Her Greatest Mistake Page 9

  I cut away from the main route, opting to take the inland, ‘have to be local or mad to drive’ route. My wing mirrors are now outwardly devoted to both left and right hedgerows. Bracken scraping at my paintwork. I jump as my mobile buzzes from the passenger seat. With no obvious other traffic, I grind to a halt, relief daring to flash through me. Ruan must have received my message; he’s texted me back. He’s probably already swaggering up the hill away from the pub, plodding his drunken way to mine. I feel a tad guilty. He’s so good-tempered – just as well with a neurotic boss.

  I illuminate my screen. Strange, why is Ruan’s caller ID displaying as an unstored mobile number? I don’t recognise this number. Something to do with the poor signal? Fumbling to press the message icon, my fingers like sloppy sausages, I open it. My heart rate fast-tracks to the next beat. I impulsively fling my handset back to the passenger seat, as if it’s on fire. Shit. The words trouncing my chest. The screen remains lit. I re-read the text, over and over, in case I’ve misread.

  Busy girl, Eve. Not home yet. Jack is home alone again, I see. At least he has a friend with him. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my eye on them until you return. Drive safe, won’t you? No hurry.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Before

  Following the hiking expedition; life seemed to change so precipitously. The Gregg I’d fallen for; the Gregg I’d married, where did you go? I stumble across this situation in clinic, so how did I allow myself to fall into the very trap? The mélange of lies, an existence behind locked doors; the very same I assist other victims with. How many hours have I squandered since, attempting to justify my susceptible-beyond-belief behaviour? Still, I have Jack, and I would never change this, not for the world. Not even for my freedom.

  All the same, as most of the others do, I repeatedly feel the need to defend myself. To others sometimes, but mostly to myself. How can an observant, apparently intelligent being behave so obliviously? How does a marriage fall apart in such a titanic way? So you didn’t notice the gigantic iceberg? Nor the monstrous tendencies? There but for the grace of God go I; John Bradford could not have said it better. Cruel words and judgments may not always be voiced, but I see it in the eyes. Do people have the right to judge, with no idea of perspective?

  I once made the mistake of opening up to a hospital colleague before we relocated. I don’t know why I was so taken aback by her questions, given I’d already asked them of myself so many times. But when others probed, it felt more like an attack, accusation.

  ‘I don’t get it, Eve. Why did you get together in the first place? If he was as cruel as you say?’

  Her expression morphed from one of sympathy to one of scepticism. I should have lied; said we’d come to a mutual agreement to separate. He was killed in our car accident. Anything but the truth.

  ‘Obviously, he wasn’t like that in the beginning! I wouldn’t have married him knowing what I do now. If I’d seen what I do now, I’d have stayed well clear. I’m not stupid!’ Or was I?

  ‘He couldn’t have changed that much, surely?’ she prodded further, a slight frown running across her forehead. Slanted eyes scrutinising me. Wondering if she’d got me wrong. She had a point.

  I could feel my defensive barriers begin to lower. ‘Well, he did.’

  ‘How, so quickly, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Clearly, I was utterly blind to all the flying flags. Maybe I chose not to see.’ A ‘surely not’ look cross-examined me. ‘I was a fool. Okay.’

  ‘Just like that—’ she clicked her fingers ‘—he became a different person?’ God, dog with a bone.

  ‘If you’re trying to make me feel any more wretched, it’s not possible.’ She jerked her head backwards, offended. ‘Look, it’s not so much that he changed. So much as I woke up, when he began to show his true colours. He didn’t change per se; he’d more… kept his true self well hidden. In the beginning he was, I guess, acting, playing the part. Then, after it was all too late, I’d signed the dotted line, he quit the acting. Only then did I truly see who he was. As much as it grates on me to admit it, he’s a very astute man. A master of disguise.’

  ‘Why did you stay with him for so long, then? I mean years, wasn’t it?’

  My reasoning was not hitting the right places. Unless people have had dealings with a psychopath, it’s so difficult for them to comprehend either of our motives.

