The cab turns into my street and I notice a dark figure lurking outside my front door.
“Drive slowly, can you?” I tell the driver. “And keep going if I say so.”
I peer through the window, trying to see who it is. It’s disturbing. I’m ready to call the police. As we approach, the figure turns round, puts his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare of headlights, and I realize, with both relief and shock, who we’re dealing with.
“It’s all right,” I say. “You can pull over. It’s my ex-husband.”
“You’re having quite a night of it,” says the cabbie.
“You have no idea.” He must have listened to every word of my conversation with Isabelle while I thought he was listening to angry voices on LBC.
I gather myself together, wondering what the hell Andy is doing at my house at this strange hour, jump out of the car, and walk toward him.
He realizes it’s me, smiles, and opens his arms. He’s shivering.
“Jennifer,” he says and bursts into tears. His head drops onto my shoulder, his whole body is racked with sobs. I prop him up as best I can, my heart aching. I hate to see him cry.
“Andy. What’s wrong?” He stinks of booze.
“I’m so sorry, Jennifer. I had to come and see you. I’ve been so worried.”
I am moved by his pain. His unexpected concern. I thought he’d forgotten about me. “Let’s go inside,” I say, freeing myself from the weight of his bulk, allowing him to wobble while I hunt in the dark for my key. “Argh!” I sigh, fishing around my handbag. “I hate this bag. Where’s my key?”
He snorts. “Nothing changes.”
“Thanks,” I say, recoiling at his breath. “Wow. Your nose is bright red.”
“I’ve been standing outside in this fucking weather at least an hour.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“You’re ill. I assumed you’d be in,” he says, sniveling. “And Elizabeth checks my phone.”
“Got it,” I say, finding the key and jiggling it in the lock.
He’s standing so close behind me I can feel the brush of his breath on my neck, cloying and claustrophobic. I hurriedly push the door with my shoulder, ramming it because it swells in the damp.
“Same crap door,” he says. “Shrinks in summer, bloats in winter. A bit like me.” He laughs.
He walks into the house, straight past me into the kitchen as if he still owns the place, and starts banging around the cupboards.
“God, it feels weird being here,” he says, poking his head into the shelves, shifting tins and condiments.
“What are you looking for?”
“I need a drink. Is this all you’ve got?” He holds up a bottle of red wine. “Anything stronger? Whiskey?”
“No. You’re too late.”
“Can I open this then?” He’s already picking at the foil.
“Be my guest.”
He clatters around the drawers hunting for the corkscrew. “Jen!” he says. “This house is an icebox. It’s colder inside than out. I thought we put in a new boiler?”
“That was over ten years ago!”
He shakes his head, muttering to himself, “No wonder you’re fucking dying.”
“Excuse me?” I say, my skin crawling. “I’ll turn the heating back on in a minute, but it’s going to take at least an hour to crank up and I was planning on going to bed.”
“Well, I’d appreciate your turning it on.”
“How long are you planning on staying?”
“How long have you got?”
I can tell I’m going to regret this visit before it’s even started. I dash upstairs to turn on the heating, go into my bedroom, and pull a cardigan from a drawer. I grab a scarf for Andy.
“Aha!” I hear him cry. I guess he’s found the corkscrew. “Aw, fuck that!” He’s discovered the wine is a screw-top. It gives me a moment’s pleasure.
When I walk back into the kitchen, he’s pouring himself a healthy slug, which he knocks back like it’s a shot before pouring the same again. “Man, I needed that,” he says. He looks at me. “Sorry. You want a glass?”
“No, thanks,” I say, wrapping the scarf around my own neck, deciding not to bother to extend the gesture to him. His concern for my welfare seems to have taken a backseat rather quickly. “Did you come because you’d run out of booze? In which case, you can take the bottle and go.”
He throws me a wild look. “God, no,” he says. “ I wanted to check up on you. I care about you, Jen. I wanted to see how you are. I mean, time is passing and . . .”
