Cold Feet

It’s been 6 months since Tom lost his life. We’d fought that night, the neighbours had heard us shouting at each other before Tom drove off, leaving me on the driveway staring at his tail lights. I didn’t know where he planned to go. The police told me he’d been driving under the influence, and they concluded that he wasn’t thinking straight, that emotional distress had clouded his judgement, that anger had tempted him to drink and drive. And I became a very wealthy widow.

At the funeral I met Rob, an old friend of Tom’s, and we grieved together, friends at first, lovers later. People gossiped - he was a rebound, a coping mechanism - but weeks turned into months and when he eventually moved in no one was surprised. 

Now we co-exist in a simple, but harmonious, rhythm. Every weekday, early in the morning, Rob leaves for the office while I remain here and work from home, Juno the cat following me around the house. In the evenings we share the cooking and talk over the day’s events while we chop and stir and sip our wine. On weekends we get coffee, stroll around the park, and plan the future. We want to start a family, once we’re married. We have long discussions over things like potential names, and the pros and cons of home-schooling. Rob’s kind, gentle attentiveness makes me happier than I ever thought possible. 

This morning is like any other. I wake as Rob gently presses his lips to my forehead in a tender goodbye. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air. Juno’s been fed and she purrs contentedly next to me, a black, fuzzy ball of cuteness. I lie there for a while feeling warm and content.

While brushing my teeth I admire my hair in the mirror. It’s been styled into a French-bob, something I’d never have dared when Tom was around. He preferred it long, paid for expensive extensions so that I could keep it at waist length. Now the locks bounce lightly about my head. When I’d returned from the salon, Rob had run his hands through them, and said, “look at you, all gorgeous and sophisticated. Or sophia-sticated, should I say”, and I’d laughed at the cheesy pun on my name, and kissed him.

Smiling at the memory, I head downstairs to my home office, the winter sun caressing me through the tall window that runs the length of the staircase. As I reach the bottom I glimpse a flash of crimson through the glass panes in the front door, and the doorbell rings. Intrigued, I open it to see a huge bouquet of red roses sitting on the mat. Typical Rob, surprising me with flowers for no reason at all. I scoop them up, looking for a delivery person to thank, but I don’t see anyone. Strange, I think.

I give the bouquet pride of place in my office. There must be two dozen roses and they dwarf my desk, taking an inordinate amount of space, but I don’t mind. Looking at them I feel a glow in my chest.

‘Thanks, handsome!’ I text Rob, with a picture, and a long accompaniment of heart, rose and kiss emojis, before settling down to my emails. But my phone soon pings with his reply.

‘Not from me. They look great though! From a client?’

I stare at his text. Red roses have such romantic connotations it seems unlikely one of my clients would have chosen them for a gift. I look through the flowers, pushing each bud aside, searching for a card. The thorns scratch at my hands, and I’m left with nothing but a criss-cross of angry welts on my skin.

The feeling I’ve forgotten something important is making me uneasy and I don’t want these on my desk anymore. I hoist the vase up and into the kitchen, placing it on the island. My mind is still running through potential senders when the sound of the post dropping through the letterbox reaches me. Bingo.

My pulse quickening slightly, I sift through bills and junk until I find what I’m looking for - a firmer, card-shaped envelope. I rip it open, impatiently, then freeze when I see it. At the bottom are two hearts with cartoon faces, holding hands, and above, in red letters, is the silly message “There’s no one else I’d rather warm my cold feet on”. In a flash I relive the moment I identified Tom’s body in the chilled morgue. The image makes me shudder.

I reluctantly open the card to read the typed message inside. “Happy Anniversary baby! Hope you didn’t forget. Can’t wait to see you later...”

A mix of emotions rush through me, horror tinged with disgust. Today is mine and Tom’s wedding anniversary. I’d managed to push the date to the back of my head. It’s uncanny - this must be someone’s sick-minded idea of a joke. But who? My mind races.

It occurs to me that Tom’s secretary might have placed the order before he died, and then forgotten to cancel. Six months in advance seems extreme, but Tom had always given her full responsibility for ‘frivolous’ (his term) things like gifts, so maybe she’d sorted everything out in one go at the start of the year. I thought back to birthdays, Christmases, Valentine’s Days - everything was organised by his efficient, discerning secretary. I hadn’t known at first. I was blown away by his generosity, the beautiful jewellery, the large, expensive boxes of chocolates, how well he remembered dates that other men forgot so easily. 

