SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013
AFTERNOON
In the living room, we sit in a little triangle: Tom onthe sofa, the adoring father and dutiful husband,daughter on his lap, wife at his side. And the ex-wifeopposite, sipping her tea. Very civilized. I’m sitting inthe leather armchair that we bought from Heal’s justafter we got married—it was the first piece offurniture we got as a married couple: soft tan butteryleather, expensive, luxurious. I remember how excitedI was when it was delivered. I remember curling upin it, feeling safe and happy, thinking, This is whatmarriage is—safe, warm, comfortable.
Tom is watching me, his brow knitted. He’s workingout what to do, how to fix things. He’s not worriedabout Anna, I can see that. I’m the problem.
“She was a bit like you,” he says all of a sudden.
He leans back on the sofa, shifting his daughter to amore comfortable position on his lap. “Well, she wasand she wasn’t. She had that thing?.?.?. messy, youknow. I can’t resist that.” He grins at me. “Knight inshining armour, me.”
“You’re no one’s knight,” I say quietly.
“Ah, Rach, don’t be like that. Don’t you remember?
You all sad, because Daddy’s died, and just wantingsomeone to come home to, someone to love you? Igave you all that. I made you feel safe. Then youdecided to piss it all away, but you can’t blame mefor that.”
“I can blame you for a lot of things, Tom.”
“No, no.” He wags a finger at me. “Let’s not startrewriting history. I was good to you. Sometimes?.?.?.
well, sometimes you forced my hand. But I was goodto you. I took care of you,” he says, and it’s onlythen that it really registers: he lies to himself the wayhe lies to me. He believes this. He actually believesthat he was good to me.
The child starts to wail suddenly and loudly, andAnna gets abruptly to her feet.
“I need to change her,” she says“Not now.”
“She’s wet, Tom. She needs changing. Don’t becruel.”
He looks at Anna sharply, but he hands the cryingchild to her. I try to catch her eye, but she won’tlook at me. My heart rises into my throat as sheturns to go upstairs, but it sinks again just as fast,because Tom is on his feet, his hand on her arm.
“Do it here,” he says. “You can do it here.”
Anna goes across into the kitchen and changes thechild’s nappy on the table. The smell of shit fills theroom, it turns my stomach.
“Are you going to tell us why?” I ask him. Annastops what’s she’s doing and looks across at us. Theroom is still, quiet, save for the babbling of the child.
Tom shakes his head, almost in disbelief himself.
“She could be very like you, Rach. She wouldn’t letthings go. She didn’t know when she was over. Shejust?.?.?. she wouldn’t listen. Remember how youalways argued with me, how you always wanted thelast word? Megan was like that. She wouldn’t listen.”
He shifts in his seat and leans forward, his elbowson his knees, as if he’s telling me a story. “When westarted, it was just fun, just fucking. She led me tobelieve that was what she was into. But then shechanged her mind. I don’t know why. She was allover the place, that girl. She’d have a bad day withScott, or she’d just be a bit bored, and she’d starttalking about us going away together, starting over,about me leaving Anna and Evie. As if I would! Andif I wasn’t there on demand when she wanted me,she’d be furious, calling here, threatening me, tellingme she was going to come round, that she wasgoing to tell Anna about us.
“But then it stopped. I was so relieved. I thoughtshe’d finally managed to get it into her head that Iwasn’t interested any longer. But then that Saturdayshe called, saying she needed to talk, that she hadsomething important to tell me. I ignored her, so shestarted making threats again—she was going to cometo the house, that sort of thing. I wasn’t too worriedat first, because Anna was going out. You remember,darling? You were supposed to be going out todinner with the girls, and I was going to babysit. Ithought perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing—shewould come round and I’d have it out with her. I’dmake her understand. But then you came along,Rachel, and fucked everything up.”
He leans back on the sofa, his legs spread wideapart, the big man, taking up space. “It was yourfault. The whole thing was actually your fault, Rachel.
Anna didn’t end up having dinner with herfriends—she was back here after five minutes, upsetand angry because you were out there, pissed asusual, stumbling around with some bloke outside thestation. She was worried that you were going tohead over here. She was worried about Evie.
“So instead of sorting things out with Megan, I hadto go out and deal with you.” His lip curls. “God, thestate of you. Looking like shit, stinking of wine?.?.?.
you tried to kiss me, do you remember?” Hepretends to gag, then starts laughing. Anna laughs,too, and I can’t tell whether she finds it funny orwhether she’s trying to appease him.
“I needed to make you understand that I didn’twant you anywhere near me—near us. So I took youback up the road into the underpass so that youwouldn’t be making a scene in the street. And I toldyou to stay away. And you cried and whined, so Igave you a smack to shut you up, and you criedand whined some more.” He’s talking through grittedteeth; I can see the muscle tensing in his jaw. “I wasso pissed off, I just wanted you to go away andleave us alone, you and Megan. I have my family. Ihave a good life.” He glances over at Anna, who istrying to get the child to sit down in the high chair.
Her face is completely expressionless. “I’ve made agood life for myself, despite you, ............