The Forever Home by Sue Watson
Chapter Twenty-Three
A few minutes passed in silence. Erin continued to stare ahead, her eyes ringed in black eyeliner. It should have looked pretty on her delicate young face, but was grotesque, like a sad clown.
‘Where’s the baby?’ I asked, softly, suddenly scared she might have left him somewhere.
‘With my mum… he’s with my mum.’ And then she just broke down, in floods of tears. And I couldn’t believe it myself, but I moved across the sofa, and put my arms around her while she sobbed.
‘So, living with Mr Anderson off the telly isn’t as much fun as you thought it would be?’ I said in a low voice.
She looked up, her cheeks wet, the eyeliner now streaking down her face.
‘I used to feel like you do now. When I was younger,’ I said, feeling this need to fill the silence, to share with this woman young enough to be my daughter. She’d stolen my husband to get my life, and was just beginning to realise it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. ‘Mark was – and still is – the most charming, fun man I’ve ever known. And for much of the time we were together, he was amazing. But when I became a mother, and he wasn’t the centre of my attention any more, he began to look elsewhere. Most nights, I spent alone with two little ones, wondering where he was, who he talked to in a low voice on the phone. He was often away filming, but on more than one occasion, someone from the production team would call. “He’s on location,” I’d say, “he’s with you, isn’t he?” Their silence spoke volumes. Sometimes I’d try and catch him out, call him on location, and sometimes he was there, but there were times he didn’t answer for hours, and once I called his hotel room, and a woman answered. But everyone loved Mark, and his colleagues covered for him, and when he came home he’d tell me I was imagining it all.’
She pulled the throw around her, more for comfort than warmth, I think, and she listened, the way she used to listen on sleepovers when I read the children bedtime stories.
‘So I know how you feel,’ I continued. ‘You can’t put your finger on it, but you know you’ve been moved from the top spot, don’t you? And you think I’m the one who’s taken your place, but it isn’t me.’ I paused a moment; she needed to hear this. ‘I don’t say this to be unkind – but trust your instincts. If you think Mark’s seeing someone else, he probably is,’ I said, gently. ‘Many nights he’d come home drunk, reeking of perfume, and sometimes I’d confront him. The first time, I was pregnant with Phoebe and…’ I paused, realising that now I’d said this out loud to Ryan, it was somehow easier to say. ‘He pushed me across the kitchen. He said he didn’t mean it, that he didn’t hit me, just knocked me, but I still felt it, both physically and emotionally.’
She didn’t look surprised, just resentful, and so I asked her, ‘Has Mark ever hurt you, Erin?’
She shook her head vigorously, like she didn’t want to deal with this. And I knew then that he hadn’t changed.
‘He hurt me too,’ I said gently, ‘until I made him stop.’
She seemed to flinch.
Tears were running down my cheeks; the pain of my marriage had always been bubbling under the surface. But it was only now I could see how much I’d been in denial. I had, in effect, become another viewer, a smiling spectator seeing my own marriage through the lens of a TV camera.
‘He didn’t mean to,’ Erin said. ‘He had to slap me because I was becoming hysterical… he spent the night at a hotel, feeling terrible. He loves me so much, you see,’ she said, echoing his lies, his excuses.
‘The truth hurts, Erin, but it’s not as painful as sticking around waiting for the next slap, the next insult… the next woman.’
‘He doesn’t… he wouldn’t. I just need to be a better partner, more supportive—’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘No, you have to accept that it’s impossible for Mark to be faithful.’
Erin was staring down at the carpet; she seemed numb, lost, just as I had been all those years before. ‘It’s not like it was with you,’ she mumbled. ‘He wanted younger women then, and I’m younger than him, I’ll always be younger than him. He won’t need to be unfaithful, he loves me. I know he loves me.’
‘He probably does, in his own way, and he’ll tell you again and again that he loves you. But Mark’s love is worthless, because it isn’t exclusive.’
I was surprised to hear myself talking so candidly to Erin, the woman who’d stolen my husband from me and still seemed hell-bent on taking more from me. We shared something though. We both knew the conflict, the passion and the sheer bloody agony of loving a man like Mark Anderson. We’d both experienced his magic, the way he could make you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, the way you’d wake to find him watching you sleep, and telling you how he couldn’t live without you. We’d experienced the thrill, followed by the pain, and then the thrill again. Fear slicing into soft, warm love, knowing you shouldn’t stay, but for so many reasons, being unable to leave.
