How to Be a Good Wife (17 page)

‘Dad rang,’ he says. ‘He said you might turn up.’ He steps over to the kitchen counter, flicking the switch on the side of the kettle. ‘Tea?’

I nod. ‘What did he say?’ I ask.

‘He was worried,’ he says, reaching into a cupboard for some mugs. ‘Said you’d gone out to the shops and hadn’t come back. He found your wedding ring on the kitchen table and most of your clothes were gone.’

He puts a mug of tea in front of me and sits down.

‘What’s going on, Mum?’

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I say. ‘Something about your father.’

He blows on his tea, his sandy hair falling messily across his forehead. I remember a picture he drew when he was a little boy: a man and a woman with their arms around each other and a little boy standing in the middle. I hear Kylan and Hector laughing from the other side of the study door.

I wonder how to continue. ‘He’s not—’ I start. ‘He’s not who I thought he was.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Things haven’t been easy.’ This is impossible. ‘I’m going to go to the police,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow. But I wanted to talk to you first.’

Kylan’s eyes widen. ‘The police? Why would you need to go to the police?’

‘I’ve stopped taking my pills and I’ve started remembering things,’ I say. ‘Your father made me take them.’ I pause, trying to find the right words. ‘He’s a bad man.’

Kylan is staring at me, the line between his eyes deepening. ‘Mum, I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ he says. ‘What has Dad done?’

‘For a long time, I couldn’t remember where your father and I met.’ I laugh. ‘Isn’t that strange? He always says we met on holiday, and I could remember being there with him, but I didn’t remember meeting him there. I remembered him taking care of me, after my parents died.’

‘There are photos of you,’ he says. ‘On the island. Sitting at a restaurant by the water. Your first date.’

‘But I’ve started remembering things before that,’ I say. ‘I never chose him, not how you chose Katya. He chose me.’

He’s staring at me blankly. ‘Mum. I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

‘He said he found me on the doorstep,’ I say, slowly. ‘That I was ill. But I think he made me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘He made me ill. He told me there was a car crash, but it isn’t true. He told you that too. I’m so sorry, Kylan.’

I start to cry then. Kylan doesn’t come and put his arm around me. He sits across the table and stares.

‘Perhaps we should talk about it in the morning,’ he says. ‘You’re obviously very tired.’

I grasp his hand. ‘I don’t want to tell you this,’ I say, the tears coming again. Since they started at the bus stop, I can’t seem to stop them. ‘I’m not even sure if I’m right. Perhaps I should be taking my pills.’

‘Why have you stopped taking them?’

‘I suppose I wanted to see what would happen,’ I say.

‘But you know what happens. You’ve done it before.’

‘I wanted to know what I was like without them,’ I say. ‘And I’m starting to think that maybe they’ve been stopping me from remembering things.’

Kylan gets up, puts his arm around me, pulls me to my feet. ‘Come on, Mum,’ he says. ‘We can talk about it all in the morning.’

I grab hold of his arm. ‘I need you to help me, Kylan,’ I say. ‘I need to figure it out.’

Kylan stares at me. ‘Figure what out?’

‘What really happened.’

‘I’ll help you as much as I can,’ he says. ‘But I think you should get some sleep. It might feel different in the morning.’

I let him lead me down the corridor and into a small square room with just enough room for a double bed. There is a dresser squeezed in alongside it, with a pot of dried lavender on the top.

‘Is Katya here?’

‘She’s gone to bed. Do you want me to get you anything?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. He stays standing there, as if unsure what to do next.

‘Well, the bathroom’s at the end of the hall,’ he says. He turns to leave.

‘Kylan,’ I say. He stops in the doorway and turns back. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘What for?’ he says.

‘Just please don’t tell him I’m here.’

Kylan looks at me for a moment, and then leaves the room.

*

I dream of the blonde girl.

Smiling, she dodges me, and I see her running across a beach. She doesn’t look back, but I can hear her laughing. She is young; the sunlight glances off her still-blonde hair. All is light there: it shines on her and from her.

It’s warmer where she is. I can tell by the way her image shimmers and blurs at the edges. It is where I would be now. If, if, if.

Finally, I catch up with her. She’s trying to tell me something: I watch her mouth move, hear the sounds, but I can’t make out the word she is saying.