  ‘I understand why you ask, Emma, but, to be fair, it’s because you’re still considering us as – how can I put it? – two normal people in a normal marriage. Stand outside your own box for a minute. You’re a psychologist. Come on. Sometimes it’s not what we see, or what we’re told, but what we don’t see, what we’re not told! People need to be more open to what defies the visual reality. I thought you of all people would understand, because, if you don’t, what chance do I have? I didn’t leave because I couldn’t!’ I was cross with her, which wasn’t fair. This was why it was best not to engage in these conversations, I thought.

  From then on, I’d allow such questions to drift yonder. My chronicles were at the mercy of, not what people knew, but what they didn’t know. My truths were obscured, hidden by societal perceptions, which were discreetly manipulated by what they saw and heard. In the end, both you and I played our part in obfuscating the truth.

  ‘Look, Emma. I explain this to people I see as the Egg Timer Effect. Initially, the dominant partner appears attentive, charming, kind. As the glass and sand is, at the base of the egg timer, the relationship is full, rounded, complete; perfect. Some time on, at the correct point in the relationship – once the psychopath has sufficiently ensnared its prey, bewitched the prey’s allies – the egg timer is rotated. Furtively, gradually, the care mutates to control and ownership. The charm morphs to belittling and scorn. Changes ever so discreetly slither through bit by bit, until your world has dropped away entirely. From the outside, and this is where the psychopath excels, your timer looks exactly the same as it always has. Perfect.’

  ‘Crikey. You wouldn’t think it would be that easy, would you?’

  ‘Indiscreet criticisms tiptoed by. References to my deviations; my hair, my weight, my posture, my clothes, my make-up.’

  She nodded along.

  ‘He’d say things like: “Are you really wearing that this evening?”

  “That colour lipstick again; is the light working in the bathroom?”

  “Perhaps you should try a new hairdresser. Or is it your diet?”

  “Do you really think you should be eating such an amount?”’

  ‘Nice,’ she said.

  ‘Constant little pointers to my inadequacies: my cooking, my time management, my messiness. Snowballing reproaches towards those close to me; friends, family.’

  ‘Poor Eve.’

  ‘Knock after knock. Day on day. One week after the other. A slow torture, weakening the soul. Dividing and conquering. Isolating. Slowly leading you by the hand up the wobbly pathway to psychosis.’ I stopped to breathe. ‘Then, the classic – “Are you sure you’re mentally stable?”’

  I think Emma got my point.

  But to you, I failed. I didn’t fulfil your desires for me. I observed; I absorbed. I took your hand and walked so far. But I didn’t walk on to the end of the path. I took shelter, regathered and bided my time, learning the rules of your game. You hadn’t calculated for this; no one says no to you. No one.

  It took patience. Heartache and forbearance.

  Even so, the only possible outcome is that I will never be the same again.

  *

  Seven months pregnant, I sat, dumped in your golf clubhouse. Coaxed into being the chauffeur for the evening. Why did I go along with it? Because I was still walking along your path. Vulnerable with hormonal changes; being the dutiful wife. However, I learned valuable things this night. I situated myself in the corner; an antique wannabe fatigued chair took my weight. Beige in colour, anything but its pretentious aspirations. Where did they actually find this stuff?

  I fetched my
mobile from my handbag, but still no saviour text messages. No missed calls. Where was Sam? I glanced over to where you and your disciples were, propping up the dribbling, sticky bar. One man trying to outdo the other; you, as to be expected, holding pole position. Suddenly feeling wearily tired, I allowed my head to fall back against the headrest. Hoping it wasn’t previously occupied by a Brylcreem-wearing golfer.

  Attempting to clear my mind, I practised the diaphragmatic breathing technique I’d learned on a course that week. In through the nose for seven, out through the nose for eleven. It was supposed to initiate my natural relaxation response; reset my system to baseline. But just as I’d negotiated the only quiet spot in the room, a rather loud crowd of men decided they too wanted to get up-close and personal in the corner. Not so much next to me as practically on top of me. I was evidently invisible. I attempted to super-focus on my heartbeat; to blur out their voices and induce calmness. But their non-dulcet tones superseded any such intentions.

