The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty Two

At the sound of the front door opening, I almost jump out of my skin. I pull myself forward on the chair, right to the edge, and straighten my spine as he comes into the room. He's carrying two paper grocery bags and two other bags with designer brand names on them. He casts a glance over at me as he crosses to the kitchen, dumping the bags on the worktop.

I'd cleared the half-cooked pancakes away after I'd showered. I'd also tidied this room and stripped the bedsheets upstairs — of course, I knew clearing the evidence was pointless but I felt like I should do it out of respect and decency. I'd cried the entire time. Pathetic, self-inflicted, self-pitying tears that had drained me completely. I wasn't even sure what I was crying about. Everything.

Oliver pulls a bottle of something out of one of the bags, Jack Daniels probably, and opens a few cupboards until he finds a small crystal tumbler which he fills halfway. He takes three large gulps and then refills it. His shoulders are hunched tightly together as he leans over the counter and stares into his glass. I can hear him breathing from here. Long deep breaths that make me feel tenser on each inhale. I count four repetitions before he lifts his glass and the bottle, and turns around and walks towards me. His sparkling blue eyes catch mine and he holds them as he crosses the room and sits down across on the couch opposite where I'm sitting. The couch Aidan fucked me on two days ago.

He sits back, spreading his legs, and brings his glass to his mouth. His eyes never leave mine but his expression is unreadable. He seems in a different mood to the one he left in.

"He gone then?" He asks as he swallows.

I nod as I pull at the untidy nip of skin around my thumb. "He's gone."

He nods slowly, mouth in a hard line. Then he scrubs a hand over his face and sighs loudly. "I came to surprise you. Thought it would be nice for us to spend some time away together. I know how much you hate the city." he says.

"I don't hate it," I tell him. I don't. I hate myself.

He looks skeptical. "Things were pretty much wrapped up after the first meeting. Was some false threat about one of the big clients shifting assets after they lost some money. They wanted someone from New York over to show we were seriously sorry," he tells me.

"I understand."

A cut of sadness moves into his eyes. "I missed you. I was worried about you. I always worry about you. Ever since that day."

I glance down, unsure whether to speak or remain utterly silent. "You don't have to worry about me, Oliver."

"You're my wife, Eloise. My wife who not three months ago almost died from a fucking overdose. How do I not worry about you?"

"It was an accid—."

"An accident, I know," he cuts in. His eyes bore into mine. "Was fucking Aidan Foley an accident too?"

I take only a moment to consider it. Then I shake my head. "No."

His eyes flicker with something. "How long?"

"Not long."

He nods, but his expression doesn't change. "Why?"

"Why, what?"

"An affair? Him? I mean how is it that you let him inside you when I have to beg for the tiniest scrap of intimacy from you, El?" He asks. As his words hang in the air between us I try and think of an answer for him, an explanation for him but I have none. "I thought it was the baby, you know. I just thought you were in pain and grieving and heartbroken. How could I complain about our sex life when you'd just carried and lost our child? When our child had died inside you?" He asks.