Wednesday, December 19
I oversleep, and wake up to seven texts from Marie. ‘I’m better.’ ‘Fuck, I’m not. I miss him!’ ‘Jane, tell me not to be a moron and not text the fucker!’ ‘No, I’m fine. I’m good. Dickweed.’ ‘Is it me? Maybe it’s me. Maybe this isn’t about openness and polyamorous communication crap, but he just didn’t want me!’ ‘Oh, fuck, Jane, what’s wrong with me?’ and, finally, ‘Are you going to that stilts thing?’
Oh, crap. Stilts. I jump out of bed and find all four kids asleep. Late, late, late! I spare a moment for half cursing and half blessing private-school enrichment programmes and their assumption that mothers have no calling in life other than chauffeuring their children around. Race, race, race: clothes, cereal. Brush teeth. Into the car.
‘This sucks,’ from Henry, my sleepiest head.
‘Stilts! Stilts!’ from Annie.
I check email as they’re bundling into coats. Ah, crap. A pile of analyses I ought to complete this week so they don’t ruin Christmas. Actually, never mind. Not crap. Purpose. Focus. I will not think about my parents. About Marie’s love affairs. About Nicola’s divorce.
And not too much about Matt. Must work. Can’t cyberfuck.
Purpose.
As I drop the kids off, I start to worry about Annie. A four-year-old on stilts? What the hell are the organisers thinking? OK, so Annie will be there with three older siblings. Still. I should stay, just in case things go sideways.
Except Annie, the independent fourth child, does not want me to stay.
‘Mom!’ Cassandra rolls her eyes. ‘I’ll text you if we need you to come back. OK? Go.’
I go.
I don’t want to leave, because if I stay I have focus, purpose: taking care of Annie.
OK. She’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’ve got my laptop and a stack of reports to review. I find a café. Coffee, I need coffee, no time for coffee before I left the house, caffeinate me now, please. I do not ask for their Wi-Fi password, so that I’ll truly work, and I breathe in the beautiful smell of the coffee and take my first sip, so good, so hot, so bitter, almost erotic, when…
‘Jane! As I live and breathe, Jane!’
Jesus-fucking-Christ, who talks like that?
I am uncaffeinated, and in no mood for…this.
‘How long has it been?’
I raise my head angrily, resentfully.
‘My goodness, you look fantastic! I mean, for a mother of four children, I never would have guessed!’
Oh, fuck. I can’t remember her name. But I remember I can’t stand her. And I remember precisely why.
Unfortunately, she clearly doesn’t remember I can’t stand her and thinks this is a fabulous reunion. She plops down in the spare chair at my table – there are three empty tables around us – and puts her bag on the table beside my laptop. Tells me she’s drinking soy-milk-no-sugar-green-tea-lattes now, and I hate her even more, even before she takes her iced pumpkin scone out of its paper bag. ‘Oh, there’s my drink!’ she trills and lifts herself out of the chair and runs in tiny unbecoming steps to the counter. Do all women trill now? Is this a new thing? She’s wearing purple yoga pants that would probably look OK if they weren’t two sizes too small.
I don’t spit on her scone, and am pleased with herself.
She returns. Cindy? Sherry? Susan?
‘So how have you been?’ she asks in a voice I bet she describes as cosy. I tap my laptop and the stack of papers.
‘Busy,’ I say. ‘I’m actually working right now.’
‘Well, aren’t I lucky to catch you at a coffee break,’ she trills. I try not to think how much I hate trilling. Fail. ‘So how are you? I’m so, so great. Johnnie’s started grade one this year, you know, and oh, my goodness, how wonderful it is to have entire days to myself…’
‘No, I’m working right now,’ I say. ‘Like here. Right now. On these reports.’
‘Really?’ she says. ‘Gosh. You were always so clever. Well, it’s good to keep those professional skills up, isn’t it. You just never know. Look at that poor Nicola. Would you ever have thought?’
Jesus-fucking-Christ, make this woman shut the fuck up before I throw my scalding coffee into her face.
