mood, and if not, can I get in the mood? However, before I make up my mind, it becomes apparent that these questions are superfluous. He picks up the culture magazine that comes free with the Sunday paper, so I reach for my laptop.
We read in silence. After about an hour, Matthew turns to me and asks tenderly, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘My ribs aren’t too painful, but my head is still aching,’ I admit.
‘I was thinking, babe, maybe you should try and drink a little less.’ He says this with a gentle smile. The benign expression does nothing to counter the sting of what is behind the words, which I find offensive, wounding. I recoil.
‘Excuse me?’ I carefully close my laptop. I know the article I was reading by heart anyway; I’ve scanned the same line at least a dozen times. I was just pretending to read to convince Matthew, and myself, that I’m fine and everything is normal. But I’m not. It’s not.
My husband’s words feel like an overstep. I follow his gaze to my bedside table, where an empty wine glass stands accusingly. I feel my skin flush. I can’t remember bringing it to bed with me.
I just want to relax, or if that’s too much of a stretch, then I just want to not think. I put the laptop on the floor besides me and lie flat on my back, tugging the duvet further up my body so that it reaches my shoulders. We sleep naked; normally this is a fact I revel in. I love to roll onto my side in the middle of the night, smudge up close to him and feel his skin against mine. Tonight, I feel oddly vulnerable. I refuse to show as much, and so instead I decide to grasp the challenge. We should be able to have difficult conversations. I don’t want to have to walk on eggshells. ‘You think I drink too much?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘By suggesting I should drink less, you did by implication.’
He looks wary, and then with a sigh says, ‘I just think the drink might be the reason you’re getting things confused recently. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but did you have a glass at lunchtime the day you fell off the ladder?’
‘I’m sorry. What are you saying?’
‘I’m not looking for a fight.’
‘You might have stumbled upon one anyhow,’ I snap. I shoot him a look that would cause a weaker man to crumble.
He reaches for my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. ‘You know if you had a problem I would be there for you, I would support you.’
‘If I had a problem?’
‘If there was a problem,’ he corrects himself. ‘You know, with alcohol. I’d understand. Your dad and your brother …’ He trails off.
‘There is a problem. I’m being victimised by some unknown person or thing.’
‘Thing?’ He looks quizzical. It wasn’t wise of me to add that. How can I tell him my latest theory after what he’s just said? It sounds mad even to me.
‘Do you think I was drunk and smashed my own plant pots?’ I demand. He doesn’t respond. I’d have liked him to come back with a firm no. ‘Do you think I threw the bolognese around the kitchen? The books around the living room? Of course you do, you’ve just said you think I was pissed when I fell off the ladder.’ He still stays silent. ‘Oh my God, you do think that.’ I feel punched by the unfairness of the suggestion. ‘Someone pushed me, then threw the ladder on top of me.’
‘We checked the security cameras, Emma. We have done after every incident. There has never been anyone around. Not once.’ He sounds as sorry as I feel. ‘I’m not judging. I want to help.’ He pauses for the longest time. ‘So last night, were you drinking on your own again?’
I shake my head, denying his suggestion and also trying to dislodge it. I don’t want that thought – that accusation – settling. Drinking on my own again. It’s upsetting and I resent it. I resent him. I’m not a big drinker. Am I? True, I probably nudge above the recommended fifteen units most weeks: work dinners, receptions where glasses of white wine and similar are regularly served. On our date nights I usually start with a G&T, then we share a bottle. He generally has two glasses, I have three. But I’m never drunk. He got hammered last night. Isn’t this a bit hypocritical of him? I certainly wasn’t drunk when I fell off the ladder or when I found the books this morning.
‘You have a high-powered job, a lot of responsibility and stress; it’s not surprising you drink to relax. Maybe you should try to meditate or something. Forest bathing? I’ve heard that’s good for stress.’
‘I didn’t do those things,’ I say firmly.
He clenches his jaw. ‘Well who did then? Tell me that. One minute you think it’s local kids, then Becky’s friends, someone with a key so maybe the cleaner, then your best friend of thirty years. You’ve thought all these things and then ruled them all out. Someone has to be responsible. Who?’
‘I think I’m being haunted,’ I blurt.
Matthew stares at me, shocked. Perhaps even horrified. Then he starts to laugh out loud. His laugh hurts my head. Hurts my feelings. ‘You are joking.’ I stare back at him, hold eye contact. Resist the urge to crack a smile, pretend I am joking, back away from the bizarreness. ‘Wow, you have some imagination.’ We both know I don’t, not really. I struggle to dress my Christmas tree I’m so lacking in creativity.
‘You said yourself we’ve ruled everything else out. I’ve spent some time researching it.’ I reach for my laptop and quickly find the articles I want to share with him. I’ve saved a number of sites about the paranormal. ‘Believing in ghosts isn’t such an outlier thing as you might imagine. In fact, last year a survey of two thousand people was conducted by a reputable market research company, and they discovered that over sixty-three per cent of respondents believe in the paranormal in some form.’ I’m gabbling; I don’t want to allow a pause because I know he will shoot me down. ‘We use the market research company ourselves at AirBright. They are not a dodgy outfit.’