She splashes into the sea and plunges underwater, her body like an arcing seal. Rushing into the water, I swim deeper and deeper, my eyes stinging with salt. I force them open. I swim for a long time, but I can’t find her. When I return to the surface, I look down at my body, touch my blonde hair. It is hers. I have found her at last.

The word is on my lips when I wake up.

Elise.

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Kylan. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a red dressing gown. He smiles at me, a tight, wary smile. For a moment, I see him as a little boy again, his hair pushed up away from his forehead, messy with sleep.

‘Morning,’ he says. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes.’ I remember Hector and look at the door.

‘He’s not here, Mum,’ he says. ‘I told him not to come.’

‘Did he call?’

‘I called him,’ he says. ‘I’ve taken the day off work today. I thought we could spend it together.’

‘Where’s Katya?’

‘She’s gone to work,’ he says. ‘It’s just you and me.’

I smile then, embarrassed to feel the tears rise. With difficulty, I bring my eyes up to his. They are clear and blue. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he says, his voice breaking. ‘I didn’t realize things were so bad with you.’ He pauses. ‘I should have done more to help.’

‘I’m fine now,’ I say, looking around the clean, white room. ‘I’m safe here.’

Kylan looks uneasy. ‘You’re safe at home, Mum.’

‘Don’t make me go back there, Kylan,’ I say.

He is looking at my hands and looking down I see I’m clutching the duvet cover, both fists tight.

‘Let’s get dressed and go out for breakfast,’ he says. ‘There’s a cafe nearby that Katya and I like.’

I let my hands relax and try to smile. ‘You have the first shower,’ I say.

*

We leave the house at quarter past ten.

The sunlight bounces off the tall row of terraced houses opposite, the different colours melding brightly together like rock candy. For a second, I feel a sweet stickiness between my teeth: hear the roar of waves, the sound of seagulls. Then there is the smell of the sea. I shut my eyes, trying to draw the memory out, but just as quickly as it came, it’s gone again.

There are people in the street, going about their daily business. The shopkeeper across the road is standing outside his shop smoking a cigarette. I feel the smoke filling my own lungs, the cigarette shaking between my fingers.

‘Mum?’

Kylan is ahead, waiting for me. I must have stopped walking. It is as if the city itself is trying to help me, dropping clues which are impossible to ignore.

After a while, we come to a cafe, and Kylan holds the door open for me. Inside, it’s warm and smells of frying bacon. There are wooden tables and a blackboard above the counter announcing the menu in spindly white letters.

I follow him to a table. A red-headed waitress comes over, and we order coffees.

‘This is nice,’ I say, smiling at him.

‘Yes,’ he says, looking around the room. ‘We come here most Sundays for breakfast.’

I look around at the dusty wooden floors.

‘What’s it like being back in the city? You grew up here, right?’ Kylan asks.

‘I’ve always been so worried about coming back here,’ I say. ‘Your father told me so often it was bad for me.’

‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ he says. ‘It’s strange you’ve never seen my house, my life here.’

‘I wanted to, Kylan,’ I say. ‘Your father wouldn’t let me. I’m so glad I’m here now.’

Kylan smiles. ‘I don’t think Dad would have minded.’

‘He told me I was only safe in the valley,’ I say. ‘But he didn’t want me to remember. He knew it would be easier to remember here.’

‘He just cares about you, Mum. He wants to protect you.’

‘He’s scared that someone will find out what he did,’ I say.

‘What do you think he’s done, Mum?’

I take hold of Kylan’s hands across the table.

‘Kylan, I know this isn’t easy to hear, but I don’t think I can live with your father any more. I need to be far away from him.’

‘I don’t understand what’s changed,’ he says.

‘I told you,’ I say. ‘I’ve started remembering things since I stopped taking my pills.’

Kylan squeezes my hand. ‘Mum, I remember what you were like when you stopped taking your pills before. You weren’t yourself. You were seeing things, hallucinating. I think you need to start taking them again.’

‘Maybe I need to remember these things, Kylan,’ I say. ‘It’s important.’

‘But what if you’re not remembering?’ he says. ‘What if your mind is playing tricks on you?’

‘I need to be able to trust myself,’ I say.

