Last night, I had precisely nil hours', nil minutes’ and nil seconds’ sleep. Take a tip from me—if you ever have a major ding-dong with your wife, girlfriend, cohabiting-type person, don’t do it after midnight. If you’re in the wrong, and believe me, you’re bound to be—when was it ever her fault?—skip the excuses, skip the justifications and cut straight to the grovelling. Least that way you might get to kip on the settee. After a night like I just had, you’d be grateful for it. It’s always like that on the telly, isn’t it? There’s a row and then the man, always the man, is dossing down in the front room—notice the woman never ends up on the bloody couch—and if he’s lucky she’ll chuck a pillow and a blanket at him. Cheers, I love you too.
Obviously, Gail’s never paid enough attention or she’d have known that’s how it goes. I should have filled her in: “No, Gail, this is where you banish me to the front room and you stomp upstairs and slam the bedroom door.” Then it’d be cut to corny close-up of our wedding photo falling off the mantelpiece. But by that time I’m already on the wrong side of the front door, wishing I’d got my jacket and my mobile rather than a sodding tea-towel which doesn’t look like it’s going to be much use in saving me from freezing to death.
Thoughts whirled round my head like water going down a plughole, desperate thoughts and crazy thoughts and weird thoughts one after the other. I would have called my mate Colin, but it was after half-twelve by then and I could just picture his wife Yvonne standing there in her pink dressing-gown, nightie done up to the top button, saying it’s no trouble, none at all, she just has to get out the step-ladder and fetch down another quilt from the loft, and offering me a coffee, not to worry she can unload everything from the dishwasher for a clean mug and they usually like to open the fresh pint first thing in the morning but she may as well open it now seeing as it’s—goodness—already morning. I always feel I should give myself a good shake like a wet dog before I go in their house; she has this way of looking at you like she wants to put down a bit of plastic sheeting before you get too near her furniture.
I considered checking in at the Holiday Inn, but they know me there after we had that do just before Christmas. Especially after the unfortunate mishap that occurred with the sort-of accidental hurling of mince pies across the Churchill Banqueting Suite. Toyed with the idea of breaking into the MFI showroom on the ring road so’s I could kip in one of their room sets. I even thought about ringing up a monastery to tell them I’d had the call from God and would be right round: “I’ve spoken to Him Upstairs and He said you’re to let me stay, but that I can skip all that praying, silence and head-shaving stuff, OK?”
No way could I stay at my parents'. I’d sooner have slept on a park bench. I’d sooner have slept on a park bench with a bag lady, come to that. Make that two bag ladies and a wino. And a dog with an itch. This is the point where Gail normally says, “Oh, come on, Scott, stop exaggerating. They’re not that bad.” Not that bad? I’d rather suck my way through a bumper size pack of frozen fish fingers than have a meal with those two. I’d rather eat school dinners for the rest of my life, soggy greens and all. I’d rather—oh, forget it. All I’m saying is, if Competitive Moaning was included in the Olympics and they signed up the parents, then Great Britain’s gold medal count could be in for a stratospheric rise. My dad’s specialist areas are, in no particular order: other drivers, foreigners—which of course includes people whose grandparents came here fifty years ago and, in fact, anyone who lives further away than Folkestone—appliances of all kinds because nothing’s made properly any more nowadays—"they do it deliberate so’s you ‘ave to keep buying new ones ev’ry free weeks"—the government, the neighbours—oh, yes, and me. Mum’s faves are the weather, the Russians (current affairs have kind of passed her by really), Gail’s family, people with body piercings—"I don’t know what they can be thinking of a metal stud right through her tongue it’s not hygienic is it they must all be perverts they want a good smacking,” the ever decreasing size of Mr Kiplid’s exceediddly small cakes, the neighbours and—surprise, surprise—me again. In fact, as far as I can see, the only thing that’s kept her and him together all these years—that’s together as in not actually divorced and as in living under the same roof, not together as in this is the person they love and want to spend time with—is their shared paranoia about the neighbours and their disappointment in me.
Not exactly top of my list when it comes to looking for a cosy bed and a warm welcome on the spur of the moment then. I’d have been better off getting myself arrested so the police would lock me up for the night. I’d have had some sort of bed and maybe got Gail to feel guilty into the bargain, might be worth it. Then I told myself it’d all blow over and I’d only be embarrassing myself and I’d have looked like a total pillock for nothing.
So I went to work. I’m usually first in anyway, but it was very different arriving at night. Weird. Majorly bizarre. Bizarre with a capital “B,” as Nat would say. I let myself in, fumbling for the light switches, hearing the familiar beep-beep, rushing to the alarm to tap in the code. There’s a small reception area—just the counter where we take the orders and a couple of crap square chairs covered in scratchy dark brown cloth and, on the other side, a coffee table which is a pathetic apology for a piece of furniture and only has the right to call itself a coffee table because over the years it’s become marked with overlapping coffee rings, so many of them now, they almost look like they’re meant to be there and are having a go at being a pattern. Plus there’s three plastic seats, the moulded ones you can stack. We have them ‘cause most of our customers turn up covered in paint and plaster dust and we don’t want them buggering up the so-called good seats for the occasional non-trade person who comes in for a special order or something. I know, I’m sounding like Yvonne, but it’s not up to me.