‘I read a magazine article recently that said some people are addicted to falling in love,’ I said to her now. ‘Apparently, they constantly seek the initial ecstasy of being with someone new, and all the highs that brings. I think that’s Mark – he falls hard at first and it’s genuine, but he has no desire to move to the next stage, so just keeps seeking the highs, with new women. It is an addiction,’ I added, almost sorry for Erin, but so glad I was now on the other side and able to see everything for what it was.
‘I won’t leave him. I know what you’re trying to do… you want me to hate him, so you can have him back.’ She sounded almost hysterical.
I just kept shaking my head. Erin was so young, and so in Mark’s thrall, she couldn’t see how ridiculous that idea was. ‘I don’t want him, Erin.’
‘Well, let’s face it, I doubt you get many offers, and you’re always meeting up with him under some pretext,’ she spat.
‘It’s not true,’ I said calmly. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I’m so over him, you mustn’t feel threatened by me.’
‘Threatened?’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘You’re no threat, Carly, if you were younger or prettier, I’d be worried, but not…’
She wasn’t the sweetest of people, but I doubted that she was trying to be cruel; she was just confused, and threatened by every female he came into contact with. That’s what men like Mark do to you.
‘I don’t know what he’s telling you, but let me be clear,’ I said. ‘We don’t meet up, hardly ever. And perhaps I’m not young or pretty enough to catch his eye any more, but there will always be someone younger and prettier. Do you really want to live like that, checking his phone, watching his car, following him? It’s painful, and stressful, and it wears you out. I know this because I went through it too in the beginning. Until I realised I had to build a wall around me, and stop loving him. It was the only way I could protect myself.’
She looked at me, her eyes glassy, but finally the hate and fury had left them. Something I’d said had made a connection with her.
‘He went out last night,’ she started. ‘He left me on my own, and Billy wouldn’t settle. I was exhausted, couldn’t sleep wondering where he was. I called and texted but it just went to voicemail and there was no response to my texts, he was ghosting me. So I phoned the pub, but they said he wasn’t there, and I ended up in tears. Billy was crying too and I nearly called my mum, but I knew she’d blame Mark.’
‘Well, it was his fault.’
‘Yeah, but she has a real problem with him, always has, even when he was with you,’ she said, tears filling her eyes. ‘So when I heard his key in the door, I ran out of the bedroom and stood at the top of the stairs. I only asked him where he’d been, I mean, it was two o’clock in the morning, and by then I was totally freaked out. But he didn’t even look at me, just said, “The pub,” and went into the kitchen. So I ran downstairs, told him I’d called the pub, and he wasn’t there, so where had he been?’ She started to cry, quietly, and I reached for a box of tissues from the coffee table, and handed them to her; things were still too raw between us for me to hug her. ‘He… he was just vile, saying I was obsessed, that I was stalking him, and he didn’t know why he was with me. Then he said he wished he’d stayed with you,’ she sniffled. ‘Then when I saw your number on his phone, I thought you were back together; he told me you’d been begging him to come back.’
‘He doesn’t wish he’d stayed with me, he just told you that to make you feel insecure, it’s what he does.’
From being a baby, Erin had spent a lot of time with people who were paid to care for her and almost pushed into other families where she didn’t quite belong. It didn’t take a psychologist to work out why she was with Mark. She’d watched the family, danced around the fringes of people’s lives and chosen the Andersons.
‘What do you think he’d do if I left him?’ she suddenly asked.
I doubt it was what she wanted to hear, but I had to be honest. ‘I think he’d lick his wounds, be sad for a while then move on.’
She shook her head. ‘No. You’re wrong. He’d realise what he’d lost. He’d miss me…’ she said resentfully.
‘Perhaps,’ I humoured her, but I realised then she was beyond help, and as with my kids, I just had to let her find out for herself. Experience is a hard teacher, but in time, like me, she’d learn. I stood up and stretched. ‘I’m going to make myself a cup of tea – would you like some?’ I asked.
