‘Let me look at your hand.’ Mark remains inert as she checks there is no glass embedded in the gash. ‘Press tightly,’ she instructs. She clears away the broken glass, mops up as much of the mess as she can and then pours salt on the stain. She roots out a bandage from the first aid tin and binds his injury. The cut isn’t big, but it must be quite deep as his blood quickly blooms through the dressing. Finally, she doesn’t ask but just goes into the kitchen, opens another bottle, brings it back to the living room with a fresh glass for Mark.
They fall silent, each deep in their own thoughts of how they have been fooled, deceived, betrayed. They drink in a morose fog. There’s music coming from somewhere, a neighbour’s house. It’s a poppy, non-descript tune. It should cheer but it doesn’t, it jars. It seems meaningless, taunting. It seems peculiar that ordinary things like music playing from a radio station can be happening, considering everything. The windows are open because it’s been an unseasonably hot day but it’s still March and the night air hasn’t held any warmth. Fiona shivers, stands and pulls the window closed. As she sits back down on the couch, she reaches for a throw. She recognises it as one that Leigh bought when they were on an IKEA shopping trip together, about two years ago. Fiona had picked it out. Leigh always wanted her interior design advice but would cheerfully say, ‘Just remember I don’t have your clients’ budgets.’ But she did have, didn’t she? She had access to enormous wealth, just not in this life. Leigh lied about everything, even which throw she could afford.
The throw is grubby, a bit frayed but it is warm, comforting. Fiona stretches it over her legs and reaches to pull some of it over Mark’s too. He doesn’t seem to notice. She wonders what he is thinking about exactly. If not a shopping trip to IKEA, then what other small domestic detail – that formed the bricks and mortar of their relationship – might he be looking at from a different perspective? Fiona finds she does that a lot, on dates and things: wonders what men are thinking. She is never sure; they always seem so inaccessible. So far away. She breaks the hush when she comments, ‘You know, I always thought she was the most honest person I’d ever known.’
‘Clearly not,’ mutters Mark, dryly.
‘No. You’re right. Turns out she was the most honest person I’ve ever known up until the point she stopped deceiving me. Hilarious.’
‘I miss her,’ Mark says. It’s hardly a confession. It’s to be expected yet he seems ashamed, distraught admitting as much. ‘The boys miss her.’
‘I know. I do too.’
‘I thought we were a team. A two-person, handle-everything-that-might-ever-come-along team. Not just the big stuff. Not just house moves, the kids’ friendship groups, illness.’ His voice catches. Fiona thinks of Frances. This man has lost two wives. ‘But the little stuff too. You know, like taking the cat to the vet, doing the shopping, and repainting the hallway, all that boring, essential stuff was just not so bad because we did it together. It was actually sometimes fun.’
It’s been a long time since Fiona has had someone to share life’s mundane tasks with. Though she remembers clearly her ex Samar calling her his cheerleader, and before him Dirk called her his partner in crime. She used to be feisty and roll her eyes when people referred to their partners as their ‘other half’ or worse yet, their ‘better half’, but over the last few years her cynicism has become tired, exhausted. Exhausted in the true sense of the word: sapped, wearied, depleted. Now Fiona thinks the idea of having a better half is edifying. People need support. There are worse things than to be propped up. You could be left alone to collapse.
Being married is about legal rights and shared financial goals and responsibilities, yes, but really it is about the other stuff. The nebulous, nuanced stuff like secret in-jokes and pet names – ‘you had to be there’, ‘Oh, it’s just something we say to each other’ – having a private, non-verbal language whereby a single look might say ‘let’s get out of here’ or ‘he’s a wanker’ or ‘I love you’. Different looks, obviously. Creating family traditions – ‘We always go to Salcombe for the May Bank holiday. The crowds are a nightmare but it’s our thing.’ Fiona has heard them all.
She takes another slug of her wine, to swallow down the bile in her throat. Those are the things she yearns for. She absolutely understands Mark’s dependence on being married. She respects it, craves it.
Mark’s eyes are glassy, he’s a bit drunk. He’s been a bit drunk, or very drunk, every night since Leigh disappeared. No one can blame him. Maybe she should talk to him about abstaining for a while, but honestly, she hasn’t got it in her.
‘I miss her laugh. She had a weird laugh. Fast and loud,’ he muses, mushily. The drink means he bounces about emotionally. One minute furious, the next wistful. No one could expect him to be stable, though, considering the circumstances. ‘Leigh made the house warmer and happier. Her absence was always felt, you know, when she went to work. What
