Rory

Storming out was childish, but Rory had so much pent-up anger that he couldn’t just sit there; he would explode, hit something. That woman in front of them – a total stranger – clearly believed that he had the capacity to be violent. She had no inkling of the full story, of what had provoked him. Rachel had cheated. She’d slept with another man. Nico. Rory had asked the question, now he had the answer. Too late to press rewind. Knowing the man’s name made it worse. Knowing for sure that she’d slept with him. Ignorance was vastly underrated.

What now? He looked around him, reluctant to leave the venue: the kids would need an explanation if he wasn’t at the meeting spot. He didn’t want Emmet and Bridie to know about this. Not yet. Maybe not ever. What did that mean? That he was prepared to roll over and forget it had happened? No, he couldn’t do that either.

‘Do you need help, sir?’ a security guard asked, obviously wondering why he was standing around on the terrace just as the concert was kicking off.

‘Just stretching my legs.’ He walked away before the guard could question him further. He walked past the men’s bathrooms, and a variety of food outlets where staff who had been run off their feet were now standing idle. He walked until he reached the end of the terrace and caught the attention of another overly helpful security guard.

‘Can I help you?’

It seemed impossible that Chris Martin was still singing the closing lyrics of ‘Clocks’. Rory had been gone mere minutes. He turned on his heel and retraced his steps. One of the bars had a few high stools, all of which were empty. He sat down shakily.

‘Not a fan?’ the young barman enquired with a sympathetic smile.

‘No. Yes. I mean I am a fan. Just had a fight with the missus. Kind of ruined the mood. Do you have any spirits?’

‘I can do a premade martini or negroni.’

A straight whiskey was more what he had in mind. ‘I’ll just have a Stone and Wood, thanks.’

He adjusted his position on the uncomfortable metal stool and tried to gain control of himself.

Rachel cheated. His name is Nico.

She would want to talk about it when they got home but he couldn’t bear to hear any more details, any more excuses. Should he check in to a hotel for the night? Did his hurt and grief warrant such an extravagance? Staying with a friend would be more economical but his friends were Rachel’s friends, too: imposing himself would be both excruciating and humiliating.

What did couples do after an infidelity was exposed? Continue living with each other, grasping on to the familiar while they worked through their hurt? Or launch into a trial separation for a few weeks or months, or whatever it took? Rachel wouldn’t want to move out: she’d made it clear that the affair had been a mistake, and she was sorry. Whether he believed her was another thing. How could he believe anything she said after this? She’d been lying to him for months. If Rory wanted a separation, he’d be the one to move out. But where could he go? How much – if anything – would they tell the kids? On a more practical note, how could he move out while Sean was living with them?

Rory tried to drink the schooner at a slower pace than the last few. The drink was a prop more than anything; it gave him a reason to sit here at this bar, a veneer of knowing what he was doing.

Chris Martin was talking to the crowd, apologising for the storm and the delay, telling them he loved them, imparting sage advice: you need to live life; every moment counts. Then he heard the string arrangement at the beginning of ‘Viva La Vida’ and Rory was suddenly reliving the pivotal moments of his and Rachel’s life together. He saw their young selves dancing in dark smoky nightclubs. He saw them walking home to their first apartment, drunk, barefoot and happy even though they couldn’t afford a taxi. He saw their wedding day, the simple beautiful ceremony on the headland looking over the beach, the bridal party including Amy and Sean, who were actually dating at the time. He saw himself and Rachel standing over Emmet’s bassinet, fear and wonder mirrored in their eyes as they regarded their angry newborn. Two years later, they had Bridie and a more confident approach: we know what we’re doing. He recalled Rachel’s devastated expression when he confessed that his business was insolvent. And then every nuance of his own devastation on hearing about her cancer diagnosis. Because he couldn’t even begin to imagine life without her.

What now? What the fuck were they meant to do now?

Another beer, and still no answers. Now the band and the crowd were taking turns at singing ‘Fix You’. He recalled he and Rachel singing the song in a drunken karaoke duet, pouring their hearts and souls into the performance even though nothing needed fixing back in those days.

Another memory from their early years, in the aftermath of the break-up of one of the couples they had been close to. A drunken promise to forgive each other’s mistakes, to work through their problems, to never split up. Everything was forgivable, even infidelity. To mark the moment, the promise, they’d etched their initials into the bark of a tree on their way home from the pub. R & R forever.

They’d had no fucking idea what they were talking about.

He went to order another beer.

‘Sorry, mate. My manager says you’ve had enough,’ the barman, a boy who was barely older than Emmet, said.

He was right. Rory had had enough. He needed to get out of here. He needed some distance, perspective. An inner-city pub to drown his sorrows. Or a cheap hotel where he could be alone to think.

He went to the men’s toilets, gave himself the chance to change his mind.

Think of the kids. You don’t want this ruining their night.

He paced up and down the terrace another few times, avoiding the ever-watchful security guards.

But how can I hide it from the kids? How can I pretend? I’m destroyed, broken. They’ll know straight away that something is wrong.

He felt more and more like a caged animal; he needed to get rid of this excess adrenaline before he did something stupid.

He took the escalator to the ground floor and walked in a circle until he found an exit. Finally, he was out of the stadium and into the fresh night air; the temperature had dropped dramatically. His instincts took over, his feet moving of their own accord, half-running as they created the necessary distance.

He was so wound up, so agitated, he could walk all the way home. Thirty-odd kilometres, no problem. A hundred. A thousand.

If hurt could be measured by distance, he’d finish up somewhere far, far away.