Coming Down (17 page)

16

The following week
I head across town toward the white stucco building that houses our marriage counsellor. I’m halfway down Harley Street when my phone buzzes, but it’s buried deep within my bag. By the time I’ve rifled through the napkins and leaflets, it’s already rung off.

I don
’t recognise the number, although that doesn’t stop my heart from beating a little faster as I press the button for my voicemail, wondering if Niall has finally decided to contact me.

But the vo
ice is female, deep and smooth, telling me my husband is running late, that he won’t be able to make the appointment tonight. No apologies, no excuses, and for some reason that bothers me. It feels like the last straw. You can’t swim against the tide when you’re not even kicking your legs. We’re both drifting, clinging onto the detritus of our marriage, when perhaps we should just let go. Let the current sweep us up, even if it pulls us apart.

In the past month, Simon has managed to attend exactly
two counselling appointments. He missed the first one due to a late-running court case. His apologies sounded trite, even to me, and I began to wonder just how committed he was to the whole process. Even at home he’s been quiet, holing up in his office, head bent over papers and depositions, only emerging for a coffee or a glass of whisky. While he managed to make the second appointment, he was noticeably silent at the third; contemplative even. He listened to what I had to say but didn’t add anything to it.

It
’s almost as though he’s deliberately withdrawing. As if he’s given up before we’ve even started. That puzzles me too, because I feel as though I’m the one making all the effort.

If he was in love with me, wouldn
’t he make more time for us? And if I was in love with him, wouldn’t I care more?

Because I still fall asleep every night with Niall
’s voice in my mind. With the memory of his lips on mine. If there was something worth saving, I’d be able to block him out. Forget about him.

“
Kiss me, Beth.”

The fact is, I
’m obsessing about him more than ever. His silence has done nothing more than let me build everything up in my mind, until I’m not even sure how I’m supposed to feel.

One thing I do know is
I’m sick of the whole situation. Simon’s silence, the counselling, our marriage.

The thought is freeing. A breath of relief. It allows me to think what I
’ve been trying to avoid. The one thing I’ve been too afraid to articulate.

Because
deep down inside, I’m not sure I want to save our marriage.

The thought has been floating around in my mind for weeks. Each time I
’ve tried to ignore it, it’s come back stronger. A child that won’t be overlooked. It taps at my brain, sticking its tongue out at me. Reminding me that happily ever after isn’t an option here.

From the way he hasn
’t bothered turning up yet again at our counselling session, I’m starting to think that maybe Simon doesn’t want to save it, either.

* * *

I wait for three hours, sitting on our brown leather sofa, barely looking at the magazine that’s open on my legs. Three cups of coffee have kept me awake, the bitter taste lingering in my mouth, along with a headache that throbs at the base of my skull.

It
’s almost eleven when I hear his key turn in the door. There’s a pause before wood bangs against plaster.

“
Hello.” He pops his head around the door to the living room. “I didn’t expect you to be up.”

I
’ve been going to bed early. Mostly so I can pretend to be asleep by the time he crawls under the covers, but also because I’m knee deep in organising the clinic’s annual gala. Both things are exhausting.

“
I waited up for you.”

He winces.
“Are you very angry? Because I can explain...”

“
I’m not angry at all.” In spite of my emotions earlier this evening, I’m the calmest I’ve felt in a while.

Simon steps inside, his dress shoes clipping against the wooden floor. When he
’s sat down, he leans forward, clasping his hands together. “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’ve been?”

“
It doesn’t matter.”

He carries on as if I haven
’t said anything. “I was with Elise.”

“
Is everything okay?” Simon’s daughter and I may not be bosom buddies, but I still care.

“
Not really. It seems her accountant’s made a mess of her tax return, and it’s sparked an investigation. We’re going to have to get someone else to look at the books.”

“
I’m sorry to hear that,” I murmur. “I hope she isn’t too upset.”

He shrugs.
“We’ll sort it out. She still wants to take a table at the gala.”