I poke my head round the door of the workroom, checking everything’s OK, then go into the office and sit at my desk, thinking maybe I should phone Gail to see if she’s cooled down yet and knowing she’d hang up on me. I phone anyway.
“It’s me.”
She hangs up.
I make myself a coffee, over-filling the kettle so’s it would take longer to boil. At least it gives me something to do, standing there in the squashed corner by the sink, trying to think and trying not to think. Then I lay down on the brown seats. They’re pushed together but I still can’t scrunch all of my body on and it’s bloody cold too. I switch on the fan heater, but it gives out more noise than heat, so I have a hunt round for something to cover myself with. Take a dekko in the workroom. There’s a few old blankets and dustsheets dumped in one corner, as there always are, but they’ll all have fragments of flaming glass embedded in them and I’d rather be freezing than slashed to ribbons, thank you. It makes me think of them Indian blokes who lay on a bed of nails. Gail would love that, thinking about me alone and shivering, every bit of me pricked and pierced by millions of tiny pieces of glass.
On the back of the office door, there’s my mac that I left there about two months ago and keep meaning to take home. I curl up on the seats again, shivering under the mac, thinking about what I said and what she said and what I could do to make it all right and worrying in case I do drop off and the lads find me in the morning and what the hell I would say and how was I going to get a shave between now and then and I should have gone to the bloody Holiday Inn and so what if they did recognize me, bollocks to the lot of them. Then I get up again, put the mac on and go and sit in my chair and rest my head on my desk. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. You are a grade A stupid twat, I tell myself. Now what are you going to do?
I open the desk drawer and have a poke round as if the answer might be written on a yellow stickie, but it’s just the usual collection of loose paperclips and stray staples, the spare scissors that don’t cut properly, a grimy rubber that leaves smudges and a couple of highlighter pens that are running out of juice. Anyway, after one hour and twenty minutes spent pretending to tidy my desk—I know because I take a look at my watch about every three minutes to see if the time can possibly be passing as slowly as I think it is—I get up and wander round the office, sliding the filing drawers in and out and poking about in the stationery cubbyhole just in case someone’s happened to leave a thick quilt and a fresh doughnut in there.
Back in reception, I go behind the counter and flick through the special orders book for something to do. You can see the days when Denise has been in because she does these circles above her “i’s,” like little bubbles. And Maureen’s writing, ever so neat the way Rosie does for homework, only with the letters all leaning at exactly the same angle like those dancers we saw at that show in the West End. Under the counter, there’s a packet of chocolate Hob-nobs with a rubber band round them holding them closed. Denise’s. I take it off and flick it across the room onto one of the brown chairs. Dead-eye Dick. Then I eat my way through the packet, telling myself I’d get some more tomorrow, or was it today, and knowing Denise will be right pissed off with me and I’ll have to get her some more otherwise she’ll “forget” to give me my messages.
Trailing crumbs, I return to the workroom, looking for something to moan about. Well, a blind man with his hands tied behind his back wouldn’t take more than ten seconds to find a problem in that place, ‘cause they’re ruddy clueless most of them. Safety goggles on the floor instead of hanging up where they should be. A pile of broken glass just swept into the corner with the broom still on top. Dirty coffee mugs on the workbenches. Sometimes it’s like running a ruddy nursery school. Half of them would forget to wipe their arses if someone didn’t tell them.
OK, OK, I know. It’s just, you see, I needed something, anything, to fix on, something I was allowed to be annoyed about, something that wasn’t my fault.
Please tell me last night was only a dream. If I shut my eyes tight and pinch myself, I’ll wake up properly. Tell me it was no more than a nightmare—to be kissed away, forgotten by morning. When he was a little boy, only about four or five, Nat used to have nightmares. He’d call out in the night and one of us—usually me, Scott could sleep through a brass band marching round the bed—would go through to him. I’d cradle him in my arms and whisper into the sweet softness of his hair, kiss his flushed cheek,
“There, there, it’s just a bad dream, Natty, just a bad dream. All gone now. All gone.”
I know last night wasn’t a dream, of course, now standing here at the sink, concentrating all my attention on wringing out a cloth, wiping the already clean worktop. I know it wasn’t a dream because afterwards I didn’t sleep. How could I? After he’d gone, I heard him start the car and drive away. I ran upstairs and tiptoed into Nat’s room at the front of the house to watch from the window, peeking through the crack in the curtains as if I was watching a scary film through my fingers.
The red of the car brakelights glowed bright as he slowed at the corner, then he turned left onto the main road … and he was gone. I stayed there a little while, thinking any second now he’ll do a U-turn and come back. Or he’ll go up to the roundabout and turn there. Any second now and I’ll see the beam of his headlights swing round as he turns into our road. I’ll run downstairs to let him in. He’ll say it was all a mistake, a silly joke that backfired. He’ll explain and everything will be all right again. I crossed my fingers and laid them on the windowsill. Touch wood. It was all just a mistake.
