The Woman At The Door, Daniel Hurst [world best books to read TXT] 📗

think about getting off the sofa and going to see who it is at the door, but that would require me moving, and that’s easier said than done after all the food I’ve eaten tonight. I’ve not finished yet though thanks to Rebecca kindly giving me her leftover naan bread, and I’m very much looking forward to using it to mop up the last of my curry sauce. But I can’t do that if I’m out in the hallway, so I stay where I am and keep eating.

I do feel slightly guilty for eating this bread when I had made the vow to myself to give up carbs for a while. It’s a vow I have made several times in the past, and I am yet to stick to it. I really thought tonight would be the night when I exercised some restraint and stayed away from the dreaded bread, but alas, here I am again, scoffing down the extra calories as if it’s my last meal on Earth.

It’s not that I’m overweight and really need to lose a few pounds or anything. It’s just that I know I will feel better within myself if I curb my carb consumption. After all, I’m not eighteen anymore. I’m thirty-eight now, and the pounds are slowly starting to pile on, which means I have to do something if I don’t want to be reasonably rotund by the time I hit forty. There’s not much one can do about getting older but keeping in shape is definitely within my control, so I do need to make the effort.

Starting tomorrow, of course.

I finish off my delightful meal, ensuring that there isn’t a scrap of food left in any of the silver trays that were dropped off here by a polite Indian man an hour ago, before taking a deep breath and sinking back into the sofa. I feel like a whale, and right now, I probably look like one too. My stomach is bloated, thanks to the curry and naan, although the two pints of lager that I washed it all down with haven’t helped there either. If I had my way, I wouldn’t move now until bedtime, which will probably be when this movie finishes. It won’t be a late night, and I do like the idea of getting into bed early with Rebecca and seeing where the mood takes us, but then again, I’m not exactly feeling like a Casanova with a full curry inside of me. Hopefully, my stomach will go down, and I’ll be feeling a little more energetic when the film finishes. But the pause symbol is still showing on the TV screen, which means the film won’t be finishing anytime soon. That’s because Rebecca is still not back yet from answering the door.

What is taking her so long?

I decide to go and investigate, but I’m one of the few talented men that can do two things at once, so I pick up our dirty plates as I go, planning on dumping them in the kitchen after I’ve checked on my wife in the hallway.

Carrying the plates to the door, I notice that Rebecca has left some of her rice. Unlike me, she is able to exercise some level of control around carbohydrates. I’d ask her for some tips if I knew she wouldn’t laugh at me.

Leaving the room, I enter the hallway, and that’s when I hear Rebecca calling out of the open doorway.

‘Wait! Come back!’ she cries, although I’m not sure who she is talking to because I can’t see the other person. It looks like they have already left, but I walk towards the door to see if I can get a glimpse of them anyway. But just before I reach the door, Rebecca turns and sees me standing there holding the plates with a confused expression on my face. But it’s not my expression that is the problem.

It’s hers.

She looks distressed.

‘Who was it?’ I ask, wishing I could put the plates down somewhere but feeling like this is more important at the minute.

But Rebecca doesn’t answer me. Instead, she just glares at me, and that’s when I notice that she has tears in her eyes.

‘Rebecca. What’s happened?’ I ask, and this time, I decide to do something about the plates so that I can make sure she is alright.

I put them on the bottom step of the staircase before reaching out for my wife with my now-empty hands, but she moves away from me, which is very unlike her.

‘What’s happened?’ I ask again, and I’ve lost count of how many questions that is now since I came out here. But I know how many times she has answered me.

Zero.

‘Rebecca?’

‘Get away from me.’

Her response is shocking both in its content and delivery. She spoke the words in such a harsh manner as if she really meant it.

‘Will you tell me what’s going on?’ I plead, feeling the cold air blowing in from the open doorway and wondering if Rebecca can feel it too. She must do. So why isn’t she closing the door?

Why does she look like she wants to run out of it?

‘Rebecca. Please!’

I sound more desperate now, but that’s only because I am feeling it. I have never seen my wife like this before. She looks like she hates me, but that doesn’t make any sense. Two minutes ago, we were having a great Saturday night with a takeaway and a film. One knock at the door and all that has changed.

Who the hell was it?

‘Will you at least close the door? It’s freezing,’ I say, hoping that a bit of common sense might be the thing to do the trick and get us to be more communicative with each other again. But it seems that my wife’s mood towards me is even colder than the weather outside, and she ignores my request, instead remaining at a safe distance from me in the open doorway.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I confess, throwing up