That
’s good. With only four weeks to go, it would be a pain to have to find another donor.

“
I wanted to talk to you about something,” I say. My heart starts to speed up; it’s one thing to think about doing something, but the execution is something quite different. Tears spring to my eyes before I can even say the words.

“
I don’t think the marriage counselling is working.”

Shock freezes
Simon’s face. It takes him some moments to collect himself enough to respond. “You said you weren’t angry...”

“
I’m not angry.” I scoot forward, trying to cut down the distance between us. “I’m not saying this out of anger, or because I’m being a bitch. I’m not saying it because I want to hurt you or upset you—”

“
Then what is it, Beth? You know how busy I am. I’m doing my best here to keep things together. What more do you want?” For the first time, he sounds passionate.

“
I just think that if our marriage was your first priority, then you’d come to counselling, regardless.”

“
I have a job. A daughter. Do you want me to ignore them? Just look after little Beth and pretend nothing else matters?”

I drop my head into my hands.
“No, that’s not what I mean. Of course those things are important. But we’re not moving forward here. Only backward.” When I look up, he’s staring angrily at me. I try not to cower away.

“
Then tell me what to do. What will make you happy?”

I open my mouth but no words come out. Instead I
’m remembering Louise’s suggestion. That I should choose me, work on my own self-esteem. I can’t remember the last time anybody asked me what would make me happy.

What would?

I try to imagine myself staying in this marriage. Waking up with Simon every day. Choosing a life of contentment, of companionship, letting him take care of me the way he takes care of his clients and his daughter. And there’s nothing wrong with that life—it’s one I longed for when I was at my lowest.

But
will it make me happy?

“
I don’t know.” It feels as if it’s a confession. “I don’t know what will make me happy.”

“
Then maybe you’d better find out,” Simon suggests. “I love you, you know that. You’re the best thing that happened to me in years. But I can’t fight for you if I don’t know what I’m fighting against. We can go to all the counsellors in the world, but until you decide what the bloody hell it is you want, we’re just talking into thin air.”

17

When Niall doesn’t turn up to class for the fifth week running, I feel my patience starting to run thin. For the past month I’ve done nothing except analyse what I’m supposed to be feeling, what I’m supposed to be doing, and he just seems to have disappeared. It’s as if he’s set fire to a touch paper and then run away so he doesn’t have to watch the explosion.

More than that, though,
I miss him
. When I look around the classroom I feel a sense of despondency, even though the kids seem happy enough that Michael is paying them some attention. As nice as the stand-in is, he isn’t Niall, and I’m beginning to realise he’s the one thing missing from my life.

What will make you happy?

I’ve been stuck on that question for over a week. Thinking through Simon’s words every night when I close my eyes, trying to see a way through. And every time my thoughts drift toward Niall, to that kiss, to the way he touched me until my body felt as though it was on fire.

He made me feel alive. Something I
’m not sure I’ve felt for a long time.

During my sessions with Louise, we
’ve been talking through my choices. She’s pointed out that I never really got over Digby’s death or my role in it. That I was afraid to let myself feel vulnerable again. Maybe choosing to marry Simon was my way of protecting myself from pain, insulating myself from the world, and by wrapping myself in his protection, I’ve managed to numb myself for too long.

N
ow I’m exposed for the first time in forever. Letting myself feel emotions I’d forgotten about.

Passion. Fear. Vulnerability.

“It will hurt at first,” she tells me. “Like when you pull a scab off a fresh wound. It might sting, it might get infected, but eventually it will heal again.”

“
What if I’d rather feel numb?”

“
That’s your choice. But if you honestly feel that way, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you just going back to your old life, to your marriage? The fact you’re coming to counselling tells me there’s something you’re not happy with.”

She
’s right. She always is. Louise seems to have this ability to make me see myself more clearly. To cut through the bullshit and say it as it is.

I
’m still thinking about it when Michael clears away the last of the paint bottles and says goodbye. I remember the other things Louise has suggested, that I should decide what I want, and not rely on everybody else to make decisions for me.

