Then

Wednesday, 21st December 2016 – Morning

I turn off the alarm, I won’t need it. I’ve hardly slept at all and it’s pointless trying now. The insomnia should be a symptom of my concern for my missing husband, but that isn’t what I’ve been lying awake thinking about. I keep remembering the dead robin, its tiny lifeless body. All night long, I kept imagining that I could hear its wings flapping inside the bin as though it wasn’t dead. I worry that perhaps it was just unconscious, that maybe I threw it away when it was only sleeping.

I stare at the vacant side of the bed. Still no news from Paul. There’s an empty bottle of red wine on the floor; I tried to drink myself to sleep but it didn’t work. Wine has become an over-prescribed antibiotic that my body has become immune to. I consider calling the police to report Paul missing, but I feel foolish. I wouldn’t know how to say what I’m afraid of without sounding crazy. Husbands don’t always come home at night, I know that, I’m a big girl now.

My mind switches from Paul to Claire. When she finally returned my calls, she sounded annoyed that I had accused her of knowing where he was. She said she’d been out with a friend and I had ruined her evening, then she hung up. She knows exactly what I’m scared of. I love them both but I can feel everything I’ve kept safe until now starting to unravel. One pull on the thread and they’ll fall through an unfixable hole. It might be too late already.

It’s still dark, so I switch on the light, scanning the room for anything that might resemble a clue. I remember the gift bag hiding women’s underwear in the bottom of Paul’s wardrobe. I retrieve it once more and take out the bra and knickers, flimsy panels of black satin, framed by lace. Definitely too small. I pull down my pyjama bottoms and use my feet to step out of them, whilst pulling my top off over my head. I leave the pastel-coloured pile of cotton on the floor and slip into the underwear, tags still attached, the sharp angled cardboard edges digging in my skin. I squeeze my breasts into the too small cups, then come to stand in front of the full-length mirror. It’s been a while since I’ve seen myself like this. The body in the reflection isn’t as bad as I had imagined. I’m not as ugly on the outside as I feel on the inside, but I still don’t like what I see. My tummy is a little rounder than it used to be, but then I mostly eat what I want now. I hate this body almost as much as I hate myself. It didn’t do what it was supposed to. It didn’t give him what he wanted. I don’t want to look any more so I turn off the light, but I can still see the ghost of my reflection. I grab my dressing gown and hide myself again, the new underwear pinching and biting my flesh beneath. The thought that it might not have been bought for me is too loud inside my head to be ignored, so I take it off, put it back where I found it and start the day again.

It’s still dark but I know this house, I can find my way in the darkness. The shed is Paul’s private place, but the tiny study at the back of the house is mine. A room of my own with just enough space for a small desk and a chair. I sit myself down and turn on the lamp. The desk was second-hand so contains secrets that I don’t know as well as secrets I do. There are four small drawers and one large one, which looks like a knowing wooden smile. I ease it open and slip on the white cotton gloves that I find inside. Then I take a sheet of paper, along with my fountain pen, and I write. When I am finished, when I am certain that I have written the right words and sure that I want them to be read, I fold the paper twice and slip it inside a red envelope. Then I shower, wash away any traces of guilt or concern, and get myself ready for work.

I’m earlier than usual. The main office is empty, but I can see the light is already on in Madeline’s office. I take off my coat, dump my handbag on the desk and try to shake off the fog of tiredness that has enveloped me. I need to stay alert, keep focused on the task ahead. Before I can sit down, I hear her door creak open.

‘Amber, is that you? Can I have a word?’

I roll my eyes, secure in the knowledge that nobody can see me. I don’t need this right now, but I rearrange my face and head over to the little office in the corner, my hands screwed up into defensive fists inside my pockets.

I perform a half-hearted knock on the slightly ajar door, before pushing it fully open. There she is, dressed in black, as always. Hunched over the desk, her face scrunched up and too close to the screen so that she can read what’s on it. The rumour mill is still in full flow on Twitter, churning out further speculation of her impending departure. I wonder if she’s reading the new #MadelineFrost comments, there are plenty of them.

‘Just a moment, I’m right in the middle of a thought.’ She always does this. Hers is the only time she values and she wants me to know it. She types something that I cannot see.

‘I’m glad you’re here early,’ she says. ‘I was hoping we could have a little chat before the others arrive.’

I try not to react, willing every facial muscle I have to stay exactly where it is. She lifts her glasses off her face and lets them dangle from the pink beaded cord that hangs around her sturdy neck. I imagine tightening it and then shake the image from my mind.

‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ says Madeline, indicating the purple, leather pouf she brought back from Morocco a few months ago.

‘I’m OK, thank you,’ I reply.

