MEGAN

THURSDAY, JANUARY 10, 2013
MORNING
Sometimes, I don’t want to go anywhere, I think I’llbe happy if I never have to set foot outside thehouse again. I don’t even miss working. I just wantto remain safe and warm in my haven with Scott,undisturbed.
It helps that it’s dark and cold and the weather isfilthy. It helps that it hasn’t stopped raining forweeks—freezing, driving, bitter rain accompanied bygales howling through the trees, so loud they drownout the sound of the train. I can’t hear it on thetracks, enticing me, tempting me to journeyelsewhere.
Today, I don’t want to go anywhere, I don’t wantto run away, I don’t even want to go down theroad. I want to stay here, holed up with myhusband, watching TV and eating ice cream, aftercalling him to come home from work early so wecan have sex in the middle of the afternoon.
I will have to go out later, of course, because it’smy day for Kamal. I’ve been talking to him latelyabout Scott, about all the things I’ve done wrong, myfailure as a wife. Kamal says I have to find a way ofmaking myself happy, I have to stop looking forhappiness elsewhere. It’s true, I do, I know I do, andthen I’m in the moment and I just think, fuck it,life’s too short.
I think about that time when we went on a familyholiday to Santa Margherita in the Easter schoolholidays. I’d just turned fifteen and I met this guy onthe beach, much older than I was—thirties, probably,possibly even early forties—and he invited me to gosailing the next day. Ben was with me and he wasinvited, too, but—ever the protective big brother—hesaid we shouldn’t go because he didn’t trust the guy,he thought he was a sleazy creep. Which, of course,he was. But I was furious, because when were weever going to get the chance to sail around theLigurian Sea on some bloke’s private yacht? Ben toldme we’d have lots of opportunities like that, that ourlives would be full of adventure. In the end we didn’tgo, and that summer Ben lost control of hismotorbike on the A10, and he and I never got to gosailing.
I miss the way we were when we were together,Ben and I. We were fearless.
I’ve told Kamal all about Ben, but we’re gettingcloser to the other stuff now, the truth, the wholetruth—what happened with Mac, the before, the after.
It’s safe with Kamal, he can’t ever tell anyonebecause of patient confidentiality.
But even if he could tell someone, I don’t think hewould. I trust him, I really do. It’s funny, but thething that’s been holding me back from telling himeverything is not the fear of what he’d do with it, it’snot the fear of judgement, it’s Scott. It feels like I’mbetraying Scott if I tell Kamal something I can’t tellhim. When you think about all the other stuff I’vedone, the other betrayals, this should be peanuts, butit isn’t. Somehow this feels worse, because this is reallife, this is the heart of me, and I don’t share it withhim.
I’m still holding back, because obviously I can’t sayeverything I’m feeling. I know that’s the point oftherapy, but I just can’t. I have to keep things vague,jumble up all the men, the lovers and the exes, but Itell myself that’s OK, because it doesn’t matter whothey are. It matters how they make me feel. Stifled,restless, hungry. Why can’t I just get what I want?
Why can’t they give it to me?
Well, sometimes they do. Sometimes all I need isScott. If I can just learn how to hold on to thisfeeling, this one I’m having now—if I could justdiscover how to focus on this happiness, enjoy themoment, not wonder about where the next high iscoming from—then everything will be all right.
EVENING
I have to focus when I’m with Kamal. It’s difficult notto let my mind wander when he looks at me withthose leonine eyes, when he folds his hands togetheron his lap, long legs crossed at the knee. It’s hardnot to think of the things we could do together.
I have to focus. We’ve been talking about whathappened after Ben’s funeral, after I ran off. I was inIpswich for a while; not long. I met Mac there, thefirst time. He was working in a pub or something.
He picked me up on his way home. He felt sorryfor me.
“He didn’t even want?.?.?. you know.” I startlaughing. “We got back to his flat and I asked forthe money, and he looked at me like I was mad. Itold him I was old enough, but he didn’t believe me.
And he waited, he did, until my sixteenth birthday.
He’d moved, by then, to this old house nearHolkham. An old stone cottage at the end of a laneleading nowhere, with a bit of land around it, abouthalf a mile from the beach. There was an old railwaytrack running along one side of the property. Atnight I’d lie awake—I was always buzzing then, wewere smoking a lot—and I used to imagine I couldhear the trains, I used to be so sure, I’d get up andgo outside and look for the lights.”
Kamal shifts in his chair, he nods, slowly. Hedoesn’t say anything. This means I’m to go on, I’mto keep talking.
“I was actually really happy there, with Mac. I livedwith him for?.?.?. God, it was about three years, Ithink, in the end. I was?.?.?. nineteen when I left.
Yeah. Nineteen.”
“Why did you leave, if you were happy there?” heasks me. We’re there now, we got there quicker thanI thought we would. I haven’t had time to gothrough it all, to build up to it. I can’t do it. It’s toosoon.
“Mac left me. He broke my heart,” I say, which isthe truth, but also a lie. I’m not ready to tell thewhole truth yet.
Scott isn’t home when I get back, so I get mylaptop out and Google him, for the first time ever.
For the first time in a decade, I look for Mac. I can’tfind him, though. There are hundreds of CraigMcKenzies in the world, and none of them seems tobe mine.
