Chapter 7 Zoe Spring 2025 #4
But things aren’t great with Paul either.
When I get home the library door is shut.
In the old days, I would come in from the school run and sit with him for a bit, just chatting about nothing in particular.
But over the past year, it’s all become about Steph.
What to do about Steph. What Steph has done.
What she might do next. Where she is. And we disagree on how to deal with her.
Paul keeps using that awful phrase ‘come down on her like a ton of bricks’ and wants her locked in her room, or sent to Scotland to stay with my parents.
Which means I don’t tell him what she’s up to, or what she’s been doing to me.
They’re the first secrets between us in all these years together and it’s already changed things.
I think back to last night when we were getting ready for bed.
One, two, three, four. The purple bruises look like the finger painting we did when the girls were small.
A bracelet around my upper arm, the thumb print the clasp underneath.
The mark on my hip is yellow now, it’ll be hardly visible tomorrow.
I examine my face in the mirror. Tired, as always. But no bruises to cover.
‘What are you doing in there?’ I can see him in the bathroom mirror peering over the top of the newspaper as he lies waiting in bed. I shift to the side just in case he can see my reflection.
‘Just getting ready for bed.’
‘You usually do that in here,’ he says. I can hear him fold up the newspaper and the bed creaking as he comes to join me in the bathroom.
I grab my nightdress off the rack and slide it over my shoulders so it covers my arms.
He kisses me on the back of my neck as he picks up his toothbrush.
We stand side by side and look at each other in the mirror while we brush our teeth, as we always have.
I have to look away sometimes. I worry about keeping secrets from him.
But I worry more that if he knows the truth, it will set him off and he’ll send Steph away.
Or worse. And surely the best thing is her being with us, with people who love her?
Even if it feels like she’s breaking us apart.
And now he has started shutting the library door when I come home from the school run.
The few times I’ve knocked and gone in, Paul’s either been on the phone or has barely looked at me.
He says he can’t cope with Steph and it’s disturbing his work thinking about it.
As if it’s easy for me and I don’t worry at all.
And as if his work isn’t actually running my family estate.
I think about knocking now and telling him what Emma said, but maybe I’ll wait until later.
I should tell him what people are thinking.
But if I do, then I’ll have to admit that I’ve been hiding bruises and the ones he has seen aren’t accidents.
Or are accidents. Because I know she doesn’t mean it. She’s just lashing out.
I can hear Alice playing her radio upstairs, so I go into the kitchen, put on the kettle and get the biscuit tin, opening a new packet of Rich Tea.
There’s something enormously comforting about biscuits dipped in tea.
By the time Alice comes downstairs to start on the drawing room, I realise I’ve eaten the whole packet with two cups.
Just inside the cellar door are the emergency cigarettes.
I grab one, take the matches from the Aga, and then decide to go back to get another cigarette before stepping outside, where the air is crisp and autumnal.
I wave to John who’s busy pruning. I wait until I’m out of sight of the house to light up.
Though who’s actually looking? Nobody cares.
In the woods, I find the usual log and sit down and strike a match, drawing the smoke into my lungs.
Deep breaths. The nicotine makes me pleasingly dizzy.
Another month without a baby. I deserve a ciggie.
The woods are a tapestry of colours. Vibrant greens to warm shades of amber, gold, and crimson. When I’ve finished I grind out the cigarette into a carpet of fallen leaves and twigs and light up the other. The morning sun filters through in dappled patterns.
Paul and I used to come here when we were first married.
We’d bring a blanket and wine and lie down and watch the light.
A few times it went further and we made love, laughing that there was no one for miles around who could see us.
It’s hard to imagine those days now. We seem to be growing further and further apart.
I wish I’d brought the whole packet of cigarettes.
Maybe Mum and Dad were right to insist on that agreement about Highdown.
Maybe they were right about the marriage.
I shake my head. Don’t be silly. Things will be fine.
We will be fine. It’s just a bit of a bad patch.
I stand up and dust myself down. Everything will be fine if only Steph could be happier. Or our version of happy.