Nearest Thing to Crazy (21 page)

‘Because it’s Tuesday and you often meet her on Tuesdays, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes.’

He looked at me and I tried to read his eyes. The trouble was, I was such a bad liar that I could hardly meet them with my own. I felt as if they were broadcasting the fact that I’d just sneaked a look at his mobile; that I’d snooped on him. My eyes travelled to the chair where his jacket hung, and then back to Dan. I sensed my face redden. A flicker of something unreadable passed across Dan’s eyes and then he yawned, but it was the sort of yawn which didn’t seem natural, the sort of yawn which was designed to demonstrate just how relaxed he was, just how insignificant what he was about to tell me was.

‘I’m not sure if I’ll have time to meet her tomorrow. I’ve got a big pitch to prepare for. I might even have to work late.’

‘Work late? So you might stay in Birmingham overnight?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

He sighed and pushed his plate towards the middle of the table. I hated it when he did that. Then he leaned forward and propped his elbows onto the table, his hands clasping the sides of his temples in an attitude which I knew represented total exasperation.

‘Cass, you know how important new business is. Surely you’re not going to give me a hard time because I’ve got to put in a few extra hours?’

I wanted to scream. Instead, I refilled my wine glass, emptying the bottle. I took a sip before answering, and then met Dan’s eyes directly and said, ‘I need to talk to you about Ellie.’

A muscle on his left cheek seemed to give an almost imperceptible tick. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Cass.’

‘No, listen, Dan. I think she’s dangerous. She’s trying to do something to me and she’s using you and Laura. I think she’s trying to make out that there’s something wrong with me, mentally . . .’ He was staring at me, his face appearing gaunt and strained. His lips were parted, so that I could hear his breath hiss sharply over his teeth.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I know this is going to sound bizarre, but there are things she’s told me about herself, important things . . . and now she’s denying she ever said them. Making out that I’ve imagined it.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the fact that she said she suffered from depression . . . the fact that she’s run away from a violent boyfriend . . . When I reminded her she said she didn’t know what I was talking about. I
promise
you, Dan, I’m not making it up. And the little things, like not asking me to the cinema, telling the girls that she was worried about me . . . you’ve got to admit something’s not right.’

I paused and waited, willing him to be reasonable, to respond to me properly, as a loving and caring husband should, longing for him to respect what I was saying and to believe
me
and not her. He seemed to be having a real struggle with his answer, like he was opening and closing his mouth several times before any words came out.

‘Well, if you really want to know, she told me she’s worried about
you
.’

‘Is that what you talked about – me?’

‘The thing is, your behaviour on Saturday night – you made it pretty clear that you weren’t having a good time. And she probably heard us yelling at each other on the way home. And maybe you’ve said things to her, told her things?’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh I don’t know – your state of mind, maybe?’

‘Oh she’s very clever.’ I shook my head as I remembered once more our first cosy little chat in her garden. What a fool I’d been. ‘So you are happy to listen to her, but not to me.’

‘It’s not a question of not listening to you. Of course I’ll listen to you. I love you, Cass. You’re my wife.’

‘But . . .?’

‘No “buts”. But the problem is that someone looking in from the outside, listening to all these accusations of yours, might think you’re being a little paranoid, because it doesn’t exactly sound rational.’ He was speaking calmly, as though he was the adult talking to a recalcitrant child. I wanted to shake him, to rock some sense into him, to make him see, but it just seemed pointless. ‘So what I’m trying to say, Cass, is that if you don’t want to appear irrational, then the best thing is to stop accusing her of all this stuff. It just . . . it just . . . oh sweetie, this is so difficult. It might make you sound as though you’re losing it, and God help us we don’t want that again, do we?’

‘It’s not me who’s being irrational, Dan.’ I stood up and started pacing the kitchen. I just felt that I was getting nowhere and I didn’t know how to get through to him. I could feel my frustration and anger growing inside me. ‘Did you talk to her about Rome as well?’

The mention of Rome had an almost electric effect on him. He suddenly looked wary.

