Anything for Her (2 page)

Who would have seen this coming?
He says to his younger self.

He rips Denise from the photo, tearing her from their family forever, and perches the remaining three characters in the shot against the vase on the sideboard.

She will see it when she gets home. If she comes home
.

Michael wishes he could pour himself a large stiff drink, regardless of how early it is. He returns to the kitchen, puts the dustpan and brush on the counter top and turns on the coffee machine. His phone vibrates in his pocket. He thrusts his hand inside and yanks his phone into view, excited at the possibility of seeing Louise’s name on the screen. It’s not her. It’s his lawyer.

‘Now’s not a good time,’ is the first thing he says.

‘There’s never going to be a good time,’ Shannon Holloway replies, frustrated. ‘And the more you avoid this, Michael, the longer the stretch you’ll do behind bars.’

He can imagine Shannon sitting behind her desk, nursing her fifth cup of coffee, her breath stained with lingering cigarette smoke.

‘What do you want?’ he asks impatiently.

‘Why haven’t you been answering my calls?’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Too busy to prepare for court that’s looming? Too busy to try and avoid a prison sentence? You’re in big trouble, Michael. You’re acting like this is nothing.’

‘I’ve got bigger problems going on right now.’

He looks at the dustpan and stares at the photo of Denise, ripped and curling in on itself. She is staring at him, witnessing his pain with a smile on her face. He hears the sound of Louise slamming the door again as it echoes through his mind.

‘Bigger than prison? Losing your houses, your cars, your youngest child’s private education? You and your family are going to lose everything if we don’t work together on this.’

‘Well, forgive me if I don’t want to be reminded every second of every day that I might go to prison.’

‘Fine. I won’t mention it again. Let’s just turn up at the court and fluke it, shall we? Hope the judge is feeling good that day? You’re guilty of insider trading, tax evasion and trying to bail yourself out with money from the employees’ pension plan. The judge will not take this lightly, however cheery he or she is on the day – and when the news is out, the public won’t be too pleased either.’

‘All right, Shannon,’ he replies, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ll do whatever you want. Meet me at my office at eleven.’

‘I can do that,’ she says, while in the background he hears her diary’s pages flick to her commitments for the day. ‘Don’t stand me up. This is serious.’

‘I won’t!’ he snaps.

Talking with Shannon makes him feel as though he is a mischievous teenager and she is his nagging mother, trying to rein him in.

‘All right, I’ll see you at eleven,’ Shannon replies.

‘See you then.’

Michael hangs up and puts the phone on the kitchen worktop. He sighs heavily.

He can’t handle this much pressure. He can’t handle situations that he cannot control. He cannot control the judge’s verdict when he appears in court. He cannot control Louise and her decision to leave. He couldn’t control or understand her depression over the last year, which led him into an affair with his own wife’s sister. He refuses to face situations that he cannot manipulate and, instead, he distracts himself with other tasks, other thoughts, other women. Another thing he cannot control is his nightmares. His sleep is interrupted every night by dreams of being thrown into a prison cell: he always wakes up just as the cell door is slammed shut.

I can’t go to prison. I can’t lose Louise. I can’t lose everything we’ve worked for. I can’t handle any of this
.

He picks up the phone again and calls a different number.

After three rings, Denise picks up.

‘Hi.’

‘I need to see you tonight,’ he says immediately.

‘Someone’s eager.’

‘Louise knows.’

Neither of them speaks for a moment; they listen to the sound of each other’s anxious breaths.

‘Is she still there?’ Denise asks.

‘She left. She packed a suitcase and left.’

Denise sounds relieved.

‘Well, I think it’s safe to say she won’t be knocking on my door for a place to crash.’

‘She’ll go to the country house, I’m sure.’

‘So what time tonight?’

Michael doesn’t wonder how Denise can be so cold-hearted about breaking her own sister’s heart. He doesn’t fear her ruthless nature. He doesn’t think about her at all, other than what she can do for him – how she can distract him from what he cannot handle.