‘Sit down,’ she says, two neat rows of veneers reinforcing the request. I make my face smile back and do what I’m told. This is what the producers have to do every morning, come into this poky little room and sit on the pouf, waiting for Madeline to grill them about each story on that day’s show. I squat down and try to balance myself – it’s too low and not at all comfortable. As always, it’s all about control and it’s already clear I have none.

‘Did you know about the meeting Matthew was having with the guests yesterday?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, holding her stare. She nods, then looks me up and down as though appraising my choice of outfit. It’s another new dress but she’s clearly not impressed. ‘I want you to do me a favour,’ she says eventually. ‘If you hear anything that you think I might want to know, I want you to tell me.’ I’m starting to think she has forgotten that she’s trying to have me fired, or perhaps she thinks I don’t know.

‘Of course,’ I say. I wouldn’t tell her if there was a poisonous snake wrapped around her neck.

‘We have to stick together, Amber. If they get rid of me, they’ll bring in a whole new cast, they always do. They’ll replace you too, don’t think that they won’t. Remember that, and next time you hear something you’ll come and tell me, won’t you?’ With that, she puts her glasses back up onto her nose and starts tapping away on the keyboard once more, to signal that the meeting is over.

I struggle to stand from the pouf, then leave her office and close the door behind me.

‘Are you OK?’ whispers Jo, who has just arrived.

I sit back down at my desk. ‘Yes, fine,’ I say, knowing Madeline will be watching through the window in her door.

‘You don’t look fine,’ says Jo.

‘I don’t know where Paul is. He didn’t come home last night.’ As soon as I say the words, I regret them.

‘Is it Claire again?’ she asks. The words slap me in the face and my fear turns to anger, but there is a look of genuine concern spread across Jo’s features. It isn’t her fault that she knows so much about my past, I’m the one who told her.

I don’t know the answer, so I give the one I want to be true: ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Maybe we should go get a coffee?’

‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’ I look away, turn on my PC and stare at the screen.

‘Suit yourself,’ she says and leaves without another word.

When she’s gone, I open up my emails. My inbox is overcrowded with obligation and invitations. It’s mostly junk, discounts for things I neither want nor need, but there is one message that catches my eye. My mouse hovers over the familiar name and my eyes fix themselves on the one word in the subject line, as though it is difficult to translate:

Hello.

I start to pick the skin off my lip with my fingernails. I should delete the email, I know that’s what I should do. I casually glance around the office. I’m still alone. I pick another bit of skin off my upper lip and put it on my desk. It’s stained purple from last night’s wine. I remember taking the business card out of my purse when I couldn’t sleep last night, running my thumb over the embossed lettering. I remember typing his name into an email on my phone, dithering over the subject line, composing the casual note, worrying it might look odd to send it so late at night, sending it anyway. My cheeks flush with shame, unable to remember now exactly what I said.

I open the email and read it, then I read it again, more slowly this time, carefully interpreting each individual word.

For old times’ sake.

I try on the words as I’m reading, to see if they fit. I can still picture their author if I close my eyes.

Happy memories.

They weren’t all happy.

A drink to catch up?

I pull another piece of skin off my lip and examine the tiny strip of myself as it dries and hardens on my fingertip. I put it in the small pile with the others.

Catch up. Catch. Caught.

Paul is missing. My marriage is hanging by a thread. What am I doing? The thought is stillborn.

‘Hello, earth to Amber?’ says Jo, waving her hands in front of my face. I close down the email window, brush the tiny pile of skin off my desk and feel my cheeks redden.

‘Have you been playing Space Invaders?’ I blurt out.

‘What? No. Why?’ She smiles.

‘Because you’re invading my space.’

Her smile vanishes.

‘Sorry. I heard someone say that once, thought it was funny. I didn’t mean to snap at you, I was in a complete world of my own.’

‘I noticed. Try not to worry, I’m sure he’s fine.’

‘Who?’ I ask, wondering if she saw the email from Edward.

‘Paul? Your husband?’ she says, frowning.

‘Right. Yes, sorry. I’m a bit all over the place today.’

Madeline’s voice booms from her office, silencing us as she summons her PA. She looms over her in the doorway and hands over her credit card and a list of instructions. She wants some dry cleaning picked up, tells her the PIN and everything else she needs to know. The way she speaks to people makes me so angry.

I think about Edward’s email as we talk through the morning briefings. I think about it in the studio, during interviews and throughout the phone-in. I barely hear anything anyone says all morning. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Paul hasn’t touched me for months and I haven’t done anything wrong. We’re just being friendly, that’s all. It’s just a memory of another time and place. Memories can’t hurt anyone, unless they are shared.