MEGAN

FRIDAY, JULY 12, 2013
MORNING
She’s forced my hand. Or maybe he has. My guttells me she. Or my heart tells me so, I don’t know.
I can feel her, the way I could before, curled up, aseed within a pod, only this seed’s smiling. Biding hertime. I can’t hate her. And I can’t get rid of her. Ican’t. I thought I would be able to, I thought I wouldbe desperate to scrape her out, but when I thinkabout her, all I can see is Libby’s face, her darkeyes. I can smell her skin. I can feel how cold shewas at the end. I can’t get rid of her. I don’t wantto. I want to love her.
I can’t hate her, but she scares me. I’m afraid ofwhat she’ll do to me, or what I’ll do to her. It’s thatfear that woke me just after five this morning,soaked in sweat despite the open windows and thefact that I’m alone. Scott’s at a conference,somewhere in Hertfordshire or Essex or somewhere.
He’s back tonight.
What is it with me, that I’m desperate to be alonewhen he’s here, and when he’s gone I can’t bear it?
I can’t stand the silence. I have to talk out loud justto make it go away. In bed this morning, I keptthinking, what if it happens again? What’s going tohappen when I’m alone with her? What’s going tohappen if he won’t have me, won’t have us? Whathappens if he guesses that she isn’t his?
She might be, of course. I don’t know, but I justfeel that she isn’t. Same way I feel that she’s a she.
But even if she isn’t, how would he know? He won’t.
He can’t. I’m being stupid. He’ll be so happy. He’llbe mental with joy when I tell him. The thought thatshe might not be his won’t even cross his mind.
Telling him would be cruel, it would break his heart,and I don’t want to hurt him. I’ve never wanted tohurt him.
I can’t help the way I am.
“You can help what you do, though.” That’s whatKamal says.
I called Kamal just after six. The silence was righton top of me and I was starting to panic. I thoughtabout ringing Tara—I knew she’d come running—butI didn’t think I could stand it, she’d be all clingy andoverprotective. Kamal was the only person I couldthink of. I called him at home. I told him I was introuble, I didn’t know what to do, I was freaking out.
He came over right away. Not quite without question,but almost. Perhaps I made things sound worse thanthey are. Perhaps he was afraid I was going to DoSomething Stupid.
We’re in the kitchen. It’s still early, just after seventhirty. He has to leave soon if he’s going to make hisfirst appointment. I look at him, sitting there acrossfrom me at our kitchen table, his hands foldedtogether neatly in front of him, his deep doe eyes onmine, and I feel love. I do. He’s been so good tome, despite the crap way I’ve behaved.
Everything that went before, he’s forgiven, just likedI hoped he would. He wiped everything away, all mysins. He told me that unless I forgave myself thiswould go on and on and I would never be able tostop running. And I can’t run anymore, can I? Notnow she’s here.
“I’m scared,” I tell him. “What if I do it all wrongagain? What if there’s something wrong with me?
What if things go wrong with Scott? What if I endup on my own again? I don’t know if I can do it,I’m so afraid of being on my own again—I mean, onmy own with a child?.?.?.”
He leans forward and puts his hand over mine.
“You won’t do anything wrong. You won’t. You’renot some grieving, lost child any longer. You’re acompletely different person. You’re stronger. You’rean adult now. You don’t have to be afraid of beingalone. It’s not the worst thing, is it?”
I don’t say anything, but I can’t help wonderingwhether it is, because if I close my eyes I canconjure up the feeling that comes to me when I’mon the edge of sleep, which jolts me back intowakefulness. It’s the feeling of being alone in a darkhouse, listening for her cries, waiting to hear Mac’sfootball on the wooden floors downstairs andknowing that they’re never going to come.
“I can’t tell you what to do about Scott. Yourrelationship with him?.?.?. Well, I’ve expressed myconcerns, but you have to decide what to do foryourself. Decide whether you trust him, whether youwant him to take care of you and your child. Thatmust be your decision. But I think you can trustyourself, Megan. You can trust yourself to do theright thing.”
Outside, on the lawn, he brings me a cup of coffee.
I put it down and put my arms around him, pullinghim closer. Behind us a train is rumbling up to thesignal. The noise is like a barrier, a wall surroundingus, and I feel as though we are truly alone. He putshis arms around me and kisses me.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for coming, forbeing here.”
He smiles, drawing back from me, and rubs histhumb across my cheekbone. “You’ll be fine, Megan.”
