February 2016
Genevieve stands in her hallway, dressed in her work clothes: black trousers, ivory silk top, red shoes. She’s dropped a shopping bag containing fillet steak and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Genevieve never cooks but I’m guessing, she’s planned a celebration—a cosy dinner à deux to celebrate the publication of an advance summary of the accident inspector’s findings.
The report that’s held me trapped in this half-life, unable to move a foot forward, unable to flee, is out in the world and its findings have set me free.
“Bastard!” she screams. “You can’t do this to me.”
“I’m leaving,” I confirm for the second or third time.
I’ve been waiting with my bag packed and a fight to Limoges booked for tomorrow morning. I’m catching a late train to Stansted and I’ll kip on a bench. I can’t stay here one more night.
She jerks her chin up; her eyes seek out mine and lock on. “I don’t believe you.”
I incline my head towards my travel bag. “I’ve booked a flight.”
The hallway is airless and suffocating. Genevieve sways but puts a hand against the wall to brace herself and leans towards me. Her face looming inches from mine, she repeats, “Bastard,” and a fleck of spittle hits my cheek. She stalks past me to the sitting room. “Get me a gin and tonic,” she commands, as if I’m still her slave and nothing’s changed.
I didn’t have to wait here to face her—could have checked out while she was at work and posted her keys through the letterbox. But I needed to draw a line to make her understand that this is it—it’s over.
With the edge of my shoe, I shunt my holdall against the wall, stroll to the kitchen and pour a triple measure of Bombay Sapphire. I open a can of tonic, take ice from the freezer and slice a lime thinly. I carry Genevieve’s drink into the sitting room. I don’t fix one for myself.
Genevieve is sitting on the sofa, leaning back against two silk cushions, with her eyes half-closed and one hand pressed to her temple. She’s kicked off her red shoes; they lie on their sides like splashes of blood against her cream carpet. She reaches up and snatches the drink from my hand.
“Sit down,” she barks. “Have some decency.”
I do as I’m bid, perching on a chair in the full glow of an uplighter, ready for my interrogation.
“I don’t get it, Paul.” Her voice falters.
Genevieve never pleads. She barks orders, emotes, wheedles. Her face looks blurry, seeming to dissolve in front of me. Perhaps I could have liked this more vulnerable Genevieve better.
At work, and in our personal life, we were always bumping up against one another, exchanging sharp remarks and bouncing away. But in the bedroom—blissful carnage. Genevieve was never too tired, never had a headache. I’m the one who was too stressed to perform but, even on my worst days, she could lure me back nibbling my shoulder, my chest, my abdomen—working her way down until I was ready to explode.
She peers at me over the rim of the tumbler, her eyes foggy, words muffled by the glass.
“All the lies I told, the witness accounts I set up—everything was for you.”
I stare at my shoes. Was it my fault she got it into her mind that our relationship was the real deal? That we’d be together for ever? Without her support, I’d be ruined. I could be heading for a custodial sentence. As it is, I’ve lost my job, but not my reputation. I’ll still be able to work in the construction industry—maybe on contract, certainly at a lower level but, in time, I could rebuild a career. But that’s not what I want.
I move to sit beside her on the sofa, take her hand, find a tissue to wipe the single tear she’s rationed herself. I stroke her hair, kiss her cheek.
“I’m so grateful to you. For everything.”
She puts a hand on each side of my head, yanks me close, kisses me with trembling lips. I pull away.
“Stop! How can I make you see?” I choose my words carefully. “All those months teetering on a cliff edge; not sure if I was going to jump, fall or be pushed. I have to get back to normal.”
Genevieve gazes at me, a tiny spark illuminating her blank eyes. “That’s right. It’s the stress. I get it now. But it’s temporary, Paul. It’s over with Emma. Admit it. She doesn’t enjoy the same things as you, doesn’t get you. You two have nothing in common.”
“You’re a wonderful woman. You’ll find someone who deserves you.”
She straightens her back and fixes me with misty eyes. “Give it a few months. France isn’t the answer. You know what we had. You’ll come back.”
She follows me to the door and watches me walk away, her gaze scorching my back. I lengthen my pace, my footsteps pounding the pavement. As I turn the corner, I hitch my holdall over my shoulder, take a deep breath and break into a run.