‘I’ll come by after work.’

‘I’ll get some champagne,’ she says.

‘Sure. Whatever,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘See you later.’

He hangs up the phone.

Champagne? To celebrate the breakdown of my marriage? Does she think our arrangement is something more meaningful? Does she think I belong to her now?

He shakes the thoughts from his mind. He has enough to worry about, without adding Denise into the mix.

He just needs to distract himself. He just needs to forget.

Chapter Three

Louise pulls up outside the country house, which is situated in the quaint village of Sinster, in the Cotswolds. The stone exterior has aged with the many seasons it has withstood. The gutters are brimming with rotting autumn leaves and ivy creeps surreptitiously up the left side of the house, leeching the life and colour from the stone and creeping around the chimney. The trees surrounding the house have matured tremendously since her last visit, casting shadows over it with their extended, limb-like branches and an array of twigs that jut from them like old, bony fingers; it is as if the neglected cottage is slowly allowing itself to be absorbed into the woodland, ashamed of its dishevelled appearance.

The house has slowly begun to decay, like their marriage; the For Sale sign outside says it all: they’re broke.

Louise looks up at the house and releases a heavy sigh.
I’m forty-one years old and I’m about to lose my husband, my sister, and everything I own
.

Louise is exhausted. She has been awake for over twenty-four hours and has travelled from one side of the country to the other, during which time her life has completely disintegrated.

She lifts the suitcase out of the boot as the cold, damp wind plays with her hair. She gathers the grocery bags from her stop mid-journey. Autumn leaves are dragged around violently by the forceful wind as she makes her way up the garden path, longing to get inside and open her first bottle of wine. Half way up the path she slips on a damp tile, which is slimy from the morning’s down pour. Her right heel digs into a crevice between two tiles and her ankle twists violently as she slams down to the ground. Her bags land on the grass and the wind coaxes their contents to roll from them and flitter across the wet lawn. Gusts of wind whistle and wail in passing, as if taunting her for her misfortune.

Her ankle is smarting, her hip aches, and her forehead is already forming a red mound from colliding with the path. Her suitcase, which had been standing upright with its pull-along handle raised and ready, slams down on its back after a playful push from a passing gust of wind.

She holds her ankle and groans. Damp locks of blonde hair plaster her face, as she lies defeated on her side. Rain darts from the clouds to the ground; at first it is shy and light, then it pours down with great force, striking her like tiny slaps.

She begins to cry where she lies, the rain soaking through her clothes and dripping from her skin and hair. Her sobs are almost silenced by the orchestra of
the wind, the thrashing trees, and the noisy rush of the rain.

***

Louise inspects her ankle, which is elevated on a stool in front of the warm fireplace. Her ankle has swelled to twice the size of its twin, but hasn’t bruised.

She had to limp around the front lawn to collect her shopping. Wine bottles had muddied themselves in forgotten, overgrown flowerbeds; cigarette packets had flown into bushes and snuggled between the protective leaves, while frozen food had begun to defrost in the rain.

Louise sits before the fire with her hair still damp from her bath. She sips at a glass of wine, while lost in her thoughts. Her clothes spin violently in the washing machine behind the utility room door, which quakes and shudders from the machine’s rotary motion.

The ground floor of the cottage is free from interior walls – each living space shares the same air and light. Fireplaces sit at each end of the cottage, one before the living room, and the other before the dining area. Both glow with crackling flames, which warm the house and keep out the December chill.

Gigantic panes of glass sit side by side at the back of the house; they look out over the back garden, which is darkened by the evening’s shadows.

Her phone has been ringing constantly. Her mother has called seven times, Brooke has called three times, Michael has called five times, and every one of the day’s clients rang when their therapist’s door wasn’t answered and their appointment had been ignored.

Louise couldn’t muster the courage to answer their calls in order to apologise and reschedule. She needs to be alone. She needs to be far away from other people and their issues and concerns. She has her own problems. She can’t listen to another’s – not today.