“Couldn’t I just run away with you? You and I?.?.?.
couldn’t we just run away together?”
He laughs. “You don’t need me. And you don’tneed to keep running. You’ll be fine. You and yourbaby will be fine.”
SATURDAY, JULY 13, 2013
MORNING
I know what I have to do. I thought about it all dayyesterday, and all night, too. I hardly slept at all.
Scott came home exhausted and in a shitty mood; allhe wanted to do was eat, fuck and sleep, no timefor anything else. It certainly wasn’t the right time totalk about this.
I lay awake most of the night, with him hot andrestless at my side, and I made my decision. I’mgoing to do the right thing. I’m going to doeverything right. If I do everything right, then nothingcan go wrong. Or if it does, it cannot be my fault. Iwill love this child and raise her knowing that I didthe right thing from the start. All right, perhaps notfrom the very start, but from the moment when Iknew she was coming. I owe it to this baby, and Iowe it to Libby. I owe it to her to do everythingdifferently this time.
I lay there and I thought of what that teacher said,and of all the things I’d been: child, rebelliousteenager, runaway, whore, lover, bad mother, badwife. I’m not sure if I can remake myself as a goodwife, but a good mother—that I have to try.
It’s going to be hard. It might be the hardest thingI’ve ever had to do, but I’m going to tell the truth.
No more lies, no more hiding, no more running, nomore bullshit. I’m going to put everything out in theopen, and then we’ll see. If he can’t love me then,so be it.
EVENING
My hand is against his chest and I’m pushing ashard as I can, but I can’t breathe and he’s so muchstronger than I am. His forearm presses against mywindpipe, I can feel the blood pulsing at my temples,my eyes blurring. I try to cry out, my back to thewall. I snatch a handful of his T-shirt and he lets go.
He turns away from me and I slide down the wallonto the kitchen floor.
I cough and spit, tears running down my face. He’sstanding a few feet from me, and when he turnsback to me my hand instinctively goes to my throatto protect it. I see the shame on his face and wantto tell him that it’s OK. I’m OK. I open my mouthbut the words won’t come, just more coughing. Thepain is unbelievable. He’s saying something to me butI can’t hear, it’s as though we’re under water, thesound muffled, reaching me in blurry waves. I can’tmake anything out.
I think he’s saying that he’s sorry.
I haul myself to my feet, push past him and run upthe stairs, then slam the bedroom door behind meand lock it. I sit down on the bed and wait, listeningfor him, but he doesn’t come. I get to my feet andgrab my overnight bag from under the bed, go overto the chest to grab some clothes and catch sight ofmyself in the mirror. I bring my hand up to myface: it looks startlingly white against my reddenedskin, my purple lips, my bloodshot eyes.
Part of me is shocked, because he’s never laid ahand on me like that before. But there’s another partof me that expected this. Somewhere inside I alwaysknew that this was a possibility, that this was wherewe were headed. Where I was leading him. Slowly, Istart pulling things out of the drawers—underwear, acouple of T-shirts; I stuff them into the bag.
I haven’t even told him anything yet. I’d juststarted. I wanted to tell him about the bad stuff first,before we got to the good news. I couldn’t tell himabout the baby and then say that there was apossibility it wasn’t his. That would be too cruel.
We were outside on the patio. He was talking aboutwork and he caught me not-quite-listening.
“Am I boring you?” he asked.
“No. Well, maybe a bit.” He didn’t laugh. “No, I’mjust distracted. Because there’s something I need totell you. There are a few things I need to tell you,actually, some of which you’re not going to like, butsome—”
“What am I not going to like?”
I should have known then that it wasn’t the time,his mood was off. He was immediately suspicious,searching my face for clues. I should have knownthen that this was all a terrible idea. I suppose I did,but it was too late to go back then. And in any case,I had made my decision. To do the right thing.
I sat down next to him on the edge of the pavingand slipped my hand into his.
“What aren’t I going to like?” he asked again, buthe didn’t let go of my hand.
I told him I loved him and I felt every muscle in hisbody tense, as if he knew what was coming and wasbracing himself for it. You do, don’t you, whensomeone tells you they love you like that. I love you,I do, but?.?.?. But.
I told him that I’d made some mistakes and he letgo of my hand. He got to his feet and walked a fewyards in the direction of the track before turning tolook at me. “What sort of mistakes?” he asked. Hisvoice was even, but I could hear that it was a strainto keep it so.
“Come and sit with me,” I said. “Please?”
