until it reaches my chin. The water is hot, turning my skin pink. Steam rises from my body, making me feel like one of those snow monkeys bathing in the hot springs of Japan.
The bath is huge. I slip further into it, until my head disappears beneath the water and I lie there, hair drifting to the surface, eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling. I feel the warm clean bathwater lap against my knees. The future, Joe, my new home, that has to be my priority now. The thought of it rolls around in my head.
I let the heat seep into my bones, until my blood sings and my teeth part and I open and close my mouth, rising slowly up and down like a fish to breathe. Relax, Claire, relax. I finally let my thoughts drift.
Joe will come with me, I know he will – if he’s forced to choose, he’d rather be with me than Duncan. I hate that he’ll have to choose, but we’re not going far. I won’t deprive Duncan of his son, or Joe his father. Joe needs him, now more than ever. I’m hoping that afterwards, Duncan will make more of an effort, find a way to reach out and understand his son. A little distance can be a good thing, making you work harder.
It hasn’t always been like this – between Joe and Duncan and me. I remember Joe when he was about seven. He was just coming out of that baby stage, when all he really wanted was to be with his mum. Suddenly, he was discovering there was a world beyond my domain and asserting himself as a little boy. I’d felt an odd mixture of grateful relief and regret as he began following his dad around instead, like a mini helper.
There was a day when Duncan was chopping logs up from a fallen tree. We’d not long moved into the Barn and there were still piles of builders’ rubble scattered across the drive with a skip taking up the corner by the stone walls. There had been a big storm the night before. Leaves and branches littered the turf. The old oak tree in the top field had finally keeled over and Duncan had set up a workstation beside it and lit a small bonfire.
Curls of blue smoke drifted over our heads. I was breaking up twigs for kindling for the house and I thought Joe could help – boys and sticks are made to go together like bread and jam. But Joe was far more interested in what Duncan was doing. He was fascinated by the blade of the axe. Duncan stood there, sleeves rolled up, lean and fit. He’d swing the axe high over his head and then down to split the log end on. My heart was in my mouth. I was torn between admiration for my husband and a fear that Joe would step forwards into the blade at exactly the wrong moment. But Joe held back, re-enacting the arc of Duncan’s arms with his own as the pair of them swung in unison, Duncan with his real axe and Joe with his imaginary. It seemed to be one of those gentle outdoorsy afternoons, all of us in our own way working at the same task.
Until I realised that Duncan was in a world of his own, quite unaware of his son behind him. There was a grim expression of determination on Duncan’s face and each log was being split with ever more physical exertion, as if Duncan were taking out some inner fury on the wood. The last log bounced apart with such energy that one half exploded into narrow shards that almost flew up against Joe’s face.
I dropped my bundle of twigs and leapt forwards to pull Joe back.
‘Careful, Duncan – he’s right behind you!’
Duncan turned round to look, scowling at my interruption.
‘Then keep him out of the way. You need to look after him, Claire!’
Like it was my fault. I stared at him, willing him to understand. For once he seemed to realise. He lowered his axe, filled with remorse. He reached out to sweep Joe into his arms. Joe folded his limbs about his father’s body, one hand trying to grab at the axe.
Duncan set him down again, this time by the log. He pulled out one of the smaller pieces of wood and balanced it end up on the block. Finding a lighter splitting axe, he held it up to Joe’s hands and grasped the handle with him. He demonstrated the lift and blow, then stood back and let Joe take it. Joe pursed his lips, straddled his feet just like his father and raised his arms. Down came the axe. To his amazement, and I think Duncan’s too, it split perfectly in two. The grin on Joe’s face was one of those family moments.
I grieve for them both – Duncan, the husband, and Duncan, the father – it was always a bit hit and miss. He never quite got the hang of being a father. It was as if he was holding something back, like he didn’t quite believe he could be any good at it. Those were the good days, relatively speaking. It’s not like that now. I think of Duncan’s attitude earlier in the kitchen. It hasn’t been for a very long time.
I come up for air. The water swishes over the side of the bath, flooding the tiles beneath, soaking the pile of dirty clothes on the bath mat. I want to cry. But I won’t. Instead, I close my eyes and will it all to be over. For me to be already at the new house, Joe beside me, all my stuff moved without any arguments or upsets. Except I know it won’t be like that. It’s not like Duncan wants me, loves me anymore. God knows, he’s made that clear. But there will be consequences to our split. Financial consequences. The mortgage, the Barn, the pension – Duncan’s – our investment in the business, all of it will be at stake. Duncan’s reaction will be … The weight of all that fills me with trepidation and I feel the tension in me increase.
I push back into the water. I need to chill out, to calm down and get everything in perspective. I have to face it, unless I’m going to give up now and stay like this, trapped for the rest of my life. This move is for me. I’ve waited long enough. I’m not giving up or running away, I’m making a fresh start.
I sit upright, smoothing my hands over my wet hair. I reach out for the taps to top up with hot water. I feel the energy washing through my torso, my fingers buzzing, my toes wriggling, the skin on my face clean and bright. No tears, not today. Come on, Claire. I feel better, rational, in control. It’s a good feeling. And I should stop worrying about my son. He’s not a little boy anymore; he has to stand on his own two feet. I should trust him to be the adult he now is. I need to live in the present.
Can’t I do that?
I suck the steam into my lungs and relish in my vitality. I don’t want to let the negative thoughts crush me. I’m going to push them from my head. I want to be the person I was before Duncan, before everything that followed meeting him. The person I should have been. I’m not going to let any of it get to me. Not Duncan, not our past, not his girlfriend, whoever she may be … My buoyant mood falters.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I still want to know who she is, his girlfriend, the woman who’s sleeping with my husband.
The surgery was full again, dogs barking, cats yowling, owners shuffling on their seats. An elderly man was berating Sally on reception and Duncan could see she was struggling to keep a pleasant expression on her face. He clocked her beseeching glance.
‘Mr Garfield,’ he said. ‘I do believe you and Betsy are next?’
Duncan reached out a hand and nodded briskly towards his consulting room door.
The man gave an impatient tug on his dog’s lead. A long-suffering greyhound followed them into the room, its thin, stiff tail tucked firmly between its legs. The man sat down and Duncan crouched on his heels and ran his hand over the dog’s head.
‘So, what can we do for this old girl?’
His voice was light, but his jaw was set. The dog looked back at him, its eyes deep pools of warm brown.
‘Lost control of her bladder, ’asn’t she. Keeps pissing on the floor all times of day. Can’t be ’aving that. Reckon it’s time to say goodbye.’
Duncan felt his fingers clench, then he smoothed his hand over the dog’s ears and down its neck. The animal wriggled its haunches and turned its head away, skittering on its rear legs. It seemed to have understood what was being said.
‘I