Chapter 11

~

As it happens, Alex isn’t home for long. He picks Sandy up from hospital the following evening and for the next two nights he sleeps over in his mother’s guestroom. It turns out she sprained her ankle when she tripped and fell on her own doorstop – literally. Alex, who was there, took her to hospital. He pops home after work on the Wednesday just long enough to drop off his dirty clothes for the wash and to fetch a freshly ironed shirt.

I seem to have gone from one extreme to the other. Just a few days ago, I resented the fact that Alex and Sandy were around so much that I could hardly pick up my own baby and I was looking forward to having some time to myself with Chloe. Now I’m on my own every minute of the day and night with her. Be careful what you wish for!

On the Thursday, Julie calls to confirm that she and her family are coming up to the Lake District this weekend. As it will be late when they arrive, they plan to go straight to the hotel on the Friday evening – tomorrow evening – and come round to the Old Vicarage on the Saturday morning. Julie intends to stay at the Old Vicarage for a week when everyone else goes home.

‘You’d clean forgotten, hadn’t you?’ she asks when she gets an embarrassing silence in response.

I hadn’t forgotten, but it’s only sinking in now that it’s nearly the weekend. Every day seems to be the same at the moment and I’m losing track of time. As soon as Julie mentions their visit, I panic. I haven’t said a word about it to Alex. Then she says they’ve found a hotel that accepts dogs and they’re bringing Dad and Jet, too.

I can’t wait to see them all, but I’m dreading Alex’s reaction when he finds out my family are going to be here. He has scarcely spoken to me since we rowed about the Post-it. And somehow, I don’t think this is going to help matters.

It’s not until I’ve hung up that I remember the barbecue. Shit! I feel like slapping my palm on my forehead. I’m just not joining up the dots at the moment. I really did lose part of my brain in childbirth.

Alex comes home again a little later that same evening. My family are going to show up on his doorstep the day after tomorrow. I have to tell him. He’s not going to like it! But why shouldn’t my family visit? After all, we see a lot of Alex’s mother.

Politely, I ask Alex how Sandy is. I’m stalling. I sent my mother-in-law a text message earlier in the day to enquire about her health. I already know from her reply that she’s feeling “foolish, but better”. I feel a twitch at the corners of my mouth as Alex describes a woman in considerable pain and in a critical condition, but I manage to suppress the smile.

‘Mum is more mobile on her crutches now,’ Alex admits, ‘so she doesn’t need me to sleep over at her house anymore.’ He sounds a little wounded, as if he would rather tend to his mother’s needs than help look after his baby daughter. ‘She’s a brave trooper,’ he continues. ‘She’ll be hobbling around on her own two feet in no time.’

To my surprise, when I do announce my news to Alex, he takes it really well. So well in fact that I’m suspicious. I narrow my eyes at him.

‘What?’ he demands. He’s holding Chloe while I heat up the shepherd’s pie from Monday for tonight’s dinner.

‘I thought you’d be angry.’

‘Why would I be angry?’ He combs his fingers through his tousled hair. ‘I didn’t want them to stay until you’d recovered from childbirth, but if you think you’re up for it, that’s fine.’

‘I’m up for it, Alex,’ I say, giving him my warmest smile. ‘I’m ready. Really. I coped very well while you were at your mum’s.’

‘There’ll be lots of guests, then. The more the merrier, though, I suppose.’ His voice hardens. ‘Better make sure everything is perfect.’ I can’t decide if it’s meant as a warning or not. ‘For everyone.’

Alex tells me he has invited five friends. ‘You already know Mike and his girlfriend Sarah,’ he says.

So, Mike’s girlfriend is called Sarah. I nod, but I don’t say what I’m thinking, that I don’t know the first thing about Mike and I’ve only met Sarah once – at our wedding – but I’ve just this second learnt her name. The only thing I know about her is that she can jive. Clearly, I really don’t know them at all.

That reminds me, I still haven’t asked Vicky what her full name is.

‘Then there’s another three friends from the triathlon club,’ Alex continues.

When we’ve eaten, Alex feeds Chloe while I make out a shopping list. ‘Crisps, obviously, and canapés,’ he says and I scribble it down.

I have no idea if I’m to buy them or make them, so I ask, ‘What do you mean by “canapés”?’

He gives a derisive laugh.

‘What?’

