Sadie is wearing tracksuit bottoms and one of Stanley’s T-shirts. She is smoking on the sofa, eating popcorn, drinking Coke. Why? Because fruit smoothies are overrated, low-calorie snacks are disappointing and resisting temptation is dangerous. Look where it gets you. Just look.
On the floor in front of her, all the photos she could find from university. Alison Grabowski outside their student house, holding the neighbour’s kitten. Alison Grabowski in their kitchen, wearing a Smiths T-shirt, laughing, a glass of wine in her hand, a cigarette in her mouth. Alison Grabowski here and Alison Grabowski there and you get the picture but what else do you get? Nothing at all, because the moment passed, it just disappeared, so you may as well eat popcorn and smoke. (This is what’s known as hitting a brick wall while sitting on your sofa.)
Ralph wasn’t the one who kissed another woman, but earlier today, Sadie cut some of his clothes into shreds with scissors. It felt good and necessary. She feels better now the shreds are visible, scattered all over the bedroom floor—outside herself, instead of inside.
“Sorting out your photos?” Arthur says, walking into the room and eyeing his mother’s oversized T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms with apprehension, disgust, anxiety.
“Kind of.”
“Looking back at your past?”
“Something like that.”
He picks up a photo. Alison Grabowski wearing nothing but a long checked shirt, making a pasta salad. “Who’s this?”
“Just someone I went to college with.”
“She looks like Kristin.”
They stare at the picture. Sadie’s cheeks flush. “No, I don’t see any resemblance,” she says, tossing the photo onto the floor. She puts her glass on the coffee table, placing it in the middle of the square coaster so that she no longer has to look at a moose dressed as a waiter. She doesn’t understand why she spent money on coasters with drawings of animals wearing random outfits—just totally revolting.
“Did you find any old pics of Dad?”
“Haven’t come across any yet.”
“Right. What’s with the smoking?”
“It’s just temporary.”
“It’s gross. Makes the house stink.”
“Am I supposed to believe you’ve never smoked?”
“Not that shit.”
“My son the connoisseur of cigarettes?”
He shrugs. “I want to watch TV.”
“So watch TV.”
“Can you go and smoke somewhere else? Like in the garden?”
“Will you and your brother stop bossing me about? I’m taking some time out.”
“Time out from what?”
She looks at her son, the one who resembles her the most, and sees contempt on his face. She looks at the tulips, the ones you plug in so they light up, the ones you can set to flash on and off, which turns your sitting room into a disco, a bloody fucking disco. She jumps to her feet, opens the window, picks up the tulip lamp, throws it outside.
“What the fuck?”
First the lamp, then two vases of plastic daffodils smashing into pieces on concrete outside the window. The wedding photo is next, then the photo of Arthur and Stanley in the silver frame, the little Buddha, the carriage clock, the pot full of pens and pencils and rubber bands, the plate on the wall from a holiday in France, the DVD box sets, the tiny jug from a Spanish market, the one that just sits there, empty, through all the days and all the nights, gathering dust while everything changes and stays exactly the same.
Arthur just stands there.
Cushions, a blanket, the telephone, an address book, a carriage clock, four batteries, the TV remote, cufflinks. Better out than in. Better than murdering someone. Better than killing yourself. Possibly. Marginally. She picks things up, throws them out of the window, relishes the sound they make, a symphony of regret.
“Doesn’t that look better?” she says.
“Mum, for God’s sake.”
“Give me your glass.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“It’s my glass. I bought it.”
“You’re having a breakdown. I’m ringing Gran.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Sadie?”
“Yes. How are you?”
“Oh not too bad. Is everything all right?” Brenda had seen Ralph’s home number appear on her phone’s display and expected it to be him. She hasn’t had a call from Sadie for years. Actually, has Sadie ever called? She tries to remember, but she can’t think of a reason why her daughter-in-law would ever have bothered. Which can only mean one of two things: she wants something, or someone is dead.