But the road stayed dark and still.
I turned round and looked at Nat, his limbs—so long now, he’s grown so much—sprawled across the bed, the duvet all bunched over on one side. I pulled it up around him and bent to touch his hair. It’s as much as I can do to get near him these days; you know what they’re like at that age. He’s just thirteen. Last week. Scott took him bowling with a bunch of his friends and they had a whale of a time, though Nat tried to be cool about it—it’s not done to show you’re excited at his age. What a great start to his adolescence. Nice timing, Scott. I dug my nails into my palms. Better—better to feel angry. Better to feel something at least, not this strange numbness, this nothing feeling like I’ve died and no-one’s bothered to tell me. In the bathroom I looked in the mirror, telling myself in my head: See? This is you, Gail, still here. This is you looking just the way you always do. I stared at my image, thinking maybe the real me was in there, trapped behind the glass, and out here was just my reflection and that’s why I couldn’t feel anything.
“I suppose I better go to bed.” I said it out loud. I wanted to hear my voice, check I was still there I suppose, that I was still real. Silly, I know.
I got into “my” side of the bed and lay there, stiff and straight as an Egyptian mummy, replaying what had happened, turning it over and over in my mind, inspecting it from all angles as if it were an unfamiliar object I’d come across by accident, wondering if I might suddenly spot something new, some vital clue that would make everything clear, something I could hold onto and understand. Maybe I’d just got the wrong end of the stick. Maybe I’d hallucinated the whole thing. It was a caffeine-induced vision or something. I thought again of Scott’s voice, the things he’d said, his eyes avoiding mine. The quiet click of the front door, his face distorted and unfamiliar through the frosted glass, the face of a stranger.
Why aren’t I crying? I thought to myself. You should be crying, Gail, I said back to me, trying to sound firm and positive like Cassie. For goodness’ sake, woman, don’t bottle it all up. Have a good cry if you want to.
I lay there, waiting for the tears to come, telling myself I’d feel better if I could just let go. But there were no tears. There was nothing. Surely I should be feeling more—something—more hurt, more upset, just more. Then I thought, “This is stupid. I can’t be wasting time lying here all night if I’m not going to sleep. There’s plenty to do.” So I got up and went downstairs again and got out the bucket and mop and started washing the kitchen floor.
Surely this wasn’t my life? I thought, plunging the mop into the sudsy water. My life was simple, busy but uncomplicated, a predictable juggling of kids, work, shopping, cooking and cleaning, with not enough treats such as meals out, drinks in the pub with Scott or my best friend Cassie, or girlie nights in with my sisters, Mari and Lynn. But this thing—this wasn’t my life. This was TV drama-land—people arguing in kitchens and lying and cheating and driving off at midnight. And I’m right in the middle of it, only I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I shoved the mop back and forth over the floor, the colour of it brightening at my feet. It’s supposed to look like real quarry tiles, sort of terracotta-ish, but it’s just vinyl of course, no more than a sham. A practical sham.
Back in the bedroom, the red figures of the clock said 2:13. Twenty-four hours ago, I was asleep in this very same bed, and Scott was right here next to me. Twenty-four hours ago, we were a normal family. Not perfect, not rich, just normal. But we were like children playing in a field where there’s a hidden landmine. Twenty-four hours ago, I was content, secure, my biggest worry no more than what to cook for supper, where Rosie’s gym kit had got to, and whether Nat might ever respond with anything other than “Mn?” I was still in one piece, twenty-four hours ago, the children were asleep in their beds, the house was still standing. But now nothing was the same. The landmine was already there, waiting to explode. I just didn’t know it.
So in the morning, I have my croissants and coffee with cream in bed, brought to me by my adoring harem of exotic maidens, sink into a deep bath, mosey around in my silk dressing-gown, speak to my stockbroker, then have the chauffeur pick me up in the limo to take me to my first meeting of the day.
I am seriously going to have to do something about this. I can tell, the more miserable I get the more I tend to daydream. Gail says it’s because I don’t know what it means to be a grown-up. But that’s crap—I earn a living to support my family, I pay my taxes and bills, I drive a car, so I’m a grown-up, right? Don’t answer that.
Looked at my watch. It was twenty to eight. Well, I’ve no idea how that happened because I absolutely, definitely, 100 per cent did not close my eyes for a single second. So I’m there, sat at my desk with a grade A crick in my neck, stiff back and generally feeling like a load of old shite frankly. The lads are supposed to get in at eight but Harry and me aren’t sticklers for timekeeping as long as everyone’s in and stopped arsing about by 8.30. Builders working out on sites often come in first thing, you see, and they usually wait and have their glass cut there and then. If there’s no lads in, Harry or I do it. I like to keep my hand in anyway. I’m always in by eight to do the alarm and let the others in, but Harry’s sometimes here first. It’s Harry’s company, well him and his wife’s. Maureen comes in two, three days a week to “oversee” the paperwork, i.e. check on everything Denise has done because she doesn’t trust her. Though, frankly Denise is too dull to be untrustworthy, you know? She hasn’t got the imagination and I don’t see how she could do anything dodgy anyhow—what’s she going to do, sneak out some stock sheets under her coat? I mean, they’re eight feet by four for chrissakes. And where would she sell them on—it’s not exactly like offloading snide sweatshirts down the pub, is it? “Fancy some cheap glass, mate? Got plain, reeded or frosted.” I don’t think so.