“I’m fine. In fact—”
His face does a weird grimace. “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh.” I feel my whole body sink.
“Can we sit down?”
“Sure,” I say. “I need to talk to you, as well.”
“Oh, dear,” he says. “I hope you’re not going to have a go at me, too.”
I think I can guess what’s coming. I follow him into the sitting room, wondering whether he was always this irritating. Wondering if nostalgia has made me romanticize the past and I’ve rewritten my marriage the way people rewrite the memory of an abusive parent who, in death, becomes a saint?
He throws himself on the sofa, forgetting he’s clutching his glass of wine and spills a drop on his trousers. “Aw. Bloody hell!”
He searches for somewhere to put the bottle down. “When are you going to buy some bloody side tables?” he grunts.
“Oh, come on,” I say.
“Oh, yeah. Pointless now, eh?” He puts the bottle on the floor and looks at my face, which is deadpan. “Sorry, that was meant to be a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“No. Cheap. That’s what it was. Cheap.” He shudders, looks at his lap, and rubs at the stain, then looks up. “You go first,” he says.
“No,” I say, sitting on the edge of the armchair. “You go first.”
I’m shocked to see how he looks, his face blotchy, lit by the unforgiving light of the overhead spot, his nose a purple red. His hair is starting to thin and he’s grown it long as if to prove he’s still got hair. It’s no longer blond, more a dirty gray, flicking into a curl above his shoulders.
“I’m a mess, aren’t I?” he says. “I’m such a fucking mess. You look good though. In fact, all things considered, you look great. You been out celebrating?” He starts to sob again.
I get up, go into the kitchen, and fetch the exhausted box of tissues. “Here!” I hand him one and put the box down next to him. He blows into it with great effect. “What’s going on, Andy? What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting back down and kicking off my heels.
“Everything!” he says, slurping the wine. “And you’re the only person I can talk to. You’re the only one who’ll understand.”
“Must be my lucky night.”
“Yeah.” He sniggers. “You deserve a bit of luck, don’t you.”
“I don’t have to put up with this, you know.”
“Soz, I’m drunk.”
“Don’t state the obvious. So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“Elizabeth. That’s what.”
I guess that was obvious. What a night, I think. “What’s happened?”
“She got into my phone. Must have worked out my passcode. She’s seen all the texts and emails.” He stops there, assuming I should know what he means.
“You mean, there’s another woman?”
“Women,” he corrects.
“Oh. I see.”
“And there are some pretty special photos.”
“Do I need to know this?”
“I’m not boasting,” he slurs. “Truth is—and don’t cry for me—I’m trapped and I’m fucking bored. These girls make me feel better. Where’s the harm in that?”
“You’re reckless, Andy.” It must be a full moon. Everyone’s behaving idiotically tonight.
He flashes me his hurt look.
“Listen, I’ll call you an Uber. I think you should go home. You can’t just run away every time there’s a problem.”
“I can’t go home. Elizabeth has changed the locks.”
“Wow! Good for her!”
“Why are you on her side? You hate her, don’t you?”
I groan. “I’m not on anyone’s side, Andy. And no matter what I think of Elizabeth, I understand her completely. You ruined our marriage because you couldn’t keep your dick in your trousers and now you’re about to ruin your second marriage. I’d say, for once, Elizabeth deserves my sympathy.”
“Pah! You have no idea how difficult she is.”
I laugh. “Is that how you justified cheating on me? You have no idea how difficult Jennifer is? She’s always so miserable. Is it only ever someone else’s fault?”
“Jesus, you’ve changed. What’s gotten into you?”
I lean forward and look into his tiny drunken eyes. They are the eyes of a cheat.
“I’ve just taken a big dose of clarity.”
He blinks and turns away. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re making me feel uncomfortable.”
“Were you hoping I’d make you feel better about yourself.”
He shrugs, rubbing the arm of the sofa. “I thought you’d understand,” he says. “You were always so understanding. I was going to ask if I could stay. Take care of you for a bit.”