He shook his head. “What sort of mistakes,Megan?” Louder that time.
“There was?.?.?. it’s finished now, but there was?.?.?.
someone else.” I kept my eyes lowered, I couldn’tlook at him.
He spat something under his breath, but I couldn’thear it. I looked up then, but he’d turned away andwas facing the track again, his hands up at histemples. I got to my feet and went to him, stoodbehind him and placed my hands on his hips, but heleaped away from me. He turned to go into thehouse and, without looking at me, spat, “Don’t touchme, you little whore.”
I should have let him go then, given him time to gethis head around it, but I couldn’t. I wanted to getover the bad stuff so that I could get to the good,so I followed him into the house.
“Scott, please, just listen, it’s not as awful as youthink. It’s over now. It’s completely over, please listen,please—”
He grabbed the photograph of the two of us thathe loves—the one I had framed as a gift for oursecond wedding anniversary—and threw it as hard ashe could at my head. As it smashed against the wallbehind me, he lunged, grabbing me by the tops ofmy arms and wrestling me across the room,throwing me against the opposite wall. My headrocked back, my skull hitting plaster. Then he leanedin, his forearm across my throat, he leaned harder,harder, saying nothing. He closed his eyes so that hedidn’t have to watch me choke.
As soon as my bag is packed, I start unpackingagain, stuffing everything back into the drawers. If Itry to walk out of here with a bag, he won’t let mego. I have to leave empty-handed, with nothing but ahandbag and a phone. Then I change my mindagain and start stuffing everything back into the bag.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I can’t behere. I close my eyes and can feel his hands aroundmy throat.
I know what I decided—no more running, no morehiding—but I can’t stay here tonight. I hear footstepson the stairs, slow, leaden. It takes forever for him toget to the top—usually he bounds, but today he’s aman ascending the scaffold. I just don’t knowwhether he’s the condemned man or the executioner.
“Megan?” He doesn’t try to open the door. “Megan,I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry that I hurt you.” Ican hear tears in his voice. It makes me angry, itmakes me want to fly out there and scratch his face.
Don’t you bloody dare cry, not after what youjust did. I’m furious with him, I want to scream athim, tell him to get the hell away from the door,away from me, but I bite my tongue, because I’mnot stupid. He has reason to be angry. And I haveto think rationally, I have to think clearly. I’mthinking for two now. This confrontation has givenme strength, it’s made me more determined. I canhear him outside the door, begging for forgiveness,but I can’t think about that now. Right now, I haveother things to do.
At the very back of the wardrobe, in the bottom ofthree rows of carefully labelled shoe boxes, there is adark-grey box marked red wedge boots, and in thatbox there is an old mobile phone, a pay-as-you-gorelic I bought years ago and hung on to just in case.
I haven’t used it for a while, but today’s the day. I’mgoing to be honest. I’m going to put everything outin the open. No more lies, no more hiding. It’s timefor Daddy to face up to his responsibilities.
I sit on the bed and switch the phone on, prayingthat it still has some charge. It lights up and I canfeel the adrenaline in my blood, it’s making me dizzy,a little bit sick, and it’s making me buzz, as thoughI’m high. I’m starting to enjoy myself, enjoy theanticipation of putting everything out there,confronting him—all of them—with what we are andwhere we’re going. By the end of the day, everyoneis going to know where they stand.
I call his number. Predictably, it goes straight tovoice mail. I hang up and send a text: I need totalk to you. URGENT. Call me back. Then I sitthere, and I wait.
I look at the call log. The last time I used thisphone was April. A lot of calls, all of themunanswered, in early April and late March. I calledand called and called, and he ignored me, he didn’teven respond to the threats I made—I’d go to thehouse, I’d talk to his wife. I think he’ll listen to menow, though. I’m going to make him listen to menow.
When we started all this, it was just a game. Adistraction. I used to see him from time to time. He’dpop by the gallery and smile and flirt, and it washarmless—there were plenty of men who came bythe gallery and smiled and flirted. But then thegallery closed and I was here at home all the time,bored and restless. I just needed something else,something different. Then one day, when Scott wasaway, I bumped into him in the street, we startedtalking and I invited him in for coffee. The way helooked at me, I could see exactly what was goingthrough his mind, and so it just happened. And thenit happened again, and I never meant for it to goanywhere, I didn’t want it to go anywhere. I justenjoyed feeling wanted; I liked the feeling of control.
It was as simple and stupid as that. I didn’t wanthim to leave his wife; I just wanted him to want toleave her. To want me that much.