Anyway, although Harry’s the owner, he’s not much of a manager type. Well, obviously—that’s what he’s got me for, though I’m not sure I’m much of a one either. But I’m better at smooching the private customers and chatting up business clients, offices and that. I’m the one with the looks and the charm—OK, only when compared to Harry, but I get by. Harry’s been in the business since he was barely out of nappies, still carries round his grandad’s diamond glass cutters as well as his new tungsten ones. He’s sixty-one so I guess he might knock off for good soon, but I don’t know what he’d do with the business. Their son lives in Australia and I can’t see him being enough of a mug to leave behind the sun, sea and surfing to hide away on an industrial estate where the only excitement in our daily lives is the arrival of the sandwich van and wondering whether she’ll have chocolate muffins or lemon drizzle cake. I know, sad, isn’t it?
Still, the point is, twenty to eight didn’t leave me a whole lot of time to get myself a shave from somewhere and find a clean shirt. But I figured Gail would have calmed down by now and I could call Harry and tell him I’d be a bit late in. So first I rang home.
“Gail? It’s me. Look, I—” I was just going to go into how sorry I was and I’d make it up to her and all that, but I never got the chance, ‘cause she hung up on me.
I rang again.
“What do you want?” Her voice was dead cold. Scary. Like I was a double-glazing salesman she was trying to get shot of.
“Gail. Come on, love. I need to come home. Let’s not be silly about this.”
“Let’s not be silly? But ‘being silly’ as in sleeping with someone else is OK, is it? Perhaps you could draw up a sheet of rules, because I find your logic just a teensy bit difficult to follow.”
“Sweetheart, I can tell you’re still a bit upset—”
“A bit upset? Do you think you can just buy me a bunch of flowers and that’ll be the end of it?”
“No, course not!” She wasn’t all that far off actually, but I reckon there’s a time and a place for honesty and so far telling the truth had done nothing but land me in serious shit.
“Scott, as far as I’m concerned, you are—” Her voice suddenly dropped to a harsh whisper so the kids must have been around, “—never setting foot past this front door again.”
Bit over the top, don’t you think? Women like a bit of a to-do in their lives, don’t they? It’s watching all that stuff on the telly, soaps and costume dramas, they’re always chock full of women sobbing and fainting and generally getting their knickers in a twist. I was still pretty sure she’d settle down in a day or two—if I could just handle it right.
“Gail, at least let me fetch some things. I’ve not even had a shave …”
“Go to Boots if you want a razor. It’ll take me a while to pack up all your stuff.”
I knew she was just saying it to wind me up, so I bit my tongue and managed not to rise to the bait. I figured maybe it’d be best to lay low for a day or two, give her a chance to cool off. She got in a couple more digs but finally agreed to put a few things in a bag for me.
“Just my razor, a couple of shirts, pants and socks then. Maybe my light blue shirt and—”
“This isn’t a telephone shopping line, Scott. I’ll bring whatever’s clean, I can drop it off before I pick up Rosie.”
Rosie. What the hell had she told Rosie? “Your father’s a lousy, lying cheating bastard and I’ve told him he’s not allowed to see you ever again.” “We’ve had a minor misunderstanding, love, but don’t worry—every-thing’ll soon be back to normal.” I hadn’t a clue. I was beginning to think maybe I didn’t know my wife as well as I thought I did.
“And, and can you bring my mobile and the charger? And my thick jacket. I was sodding freezing last night.”
There was a short, smug laugh from the other end of the phone. Cheers, Gail. Nice to think that the woman who vowed she’d love you for ever would one day hate you so much that she’d be pleased to hear you nearly snuffed it due to hypothermia.
“And Gail?”
“What now, for heaven’s sake! I can’t stand here all day while you itemize every last shoelace you want delivered.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just …”
“What?”
“Keep your knickers on—” Mistake. Big mistake. Not a good time to be mentioning knickers.
She laughed but it wasn’t a ha-ha-aren’t-we-having-fun kind of thing.
“What, like you, you mean?”
“OK, I deserved that. I’m just saying, keep it cool in front of the lads, eh? There’s no need for us to have a scene here, is there? Put it in my old sports bag or something, yeah?”
Another sigh.
“Scott?”
“Mmn?”
“You’re pathetic.”
