I bluster through the door as the bell jangles above. Outside, the wind is howling as the hail blasts the pavement. If it was anyone other than Mother Nature, it would be common assault.
My inside-out umbrella has long since been abandoned to the bin, while my coat is so wet, that it’s more liquid than solid. I drip my way across the floor, apologising the entire way until I get to the counter. The glass cabinets are filled with various necklaces, rings and jewels; none of which are marked with prices. The man at the counter looks on somewhat disapprovingly as I continue to drip on his carpet.
‘I brought my watch in a few days ago,’ I say. ‘It had stopped working…’
He gulps and looks sideways to an empty space, as if hoping someone will come and save him.
‘I’m afraid there was a problem, Mrs Persephone,’ he says.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘It’s a bit of an, um, delicate matter…’
The television is playing in the background as I sit and stew on the sofa. I’ve not really been watching it, but the shows have scrolled around on a loop until the news came on. The lead story is about a one-punch murderer who’s been given a life sentence. It’s hard not to think of all the lives that have been destroyed. Not only the victim and his family – but the attacker, too. One stupid, momentary decision, if it can even be called a decision.
The door bangs behind me and David blusters his way in, followed by a few litres of rain. He slams the door behind him and then puts his soaking coat onto the rail next to mine. He offers a quick ‘need a wee’ and then dashes for the toilet, leaving a trail of water behind.
The news story has moved onto the mother of the victim. She’s devastated and struggling for words as she says that the attacker should never be released from prison.
I wait and I fume until David returns. He’s taken off his shoes and socks and has a towel around his neck. He heads towards the kitchen and then he stops still, turning to peer over his shoulder like a wronged cowboy in a Western.
I’ve never quite understood how emotions can bleed out into the surrounding atmosphere. As if feelings themselves can be so intense, so strong, that they can become something physical.
‘What’s wrong?’ David asks.
‘When we were at my mum’s last year, you gave me a watch for my birthday,’ I say.
‘I know…’
‘Where did you get it?’
He takes a small step backwards, but the counter is behind him and there’s nowhere to go. ‘I, um… don’t remember.’
‘It’s worth three grand. How can you not remember?’
I watch as his eyes flick to my wrist, surely noticing the empty space where it used to be. I hold my wrist up higher so that he can see clearly.
‘It’s gone,’ I say. ‘Why do you think that is?’
He slides around the counter, putting it between us as I stand and move towards him.
‘Where did you get it?’ I repeat.
David’s doing a goldfish impression; the first time I’ve seen it since we were in the service station a little under a year ago.
‘It had stopped working, so I took it to the jewellers,’ I continue. ‘I went back to pick it up, but he said the serial number was on file. It had been reported stolen eighteen months ago.’
David is like a dog stuck in a cat flap.
‘I’ve been walking around with stolen goods on my wrist for more than a year.’
He holds his hands up, still backing away – this time into the fridge: ‘I didn’t know,’ he says. ‘I bought it from a pawn shop. I buy all sorts of things from places like that. It’s my job…’
‘I don’t believe you.’
I shake my head. If that really is his job, then he should be able to tell the difference between something stolen and something that isn’t.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Even if it is, that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s not a job. It never has been. It can’t be a job if you’re buying stolen goods.’
‘I wanted to buy you a new one, but—’
‘I didn’t need a £3,000 watch. I never did. You must know that’s not who I am…?’
David stumbles over the words, but it’s not that he can say much anyway.
It’s not even the watch. Not entirely.
‘I can’t work out when you’re lying to me,’ I say.
‘I’m not lying.’
‘You have before. You kept quiet about Yasmine. You lied about knowing Ben. You lied about going to conferences. You lied about your stolen goods.’
He doesn’t say anything, so I keep going.
‘I could’ve been arrested. I think the jeweller felt sorry for me, which is why he said he’d deal with it indirectly. I still don’t know what that means.’
‘I didn’t steal it.’
David speaks through gritted teeth and everything about him screams that he wants to be somewhere else.
‘I love you,’ he says.
‘Don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘You can’t give me something stolen and then make it all right by saying you love me. It doesn’t work like that. Tell me the truth.’
He opens the fridge door and then closes it, then takes two paces to the other side of the kitchen, before taking a couple of steps back. His breathing quickens and then, finally, after everything: ‘I knew it was stolen.’
Deep down, I think I always knew. David never had that much money, let alone that much for a watch. The rugby club spent three months phoning me, wanting final payment for the engagement party – and, even though David said they didn’t take cash, the secretary specifically told me they did. I suppose it was another reason for me to pay and not him. This is how it’s been ever since he moved in. The ‘rent’ is sporadic. Everything is. I pay for most things under a fantasy premise that he’ll one day pay me back – and I’ve largely stopped asking because he’s bought me off with other people’s property.
