Louise
The taxi disappears down the lane, and Andrew picks up his holdall and follows me around the side of the house and in through the half-finished kitchen. I’m about to put on the kettle to make some tea when I think better of it, and fetch a bottle of Glenlivet 18-year-old single malt from the sideboard in the dining room. I pour a rich, thick finger of the amber liquid into a heavy crystal glass, and take it in to Andrew. The last time I touched either this bottle or the best crystal was almost five years ago, the Christmas before he left.
Andrew knocks back the Scotch in a single gulp, and holds his empty glass out to me. I go back to the sideboard to top it up, my concern mounting. I’ve never seen him drink like this.
I don’t normally bother with alcohol myself during the week, but I have a feeling I’m going to need it tonight. I pour myself a large glass of white wine and take both drinks through to the sitting room. ‘What’s happened?’ I ask, setting Andrew’s tumbler on the coffee table in front of him. ‘What did you mean outside, when you said you’ve been a fool?’
He buries his face in his hands. ‘Oh, God. I don’t know where to start.’
‘Try the beginning.’
I sit down next to him, but for a long time, he doesn’t speak. His shoulders heave silently, and I realise with shock that he’s crying. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I’ve seen him sob before.
My arms ache to reach out and comfort him, but I don’t feel I have the right. ‘Andrew, whatever it is, we can sort it out,’ I say.
He raises a despairing face to me. ‘Lou, I don’t think we can.’
What can he have done that’s so terrible? Is it something to do with work? I run through scenarios in my mind, wondering what could have reduced him to such despair. He’s made mistakes before, run with a story without checking every fact, made a bad call that put him and his crew at risk, but instinctively I know this is something more personal. News crews work in close quarters on the road, producers and reporters doubling up in hotel rooms, travelling together for days at a time. Adrenalin and alcohol are a heady combination. And this is the #MeToo era. Has he crossed the line? Is someone accusing him of harassment, or even sexual assault?
There’s a footfall on the stairs, and Bella appears in the doorway. She starts in surprise when she sees her father. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Hear you’ve been in the wars,’ Andrew says, getting up to give her a hug. No one but me would see the desperate misery behind his smile. ‘That’s quite the egg you’ve got there. How’s the ball looking?’
‘Ha, ha.’ She tucks her hands into the long sleeves of her grey T-shirt, and I realise I can see the outline of her ribs and collarbone beneath the flimsy fabric. She’s got so thin.
‘You all right, Dad?’ Bella asks. ‘You look a bit weird.’
He does look terrible: red-eyed, and drawn and grey beneath his summer tan. He’s putting on a good show for Bella, but his hand shakes when he reaches for his glass again, and consummate actor though he is, I don’t know how long he can keep up the performance. ‘My daughter spent the day in casualty,’ he says. ‘One day, you’ll understand how that feels.’
‘Back upstairs now,’ I tell Bella. ‘You’re supposed to be resting.’
‘Would you like me to come and tuck you in?’ Andrew asks.
Bella looks alarmed. ‘She’s sixteen,’ I say gently. ‘She doesn’t need tucking in. Go on up, Bella. Dad’ll say goodnight later, before he goes.’
Bella returns to her room, and I pour myself another glass of wine, deeply troubled by whatever’s going on with Andrew. The protective shock from Bella’s accident is starting to wear off, too, leaving me exhausted and emotionally drained. Today has brought back so many unhappy memories. I can’t wait for Bella to fall asleep, so I can sit by her bed and just watch her breathe.
‘She seems OK,’ Andrew says, as I return.
‘She’s awfully thin. I didn’t really notice it till I saw her in the hospital bed today. She’s lost a lot of weight in the past few months. Do you think we should be worried?’
‘Everyone looks ill in a hospital bed.’
‘You read so much about eating disorders these days—’
‘She looks fine to me,’ he says testily. ‘She’s always been skinny, you know that. But if you’re worried, take her to see someone.’
‘I don’t want to put ideas in her head.’
He sighs. ‘Then don’t.’
He slumps back onto the sofa, staring moodily into his glass. I wait for him finally to tell me what’s troubling him, but he’s lost in his own dark thoughts. His phone buzzes a couple of times with incoming texts – Caz, presumably – but he ignores them.
‘Andrew,’ I begin tentatively. ‘Do you want—’
He looks up suddenly. ‘Let’s not do this,’ he says, and there’s a note of desperation in his voice. ‘Can we just spend a nice evening together, watch some crap TV, and not talk about anything?’
‘If that’s what you want. Would you like something to eat? I can throw something together—’
‘Not for me,’ he says. ‘Unless you’re hungry?’
‘I’m fine. I ate earlier with the kids.’
He doesn’t mention Caz, and I don’t ask. Despite my anxiety, I can’t help a quiet sense of pleasure that it’s me he’s turned to in his moment of crisis, not Caz. She may be his wife now, she may even love him, I suppose, but my bond with Andrew is deeper and older and more profound. Whatever’s happened, whatever he’s done, I’m in his corner, and he knows that, or he wouldn’t be here.
I’ve been such a bloody fool, Andrew said. For the first time, I dare to hope he meant: For leaving you.
He reaches for the remote, and turns on the television, settling on a chilly Scandinavian thriller I’ve seen before, and refills his glass a third time. I get another for myself, too. It’s lucky Andrew didn’t drive here; he’ll clearly be getting a taxi home.
Pressed together on the settee, I’m acutely conscious of the heat of his body against mine, the sweet, whisky-infused scent of his skin. The sofa is the same one we bought seventeen years ago, when I was pregnant with Bella, its chintz fabric now so faded and stained with spills and sunshine and felt-tip pen it’s almost impossible to discern the original pattern. I should’ve replaced it years ago, but it’s the sofa where I breastfed my babies, where one of them was quite possibly conceived, and I can’t bear to part with it. Its springs have long since given out, and were it not for the two sturdy Quality Street tins beneath either end, holding up the cushions, our bottoms would sag onto the floor. As it is, we roll to the centre together as if on a cheap mattress. Andrew puts his arm around me, holding the pair of us upright, just as he always did. It feels as if he never left.
‘Why are you so good to me?’ he murmurs suddenly, into my hair. ‘After everything I’ve done to you. I don’t deserve it.’
It’s a question I’ve asked myself at least a thousand times in the past four years. The heart wants what it wants. ‘No, you don’t,’ I agree, trying to ignore the sudden pulse between my legs.