Ripple effect, p.8
Ripple Effect, page 8
“Hi.” Trish speaks so quietly I can barely hear her over the noise coming from the lounge.
“Hi, Trish.” I smile weakly.
“What happened to your face? It looks sore.”
“I fell.” I wonder how many more times I’m going to have to repeat the lie.
“Sorry to hear that.” She’s talking to me but her eyes are fixed on Ian in the lounge, through the double doors which have been left ajar. “They get so rowdy together, don’t they?”
“Yeah, I guess they do.”
“Can I ask you something?” She turns to face me, conspiratorially. I nod without thinking. “Does John have affairs?”
I take a sip of my Coke and look around the room, making sure Lucy and Olivia aren’t nearby. “I don’t believe so,” I lie.
I’ve always suspected – and accepted – that he has affairs. Nothing regular or meaningful, just the odd fling when he’s working away. It’s not something that’s ever bothered me enough to ask about, which is surprising considering I know more than most the damage they can cause.
“Why do you ask?”
She looks back over to Ian, watching as he laughs at a story Graham is telling.
“There’s something going on with Ian.”
“How so?” My interest is piqued.
“Late nights, long absences, that kind of thing. I know you don’t like him, Erin, but he’s usually so attentive, and now he seems to have, well, drifted.”
“It’s not that I don’t like him, it’s just–”
She interrupts, but her voice is still quiet and placid. “It’s okay, you don’t need to lie for my benefit. I know what he can be like. He told me why you don’t like him and I can understand, I’d probably feel the same way if I were you. But he isn’t like that, not really.”
“And what exactly did he tell you?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“That you were working at one of the corporate events and he drank a few too many. He couldn’t remember much the following morning but he knew he’d gone too far.”
That’s putting it mildly, I think. I stand and process what she’s told me, trying to see Ian in another light, but I can’t.
“Could it be work? John’s been working some pretty long hours.”
She shakes her head assuredly. “I try ringing him but his phone’s switched off. If he was working his phone would be on.”
I nod.
“I’ll find out. I won’t stand for that shit like they do.” She gesticulates vaguely in the direction of Lucy and Olivia. “Sorry,” she says, suddenly looking embarrassed. “It’s hard, I don’t have anyone to talk to about this and it’s really messing with my head and interfering with work.”
It suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea who Trish is. I have never asked her anything about herself, tarnishing her with the same resentment I feel for Ian. I assumed she was just another rich man’s wife, another Lucy or Olivia. Another me.
“You think Andy and Graham cheat?”
She raises her eyebrows, a look that makes me feel as though I have asked a stupid question. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“You know why Graham gives you such a hard time, don’t you?”
I look at her, puzzled.
“The night you met John, Graham was there. Free night away, he’s not going to say no is he? Obviously Ian was there too. The three of them had a bit of a bet on who could… you know.”
I feel repulsed. “Graham was with Lucy then.”
“Exactly.”
So I was a bet. I feel as though I should be horrified, shocked to the core about my husband’s motives, but I’m not. I’m disgusted but not entirely surprised. You get to know a man with the passing of years; opinions you once held evolve over time, experiences erasing who they once were.
“Anyway,” she continues, “Graham is used to getting what he wants. They all are.”
I change the subject, my skin crawling at the thought of it. “Have you tried asking Ian?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Would you ask John?”
I consider whether I would confront John if I cared enough but I can’t make up my mind, unable to imagine myself having those feelings for him. I wonder whether I would be too scared of the outcome if I did.
“He might have a perfectly reasonable explanation though.”
She tucks a loose strand of her mousy hair back behind her ear. “He might. Or he could lie.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing, for now. If he’s having an affair and I act oblivious he’ll get cocky. He’ll slip up. I just need to be patient.”
I almost mention my own six-year marriage, my own act of obliviousness. I’ve never had any evidence of an affair in that time, but I haven’t exactly been looking. The suspicion has gone on for so long that I realise I’ve filed it away as something more than that – not quite a fact but much more than a hunch. A conclusion, maybe.
“Do me a favour will you? Don’t say anything to John.”
“Of course not.”
I’m used to keeping secrets.
18
Now
The rest of the evening drags by slowly, a three-course meal barely touched by Lucy and Olivia who spend most of their time draped over Brad. The rest of the group are either too drunk to care or too stupid to notice. I catch Graham throwing me sideways glances, no longer able to continue with the pretence of civility; alcohol has caused his mask to slip. There is a certain power in being the only sober person amongst the intoxicated, watching as the things they work so hard to hide spill out.
I think back to the first time John introduced us. It was just after Graham’s engagement to Lucy, at an over-the-top party masquerading as a celebration. I hadn’t wanted to go, I’d given John every opportunity and incentive to go alone or with his friends, but he’d persisted. It had been a disaster from the start, a rooftop bar in London full of faces I didn’t know, my internal set of rules screaming at me to leave. I hadn’t felt so vulnerable in a long time. There were so many people, so many names to remember as John walked me from one person to the next.
