light up ahead change to amber and he floored the pedal. By the time he roared the car through, the light had been red for at least two seconds. Irate beeps sounded. Fuck them.
‘Honey,’ Cara said, with soft alarm.
More bullshit up ahead, some fool in the wrong lane, trying to turn right, holding up the whole road. ‘Fucking move.’
‘Ed!’
He ignored her. In his entire life, he’d never been as angry as he was now. Not just with her but with himself. He’d been complicit: throwing out all the chocolate in the house; holding some back for the inevitable emergency; worst of all, for not asking her about the chocolate he’d found that time in the unused bathroom cupboard.
He really should have said something when he’d found the empty ice-cream carton in her washbag.
Why hadn’t he?
Because she’d have lied.
Lied. To him. Cara, his best friend, his wife. If soul-mates existed, he could have been persuaded to believe that that was what they were.
She had, in fact, already lied to him, by hiding her cravings, her behaviour, her shame and her fear. Perhaps he’d been waiting for things to become so serious that they were undeniable. Which said precisely what about him? That he was a coward. Because she could have died last night. She’d become a danger to herself and she still wouldn’t admit she had a problem.
Plenty of frustrated rage was reserved for the admissions officer at St David’s. Cara was obviously unwell, sick, whatever the correct word was. It was the job of the medical profession to help people like her and they hadn’t.
‘Should we swing by Mum’s and pick up the kiddos and Baxter?’ Cara asked.
‘No.’ If the kids were with them, they’d have to park this. It was too serious to sideline.
‘It would be great to have the weekend together, just the four of us.’
‘A normal weekend? Where we pretend you didn’t have a seizure last night?’
‘Hey! Don’t yell at me.’
He took a breath and tried to calm his frantic heart. ‘Cara, think about this. Last night you. Had. A. Seizure.’
‘A “mild” one.’
‘You could have died. The boys could be motherless right now. I could be without you. That could still happen.’
‘I won’t die. I’ve stopped.’
‘You’ve been offered help. There’s a lifeline for you to get better. Cara, please take it.’
‘I don’t need it.’
‘What do you want to do about dinner?’ Ed came into their bedroom, where she was scrolling through Facebook.
They were alone in the house. On any other evening, they’d have loved this unexpected freedom, but tonight they were barely speaking.
Ed had never yelled at her before today. In the last thirteen years, she’d seen him angry a literal handful of times and never with her.
‘Dinner?’ he repeated.
‘Oh? I’m allowed a dinner? I thought I had an eating disorder.’
‘You have to eat. We could get a Deliveroo?’
‘Should a person with an eating disorder be getting a takeaway? Anyway, how could I enjoy it with you watching me eat?’
‘How about afterwards you drive down to the garage, buy ten bars of chocolate, eat them in secret then make yourself puke?’ he asked, in a hot blurt of rage.
It shocked her into silence.
‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ he said. ‘I’m scared. I’ve been reading about bulimia.’
‘Where? Dr Google? You should know better than to believe that stuff.’
‘The leaflet Dr Colgan gave me last night says the same things.’ He produced it and pressed it on her. ‘Can you take a look?’
Irritably, she scanned it.
Secrecy. Escalating behaviour. Lifelong problem. Body dissatisfaction. Severe self-criticism. Eating very large amounts of food, often in an out-of-control way, in a short space of time. Avoiding social activities which involve food. Thinking about food all the time. Abusing laxatives. Over-exercising. A constant sore throat …
‘I don’t abuse laxatives or over-exercise.’
‘But you do some of the other stuff.’
She read from the leaflet. ‘Avoiding social activities which involve food? I don’t think so, Ed.’
‘You might not avoid them, but you hate them.’
‘So why make me do them? It’s your family. My family is different. None of my real friends put me through that sort of misery.’
‘I’m sorry –’
‘Good. Moving on.’ She took a breath and strove to sound reasonable. ‘Ed, please, sweetie. Can we forget this happened? It’ll never happen again.’
‘No.’
This surprised her. ‘What’s up? You just want to get your own way?’
‘It’s because I’m worried.’
Abruptly, she said, ‘I don’t want any dinner. I don’t want anything.’
‘You’re absolutely sure? Well … Okay.’
Forty minutes later the doorbell rang. Then came the sounds of Ed talking to