‘What about Rome?’

‘She’s taking Amelia to see the Romantics exhibition at the Tate. She said she hadn’t asked me because you’d said it wouldn’t be my sort of thing, because I hadn’t enjoyed Rome.’

‘I don’t remember saying that.’

‘How convenient.’

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, for a moment, to illustrate his exasperation. ‘Is that partly why you think she’s got it in for you, because she’s taking Amelia to London? That’s ridiculous . .
. and I think you’ve probably had too much to drink.’

That was typical Dan – attack, in his world, was always the best form of defence. But he’d pushed me over the edge. I could feel a surge of blood in my head, a wave of hurt and anger. My words tumbled from my mouth in a flood of accusation.

‘Blame it on the drink, then.’ I felt the room begin to spin and I wondered if I was slurring my words. ‘But whatever it was that you said to her about Rome – we both know the real reason I didn’t enjoy it, don’t we?’

‘Oh for God’s sake. I thought we’d got over all that. Can’t you just drop it? This is so ridiculous. You can’t still be obsessing about something that happened
fucking years ago
!’ I flinched as his voice rose. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you sorted yourself out? Don’t you think you ought to start dealing with these crazy obsessions of yours before you drive us both insane?’

‘This is just what you do . . . making out it’s my fault in order to cover up your fucking lies.’

‘If anyone’s the liar here, Cassandra, we know it isn’t me, don’t we?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘You know damned well what I’m saying.’ Dan just sat there, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

He stood up. ‘I’m going to watch the news . . .’

‘Fine.’ There was nothing I could do. The words kept going over and over in my head . . . ‘nothing I could do . . . nothing I could do .
. .’ and I felt like something had died inside me.

Coco was barking her head off at someone outside, so I stuck my head out of the window to see why she was making such a fuss. Dan was standing there, dressed in running kit, rubbing his fingers through his hair, looking as though he wasn’t sure what to do. ‘Hi,’ I said, and he smiled and said ‘hi’ back. ‘Are you coming or going?’ I asked. ‘Because,’I said, ‘if you’re coming back why don’t you join me for a restorative gin?’ He said it sounded too good to miss, so he came in. We talked about Laura first of all. I said what a lovely girl she was and how happy I was to give her all the help I could. I told him that she’d already emailed me some of her stuff and that I was impressed with it. It was actually quite good. Raw around the edges and predictably self-conscious, but I thought there was some promise there. He seemed genuinely pleased to hear that, but then he would, wouldn’t he? Then we talked about the quiz and he said he was delighted that I had offered to help him. I did say that I was worried that I didn’t want to tread on Cass’s toes, with the flowers, that she’d seemed a bit sensitive about it.

It was after I said that that I sensed there was something bothering him; I felt there was something he wanted to tell me, so I asked him outright if everything was okay. He didn’t hesitate, honestly. He’d obviously just been waiting . . . I mean really wanting
. . . to talk to me. First of all he apologized for Cass’s behaviour on Saturday night. I said no need, don’t know what you’re talking about, although obviously I did; but I added I noticed she seemed a bit tense. I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell him that I’d heard the row, but I decided I should. I said I thought she’d sounded quite angry and was there anything I could do. That I hoped there was nothing I had done which could have upset her. He told me that he was worried about her, that things were a bit tricky, and when he said he didn’t know what to do he looked like a little lost boy. He said things were stressful at work and that he felt he needed to give Cass more of his time. He was so sweet, saying how much he cared about her. I said how lucky she was to have him and I hoped he didn’t mind me telling him, but that she’d told me she felt she might be suffering from depression. I said I hoped that she wasn’t feeling suicidal – that I gathered she’d felt like that in the past. ‘Did she tell you that?’ He seemed really surprised by that.

‘She seemed to want to talk and so I listened,’ I told him. He said he was really grateful to me for that and I said I would do anything I could to help, and then I gave him a hug. It just seemed the natural, friendly thing to do. He looked like he needed it so it was just the obvious thing, really. And then . . . Well, to be honest, I think we were both a bit embarrassed, so we started talking about Laura again.

