Rather than moping around all afternoon, Susan decided to do something she’d wanted to do for a while. She’d mentioned it to Mark once. He’d laughed and said he wasn’t interested, so she’d thought it was a silly thing to want to do. But now, on a sunny Saturday, she got a self-guided leaflet from the tourist information office in Bristol and visited all the Banksy artwork.
It was a lovely day, walking in the city was always enjoyable and there was nobody to rush her along. It allowed her to stand and stare at the artwork and exchange views with total strangers. She’d seen most of Banksy’s work in some form or other over the years but seeing them in situ was as special as she’d expected.
She took photos of them all, thinking that she’d send them to Drew when she got home. The first few days after he’d left, she messaged him compulsively several times a day. She’d weaned herself off the need and restricted herself to once a day. Sometimes, he even answered.
The last Banksy to see was Well Hung Lover. It made her smile, the good mood lasting as she walked slowly to the bus station for the journey home. It faded as the bus chugged on its way. When it reached her stop, she picked up her dismal mood like a coat she’d discarded earlier and slipped it back on, buttoning it tightly around her, feeling the thickness, the weight of it.
The house was sullenly quiet. She shut the front door behind her and stared down the hallway to the kitchen. Only then did she realise she’d bought nothing for dinner.
It was almost six before she had the message from Mark.
On my way. You can put the fish on now.
She looked at the words, trying to read between them to see the truth. It wasn’t there. She brought up Ethan’s number and tapped out a message.
Where did he go?
Her finger hovered over send, then with a grunt of irritation, she deleted it instead. Monday would be time enough to know the truth. Until then, she could cling to the fading, friable thread of hope.
* * *
She was in the living room when Mark returned. It had taken her a long time to set the stage, to ensure she looked relaxed, unconcerned, happy in her skin. She’d changed from the jeans and shirt she’d been wearing into her favourite pyjamas. A Christmas present from Drew the previous year, they were pink, brushed cotton, and patterned with penguins. She left her feet bare – she thought it made her look younger.
Usually, she read on her Kindle but a paperback looked better. She chose one at random from the bookshelf and settled herself on the sofa, feet up, head resting on a cushion. Mostly, she stared at the words on the page without any recognition, turning a page now and then as if to convince herself she was actually reading. Sometimes, she shut her eyes, but when she did, it was to see Mark and some nameless hussy, cavorting together, their naked skin glistening in the light of numerous candles poised around a huge bed.
She heard the front door open, the leather soles of his shoes slap across the hallway to the kitchen, followed by silence. In her imagination, she saw him standing in the kitchen doorway, puzzled not to see her busy cooking something for his dinner. Slower steps then as he retraced his way to the living-room door, the click as he pressed on the handle.
Even then, she kept up the pretence, looking up startled when he called her name. ‘Mark! Gosh, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.’ She shut the book and rested it against her chest. ‘Such a good book, I was completely lost in the story.’
‘Right.’
She examined his face, his whole demeanour, for any clues. There was nothing she hadn’t seen every working day for years. He looked slightly tired and a little distracted. Maybe this idea of an affair was all in her imagination? This stupid empty nest syndrome causing her to behave and think with an irrationality new to her. It was a straw she reached for, she grabbed hold of it, clung to it as it pulled her up, brightened her smile and her voice, almost put a bounce into her step as she got to her feet and crossed to him.
‘I didn’t get fish after all.’ She placed a hand on his chest. Close to him, it was his usual scent that hit her, that woody aftershave he favoured. She pressed closer, sliding her hand to his face, leaning in to press a kiss against his lips. They tasted of the cherry-flavoured lip balm he’d used since goodness knows when. Everything was as it always was. She wanted to do a twirl, dance down the hallway, skip over to the fridge and take out a bottle of wine to celebrate. Instead, she stayed with her hand resting against his cheek. ‘I thought we’d get a takeaway for a change.’ She wasn’t surprised when he raised an eyebrow; over the years, she’d made her feelings about takeaways clear. She wasn’t a fan. ‘I thought I should join the twenty-first century,’ she said, ‘so I started a Just Eat account.’
He laughed, took her hand, and pressed a kiss on it. ‘Good idea. Order whatever you like; I’m not fussed.’ He stepped back and turned for the stairway. ‘I’ll just get out of my suit.’
Just like any day. Normal. Everything was as normal. She kept telling herself this, even when she heard the hum of the shower. He’d showered that morning. It wasn’t a particularly hot day so why did he need a shower again? Was he washing away his shame?
The eggshell-thin façade of her optimism cracked. She tried to keep it in place with sticking plaster of hope, keeping herself busy by placing an order for an Indian meal, then taking out glasses, cutlery, and putting plates in the oven to warm. She wondered about setting the table in the conservatory. It would take only seconds to put out candles and light them; it’d be a nice surprise for when Mark came down.
There were new tea lights in a cupboard. She took out the packet, then searched for the matches. Unable to find the box she’d used recently – had she thrown it out? – she went into the hallway, and pulled open the drawer of the hall table. It was used as a general dumping ground for all kinds of bits and pieces. Despite constantly clearing it out, it had the ability to magically refill itself within days. If she was in luck, there might be a box of matches lurking inside. She had her hand on the handle of the drawer when she heard the faint trill of a voice drifting down the stairs. Tilting her head, she strained to listen, then moved slowly towards the stairway and up, one careful step at a time.