Are parents like totally clueless or what? Jeez. Mum and Dad have had some kind of mega serious shit row—a no holds barred, six rounds fight with a capital “F,” but we’re not supposed to know. No-one ever tells you anything round here. I only know ‘cause I heard them arguing last night. I mean, how stupid is that? They could’ve woken up Rosie. I got up and crept out to the landing. I couldn’t hear properly, but then my mum went “—lying bastard!” really loud. And I mean, my mum never swears, like not ever, so I knew it wasn’t just a normal row. He must have done something really bad this time. I think it was to do with another woman. That’s what it always is on TV. Then she said, “Ssh! The kids’ll hear,” so I ducked back into my room and they went down to the kitchen and shut the door. Mum was just in her dressing-gown and didn’t have any slippers on, but she kind of thumped downstairs as if she was wearing DMs. I snuck down the stairs to listen, missing out the fifth step ‘cause it creaks. Mum says it’s bad manners to eavesdrop, but how else are you supposed to find out what’s going on? I was trying not to breathe so they wouldn’t hear me. I reckon I’d make an ace spy. I thought if they suddenly came out I could say I had a really bad stomach ache and had come down for some milk. I mean, I can’t help it if I’m sick, can I? But then I heard Mum say about putting the rubbish out, so I sprinted back up the stairs and into my room before the door opened.
When I came down this morning, Rosie’s at the kitchen table, spooning Rice Krispies into her gob and drivelling on about Henry the Eighth. Right. Is she sad or what? Get a life, Rosie. So I come in, whap a couple of slices in the toaster. No sign of Dad but he’s usually out the door before eight anyhow. I look at Mum and she looks at me and I’m wondering if she knows I know and if she’s going to say anything. I do my Man of Mystery look—you tilt your head forward then look up from under your eyebrows and you mustn’t smile, not even for one second. It’s pretty cool if you know how to do it right. Steve always starts laughing. Clueless. So I’m giving her the look, leaning casual like against the counter, then my toast springs up and makes me jump—which is not good for a Man of Mystery. Nothing should make you jump—not a police siren, not a gunshot, nothing.
I spread Marmite on one half of one bit of my toast and strawberry jam on the other. I could see Mum out the corner of my eye, watching me, biting her lip to stop herself saying anything. It was pretty revolting actually, the bit in the middle where the jam and Marmite met. It’s not going to be up there on my top ten list of favourite foods. Then she came closer and said “Nat” in a special creepy way and I thought here we go, she’s going to tell me about what happened last night in one of those I’m-going-to-treat-you-like-a-grown-up talks. No thank you. And I’m up and on my toes like a spring and heading for the door.
I went back for an apple, then I shouted up to Rosie as I left: “Oi, Rozza!”
“What?”
“You know Henry the Eighth?”
“Not personally.”
Rosie actually thinks she invented that joke. Still, she’s only nine.
“Did you know he had VD? Put it in your project.”
“He never! Did he really?”
“Yeah—Ask Miss Thing if you don’t believe me.”
Then Mum chimed in.
“Nathan! Please don’t always do that! It’s—”
“Bye, y’all.” And I was out the door and heading down the path, a man with a mission.
I know I ought to have said something. I ought to have told Nat and Rosie. I kept steeling myself to speak. I was getting breakfast and making sandwiches for Rosie’s packed lunch and all the time running things through my head, trying out what I could say:
Your dad’s had to go away for a few days. For work.
They’d never believe it. Scott’s only been away on business once in ten years and that was for all of two days at a trade fair and we all knew he was going weeks beforehand. He’s not exactly some jet-setting executive who has to fly off to New York at a moment’s notice.
Your dad’s been called away. There’s a family crisis.
Well, it could hardly be his parents, could it? What a tough pair—we call them the Gruesome Twosome. Granted, they’re terrible hypochondriacs, the both of them—we’ve always a few like that down at the surgery, whose only pleasure in life seems to be finding some new bit of their body to moan about. But Scott’s parents are never actually ill. Even if they were, like if someone had slipped rat poison into their tea or something—and just about everyone they know must have been tempted at some point—Nat would never believe that Scott had suddenly turned into the devoted, dutiful son. I thought of saying that Scott’s sister Sheila was ill and that he’d dashed up to Scotland but the kids love her and I didn’t want to upset them.
I even thought about just saying it straight out, as it really was: Your dad’s left. He’s a cheating, lying snake and he’s not coming back.
I wanted to say it. I really did. But I stopped myself. I stood there, my hand shaking as I poured myself some coffee, the words running through my head again and again like an old scratched record. I couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t focus for even a second. I kept opening the fridge then closing it again without taking anything out. I banged myself in the face with the cupboard door because I opened it so quickly. Knocked over the jam, saying, “Gosh, I’m being such a butterfingers this morning!” keeping my voice bright.
Rosie prattled away when I asked her what she’d be up to today at school, then she remembered she needed her gym kit and ran upstairs. Nat sat silently at the table, his legs stretched out awkwardly, so you’d have to step over them as you passed. Normally, I’d say, “Legs in, Nat!” Honestly, I get so sick of it sometimes, I feel like I’m a prison warder or a teacher, constantly trying to get him to behave like a normal human being. If he’s really going to carry on like this till he’s twenty I’ll have to resign from the post of being his mother. The awful thing is, I see Nat the way he is and I remember how he used to be, then I look at Rosie and I know it’s just a matter of time before she’s demanding a clothes allowance and trying to sneak out the door in a top that shows her navel.
