The Foster Husband (31 page)

When I came out of the bathroom, turning off the light, I was temporarily blinded by the sudden darkness in the bedroom. As my eyes adjusted, I realized I could see hundreds and hundreds of
stars through the huge window that made up an entire wall of the room, facing seaward. I gasped a little and stepped forwards, craning my head to look up. My breath misted on the glass.

‘Hello, Kate,’ said a voice.

I spun around in shock.

Half hidden in the dark, Tim lay on the bed, feet stretched out. Entirely bizarrely, my first thought was to tell him to get his shoes off Eddy’s parents’ immaculate bedspread.

‘What the fuck, Tim,’ I said. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

He nodded smugly and stretched his hands behind his head. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

‘Where’s Manda Clarke?’ I retorted.

‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about Manda,’ he said.

‘I’m not worried about her,’ I snapped. ‘I couldn’t care less about her.’

Tim sat up on the bed and pouted like a child.

‘Is someone a bit jealous?’ he asked.

‘Oh yeah, massively,’ I said. ‘I came up here to cry and cry. Or to use the bathroom. And now I’m done, so if you’ll excuse me.’

Tim jumped up from the bed so fast it made me start, standing between me and the stairs, his arms folded across his broad chest, blocking my way. He smiled at me, but it wasn’t the smile I
was used to seeing on his beautiful face. This smile almost made him look ugly.

‘Tim, just grow up.’

‘Just grow up,’ he mimicked. ‘Is that guy downstairs grown up? Is he? Because he’s from London, and he’s going to university and all that shit. Is that what
impresses you?’

‘Tim.’

‘Is it? Is
he
good enough for you, Kate? Since I’m not?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he sneered. ‘You just used me, Kate. Used me and then dropped me when you’d had enough. You never gave a shit about me. You were only interested in what
I could do for you. I made you popular and then you dumped me.’

‘Tim, I’m going downstairs now,’ I said. There was no point to this conversation. What good would it do to tell Tim I found him boring and possessive and clingy? He might think
I didn’t care about his feelings, but it would hurt him more to hear the truth.

He took one step towards me and clutched my wrist. I tried to pull away but he held on so hard that I cried out.

‘No you’re not,’ he said from between clenched teeth. He was close enough that I felt flecks of saliva on my cheek as he spoke. ‘You’re not.’

He grabbed my other wrist and pushed me down onto the bed. I tried to kick at him with my feet, but he lay on top of me heavily, so that I was pinned down. I had always loved how strong Tim was;
it had made me feel delicate in comparison, fragile. Now it made me feel scared. I knew that no matter how much I struggled, I didn’t have the strength to get him off me.

‘Tim, please,’ I begged. ‘Please. We can talk, is that what you want? Let’s talk.’

Tim’s eyes glittered in the faint light. ‘Shut up,’ he said. His voice was thick in his throat.

‘Really, Tim, please.’

Without letting go of my wrist he bent his elbow so that his forearm pressed against my throat. My mouth opened and closed as I tried to draw in air to scream, but all that emerged was a rasping
whisper.

I knew as soon as he pushed my legs apart with his knee what he planned to do. And I don’t know if I will ever forgive myself for letting him do it. No matter how much I tell myself that I
was scared, or drunk, or physically overpowered, the truth is that there came a point when I thought that the more I resisted the worse it would be. And so I let him.

It wasn’t as if he was a stranger. A few weeks ago I’d have done it willingly. In some way, I did think I was better than Tim. I did. This was my punishment. These were the things I
told myself to justify lying still. To justify lying.

When I came downstairs, hours later, the music had stopped. Everyone had gone. Except Eddy, of course. He looked shocked to see me appear in his living room; he must have thought he was alone in
the house. He just looked at my bruised throat and my tear-streaked face and offered to walk me home, keeping a solicitous distance between us as we stumbled silently down the hill to my
parents’ house.

I always knew he must have guessed what had happened, but he never said anything about it and neither did I. My parents tried to get me to talk, but I wouldn’t. No, more than that. I
couldn’t. Every time I tried, my throat closed up again, as if Tim’s arm was still there pressing on it, stopping the words from coming out.

A few days later I left Lyme for good. And I never looked back until now.

‘You’re late today,’ says Cathy at the bakery, bringing over my coffee. ‘Big night?’