  ‘My word, you were playing so well, Jonny boy! Game was practically over by the back nine.’ A rosy-cheeked Jonny smugly accepted the gushing praise. Had I been magically transported to a Jeeves and Wooster set without realising? Surely people didn’t genuinely speak in this manner? It sounded so uncomfortable too. A tray crammed to capacity with drinks chinked its way to their table, reminding me of how much I was gasping for a drink; clearly you had forgotten, and no way was I going to remind you of my existence in the room. Or push my way through the crowded bar.

  Jonny rested his hand on the headrest of my chair, consenting to the offering of his free drink; desperately needing something to dilute the lashings of syrupy mutterings he was being showered in. If I could have been bothered, I’d have moved.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, I hate clubhouses,’ I muttered under my breath. Though I needn’t have worried; they were all far too self-indulged to hear me. It was every reason I’d refused to take up golf, these behaviours, and the appalling dress code. I checked my mobile again, in a desperate need to call a friend, ask for help. A horrible thought crossed my mind. Friends? I only had Sam left. It had been easier to let all the others go. In the end, I’m sure they, too, were waiting for me to release them from their friendship duties. Countless times I’d made excuses, stood them up, sent them home early from gatherings at home. Justified your abruptness; rudeness. It became such hard work to keep friends.

  At the back of my mind, I still hoped this was just a phase with you. Perhaps you were simply feeling the pressures of work. Your hours had increased to something ridiculous; so many after-work dealings and meetings, sometimes into the early hours. Maybe you were stressed? Was I being unsupportive? But what about Joe? I was struggling to forgive you for what you did to Joe. Threatening him; not you personally – you contracted someone else to do it. I’ve never been able to grasp what went on; Joe barred my calls, though. He told Sam he didn’t want contact with me anymore; he’d apparently had a lucky escape. One of your disciples made an impromptu visit to his home, the evening we were in the Lake District. You laughed it off when I confronted you on the issue.

  ‘You’re better off without friends of his ilk; so weak. A loser’’, you informed me. A true friend would defend his right to be so!’

  The following week I discovered I was pregnant.

  I shifted in my seat, allowing for my discomfort at the memories.

  I called Sam again. ‘Jesus, Sam, come and rescue me, please. You said you’d be here by now. Where the hell are you?’ This was the third voicemail I’d left. Either she couldn’t face it either and was playing truant, or she’d decided she would rather slowly pull out all of her eyelashes, one by one. I wouldn’t have been there either if you hadn’t insisted. Which was an odd one for me. I was beginning to learn, when drink was at the party, I might as well not be. You were always oblivious to my company. Then, there was the point when I realised I became grateful for this.

  My ponderings were rudely interrupted again by my adjoining crowd. ‘How did you find it, Fred? Did your new spikes work out? Expensive, were they? Yes, thought as much. I wouldn’t buy cheap either.’ I found myself studying them with interest. Why did they insist on wearing such ghastly clothes at these clubs? If I had to look at one more pair of salmon-coloured trousers with coordinating shirt and—

  ‘Can I take this?’

  A ruddy-faced, boorish man pointed at a tub chair to my side. His entire party were staring at me in silence. My gosh, would you believe it, there’s a woman, alone in our clubhouse. Who the devil let her in? Where is her man?

  ‘Sure.’ I nodded. But didn’t you miss out those humble words, excuse me, please, and thank you? I thought. Still, no need to be courteous when you had lashings of ego. Ego, I pondered – ego or insecurity. I wondered, had he always spoken as if he had dog poo parked under his nose? How awfully unpleasant for him. I really shouldn’t think so badly of the afflicted.

  Jesus, where was Sam?

  I resigned myself back into the headrest, deciding to listen to their conversations for research purposes. A possible paper on the battle of egos and the correlation of trousers, colours matching all the flavours of ice cream. Could I get a research grant for this? Probably, given the other ridiculous projects I’d heard of. The nation’s favourite way of removing tomato ketchup from a bottle. Did bereavement have an effect on mood? And the likelihood of developing mild situational depression shortly after experiencing loss.

