Friday, December 14
I’ve got Facebook open on the laptop as I’m wrestling kids into clothes and tidying up the kitchen. Purely to be available. I’m not even pretending it’s for anything else. I don’t care about Marie’s moral dilemmas, Nicola’s angst, Lacey’s wedding plans – she’s posted a dozen photos of potential dresses and wedding cakes. Someone’s kid lost a tooth? Whoop-de-fucking-do.
I’m waiting for this:
How does he know that this is exactly what I wanted to hear, right now? That I don’t want a ‘how was your night?’ or even that increasingly powerful ‘Tell me’ that turns my knees to jelly? Today, in this moment, this is what I want. And so I respond, immediately:
And then, because I am mad, totally mad, but also in synch, and I know what he wants right now as he knows what I want right now, I give him the word I know he craves.
And it’s exactly what he wants right now too, and I lose my mind. And fuck, so does he.
I’m lifting up my skirt and sliding my hand into my panties as Alex walks into the kitchen. My hand drops. The laptop lid slams down.
So. This is what I am now? This is what I do?
Fuck. Insane. Right. This is why I wanted to stop this.
I lean against the stove, my knees shaking. My wetness soaking through my panties.
‘Why’s the laptop on the stove?’ Alex asks, conversationally.
‘Facebooking with Marie,’ I say. Voice hoarse. Jesus-fucking-Christ.
‘Any pancakes left?’ he asks. I shake my head. Close my eyes for a millisecond, find myself.
‘You’re late today,’ I say. Conversationally. Surely, conversationally.
‘Another late night tonight, I think, so I thought the client owed me a sleep-in,’ he answers. Pours coffee. ‘Do you want me to run the kids to school?’
‘No!’ It comes out too loud. But, Jesus. I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone. In the house. No. Not right now. Not after that.
‘No,’ I say again. ‘Annie’s got a library field trip and story time and I’m volunteering. I need to be there anyway. But thank you.’
‘I just feel I haven’t been, you know, there for you guys very much,’ Alex says. ‘Not pulling my weight. Not…present.’
I turn around to fully face him. And kiss him.
‘It’s like this every December,’ I say. ‘Fucking clients. Fucking year-end. Not your fault.’
Marie texts me as I’m unloading the kids in front of the school. I watch Annie take off on her own, not waiting for Cassandra. Feel one of those stupid pangs – in September, I had to walk into the preschool room with her every single morning. Now she doesn’t even wait for her sister.
I check the phone as it buzzes again.
The old message:
And 45 seconds later:
I pull out and around and as I drive past her car, I see her head bent over her telephone.
There are probably pills I can take for this.
There are rivulets of something or other streaming down my thighs. And my cheeks. My face is as wet, as flushed, as my pussy.
I’m still shaking and…fuck, wet, dripping, when I get to the gym after dropping off the kids. But sufficiently calmed that I’m also angry, appalled…but oh, still so fucking aroused. Jesus. Peri-menopause? Or simply not being ‘finished’ – the result of being interrupted, of not coming when he…The changing room is empty and as I slip off my jeans, I slip my hand into my panties, and…
‘Jane!’
What the fuck now? I grab my sweats with both hands and whirl around to face Nicola.
‘Are you just working out, or do you have a session with Jesse?’ she asks.
‘I’m too lazy and undisciplined to ever work out on my own,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘So, you’re with Jesse.’
I nod.
‘Oh,’ she repeats.
My mood switches, immediately, from maddened lust to just mad. I fucking hate women. She wants to say something. She wants to ask me something. Why won’t she? As she opens her mouth again, I think that if she says, ‘Oh,’ for the third time, I will whack her with my water bottle.
‘I was wondering,’ she says instead, ‘I was wondering,’ she says again, ‘I was wondering,’ she says a third time, and I grit my teeth, ‘would you mind sharing him?’
What?
My eyebrows rise up and I stare at her. She flushes.
‘Would you mind sharing him?’ she asks. ‘It’s cheaper – you know, it’s cheaper if there are two, and…’ She stops. Humiliated, and, as I feel my rage receding in the face of her vulnerability, I see her reaching for her own rage, her rage against Paul, which she will use to ward off her humiliation. Her humiliation at going from being, if not quite one of the one per cent, then from a spot of such ridiculous financial privilege that economising on a gym membership or a session with a personal trainer was about as much in the cards as needing to rely on the 10-per-cent-off days at Safeway to manage the grocery budget, to where she is now. Wrangling over child-support cheques, kiting the credit cards, maxing the line of credit, while her ex fucks his intern.
And sexts Marie. Although that, Nicola doesn’t know yet.
I see her rage building and – I need to stop it. Now. I cannot bear to hear it explode. I cannot endure another crucifixion of Paul – another vilification of the skank.
But I will not share Jesse.
I reach for my purse. My wallet. Pull out a handful of twenties, don’t count them.
‘Here,’ I thrust them at Nicola. ‘It’s my “Have a Happy Divorce” present to you. I think that’s good for three, maybe four sessions with Jesse. Book in after me.’
