The Commuter

Chapter 4

Waking the next morning, I feel across our super-king-size bed for Anthony, but he's already up. The room is dim, and beyond the closed curtains rain patters against the window pane. I allow myself a moment to wallow while the threads of my dreams dissipate. And then I remember what happened last night.

I sit up abruptly and swing my legs out of bed, reach for the gown I discarded in a pool on the carpet and run downstairs. Anthony is in the kitchen, sweeping the floor in his paisley dressing gown, his feet in garden clogs. It's an incongruous sight. His calves are splayed with blue varicose veins like an aerial picture of a river delta.

There were three rooms I wasn't allowed to touch when I moved here: Anthony's office, Caroline's bedroom and the kitchen. Anthony's ex-wife, Mia, designed the kitchen. To be honest, I wouldn't have ripped it out even if Anthony had given permission. It is effortlessly beautiful, with its clotted-cream cabinets, vast brushed-steel range, butler sink and York stone floor.

'Put something on your feet before you come in,' he says, seeing me standing there. 'There's broken glass.'

I lean in. 'I think my slippers are under the sofa.'

Anthony chucks them over. I slide my feet into them and pick my way across the floor.

'Why are you clearing up Caroline's mess? She should do it herself.'

'I told her to go back to bed. It'll only take me a minute. I'd rather she slept it off. I gather the evening got a little out of hand.' He sweeps the shards into a dustpan, tips them into an open newspaper, parcels them up and stuffs it all into the bin.

'You do know she attacked some poor guy last night?'

'You saw it happen?' Anthony's mouth has tightened. I know that look. Caroline is his little princess and thus beyond criticism.

'I didn't actually see her attack him,' I admit. 'I woke up when the row was in full swing.'

'There's no blood, so she can only have nicked him. She says it was an accident.'

'She was accusing him of something, Anthony. She lost her temper.'

He harrumphs. 'Do we know who the man was?'

'No idea. I didn't see his face. You need to talk to her. She can't go on like this, she's abusing our hospitality.'

'She isn't abusing our hospitality, she lives here. This is her home.'

I experience a wave of tiredness. I was awake for over two hours last night, thanks to Caroline's antics, and I don't have the patience for Anthony's blinkered pandering. 'No it isn't. It's our home. She's an adult. Can't you see that persuading her to leave would be the kindest thing you could do for her?'

You'd think Caroline was the only child to witness her parents' divorce, the only child asked to tolerate, if not to love, her father's new partner. With maturity comes understanding. The trouble is, Caroline shows no sign of reaching that heady state. Early on in my marriage I was optimistic. I would sit it out. She didn't need a new mother but I would do my best to be a companion and mentor. Caroline would go to university, get a job, move in with friends or a partner and grow up. It was doomed to failure from the start. I was far too young to be put in that position, too wrapped up in Anthony, too selfish. Anthony should have known better, but that doesn't let Caroline off the hook. She's still entitled, spoiled and malicious.

'I told you when we got together that Caroline would always come first,' he says.

Anthony sees supporting Caroline's acting career by making it unnecessary for her to find a proper job as simply paying his dues.

'Yes, you did. But she's no longer your little girl. She's too old to let a date get out of hand. She could have done serious damage.'

'According to you, he walked away, so don't exaggerate.'

I'm so exasperated that the words explode from me. 'Your daughter doesn't understand how the world works. She doesn't care who she hurts or what she breaks. She goes too far and expects you to forgive her every single time. The trouble with Caroline is she cannot understand her own failure, or learn from it. She is never going to succeed in acting. She is mediocre at best. She needs to get a grip, get a job and get out of here. And away from you. For God's sake, Anthony, not only did you spoil her as a child, you risk ruining her as an adult. You need to stop funding her delusions. If you don't, then you're as deluded as she is.'

