It was a Sunday tradition for Susan to cook breakfast. In the summer, they had it on the patio, when it got cooler, in the conservatory, and now with the first hint of winter in the air, they had it in the kitchen.
The rejection of the previous night seemed to confirm her fears that Mark was having an affair. It was strange to be acting as if everything was business as usual. And acting was exactly what it was, each of them skirting around the other, his voice conciliatory, hers brittle, a reflection of the way she felt, as if she’d already cracked into a million pieces and was simply waiting to fall apart.
On automatic, she cooked the same breakfast she’d cooked every Sunday for as long as she could remember. Stupidly, she cooked enough for three people, two of whom didn’t seem in the mood to eat. Most of what she’d cooked ended up being thrown in the bin.
‘I need to go into the office again today,’ Mark said as he helped her clear the table. He didn’t meet her eyes as he added, ‘Just for a couple of hours. I won’t be late.’
She should have said something then, should have asked him if he thought she was stupid. The words were there, waiting, but she knew if she opened her mouth, it wouldn’t be words that came out, it would be a long scream of desperation, of defeat, of stomach-churning sorrow.
Better to wait. To get the proof from the private investigator. To face Mark with it in a calm manner, not like a woman possessed. Maybe if she handled it properly, he’d confess he’d been stupidly led astray, apologise and beg forgiveness.
And maybe if he did, Susan wouldn’t have to find where this woman lived. Find her and gouge her eyes out.
* * *
She couldn’t face Mark again that evening, couldn’t go through the same pretence. There was a portion of lasagne in the freezer. She took it out and left it on the counter with a note.
Bad migraine. I’ve gone to bed. Put this in the microwave for a while. See you in the morning.
He’d get the message. It wasn’t subtle.
She did go to bed, resisting the temptation to lock the bedroom door, smiling at the thought of Mark smashing it down to get to her, the smile fading as she realised he was more likely to be relieved. He wouldn’t have to bother showering either.
Propping herself up with a couple of pillows, she flicked the switch on her Kindle and opened a book she’d started a few days before. It was engrossing enough to keep her attention but not enough to stop her hearing Mark’s arrival home. Later than he’d promised. He’d have seen the light in the bedroom as he came down the road, and when he read the note, he’d know her migraine tale was a lie. A frequent sufferer, her routine when she had one was simple and hadn’t changed over the years: medication, and a few hours in a darkened room.
He’d know it to be a lie, but in his relief not to have to explain his late return, he wouldn’t come to investigate. What a kind wife she was to hand him a get out of jail free card.
For a while, she listened to the sounds he made getting on with his evening. The ping of the microwave, the snap of a cupboard door, the click as the living-room door shut behind him, then the rise and fall of voices on the TV. The noises seemed unnatural. Sound effects made for a radio play. A bad one where everyone sounded wooden and unreal.
It was far too early but she shut her Kindle down and switched out the light. Snuggling her head into the pillow, she prayed for sleep to come, for the weekend to be over. Tomorrow, Ethan would come with the evidence she needed to go forward.
She curled onto her side. The curtains were still open. It had been bright when she’d climbed into bed. It was dark now, and a moon had risen to hover above the house across the street. A full moon. Was it to blame for the unaccustomed violence that was seeping into her thoughts, the knives, the blood, the eye gouging?
It wasn’t who she was.
But who was she?
Maybe tomorrow, she’d be able to join a club she’d never expected to be in. The wronged women’s club.
She kept her eyes fixed on the moon. She’d never have considered herself to be a violent person but was that simply because she’d never had the need to be? Now, she could feel violence thrumming under her skin like a disease. To save what she had, she’d do whatever was needed.