36

“It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard”

—Dorothy Parker

The twins have been with us for three weeks now. They’ll probably stay for a while longer, until they need to go home for Christmas. They’ve given Tony and Sandra time to sort things out so hopefully all will have been smoothed over by the time they get back. On one hand I dread them going; on the other I want them to leave because I too need to sort things out—with Tom. The progress we’d made seems to have stalled and we can’t go on like this.

Zoe has continued to come along to my art class and has started seeing Daniel. Amy was resentful at first although they’ve both been in relationships before—if you could call them that. She seems to be getting over it now and has at last stopped trailing around like a lost soul, all drooping and disconsolate. I suspect she assumes it’ll all be over once they get back to London. Sadly I fear she may be right. I feel a bit sorry for Daniel. He has a certain intensity about him, and I suspect he’s more serious about the relationship than the twin in question is as I often hear her giggling about him with Amy. There appear to be no secrets between these two, absolutely none.

I was worried he was too old for her. I know they’re twenty but there’s something about the twins that seems younger and almost childlike sometimes. It’s as though they’ve spent so long cocooned in their own secret world that some aspects of life have floated by, leaving them innocents. For some reason I think of the tale of the Babes in the Wood and Laurence’s picture of Zoe unfurls unbidden in my mind. I shiver despite the warmth of the kitchen.

According to Zoe, Daniel’s only twenty-nine, which really surprises me as I had him several years north of that, closer to my age in fact or even slightly older. He’s smooth skinned and very pretty, if a man can be described like that, but he has creases by his eyes and an air of maturity that belies his youth. He’s often at the house now and I tend to view him as a peer rather than my junior.

Amy, who seems privy to every detail no matter how intimate, tells me she’s looked on Facebook. He doesn’t seem to have been on there for very long. She’s established that he’s an architect and that he’s been working in South Africa, or was it South America, for the last couple of years. That would explain both the onset of wrinkles and the studied neatness of his art. Also the hint of an accent I sometimes detect. He seems a quiet, pleasant man who’s kind to Zoe and tolerant of her intrusive twin. I fear his heart may soon be broken.

We’re at the breakfast table. Amy and Zoe have their heads together whispering about something and Tom has just left for work. I was treated to the most perfunctory of kisses, a cool dry peck. A brief rasp of his lip skin against my cheek for appearance’s sake and no more. I’m scared for us.

I was intending to take the day off from working and we were planning to go into town for some early Christmas shopping. Now I can feel the beginnings of a headache so may leave them to go it alone. I’ve slept better since they’ve been here, which has helped with my headaches but not today. I still sometimes dream and wake in the night confused and disoriented. Nowhere near as often though, and not with the spine-tingling terror of before. The easing of my anxiety during the day seems to have helped me to relax more at night.

Amy suddenly lets out a shriek of laughter. “God, Zoe, he didn’t!” and they dissolve in fits of giggles.

“Are you two talking about Daniel again? I feel sorry for the poor boy, he’s so lovely to Zoe and you two are horrible.”

They exchange a look and Amy smirks, “What do you mean ‘poor boy’? There’s nothing of the boy about him.”

“All man for sure,” Zoe adds and they’re off again.

“You two are disgusting and anyway Amy, how would you know?”

A sudden thought crosses my mind. “You haven’t like, both . . .” I tail off embarrassed. I don’t know that I really want to say what I was thinking or hear the answer. It sounds too sordid. But they are identical in every respect even down to the tiny matching tattoos on each slender ankle.

Zoe looks indignant, “No, not with Daniel, we wouldn’t,” she retorts. “I really like him actually. And anyway, we haven’t, he says he wants to take things slowly.”

Amy laughs. “What she means is he doesn’t fancy her. Hey, Zo, maybe he’s gay.”

I ignore Amy; I’m more focused on Zoe’s last comment, “What does that mean, ‘Not with Daniel’? You mean like you have in the past with other ones?’

I’m looking at them with real interest now, interest tinged with horror. There was me thinking they were innocents. They’re both looking vaguely sheepish.

“What, like both of you at once? Oh my God that’s sick.”

It’s their turn to look horrified now.

“Not at the same time, God no. That’d be like incest or something.”

“No, we’ve just shared sometimes. Not with anyone we’ve really liked but . . .”

“Don’t look like that Izzy. No one’s been hurt or anything, they haven’t even known. It’s just been a bit of fun.”

Amy adds, “We’ve compared notes, it’s like research. Human Biology,” and once again they’re rolling about with laughter.

I have no idea whether to believe them or not. A little part of me suspects they have both slept with the same unwitting men and that worries me. I want to tell them it’s dangerous, they’ll hurt someone or get hurt themselves, playing with people like that. I don’t, it’s not my place.

By the time we’re ready my headache has worsened. There’s the throbbing and pulsing behind my blind eye that’s telling me it won’t go unless I take something and go to sleep. I don’t want to miss our shopping trip or lunch but I know I must. I give Amy my car keys and sadly watch from the door as they drive away.

The silence of the house wraps itself round me like a blanket. I’ve never known anywhere that can do silence as well as this place. It’s thick and smooth and seems to slow time and make everything languorous and heavy. I drag myself upstairs, pop two pills and climb into bed. They help with the pain and make me sleep. I can’t bear the thought of lying here with my head pounding, listening to the silence and waiting; waiting for the sound of an intruder or a voice calling me in my head. Instead I sleep.