And suddenly it's there, so entirely unexpected that I don't have time to react. His arm pulls back, and as I recoil, the palm of his hand catches my jaw. I stagger, my hip colliding with the table. I grab the back of a chair and bring it down with me.

Anthony yells, his voice cracking over me like a whip. 'You will respect me. Do you understand?'

I've never seen him like this. The force of his fury is terrifying. I push away the chair and get up off the floor, trembling violently but determined not to cry.

We stand and stare at each other, and after a minute or two he coughs and mumbles something. At that moment, Caroline walks in. She's dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a T-shirt with a hole where the seam is coming apart at the shoulder, raven hair bunched up. Caroline makes scruffy look enticing.

'Bit of an atmosphere in here,' she says, going to the sink and rinsing out a cloth. 'Have I interrupted something?'

She starts to wipe the surfaces. Anthony looks at me beseechingly, but I ignore him. He can explain himself to his daughter.

'We were discussing last night,' he says.

'I am so sorry, Daddy.' Caroline glances at me from beneath her lashes. I look away.

'You don't need to apologise,' Anthony says. 'Did he hurt you?'

'No. He just wound me up. He . . . um . . . we aren't exclusive, and I didn't know that. He's been hooking up with women he meets online. He said it didn't matter, but it does.'

Anthony heaves a sigh. 'Christ. Your bloody generation.'

I leave them and go upstairs to shut myself in the bathroom, rinse a flannel in cold water and press it against my cheek. Did Caroline notice the red welt? I sit on the side of the bath and wait for the anger and shock to abate. My mother hit me because I wouldn't grovel and apologise, my husband because I made him face himself.

No one's marriage is perfect; you compromise and bargain and cut each other slack, but you do not get physical. The received wisdom is that if a partner hits you, there are no second chances, but as I calm down, I take a mental step back. This is familiar territory after all. I left my parents, walked out into an unknown landscape, so I can do it again. But do I want to? I don't think I do. For one thing, I would be miserable; for another, Caroline would win.

He is my husband and I will deal with this. I'm not that child cowering in front of her mother like a frightened dog. But if there is a next time, I will leave.

I check my appearance in the mirror, pull the scrunchie out of my hair and brush it so that it falls forward, then go back downstairs and find Anthony on his own. I look straight at him. There is no shame in his eyes. Anthony doesn't do shame or guilt. It took me a long time to realise that. It isn't something he even thinks about; it just is.

Caroline has a cupboard in the kitchen in which she keeps her snacks, and later, when she's out meeting a friend and Anthony has gone to the gym, I steal chocolate chip cookies and Lion bars, crisps and marshmallows, and wolf them down, in my head the sight of myself in the mirror as a child, pudgy and pasty.

I'm so sorry about my daughter. She's greedy.

When I can't eat any more, my teeth aching from the sweetness, I go upstairs to lie down. I will not throw up. I will not start that again. It's been years since the last time. I smooth my hand over the tight mound of my belly, then moan and run into the bathroom, sinking to my knees by the loo, retching, eyes weeping, fingers probing, until it's all gone.

By Monday, we're pretending nothing happened. It's caused a weird kind of separation, like a chemical reaction, his swiftly raised hand flicking me out of the well-worn groove of my life. Amongst all the other emotions swirling around me, weirdly, I feel embarrassed for both of us.

The beautiful morning doesn't suit my mood. I'd rather have unbroken grey and drizzle, but the air is fresh and cool, the sun already warming the approach to the station. The manager of the deli unfolds his chalkboard, kneeling to make an adjustment with a stub of yellow chalk. I usually like the brisk tapping sound it makes - like Morse code - but now it scratches at my nerves. The florist brings out buckets of white roses tinged with green, bluish-pink hydrangeas, fragrant stocks and branches of pussy willow. She wishes me a good morning, and I nod and attempt a cheery smile even though I feel sad. Anthony has often bought me flowers here.

I've left Anthony at home, working in his study. He cut down his days in the office after the pandemic, and since his heart...