Tonight, the clocks go back. Not far enough, sadly. For a moment I fantasise that I might wake up tomorrow to find time has rewound not just by a single hour, but by four thousand, three hundred and eighty hours. Six whole months.
Perhaps then I would be able to breathe.
My fantasy is interrupted by the sound of splashing water. Russell is taking a shower, but he isn’t whistling. He always whistles as he soaps his body, and much as the relentless chirpiness of the sound has been known to irritate me, right now I would give anything to hear it again. But why would he whistle? He’s as miserable as I am. The only difference is that he doesn’t know why. I hope he never has to.
An ice bucket sits on the table, glistening with a cold, metallic sheen, beads of condensation forming on its surface, converging into tiny droplets that trickle down its sides like tears. I stare at myself in the mirror and try out a smile. It’s not convincing.
The weight of my mistakes sits heavily on my shoulders. Sometimes it’s an effort to move, to perform the simplest of tasks.
The desire to unburden myself is overpowering, but while I might feel some relief, it would only pass the load to my husband – a good man who doesn’t deserve what I’ve done to him. What I’m still doing to him. He knows there is a barrier between us, one he has no idea how to break down, and I’m certain he’s hoping that a week away in this lovely hotel is going to solve our problems.
It won’t, but the least I can do is make an effort and allow him to believe that everything is okay.
As the bathroom door opens I blink away the tears which, despite my best efforts, are pooling in my eyes, and pick up a blusher brush to make some pretence at getting ready for dinner.
‘Champagne, darling?’ Russell says, advancing towards me with a towel wrapped around his waist.
Watching him in the mirror, I can see two lines of confusion between his brows. I’ve been out of the shower for half an hour, but I’m still in a bathrobe, sitting at the dressing table, nowhere near ready. He checks his watch and the frown deepens. He hates to be late, although our table at the hotel’s restaurant is reserved for the whole evening and I don’t think ten minutes either way will make any difference.
He resists the urge to ask why I’m taking so long to get dressed and lifts the champagne from the bucket. As he pops the cork it flies into the air and the wine cascades down the sides of the bottle.
‘Oops,’ he says with a failed attempt at a chuckle. ‘I’ve never perfected the knack, have I? Never mind – it feels more of a celebration.’ He looks into my eyes in the mirror. ‘And it is a celebration, Juliette. I know you’ve found the last few months difficult, but we’re okay, you and me. We’re a good team.’
He hands me a glass with one hand, gently stroking my hair with the other. With a breath, I turn from the mirror towards him.
‘We are,’ I tell him, raising my glass to his. ‘And I love you.’
That’s true, and never more so than now. I love his predictability, his desire to make me happy, his perpetual good humour. But there’s a void between us. Where we used to knit together, there is now emptiness, and I don’t know how to fix it. Anything I do, anything I try, will inevitably make matters so much worse.
Russell casts another surreptitious glance at his watch.
‘Why don’t you get dressed, Russ, and go and have a drink in the bar while I finish getting ready? Ask them to let the restaurant know that your wife is being slow to get her act together.’
He nods, looking relieved, and finds a teaspoon from the tea tray to pop upside down in the neck of the champagne bottle. ‘This will keep it fizzy. We can finish it later.’
With that, he heads to the wardrobe. He will already know what he’s going to wear. He may have even hung his clothes in order of days and evenings. He is methodical, organised and believes I can do no wrong.
Sadly, he’s mistaken.