And I slide into my workout clothes and run the fuck out of the locker room as fast as I can.
It’s not until I’m flat on my back on the gym floor and Jesse’s counting me through jack-knives that I realise that my attempt to reconcile my selfishness with the desire to do Nicola a good turn just added to her humiliation.
I am that dense, that obtuse.
And I feel a flash of guilt.
‘Hey, Nic!’ Jesse nods in her direction as she walks past us, and then starts stretching nearby.
Too close, frankly, for my comfort. Is she mocking me or offering me a chance for atonement?
I glance at her and receive a look of such rage and venom that I close my eyes. Recoil back.
Fuck her. I don’t want to share. And neither does she. Else she’d have let her husband fuck the skank, at least for a little while.
She’d probably have drawn the line, though, at him doing Marie…
‘Jane?’ Jesse pops into my line of sight. ‘Focus. Your form’s terrible today.’
‘Sorry.’ But I struggle to find focus for the rest of the session. I am ashamed…ashamed that I hurt Nicola. Shamed by my still throbbing arousal. Ashamed of what else? This spike of selfishness? My possessiveness over Jesse?
Sweat pouring off me, I push self-knowledge away. Stretch in the gym until I see Nicola leave the changing room. Then shower, change and race like a madwoman to meet up with Annie’s preschool class for their Nutcracker drama story time at a local library.
Survive a telephone conversation with my mother. About what? Not a clue. Blood is pounding in my ears. I am…how did Jesse put it? Unfocused.
Or, more accurately, focused on the wrong things.
Kid pick-up. Balmy winter day – ‘Can we stay and play at the playground, please, Mom, please?’ ‘Why not?’ and I sit on the bench and watch them. Marie’s beside me. Texting, not talking. Every once in a while, giggling. ‘Don’t worry, Jane, I don’t need you to script for me any more, I’m getting the hang of playing the way he likes,’ she whispers. I shudder. Not sure why. Just – unsettled.
Finally, everyone back in the car. Still shaken. Unsettled. Selfish. Oh, my fucking God, so fucking selfish. Getting harder to push that self-knowledge away. But unwilling to surrender to it. Fighting.
Self-knowledge. And so, in my head:
Chinese food pick-up, because I know I am incapable of boiling, cooking, chopping. And finally home. I pull into our driveway just as Clint is pulling out of Lacey’s. And my phone rings in my hand before the key’s out of my lock.
‘Sure,’ I tell Lacey. ‘Come on over. I’m slopping Chinese on the table.’
‘I’ll bring popcorn,’ she says. ‘And wine.’
And five minutes later, she and Clayton are at our table, bowls full of noodles and rice and black bean ribs and ginger-fried chicken, and the boys are shouting and showing off and Cassandra looks exasperated and Annie overstimulated, and I feel the throbbing in my head recede, to be replaced by the quotidian throbbing that’s the result of too much child noise – so instead of making the kids help clean up after the meal, I boot them to the living room with the bowl of popcorn. ‘Will you make hot chocolate?’ Henry begs, and I say something non-committal, which he interprets as a yes. And they’re gone.
Lacey pours us more wine. I start putting the leftovers away.
‘Do that later,’ Lacey says. It’s a command, really. She means, ‘Sit down, and listen.’ And I do. Bracing myself for another wedding story – pictures of cakes, rings, gowns, perhaps venues.
Instead:
‘Sofia’s pregnant,’ she says.
The wave of déjà vu that hits me is so strong I close my eyes. We’re here, in my kitchen – what, a bit more than four years ago. I’m very pregnant with Annie. Utterly exhausted by Henry and Eddie. Ravaged with guilt at neglecting Cassandra. I’m sitting and drinking tea and watching Lacey clean my kitchen – after feeding me the supper she brought over for me. And all the while talking. About Clayton’s new teacher. The day’s wacky clients at the spa she runs. The municipal election. Her fantasy of a Christmas in Hawaii. And then, in the middle of it all, inflection barely changed:
‘Sofia’s pregnant.’
She’s known for a few days now, she tells me. She’s still processing – although that’s not the word she uses. ‘Still dealing,’ she says, that’s what it is. ‘Still dealing.’ ‘I knew, of course, that they’ve stayed in touch, got together every once in a while,’ she says. ‘I’m not the jealous type at all, you know,’ she says. And she says – how surprised she is by her feelings. Her anger. Her surge of possessiveness. ‘I want to believe that if you really love someone, you set them free,’ she says, and the statement, on the surface so banal – so worthy of a fridge magnet or a Facebook meme, although this first ‘Sofia’s pregnant moment’ comes before we’re all living on Facebook – seems profound on her lips. ‘I want to be the person who can do that. Who can accept him completely, as he is. But this is harder than I thought.’
She says…she thinks it would be easier for her to accept a confession of sexual or emotional infidelity. ‘I’m not naive, Jane, I remember very well that he was still officially with Sofia when he and I met,’ she says, ‘and I know the type of man he is, and how much he likes women and sex and…’ She pauses, trails off and then repeats, ‘I’m not naive.’ But it would be easier, so much easier, she says, to accept a confession of infidelity not accompanied by the fact of a child.
