Chapter Thirty-Three
Thirty-three
I manage to bring us back from the brink.
Of course I do. I am demure, and so apologetic I almost believe it myself.
It takes him a while to thaw. I cling to his arm and show him the cake, the marinated duck on the side.
His face softens as he takes them in. He’s quiet, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed before he opens them again, offers me a small smile.
“I’ve been a bit of a twat, haven’t I? I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.”
Understatement of the century, but I shake my head vigorously. I’d do anything to set him at ease, to show him how committed I am.
“Not at all. I shouldn’t have given you the wine last night. That’s on me. I’m sorry. Did work keep you late?”
“Work?” And there’s that look again. That haunted, panicked expression.
“You said you had a long day?”
He coughs, looks at the floor. “Work, yeah. I had something to take care of for them.”
He doesn’t look at me, and I find I don’t quite believe him.
But then he comes to me, presses a kiss to my temple. I don’t regret giving him the wine. Not at all. Not when it’s led to this easy, casual intimacy between us.
We have a nice dinner. No wine. I avoid contentious subjects, like the wife, or the drinking, and generally just let him do the talking.
Which he does. Almost like he’s using his voice to resist the urge for a drink.
On the table, his hand clenches into a fist and unclenches, and there’s a tendon raised in his neck.
I ask all the right questions and wait for him to relax.
It takes a while—it was easier when he was lubricated last night—but eventually his breathing settles. I pounce on the moment.
“Sorry to bring it up again, but could I get that key?” Softly, casually. Like it’s not a big deal. But the truth is, I will go stir-crazy if I have to spend another whole day in this house. I don’t like being cooped up. Not when there are things to do, items to purchase, people to watch.
I had far more autonomy in my relationship with Freddie, though—looking back—I wonder if it was perhaps too much. Too much time, during those long nights where I was not with him, to linger on details. To torture myself with thoughts of him with someone else.
I tried to convince myself the ring was for me.
It worked for a while. Whenever my thoughts turned to the morbid, I’d imagine Freddie down on one knee.
Somewhere public, where everyone turned to look as he proved his commitment to me with that ring.
I tried to keep the fantasy going for as long as I could, but sometimes—in this dream—I’d turn, and there would be a face in the crowd.
A woman who pushed through the throngs of people, walked toward us, and threw her arms round Freddie’s neck, right in front of me. Sometimes, she had Marcie’s face.
I upped my efforts with Freddie. I employed all of Marcie’s most successful tactics, but I couldn’t help but feel he was still pulling away from me.
My work performance suffered as a result, but Freddie didn’t bring it up, as though his guilt for what he’d done—for what he was doing—prevented him from admonishing me.
He was still solicitous, still caring, but there was something vacant about it. Something overly polite.
My suspicions were confirmed by Greg. One afternoon, I was watching Freddie from across the office, heart aching as he regaled some of our other colleagues with a story from his childhood. I didn’t realize Greg was behind me until I felt his breath on the back of my neck.
He nodded toward Freddie, who was grinning as though his face would split with it. “That’s a sign of a man in love if I’ve ever seen one.”
I forced myself not to react. No one in the office knew about our relationship—Freddie would get in a lot of trouble if they found out—but I squeezed my hands into fists until I could feel the tendons screaming for release.
I had to find a way to bring him back to me. I messaged him later that afternoon. Hi Freddie, could we go for a drink this evening? There’s something I’d like to chat to you about.
He didn’t reply with his usual speed, but he accepted nonetheless. A tiny glimmer of hope.
We walked over together. As soon as we left the office, I noticed how he changed.
Where he was loud and exuberant in the office, now he hunched in on himself, shooting anxious glances over his shoulder.
I wondered if he was worried that our colleagues would see us together.
It never seemed to bother him so much before.
And when we arrived, he ordered a pint and downed half of it immediately. He was acting almost afraid, glancing frequently toward the door.