‘Weren’t you a French teacher?’ he scoffs.

‘I am – still, officially – a senior lecturer in French.’

‘Oh, go on. Any excuse to rub it in.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, thinking we’re talking at cross-purposes.

‘You just can’t resist lording it over me because you happen to have a PhD and I’ve only got a degree.’

‘I’m sorry, Alex,’ I say, although that hadn’t been my intention at all. I had no idea he was sensitive about that. My stomach gives a little lurch in apprehension, but to my relief, Alex seems to accept my apology and he carries on.

‘Prosecco or champagne or cava or something similar; sausage rolls, homemade, not that crap from the supermarket shelves; dips, olives, melon with Serrano ham, crostini with goat’s cheese …’

I’m not sure what that is, but I know better than to ask this time. As I write down what Alex dictates, I reassure myself. I’ll have all day tomorrow to start organising this and I’m sure Julie will help me on Saturday if Alex is busy. I’ll make sure everything is perfect. For everyone. But especially for Alex. And I do know why he wants me to get this right. I’m sure he thinks I’ve forgotten that Saturday is his birthday, but I haven’t.

When Chloe falls asleep, Alex takes her upstairs. Then he comes down again to suggest we get an early night.

‘Sounds great to me,’ I say and clear up our dinner things in the kitchen before following Alex up to our bedroom.

When I come out of the bathroom, Alex is lying on his back in bed, his arms behind his head, his chest exposed above the bedcovers. As I climb into bed beside him, he kicks the quilt off the bed and turns towards me, propping himself up on his elbow.

‘How long after giving birth until you … you know?’

I’m a bit slow to cotton on. ‘What are you talking about?’ Then I notice it’s not just his chest that’s bare. He’s bare from the waist down, too. Completely naked. And he has an erection.

‘Until you can have sex, Katie,’ Alex says, making no effort to keep the exasperation out of his voice. He stares at me with his piercing blue eyes.

‘About six weeks,’ I say. ‘Another three weeks to go.’ I expect him to get up, pull on his boxers, lie down with his back to me and sulk. But he doesn’t move. His eyes have a dangerous glint in them.

‘Earlier, you said you’d recovered. You seemed so sure you’d healed.’ He pouts, but it quickly transforms into a smile. It’s an act. ‘I’m ready, really,’ he mimics. ‘I’m up for it, Alex.’

‘Alex, this isn’t funny.’

‘I’m not joking.’ He takes my hand and presses it against his erect penis. ‘Can you feel that, Katie? Who’s up for it now, hey? I’m up for it.’

‘Alex––’

‘Six weeks?’

‘Yes.’ I want to stand up to him, but it comes out as a whisper.

‘That’s how long you are supposed to wait,’ he says, ‘but I can’t wait that long.’

He’s going to force me to have sex with him. I shudder as I think of my episiotomy stitches.

But instead, he rolls onto his back and pushes down hard on my head with both his hands. I have tears in my eyes as I begin to perform oral sex on my husband. Alex wraps my hair around one of his hands and pulls on the makeshift ponytail. Then he pushes down on my head with the other hand. Like a puppeteer controlling the strings, he repeats this pulling and pushing to dictate the rhythm. It gets faster, rougher. He’s hurting me.

Thankfully, it doesn’t last long. As Alex moans loudly and releases his hold on my hair, I’m left feeling dirty and used. I even get the vague notion I should receive payment for what I’ve just done. But I’m the one who has paid. That was the price I had to pay for my family gate-crashing his barbecue.

Alex doesn’t even look at me. He rolls onto his side and curls up into a ball, facing away from me. I get out of bed and pick up the quilt from the floor, throwing half of it over his naked foetal body.

‘Night, Katie,’ he murmurs as I get back into bed.

I don’t reply.

‘Night, Katie,’ he repeats, without turning towards me.

This time when I ignore him, he sighs emphatically. I anticipate a stronger reaction and my stomach twists in dread. But before long, his breathing slows and I can tell he’s asleep. My breathing slows, too.

A few months ago, before Chloe came along, I would have been staggered and distraught at what has just happened. I’d have found it impossible to get to sleep. I’d have sobbed silently next to Alex in bed.

But now, this sort of incident seems to be par for the course. I’m not indifferent, but I feel detached as if I’ve just witnessed it instead of experienced it. I feel only a sort of numb apathy, as though I’m becoming immune.