Feeling disturbed, I march back to the kitchen and scoop the flowers into a plastic bag. I pause - there’s something so sinister about that card - then chuck it in too and quickly throw the lot into the outside bin. It’s gone, I won’t have to look at it again. Mentally, I practise a lie for Rob later. “They were for a neighbour, got left outside our door by mistake.” I’ll lightly chuckle at how incompetent the delivery driver is. I don’t like lying, but I don’t want to upset him.

I return to my padded office chair, intending to do some work, but images of Tom nag at me - his expensive clothes, his confidence, his charm. He was from a rich family, had risen easily to the role of CEO and swept me off my feet with lavish meals and fancy holidays. As the daughter of a mechanic I’d never seen such extravagance. I’d always wanted a big family and, with his huge house and flashy car, he’d painted pictures of a beautiful life that I couldn’t resist.

I understood, too late, that it wasn’t a partnership. I went from being an independent woman - the sort who could change her own tyres- to just another accessory. He wanted control over everything, and image was of the highest importance. I’d been a skinny little thing when we first met but later, after marriage, I gained weight, and he’d say things like, “You’re smart, Sophia, I love your mind, I really do, but I need someone who’s going to represent me, you need to look the part.”

He was obsessed with keeping healthy and fit. Making green juice, taking supplements, working out, drinking kombucha. Always that stupid kombucha.

I feel a chill, despite the heat inside the house, and wonder if I’m getting ill. I’m still uneasy about those deliveries. Shaking my head to dislodge the memories of Tom, I come to a decision. I text Rob that I’m coming down with something and taking the rest of the day off work. Then I head to the cellar.

It’s freezing down here. The space can be temperature controlled, but I turned the system off after Tom’s death, and haven’t been in the room since. The sight of the neat shelving filled with glass bottles makes my skin crawl. It’s where Tom brewed his precious kombucha. 

“Gut health - it’s the key to everything” he’d enthused, after watching some viral video. I’d tried it once, and gagged, “Tastes like gone-off wine,” at the sour, vinegar-y flavour. He’d laughed at me. “It’s half a percent max, hardly wine-strength. Takes a refined palette to appreciate it.” By then, he was drinking a bottle religiously, morning and night, and had learned to brew it himself so he could control the flavour. That was Tom, never one to let a health fad pass him by.

I start hauling the bottles into the hallway, determined to clear these last remnants of him out of the house. The rest of his belongings went a long time ago, but I couldn’t face the kombucha before.

I’m about halfway through when the doorbell goes again. What now? My heart is pounding from exercise and, I realise, fear. Feeling annoyed at myself - there’s nothing to be afraid of - I open the door to a box on the mat, and no one in sight. This is beyond weird. I don’t want to open this box. I place it on the hallway table and glance at myself in the mirror above - my face looks flushed and oddly feverish - before turning for the cellar. I lift another round of bottles before I give in, curiosity gnawing at me.

Under layers of tissue paper is a newborn baby onesie. At the sight of it, cold sweat forms a filmy layer on my skin. Nestled on top is a tiny envelope, and my fingers shake so much that opening it is a struggle. Inside is a membership card for the upmarket gym Tom was always pestering me to visit, my name flashing on the plastic in gold lettering.

I drop the box, my hands over my face. Someone’s playing a stupid prank, I think. But underneath is another voice. No one knew about the baby. No one except me and Tom.

“Don’t be stupid,” I say out loud, “it’s impossible.” Moments of that final night with Tom flicker through my mind. The fight after I showed him the pregnancy test. The jeering expression on his face. That nasty, sneering tone as he said “We can’t start a family now. How can we have a baby when you can’t even take care of yourself? Your business is stalling, you’re not keeping fit. You’re falling behind, Sophia.” The threat in his voice as he told me I’d better have ‘sorted it out’ by the time he got back. The hollow feeling I had when he stormed off to pack a bag.

I stand up and take a deep breath. I force myself to think of Rob. Of his kind face, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkle from smiling whenever we talk about having children. He’s my life now. He’s my future. I love him, for loving me, for not trying to change me.

Shivering, I drop my hands, determined to finish what I’ve started, but catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and scream. Behind me is Tom, his face twisted in mocking judgement. I whirl around, ready to flee, but the hallway is empty. Turning back, my pounding heart so loud I can hear it, I see nothing. The kombucha, I think. It’s irrational, but suddenly it’s overwhelming, I have to remove that last trace of him from the house.