Anyway, God, I’m getting like Scott, going off the point. I didn’t say, “Legs in!” to Nat because I felt so peculiar: sort of shaky and slightly sick, my own legs wobbly as a newborn calf. I still couldn’t believe it, you see? Suddenly, I envied Nat, mooching around, leaving it till the last possible moment to go to school. I could have happily sat slumped in a chair all day with a gormless look on my face. Then he saw me looking at him and he stopped mid-chew, treating me to a view of half-chomped toast. And I knew that he knew that something was up. I hoped he hadn’t heard anything last night. After the first flurry, we’d come downstairs and we had tried to be quiet. Well, I had. Of course, Scott’s usually gone to work by the time Nat’s down anyway, but Nat’s no fool. I thought perhaps I better say something.
“Nat …” I started, without yet knowing what I would say, what I could say. The scrape of his chair on the floor. He shoved back from the table and got to his feet still holding his piece of toast.
“Gotta go.” His eyes met mine for a second, then he looked away. I nodded and turned to the table, not bothering to say, “At least clear your plate, Nathan.” What was the point? A bomb had just been detonated beneath our children’s feet—now wasn’t the moment to start nagging them about tidying up.
“You got practice tonight?” I knew he didn’t, but I needed to say something, just to keep him near me for even another few seconds. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? I can’t explain it.
“Nah. Might go round Steve’s.”
“Do you want some food saved?”
He wrinkled his nose in that endearing way he has and shrugged.
“Well.” I picked up the plates. “Whatever.” I’m starting to speak the way Nat does. Scott does it too.
“Mn.” He did one of his noncommittal grunts then loped away, doing his peculiar walk, his shoulders ranging from side to side like a cheetah stalking through the undergrowth. I suppose he imagines it’s manly. Aah—so sweet.
I heard him pick up his bag in the hall and heft it onto his shoulder. He likes to get the bus in now, though with the traffic the way it is he’d probably be faster walking as it’s not far. But Nat’s like Scott—why walk when you don’t have to? It doesn’t make sense in Nat’s case though because of all his swimming practice. He is so fit. But he takes the bus. You make sense of it, if you can; it’s a mystery to me. Rosie’s still at junior school, of course, and although it’s no distance either, I drop her off on my way in to work. The roads are a devil and what with all these child abductions you read about practically every other day in the papers, I can’t relax for a moment unless I know where she is.
“Bye then! Have a good day!” I called out to Nat as I heard him open the front door. There was a pause, then he came back into the kitchen and walked past me over to the worktop. He picked out an apple from the fruit bowl and gave me a funny half-smile then, as he passed me again, he stopped mid-lope and gave me an awkward kiss on the cheek.
He did his silly Clint Eastwood face, like he’s chewing tobacco, then he pushed up the brim of an imaginary hat.
“Take it easy now, y’hear?”
Well, it made me feel quite tearful. Nat’s never been big on kissing, not since he was a tot anyway and in the last year he’s made it more than plain he doesn’t want to be kissed goodbye in the mornings and certainly not ever if his friends are around. He pulls away and wipes his cheek as if I’m a leper. Charming, isn’t it? They’re all like that at this age though. One minute, he’s your own darling little boy, clambering up onto your lap for cuddles and wanting to be tucked in at night and have a story; the next they’re walking several paces ahead of you in the street because they’re embarrassed by your crumbly uncool presence and your clothes and your hair and the way you talk and they won’t let you in their room at all, never mind to come in and kiss them night-night.
So, while on any other day I’d have been overjoyed to have Nat kiss me without having to be asked or it being my birthday, this morning it only made me feel worse. For one moment at least, Nat must have felt sorry for me and I hated Scott for that, hated him for what he’d done to our children, what he’d done to us. I could feel myself welling up but I told myself to cut it out, cut it out right now. You’ve no time for tears, I told myself. Pull yourself together! Stay calm, take a few deep breaths. I’m fine. I have to be fine.
Dear God, I can’t do this. If I could only go back, if I could just rewind the tape and go back to last night, maybe I wouldn’t have said anything. I could have kept my suspicions to myself and life would have carried on as normal. Only now we’ve released this enormous boulder and it’s started rolling downhill, getting faster and faster and more and more out of control and we don’t know where it will end up. And now it’s too late to stop it or ever bring it back. It’s already too late.