‘All I’m asking is that you think about it. About taking your pills again.’

‘I just need a bit of time to think things through,’ I say.

The girl arrives with our coffees and we sip them in silence. I think of the wide bright streets outside the window, the colourful buildings. I think of a life without Hector.

‘Perhaps I’ll move back here,’ I say.

Kylan stares at me.

‘I could get a little apartment here, near you. Get a job in a shop or something.’

‘But, Mum—’ He stops. ‘What about Dad?’

‘Perhaps I could stay with you,’ I say. ‘Until I get on my feet. You have that spare room after all.’

Kylan looks away, sips his coffee. ‘We’ll see,’ he says. ‘Just think about what I’ve said.’

‘Where are you going?’ I ask, as he stands up.

‘Mum, don’t look so worried. I’m just going to the toilet.’

Kylan starts to walk away. I want to stop him: I hold my breath until he is gone. Then I look around the cafe. There is only one other table occupied, taken by two well-dressed women in their mid-forties. They talk and smile. I long to hear what they are saying over the sound of the coffee grinder.

I look down at the table. It has changed: it’s white Formica now, with a solid metal rim. Beneath it are my legs, pink and opaque, the contours of the muscles visible through the material of my tights. I am still wearing my ballet shoes and leotard under my coat. In front of me is the biggest bowl of ice cream I’ve ever seen. There are several different flavours, piled high, covered with hundreds and thousands and lashings of chocolate and strawberry sauce.

I can smell something sweet, but it isn’t the ice cream, it’s something else, something that makes my heart beat faster. It’s my mother’s smell, her perfume: sweet rose water. I can see the round purple bottle on her dressing table, catching the light from the window. I look up, and she’s there, sitting opposite me. She smiles, revealing the gap between her front teeth, her long ash-blonde hair slipping out from behind her ear and falling forwards. She is wearing her pale pink lipstick, and her favourite cream jumper with the trail of pink flowers at the shoulder. I remember the softness of it, and I long to reach forward and touch it.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ she says.

I dig my spoon into the edge of the mountain. The taste of vanilla fills my mouth. I eat faster, unable to stop.

She is smiling, watching me eat. I think of the ballet studio, the smell of waxed floors and cleaning product, the wide clear mirrors that spread across one wall. I see my body, moving across the floor, the delicate, floating movements of my arms and legs. And behind me, I see the rows and rows of chairs that had been set up for the competition, the faces of the audience. She was there, in the front row, grinning at me. I remember the sounds of applause; the feeling of the cool metal of the medal between my fingers.

‘I’m so proud of you, Elise,’ she says.

I look up, and she is gone. Kylan is sitting across from me in the cafe.

‘You were miles away,’ Kylan says.

‘Are you done with your coffee?’ I say. ‘I think I’d like to get my hair cut.’

The salon is sleek, so different to the one in the village with its black-and-white-tile floor, blue walls, and bulky old-fashioned equipment. The willowy receptionist tells me they can see me straight away, and I am ushered through to have my hair washed before I can even think about it. As I slip my arms into the grey gown, I make Kylan promise to wait where I can see him.

The hairdresser, a petite girl with dark curly hair and big brown eyes, wraps a towel around my head and leads me to a chair facing a row of mirrors. I keep my eyes averted, not wanting to look at myself. I don’t feel like the old me any more, and I don’t want to look like her either.

‘I want to go blonde,’ I say.

She frowns. ‘Your hair is blonde,’ she says.

‘It’s too dark,’ I say. ‘I want to go lighter. As light as possible.’

‘So you are an ash tone now, quite dark. It might be hard to go light all in one go.’

‘I want it as light as you can get it.’

‘And the cut?’ she asks.

I reach into my pocket and slide out the old black-and-white newspaper cutting.

‘Like this,’ I say, pointing at Elise’s face.

She squints at the picture, then looks at me. ‘I can’t really see the style there—’

‘I want to look like that,’ I say.

She looks at the picture again. Finally, she nods. I smile.

I ask her if she will cover the mirror.

She looks confused.

‘Just cover the mirror with a towel or something. I don’t want to see it until it is done.’

She returns with a huge white towel which she throws over the mirror. I can feel the woman in the next chair staring at me.