The sex last night was intense and afterwards I lay exhausted and sweaty in his arms. I could tell by the way he immediately sprawled out, one arm flopped over his head and his other hand stroking my shoulder in lazy, rhythmic sweeps, that he was going to fall immediately to sleep. He usually does after we have sex. Work, eat, clean up, have sex, sleep, eat, and repeat. Our routine.
I rise early, as I always do. My body is conditioned to it, my eyes flickering open at the first hint of daylight, though the crusty residue lining my lids reminds me just how long I lay awake last night, staring at the ceiling. Blinking the tiredness away, I slide out from beside him, careful not to disturb his sleep, and make my way to the kitchen. The cabin is cloaked in a dim, early-morning haze as I set about getting the fire started. Sun-bleached photographs balance on top of the mantel. Pictures of our lives together, here in the solitude of the Highlands. One of the photos was from our anniversary picnic last year. We balanced the camera on a rock and sat together amongst the heather. I think that’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.
I move on to collecting the eggs and ensuring breakfast is ready and waiting for him on the table by the time he wakes. Did I dream last night? If I did, I don’t remember it. Occasionally when I’ve woken I’ve remembered my dream, remembered the delicious, defiant feeling of hiding in the boot of his truck during one of his trips to town so that I could catch a glimpse, however brief, of the world he gets to see when he goes to work.
‘Good morning,’ I say in my most soothing voice as I gently shake his shoulder, cup of steaming coffee clasped in my other hand. He flinches, eyes snapping open. There are only a few seconds of displeasure though before he smiles and stretches.
‘Mornin’, beautiful.’ He shuffles back in the bed so that he’s sat up, and takes the coffee from me.
‘Breakfast is on the table.’
‘I’m so lucky to have you,’ he says through a stifled yawn. Luck has nothing to do with it but I don’t say that.
Breakfast is a silent affair, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery against plates. Even though he seemed his usual self when I woke him, I’m still acutely aware that there is a tinge of annoyance about him. Is he angry about the question I asked last night? Or about the eye cream? I tell myself I’m imagining it, though make a mental note to ensure I’m doing everything I can to make it up to him today.
After we’ve eaten, I clear away the plates while he disappears into the bathroom. I watch him out of the corner of my eye through the half-open door as he splashes his face with water.
Those hands were on me last night. Running across my body, fingers tangled in my hair.
He pulls the medicine box down from its high shelf, retrieves the key from his pocket and stands there, a commanding figure, meticulously organising the contents. His movements are deliberate, each item carefully counted and arranged, as if seeking a sense of control in this small act.
‘Here ye go.’ He places my single white pill in my outstretched palm as I join him in the bathroom, the culmination of his careful selection from the box. I go to place it on my tongue, but am stopped by an awareness that he is staring at me, his gaze piercing and expectant. ‘What d’ye say?’
‘Thank you,’ I’m quick to respond.
The pill slips down my throat. This, like everything else in our life, is part of the routine. Next step; the scales. I step gingerly onto them, feeling Cal’s gaze lingering on my body, scrutinising its curves and contours.
The dial on the scales rotates and his expression softens, satisfaction dancing in his eyes as he reads the numbers. ‘Lookin’ good,’ he murmurs, his voice laced with pride.
He digs his hand into his pocket. I realise what it is before he fully pulls it out, have already caught sight of the patterned paper and the end of what looks like a tiny satin bow. My birthday present.
A smile flickers across my lips and I wait for him to hand it to me. He takes his time. The present is small, fitting comfortably into the palm of my hand, and I allow myself a moment to imagine what could be inside. A bar of Galaxy chocolate, perhaps. He sometimes brings those home with him and he knows they’re my favourite.
I unwrap the gift with practised grace, knowing that any reaction too excitable is not fit for a lady. It’s a delicate necklace with a bird pendant, its silver chain glinting under the soft morning light. This has been carefully chosen, I can tell. He knows how much I love the birds.
‘I saw it and thought of you.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Thank you so much.’
He turns me on the spot so that he can place the pendant around my neck. ‘A beautiful piece of jewellery for a beautiful wife.’
As the front door clicks shut behind him and the truck grumbles away, leaving me alone again, the weight of his presence still lingers in the air. The isolation gets more and more suffocating every day, a constant reminder of my dependence on him for both physical and emotional sustenance. The hours drag here, even with so much to be getting on with.
The one chore I do genuinely love is tending to the garden. The second I step out into the sunshine it’s like a pressure has been lifted off my chest. This is my happy place. I dig and I prune and I water. I pick a few strawberries, probably the last of the season’s harvest, and drop them into my basket, sneaking one into my mouth and revelling in the sweetness. I think I’ll make strawberry jam tonight. That way it’ll keep.