On the landing, there was silence for so long, she thought she must have imagined it and raised her eyes to the ceiling at her stupidity. She had descended one step, when the sound came again. Closer to the source, it still took a few seconds to pinpoint exactly which room it was coming from. The bathroom.
She edged over to the door, pushed her hair back, and pressed her ear against it. Mark’s voice. Stopping and starting. On his mobile. Having a conversation with someone. She had to hold her hand over her mouth when she heard the laugh that told her, in case there was the least doubt, that it wasn’t a business call. It was one she recognised, the one he’d use after they’d made love, when they were lying wrapped in each other’s sweaty arms, and they’d talk nonsense and he’d laugh that very same laugh he was now sharing with someone else.
As hard as she pressed against the door, she couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter. You didn’t have to join all the dots to see the full picture.
She crept away, down the stairs, back to the conservatory. The packet of tea lights sat on the table, taunting her. She put them back into the cupboard, then slammed it shut, opened it, slammed it shut harder, then harder again and again till her ears rang with the noise.
The kitchen door burst open, Mark standing there in a pair of boxer shorts, wet hair on end, eyes wide in an emotion she’d no chance of identifying. The door was open, her fingers curled around the handle.
‘What the hell, Susan?’
She didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly, there was a knife in her hand. Mark looked at it, various emotions flitting across his face before settling on disbelief when she raised her hand and plunged the blade into his chest, into the spot marked x where his heart used to be. The spurt of blood was startlingly cold; it gushed over her hand, then oddly, morphed into ice cubes that fell to the floor and smashed into red shards of glass that skittered across the floor.
She shut her eyes and the image vanished. When she opened them, she caught his dismissive eye roll and shut the door, gently this time. ‘The catch was stuck.’ She didn’t wait to see or hear his reaction to her admittedly ridiculous explanation. Crossing to the kitchen, she opened a cupboard and took out wine glasses. ‘You had a shower?’ she said, putting the glasses on the counter.
Yes, I spent the afternoon with my mistress and was afraid you might smell the afterglow of the amazing sex we had. God, she’s so hot, she drives me crazy.
‘What?’ She looked at him, startled.
Mark frowned. ‘Are you okay? You seem distracted.’ He pulled at the waistband of his shorts. ‘I thought a shower might relax me after a tough day.’
‘Yes, right.’
‘It was working till I heard all the noise. I’ll go and throw some clothes on. Is the food on its way? We could have it on a tray; there’s a movie on tonight I’d fancy watching, okay?’
He smoothed a hand over his hair as he spoke. Water trickled down his neck. It lingered in the dip above his collarbone. She wanted to go to him, lick the water out, rub against him, mark him as hers. The longing was almost overwhelming. Her hands were wrapped around the wine glasses so tightly, she wondered they didn’t snap, cut her, make her bleed. ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ she mumbled. She dragged her eyes from his body and her thoughts from memories of a time when she wouldn’t have hesitated, when all it would have taken was a smile for him to know what she was thinking. That’s all it would have taken. ‘It should be here in a few minutes.’ She released the glasses and turned to open the fridge, keeping her face buried in it until she heard Mark’s footsteps recede.
By the time he came down, ten minutes later, she’d assembled a good version of her face, widening her eyes, stretching her mouth into a semblance of a smile. She checked her reflection in the door of the eye-level microwave, startled by the face staring back. Light was coming from the window on one side. It illuminated half her face, leaving the other half in semi-darkness. As she stared, she had the crazy sensation that the darkness was creeping across, dousing the light or maybe it was simply the way she felt.
A sudden blast of sound made her gasp and turn away from her reflection.
‘Sorry!’ Mark shouted from the living room as the sound faded to a more acceptable level. If he wasn’t wearing his glasses, he couldn’t see the remote properly and frequently pressed the wrong button. Sometimes, he’d even be using the wrong controls. It used to amuse Susan, and made Drew roll his eyes in affectionate derision. Now Drew was gone, and nothing seemed funny any more.
The doorbell announced the arrival of the takeaway. ‘I’ll get it,’ Mark shouted over the TV. The next few minutes were filled with the companionable unpacking of containers and non-verbal sounds of pleasure as lid after lid was removed. Susan took the plates from the oven, putting one on each tray.
‘Careful, they’re a bit hot,’ she warned. She helped herself to a little of everything. It was more than she wanted, probably more than she’d eat, but she didn’t want to give Mark a reason to ask if she was okay because if he did, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to restrain herself. The words would burst out, a torrid flow of pain.
‘This was a good idea,’ he said, piling food on his plate. He balanced a garlic nan bread on top. ‘This’ll do me.’
He vanished into the living room, leaving Susan to put the lids back on the cartons. There was enough for tomorrow; it’d save her having to cook.
The movie, The Godfather, was one she’d seen many years before but Mark had somehow missed. ‘You don’t mind watching it again,’ he said, pointing the remote at the TV to start the movie rolling.
‘No, it’s fine. It’s good enough to watch again.’
It also meant she could drift away into her thoughts without worrying she’d miss something.
Anyway, wasn’t it fitting… wasn’t it so fucking, unbelievably perfect… that he’d want to watch a movie about a bunch of amoral, cheating, lying men.