“Is Ralph there?” Sadie asks.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“No, he’s not here. Is he supposed to be?”
“I thought he might be.”
“What’s happened?”
“We had a fight, nothing major. It’ll blow over.”
“But you don’t know where he is?” Brenda covers the phone with her hand and whispers to her husband: “Ralph’s left her.” Frank, who is not usually prone to childish gestures, claps his hands together and squeaks. The squeak takes him by surprise, it was supposed to be a kind of mmmmm sound, rising at the end like a question, like a sound that says oh really, how interesting. His glee descends into self-disgust and he looks down at the carpet.
“He’s probably staying with a friend,” Sadie says, wishing she hadn’t phoned.
“How long has he been gone?” Brenda’s panic has infused her voice with headmistressy strictness, sharpening her casual round vowels, making her sound like Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping Up Appearances.
“Only a few days,” Sadie says.
“A few days? Oh I don’t like this, Sadie, I don’t like it at all. Ralph would never go off for a few days without letting someone know where he was.”
Sadie listens to the rustle and crackle of Brenda’s hand over the receiver. She listens to the muffled voices of her in-laws: he’s missing, surely not, no it’s true, gone for a few days, no idea where he is, good grief, I know. She pictures a pigeon in a golfing jumper, standing in the middle of a puddle, flapping. She thinks of Catrina, a woman she used to go to school with, who now makes a surprisingly good living from drawing things like birds in jumpers, dogs in pyjamas, monkeys dressed as tennis players. She had a stall at last year’s Christmas market and Sadie bought coasters, a tea towel, four mugs and three cards, her pity dusted with fake excitability, her disdain sprinkled with festiveness.
There is a discussion about what to do next and Brenda says she’s feeling nauseous, she has a very bad feeling, and Frank pulls the phone from her clammy hand, says it’s time to call the police.
“There’s no need for that,” Sadie says. “Actually, I think I might know where he is.”
“Really?”
“I’ve just thought of it. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it before really, but sometimes you don’t, do you? The blatantly obvious is right there and you just don’t see it.”
“Just spit it out, for God’s sake.”
“He might be with Catrina.”
Sadie can hear Brenda saying what, what’s happening, Frank what’s going on?
“He’s having an affair?”
“Well, they’ve been spending a lot of time together.”
“That’s such a relief.”
“Oh that’s charming.”
“Well he’s probably with this Catrina, isn’t he? That’s all I meant.”
“You’re relieved to think he’s betraying me?”
“Of course not.” Frank rolls his eyes. High maintenance, that’s what she is.
Brenda is beside herself now, she’s yelling about a speakerphone button, saying push the bloody speakerphone button, and Frank, who is technologically challenged, has no idea what she means.
“I don’t wish to be rude, but I’d much rather he was with another woman than under a bus, and I’m sure you feel the same,” he says.
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Well that’s indecent.”
“Indecent?”
“Not indecent. What’s the word? Dishonourable, that’s what it is.”
“I’m going to ring off now, Frank.”
“Will you ring Catrina? We’d like to know for sure.”
“Fine.”
Sadie goes upstairs and collapses onto the bed. She lies still for a few minutes, thinking about Catrina and her husband Rupert, smirking at the preposterous notion of Ralph and Catrina together. Then she sends Brenda a text: I’ve spoken to Catrina and Ralph is there. She says they’re not having an affair. He’s sleeping in the guest room. All is well. He just needs a little space x
Brenda replies straight away: Oh thank GOD for that!
Sadie sends another text, this time to her husband: Where the hell are you? Text me immediately
And another: Do you think this is acceptable?
Followed by: Just give me a call so we can sort things out
And: I’m furious now!
And: If you don’t call within the hour I’m going to leave you & take the boys & Harvey
And: I AM NOT FUCKING JOKING
Sadie Swoon @SadieLPeterson
Does anyone fancy going out tomorrow night? Husband away on business. Bored!