I work quickly now, the adrenalin driving me on. When the cellar is cleared I shuttle the bottles straight into my car, not bothering to empty them first as I’d originally planned. Overwhelmed by urgency and need, I race to the nearest landfill site, and I hurl each bottle into the pit, enjoying the satisfying smash as the glass shatters on the concrete bottom. He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, the splintering containers seem to say. The box with the baby onesie goes over the edge too and lies soaking in the reddish-orange liquid.

*

On the drive back I’m still shaking. My mind is fuzzy and I remember I haven’t eaten all day. That must be why. Dusk is setting in and, as I pull into the driveway, I decide I’m going to crank up the heating, cook something, and snuggle Juno until Rob gets home from work. He’ll hug me and we’ll laugh together about my sudden neurotic need to clear out the cellar. I’ll feel safe again, with Rob.

Approaching the front door I notice a glow through the window and my insides turn icy. The lights are on in the kitchen. Who is in my house? The door’s unlocked. I think of Tom, and my thumping heart tells me to flee. Don’t be stupid. I grab something heavy and creep through the house. Juno runs past me, away from whoever it is, her fur standing on end. I hear clattering noises. Then, rounding the corner, I suddenly relax, feeling a nervous laugh bubble up from my stomach. It’s Rob. He turns and smiles, but my laugh turns into a choke as I see those terrible red roses sitting on the kitchen island, the card beside them.

“What…?” I begin, but he’s beside me, steering me to a stool.

“Where have you been?” He doesn’t stop to let me speak. “You’re so pale, hon, here, sit down. I came home early after I saw your text, sounded like you needed taking care of. As soon as I saw…” He gestures to the card. “It all made sense. Can’t imagine how you’re feeling. Want another glass of wine? Might help with the shock.”

“That sounds nice.” I say, my foggy brain slowly processing his chatter. “Wait, what do you mean ‘another’?”

“There was a used glass on the counter when I got in, so I assumed…” He frowns. “Maybe you should get into bed, I can bring food through when it’s ready.”

“No, I’ll be ok here,” I try to hide my chattering teeth. I don’t want to be on my own. Wine will calm my nerves. “Wine sounds great.”

Muddled thoughts jumble around as I drink, watching him deftly move about the kitchen, preparing a lasagne. He knows it’s my favourite comfort food. He always takes such good care of me. How did the flowers get back in the house? I should plan something nice for Rob, show my gratitude. But who sent the card? Who knew about the baby?

My head is spinning. I can’t think straight. I look around the room, trying to find a steady point to focus on. Something other than Rob’s moving figure. And then, in the reflection on the huge, glass patio doors, I see Tom. He’s sitting next to me, looking intently at my face, swinging his car keys on one finger.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I whimper, scrambling off the stool, but I’m trembling so much that my foot slips and I fall, cracking my head on the edge of the marble. The world goes black, before I come to, mumbling “I didn’t plan it, it just happened, I was so sick of not being good enough.” Rob is there, standing over me, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’m calling an ambulance,” he says, and I sob “I’m sorry” from my foetal position on the floor. When he doesn’t reply I look up and see that he looks repulsed, his usually tender expression hard. How much have I said? Does he know?

This unbearable thought gives me strength. I get up, grab his arms and start gabbling. I need to explain, I love him so much, I can’t lose him like this, I won’t let Tom win.

“He wanted me to have an abortion, he was horrible, it was awful, he critisised me all the time, my weight, my work, even the way I speak, and I didn’t mean for him to die, I just wanted him to know how it felt, to be so completely out of control…”

My face is wet and I know I’m not making sense. How can I explain it? The way something snapped in me that night. The vodka in his kombucha. The loosened wheel nuts on his car. The miscarriage only days afterwards.

I try to wipe away the tears but through the blur I see Tom standing there, looking down at me, smiling triumphantly, knowingly. I run for the door.

MailToday Online

Local Woman Dies in Tragic Accident

Small business owner, Sophia Cowley, died last week in a tragic accident mirroring that of her late husband, Tom Cowley, erstwhile CEO of SynthX Tech. Sophia was reportedly driving under the influence when she lost control of her vehicle. Friends and family expressed shock, noting this was unusual behaviour for Sophia, who had allegedly been struggling with severe emotional strain since the death of her husband. Authorities confirmed no other vehicles were involved.