I don’t remember when I started believing that itcould be more, that we should be more, that wewere right for each other. But the moment I did, Icould feel him start to pull away. He stopped texting,stopped answering my calls, and I’ve never feltrejection like that before, never. I hated it. So then itbecame something else: an obsession. I can see thatnow. In the end I really thought I could just walkaway from it, a little bruised, but no real harm done.
But it’s not that simple any longer.
Scott is still outside the door. I can’t hear him, but Ican feel him. I go into the bathroom and dial thenumber again. I get voice mail again, so I hang upand dial again, and again. I whisper a message. “Pickup the phone, or I’m coming round there. I mean itthis time. I have to talk to you. You can’t just ignoreme.”
I stand in the bathroom for a while, the phone onthe edge of the sink. Willing it to ring. The screenstays stubbornly grey and blank. I brush my hairand my teeth, put on some makeup. My colour isreturning to normal. My eyes are still red, my throatstill hurts, but I look all right. I start counting. If thephone doesn’t ring before I get to fifty, I’m justgoing to go down there and knock on the door. Thephone doesn’t ring.
I stuff the phone into my jeans pocket, walk quicklythrough the bedroom and open the door. Scott issitting on the landing, his arms around his knees, hishead down. He doesn’t look up at me, so I walkpast him and start to run downstairs, my breathcatching in my throat. I’m afraid that he’ll grab mefrom behind and push me. I can hear him getting tohis feet, and he calls, “Megan! Where are you going?
Are you going to him?”
At the bottom of the stairs, I turn. “There is nohim, OK? It’s over.”
“Please wait, Megan. Please don’t go.”
I don’t want to hear him beg, don’t want to listento the whine in his voice, the self-pity. Not when mythroat still feels like someone’s poured acid down it.
“Don’t follow me,” I croak at him. “If you follow me,I’ll never come back. Do you understand? If I turnaround and see you behind me, that’ll be the lasttime you ever see my face.”
I can hear him calling my name as I slam the doorbehind me.
I wait on the pavement outside for a few momentsto make sure he isn’t following me, then I walk,quickly at first, then slower, and slower, alongBlenheim Road. I get to number twenty-three and it’sthen that I lose my nerve. I’m not ready for thisscene yet. I need a minute to collect myself. A fewminutes. I walk on, past the house, past theunderpass, past the station. I keep going until I getto the park and then I dial his number one moretime.
I tell him that I’m in the park, that I’ll wait for himthere, but if he doesn’t come, that’s it, I’m goinground to the house. This is his last chance.
It’s a lovely evening, a little after seven but stillwarm and light. A bunch of kids are still playing onthe swings and the slide, their parents standing off toone side, chatting animatedly. It looks nice, normal,and as I watch them I have a sickening feeling thatScott and I will not bring our daughter here to play.
I just can’t see us happy and relaxed like that. Notnow. Not after what I’ve just done.
I was so convinced this morning that gettingeverything out in the open would be the bestway—not just the best way, the only way. No morelying, no more hiding. And then when he hurt me, itonly made me all the more sure. But now, sittinghere on my own, with Scott not just furious butheartbroken, I don’t think it was the right thing atall. I wasn’t being strong, I was being reckless, andthere’s no telling how much damage I’ve done.
Maybe the courage I need has nothing to do withtelling the truth and everything to do with walkingaway. It’s not just restlessness—this is more thanthat. For her sake and mine, now is the time to go,to walk away from them both, from all of it. Mayberunning and hiding is exactly what I need to do.
I get to my feet and walk round the park justonce. I’m half willing the phone to ring and halfdreading it ringing, but in the end I’m pleased whenit stays silent. I’ll take it as a sign. I head back theway I came, towards home.
I’ve just passed the station when I see him. He’swalking quickly, striding out of the underpass, hisshoulders hunched over and his fists clenched, andbefore I can stop myself, I call out.
He turns to face me. “Megan! What the hell?.?.?.”
The expression on his face is pure rage, but hebeckons me to go to him.
“Come on,” he says, when I get closer. “We can’ttalk here. The car’s over there.”
“I just need—”
“We can’t talk here!” he snaps. “Come on.” He tugsat my arm. Then, more gently, “We’ll drivesomewhere quiet, OK? Somewhere we can talk.”
As I get into the car, I glance over my shoulder,back the way he came. The underpass is dark, but Ifeel as though I can see someone in there, in theshadows—someone watching us go.