I took a deep breath, tried to dredge up the speech I’d prepared, despite his odd behavior. I wasn’t even sure if he was listening.
“Freddie, I wanted to talk to you because I feel like things between us have been a bit…” I searched for the word. “Strained.”
If you have an issue, Marcie had said when she felt one of her many boyfriends wasn’t providing her with her desired level of commitment, ask them about it. Straight up. Know your worth. I’ll never understand why women wait for men to read their minds.
It took Freddie a moment to process what I’d said, but when he did, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Iris. You’re right. I haven’t been myself recently.”
“Is there anything I can help with?” I’d do anything for this man.
Another long sigh. Another glance toward the door. He lowered his voice, and it felt—for the first time in weeks—as though he was taking me into his confidence. I relaxed, just a little. Perhaps there was still hope.
“Honestly…” He hesitated. “You’re going to think I’m mad, but I think I’m being followed. I keep catching sight of some guy behind me. Sometimes, I don’t even see him. I just have a sense he’s there. Greg thinks I’m being paranoid, but I don’t know. Something just feels off.”
For the first time in weeks, I could breathe.
This was the reason for his strange behavior.
His reluctance to engage with me. He was worried.
Understandably so, given his concerns about being followed.
I nodded sympathetically, chest loosening.
“That sounds terrifying. I’m here for you, Freddie. Whenever you want to talk.”
His smile was tight. “Thanks. I’m grateful. Really.”
It was only afterward that I remembered Greg’s words. That’s a sign of a man in love. My chest tightened once more. I checked Freddie’s calendar for the fourth time that evening.
—
Now Jack looks at me through bloodshot eyes, hand still clenching on the table. “The key. Of course. I must have forgotten to reply to you. Sorry.” He stands and disappears into the other room. When he comes back, he hands me a key. My very own key. I stow it carefully in my bag.
We don’t sleep together that night, though I crawl into Jack’s bed without asking, and he doesn’t comment.
Only rolls over to kiss me good night and then withdraws to his side.
I’m not complaining. I could do with the sleep, too.
I wait for him to fall asleep first, but his breath doesn’t even out, and we lie, side by side, awake for what feels like hours.
It occurs to me, as I’m drifting off, that he didn’t go to the meeting he promised to.
—
The next morning, Jack is shaking. His hands tremble as he pulls on his shirt, and the bags under his eyes seem more pronounced.
“Have you got a busy day today?” I ask, less out of genuine curiosity and more because the silence has begun to feel oppressive.
“Probably. Someone’s got to work to keep you fed and clothed here.” A nasty undertone to this comment that causes a flush of anger, which I dampen instantly, reminding myself that he is in the throes of withdrawal. That he is sleep-deprived and probably still angry about his mother.
Even so, I can’t quite keep the petulance from my tone. “I do work.”
A huff of air through his nostrils. “In a café,” he mutters.
I sit up, another spark of anger—bigger, this time—igniting. “Sorry, is my job a problem for you? Somehow beneath you?” Careful, Iris. Don’t allow the mask to slip.
“Not at all.” He straightens, then looks at me.
“By the way, since you’re not going in at the moment, and now you’ve got a key, I’d really appreciate if you could grab my dry cleaning from the shop down the road.
Martha usually does it, but we’ve got to put you to work somehow, haven’t we? I’ll let her know.”
I wonder where this has come from. This sudden shift in him.
This is not a request at all, but a demand.
I want to hiss at him, catlike, that I am not his servant.
That I am the woman who can save him, just as his dead wife did.
But perhaps the dry cleaning was one of Alice’s jobs.
I wrestle with the anger, remind myself of Alice’s virtues, and nod meekly.
“Good girl,” he says.
It nearly tips me. I nearly release the full weight of my fury, but—once again—I force myself to remember where I am.
Why this is important. I will help him through whatever this is, gently guide him back to becoming the charming man I met at the group that day.
The one who thinks I am special. The one who bought me daffodils.
—