Page 60 of The Housewarming

‘Ah, Christ.’

There is water and a wallet of painkillers on the bedside table. Ava must have put them there. He wonders what that means, if he dares put any hope in it.

He takes two painkillers and drinks the water before, groaning and grunting like an old man, dragging himself into the shower. He lifts his face, lets the water pummel him. Afterwards, towelling himself dry, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. His ribs protrude like the bars of a glockenspiel; his eyes are red; his hair needs a cut and his chin is unshaven. He looks terrible, like a mangy, starving wolf.

He pulls on last night’s black jeans and a fresh T-shirt and cleans his teeth twice before going downstairs to find Ava. She is not there, and when he sees that it is after eleven, a wash of guilt floods him. She has gone for a walk, alone. He knows all too well what that will have cost her. But as he prepares a pot of coffee, he hears the front door.

He has no idea what to say. Doesn’t know if they are still together. Last night felt final, but perhaps…

‘Hey,’ he settles on, keen for her to know that he’s up, that he’s in the kitchen. He will take a shift with Fred this afternoon while she rests, he thinks. Make it up to her. They will talk.

She is at the kitchen door. She doesn’t look cross, he thinks. But she is not looking at him.

‘Where’s Fred?’

‘Asleep in the pram.’

‘Coffee?’ he tries. ‘Decaf?’

‘Actually no, I’ll have a normal one for a change.’

Curt but civil. It is better than he deserves. He puts the pot and two mugs on the breakfast bar. Is about to put the milk out too when he decides to pour it into a jug.

‘Very civilised,’ Ava says.

He tries to ignore the feeling of discomfort this provokes in him. She always had a sarcastic streak, but it was a streak, not her default setting as it is now, and it was witty rather than bitter. He can’t decide which this last was.

‘Toast?’

‘Sure.’

The mix of fear and uncertainty persists. He hates it, hates that he notices it, knows that you shouldn’t feel like this in a relationship, knows that he never used to. And more. Knows that it is his fault. He has thrown both of them into confusion.

‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ he says, putting a plate of toast between them to share.

‘We used to know how to have fun, didn’t we? Once? That’s how we started.’ She sounds wistful, as if their early years together are now only a melancholy memory, part of a past she has had to put behind her. Is that what she has done?

For the moment unable to reply, he takes a bite of toast, another. He has no idea what she means. He had hoped last night would not follow them into this morning, or rather, he knew that it would but hoped it would have lessened somehow, that they would be able carefully to start building their marriage once again. He dares not speak, knows he must find words but can’t, and now her face is clouding over, has darkened.

‘Ava?’ is what he finds to say. ‘We can get through this, you know. We can get help.’

‘I don’t think we can,’ she says, meeting his gaze briefly. She has the loveliest eyes. Soulful, intelligent, perceptive, and glazed now with unfathomable sadness. ‘How on earth can we do that?’

He feels his guts plummet. ‘Ava, come on. Please. I’m more sorry than I can say. I will never forgive myself.’

‘I know you’re sorry.’ Her eyes brim, overflow. Tears run thinly down her cheeks. She dips her head and shields her face with her hand. ‘I’m sorry too. I’m sorry and I’m sad and I know you’ll never forgive yourself, but the trouble is, I’ll never forgive you either.’

‘Ava.’ He rounds the breakfast bar and puts his arm around her. Miraculously, she lets him. ‘Don’t cry. Let’s have this coffee, eh? I know we’ve got a lot to talk about, a lot to work through, but let’s just sit together for a few minutes without crucifying ourselves.’

‘You always wanted to move on,’ she sobs. ‘But that’s because you couldn’t stand your own guilt. I can’t move on if I don’t know what happened to her and I can’t possibly be with you knowing that you lied about something so important, beyond important, and that you’ve reinforced that lie every day since, when at any moment you could have told me the truth.’

His throat aches. He fears he might burst into tears. He takes his arms from around her, returns slowly to his stool. ‘I don’t know what else I can say. Don’t do this.’

‘Do what? I haven’t done anything. It isn’t me that’s broken our marriage.’ She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I’ve been walking all morning, trying to make sense of it all – us, the party.’

‘The party? What’s that got to do with us?’ Despite the painkillers, his head pounds; his mouth tastes stale and grim.

‘It’s all tied up, isn’t it? Abi, Neil, Bella. The Lovegoods. I saw them earlier. On their driveway.’ She sighs, shaking her head. ‘There are things that don’t add up, Matt.’

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