MEGAN

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2, 2012
MORNING
It’s going to rain soon, I can feel it coming. My teethare chattering in my head, the tips of my fingers arewhite with a tinge of blue. I’m not going inside. I likeit out here, it’s cathartic, cleansing, like an ice bath.
Scott will come and haul me inside soon anyway,he’ll wrap me in blankets, like a child.
I had a panic attack on the way home last night.
There was a motorbike, revving its engine over andover and over, and a red car driving slowly past, likea kerb crawler, and two women with buggiesblocking my path. I couldn’t get past them on thepavement, so I went into the street and was almosthit by a car coming in the opposite direction, which Ihadn’t even seen. The driver leaned on the horn andyelled something at me. I couldn’t catch my breath,my heart was racing, I felt that lurch in my stomach,like when you’ve taken a pill and you’re just aboutto come up, that punch of adrenaline that makesyou feel sick and excited and scared all at once.
I ran home and through the house and down tothe tracks, then I sat down there, waiting for thetrain to come, to rattle through me and take awaythe other noises. I waited for Scott to come and calmme down, but he wasn’t at home. I tried to climbover the fence, I wanted to sit on the other side fora while, where no one else goes. I cut my hand, soI went inside, and then Scott came back and askedme what had happened. I said I was doing thewashing up and dropped a glass. He didn’t believeme, he got very upset.
I got up in the night, left Scott sleeping andsneaked down to the terrace. I dialled his numberand listened to his voice when he picked up, at firstsoft with sleep, and then louder, wary, worried,exasperated. I hung up and waited to see if he’d callback. I hadn’t disguised my number, so I thought hemight. He didn’t, so I called again, and again, andagain. I got voice mail then, bland and businesslike,promising to call me back at his earliest convenience.
I thought about calling the practice, bringing forwardmy next appointment, but I don’t think even theirautomated system works in the middle of the night,so I went back to bed. I didn’t sleep at all.
I might go to Corly Wood this morning to takesome photographs; it’ll be misty and dark andatmospheric in there, I should be able to get somegood stuff. I was thinking about maybe making littlecards, seeing if I could sell them in the gift shop onKingly Road. Scott keeps saying that I don’t need toworry about working, that I should just rest. Like aninvalid! The last thing I need is rest. I need to findsomething to fill my days. I know what’s going tohappen if I don’t.
EVENING
Dr. Abdic—Kamal, as I have been invited to callhim—suggested in this afternoon’s session that I startkeeping a diary. I almost said, I can’t do that, Ican’t trust my husband not to read it. I didn’t,because that would feel horribly disloyal to Scott. Butit’s true. I could never write down the things Iactually feel or think or do. Case in point: when Icame home this evening, my laptop was warm. Heknows how to delete browser histories and whatever,he can cover his tracks perfectly well, but I knowthat I turned the computer off before I left. He’sbeen reading my emails again.
I don’t really mind, there’s nothing to read in there.
(A lot of spam emails from recruitment companiesand Jenny from Pilates asking me if I want to joinher Thursday-night supper club, where she and herfriends take turns cooking one another dinner. I’drather die.) I don’t mind, because it reassures himthat there’s nothing going on, that I’m not up toanything. And that’s good for me—it’s good forus—even if it isn’t true. And I can’t really be angrywith him, because he has good reason to besuspicious. I’ve given him cause in the past andprobably will again. I am not a model wife. I can’tbe. No matter how much I love him, it won’t beenough.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 2012
MORNING
I slept for five hours last night, which is longer thanI have done in ages, and the weird thing is, I wasso wired when I got home yesterday evening, Ithought I’d be bouncing off the walls for hours. Itold myself that I wouldn’t do it again, not after lasttime, but then I saw him and I wanted him and Ithought, why not? I don’t see why I should have torestrict myself, lots of people don’t. Men don’t. Idon’t want to hurt anybody, but you have to be trueto yourself, don’t you? That’s all I’m doing, beingtrue to my real self, the self nobody knows—notScott, not Kamal, no one.
After my Pilates class last night I asked Tara if shewanted to go to the cinema with me one night nextweek, then if she’d cover for me.
“If he calls, can you just say I’m with you, that I’min the loo and I’ll ring him straight back? Then youcall me, and I call him, and it’s all cool.”
She smiled and shrugged and said, “All right.” Shedidn’t even ask where I was going or who with. Shereally wants to be my friend.
I met him at the Swan in Corly, he’d got us aroom. We have to be careful, we can’t get caught. Itwould be bad for him, life-wrecking. It would be adisaster for me, too. I don’t even want to thinkabout what Scott would do.
He wanted me to talk afterwards, about whathappened when I was young, living in Norwich. I’dhinted at it before, but last night he wanted thedetails. I told him things, but not the truth. I lied,made stuff up, told him all the sordid things hewanted to hear. It was fun. I don’t feel bad aboutlying, I doubt he believed most of it anyway. I’mpretty sure he lies, too.
He lay on the bed, watching me as I got dressed.
He said, “This can’t happen again, Megan. You knowit can’t. We can’t keep doing this.” And he was right,I know we can’t. We shouldn’t, we ought not to, butwe will. It won’t be the last time. He won’t say no tome. I was thinking about it on the way home, andthat’s the thing I like most about it, having powerover someone. That’s the intoxicating thing.
EVENING
I’m in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine, whenScott comes up behind me and puts his hands onmy shoulders and squeezes and says, “How did it gowith the therapist?” I tell him it was fine, that we’remaking progress. He’s used now to not getting anydetails out of me. Then: “Did you have fun with Taralast night?”
I can’t tell, because my back’s to him, whether he’sreally asking or whether he suspects something. Ican’t detect anything in his voice.
“She’s really nice,” I say. “You and she’d get on.
We’re going to the cinema next week, actually. MaybeI should bring her round for something to eat after?”
“Am I not invited to the cinema?” he asks.
“You’re very welcome,” I say, and I turn to himand kiss him on the mouth, “but she wants to seethat thing with Sandra Bullock, so?.?.?.”
“Say no more! Bring her round for dinnerafterwards, then,” he says, his hands pressing gentlyon my lower back.
I pour the wine and we go outside. We sit side byside on the edge of the patio, our toes in the grass.
“Is she married?” he asks me.
“Tara? No. Single.”
“No boyfriend?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Girlfriend?” he asks, eyebrow raised, and I laugh.
“How old is she, then?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Around forty.”
“Oh. And she’s all alone. That’s a bit sad.”
“Mmm. I think she might be lonely.”
“They always go for you, the lonely ones, don’tthey? They make a beeline straight for you.”
“Do they?”
“She doesn’t have kids, then?” he asks, and I don’tknow if I’m imagining it, but the second the subjectof children comes up, I can hear an edge in hisvoice and I can feel the argument coming and I justdon’t want it, can’t deal with it, so I get to my feetand I tell him to bring the wineglasses, because we’regoing to the bedroom.
He follows me and I take off my clothes as I’mgoing up the stairs, and when we get there, when hepushes me down on the bed, I’m not even thinkingabout him, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’tknow that. I’m good enough to make him believethat it’s all about him.