‘Where did you get it?’ I ask.
‘Someone I know.’
‘A thief?’
He shakes his head. ‘Just someone who sells things…’
‘Someone who sells stolen goods?’
He turns away and it feels like something is broken – or, perhaps, it was never whole in the first place.
‘I can get the money I owe you,’ he says, even though I’ve not asked about it.
‘I don’t care about money, David. It’s the lies. Maybe you have been in Estonia all week – but the fact I even question it is what matters.’
‘I’ll make it up to you…’
It’s me who turns away this time, backing towards the sofa. The anger is gone and now there’s only resignation.
‘I don’t think you can,’ I reply. At first, I don’t know what to add, but then, from nowhere, I do: ‘I need a break.’
David stands staring at me. His shoulders have slumped and his bottom lip is wobbling.
‘What does that mean?’ David’s voice cracks, like a teenage boy’s. ‘Are we breaking up?’
‘No, just a break. Tonight. I want time to think and I can’t be here.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Somewhere.’
I move into the bedroom and grab a bag from the bottom of the wardrobe. There’s nothing methodical about my packing as I pull a handful of clothes from my drawers and stuff them inside. When I turn, I expect David to be in the doorway. I’m surprised that it’s empty as I fumble with my mobile and then call Jane. We’ve barely spoken since the wedding and yet she answers so quickly, and says my name with such conviction, that it’s as if she’s expected this all along.
‘Are you safe?’ she asks.
The question stops me momentarily.
‘Can I come to yours?’ I reply.
‘I’m away in Nottingham for a hen do this weekend. I’m not drinking, but…’ The thought ebbs away and then she adds: ‘I’ll send Ben.’
‘OK.’
‘He’s not hurt you, has he…?’
It takes me a second to realise that she means David. I’ve never felt in danger around him, but then I’ve missed so many things – some of them wilfully.
‘No,’ I say.
Something rustles in the background and then it’s Jane’s voice again: ‘I’m going to hang up and call Ben now,’ she says. ‘You can have the spare room. Stay as long as you want. I’ll be back in the morning and we can talk then.’
She’s efficient and in control, which at least makes one of us. It’s hard to admit that other people were right all along about getting married so soon. Perhaps even specifically about David.
I hang up and sit on the bed, bag at my feet, waiting. The wind is still raging outside, rattling the windows as if it’s trying to get in. I think back to being on the stairs of Jane and Ben’s house, wondering if I would have ended up with anyone who sat next to me and said nice things. I was looking for anyone who’d encourage and offer comfort, assuming love would come. I’m not sure it ever has. There was a big part of me that wanted to win, as well. To be married first. To prove I was happy.
The bedside clock changes time agonisingly slowly. Minutes pass and then David’s shadow appears in the doorway, blocking most of the light as he leans into the frame.
‘Please stay,’ he says.
‘I need a night to think.’
‘We can keep trying for a baby if you stay.’
This is how it’s been with David and me. I think I’ve made up my mind to do one thing and then, from nowhere, I find myself doing another. I made a decision on the bridge that day, the same way that I made a choice in the service station. David might have suggested it, but I went along. I decided that having a baby was what I wanted.
Except that it isn’t happening.
I didn’t want it – and now that I do, I can’t have it.
It’s been three months, which I know isn’t long enough to know for certain – except that, somehow, I do know. I can feel my body rejecting our attempts at making a baby. It’s telling me something that, perhaps, I knew all along.
‘I love you,’ David says.
‘I know.’
He crosses to the bed and sits at my side, stroking my hair. ‘I’d never let anyone hurt you.’
‘Stop.’
‘I’d kill for you. Do you know that?’
It’s a strange, mixed-up, almost clichéd thing to say. It’s supposed to convey a degree of romanticism, as if anyone would want that. But who would? It’s an incomprehensibly manic idea to love a person so much that killing someone else is somehow acceptable.
‘Why would you say that?’ I ask.
‘Because it’s true.’
For perhaps the first time in our relationship, I genuinely believe him.
The doorbell sounds three times in rapid succession and I jump to my feet, spurred on by the urgency.
‘Don’t go,’ David says.
He trails me all the way to the door and, when I open it, Ben is standing there.
‘How’s it going, Morgs?’ he asks.
‘It’s been worse.’
He glances past me towards David and then pushes the door wider. ‘Shall we go?’
I take a breath and then step outside, where the rain continues to lash: ‘Yes.’