Their Very Special Marriage (14 page)

‘I enjoyed it. It's a nice practice to work in.'

Yes, but you're not coming back to it, Rachel thought. You're not taking my place at work
or
at home.

‘Um, I was wondering if you were free for lunch on Thursday?'

She hadn't expected that. Surely Caroline had just been socially pleasant on Saturday when she'd suggested having lunch together? The kind of thing you said to be polite but didn't really mean? ‘I'm not sure,' Rachel hedged. And then she came up with the ultimate in cowardly excuses. ‘And, um, I'm in the middle of doing Sophie's lunch.'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry! That's the thing about not having children. You have no idea of their routines. Tell you what, I'll
pencil it in. Let's say half past twelve. If it's not convenient, give me a bell and let me know when's a better time, OK?'

Like never. ‘OK,' Rachel said.

‘Speak to you soon, then.' And the line went dead.

The woman's unbelievable. How can she possibly try to make friends with me when she's planning to go off with my husband? Rachel thought, gritting her teeth. Now she'd have to find some kind of excuse before Thursday.

* * *

‘Oliver—I know it's a bit of a cheek, but I wondered if you could do me a favour?' Tara asked, smiling shyly at him. ‘That bit about cricothyroidotomy Keith covered tonight—I just didn't get it. And you always seem to, well, grasp things better than anyone else.'

‘I'm sure if you ask, he won't mind going through it again.'

‘I feel so
stupid
, having to ask. I mean, I'm a qualified GP. It's not as if I'm a wet-behind-the-ears house officer! I should have a better idea of things. Anyway, I was thinking...look, if I buy you a pint, would you mind taking me through it?'

‘Um, well, I'm driving, so I can't drink.'

‘An orange juice, then.'

He knew that half the people on the course usually went for a drink afterwards. He didn't usually bother—simply because he felt too guilty, aware that he was already out on a Tuesday evening for the course and Rachel never had a night off from the children. It felt too selfish somehow. ‘Um...' How could he say no, but do it nicely without making Tara feel he was being standoffish? And she
had
asked for his help. If he did have a drink with Tara, it wouldn't be as if he was going out with another woman. It was simply helping a colleague on the course. ‘OK. But it'll have to be a quick one, I'm afraid.'

‘Thank you, Oliver. It's so
kind
of you.' She beamed at
him, and slipped an arm through his. ‘We normally go to the Jolly Sailors, but it's a bit noisy there. It might be better if we went somewhere quieter, where we can spread our papers out a bit and I can actually hear you.'

‘Sure.' He smiled back at her. ‘Let's go.'

* * *

Had something happened? He was normally back way before now, Rachel thought. Maybe there had been some sort of traffic jam and he'd been held up. Maybe an accident—and, knowing Oliver, he'd gone to help until the ambulance arrived. Maybe... She damped down the feeling of unease. No. Of course Oliver wouldn't have been in an accident.

She forced herself to concentrate on the journal she was reading. And when she heard Oliver's key in the lock, she didn't jump up and rush to him. The last thing she should do right now was be clingy. That would be the quickest way to drive him away.

‘Good session tonight?' she asked.

‘Yeah. Keith covered airway obstructions tonight—intubation, jaw thrust and needle cricothyroidotomy. It was interesting stuff.'

‘Glad you enjoyed it.' She uncurled from the sofa and went to kiss him hello. And then her nostrils flared as she recognised the scent clinging to his skin.

Caroline's
scent.

So that was why he'd been late.

Then a really nasty thought hit her. Had he even gone to his course? Had he gone to see Caroline instead? For all she knew, the course could have finished. Maybe he'd been lying to her all along—maybe he wasn't even doing a term's course. Advanced trauma and life support courses were often held over the course of three days. Why hadn't Oliver booked himself on one of those intensive sessions and brought in a locum to cover him? Did the course even exist?

But how could she ask him? How would she even know
that he was telling her the truth? Her marriage was disintegrating fast around her, and she had no idea how to stop it or what to do next. It felt as if her blood had frozen, right through to the marrow. She couldn't move, couldn't do anything.

