I didn’t kill him. He killed himself. That’s what I tell myself every day, and there are plenty of things to back it up. I just focus on them and not the other details. I focus on what he did to bring me to that room, to that situation—not just that day, with the voice messages, the gun, the threats, but over the years when I was married to him, and what he did in 1990 too.
He’s on my mind all the time. I’m not sure how I’ll remember him in the long run, which aspect of his personality I’ll choose. I can’t even picture his face anymore. I always thought he’d never hurt me and I was wrong, because what he did and said to me the day he died hurt me more than he could have possibly imagined.
My sister, Fiona, came over yesterday, after I met Jess and the others at the hotel. She brought us a casserole for tea and stayed to eat it with me and the girls. She’s been popping over on weekends, and it’s been nice to have the support. I do hate the smell of dogs, though.
I’ve learned two things since it happened. The first is that my brain fog wasn’t anything to do with the menopause. I woke up two weeks after Dan died and it was gone. The second thing is that I know why I hated Nicola Waite so much, why I couldn’t see her as a victim, why I had to blame her no matter what.
When you married someone like Dan, part of the deal was that you played a game. And part of the game involved pretending you didn’t know what was going on.
A fog descended to help you out. You told yourself it wasn’t so bad, that everything was all right. He steered you away from relationships with anyone but him, and he wouldn’t want you to work either, although that bit was up for negotiation. You might get away with it because the extra money would always be welcome, but friends and family weren’t.
You weren’t close to anyone, so you couldn’t be sure what other people’s relationships looked like. Judging by what you saw on TV and in the papers, you reassured yourself that there was no such thing as the perfect marriage. You didn’t listen when people tried to set you straight. You thought it was because they were jealous, critical, even when it was your own daughter, shouting, pleading with you to open your eyes.
But it wasn’t an easy thing to do. As soon as you stepped out of the game and called time, there would be consequences. Sometimes, devastating ones.
Was it ever worth it? Yes. I believe so.
Last weekend, I asked his family to clear his belongings. I said I wasn’t up to the task. Before they arrived, I removed the military tag from his drawer and put it inside my mother’s cocoa tin.
I think that’s what I’ll choose as my lasting memory of him.
Just like Nicky.
At work today, Leonardo has been especially thoughtful. He’s bought coffees and doughnuts, and we’re having a ten-year anniversary gathering for me in the conference room. He’s saying what a valued member of staff I am, and I’m smiling, pretending to listen.
I’m thinking about the day Shelley Fricker slid the sanitary pad to me underneath the toilet door.
I looked her up on Facebook recently and discovered she’s an oncology nurse. I had to Google it and learned that it means she works with cancer patients. I felt ashamed.
Leonardo is handing me an apple doughnut. I don’t normally eat things like this, especially not at work—the sugar sticks to my lipstick—but I want to make a show of being one of the team.
When Shelley comes in today for her final treatment, I’m going to ask her if she’d like to go out for coffee sometime. My little way of repaying her for a kindness long since gone, but never forgotten.