As I lie there, rubbing my sore scalp gently, I think about Alex’s moods and behaviour. Sometimes he snaps and shouts at me. On a couple of occasions now he has hurled all sorts of obscenities and insults at me. At other times, I get the feeling he’s building up to something but I don’t know what until he explodes.

Occasionally, like this time, he metes out a punishment. Evidently, he was not happy about my family coming to Grasmere, but he pretended everything was fine while all evening he must have been plotting his revenge.

Often, when Alex is in one of his moods, he gives me dark looks, which I can handle, or the silent treatment, which, to be honest, I find less frustrating than I used to. When he ignores me now, it still makes me feel worthless and non-existent. But at least it gives him time to calm down and it gives me time to pull myself together.

Tonight is the first time that I’m the one sulking and refusing to answer him. Until now, it has always been the other way around. Am I giving him a taste of his own medicine? Or am I starting to become like him? One thing’s for sure, I don’t like who I’m becoming. I don’t like who I am when I’m with my husband anymore. But I haven’t stopped loving him in spite of everything. In spite of myself.

~

Alex wakes up early. He’s happy and energetic. He brings me a mug of tea in bed.

‘Thank God it’s Friday,’ he says. ‘I can’t wait to spend some quality time with you and Chloe this weekend.’ A kiss on the cheek. ‘And it’ll be great to see your family again.’ A kiss on the other cheek.

‘Mmm.’ That’s the only reply I can muster for the moment.

‘I’m swimming after work,’ he announces, picking up his kit bag as if to make the point.

He leaves shortly after that. He gives me a minty kiss on the lips before he goes. I don’t get time to drink the tea as Chloe wakes up.

Chloe cries all morning. I put her in the baby carrier and fire up my laptop. I fetch the shopping list Alex and I made the previous evening and I add a whole load of things to it that he has forgotten or that I’ve thought of since making the list. Then I do as much of the shopping as possible online and select a delivery time late in the day. That will give me time to go and shop for everything I haven’t been able to purchase online, like the bloody canapés. Tomorrow, we’ll have plenty of time to make the pies, pastries, sausage rolls and other nibbles.

By the time the shopping has been delivered and tidied away late that afternoon, I’m exhausted, but I wanted this evening to be special, and I’m determined not to let last night’s incident in the bedroom deter me.

Chloe is fractious, so I put her in the baby carrier while I make a meal for Alex and me. I bake a cake as well – for Alex’s birthday. As we’re going to be entertaining tomorrow, I’d like to celebrate it with him tonight. I’m going to make meatballs and serve them with the fresh pasta I bought earlier. It’s one of Alex’s favourite meals. I’ve also opened a bottle of Segreta Rossa, a Sicilian red wine, to let it breathe. And also to have a little taste. Just to make sure it’s not corked. Obviously.

As I get to work in the kitchen, I think about all the presents Alex has bought me. He used to buy me presents all the time. Pretty much every week. He sent them to the university; he sent them to my home address. On one awkward occasion, I had to pretend to Kevin that the huge bouquet of roses, delivered by Interflora, had been sent by a grateful student.

Alex hasn’t bought me any gifts for a while. Not even when Chloe was born. Not since the gold medallion he got me to replace the heart pendant and silver chain. I don’t think he has forgiven me for losing that necklace.

He put a lot of thought into the presents he bought me, and the gifts I’ve given him have always seemed lacklustre in comparison. This time, I want to spoil him, particularly as he’s celebrating his fortieth tomorrow. I had to rack my brains to come up with something I’m confident he’ll love. Then it came to me: he loves whisky. He has a Scotch to unwind most evenings.

Alex is in a jubilant mood when he comes home and after he has fed Chloe and she has fallen fast asleep, it’s our turn to eat. Alex compliments me on the meal, on my hair, which is simply tied up in a ponytail as usual, and on getting all the shopping in for tomorrow. His good mood is infectious and it buoys me up and boosts my energy level for a while.

After dinner, we sit down side by side on the sofa in the sitting room and I give Alex his birthday presents. I watch him eagerly as he unpicks the Sellotape and unwraps the bottle of twenty-one-year-old Irish whiskey I ordered online from a distillery in my mother’s hometown in Northern Ireland. I let the memory of my family and me visiting that distillery many years ago play out in my head. Louisa held her nose the whole time, including in the gift shop, and complained about the smell. Lost in my thoughts, I smile nostalgically to myself as Alex folds up the wrapping paper painstakingly.