She lingers hopefully and I wonder if she’s already heard something about me and Eddy. It’s only to be expected that we’d have been seen on our night out – two single
people in Lyme, hanging around in public. The holey jumpers probably texted the entire town with an update as soon as we left the pub. We were asking for it. But before Cathy can press any
information out of me, the man himself arrives, his cheeks flushed from the cold outside.

‘Brr,’ he says, stamping his feet on the mat by the door. ‘Freezing out there.’

‘Going to snow, apparently,’ says Cathy, looking from me to Eddy with blatant interest.

‘Is it now?’ says Eddy affably, rubbing at his short hair. ‘White Christmas, maybe?’

‘That would be nice,’ I say. ‘Prue would love snow for her wedding.’ I’m surprised by how calm and collected I sound, idly chatting about the weather with my local
friends, when inside my stomach is churning with guilt and panic. Not the kind of excited panic that had me kissing Eddy last night, but the far more familiar kind that makes me want to flee the
bakery as fast as I can.

There was something about the way Eddy acted last night that makes me think for him last night was a little more meaningful than a drunken kiss. I don’t know exactly how I feel about it
yet, but I do know that I’m in no way ready for a relationship – haven’t I proved that I’m no good at them? – and it terrifies me that Eddy might want that.

Eddy seems entirely unaffected by what happened, asking after Cathy’s granddaughter, and wondering if someone called Bill will be selling Christmas trees out front again this year. While
Cathy launches into a long description of the terrible chilblains that may affect Bill’s seasonal business, I look at Eddy with new eyes.

If anything he seems less nervous than usual, more relaxed, laughing at Cathy’s gossip. But perhaps he’s just faking it, like me. His eyes flick over to me as he listens to Cathy,
and I drop my gaze back down to my coffee in embarrassment. I only realize after I’ve looked up again how flirtatious that seems.

Cathy watches the two of us and wipes her hands on her apron briskly. ‘Can’t stand here chatting all day, can I? You stop distracting me, Eddy Curtis, you bad man.’

She flicks him with a tea towel as she leaves.

‘I think she fancies you,’ I tease, as Eddy sits down opposite me at the trestle table. He leans down to pat Minnie hello.

‘Pheromones,’ says Eddy, his eyes twinkling. ‘She can’t help herself. Neither could you.’

‘Eddy!’ I laugh. My face burns so hotly you could probably pick up a slice of bread off the counter and press it against my cheek to make toast.

‘What?’ he says, sliding his leg alongside mine under the table, unseen by Cathy or any of the other customers. ‘Come on, you’re not going to pretend it didn’t
happen.’

I realize as he says that that it is pretty much exactly what I was going to do. I shift my leg very slightly away from his, and his forehead contracts into a quizzical frown.

‘Course not,’ I say carefully.

‘Kaaaate?’ says Eddy, drawing my name out so that it lasts for ages. His lips curl up into a little smile. It is impossible not to smile back a bit.

‘Look, I just don’t know if that was such a great idea,’ I say. ‘I mean, I had fun and everything, but Eddy, you’re great, but . . .’ My words peter out
slowly.

Eddy raises his eyebrows. ‘Well, I’m shocked,’ he says teasingly. ‘I was wondering when we were going to post the banns.’

‘Very funny,’ I mutter.

Eddy clumsily puts a hand over mine. ‘Kate, just chill. It’s no big deal. I know you’re not ready to rush into anything. But let’s not pretend it didn’t happen.
That’s never a good thing to do.’

Oh Eddy, I think. If only you knew. Pretending things didn’t happen is practically my way of life.

‘God, this is embarrassing,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

Eddy shrugs. ‘I don’t think it’s embarrassing,’ he says gently. ‘I like you, Kate. I always have done. Last night was fun. But if you just want to be friends, then
that’s okay too.’

I lift my head to look at Eddy properly. His face is so open and clear, it’s as if I can see right into his thoughts, and they’re all ordered and rational and sane.

‘Jesus, Eddy,’ I say. ‘When did you turn into such a grown-up?’

He laughs, throwing his head back, as if I’ve said something completely hysterical. But I mean it, I really do. How did he get to be so sorted and straightforward, when he’s messed
up his marriage just like I did? Where’s his self-doubt? His crushing sense of worthlessness?

