Loving Alina

1. ALINA Invasive thoughts were rushing through my head. The memory of walking into my home to see my husband Owen in the middle of an emotive conversation with another woman. Callie. Owens colleague. I looked between them a number of times. Owens' neatly styled hair was unusually tousled like he'd been running his hands through it like he did when he was stressed. Why was Callie in our house? Callie looked pissed. ‘You tell her or I will’, she threatened Owen. What was that look on his face? Fear? Remorse? ‘Lin – I’m so sorry’ Owen said. I wanted to comfort him and took his hand. ‘Owen, it's OK’ I said, feeling sick with worry. He shook his head and took back his hand. Callie appeared next to him and put her perfectly manicured hand on his arm in an intimate way that she had no right to do and I felt anger rising in me. My mind raced to find an alternative explanation than the obvious before Owen spoke again. ‘Alina – I didn’t want it to happen this way’ he said, shaking his head while looking down. Was he about to cry? What on earth did he have to cry about? My throat hurt from a huge argument that ensued. I packed a bag and left. The house was Owens before it was mine. We had a beautiful home. 4 bedrooms and a wonderful landscaped garden on a new estate built on the edge of town. There had been a lot of unhappiness from locals when planning permission had been granted for it, but they all sold really quickly and we didn't feel even slightly guilty about moving in. Owen bought it with the help of his parents. We were married 3 years ago. We were happy. What could have gone so wrong? I was a bad wife to Owen, she’d said. I didn’t take care of him well enough and he deserved better. Did he? Regret rushed through my body and, lord, it hurt. Was this my fault? Did I drive him away? Did I drive him into the arms of another woman? I stopped for a moment and held on to the garden gate outside my childhood home. I was shaking and nausea was threatening to bring up the contents of my stomach. I couldn't believe this was happening. The house was a little 2 up, 2 down in the middle of a row of terraced houses. There was a little brick wall supporting a small iron gate, the pathway was old and had moss growing between the cracks and the door, which used to be bright red, was now faded to a muted pink colour. I opened the door and walked in. The house used to be spotless, but now the floor looked like it hadn’t been hoovered in a while and there were dirty dishes on the side and a smell that I couldn’t place. My mother had passed away 2 years ago, but my stepfather still lived here. ‘Dad?’ I shouted. Peter was never a father to me. Mum married him when I was already grown but she insisted I call him that and I did it to please her. I walked into the front room and there he was sitting in the same armchair that he’d claimed when he first arrived. His dark hair was greying just slightly at the sides, his facial hair had grown longer but his body looked as strong and muscular as it ever had been. He looked at me and then at the bag I carried. He grunted. ‘You’ll clean the place if you’re staying here and you can cook my meals too’ he said. I nodded in reply ‘Thank you’. He gave one single nod to acknowledge the agreement and I was dismissed. My bedroom looked the same as I’d left it as a teenager. Cuddly toys, posters on the wall and rows of books on the shelves. I ran a finger along some of my old belongings, then laid down on the bed and allowed myself to cry for hours before eventually getting under the covers still fully dressed. Sleep didn’t come. I listened to every noise, including the familiar sound of the old heating system kicking in. The stairs creaked as Dad went upstairs to bed late in the night. Cats were fighting outside. Birds were tweeting in the dawn. At 6 o'clock, I got up and went downstairs to start cooking breakfast and tidying up as per the agreement with Dad. I felt like crap. My mum would have been mortified at the state of her kitchen. I busied myself with angrily righting the place all the while I was forming a plan of how I could get Owen back. I needed to talk to him. I’d make more of an effort. I’d treat him right and look after him better. I could fix this. It was all that mattered. The thought of him in bed with Callie filled me with rage, but lord, I loved that man. How dare she do this? If things weren’t working out, we deserved a chance to fix it without interference. b***h. Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't he give me a chance? Surely I deserved that. By the time Dad arrived in the kitchen, the table was clear, and I was dishing up his breakfast. We never had a great relationship; we didn’t know each other well, but I was grateful he let me stay. I promised silently to make more of an effort and come over here more often to help him keep the house clean. Mum would like that. ‘f*****g someone else then is he?’ he asked. I winced. ‘Well, if he’s not getting it at home...’ he said leaving the sentence unfinished. That was one hell of an assumption, which I chose not to correct. Owen and I never stopped having s*x, so that wasn’t the reason I reassured myself. I chose not to reply to his comment and I placed his breakfast in front of him. He was looking at my face as my eyes started filling with tears and he put an arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze that should have felt comforting but to me it just felt awkward. He gave me a little pat and then ate his food without saying anything else. I spent the next couple weeks or so tidying up and setting the house straight. The house was dated now. Wallpaper had started peeling off in places and the skirting boards were yellowed with age and no amount of cleaning would bring them back to white. I considered painting them, but reminded myself I wouldn't be staying long. I scrubbed and mopped and washed everything I could find. Staying busy helped. A few of our friends had reached out to ask what was going on. Callie was telling people she and Owen were together now. I hated her. Dad went to work at the quarry and was gone for up to 12 hours when he was on shift and I liked having the place to myself. I made sure he had food to take with him and dinner ready when he arrived home. He drank too much when he was home and I found myself hoping that having me there might help him too. Maybe we could help each other get our lives back on track. Dad picked up the plate of food I’d just finished dishing up and gave me a quick pat on the bum, ‘thanks love’. He’d started doing this again. He used to do it when he first started living here. Teenage me used to dodge him as much as possible and make sure my back was facing the wall so as not to give him the opportunity. He never did it when Mum was watching and I never told her. I never paid him much attention at all, to be honest. I was a typical teenager, busy with my own life and totally in love with Owen. We had awkward conversations. I realize how odd it is that two strangers are living together connected only by a house that one grew up in and the other inherited through marriage. ‘How’s work?’ I asked him. ‘Works the same as it has been the last 20 odd years’, he replied in a bored tone. I don’t know why I felt the need to fill the silences, I didn’t really want to, I didn’t really care. ‘Do you like working there? That’s a long time to work at the same place.’ I pointed out as I cleaned up around him. He put down what he was reading and looked at me like he was trying to work out a puzzle. ‘No, I don’t like working there. It pays well. Do you have any more questions today?’ he said, not unkindly. Did I? ‘Are there any specific jobs you’d like me to do around the house? What about your room? Should I hoover and dust in there?’ I asked. ‘Are you looking for an excuse to get into my bedroom?’ he asked with a twinkle in his eye. If he was younger I’d wonder if he was flirting with me and I blushed. ‘You don’t need to go into my room’, he reassured me. I nodded in reply and relief. ‘I’ll empty the kitchen cupboards today then. There might be things I need to throw away. Is that alright?’. ‘Do as you please’ he confirmed. Gosh, this was hard work. I felt his eyes on me as I worked and supressed the need to talk so I felt less uncomfortable.