Another wave rolls through me, so powerful I can’t even scream.
‘It’s fine; it will be fine,’ Rob’s saying as his face fades in and out of focus.
But I know he’s wrong. And I feel like I’m drowning. Like no matter what happens from here, my life as I know it is slipping away. As another life flutters frantically within me, mine is coming to an end.
Rob’s eyes hold mine and I grip his collar in two fists, pulling his face close to mine. I try to capture it, this beautiful thing we share – the essence of what we are, what we were – one more time, before it’s gone.
‘Don’t leave me,’ I beg him.
Rob’s eyes, familiar and foreign at once, are full of warmth and fear and something new I can’t identify.
‘Never.’
Chapter 3
Liz
June, 2017
Sunday, 8:49am
The smell of bacon tugs me from a fractured dream. I haven’t had this one before: a blue-eyed child stares at me with pleading eyes, reaching out as if asking to be held. It’s innocuous enough out of context, but I jerk awake, heart pounding, and reach out to find Adam’s side of the bed empty. I panic. Is it Monday already? Has he left without saying goodbye? But then I register the smell – bacon! – and remember – it’s Sunday! – and my heart sings.
I sit up and smooth down my hair just as Adam appears in the doorway wearing nothing but the cheesy love-heart boxers I bought him for Valentine’s day. His smile steals my breath.
‘Beautiful,’ he says when his eyes catch mine, with that breathless awe that makes me giddy. Grinning, he crawls across the bed and cups my face, then kisses my lips. ‘You’re so fucking beautiful.’
‘Shut up,’ I shove his shoulder, beaming beneath his attention. I marvel at how different he is to all the men I’ve known before – openly loving, saying whatever’s on his mind. He reminds me of an exuberant child. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘How can I be cold when I’m close to you?’
‘Ha.’ I roll my eyes, laughing despite myself.
‘Actually, I am a bit.’ Adam mock-shivers as he slips under the covers and wraps me in his arms. His skin is like ice. ‘Kitchen’s a bit draughty.’
‘The whole house is draughty,’ I mutter, then bite my lip because I know I’ve done nothing but complain since we got here.
My husband frowns.
‘Sorry,’ I say, feeling bad for spoiling the mood.
‘Stop it.’ He lifts my chin with his finger. ‘You know what? If this is too much, maybe you should come with me.’
‘What do you mean? Where?’
‘To Sydney. If things go well, I’ll only be up and down the next few weeks. I could do without the commute, and if you hate it here so much, we can find a short-stay apartment …’
I stop him with a finger to his lips. ‘Adam. We can’t afford it.’
My husband’s face clouds, the way it always does when we talk of money these days.
‘I’m sorry, baby,’ I keep my voice light. ‘It’s a lovely idea. I know it won’t be easy for you either, driving all that way. And I’ll hate being apart for so long. But it’s a short time in the scheme of things, and it will be worth it, when you get the deal.’
Adam exhales through his nose. ‘It’s not just that. I’m worried about leaving you here all alone. Especially after what you’ve been through.’ He looks up, his eyes so full of concern I have to look away.
‘I know. But I’ve been getting better.’
As a case worker for a counselling and respite centre for women in crisis, I can encounter some pretty distressing situations. But one case in particular involving a young, single woman and her baby really stayed with me. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was the diagnosis. I saw a counsellor, was put on medication and it seems to be helping. But sometimes, still, I wake in a cold sweat.
Adam doesn’t say anything, so I add, ‘And we don’t have a choice. This is just what needs to be done. And it will be worth it, in the end.’
‘You’re right,’ he says with a sigh. ‘And when the settlement date for the sale of this old place is finally here, and we get the rest of the money. Then. Then we’ll be out of debt and we can finally relax.’
I smile and rub his arm reassuringly. ‘They’ve seen the house, paid the deposit … they’re keen. It will happen.’
Adam nods, but his sunny mood has evaporated. I can’t blame him. As if losing his father wasn’t bad enough, Tim’s left behind one hell of a mess to clean up. And until it’s sorted, until the sale of this house is final and the money from selling his dad’s business is in the bank, we’re neck-deep in debt.
Last year ended terribly for Adam. One thing after another went disastrously wrong for him and it was so hard to watch. My upbeat, generous husband – then, my fiancé after only a month’s courtship – was screwed over by the business partner who had not only stolen his girlfriend (he caught them in bed together a couple of months before he met me) but had cleared out the company’s joint bank account, leaving him penniless. And this year hasn’t been the easiest so far either. He says more often than I’m comfortable hearing from someone so dear to me, that I’m the only thing that’s keeping him holding on.
Adam has felt the loss of his father more than he’s let on, and I suspect that, in part, it might be that he’s mourning the relationship he wished he’d had with his father. They were never close and, according to Adam, visits between them were brief and strained.
I think part of Adam blames his father for his mother walking out on them when he was little. We have that in common, Adam and I. Absent mothers, both of whom shirked the role of motherhood and chose to lead lives separate from their families. I sometimes wonder if this has anything to do with us not wanting children, or whether some people just prefer their independence to willing slavery. Personally, I’d prefer to regret not having children than to regret having them. And there’s no way of knowing which way it will turn out until it’s too late.
Whenever Adam speaks of his father, which isn’t often, I get the sense that he’s never really respected him. ‘He was weak,’ he’s said more than once. ‘He should have tried harder – with both of us. I can hardly blame her for getting bored.’ And then he’ll get a faraway look in his eyes and, as I often do when I think of my own mother, I wonder whether he’s wondering why she didn’t take him with her. Perhaps it’s easier for him to blame his father than accept the terrible truth: his mother simply didn’t love him enough.
Adam’s father, Tim, only became successful after his wife, Diane, left and moved to France with a wealthy banker. Perhaps he thought he was showing her, in her absence, that she’d made a mistake. That he could succeed in business and provide the sort of life she wanted, after all. But with the exception of a brief phone call when Tim died, Adam hasn’t spoken to his mother in years.
In the end, I suppose we should be grateful to Tim because, for all his quirks and flaws, he raised Adam single-handedly, and he’s the reason Adam gets a second chance. And now – fingers crossed – we’ll have enough money to buy a house back in London and to rebuild the business. I want Adam to achieve his dream so badly it hurts. And I want him to make peace with the memory of his father.