‘And the worst thing is, the girlfriend? Paul’s girlfriend? Well. This is what she does, Jane. She breaks up marriages. She goes after married men. She’s one of these possessed Jezebel-type women. Do you remember when we had that terrible scandal at our church two years ago? When our pastor had an affair? Well. It was with her.’
Oh, my God, she’s still talking. And inexplicably, I am listening.
‘And she just went after him. She did. Not caring he was a Man of God. Married, with children, with responsibilities. She just went after him. A Jezebel, Jane, that’s what she is. And when he confessed all to the congregation, it just completely ripped us apart. He had been such a leader, such a force in the congregation…and she destroyed it all.’
‘She did, did she?’ I say. ‘And what did he do?’
‘Well, at least he confessed,’ she says. ‘At least he had the moral strength to confess, Jane, if not to resist.’
‘Really?’ I say. And then, maliciously, I add, ‘Don’t you think it all would have been better if he hadn’t confessed?’
‘What?’ she stops talking. Stares at me. ‘What do you mean, he shouldn’t have confessed?’
‘Well, just as with Nicola’s husband,’ I say. ‘He didn’t really want to leave Nicola. He didn’t want to break up his marriage.’ He just wanted to fuck a slightly younger, blonder woman. For a while. I should say that. I bet she would leave if I did. But she’ll probably leave if I say this too…and so I say it: ‘It wasn’t the affair that broke them up, it was the confession.’
‘What are you saying?’ she says. Because she’s stupid, and doesn’t understand me.
‘I think if Nicola’s rat-fuck bastard of a husband was a little more careful and little less-immediately guilt-ridden – or less inclined to swallow his girlfriend’s polyamorous philosophies – he could have maintained his marriage and enjoyed his affair, for a while, until it burned out,’ I say. Do I believe what I’m saying? I’m not sure. But I’m enjoying, oh, yes, I’m enjoying the reaction. ‘I think your pastor, if he hadn’t had his urge to confess, would have maintained his marriage and his job and the adoration of his congregation. And the affair, for a while. That’s what I think.’
‘Jane! That’s lying!’
Well, duh.
I violate rule number one, which is: never argue with people dumber than you. Because I want to annoy her.
‘Say you had an affair,’ I say.
‘But I wouldn’t!’ she hollers.
‘Indulge me. Say you did. Say – with him.’ I toss my eyes and head towards a nice-looking, 40-something silver fox who’s ordering coffee at the bar at the moment. I look at him for a few seconds. Tall, broad-shouldered, flat belly. Yes, definitely good-looking. A touch of Alex in the eyes and posture, actually. I smile in his direction. He raises his eyebrows.
‘Say – you’re at one of your church retreats or workshops or something. Sans husband. And you and he hit it off, and maybe have a few glasses of wine. And end up in bed…’
‘People at our church retreats do not drink wine! Or have affairs!’ she says, getting up ungracefully. Yes! She’s leaving.
‘Your pastor did,’ I say, not yell, but I’m not quiet either, to her retreating back.
I feel mildly petty. Mildly ashamed of being petty. Mostly pleased with the effect. I turn back to the laptop.
‘Excuse me.’ It’s the silver fox from the bar. ‘May I join you?’
There are three – no, four – empty tables around me.
I study him carefully. Yes, definitely a touch of Alex in the eyes and posture. When Alex’s hair goes greyish-white, this is what he will look like. I like that. I smile back.
‘Please.’ I gesture towards the chair.
‘I realise I’m interrupting,’ he says. ‘And I don’t mean to be rude. But I did overhear some of your conversation with your friend.’
‘Not exactly my friend,’ I say. ‘And I suppose I was not particularly discreet.’
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I am a great believer in…seizing opportunities the universe presents.’
Are you now? I’m becoming a great believer that the universe is an evil fuck that hates me. But to each their own.
‘So,’ he says, and smiles. ‘My name’s Craig.’
‘Craig.’ I smile back. What the fuck am I doing? Ah. This. ‘I am immensely flattered. And I am enjoying having you sit at my table, for a while. But I am not currently shopping for an affair.’
He looks crestfallen. And ashamed. And he’s regretting his impulse – I can almost see the thought bubble over his head, remonstrating with himself for being stupid, for taking the risk.