  ‘I’ve just realised who that is at the bar,’ I heard Jonny say, alerting me further.

  ‘Who? You mean Gregg Austin?’

  ‘Yes. But who’s he with?’

  They all craned their necks. ‘Well, there’s a story.’ Raised eyebrows everywhere. ‘No, seriously, you really don’t want to know. He’s...’ He began to explain, but his voice became smaller and smaller, then he was interrupted. Wait a minute, the balding man with the offended face hadn’t finished what he was about to say. I wanted to know who he was too. I leant in further to the group, but it was no use, they were speaking in reduced tones; typical. I managed to catch the odd word. Spain. Overseas. Buy-to-lets. Bank manager. But it was all too disjointed.

  ‘Just stay away. I’ve heard, on good authority, he’s bad news.’ He tapped his potted nose. ‘Seriously. Trust me on this one.’

  With a mutual understanding of trepidation in the air, something I was beginning to feel akin to, they resumed their independent incoherent speeches. No interactive conversation to be had anywhere. No one listening; everyone talking. A wave of nausea washed over me. What did they know about you? Who was the man? And why for the first time in the evening did they feel the need to whisper? You didn’t need to be up to anything, your reputation was sailing, or so I’d thought. Why would you do anything to damage it? Perhaps it was just jealous speculation. Dangerous hearsay. Sometimes these men could be gossipier than the females. All of them desperate to get one over on the other.

  I changed my mind: I hated people-watching. Sam had better have a good excuse. I slinked further down into the beige velvet-imitation chair; reached my mobile for the last time, praying for Sam to pick up.

  ‘You cannot use that in here,’ reverberated a voice from nowhere.

  I jumped in my seat and looked up to see an apple-red shiny-faced woman staring at me. Addressing me in a tone a five-year-old would have found condescending. To add to the insult, she was dressed like a character from a low-budget town-hall pantomime. Noddy sprang to mind. I wished I could have consumed alcohol. She continued to glare at me, then began a strange dance, waving her arms in my face. Did she think I was deaf?

  ‘Are you talking to me?’ A rhetorical question; I couldn’t resist.

  ‘If you want to use that—’ pointing at my mobile ‘—then go outside. Phones are not permitted in the clubhouse. So, if you don’t mind.’ She jerked her eighties-permed head backwards towards the clubhouse door. Did she not have any friends to advise her? Though rich, coming from me.

  Had I missed some
thing? At what point did it become acceptable to be so blatantly rude, so completely obnoxious? Maybe there was a notice at the door informing no manners allowed in the clubhouse? I was the one being sensually abused from all imaginable directions. My ears and eyes subjected to an onslaught of invasively loud experiences from the ice-cream crowd, yet Noddy felt offended as I’d discreetly, minding my own business, pressed my mobile to my ear. If I’d been any more discreet, I’d have disappeared into the bland wallpaper.

  Was it just English clubhouses or was this a worldwide golfing phenomenon?

  I glared back at Noddy. I couldn’t be bothered. She’d also successfully managed to draw your drunken attention in my direction. You began to orchestrate people and furniture to reach me; you didn’t look happy. I ungracefully seized my belongings and left the sitting area as she observed, ensuring I did as I was told. I couldn’t be bothered to discuss the incident with you, being such a social conformist if it suited. I quickened my steps to the ladies’ toilet, somewhere you wouldn’t follow, childishly pretending I hadn’t noticed your advancement.

  Why hadn’t Sam at least texted me?

  We’d been best friends since school. Up until the time I introduced her to you, we’d never had any real disagreements. When we were younger we spent hours talking about how we’d make our fortunes. But our career choices divided, orientating us in diverse directions. Sometimes, I still wished we’d followed our dreams. But life’s tide swept us adrift. I followed the sciences, but Sam always had something I didn’t: the gift of the gab; she moved into sales. We remained firm friends. Our only bone of contention being you.