‘Are you all right?' Oliver asked.

‘Fine. Just a bit tired,' Rachel lied. Just that my heart's breaking and I don't know how to stop you leaving me.

‘I'll go and have a shower.'

What, to wash the scent of your mistress from your skin? You should've thought of that before you came home, Rachel thought bitterly. ‘Fine.'

* * *

Oliver walked upstairs. Amazing. He'd been over an hour late, and Rachel hadn't even noticed. She hadn't said a thing. He could have stayed out all night, he thought bitterly, and she wouldn't have noticed. It was as if she really didn't care any more.

I've loved you since the moment I first set eyes on you. I knew you were the one I wanted to grow old with. That hasn't changed and it never will.
But it wasn't true for her any more, was it?

He sighed. How stupid he'd been. He'd thought that if he didn't say anything, didn't rock the boat, they'd get through this bad patch. But it just seemed to go on and on and on, and every day their marriage was falling further apart.

He scrubbed himself in the shower. Maybe if they made love, everything would be all right. Maybe what they needed was to connect again—skin to skin, just the two of them, nothing to distract them from each other. Just for a little while.

As he'd half expected, Rachel was in bed when he came out of the bathroom. Reading a journal.

He slid under the covers next to her. ‘How was your day?'

She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the journal. ‘OK.'

She didn't sound that enthusiastic. And, he noted in dismay, she was wearing pyjamas. Well, he wasn't going to let that put him off. He wanted to lose himself in her body, let her lose herself in him. And then he'd tell her how much he loved her. Tell her how he really felt. And then maybe everything would be all right.

He snuggled up beside her. ‘Rach.'

‘Mmm?'

He slid his fingertips under the hem of her pyjama top. ‘Your skin's so soft.'

She pushed his hand away. ‘No. We can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Wrong time of the month.'

‘Oh.' Whoever said that disappointment was a sinking feeling hadn't said the half of it. It felt more like being sucked straight down the plughole. Still, at least it explained why she'd been a bit strained with him for the last few days. Premenstrual syndrome. Though she never used to have it that badly. What can I do to make you love me again, the way you used to? he wondered.

‘Maybe...' he began cautiously.

‘What?'

This time she looked at him. And her eyes were very, very cold. Oliver gave up. ‘Nothing,' he said, and reached over to his bedside table for his own journal.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Rachel was up early. She was making Robin's packed lunch for school when she noticed that Oliver's mobile phone was lying on the kitchen worktop. His phone was the same as hers. It would be all too easy for them to take the wrong phones—they'd done it before. Before she had time to think about what she was doing, she'd taken her phone from her handbag and swapped it with Oliver's.

She tried to put it out of her mind until she'd dropped the children off. Then, in the surgery car park, she checked Oliver's text messages. There was one from ‘C', dated Monday morning. Knowing even as she did it that this was stupid, the worst mistake she could make, she opened it.

I've loved you since the moment I first set eyes on you. I knew you were the one I wanted to grow old with. That hasn't changed and it never will. I love you.

She read the message five times before its meaning sank in.

Caroline was still in love with Oliver.

And Oliver clearly felt the same way about Caroline. Why else would he have saved the message rather than deleting it?

‘You lying, cheating, devious
bastard
!' Anger rolled through her, a fury she'd never known before. She had proof now. Oliver was cheating on her and he wasn't even trying to hide it. He was going to throw away everything they had, uncaring about how it affected the children or his wife. What right did he have to smash their world into little tiny pieces, throw fourteen years of her life away?

She dropped the phone, clenched her fists to stop them shaking and banged both hands on the steering-wheel, hard, taking out her anger and frustration on an anonymous lump of plastic and metal and wishing that she was slugging Oliver instead.

When the car horn blared out, she jumped in shock. Hell. She'd forgotten that the hooter was in the middle of the steering-wheel.