Chris Preston @ChrisAtMacks
Visit shop tomorrow between 9 and 9.30 wearing a tea cosy for a free copy of Pride and Prejudice!
Retweeted by Sadie Swoon
Beverley Smart @bearwith72
@SadieLPeterson Pizza and pub quiz at the Dog?
Twenty-four tweets. Nineteen texts. Three Jaffa Cakes. Then a phone call from Beverley Smart, who is halfway through her third banana daiquiri.
“Hi, Sadie.”
“Where are you? I can hardly hear you.”
“Bar 246.”
“God, I haven’t been there for ages. Who are you with?”
“If I tell you, don’t think badly of me.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
“I’m with your neighbour.”
“Sorry?”
“The one from the party.”
“Bev, why are you with him?”
“I like him.”
“You must, surely?”
“Why must I?”
“You invited him to Ralph’s party.”
“I felt sorry for him. His wife’s seriously ill. You know he has a wife, do you?”
“Sadie, I haven’t called to talk about this. I’ve only got a sec. Is Ralph really away on business?”
“He’s at a trauma conference.”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t know how to say this really.”
“What?”
“Sadie, I’m so sorry, but I saw him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw him earlier, coming out of Asda with a woman.”
Since he left, Sadie has been picturing Ralph in a mid-priced hotel, somewhere clean and comfortable rather than luxurious, revelling in obstinacy and US sitcoms on Sky TV. She hasn’t entertained the idea of a woman.
“Sadie, are you still there?”
She is sitting on the edge of her bed, thinking that she would like to slap the woman who has stolen her husband, the husband she doesn’t really want, but that’s not the point, not the point at all.
“What did she look like?”
“Who?”
“The woman with Ralph.”
“Nothing special.”
“Young?”
“Our age, probably. I didn’t get a close look. Brown curly hair, jeans. Let’s talk about it tomorrow night, yeah?”
“At the pub quiz.”
“Actually, can we go somewhere else?”
“Fine. You choose. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Sadie walks through to Arthur’s bedroom and looks out of the window. He is on the front lawn, picking things up and throwing them into a holdall. It’s the first time she has ever seen him tidying up. Stanley appears, their faces turn serious, then Stanley starts picking things up too and they look like they’re doing community service in their own garden.
She watches Stanley answer his phone. Some girl probably. Pretty and thin.
She takes Arthur’s iPad from the desk, opens Safari and types five words into Google: Jackson Townhouse Crossley Street gay. She heard about this bar years ago, back when it had a rainbow flag in the window—is it still a gay bar? Do gay bars actually exist in this day and age or have they been phased out, integrated, assimilated into the postmodern homogeneous world, local and global, all of us in touch all the time on a shifting spectrum? She would like to ask Kristin but it’s too soon for that. So she types Jackson Townhouse Crossley Street gay into Google and reads the description on screen: Drink and be merry with people not labels. What on earth is that supposed to mean? Oh fuck it, she thinks. I’ll go anyway. I’ll take Beverley with me. Tomorrow night.
She types two more words into Google: Alison Grabowski.
In a few days from now, Sadie will watch Alison through a window, observing the changes in her appearance, wondering if she would recognize her if they collided in the street. But this evening she puts Arthur’s iPad on his bed, leaving Alison’s website to disappear as the device goes to sleep, and walks across the room, down the stairs, into the kitchen to see her sons.
“Your father’s fine,” she says, trying to look neutral and calm while glancing at the holdall on the floor, the one containing a little Buddha, a carriage clock, DVD box sets and a tiny jug from a Spanish market. “He’s staying with a friend. He just needs some space, then he’ll be back. All right? So you can stop worrying about everything.”
Stanley puts his arm around her shoulder. “We know,” he says.
“Sorry?”
“Gran just rang me. She wanted to know what Catrina was like.”
“Oh for God’s sake.”
“Come on, Mum,” Arthur says, his mouth full of ham and white bread. “Dish the dirt. Who the hell is Catrina?”