The Wife – Part Two: For Better, For Worse

Chapter 16

‘Am I driving tonight?’ Michael throws his bag down onto the kitchen table. He doesn’t even bother with pleasantries any more. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to communicate sometimes, and the fact that he seems okay with that – I struggle to get my head around it.

‘No. I’ll drive.’

We’re going to a dinner party to celebrate the anniversary of a couple we’ve known for almost ten years now. We are both aware that we will need to pretend tonight. Pretend we are still that couple. The ones who managed to pull through together, despite it all; still perfect. The pressure of this pretence makes me want to scream.

‘I’m going upstairs to take a shower. Is my grey shirt clean?’

I nod and take a sip of the tea I’ve just poured as I watch him leave the kitchen, hear him head upstairs. He’s left his bag on the table, his jacket slung over the back of a chair, his phone hanging precariously from the top pocket.

I wait until I hear the shower switch on, I put down my tea and I quickly rescue his phone before it drops to the floor; but instead of putting it somewhere safe, I keep hold of it. I turn it over in my hand and look at the screen, but I stop myself from doing what I really want to do – check his messages. Read his texts. Look at his call history. Am I really that person? That kind of wife?

The landline suddenly rings out, its sharp, shrill tone jarring against the silence, causing me to almost drop Michael’s phone. The slightest sound still has the ability to make me jump, and I reach behind me for the TV remote, switching it on for that background noise that helps drown out the perpetual, threatening silence. The ringing stops, abruptly, so Michael must have answered it. Sure enough, he calls down from the top of the stairs.

‘That was Laurel on the phone.’ I hear him run downstairs, and I quickly slide his phone into the back pocket of my jeans. ‘She needs me to pop back to the university, sign a couple of things concerning grants for a new research project. I should have done it before I left … I forgot. You know how it is.’

I don’t, actually, but I leave it at that. I don’t think he’s lying to me this time. If that had been her, this woman, this girl, she wouldn’t call him on the landline. She wouldn’t be that stupid. That indiscreet. I think he’s telling the truth for now. He has to pop back to work. Fine.

‘Call Rachel and let her know we might be a few minutes late, okay?’

He issues that instruction without even looking at me, out the door before I have a chance to acknowledge him. And it’s only when I hear his car leave the driveway that I realise I still have his phone. He threw his jacket back on without even checking it was still there in his pocket.

I reach around and pull it out of my jeans, laying it down on the countertop. I look at it. I don’t do anything else, just look at it, because he could still come back for it if he realises soon enough. But if he doesn’t…

I glance over at the TV screen and focus on the local news programme that’s just started, and then I remember I need to call Rachel. Let her know we may be running late. So I quickly call her, and once I’ve done that I check the time. I don’t think he’s coming back for his phone. And it’s there now, calling to me.

I pick it back up and head towards my office at the far end of the orangery. But the second I open the doors of the pool house, I stop walking. I stand perfectly still, and, as I always do when I come in here, I remember. A lot of people still find it strange, that I have my office here, in this place, considering what went on just a few feet away from where I’m standing. And I can’t always explain the reasons why I’ve forced myself to come in here on an almost daily basis. Facing up to what happened is just something I need to do.

I look down at the water. I’ve always liked being surrounded by water. I grew up by the coast, spent a lot of summers at the beach. My grandma and grandad used to take me there a lot after my mother died. I think they sensed it was like an escape for me. Somewhere that allowed me to forget. Somewhere that made me feel happy. All they’d wanted was for me to forget the bad times and get on with my life. And that’s all Michael wants me to do too, isn’t it? Forget, and move on with my life.

Crouching down I drop my hand into the water, let my fingers trail through it, backwards and forwards. It’s almost hypnotic … What am I doing? I’ve been gifted this window of opportunity, and I can’t afford to waste it.

I snap myself out of that near-trance-like state I was close to falling into and head over to the small room in the corner that now serves as my office. There’s not a lot of space in there, but it’s big enough to house a decent-sized desk, a couple of filing cabinets, and some shelves. And there’s a huge window that means the room always gets a lot of light, as well as a decent view out over the garden. A view of the summer house that was once my haven. The space beside it that was supposed to be our child’s play area. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes, my fingers tightening around Michael’s phone as my breathing quickens, the pain of losing that life I wanted, that life I was living; it still hurts in a way nobody will ever understand.

Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, I pull myself together. Sitting down behind my desk, I switch on my laptop and lay my own phone down beside Michael’s, my heart beating like a jackhammer as a mixture of nerves and— am I finding this exciting? So many emotions are fighting inside me these days, it’s hard to tell which ones win out. And maybe exciting is the wrong word, but I’m feeling something. The anticipation of relief, perhaps. That I will soon know so much more about my husband than I clearly do at the moment. First I need to check his messages, even though I don’t expect to find anything. Michael is clever; if something were going on, if he was doing anything he shouldn’t, I doubt he’d leave any evidence on his phone. My scan over his texts proves me right – there’s nothing even slightly incriminating there. I still know something about my husband, then.

I start tapping away at the keyboard, watching as a list of instructions pops up on my screen, and my stomach dips as the realisation of what I’m about to do hits me again. But this is necessary. I can’t have him accepting that this life of distractions, silences and resentment is our life now. I can’t. I won’t.

Picking up my phone, I follow the steps listed in the instructions, and I watch as my plan kicks into action. The knot in my stomach tightens because of what I’m doing here – I’m tracking my husband. I’m installing an app on his phone that allows me to see where he is, where he goes, who he calls and texts. I’m still amazed at how readily available this kind of thing is. And yes, there is part of me that knows that this is wrong, but I also know that this is the only way that I can begin to rebuild my sense of trust in Michael.

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