Mark has everything running like a well-oiled machine by the time I reach the kitchen, dressed for work, my face plastered with my usual make-up and a smile. Ella and Alfie are in their school uniforms, each sitting at the table eating two rounds of Marmite on toast, glasses of orange juice poured ready for them to down before packing them into the car to drive to Coleton Combe primary. Mark was going to do the drop-off today for once and I the pick-up, so that I could make an early start at the practice, but I’m guessing, given the time and the fact he is in a state of undress, I’m doing both.
It’s times like these I wish he’d made use of the ample space in our house to set up his office here – it would save a lot of bother as well as keep business costs down, but he was adamant he needed a place away from the home, somewhere he could separate his work and family life. So, for now, his workplace is in Exeter, about a forty-minute drive away. The plus with having my vet practice just on the outskirts of the village is that I’m there in minutes – no rush-hour traffic to cope with; no road diversions or traffic jams – so I usually take the kids. Because this morning hasn’t begun as planned, the early start is out of the window.
Mark looks up at me as I enter, his large, dark eyes filled with concern. ‘Morning,’ he says, placing his mug back on the table. No ‘love’ at the end, like normal. I swallow down my anxiety and muster a cheery response, quickly sidling up to him, leaning down and planting a kiss on his lips. His shoulders visibly lower as tension leaks from them. He was clearly expecting a different reaction.
‘Well, you two are being super good!’ I go to Ella and Alfie in turn, kissing the tops of their heads, then ruffling their mops of dark hair.
‘Aw, Mummy,’ Alfie moans, patting his hair down again. Ella merely rolls her eyes without comment. Mark casts his gaze towards them, then back to me. The tension in his body may have gone, but it remains heavy in the atmosphere and I realise I have to be the one to make the first move here.
‘Not sure what happened with the alarms,’ I venture. ‘Sorry to have hogged the bathroom – you go ahead and get ready. I’ll take the kids to school.’ I walk back to him and slip my arms around his bare shoulders, my eyes dropping to his sexy, brown torso. His hands reach up, covering mine and, for a moment, my anxiety melts away with his warmth. Then, he abruptly drains his mug of coffee and stands. He’s a foot taller than me, slim but with impressive, well-defined muscles in his chest and upper arms. He keeps himself fit with regular gym sessions and cycling. His strength has always been something I’ve adored. It was one of the things that drew me to him when we first met eleven years ago, yet it’s also something that scares me sometimes. As much as I’d been determined to choose a life partner who was as opposite from my father as possible, they did have that in common.
I push those thoughts away as Mark takes my hand and turns it palm-up, dropping my wedding ring into it and giving me a questioning look.
‘Are we okay, Jen?’
My throat constricts. ‘Yes,’ I say, keeping eye contact. ‘I don’t remember taking it off,’ I admit. I slip the ring back on and Mark takes me in his arms. Warm. Safe. Secure. Or, that’s how it used to be not that long ago. ‘I wish we could stay like this all day,’ I murmur into his smooth chest, then pull back, smiling up at my husband. The man who has stood by me all these years, the father of my children. He’s a good dad – really good. He puts Ella and Alfie first and spends time with them, never raising his voice or losing his patience, always giving them his best. He’s present, doesn’t disappear for days on end like my own father used to. Doesn’t leave them alone with a disturbed mother.
Or, maybe he does.
Am I disturbed? I have night terrors and, more worryingly, unexplainable moments in time where I’m unaware of what I’m doing. There’ve been occasions, like last night, when I’ve woken up, not in bed, and can’t recall where I’ve been. So, maybe I am disturbed? But I have to believe I’m as good a mother as he is a father. We’re a team. Despite what he did last year. However hard I try to dislodge it, though, an echo of mistrust remains wedged inside my mind like a cork stuck fast in a bottle.
‘So do I, love. But the bills won’t—’
‘Pay themselves,’ we say in unison.
‘Look,’ Mark says, ‘if there’s something playing on your mind …’
‘We’ll talk later,’ I say, smiling to reassure him. I need the next eight hours to come up with a suitable explanation – a reason why I’m feeling this way. One that doesn’t involve me telling him the truth.