‘It’s rare,’ I say, ‘and it’s supposed to be the best Irish single malt that exists.’ I don’t mention how much it cost.

Alex hasn’t noticed I’ve had the glass bottle engraved with his name and date of birth. He’s carefully opening the second present. He’s so meticulous in his task that I tell him what it is before he gets there.

‘It’s a crystal whiskey tumbler. So you don’t have to drink out of that toothbrush glass anymore.’ I chuckle to show I’m teasing and Alex gives a weak smile.

‘Very considerate of you, Katie,’ he says, and in the same breath he adds, ‘You could wear a nice summer dress tomorrow, get togged up a bit. You’ve lost enough of the pregnancy weight now, surely?’

I’m stunned and I don’t know how to answer that, so I say nothing.

‘Going to be hot tomorrow,’ he adds. ‘Scorchio! I’ll pour myself a Scotch,’ he says, leaving the bottle I gave him on the table. ‘It might be unlucky to open this before the day of my birthday.’

I knit my eyebrows, wondering how Alex can think nothing of unwrapping his birthday present before the actual date, but draw the line at opening the bottle itself.

‘That glass will have to be washed out before I use it.’

I’m not sure if he expects me to get up and wash the crystal tumbler for him. I stay seated.

Is Alex disappointed with his presents? Or does he just want me to be disappointed by his reaction? Deep down, I think he’s gutted I remembered his birthday at all. Last year I remember him doing a countdown in his emails: three more sleeps … two more sleeps … one more sleep. We’d only been in touch for a little while and it struck me as touching, albeit childish.

This year he hasn’t mentioned his birthday once. Perhaps he was hoping to pick a fight. I used to think Alex couldn’t handle difficult situations very well. Now I’m beginning to think he thrives on the drama. He’s only really happy when he’s angry.

When he has drained his glass of whisky, he yawns and says, ‘I’m going to turn in now. You coming?’

I stifle my own yawn. ‘I’m just going to read a chapter or two, then I’ll be up,’ I answer, anxious to avoid a repeat of last night’s performance.

I take my novel from the coffee table. I’m too tired to concentrate really, but I read a few pages and hope that will have given him enough time to nod off.

Before making my way upstairs, my eyes are drawn to the bottle I bought Alex, which is still in its box on the coffee table. I study it for a moment, still confused about Alex’s nonchalance. Then I pick it up and take it over to the cupboard where Alex keeps his whiskies, to tidy it away.

When I open the cupboard, I look at the bottle labels. I notice he only has Scotch whiskies. My mum’s dad wouldn’t touch Scotch whisky, although he swore by Irish whiskey. My mum often said “a wee dram” was my grandfather’s panacea for every ailment and disease. Maybe it’s an acquired taste, or maybe Alex simply prefers Scotch. Perhaps Irish whiskey wasn’t a good choice.

While I’m pondering this, a small packet catches my eye. I almost don’t see it. It’s tucked behind some twelve-year-old Glenfiddich. A box of pills. At first, I’m amused by the thought that Alex would keep paracetamol or aspirin in the same place as his whiskies. The hangover cause next to the hangover cure. Then it strikes me as odd that Alex would keep headache tablets in the whisky cupboard instead of in the bathroom cabinet with all the other medicines.

I open the box and pop one of the pills out of its blister to examine it. It doesn’t look like a painkiller to me. It’s green for a start. Has Alex hidden these tablets here? I read the name of the drug on the packaging. It doesn’t mean anything to me. There’s no leaflet inside the packaging. I have no idea what this medicine is for. I decide to Google it, but then I remember I’ve left my phone charging in the bedroom.

I wonder briefly if Alex is taking performance-enhancing drugs, but I dismiss the idea. He has always been very anti-doping and can’t abide cheats. It’s more likely this is for a common complaint. Like hay fever. Or an embarrassing one. Like haemorrhoids. I’m making a mystery out of something that’s banal.

All the same, I think it might be better if Alex doesn’t know I opened this cupboard, so I put the packet of pills back exactly where I found it and I put the bottle of Irish single malt back down on the coffee table where Alex left it. Then I tiptoe upstairs to bed.