I’ve used up my cruelty for the day. So…
‘But if I ever start shopping, I’ll definitely call you in for an interview,’ I say. And smile. Almost like I mean it.
‘Thank you.’ He smiles back. ‘Flattered.’
‘Don’t be.’ I open up my laptop again, look down. I feel him get up. Take a step away. Then come back.
‘Jane?’ he says. ‘I heard your…um…that woman call you Jane,’ he explains. I nod. ‘Look, I’ve got fifteen minutes before I have to go pick up my daughter. And – I get that you’re not shopping for an affair. I’m not trying to pick you up.’ He lies, but whatever. ‘But if I don’t find out what your interview consists of, I will go to my grave an unfulfilled man.’ He flashes me another smile. He has a nice smile. ‘Fifteen minutes. And then I leave, no other commitments or…innuendo or anything.’
OK. Work is boring. My mind unfocused. I’ll play.
‘Well, won’t you sit back down then,’ I say. ‘The interview. Ready?’
He nods.
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Kids?’
‘Two. Boy, seventeen, and girl, fourteen. Boy’s a ski jumper. Girl’s a black belt in karate.’
‘Happily married?’
He pauses, thinks.
‘Comfortably married.’
‘Discreet?’
‘So very.’
‘What does your wife do when she finds out about the affair?’
‘She’s not going to find out.’
‘Where do we go on our first date?’
‘The private room at Teatro’s. After the theatre crowd leaves.’
‘I cancel because one of my kids has the flu. What do you say?’
‘Do you have Children’s Tylenol? Or can I drop some off anonymously in your mailbox on the way home?’
‘It’s your birthday. What do you want from me?’
‘An unsigned, handwritten card sent to my office. I’ll know it’s from you.’
‘I have the motherfucker of all days. I text you saying, “Cheer me up.” What do you do?’
‘I courier you flowers. Anonymously, of course.’
‘You have me alone in a hotel room for four hours. What’s the first thing you do?’
‘Draw you a bath. Chill champagne.’
He really does have a nice smile. He thinks he’s nailed it. Poor man. I give him a kind look. Glance over at his watch.
‘I think you’ve got to run now.’
He looks down at his wrist.
‘I do. Lovely to meet you, Jane.’ He takes half a step back, then comes back. ‘Look,’ he says. He pulls out a clip, and then a business card. ‘This is me. All my contact info. This –’ he pencils in another number ‘– is my confidential cell. If you ever…you know, if the situation changes. Call me. Any time.’
‘Thank you, Craig.’ I take the business card. Glance at the name, the email, the numbers. Put it down on the table beside my coffee cup.
‘Really lovely to meet you, Jane,’ he says. Wants to linger. I put my fingers on the laptop keys, thrust my eyes at the screen. Start to type.
The door jingles as he leaves.
And my phone buzzes.
‘You were right, Mom. She’s done.’
‘On my way.’
I pop the laptop and the reports into my bag. Get up. Become aware of a handful of eyes on me. I look at the two flushed 50-something women in the far corner, the horrified teenage girls right behind me, and the construction worker whose eyes hit the floor as soon as mine rise. I pick up the business card between two fingers, look at it again, then flick it back onto the table.
‘Not my type,’ I say in the direction of the two flushed women. ‘But, you know, he’s shopping.’ I walk out with a bit of a swagger.
It’s nice to be wanted. But she only belongs to those who take. Not those who have to ask.
I get through the rest of the day with perfectly manageable angst.
Alex leans into me, lips brushing my forehead. ‘Exhausted,’ he says. ‘But absolutely done for the day. Are you coming to bed?’ I nod. I want to say, I need a moment. Or, in a few minutes.
But I don’t trust my voice. I take his hand in mine instead, press my forehead against it.
‘In a minute,’ I finally say. ‘Just need to wrap things up.’
‘Don’t work too hard,’ he throws over his shoulder as he walks up the stairs. ‘One workaholic per family is more than enough.’
I sit, very still, eyes closed. Waves of the mindfuck still rocking through me.
Finally, I go upstairs. I have…orders.