‘I know.’
‘Know what?’
‘That you went and saw a psychiatrist.’
I said, ‘What? How?’
‘You paid with my card. Robert’s name was on the statement.’
The next wave of fury originated from so many sources I could only grasp one: how much I hated Patrick referring to him by his first name.
‘If you didn’t want me to know, you probably should have paid Robert with cash.’
‘Don’t call him that. He’s not your friend. You’ve never even met him.’
‘Fine. But you have ——， is that what you’re about to say?’
I said oh my God. ‘How do you know that? Did you call him?’ I told Patrick – I shouted – that he was not allowed to do that even though, in the unflooded part of my mind, I knew he hadn’t and even if he had, Robert could not have shared my diagnosis.
And Patrick, who was never sarcastic, said, ‘Really? I didn’t realise that. Is there like a doctor patient confidentiality thing?’
Like a child, I stamped my foot and told him to shut up. ‘Tell me how you know.’
‘I know the drug.’
‘What drug?’
‘The one you’re on.’ He dropped his fork into the container and put it on the coffee table.
‘I didn’t tell you I was on anything. Did you go through my stuff?’
Patrick asked if I was serious. ‘You leave it lying around, Martha. You don’t even throw the empty packets away. You just shove them in a drawer or leave them on the floor somewhere for me to pick up. I mean, I assume they’re for me to pick up since that’s what we do, isn’t it? You make a mess and I clean up after you, like it’s my job.’
My hands were in fists, so tight they seemed to be throbbing. ‘If you knew everything, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was waiting for you to tell me but you didn’t. And then after a while it seemed like you weren’t going to and I had no idea why. It’s clearly right,’ he said. ‘You clearly have ——。’
As I spoke back, I felt the muscles around my mouth contorting and making me ugly. ‘Do I Patrick? Clearly? If that is so fucking clearly right, why didn’t you work it out before? Is it a competence issue? As in, does a person need to be physically bleeding for you to comprehend that they’re not well? Or is it, as a husband, you’re not interested in your wife’s wellbeing? Or is it just total passivity? Your absolute, blanket acceptance of how things are.’
He said okay. ‘This conversation isn’t going anywhere.’
‘Don’t! Don’t walk out.’ I moved as if I would block him from leaving.
Patrick didn’t stand up, leaned back in the sofa instead. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’
I said, ‘I’m only like this because of you. I’m well. I’ve been well for months. But you make me feel insane. Wasn’t that clear too? Didn’t you wonder why instead of being better to you, I’ve been worse?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Your behaviour’s always been –’ he paused ‘– all over the place.’
‘Fuck you, Patrick. Do you know why? You don’t. It’s because I’ve always wanted a baby. This whole time, my whole life, I’ve wanted to have a baby but everyone told me it would be dangerous.’
Very slowly, Patrick said, ‘Do you really think I wasn’t aware of that either? I’m not stupid Martha. Even if it’s always, how annoying they are and how much you can’t stand them and how tedious motherhood is, babies are the only thing you ever talk about. You won’t let us sit near anyone with a baby in a restaurant, then you’ll be staring at them all night. Or if we pass a pregnant woman or someone with a child, you go completely silent and whenever we go to something, you’re so incredibly rude to anyone who dares to mention their children. We’ve had to leave things early so many times, just because someone asked you if you have kids.’ Patrick stood up then. ‘And you’re obsessed with Ingrid’s boys. Obsessed with them, and you pretend you’re not jealous of her but it’s so obvious that you are, especially when she’s pregnant. You’re not a good liar Martha. A chronic one, but not a good one.’
I went around the coffee table, grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands and wrenched it and twisted it and said guess what Patrick, guess what. ‘Robert said it would be fine.’ I tried to push him. ‘He said it would have been fine.’ I tried to hit his face. ‘It wouldn’t be dangerous but you knew that too, you knew that too.’ Patrick got my wrists and would not let go until I stopped struggling against his grip. Although, then, he ordered me to sit down, I went back to the coffee table, put my heel to the edge and pushed it over. The takeaway container was upended, the liquid left in it spilt across the carpet. Patrick said for God’s sake Martha and went out to the kitchen.