I said I was planning on going to Birmingham the next day and maybe I’d call her up, take her out for lunch. He said he’d organize it, that it was the least he could do, considering I was being so helpful to Laura . . . so we agreed that I’d text him to confirm. It was all very innocent.

CHAPTER

11

I fought with sleep all night, aware that Dan’s side of the bed was empty. Exhausted but fully awake, I lay listening to the early morning silence, while the darkness melted into daylight. I couldn’t stop myself from going over everything that had happened and coming to the same conclusion. It wasn’t fair. Dan’s accusations weren’t fair. I was acting rationally. Anyone would feel the same as me if this was happening to them. I wondered where he had slept; the spare bed wasn’t made up, so perhaps he’d taken himself into Laura’s room. I listened for the sounds of him getting up. After a while I heard the hiss and gurgle of the pipes as he ran the shower. Then I heard his footsteps on the landing outside the bedroom. I held my breath as the latch lifted and he pushed the door open. The room was semi-dark but I could hear him crossing to his wardrobe in the gloom. Metal hooks of coat hangers slid against the steel rail as he sifted through his clothes, choosing a suit. A drawer slid open, then closed. Then another. I could picture him selecting socks, pants and shirt. All the time I pretended I was asleep, not moving, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to keep my breathing steady. I heard him whisper ‘Cass . . .’ but I ignored him, still pretending to be asleep. I think I sensed him standing over me, maybe looking down at me. I wondered if he would reach out and touch me, but he didn’t. I heard his hand upon the doorknob once more, the quiet click of the latch shutting, the sound of his footsteps on the landing fading. After about ten minutes or so I heard the thud of the front door, and then the growl of his car engine.

I got up, dressed quickly and made myself a cup of coffee. I dropped the latch on the front door. I needed privacy and secrecy for what I was about to do. I went into Dan’s study. A watery sun struggled through the ancient glass in the east-facing window. The wall occupied by the open fireplace was bare stone, with an oak lintel scorched and stained from two hundred odd years of wood smoke. There was no grate in the hearth, just a heap of ashes which, even though they hadn’t been added to over the summer months, still gave off a lovely toasted-wood scent which made me nostalgic for autumn evenings and the onset of all things warm and cosy. Dan had squirreled away a lot of his personal treasures in his private space, treasures which illuminated the many different facets of his character and periods of his life. Centred above the fireplace was an award he had received for a lawnmower advertisement, which I remember had been shot in New Zealand. Beside that was a framed
Campaign
magazine article from when he had first joined the London agency, talking of Dan as the smart new kid on the block. He had a selection of cartoons and caricatures dotted around the walls, collected either because they amused him, or were connected to him in some way. His desk was a dark oak refectory table, covered in piles of papers and fat, shiny pink envelope files, in between which were dotted about little knick-knacky things: a pristine grey brick, a Rubik’s cube, a Campbell’s soup tin containing a selection of pens and pencils,
including his special chinagraph markers. He had an ostrich egg placed on a little stand which some clever wag in creative had decorated with a picture of Dan and labelled ‘I came first’ as a tribute for one of his many awards. Dan loved eggs. He argued that as packaging went, you couldn’t improve on them, aesthetically. There was a matching rather naff china pig and sheep which his old secretary had presented him with when we made the move to the country, and an assortment of stress balls which had been placed in his Christmas stocking over the years by Laura and me. He stored his paper clips in a funny little clay bowl which Laura had made in primary school. It was glossy and brown with red and blue swirls under the glaze. I barely noticed these things anymore. Their familiarity made them both unremarkable and stale on my eye. I just simply picked them up, wafted a duster over the surface and plonked them down again. But as I fondled them now, moving them around in my hands, remembering the significance of each and every piece, I felt keenly both my separation from, and their connection to, my husband. It was strange to think these lifeless, inanimate objects might have a more enduring relationship with him than that which he had with me.