But w
hat will make me happy? Not staying like I am, because at the moment it’s making me feel miserable. When I rule that out, I know that the only option is to change things, to either transform my marriage or walk away.

W
e’ve tried to mend it. Both of us. For the past five weeks we’ve talked about making things better, but all we’ve done is talk. Neither of us has actually made any difference. Things are still the same as they were.

I don
’t want this any longer.

I
’m tired of fighting for something I don’t want anymore.

It doesn
’t feel as though there’s even a decision to make.

* * *

We’ve been talking for an hour; going in circles, walking the painful perimeter of our marriage. Simon’s sitting in his usual chair, his elbows on his thighs as he leans forward. I’ve noticed that Martin, our counsellor, has gone silent. He says nothing, watching us with interested eyes.

“
I’m not happy,” I tell Simon. “Neither of us are. And it feels as though we’ve done everything we can to make this work. What else is there to do?”

He says nothing for a moment. Just stares at me. His face looks drawn, old, and I keenly feel the difference between our ages.

“Christ.” He rubs his face with open palms. “I don’t know. It just feels like you’re giving up too soon. I made you happy before, I know I did.”

I nod, trying not to let my eyes fill with tears.
“You did.”

“
So let me do it again. Stop fighting me all the time. Stop questioning me. Just let me take care of you the way I want to.”

It doesn
’t work like that. He makes me sound as if I’m some sort of pet waiting to be groomed. Not somebody with my own feelings, emotions. My own needs.

“
That’s not what I want.”

“
What about what I want?”

“
I don’t think you want me like this.” My laugh is mirthless. We both know he was looking for companionship and love, not a messed-up wife who is clearly unhappy. I feel a flash of sadness that I can’t be who he wants me to be; beautiful, friendly. A trophy wife.

“
So what do we do?”

I take a deep breath, trying to summon some courage. We can dance around this all day—God knows we have been—but eventually one of us is going to have to say it. Even as I open my mouth I hesitate, my
heart full, my throat hurting, because as soon as I say the words I know nothing will be the same again.

I still need to say them, though.

“I think we should separate.”

Slowly, he stands up and
walks over, kneeling in front of me. Tears spill over my cheeks. He lays his head down in my lap, as if in supplication, and I find myself stroking his thin hair as he breathes into my thighs. We stay there for minutes, his tears soaking my jeans, my own still pouring down my face. Eventually he looks up, his eyes red, his hair mussed from my caresses.

“
Stay,” he whispers, taking both of my hands in his. “Stay with me.”

I look
for Martin, but he’s left the room. We’re on our own. It feels as though we always have been.

“
I can’t.”

“
Yes you can. I’ll try harder, we both will. We’ll make this work.” There’s a determined slant to his lips. He’s a winner in life, he always has been. It’s in his nature to fight.

“
We’ve tried, Simon, and neither of us is happy. We’ll be better off apart.”

“
And how are you going to afford to live without me?” he demands. “Your income from the clinic isn’t going to get you very far.”

“
It isn’t about the money.” I know I’m not going to be able to find much. A bedsit at the most, or a grotty room in a shared flat. “Do you really want me to stay with you for your money?”

His laugh is harsh and
humourless. “Yes.”

Reaching out, I cup his face with my hands. His skin
is cold and damp. “That’s not true. You wouldn’t want me to be a gold digger any more than I’d want you to be my sugar daddy. That’s no way to have a relationship. We got married because we loved each other, because we wanted to be together.” My voice cracks. “Because we worked.”

“
We can still work. Give it time, we can find another counsellor. We can go twice a week if we have to. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“
How many times are we going to try?” I ask. “Tell me, when was the last time you felt truly happy?”

He pauses for a moment, enough to wi
pe his eyes with a crisp, white handkerchief. “I don’t know.”

“
I don’t either, and that’s not right. You deserve to be happy, we both do.” I lean forward until our foreheads touch. It’s an intimate gesture but not sensual.

“
I know we’ll both be happier in the long run.”