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013
MORNING
I’m walking in the woods. I’ve been out since beforeit got light, it’s barely dawn now, deathly quiet exceptfor the occasional outburst of chatter from themagpies in the trees above my head. I can feel themwatching me, beady-eyed, calculating. A tiding ofmagpies. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for agirl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, sevenfor a secret never to be told.
I’ve got a few of those.
Scott is away, on a course somewhere in Sussex.
He left yesterday morning and he’s not back untiltonight. I can do whatever I want.
Before he left, I told Scott I was going to thecinema with Tara after my session. I told him myphone would be off, and I spoke to her, too. Iwarned her that he might ring, that he might checkup on me. She asked me, this time, what I was upto. I just winked and smiled, and she laughed. Ithink she might be lonely, that her life could do witha bit of intrigue.
In my session with Kamal, we were talking aboutScott, about the thing with the laptop. It happenedabout a week ago. I’d been looking for Mac—I’ddone several searches, I just wanted to find outwhere he was, what he was up to. There arepictures of almost everyone on the Internet thesedays, and I wanted to see his face. I couldn’t findhim. I went to bed early that night. Scott stayed upwatching TV, and I’d forgotten to delete my browserhistory. Stupid mistake—it’s usually the last thing I dobefore I shut down my computer, no matter whatI’ve been looking at. I know Scott has ways offinding what I’ve been up to anyway, being the techiehe is, but it takes a lot longer, so most of the timehe doesn’t bother.
In any case, I forgot. And the next day, we got intoa fight. One of the bruising ones. He wanted toknow who Craig was, how long I’d been seeing him,where we met, what he did for me that Scott didn’tdo. Stupidly, I told Scott that he was a friend frommy past, which only made it worse. Kamal asked meif I was afraid of Scott, and I got really pissed off.
“He’s my husband,” I snapped. “Of course I’m notafraid of him.”
Kamal looked quite shocked. I actually shockedmyself. I hadn’t anticipated the force of my anger,the depth of my protectiveness towards Scott. It wasa surprise to me, too.
“There are many women who are frightened oftheir husbands, I’m afraid, Megan.” I tried to saysomething, but he held up his hand to silence me.
“The behaviour you’re describing—reading youremails, going through your Internet browserhistory—you describe all this as though it iscommonplace, as though it is normal. It isn’t, Megan.
It isn’t normal to invade someone’s privacy to thatdegree. It’s what is often seen as a form ofemotional abuse.”
I laughed then, because it sounded so melodramatic.
“It isn’t abuse,” I told him. “Not if you don’t mind.
And I don’t. I don’t mind.”
He smiled at me then, a rather sad smile. “Don’tyou think you should?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Perhaps I should, but the fact is, Idon’t. He’s jealous, he’s possessive. That’s the way heis. It doesn’t stop me loving him, and some battlesaren’t worth fighting. I’m careful—usually. I cover mytracks, so it isn’t usually an issue.”
He gave a little shake of the head, almostimperceptible.
“I didn’t think you were here to judge me,” I said.
When the session ended, I asked him if he wantedto have a drink with me. He said no, he couldn’t, itwouldn’t be appropriate. So I followed him home. Helives in a flat just down the road from the practice. Iknocked on his door, and when he opened it, Iasked, “Is this appropriate?” I slipped my handaround the back of his neck, stood on tiptoe andkissed him on the mouth.
“Megan,” he said, voice like velvet. “Don’t. I can’t dothis. Don’t.”
It was exquisite, that push and pull, desire andrestraint. I didn’t want to let the feeling go, I wantedso badly to be able to hold on to it.
I got up in the early hours of the morning, headspinning, full of stories. I couldn’t just lie there,awake, alone, my mind ticking over all thoseopportunities that I could take or leave, so I got upand got dressed and started walking. Found myselfhere. I’ve been walking around and playing thingsback in my head—he said, she said, temptation,release; if only I could settle on something, choose tostick, not twist. What if the thing I’m looking for cannever be found? What if it just isn’t possible?
The air is cold in my lungs, the tips of my fingersare turning blue. Part of me just wants to lie downhere, among the leaves, let the cold take me. I can’t.
It’s time to go.
It’s almost nine by the time I get back to BlenheimRoad, and as I turn the corner I see her, comingtowards me, pushing the buggy in front of her. Thechild, for once, is silent. She looks at me and nodsand gives me one of those weak smiles, which Idon’t return. Usually, I would pretend to be nice, butthis morning I feel real, like myself. I feel high, almostlike I’m tripping, and I couldn’t fake nice if I tried.
AFTERNOON
I fell asleep in the afternoon. I woke feverish,panicky. Guilty. I do feel guilty. Just not guiltyenough.
I thought about him leaving in the middle of thenight, telling me, once again, that this was the lasttime, the very last time, we can’t do this again. Hewas getting dressed, pulling on his jeans. I was lyingon the bed and I laughed, because that’s what hesaid last time, and the time before, and the timebefore that. He shot me a look. I don’t know how todescribe it, it wasn’t anger, exactly, not contempt—itwas a warning.
I feel uneasy. I walk around the house; I can’tsettle, I feel as though someone else has been herewhile I was sleeping. There’s nothing out of place, butthe house feels different, as though things have beentouched, subtly shifted out of place, and as I walkaround I feel as though there’s someone else here,always just out of my line of sight. I check theFrench doors to the garden three times, but they’relocked. I can’t wait for Scott to get home. I need him.