Graham had greeted me with cynicism and the kind of deliberate disinterest that took a lot of effort. He draped his arm over John’s shoulder and guided him to the bar, leaving me standing alone. I had waited for quite some time, feeling exposed and vulnerable, wondering why John had been so insistent that I went with him. Eventually, I escaped to the toilets where I spent thirty minutes locked in a cubicle, my absence noticed by no one.
By the end of the night we were among the stragglers, the remaining dozen or so who were being ushered out by the underpaid and overworked staff. I was used to being on the other side and I had a sudden sense of betrayal, as though I had been disloyal to my roots and crossed over to the dark side where wealth made you careless and hollow. They’d all but trashed the place then stumbled outside to their waiting cars, leaving other people to clean up their mess. I was embarrassed to be a part of it.
Outside, I had watched as their true personalities struggled with their public selves, the ones they’d mastered in order to misrepresent themselves. Lucy had been sick in the middle of the street, spitting and hacking as Graham looked on disgusted, contempt and disdain rendering him unable or unwilling to help her. I’d stood next to John, quietly letting my hand find his, looking for the same man who’d offered me protection months earlier. He squeezed my hand – one brief but firm grasp – then let go. There, but on his terms.
Just after eleven I excuse myself from an inebriated Lucy to look for John. I find him in the lounge smoking a cigar, deep in conversation with Graham who sits on the edge of an armchair, hunched over conspiratorially. Ian and Andy are listening in, a glass resting in one hand, a cigar in the other. The smoke stings my eyes. I clear my throat to get his attention, pulling his focus away from Graham. “Are you ready to go?”
He glances at his watch. “The night’s still young!” he says, accepting a refill from Andy. They’re on the whisky and I know from experience it’s a downward spiral from here.
“You’re not wanting to go already, are you?” Graham asks. He gets up from his chair and sits perched on the arm of John’s. “Stay here, Johnny, stay the night.” Graham puts his arm over John’s shoulders and pulls him towards him, as though I were about to physically steal him from his grip.
“Leave me here!” John slurs, laughing. His face is damp with sweat and I feel a wave of repulsion. His intoxication is disgusting; he has never known when to stop.
“I can’t leave you here, you haven’t got anything with you.”
“We’ve got everything he needs!” Graham looks me in the eye, daring me to argue.
I hold my hands up in submission. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave you here. Call me when you want picking up tomorrow.” I shout a hasty goodbye to everyone else and head to the door to find my coat. Graham lets go of John and puts down his drink, following me as I leave.
“You know, Erin, John’s got a lot on at the minute, he needs time to unwind.”
“Right.” I move to open the door. He rests his hand against it, feigning a casualness that isn’t there.
“He takes good care of you, maybe you could show him the same courtesy.” He removes his hand from the door. “Don’t trouble yourself tomorrow, I’ll get him home.” He walks away, his distaste palpable in his wake.
The fog begins to lift on the drive home but a smokiness remains, illuminated by the glow of the headlights. I drive cautiously, testing the boundaries of my mobility. My back feels stiff and waves of pain stab at my side, agitated by the steering as I struggle to manoeuvre around the winding country roads that lead back into Kestwell.
Occasionally I can make out the moon shining from behind thick clouds. Trapped. As I drive back up the hill and past the town centre I can’t help but glance over towards Nick’s place, although I can’t see far enough past the church to get a good view. I find myself thinking about him again, wondering what he’s doing. I press down on the accelerator as though trying to outrace my thoughts.
As I approach the top of the hill I see a flash of something run out in front of me, fast and low, but it’s too late, I’m too close to react in time. I feel a force against the car then a harrowing crunch as the wheels take it, crushing it with their weight. I break heavily and come to a stop in the middle of the road, glancing in my rear-view mirror as an afterthought.
There is no one behind me, just the empty road to a sleepy town. I try to determine what I’ve hit by looking in my mirrors but I can’t see anything. I’ve come to a stop between street lights, the darkness claiming the space in the middle, the shadowy haze of the fog further obscuring the view.
I get out of the car and do a quick turn, assessing the space around me, checking for something I hope isn’t there. The shadows move as the wind blows through the trees, their gangly limbs swaying back and forth. I walk a few metres down the hill, looking for what I could have hit.
At first I don’t see anything and a naïve hopefulness begins to gather, desperate for whatever it was to not be lay dead or dying in the road because of me. But then I see it – a fox – at the side of the road.
There’s no obvious damage that I can see and at first I hover a few paces away, checking for the rise and fall of its chest. It looks as though it’s asleep, resting peacefully at the side of the road, surrounded by nothing but the night. But there is no rise and fall; no movement; nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
I hear my dad’s voice. There’s a fox in our garden and we’re watching him through the kitchen window – lights out and hushed voices. ‘They’re solitary creatures, foxes. They hunt and sleep alone unless they have a young family.’