‘A grown-up?’ he scoffs.

‘You really are though, Eddy,’ I say. ‘You’re so sorted. How do you do it?’

I can see that Eddy is a little bemused. ‘Everyone seems sorted from the outside, Kate,’ he says. ‘You seem sorted to me. Sad at the moment, but sorted in lots of ways. You
should stop being so down on yourself.’

That’s easy for Eddy to say. I expect if you opened him up to expose his darkest secrets they’d be something like ‘nicked a fiver off my mum when I was twelve’ or
‘failed to renew my car tax disc on time.’ No wonder it’s easy for him to open up about his emotions; they’re so simple and clear. He’s Mr Brightside; he always was,
even when we were younger.

I don’t even want to think what you’d find if you opened me up, but it wouldn’t be pretty.

‘You’re sweet, Eddy,’ I say.

It’s weird, though, he’s spent all this time thinking I’m so sorted and glamorous, successful Kate in London. But really the one who’s got himself together – set up
his own business, had two beautiful little girls, is at peace with himself – is the one who stayed in Lyme all along.

He doesn’t seem to feel that restless need for change and improvement that has always driven me. To prove myself. To make everything better. To improve everyone around me. I had thought I
was doing a good thing, trying to make the world a better place. What if really I’ve been doing the wrong thing all along, refusing to see the world as it is, to accept people the way they
are instead of how I want them to be?

‘Kate?’ says Eddy. ‘You’re miles away.’

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Thinking.’

‘Look, it’s bound to be strange for you right now,’ says Eddy. ‘The end of a marriage is hard. I know you’re probably not ready for anything else. But I’m
here for you as a friend, okay?’

‘Thanks, Eddy,’ I say. ‘You’re a good person.’

He’s a better friend than I deserve.

London

I’d been sitting on the edge of the bath staring at the pregnancy test in my hand for five minutes, willing it to form into the words that would change my life. Our
lives. It wasn’t just a plastic stick, it was a magic wand.

My period was two days late. I’d retched over my breakfast that morning, and my breasts were tender and painful enough that I had to hold onto them when I went down the stairs. These
should have been encouraging signs, but I’d learned already the cruel irony that the symptoms of early pregnancy were pretty much indistinguishable from those I got before my period, so I
wouldn’t allow myself to believe anything until that test was positive. The doctor said there was nothing wrong with me, nothing at all. He just said something about not stressing too much,
which was ridiculous. Hadn’t I chosen not to work for that very reason?

The doctor said it would happen when I least expected it, which is what everyone used to say about falling in love. I supposed it might be true. It didn’t stop me wanting to punch the
doctor in his smug, unconcerned face though. It didn’t stop me wanting to say, ‘If this goes on much longer I am going to have to turn into a sperm snatcher, because my husband will
barely sleep with me as it is.’

Matt and his super sperm. Oh yes, he’d had the tests too. Only after I’d badgered him for weeks. If I was being kind, which I was actually quite capable of being no matter what my
husband said, I would have acknowledged that he was terrified by the tests. He knew how much this meant to me and he dreaded the possibility of being the one at fault. He should have been used to
it.

But oh no, Matt Martell, for whom everything always came easy, excuse the pun, turned out to have super swimmers. When the doctor told him the results, I swear I thought Matt was going to do a
victory lap around the clinic’s waiting room, hands held high above his head.

‘Nothing wrong with these babies,’ he said, proudly, on the way home. ‘Nothing wrong at all.’ And when we got back, he initiated sex for the first time in weeks.

I don’t think he realized that the only possible conclusion that left me with was that the person who had something wrong with them was me. It didn’t just taint the present, it
stained backwards into the past. I found myself recalling all the times I’d taken risks, not bothered with the morning after pill, crossed my fingers after opening my legs and greeted the
arrival of my period like a benediction. What if all along I hadn’t been able to have children? What if that proved I couldn’t get pregnant at all?

I wasn’t reassured by the doctor. If there really was nothing wrong, then I’d be pregnant by now. I’d done everything right. Everything. There had to be a reason.

‘What do you want?’ Matt demanded, when I tried to talk about why it wasn’t happening for us. ‘We’ve had the tests, everything’s fine. You just need to stop
obsessing about it.’