Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) 29
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing will come out. I feel quite hollow with fear. Right now there’s nothing in Luke’s face to say he’s my husband and he loves me.
“I have to go.” Luke looks at his watch. “I’ll get my stuff.”
He strides out of the kitchen. But I can’t move from the spot.
“I’m off.” Luke reappears at the kitchen door holding his case. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
“Luke… I’m sorry.” At last I’ve found my voice, even if it is all shaky. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to you.” I raise my head, trying to keep a grip on myself. “But if you really want to know… you’ve been a disappointment to me too. You’ve changed. You were fun on our honeymoon. You were fun and you were laid-back and you were kind… ”
Suddenly I have a memory of Luke as he was. Sitting on his yoga mat with his bleached plaits and his earring. Smiling at me in the Sri Lankan sunshine. Reaching over to take my hand.
I feel an unbearable yearning for that easy, happy man, who bears no resemblance to the stressed corporate animal standing in front of me.
“You’re different.” The words come out in a sob and I can feel a tear trickling down my cheek. “You’ve gone back to the way you used to be before. The way you promised you’d never be again.” I wipe away the tear roughly. “This isn’t what I thought married life would be like, Luke.”
“Nor me,” says Luke. There’s a familiar wryness to his voice, but he isn’t smiling. “I have to go. Bye, Becky.”
A few moments later I hear the front door slam.
I sink down onto the floor and bury my face in my knees. And he didn’t even kiss me goodbye.
For a while I don’t move. I just sit there in the hall, hugging my knees. Our marriage is in tatters. And it hasn’t even been a year.
At last I rouse myself and get stiffly to my feet. I feel numb and spaced-out. Slowly I walk into the silent, empty dining room, where our carved wooden table from Sri Lanka is standing proudly in the middle of the room.
The sight of it makes me want to cry all over again. I had such dreams for that table. I had such dreams of what our married life was going to be like. All the visions are piling back into my head: the glow of candlelight, me ladling out hearty stew, Luke smiling at me lovingly, all our friends gathered round the table…
Suddenly I feel an overwhelming, almost physical longing. I have to talk to Suze. I have to hear her sympathetic voice. She’ll know what to do. She always does.
I hurry, almost running, to the phone and jab in the number.
“Hello?” It’s answered by a high-pitched woman’s voice — but it’s not Suze.
“Hi!” I say, taken aback. “It’s Becky here. Is that—”
“It’s Lulu speaking! Hi, Becky! How are you?”
Her abrasive voice is like sandpaper on my nerves.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Is Suze there, by any chance?”
“She’s just putting the twins into their car seats, actually! We’re off for a picnic, to Marsham House. Do you know it?”
“Er…” I rub my face. “No. I don’t.”
“Oh, you should definitely visit it! Cosmo! Sweetie! Not on your Petit Bateau overalls! It’s a super National Trust house. And wonderful for the children, too. There’s a butterfly farm!”
“Right,” I manage. “Great.”
“I’ll get her to call back in two secs, OK?”
“Thanks,” I say in relief. “That would be great. Just tell her… I really need to talk to her.”
I wander over to the window, press my face against the glass, and stare down at the passing traffic below. The traffic light at the corner turns red and all the cars come to a halt. It turns green again and they all zoom off in a tearing hurry. Then they turn red again — and a new set of cars come to a stop.
Suze hasn’t called. It’s been more than two secs.
She isn’t going to call. She lives in a different world now. A world of Petit Bateau overalls and picnics and butterfly farms. There’s no room for me and my stupid problems.
My head feels thick and heavy with disappointment. I know Suze and I haven’t been getting on that well recently. But I thought… I honestly thought…
Maybe I could call Danny. Except… I’ve left about six messages for him and he’s never returned any of them.
Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to pull myself together on my own.
What I will do is… I will make myself a cup of tea. Yes. And take it from there. With as much determination as I can muster I walk to the kitchen. I flick on the kettle, drop a tea bag in a mug, and open the fridge.