When I wake the bedroom is cold. The calming dove grays and soft pinks that we chose for our room instead feel frigid and drab. My head no longer hurts but is muzzy and thick and my mouth is dry from the tablets. I look at the clock. Its red-eyed glare informs me it’s only two o’clock. I have ages before the twins return or Tom gets home. It’s not a day for Bill either, he’s not coming as often now so it’s me on my own yet again.

I lie on my back and look at the ceiling. I can feel the heavy thump of my heart in my chest and the awareness of it makes me feel anxious. The codeine is making me jittery. I need to get up.

I go downstairs and flick on the TV. It’s yet another program about treasure lurking undiscovered in attics, priceless art and rare porcelain. There was no such luck with ours; just cobwebs and carapaces, bat droppings and dust. Birds rotted to feather and bone. I can’t settle. There’s that silent feeling of expectancy vibrating the atoms of the air as though the house and I are waiting. I can’t stand this feeling with its undercurrent of malice. I’ll have to go to my studio instead. Even if I don’t work on Matthew’s commission I can at least potter and tidy. I always feel calmer there.

I’ve done all I can do. My heart’s not really in it today and if I try to work when I feel like this it’ll all go wrong. The unrest will flow down my fingers and onto the canvas, leaving taint where it touches.

I must also talk to the twins for I’m sure someone’s been in my studio since I was last here. Things have been moved and the door to the annex was open. I’m positive it was closed when I left. It’s not that I mind them coming down here but I’d like them to at least let me know. It’s vaguely unsettling to think that someone has been here going through my things. Two of my brushes are on the floor and as I bend to pick them up I see one has been snapped in two and a splinter from its shaft spitefully pierces my thumb. I’m confused as to how it got broken like that and I feel a ripple of unease at the sudden sight of my blood.

I walk slowly back to the house. The trees in the orchard need pruning before the spring, sometime from November to March according to Bill. He was going to give me the number of someone who’d do them as it’s too much for him on his own. I must remember to remind him.

The days are so short now that it’s already getting dark. I hurry back across the lawn. I stop. The light’s on in the kitchen and it wasn’t when I left. I know it wasn’t, it was still light. I don’t know what to do. I cross the grass cautiously staying out of the light from the window, until I can see.

It’s Tom. The one day I wasn’t meant to be here and he’s managed to get away early. Once I would’ve been glad and run straight in to greet him, now I hesitate, unsure of my welcome.

As I watch I see his lips are moving, he’s talking and it dawns on me that there must be someone in there with him. Madeline suddenly drifts into view and places her hand on his chest. It’s a gesture so reminiscent of me touching Matthew that I feel the guilty heat of it in my palm. Part of me wants to run away, not to face what I think I’m seeing. Instead I slink to the wall by the window and wait. Out of sight and so obviously out of mind. My heart is in my mouth, I can feel its pumping tubes and valves beating in my throat. I want to be sick but I listen, my traitorous ears are craning and straining.

“Madeline, please, we can’t go on doing this.”

“But, Tom darling, I need you. You know I do, every bit as much as she does. And you know how good we are together, don’t let her get in the way of that.”

I watch Madeline step into him and reach up to place her hand on his cheek. I imagine her nipples softly pressing against his skin. I will be sick. My heart pounds and my legs feel too weak to bear me up. Still I watch. I will see his betrayal played out in front of my eyes.

“This is tearing me apart. I can’t do this to her. She needs me and I still care for her despite everything. She’s so sad and disturbed it breaks my heart. She knows something’s wrong. I know she does.”

Madeline sighs. “Then let’s take what we have for the moment, we’ll work something out. Darling you deserve so much more, you need something for you. Come back to mine like I asked, it’s so lonely now Joe’s gone.”

She gives a theatrical shudder and I feel my hatred like the blade of a knife.

“I can still hardly bear to mention his name, it was so awful. Please come back for a while, we’ve got ages before she’ll expect you back.”

She tilts her face upward and he dips his head to meet hers. Her tiny teeth catch at his lower lip, in a gesture both sensual and tender, and I look away. I slide down the wall and crouch in the soil. So we’re over.

I wait until I hear the crunch of his tires on the gravel before going inside, inside where the memory of her perfume hangs in the air like poison.

There was a time, early in my recovery, when I didn’t know my own face. When I would look in the mirror and see, not a stranger exactly but someone disconnected from the me I felt inside. It’s like that now. I stand in our bedroom in front of the mirror and see looking back at me a sunken-eyed woman. She’s all hollowed out.

There was also a time when I struggled to recognize my emotions; was I anxious or happy, angry or sad? Or times when I felt things I couldn’t describe, feelings outside my emotional repertoire, feelings that had no name. It’s like that now.

I’m sad and I’m angry, bereft and relieved but all from a distance. I’m shutting down.

I look at our bed and imagine them lying there coiled and entwined. The door in my mind peeps open, the bile rises. I rip the sheets from the mattress. I won’t lie where she may have lain, with her hair on my pillow like seaweed. I won’t. I can’t believe he’s done this to us. Yes, we’ve had our problems but I thought we were working things through. I thought we still had something worth fighting for.

I go to the cupboard to fetch the clean sheets and there on the dresser is the watch I bought Tom for his birthday. A present I chose with such love and care. I pick up my hairbrush and pound at its glass, over and over until the crystal shatters. Over and over until its face, like mine, is all twisted and bent, its tiny hands raised in surrender. I sweep the pieces into his drawer, the broken mainspring of my heart among his socks and underwear—and then the tears come.