I feel less alone out here. The robins jump from fence post to fence post as if they can tell how in need of companionship I am. Sometimes I talk to them, pretending I’m a real-life Snow White. Aside from the various Bible editions stacked neatly in rows, we have a few other books on our shelves. Nothing that could corrupt or damage my soul. Cal would probably die if he knew I used to keep a well-read copy of Fifty Shades of Grey tucked under my pillow in my dorm at university.
Of the books in our collection, Little House on the Prairie is my favourite, so much so that I have it memorised, but I do love Snow White too. She was like me, lonely, with only the birds for company, until her prince came and set her free. Of course, I already live with a man and there’s no evil stepmother out for my blood as far as I know, but the similarities are still there.
As I drop the last strawberry into my basket I spot him, my favourite robin, the one with the vivid red chest, sitting on a branch mere inches from me, chortling. I haven’t seen him since last year, when he and his little family all left for the winter. Cal doesn’t believe me when I say that during the spring and summer months the same bird visits me each day, says there’s no way to tell one from the other, but I know. There’s a certain glisten in his eyes. He has a particular way of cocking his head to the side as if appraising me. My lips quirk up and I hold out the smallest strawberry, hoping today might be the day he plucks up the courage to flutter onto my hand.
He doesn’t. Instead, as usual, he watches me for a few seconds, then ruffles his feathers and takes off, flapping, making me startle. Disappointed, I watch him as his wings carry him off into the distance, soaring over the tips of the pines. It always strikes me just how quickly he can get to where he’s going despite his size. Where is he going? The loch? The town? Another country? Maybe a different place every day. I would if I had his wings and his freedom to go where he pleases. I’d explore every tiny nook and cranny of this world.
As I watch him flutter away into the thicket of trees, I’m overcome by the desire to follow him. I could. There’s nothing physically stopping me from venturing past the perimeter of our land. I’ve done it before.
For our fifth wedding anniversary Cal treated me to a picnic by the loch. We packed up smoked salmon, crumbly oatcakes, artisanal cheeses, juicy fruits and mouthwatering confectionery from town, far more than we could realistically eat, and made the long trek to the water’s edge. It was a perfectly still day. The air seemed to hold its breath, in awe of the untamed beauty that lay before us as we sought out the perfect spot, a grassy knoll that offered an uninterrupted view of the glistening surface, and laid out our blanket. Cal has often commented how he always enjoys us being together but that that day was something special, and I have to agree.
I could go there again. Perhaps I could even take my paints and a canvas. If there’s ever a good landscape to paint, it’s the loch. But I know it’s not an option. Not really. The glinting in the trees reminds me of that on a daily basis.
It’s then that I hear it, the rumble of Cal’s truck. Frowning, I crane my neck to see where it’s coming from. He’s been gone maybe half an hour. He’s never come home this quickly before. Not without reason.
I retreat back to the strawberries, the other few times I’ve left the confines of the cabin circling in my head, a highlight reel on replay. As the truck approaches I pick up my basket and take it back inside, where I spread the berries out on the chopping board and start cutting off the stalks. By the time Cal comes through the front door I’ve already got the jam simmering in a pot on the stove.
‘Is everything OK?’ I ask, moving to give him a hug and a kiss, even though he’s been gone for such a short time I can practically still feel his goodbye kiss on my cheek.
‘Yeah,’ he says, though the slight trailing off of the word reduces the conviction in his voice. ‘I just … I didnae want to work today. I want te be here. With you.’
My eyebrows flick up.
‘You blew off work for me?’
‘Aye. Called in sick. Can’t hurt once in a while, eh?’
His arms snake back around my waist and he pulls me closer to him. I nuzzle my head into his chest, wondering what’s brought this on.
‘What do you want to do today then?’ I say as we separate, calculating in my head how many hours we have together. ‘We could go and have a picnic like we did for our anniversary?’
Cal’s forehead crinkles. ‘I think you’ve got enough to be gettin’ on with here.’
His eyes roam the cabin, landing on the bubbling jam, the surfaces I have yet to dust, the pile of clothes that need scrubbing and wringing and hanging out on the line. My eyes follow his and disappointment drops like a stone into the pit of my stomach. Why did he come home to spend the day with me if I’m just going to be doing all my usual chores?
I’m about to ask the question when Cal squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’m gon’ go skin them deer hangin’ up in the barn. I fancy venison pie for lunch. Make sure that jam’s done in time, aye?’
And with that he trudges out into the garden, down the long dirt path to the skinning barn, and I am alone again.