She flexed her hands. They hurt. Damn. She'd hit the steering-wheel so hard she could have fractured her wrists. But the pain was dull, throbbing: she could cope with it. Unlike the knifing pain inside. It felt as if someone had ripped her chest open, gripped her heart and was slowly squeezing every drop of blood from it. Squeezing every
drop of love Oliver had ever given her and letting it gurgle down the drain.

What the hell was she going to do?

If she confronted him, he'd leave. She'd lose him for good.

If she didn't confront him...he might leave anyway. Or if this affair burned itself out, he'd think he could do it again and again, because Rachel was too spineless to stand up for her marriage.

And what about the kids? They loved Oliver. Even if he didn't give them as much attention as Rachel did, they adored him. Looked up to him. Hungered for his rare words of praise—you could see it in the glow of their faces when he'd told them they'd done something well. She couldn't possibly cut them off from him. But if Oliver tried to take the children from her... God, even the thought of it was unbearable. She knew she wouldn't survive the reality.

She closed her eyes, letting her head drop forward onto the steering-wheel. Somehow she had to find the strength to walk into the surgery. Walk into the consulting room next to her husband's. Pretend that her heart hadn't broken into jagged little shards. Listen to her patients, care for them, put the mess of her marriage out of her mind until after surgery.

And then, somehow, she had to decide what to do. Whether to fight for her marriage—for the man she loved—or whether she should face facts and realise it was time to let him go.

Either way, she lost.

CHAPTER TEN

S
OMEHOW,
Rachel managed to pin a smile on her face and convince the world that nothing was wrong—at least, nobody asked her what the matter was. Oliver spent the evening working, and for once, she found it a relief instead of a trial. Until she worked out what to do, she didn't really want to be on her own with him. The last thing they needed was a confrontation, where they'd both say something in the heat of the moment that they'd regret later—something that might blow their whole relationship wide apart.

Crazy. In every other area of her life she knew what to do—or knew that she could cope with things going wrong and could fix things. Where her marriage was concerned, she'd somehow become this pathetic, timid little creature who was afraid to say or do the wrong thing.

Probably because Oliver mattered more to her than anything else. If you failed an exam you could resit it; if you dented the car, you could get it fixed. But if your marriage broke down, the chances were that you couldn't make it work again. She just had to take things slowly, carefully and hope they'd come out of this bad patch together rather than apart.

On Thursday morning Rachel had to tell Michael Finch some bad news. ‘How are you feeling?' she asked as he sat down.

‘OK.' Though Rachel could see he was having trouble breathing.

‘I've had the results back for your chest X-ray and the lung function tests.'

‘When I breathed into that machine at hospital, you mean?'

She nodded. ‘And I'm sorry, it's not good news.' The results weren't good. The X-ray showed widespread shadowing and ‘eggshell' calcification—thin streaks of calcium deposits—around the hilar lymph nodes. The spirometer results showed that Michael's breathing was definitely restricted.

‘I've got cancer?' he asked.

She shook her head. ‘It's something called silicosis—an industrial lung disease. You may have heard of “potter's rot”, “grinder's rot” and “stonemason's disease”.'

‘Potter's rot, yes.' He frowned. ‘They used to get that years ago.'

‘Cases are much rarer nowadays, because working practices are a lot safer—but it still takes years for the disease to show up,' Rachel said. ‘People get it when they work with silica, which is in sandstone, granite, coal and silica sand. So foundry workers, sandblasters and potters are most at risk.'

‘I used to be a potter.' Michael frowned. ‘I did dry-finishing. But I changed my job fifteen years ago.'

‘Once you've got it, it gradually gets worse—even after you've stopped working with silica,' Rachel explained gently.

‘So I've probably had it for years?'

She nodded. ‘What happened is that you breathed dust into your lungs and the dust contained silica—which is about ten times worse than coal. If you've got thirty grams of coal dust in your lungs, you might get away without too many problems, but just three grams of silica can make you feel very ill. When the silica reaches the lining of your lungs, it makes them inflamed, and over time this inflammation turns into thickened, scarred tissue—it's a process called fibrosis.'