Valerie

VI: Dr. Bertrand

Mark's sitting at the kitchen table doing the crossword in the Evening Standard. His straight, dark eyebrows are drawn together, a frown creasing his forehead as he suck thoughtfully at the end of his biro. I wonder if I should call out to him, but there doesn't seem much point. He must have heard the door opening. If he wanted to talk to me, he would have by now. 

I take of my coat and scarf, and set down my heavy bags at the foot of the stairs. Then I take a deep breath and march straight into the kitchen. Mark looks up as I enter, then looks pointedly at his watch. 

"Was the train delayed?"

He's angry. I can see the vein in his temple pulsating beneath his close-cropped, steel-grey hair, the fierce bright light burning in his eyes. But his voice betrays none of this.

I shake my head.

"On the contrary, the public transport was remarkably good for this time of year."

"It's gone nine thirty."

I shrug nonchalantly.

"I know."

"Did you get the milk?"

I look at him blankly.

"The what?"

"The milk. We ran out this morning. You said you'd get some on your way home."

I remember now.

"No. I forget."

"Never mind." He folds up his newspaper and stands up. "I'll go and get some now."

Maybe he isn't as angry as I first thought.

"Don't bother," I say quietly.

"It'll only take ten minutes. I'll nip out to the corner shop."

"But it closes nine."

"Then I'll take the car and go to Sainsbury's. It won't take long."

"But you might get stuck in traffic," I protest. "Leave it 'til tomorrow; we can survive without milk."

"No, we can't. We both have cereal in the morning and you won't drink your coffee black."

"I can have a herbal tea, and there's always toast."

"But that isn't necessary." He moves towards the car keys lying on the work surface. "I'll be fifteen minutes, tops-"

"For fuck's sake, Mark, just leave the bloody milk." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I move towards him, intercepting him as he reaches for the keys, and lay my hands soothingly on his shoulders. He's at least a foot taller than me, so I have to stand on the tips of my toes. "I thought maybe we could spend some time together this evening...?"

"Oh really?" His eyebrows raise sharply, and I realise that he is angry, far angrier than I first suspected. "You want to spend time together. Time so precious, that you can't bear for it to be delayed by fifteen minutes. But obviously not so important that you could come home just a little earlier to make the most of it."

I sigh and turn away.

"Mark, it's not like that. My job demands that I put in the extra hours - that's all there is to it. Tonight there were some emails that needed doing."

"And what about last night, when you said you'd be back at seven thirty and then didn't bother to text me until nine o'clock. Or the night before? Or on Sunday, when you cancelled lunch with Sue and Martin so that you could go into the bloody hospital. And what will it be tomorrow night? And the night after?"

He snatches up the car keys, wrenches open the front door, and storms off into the night. 

Two hours later I swallow two Aspirins and large glass of water and go to bed.

At 2:14 (according to our somewhat unreliable digital alarm), I hear the click of the front lock being open, and a few moments later Mark stumbles into the bedroom.

"Joanne," he whispers. He voice is rough with drink, and I can smell is breath, warm and pungent, a combination and stale smoke and whisky. 

I keep my eyes tight shut and pretend to be asleep. In any other state he'd be able to tell right away that I was faking. But now he just clambers clumsily beneath the sheets, and is asleep within seconds.

I lie awake, staring blindly into the darkness. I can hear Mark's drunken snores beside me, but it's not them that keep me awake.

It's the ceaseless, aching sense of guilt.

Mark doesn't drink. He just doesn't. I haven't seen him inebriated once in all the years I've been married too him. A single flute of champagne at our wedding. A glass of sherry on New Year's Eve. A mouthful of mulled wine at Christmas. The occasional beer when socialising necessitated it. But no more.

Back when he trusted me, he told me why intoxication had never appealed to him.

But it's me that's pushed him this far.

They say people drink to drown their sorrows.

Maybe it's me he's trying to drown.