The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The four-story townhouse in Kingston Upon Thames ought to have felt like a home away from home. It used to be a safe haven before the erasure of past events and experiences brought on by the incapacitating condition of retrograde amnesia.

There was a time when I loved staying here, enveloped in contemporary décor, replete with cutting-edge appliances and steeped in opulent grandeur. But three weeks of luxuriousness later, I find myself consumed by a deep longing for my real home: the beachside cliff house.

I never thought I would say this, but I longed for seaside picturesqueness and the versatile usefulness of the village. I missed my friends, the placement at The Mystic Willow and the congeniality of the beach.

In the city, the hustle and bustle, incessant noise, relentless traffic and the commute of strangers is overwhelming. How ironic that while residing in one of the busiest and most vibrant metropolises in Great Britain, I had never felt so alone and isolated.

The infrequency of my husband's presence had cast a dark cloud of loneliness over our townhouse, and his once-predictable office hours, which spanned from seven in the morning to seven at night or even later, led me to idle away the hours or impulsively venturing into town to make unwanted purchases.

Gone are the days when my husband's return, typically no later than eight, heralded the delivery of a three-course meal in a takeaway bag or an excursion to an exclusive restaurant. I consider myself fortunate if he graced the master bedroom by ten at night.

Daniel's nocturnal foraging expeditions for late-night meals caused an even deeper pang of hurt as I pretended to be asleep in bed. His presumption that food would have been prepared and left for him in the oven or the microwave resonated as a poignant commentary on the shifting dynamics of our marriage. It is a sad, pathetic realisation that, like a good, compliant wife, I have caved to the role of assuring that he never experienced hunger after long days of networking with investors, even though he deserved to starve for the unwarranted coldness towards me.

My husband did not disturb my faux slumber when he eventually came to the master bedroom at night. His movements, often characterised by an air of stealth, transpired whilst I lay in bed, sad, lonely and depressed.

One could conceivably argue that he was being mindful, that he did not wish to disrupt my peaceful slumber, and hence, he fostered a tranquil environment for me to secure much-needed rest.

However, I hold an alternative perspective. His actions were not driven by my need for repose; instead, they were rooted in a desire for evasion. He sought to escape an impromptu late-night conversation with his wife or a potential argument. It was more convenient for him if I remained uninvolved—if I granted him the freedom to navigate this situation without my interference.

His night-time routine consisted of a long shower, comfortable pyjamas, and a book by the lamp. Much later, he would carefully climb into bed, making sure not to wake me up, then turn onto his side and keep his back to me, a wide gap between us. No kiss, no goodnight. Then he would snore loudly, so loudly, that I had to shove a pillow over my head to block out his unrestrained breathing.

As the hush of the night descended upon the city, tears silently welled in my eyes, their silent descent mirroring the unspoken anguish that painfully tugged at my heartstrings.

Lost in a chain of memories, I retraced the path that had led to our once vibrant marriage to its present state of irreparable ruin to the emptiness that had seeped into the very fabric of our bond.

Has our mutual taciturnity, knit from concealed misgivings and unresolved strife, brought us to this standstill?

The uncharted territory of undiscussed matters now stands between us.