She half-nodded, without looking up, just kept staring out of the window at the night.
I went into the kitchen area, and while I made the tea, continued to talk. ‘I understand how you feel, Erin. I loved him once just like you do,’ I said, then, turning back to pour boiling water into the cups, I added gently, ‘He lures you in, you feel so loved and happy, but that’s when he lets go and suddenly you’re flailing around.’ I stopped for a moment, and staring at the wall for inspiration, I tried to explain to her the way he was without sounding bitter or divisive. ‘He has this huge ego,’ I started. ‘His mother treated him like an absolute prince, she spoiled him really. She died before I met him, but if his sister’s anything to go by, I can only imagine,’ I said, laughing. ‘I reckon it was his mother who instilled in him the belief that the people in his life are bit-part players, and he’s the leading man…’
I turned for her reaction, but the sofa where she’d been sitting was empty.
‘Erin?’ I said, moving from the kitchen area into the section where the two sofas sat. But she wasn’t there, so I checked the downstairs toilet, calling her all the time. I then went upstairs to see if she’d gone to check Mark wasn’t waiting for me. But she wasn’t anywhere – and I came back into the sitting area and saw the white muslin curtain blowing in the breeze. The huge, glass bifold doors had been opened – and she’d gone.
Was she bored of listening and just decided to leave? It was possible. Erin had never been big on manners. I popped my head out of the window to see if she was still around, but it was so dark and windy I could barely see anything, so came back inside, closed the glass doors and drank my tea. But then I started to wonder about her mental state and her safety. You only had to climb over a fence at the bottom of our garden to be on the cliff edge. What if, in her rather emotional, erratic state, she’d fallen, or worse, done something stupid?
I was now very concerned, so grabbed a torch and headed outside. As I stepped into the garden, thunder clapped in the distance; the threatened storm was on its way. Wading through the darkness, I was becoming quite scared. The possibility of Erin throwing herself from the cliffs was stark, and real. What if the pain of loving Mark was so unbearable, the only way Erin felt she could leave him was to end her life? And what if, in my attempt to share the truth, I’d actually metaphorically given her the final push?
The hawthorn rattled; the wind was getting stronger. I shuddered, not knowing what the hell to do. And now the rain started, and the further I went down the garden, the nearer I was to the sea, I could hear the waves roaring, and the air was tinged with salt and fear. The thunder boomed, and seconds later lightning lit the sky, flashing the garden with brightness, allowing me to see briefly beyond the meagre reach of the torch, but there was nothing but an empty vista.
I stood right on the edge of the garden, the sea swirling beneath me, the tang of salt on my lips from the spray, and I wanted to cry. I felt so helpless, but continued on, calling her name and flashing the torch. But the wind was whipping up now, and snatching my voice. I turned and looked back at the house; it seemed a long way away. But suddenly, I felt a lurch in my gut. Something, or someone, was moving behind the glass. Had Erin gone back inside?
I started to run up the garden towards the house, still calling her name, but losing it to the wind and rain. What if it wasn’t her inside, and while I’d been out here looking for her, someone had got inside? As I approached the house, breathless from running, I saw the side gate was open – had the latch loosened in the wind, or had someone let themselves in? My heart began pounding. I needed to get inside and grab my phone, so I could call the police.
Taking a deep breath, I walked carefully onto the patio, trying to stay along the edge, so if someone was inside the house, they wouldn’t see me. Slowly, I approached, holding my breath. I reached the glass doors, and stopped. They’d been closed. I’d definitely left them ajar. And my phone inside. And I was outside. I could see it now, through the glass doors, sitting on the coffee table, so near and yet so far. I barely felt the rain on my face, the cold wind now chasing me like a madman up the garden. I just had to get my phone.
I grabbed the edge of the door and, while keeping my eyes on every corner of the room, slowly started to open it. Gathering all my strength, I heaved the glass door open, trying not to make a sound, trying desperately to stay on my feet. Still holding the door with one hand, I leaned over, one foot inside, one out, and bent down to where my phone sat on the coffee table. I saw my own hand touch it, and just as I did, was aware of another hand reaching for mine. My scalp prickled as I slowly looked up.