“What does he do all day?”
Deborah shrugs at my question, then reaches for her wine glass. We’re sitting at the dining room table, and she’s on her fourth glass of wine already.
“Don’t know,” she says. “Seb’s been closed off to everyone since it happened.”
Hearing his name feels foreign, out of place. I don’t know him or Lisa, but their story keeps me intrigued. What was their relationship like? Did he notice signs of his fiancé’s instability? And how must he feel now?
“What about his mom?” I say, trying not to think of my own mother, sitting somewhere worrying about me.
“Alma’s frail,” Deborah says. “She barely left the house in the past few years. Now, even less.”
I think back to when I passed Lisa’s fiancé on the street, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. Before I can say anything, Richard clears his throat. He’s been so quiet I’ve forgotten that he’s at the table with us. “I see him down by the tavern,” he says. “Goes there almost every afternoon.”
Throughout dinner, I kept looking for signs that something was off between Richard and Deborah. Her angry words from the afternoon still ringing in my head.
You’ve taken everything from me.
My eyes and ears are alert, looking for evidence of the fight they had just hours ago. But Richard’s as he always is. Silent, observing. Nursing a beer. It’s as if nothing has happened.
“It’s so morbid,” Deborah says. “This whole situation.”
“Are you going to start teaching next week?” Richard asks, suddenly changing the topic.
I shrug. “I hope so. This week’s just a trial run. They’re probably making sure I’m up to speed with everything before I start.”
But in the back of my mind, the doubts sit. My work visa, which, according to Charlotte, the admin team is sorting out. If there even is an admin team. Plus, the averted eyes whenever I pass Greg in the hallway.
But I’m in a foreign country with people I don’t know. Of course I’m doubting, overthinking everything.
Deborah looks pensively out of the window. “I couldn’t do that,” she says. “I can barely communicate with contractors, let alone teach someone.”
“It’s a skill—being able to teach, to take someone’s thoughts and train them to change it,” Richard says, eyes on me. “Do you feel confident in doing that?’
The question feels loaded. Like he’s been waiting all night to ask me this.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I think you can learn by doing.”
He lets out a snort of a laugh. “Okay.”
“This one,” Deborah says, shaking her head at him. “Always with the questions.”
But I’m still focused on Richard. Apart from the car ride here, he’s barely spoken more than a few words to me. Before, he seemed nice, but now it’s as if I annoy him. He’s always cooped up in his study, or out for errands, or smoking in the garden. Keeping to himself. Maybe that’s just how he is? What was it Deborah said about him before? He’s a teddy bear once you get to know him. Sounds like bullshit to me.
“So here’s a question,” I say slowly. “Do you think there’s a secret to having a happy marriage?”
Let’s see what he says to that.
There’s a shift in the room’s mood. I watch as Deborah’s face drops, how she brings her wine glass to her mouth. It’s like a zig-zag, the glass swishing from side to side. But Richard’s still, his expression unchanged.
“Patience and consistency,” he says. “And showing up every day to put in the effort.”
I wonder if he’s building a best case or if he practices what he preaches.
“Very nice,” I say. I turn my attention to Deborah. “What do you think?”
She sighs. “Marriage has its fair share of … challenges.”
There’s a scuff as Richard repositions his chair, leans forward to look at her. But she’s caught in a haze, her eyes faraway. “I don’t think anyone knows the secret. If we did, things wouldn’t fall apart.”
“But you guys seem to be doing a good job,” I say encouragingly, even though I don’t believe my own words. Fishing for information, that’s what I’m doing.
The air feels tight and there’s a tingle in my stomach. As if oblivious to the energy, Deborah sighs. “It’s so much more than just that.”
“Okay…” Richard says, leaning back and stretching. “This has taken a turn.”
He stands up, patting his pockets for his cigarettes. “I’m going for a fag.”
When he’s gone, the stillness remains, Deborah’s eyes glued to the table.
I lean forward. “Is everything okay?”
Her posture is slumped, and when she raises her eyes to meet mine, they’re teary.
I hesitate. “I know it’s not my place, but—”
“I just don’t know how we got here,” she whispers. I turn to see if Richard’s in the garden. When I don’t see him, I speak in a hushed voice. “I heard you arguing today.”
“What?”
“I know you said you were talking to a realtor. But I heard Richard’s name. You were speaking of a… of a—”
“A whore.”
The word is charged with hate. I tread carefully. “Yes. That.”
As if she’s found a new conviction, Deborah grimaces, her eyes narrowed. “Like I said, marriage is complicated. You never know who you’re getting into it with. Or who they’re bringing into your bed.”
The spectre hovers around us. Infidelity. A childhood memory.
“How long has this been going on?” I say, my hands inches from hers on the table. For some reason, I feel like taking hold of them. Maybe it’s the fake counsellor in me, looking to reach out and reassure her.
She shrugs. “Months, maybe even years.”
My father cheated on my mother many times. Almost always with the same woman. The colleague. The person he shared his hungover days with, snuggled together in the tiny boardroom in an office block just off the highway. I still remember car rides with her on the odd day out. She was a redhead, just like me.
It seems fitting now. She, a cheater in love. Me, a cheater in life.
“What about the house?” I say. “You were talking about the—person—living in your house.”
I realise I’ve just told her I heard her entire conversation. But if she minds my snooping, she doesn’t say it.
“We’ve got a property back home,” Deborah says. “In the UK. And him being him, he likes the girls young. And poor. So they always need some support.”
“So… she’s living in your other house?”
“Yep.”
“Right now?” I ask, looking around for Richard again. “While he’s here with you?”
Deborah’s face goes blank, then she nods, does a nosedive into her wine. I think of what to say, studying her eyes for what she wants to hear. But they’re swimming in booze and everything falls short.
You should leave. He’s an idiot. You deserve more.
But I settle on the truest thing I feel. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
If she wants to rage, she can rage. If she wants to cry, she can cry, too. If she wants to leave now, I’ll help her pack. But by the look on her face, she doesn’t want to do any of those things. She sniffs, and a tear trails down her cheek.
Witnessing pain causes pain. So I dive into the collective of it, hoping to dilute hers. My hands edge closer to hers and I place one over the other. Her eyes meet mine as she tries to hold in a sob. “I’ve made a mess of my life.”
“It’s all a mess,” I say. Even the best of words fail sometimes.
“Thank you,” she says seconds later, her voice a whisper.
We hear the back door slam and instantly, she’s off her chair, wine glass still clutched in her hand. “I think I’m going to lie down.”
“Are you all right?” Richard says to her as she stumbles to the kitchen. From here, he almost looks like he cares. Like he’s really worried about her. But the dislike in my stomach stops me from believing it.
“Yes,” she says. “Just going upstairs.”
“I’ll clean up,” I say, collecting the empty plates.
Deborah refills her glass close to the brim. She leaves the bottle on the table and as she stumbles past Richard, she mumbles words of goodbye. He places his large hand on her shoulder. “You sure you’re all right?”
No, she’s not. And you’re the reason.
“Just tired,” she says, heading for the stairs.
When she’s gone, Richard turns to me. “Did she say anything to you?”
There are so many things I can say. In anger, in spite. But Deborah’s fallen face strips me of it all.
“Just that she was tired,” I say.
And before he can respond, there’s a shattering of glass. A loud thud from the stairs.
And a scream.