“I know.” My fingers flex instinctively at the memory of Allegra’s fearful hand clutching mine. “I want her out of there as much as you do. But you’re going to have to convince them you’re clean for good.”
“I am.” Daisy’s reply is vehement. “I wouldn’t risk Allegra for a high.”
I try not to think of all the occasions she’s done exactly that. The times when Allegra has found her mother out cold on the floor, or the nights when Daisy disappeared for hours, leaving her kid alone in the dark. History teaches us life follows a pattern, that things repeat themselves over and over again. Yet human nature makes us hope against hope it isn’t true. That this time will be different.
“You’ll need to prove that Darren’s gone for good.” I almost flinch saying his name, expecting her to turn on me again.
“He wouldn’t have me back, anyway,” she says.
I notice that she’s not denying she still has feelings, or that she’d go running if he clicked his fingers. She’s assuming he won’t be returning. From what I know of Darren, it’s a dangerous assumption to make.
My promises sound weak, even to my own ears, but Daisy’s face lights up as if I’ve just offered her the world. The uneasiness in the air is mine alone and though I try to bury it, still it lingers on.
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 voice 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.