The look he gives me is loaded, a knowing glint, something he’s withholding. It’s a trap.
I have no idea what’s wrong – if anything – with Alex and don’t answer.
‘So? Do you? Any clue at all?’
Nathan is staring at me, waiting for me to speak, but I know better. Anything I say will be taken as ammunition, perhaps not for now, but certainly at some stage.
‘Nothing to say? Nothing at all?’
I shake my head and his face slowly assumes a smile. He leans forward to kiss my cheek.
‘We need to be ready to leave at six tonight. I’ve laid your clothes out. Why don’t you wear your hair loose?’
The outfit is laid out on the bed as if a woman was lying there, fully dressed, and combusted to nothing, leaving only the clothes. He has chosen my navy skirt, patterned with tiny white birds, a white blouse with three buttons on each cuff and a scalloped collar. A pair of navy patent leather court shoes rest neatly on the floor beneath the skirt, obediently waiting side by side. He has even put out a matching set of underwear, white with a delicate lace trim, finishing off the Sunday school teacher look he’s gone for, virginal and pure, buttoned-up. But the instruction – not a question – to keep my hair down means he wants a touch of sexiness. He wants his wife to look chaste but desirable, the perfect woman for a man of Nathan Cardew’s standing. I stare at the outfit and fantasise about leaving it there, laid out on the bed, and going to the town hall in jeans and a sweater, hair in a scruffy ponytail, wellington boots, and getting so drunk on cheap wine my speech slurs and my make-up runs down my face in grubby black smears.
To the casual observer it might seem that allowing him to choose my clothes is a pitiful relinquishing of my identity. Honestly though? It doesn’t bother me. I’ve no interest in clothes and it’s a battle I have no intention of fighting. Nathan cares about aesthetics, as he calls it. He likes expensive watches and sharp suits and shoes with genuine leather soles. I don’t give a toss. I grew up in a chaotic, untidy house, filled with laughter, dog hair, and clutter on every available surface. I wore things we could afford, hand-me-downs, coats and skirts from charity shops. Mum always said what mattered was people, not things. Nathan would disagree. He has disdain for most people but loves beautiful things. Most of the gifts he gives me for my birthdays or Christmas – a piece of art, a first edition book, or an ornament, maybe – are actually bought for himself. He gave me a painting a few years ago. He said it was expensive. It depicts a hunting scene, a group of men in caps and tweed, faithful beagles at their feet, gathered around the bloodied body of a stag, its dead eyes open, tongue lolling. After a lot of holding it up here and there around the house, going through the motions of deciding on the perfect spot for it, he told me it looked best in his study. I agreed. It’s an awful painting and I’m glad I don’t have to look at it, glad it hangs in his study with the photograph of his dead sister and the ghost of his drog-polat father.
Not caring is another form of self-protection as well, like the small rebellions I use to claw back some control. These seemingly insignificant acts are my oxygen. Like, every Sunday, while I cook the roast dinner and Nathan reads in the sitting room, I pour a large glass of the red wine he’s decanted to breathe. It might be a St Emilion or a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, something expensive, bought with care and deliberation from the by appointment only wine merchant in Padstow with whom he’s on first name terms. Then I top up the decanter with cheap cooking wine and tip the glass of expensive stuff into the gravy pan. Later, when we’re sitting at the table, I’ll watch him ceremoniously pouring the wine from the decanter, smelling it, rolling it around the glass, sipping it then announcing how delicious it is. Sometimes I buy reduced economy lamb mince as well as the butcher’s best he likes. I’ll use the cheap stuff for the shepherd’s pie and cook the good stuff for Cass. It means juggling the receipts or paying for the cheap mince with coins I’ve squirrelled away, but I’m an expert at that. Then of course there’s the smoking. God, he hates smokers. It’s absurd how angry he becomes when people smoke near him, huffing and puffing as if he was a twenty a day smoker himself. When we got married one of the first things he said was and you won’t be smoking anymore? The question mark was a red herring. It wasn’t a question. It was another instruction. Part of our marriage contract. I picture his reaction if he found out about the packet of Marlboro Lights hidden in the utility room in a tin behind the washing powder and smile.
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