The house is quiet. Alia has finished for the day and let herself out, softly closing the door behind her. I don’t expect Tom will be back for hours. He’ll work late again, I’m certain of that, still angry after the argument we had last night.
By the time he arrived home, I’d given up waiting and had eaten another solitary supper, alone at the dining table, which Alia had laid for the two of us as usual. When Tom walked in, swaying slightly as he pulled off his tie and threw it over the back of his chair, I got up without a word and carried my empty plate to the kitchen. I was intending to fetch him his own plate of the chicken, which was keeping warm in the oven, but he misinterpreted my actions and must have thought I was judging him, deliberately walking away so we wouldn’t be in the same room together. He strode through to the kitchen behind me and grabbed my wrist, making me gasp as his fingers closed around the tender skin. His breath was sour with the smell of beer. He let go of me immediately, shamefaced and apologetic, though still clearly frustrated at my silence.
‘Talk to me, Zoe,’ he said, and I heard the sharp edge of anger in his voice. ‘We can’t go on like this. You always seem to be avoiding me.’
‘I could say the same to you,’ I retorted. Instead of anger, my own voice held nothing but cold detachment. ‘You’re the one who’s out all day, leaving before I’m even awake and not coming home until after dark. Another long day at the office, was it? Or another evening at a bar? Did you go out drinking with someone or were you on your own?’
He dragged his fingers through his hair, exasperated. ‘Don’t do this, Zoe, please. I feel as if I can’t reach you any more. We need to talk.’
I noticed he’d avoided answering my question and a flash of anger flushed my cheeks. I hated being put into the position of having to ask in the first place, feeling suspicious and needy. I could hear how bitter my words sounded. I wasn’t going to ask again. His avoidance was answer enough. I was certain he’d been out with someone.
I put his supper on to a plate and pushed it across the counter towards him. ‘Not really possible to talk if you’re never here, is it, Tom?’ I said, as evenly as possible.
He looked at me tiredly. ‘You know what I mean. We need to try counselling again. I know it was a disaster last time, but neither of us was ready for it then. If I can find someone we can talk to, would you give it another go?’
I stared at him blankly. ‘I thought we were giving it another go by moving here. I thought it was going to be different, like you promised. But it’s the same old pattern, isn’t it? You caught up in your work, when you’re not in some bar or other looking for more amenable company. Me stuck here at home. What’s the point of going over it all again? It’s not going to change what’s happened.’
He shook his head, helplessly, and when he raised his eyes to meet mine they were full of the emotion that he tries so hard never to show, red-rimmed with the tiredness and the hurt. That unexpectedly guileless glimpse of his pain felt like a physical blow and I had to look away, flinching involuntarily.
‘Please, Zoe. We have to try again. For the sake of the people we once were. I don’t know where the woman I married has gone, but I do know I want to find her again.’
His plate of congealing food sat between us, as cold and unappealing as the conversation. Automatically, my hand came up to my mouth and my teeth tore at the skin alongside my thumbnail. I only registered the action when I tasted blood and felt the new pain I’d inflicted on the raw skin. It’s about the only thing I’m capable of feeling these days. And it stops me from speaking the truth, from saying things I’ll only regret afterwards. The woman he married is dead and gone, I wanted to tell him. She’s been replaced by a hollowed-out shell of a wife, only able to find solace in the company of her baby daughter. She sits in the attic room and sews one triangle of fabric to the next in the hope that it’ll keep her torn and bleeding fingers busy long enough for the pain to stop.
‘Eat your supper,’ I said wearily. ‘It’s late. I’m going to bed.’ My words instantly doused the heat of our exchange, the storm subsiding as quickly as it had blown up. As I climbed the stairs, I felt the frosty silence fall once more behind me.
One of the doves suddenly flaps its wings, the sound causing a flurry of soft admonishments from its roof-mates. I glance across at Grace, but she’s sleeping soundly and the birds settle again without waking her.
Once I’ve finished sewing the seam, I reach for the little music box that sits on the windowsill. I open its lid, tracing the filigree, which the years have covered with a coating of soft green verdigris. The notes float on the evening air, chasing away the silence and the sadness, and I hope they fill Grace’s dreams with a tune from long ago.