My mouth drops open.
“But don’t worry. I’ll get one of those Airbnb things.” He jumps forward like there’s a wasp in his pants, and the wine spills a second time onto his trousers. “Fuck!” he says and stands up, reaching into his back pocket. He pulls out his phone. He holds the screen right up close to his face then at arm’s length. “It’s her.”
“Which one?”
He tuts. “Elizabeth. Who do you think? What should I do?”
“Talk to her.”
“But what should I tell her?”
“I don’t know! Try the truth, if you can remember it.”
His eyes shut as if he doesn’t want to see himself take the call and he sits back down. “Darling,” he says, cringing.
I can hear a high-pitched tirade. He listens, his hand stroking his straggly hair, saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” at various intervals. I walk out of the room feeling I should give him some privacy, but after a long five minutes, I remember it’s my house and I can be where I like. I walk back in and stand in front of him, my arms folded, hoping to hurry along the conversation.
He looks up at me and mouths Sorry, pointing at the phone and nodding his head, rolling his eyes, before his expression suddenly turns awkward. “I’m with Jennifer,” he says. He looks horrified. “Nothing! She’s dying for Chrissake. You think I go round schtupping everyone?”
I decide it’s about time he booked his Airbnb.
“I think you should go, Andy,” I say.
He holds up his index finger. The “one minute” sign. “Listen, I’m coming home. Okay?” He moves the phone from his ear to the front of his mouth and says, “Stop crying, darling, it’s okay.” He starts to whisper into it. “Yes, yes. I promise I’ll behave. I promise . . . Yes. I’ll delete everything. In fact, I’ve deleted everything. Yes . . . You know I love you. You know you’re the only one for me.” He turns back to me with a face that says What can I do?
He could leave for a start.
I’m hating this. I don’t want to be privy to his lies and fancy footwork. I don’t want to witness how he operates. And I don’t want to know that on the other end of the phone, Elizabeth, the woman with no compassion, might actually be winning some compassion from me because she’s falling for this bullshit.
Finally he ends the call. He stands up awkwardly, rubbing his neck. “You’ll be pleased to hear I’m going home,” he says.
My arms are still tightly folded. “So she’s taking you back?”
“Seems like it.” He straightens up with a kind of swagger, his ruddy, forlorn face now bathed in a patina of triumph.
Despite myself, I feel genuine pity for Elizabeth. How awful to be so scared of being alone that she has to plead with this fraud. But that’s the trouble with unreliable men. You cling to the times they’re nice and funny and sober, and you forgive them.
Andy pats his pockets the way he always used to: his phone, wallet, keys routine. “Oh well, toodle-oo!” he chirps. “Better get home, eh? Keep her happy. Thanks for the vino, Jennifer. You’re the best. I’m just so sorry. About everything.”
His cheery hypocrisy pushes me over a line. “You know what?” I say. “You’re the best, too. Certainly the best thing that’s happened to me tonight.”
“I am?” His eyes flash with boyish glee.
“Yeah. It’s been eye-opening watching you operate. Because witnessing your little performance, I see you for who you really are.” His face retreats with suspicion into his neck, making him resemble a turtle. “I was so pleased to get your letter, Andy. It made me feel that our years together had not been wasted. I really appreciated your candor. But I’ve just witnessed your MO. You only say the right words to serve a purpose. You don’t mean them at all. You’re not sorry for any longer than it takes you to say the word ‘sorry.’”
He goes to interject, but I hold up my hand and he snarls.
“And please tell Elizabeth she is welcome to you because frankly I wouldn’t schtupp you if you were the last man on this planet.”
His head lists from side to side, like he’s readying for a fight. “It’s lucky it’s not an option then, isn’t it?” He sashays toward the door then swings round, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. I come round to see how you are and to talk to you. To share a problem. And you practically throw me out. You’ve definitely changed,” he says. “You’re bitter. Yeah! That’s what it is . . . bitter.”
Send in the clowns. Don’t bother. They’re here.