During the following days, Susan watched as her marriage disintegrated minute by minute, hour by hour. It wasn’t anything obvious. Mark never stayed out as late as he had that first day. He was home on time; in fact, he was even early a couple of days. And he was his usual, pleasant self, chatting about work, the weather, the weeds in the garden, the speed at which they grew, how he’d deal with them when he had time. Dismal mundanities. The sum of their life together.
Nor had he fallen into the classic crime of over-compensating – he didn’t buy her bunches of flowers or boxes of chocolates, didn’t compliment her more than usual.
What had changed, what sent shivers of worry sliding over her, was the way he stared into space when he thought she wasn’t looking, a smile curving his lips, one she hadn’t seen in many years, a smile she remembered from their first days together. A dopey, smitten smile of love. Lust she could have discounted but this was something else. She remembered the way he’d put her on a pedestal back then, how she could do nothing wrong in his eyes. He’d made her feel like a queen.
Now someone else had stolen her crown and stepped onto the pedestal she’d vacated at some point over the years.
But he was still with Susan. There was still a chance. She clung to that fine thread of hope until Saturday came around.
It was their routine to go to a local café for breakfast, buying the weekend newspapers on the way. They ordered the same things almost every week: a large fry-up for Mark, poached eggs on toast for Susan. Coffee for both. They pored over the newspapers as they ate, swopping titbits as they read, then swopping sections. They laughed at the crazy news, shook their heads at the state of the economy.
Usually, they had more coffee. Usually… no, always… so when he shook his head, and said, ‘No, thanks, I won’t have any more,’ she stared at him in disbelief. This more than anything worried her and brought stinging tears to her eyes. She kept her head down and waited for the wave of sadness to pass.
Mark folded the sports section of the paper he was reading and put it down. ‘Actually, I can’t stay much longer. I need to go into the office for a couple of hours.’
It was rare rather than unheard of for him to need to work at the weekend. That he needed to that weekend was simply a coincidence. A week ago, she’d have thought nothing of it. She’d have happily stayed in the café on her own, having a second coffee, reading the newspaper. Thinking that all was right in her stupid, little, boring, dismal world.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course not. I promised to call around to Jan this weekend, so that’ll leave me free to do that today. I’ll let her know.’ She took out her mobile and tapped out a message. Not to Jan, who’d be surprised, even horrified, to see her on a Saturday when she’d be busy with her children, but to Ethan.
Mark says he has to go into the office today.
The response came almost immediately.
Don’t worry. I’m on it.
He was on it? Startled, she looked around the busy café, expecting to see Ethan peering their direction. If he was there, perhaps in one of the booths that lined the walls, he wasn’t visible. She supposed it was the point of surveillance but it unsettled her to think someone was watching, even if this was someone she’d paid.
Was he taking photos of them? The thought made her squirm. What would they show? A happily married couple, relaxing on a Saturday morning? How would the photos compare to ones he’d take with Mark and whatever woman he was spending time with? Perhaps Susan would look at them and see what was lacking between them. Because something had to be. Something had to be wrong. Otherwise Mark wouldn’t be looking elsewhere. Something had to be wrong with her.
‘Where are you meeting her?’
‘What?’
Mark frowned. ‘Jan. Isn’t that who you said you were meeting?’
Susan’s laugh was too hearty. Too fake. She was losing it. Maybe she already had. The way she’d lost Drew and Mark. ‘Sorry, I was elsewhere. Trying to think what to cook for dinner.’ She saw it then: his little sigh of disappointment, of regret. Maybe she should have said she was thinking about going to visit a gallery or booking to see something in the Hippodrome with one of her friends. Something interesting. ‘Yes, Jan. I’m going to go around to hers.’
But he’d already lost interest, his eyes flicking over the newspaper, scowling as he read something he didn’t approve of, bad news about something or other.
‘What time will you be home?’
He turned a page before answering. ‘Not late.’
A non-answer that injected irritation into her misery. ‘I might do fish, so I’ll need a time, Mark.’ Her voice was sharp enough to bring his face up from the paper in surprise at hearing his sad, passive wife grow tetchy.
‘Fish’d be nice.’ He folded the newspaper in half then in quarters. A sure sign he was done with it. ‘How about I message you when I’m on the way home?’ He smiled, obviously pleased he’d come up with an answer to her dilemma. ‘That suit?’
Of course it didn’t suit but what could she say? She’d really no desire to cook fish, hating the smell that lingered regardless of what she did. ‘Yes, that’s fine. But you won’t be too late, will you?’
‘No, I shouldn’t be.’ He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘You going to stay a bit longer or are you ready to go?’
His movement had rocked the table, dislodging the knife she had balanced on the plate. She reached for it to straighten it, then picked it up and looked at the sharp, curved edge, felt the weight of the handle in her hand, wondered about finishing it all then. How dramatic it would be.
Why didn’t she?
Analysis paralysis.
She couldn’t decide whether to stab him or herself.