Look What You Made Me Do by Nikki Smith

Author:Nikki Smith [Smith, Nikki]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409193029
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2021-03-07T16:00:00+00:00

SATURDAY

Caroline

I hear Rob’s car pull into the driveway. He’s back later than usual from work. He hasn’t spoken to me today, coming home last night from work bringing with him an atmosphere so charged with frustration I’d almost been able to touch it, like static electricity on a balloon. I’d watched as he’d paced around the kitchen, keeping my distance by taking my time to lay the table; a grotesque dance that I choreographed in a similar way each night.

I hadn’t thought it was possible to be so invisible, to be looked through, rather than at, as if my skin and internal organs were wholly transparent. Ever since I’d had Adam, he’d avoided looking at me directly, as if he couldn’t quite fathom what I’d become. He’d watched me breastfeeding when we’d first got home from the hospital and had gone out shortly after, returning with dozens of cartons of formula milk. I’d known, without him saying, that he couldn’t bear the bond he’d seen between us, as if love was a finite thing that had to be shared and he’d known he’d end up with less than he had before.

Before we’d had Adam, I’d recognised when he’d been stressed before he’d even spoken by the way he came through the door. I’d been able to make him laugh as I’d wrapped my arms around him and he’d kissed my hair, feeling our closeness as a single heartbeat.

Last night he’d come downstairs and had poured himself a large whisky, dropping the ice cubes into the dark liquid with such force, it had splashed over the side of the glass onto the granite surface of the counter. I’d been careful not to look at him whilst he was doing it, not wanting to give him an excuse to find somewhere to direct his exasperation. Sometimes I delude myself into thinking my avoidance tactics work, that I’ve found a way to make myself invisible, a way of neutralising his potential attack. But I know that’s not true. There isn’t a strategy that works. His unpredictability makes him lethal.

I’d been late to meet him on our fourth date as my train had been delayed. He’d punched a wall in front of me and then had apologised, telling me he’d thought I’d decided not to come. I’d told him he didn’t need to worry. That I wouldn’t leave him. That it would be OK. And I was arrogant enough to believe it would. That I could fix him. As if he was a piece of machinery where a part was missing, and I just needed to find a spare which I could slot in and then he’d function in the same way as everyone else. I hadn’t realised it was an impossible task. That a whole system of wiring and connections had somehow got tangled up and whether it had been his parents’ divorce, or the fact that he hadn’t fitted in at school, I hadn’t been able to work out how to put him back together.

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