Dad wasn’t there when I came down to breakfast, and he never said goodbye. Normally, if he leaves before we’re down, he whistles like this—peep, peep—I can’t do it, it’s only air when I try, then he shouts up the stairs: “Bye-eee! See ya later!” Mum says it’s bad manners to be shouting all over the house and if you want to speak to someone you should go and find them. My dad has to go to work early because he’s the manager and he knows the code for the burglar alarm. He works in a place that is called First Glass which is meant to be a sort of joke—like First Class, to show it’s the best. What they do is they put windows in for people, like say if someone broke your window with a football, then they would come and give you a new one. Dad knows how to do it, he’s let me watch him, and he used to do it all the time but now he is the manager so he has to sit at his desk a lot or go and see the customers. They do doors and greenhouses and conservatories as well, and Tudor windows which have like teeny eeny-weeny window panes that are diamond shaped or square with lead all round them and they’re all made by hand and it takes sodding ages dad says and no-one likes doing them because they’re a right royal pane in the arse (that’s what dad says—"a pane—that’s p-a-n-e"—that’s a pun), and mum sighs and says will he please not use that language in front of the kids but we don’t mind a bit. And they do pretend Tudor windows too, which are a lot cheaper but they are not pukka dad says. We are doing the Tudors with Miss Collins. Henry the Eighth had six wives but not all at the same time, and when he didn’t like one he said “Off with her head!” and they chopped it off. He divorced two but it took ages and ages because they didn’t have divorce properly back then but he was king so he could keep changing the rules as he went along, like when you play a card game with Nat. Now if you go off your wife you just get a divorce and then you live in two houses, like Kira’s mum and dad. And Jane’s. And Darren’s, and Sheena’s, and … There’s loads in our class. Kira says it’s quite good mostly because her mum and dad feel bad so they get her stuff like new trainers and give her money when she wants. Kira’s got a stepdad who lives in their house and when he has a cup of tea he makes a big slurpy noise like you do when you get right to the very bottom of your milkshake and your mum says stop it now, that’s not nice, but he is OK mostly. Her dad lives on his own but she thinks he has got a girlfriend because he started saying things like, “How would you feel if your old dad got himself a girlfriend, eh?” Uh-duh. So of course he’s already got one. But, to wind him up, Kira said, “Don’t be silly, Daddy. You’re much, much too old to have a girlfriend. It’d be so embarrassing. I’d die.” So now he can’t tell her he has one and Kira still gets him all to herself on Sundays. Well, not all to herself completely because she’s got a little brother, Rory, who’s only seven. Practically a baby. Kira calls him little squit when her mum’s not listening.
My mum and dad have arguments sometimes but not like Kira’s did. She used to get into her wardrobe and shut the door so she couldn’t hear because they were shouting. Now it is better because they are in two different homes so they have to phone each other up when they want to shout. Kira’s mum hates her dad so much that she tells Kira all horrible things about him and when he toots his car horn outside when he comes to fetch Kira on Sunday, her mum says “Oh, bugger him, why does he lean on the bloody horn?” then Kira runs outside and says, “Daddy, don’t lean on the bloody horn!” and he says, “I’m only leaning on the bloody horn because she won’t let me in the bloody house. And don’t say bloody.”
But my mum and dad are not like that because for a start they are not so loud. When they have a row afterwards my dad gives my mum a big kiss and puts his arm round her and says he’s sorry so that she’ll start talking to him again. Then he goes and gets a take-away so she doesn’t have to cook and we have it on our laps as a treat and my best take-away is pizza but without all the yucky bits that Nat has on top of his. Then Dad goes all soppy and Nat says it makes him feel sick, all that snogging, but it doesn’t really. He wants to snog Joanne Carter from down the road only he’s too chicken to ask her out.
Mum was all quiet at breakfast and when I went and got the crisps and an apple to put in my lunchbox, she said, “Good girl, Rosie” like she used to when I was about six years old.
I wonder what Henry did with the heads after they got cut off. I must ask Miss.
It’s just not possible. Half past eight in the evening and I’m back here at work again. See, the thing is, I was so sure that I’d be able to sort everything out—not that Gail would suddenly sprout a pair of wings and forgive me overnight, no—but that she’d have calmed down a tad and I’d be back indoors again. I mean, how are we supposed to talk about it if she won’t let me in the sodding house? I’m not spending the rest of my life on my knees pleading through the letterbox.
I am not sleeping here again. Or not not sleeping here, to be precise. Sod it, I’m going to have to ring a mate. Right, let’s look at the options. There’s Colin, who’s sort of my best mate, ‘cept there’s the slight drawback of the lovely Yvonne, she of the pursed lips and buttoned-up nightie. I can really see her welcoming me with open arms. There’s Roger, who I’ve known for about a hundred years, but he’s a rep and spends half his life on the road. Then there’s Jeff, who lives on his own. No, it’s not that he’s a sad bastard who can’t get a woman—actually, he is a sad bastard but that’s only ‘cause his wife ran off with his brother, so can you blame him? I mean, how crap is that? And, before she ran off, she’d been shagging the brother in their bed, Jeff’s bed—once she even did it with him when he was staying over on the settee, and Jeff was right upstairs asleep.
Who else? Well, Harry, of course. Harry from work. That might be a bit weird, because of working together and that. Technically, he’s my boss, you could say, because he owns First Glass, but it’s never been like that, not for as long as I can remember. We’re more like partners, like a family business, father and son type of thing. After school, I had a whole succession of jobs, in a clothes shop flogging suits, worked on building sites—I’ve done bricklaying, painting, tiling, bit of plastering; had a job in a fish and chip shop, behind the bar in a pub, killing chickens in a factory, telesales. Then I met Harry one night at a pool tournament in the pub. I was knocked out in the second round (you’re impressed I got that far, I can tell), and he said hard luck, mate, and we got to talking about what he did and how he’d been a glazier since he was fifteen years old and I said I was good at DIY but I’d never done glazing but I wouldn’t mind learning and he said come round and see him, have a chat, so I did and the next thing I knew I was working there.