When did you first come onto my husband, Denise?
She thinks, staring into the fire.
When did you first touch him inappropriately? Kiss him? Rub his erection as it pressed against his jeans? Strip off your clothes and open your legs for him?

A sharp pain stabs her chest whenever she thinks of them together. Her stomach is in a constant state of delicacy, and whenever she imagines the pair naked and panting, grinding and coming, she has to fight the urge to retch.

She has never cried so much in her life. Just when she thinks her tear ducts have dried up and every drop of moisture has been expelled from her body, more tears begin to flow when she is reminded of the treachery.

She takes her eyes away from the fire, as if escaping a trance, and looks around the house,
settling her eyes on the uncovered windows. Droplets of rain race down the glass. The wind is still strong and ferocious; it attacks every tree and shrub it passes, presses stray leaves against the windows, and cracks twigs and branches before discarding them on the ground.

Louise doesn’t feel safe in the country. Not on her own.

In London she is surrounded by hundreds of people and copious sounds – the intrusive sound of ambulances wailing through the night, cars rushing down nearby roads and dogs barking from neighbouring gardens. She can always hear her neighbour’s television or the flush of a toilet.

In the country, she feels completely unshielded. The cottage is the only house down the secluded lane for at least half a mile. The country lane is only used by the locals; it only leads to an abandoned barn that has long been left to fall into decay. Dog walkers are known to follow the lane towards the range of hills and grassland behind the barn, which roll out for miles; but no one else uses the lane – not unless they are lost. There are no sirens to be heard, only the sound of the woodland: hooting owls, wailing vixens and, occasionally, the squeal of a rabbit as it succumbs and becomes prey.

Louise looks out into the garden and is spooked by the darkness: as though someone is out there peering
in. She gets up from the sofa, leaves her wine glass on the side table and begins to close the blinds to stop anyone from seeing her alone inside the house. At each window, she looks out, trying to discern any prying eyes within the black canvas of the night.

She returns to the sofa with a tight, anxious chest.

That night. It has driven you insane
.

She rubs her face, sighs heavily and takes a large gulp of wine.

That night destroyed your mind, your daughter, and has helped destroy your marriage
.

She cannot go a single day without being reminded of that night, which has infected her with constant guilt and traumatised her beyond repair. She would do anything to forget it, to go back in time and do things differently.

She downs the rest of the wine in the glass, and gets up to fetch the rest of the bottle. Tonight she is going to drink until the pain eases and her fear of the darkness subsides. She needs to forget – just for one night.

Chapter Four

Louise finishes her first bottle of wine and begins to wander in light, languid sways around the cottage, collecting all of the photo frames that hold captured memories of Michael and Denise. She takes them downstairs and opens a second bottle.

She sits by the fire, with photos of happier times littering her lap, and cuts every image of Michael and Denise out of the photos. She puts them in a pile beside her, and places the rest of the photos – now tarnished by dark, Michael and Denise-shaped silhouettes – back in their frames. The wine has eased the pain of her swollen ankle and has left her mind almost floating within the confines of her skull.

Louise looks down at the pile of photos to see various expressions from her husband and sister: some laughing, some funny faces they had pulled with the kids, Michael’s lips puckered to blow out the candles on the cake at his fortieth birthday party.

Her entire world has fallen apart, and all she wants to do is jump through the cracks and disappear.

She has been depressed ever since that night and carries around disabling guilt that plagues her every thought. If she ever finds herself smiling, the voice of shame creeps from the shadows of her subconscious
and says:
You’re not allowed to be happy. Not after what you did
.

Ever since that night, she has had to drink every evening, just to be able to sleep. She has returned to smoking, despite not having done so since before she was pregnant with Brooke. That night has affected everything in her life – her mental health, her marriage, her daughter, her work. She can’t listen to a client without thinking of her own problems in comparison, and hating herself when she does. She feels like a fraud, for she is unable to sooth her own inner turmoil, yet gives advice to others to deal with their own.