The fact of a child. The expression, despite its pathos, makes me smile.
Clint’s child…
‘That’s so much more real,’ she says. ‘I can’t dismiss it as just a fuck.’
‘The fruit of a fuck,’ I say.
‘Multiple fucks,’ she says. Sighs. ‘A relationship. Like ours.’
I remember – I ask her, what did Sofia do? When she found out about Clayton?
I don’t remember what Lacey said then. But clearly Sofia eventually forgave.
My kitchen. Now. Four, five years after the first ‘Sofia’s pregnant’ revelation. Are we going to have the same conversation?
No.
This time, it’s at least a little different.
‘I told him he had to leave,’ Lacey says. ‘That I needed time to think. That I couldn’t believe – right now – right now. After he asked me to marry him, finally. As we’re planning a wedding. After he’s given me the ring. That I couldn’t believe I had to deal with this shit again. Dealing with the reality of Marcello is quite enough, thank you.’
The first time I’ve heard Lacey swear. The closest to bitterness I’ve ever heard her come. And it’s not her, and she retreats from it. Immediately.
‘I love him very very much,’ she says, and I know at this moment, she is talking about Marcello. ‘And I love that Clayton has a brother. And I even – you know, I even really like Sofia.’
Of course.
‘But I’m not sure I can go through all this again. And perhaps again,’ Lacey says. ‘How many children am I going to have to accept? Am I in a – what-do-you-call it, polygynous relationship? Am I going to be one of two wives? For ever?’
She doesn’t expect any answers. I pour her more wine. Finish cleaning up after supper as she talks, vents. Doesn’t cry. And then:
‘And the strangest thing,’ she says, ‘I haven’t told you the strangest thing. The other thing.’
I wait.
‘She’s not even sure it’s his,’ Lacey says. ‘Because, of course, she’s got a boyfriend.’
Of course.
‘The “real” boyfriend, that’s what Clint said. The real boyfriend. What’s Clint?’ Lacey asks.
‘The lover,’ I say.
‘The lover?’ Lacey echoes. ‘The baby-daddy. Well. So – she doesn’t even know if it’s his. But she wanted to tell him – and have him tell me right away – because of the wedding,’ Lacey says.
Of course.
I hear tears in her voice. And I’m grateful that she does not want answers or commentary.
Because what the fuck does one say to that?
Finally, she’s talked out, spent. ‘I need to go, be alone,’ she says. ‘Have a bath.’ I offer to keep Clayton until bedtime. ‘No, I need him with me,’ she says. And I understand. She calls for him, and all the kids clamour in. Shouting. She shepherds Clayton down onto the landing, to the door. Turns to me.
‘When’s Alex coming home?’ she asks. I peek at my phone. Yes, a text.
‘Late,’ I say. ‘Late. The usual December rush.’
‘Oh, honey,’ Lacey says as if I’m the one who needs to be pitied, and hugs me. I let her hold me. Feel the throbbing in my temples return.
Lock the door behind her as she leaves.
Force myself to focus on real life. Everything that needs to be done gets done. Bath. Bedtime. Books. Long shower. And in bed.
Text Alex:
Turn off the phone. Turn off the light. Close my eyes.
Open them. Grab my laptop.
I stare at the screen. Aching. Longing. And then, this thought, again. Terrifying. Because – reality. His cock, in the past, has filled me. So totally, so powerfully – I thought. His hands have caressed, played – savaged – every part of me. There is no part of my body that hasn’t felt him, experienced him, taken him, been pleasured by him – suffered to please him. In reality, in the past. But fuck. This thing, this thing that’s happening now – these words on a screen, these sensations in my mind – they eclipse our past reality.
Completely.
And our physical reality of the past…it was not meek. It was always…powerful.
But this. This is so much more.
And so, when he finally comes – and he will come. Or I will go. And it will be real again after – what, more than ten years? Almost eleven.
And it will be terrible.
Because how can it ever match this?
And this thought: maybe we both like it better this way. Just in my head, in his head. An all-encompassing mindfuck…without the physical limits of reality. Crow’s feet and grey stubble. Loose breasts. Aching hips. Middle-aged bellies and imperfections and the unpredictability of going off-script and all those rubs of gritty reality.
And then what? I shudder.
And then, this thought: perhaps, if it’s terrible…if it’s not this intense…if it’s less encompassing, if it’s messier, duller – that will not be a bad thing. Because…unsustainable. Insane.
I want to tell him this. I want him to think about this too. To suffer and worry.
I type:
His response, immediate:
I read and I teeter, immediately, on the verge of orgasm. Depraved. But I’m looking, longing for…what? Reassurance? Something more.
And he starts to read my mind:
I log off…almost sated. Almost calm. And, for the second night in a row, sleep like the dead. Not happy, but…fuck. Pleased.
Depraved.