I’m relieved that it’s November; the fox has no one relying on it, no one depending on it for survival. Tears gather in my eyes and I blink them away, unsure whose life they’re for.
That night I dream of the waves again – they’re lapping at my ankles, sometimes warm, sometimes cold. I’m intensely aware of their power, a sense of being faced by something much greater than myself. I watch as bubbles accumulate around my toes; as the sand clings to my skin; as the waves bring in the secrets of the sea – the lies and regrets, the mistakes and remorse.
The ebb and flow of the waves is hypnotic, lulling me into a false sense of calm. All at once, a fox washes up on the beach, far away at first then, defying time and space, suddenly on top of my feet. I’m unable to move it and the waves don’t want it, they have given up their offering – but they’re not done yet. The fox stays weighted on my feet, anchoring me, my feet sinking further and further into the sand until before I know it I’m waist deep.
There is something on the horizon, moving closer and closer, bobbing with the waves. The sun shines down on it as though it were a spotlight, highlighting the main event, emphasising the importance. Then without warning it’s suddenly dark. I am still trapped by the sand, unable to move. Whatever was in the sea seems to have disappeared, the waves deciding to save it for themselves. I feel relieved, but it doesn’t last. Out of the sand in front of me, something begins to rise.
I try to scream but there is no sound, just air, no matter how hard I try. I know what it is now. I know who it is. The waves have shown me their secrets, and their secrets are mine. I look at the body in front of me, the empty shell of Mr Miller. Then I notice he’s not alone, he’s brought along his family.
19
Fifteen Years Ago
I walk through town enjoying the afternoon sun, a McDonald’s vanilla milkshake in my hand. I’ve been on the beach all morning litter picking up and down the length of the shores, along the pier and the coastal paths – all part of Dad’s latest initiative to save the oceans. More people turned up than he’d anticipated – everyone eager to do their bit to ease their conscience – and he’d had to start turning people away, no longer able to provide the right tools to carry out the task safely. I’d passed my litter picker to an eager woman in a green anorak who’d stood waiting for her chance to shine, then I’d slipped away unnoticed.
I window-shop to pass the time, eager for Saturday to come to a close – one step closer to returning to school. The weekends seem to arrive all too quickly lately, a vacuum of time to waste while waiting for better things. Lauren and Holly will be on their way to the cinema now, popcorn and sweets stuffed into backpacks, hidden from the prying eyes of staff.
I used to go with them every other Saturday, alternating between that and a Blockbuster movie night. I once managed to sneak a whole Happy Meal in to see The Notebook, Holly a large fish and chips from Golden Fry on the corner. I feel nostalgic at the thought of it, the memories – because that’s what they are to me now; recollections of a time before Danny. I’ve started separating my life that way lately – pre- or post-Danny – because it always seems like a choice.
Lauren and Holly would get suspicious if I didn’t distance myself from them, they know me too well. It’s all for Danny – to protect him and what we have. I hear the sound of church bells ringing; four chimes echoing between the busy streets. They’ve booked seats to a 5pm showing of Pride and Prejudice – if I walk over to the cinema now I would probably bump into them.
I walk slowly down the main road, browsing the occasional shop window as I pass, killing time I no longer want to myself. I’m about to cross over at the traffic lights, still debating whether to walk down to the cinema, when I see him. He’s looking in a jewellery shop window, his daughters pointing animatedly at the different items on display. I stand watching them, unaware that the lights have changed, the cars slowing to a halt in front of me.
When the traffic starts moving again, so do they – across the road, three pairs of legs moving quickly away from me. I don’t wait for the green man this time, I dart straight across the road at the first sign of a gap and hurl my drink into a nearby bin. I walk briskly, trying to close the gap between us.
After a few minutes they turn left into a corner shop. I stop, unsure what to do or where to go. I don’t know why I feel blindsided by seeing him out of school like this, it was always a possibility. I take a deep breath, run my fingers through my hair and neaten my dress, then head towards the shop and go straight inside. It’s only small, three narrow aisles filled with household essentials, a fridge against one wall and a newspaper rack against the other. I see them at the back of the shop deciding over pizzas from a small chest freezer.
I walk down the aisle to the right, taking my time, then turn left towards them. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a blue T-shirt, a rucksack slung over one shoulder. The girls are stood either side of him. The youngest is in a pink-and-white tracksuit with Rachel’s School of Dance embroidered on the back, along with her name – Eva.
Her hair is in a neat little bun on top of her head and she clutches a cuddly pink cat in her hand. The older girl is scanning the frozen desserts, dressed in leggings and a denim jacket. Her hair is loose, long and auburn. She slides the freezer door open and pulls out two tubs of ice cream.
“We’ll take both,” Danny tells her, smiling.
As I approach them he looks up and sees me, our eyes locking momentarily. There is a brief hint of something on his face – recognition maybe, or horror – then his attention returns to his girls.