It was Harry who taught me how to cut a piece of glass, how to measure so you’re spot on, how to cut when you’re working on site and there’s no workbench; it was Harry who showed me how to handle a whacking great stock sheet so it doesn’t crack on you; Harry who gave me my own set of cutters in a leather pouch so I wouldn’t lose them. I’d say he’s been like a dad to me, but that’s not true. He hasn’t—or at least not like my own dad, nothing like. Thank God. Harry’s a good old bloke. The best.
We’ve always gone out for pints, Harry and me, had the odd bite to eat, been racing and that, fishing off the beach or the pier sometimes. I’ve taken the family round his place for Sunday lunch a few times, parties at Christmas and for his birthday, but … Well, that’s not the same as phoning up and saying, “I’ve got nowhere to go, can I come and stay at yours?” is it? Don’t get me wrong—Harry’d give me a bed like a shot. Harry would give you the teeth out his own mouth if he saw you having trouble chewing your steak. But … I dunno. Course, he’d never say anything but I’d kind of feel like I’d let him down somehow, and I don’t think I could handle that. No.
This morning, after my night of blissful slumber at work, Harry got in just after eight. Well, he takes one look at me and he goes,
“You look a bit rough, mate. Been here all night?”
“You know me—can’t keep me away from work.” I laugh, keeping it casual. I told him our boiler had gone on the blink this morning so I’d not had a shave, but I was just popping back home for my razor.
I drove into town and bought a razor and some socks and pants. Back to work to freshen up, had a shave in the wash-basin. The lads were in by then so I stuck with the broken boiler story. Lee didn’t believe it for a second, of course, suspicious bastard that he is.
“Scott’s missus has chucked him out! Done a foul and the ref’s given you the red card, eh mate?”
“Yeah, right, Lee.” I didn’t have the energy.
Gary said his uncle did heating and could maybe come take a look at my boiler. Lee was earwigging as usual, so I said,
“Yeah, go on then, give us his number. I’ll probably be able to fix it myself tonight, but just in case.”
The job book looked OK, healthy but not frantic, though it’s always hard to tell because half our customers just turn up or phone wanting you to come fit them a new window yesterday. After all, you don’t always know when you’re going to break a window, right? And I had three appointments in town anyway—to recce and do a couple of quotes.
Anyway, had my shave and told Harry I was off. I stood in the doorway a minute, fiddling with the business cards pinned up on the noticeboard in the office. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell someone, someone who wouldn’t laugh or take the piss. He looked up from the job book—he wasn’t doing anything with it, of course, just leafing through it, being busy.
“You all right, eh?” His glasses had slipped down onto the very end of his nose, right on the tip they were. I wanted to step forward and push them back up. Instead, I jangled my keys, my pathetic half-bunch of keys, now minus the ones for my house.
“Me? Yeah, fine. I’m fine.” I tossed the keys high in the air and caught them left-handed. Not a care in the world.
Harry looked back down at the job book.
“See you later then. D’you want something from the van for lunch? Or will you be back by then?”
The van. The sandwich van. An oasis in our barren, humdrum little lives. The prospect of food and a little flirtation, what more could a man want? But, ah, the stresses the modern-day executive has to contend with: shall I have a chicken baguette? Tuna mayo on brown? A BLT? Cheese salad on a bap? So many decisions. It’s non-stop thrills round here, I can tell you. She, the sandwich girl, lady, thingybob, comes round between half-eleven and twelve. She makes three stops on this estate and we all come pouring out like ants to a honey jar. She’s always got a smile for me and is up for a bit of banter, but she doesn’t dawdle long—a couple of times I’ve had to chase her down the road, so you want to get out there smartish soon as you hear her toot the horn.
“Dunno, Harry.” I dig out some coins and put them on the edge of his desk. “Better get me a roll just in case. Cheese salad roll, yeah? And a cake. And an apple. That’ll do. Cheers, mate.”
“Cheers.”
* * *
So I drive to the surgery where Gail works as a receptionist. She does four days a week, well, more half-days really. Drops Rosie off at school on her way in.
I stop outside the glass double doors a minute, watching her. She’s standing with her back to me, looking through a filing cabinet. From the back you’d think she was only about twenty. She’s very slim still and her hair’s sort of light brown and shiny, shoulder-length. My stomach starts churning—no breakfast, or nerves, or both. I wonder how she’ll look when I walk in—angry or icy or maybe her face will soften and she’ll smile and I’ll know it’s going to be all right after all. I hang back, wanting to cling onto that hope, however crazy it might be, for a few more seconds. Then a bloke comes hopping towards the doors on crutches so I open it for him and then there’s nothing but air between me and Gail at the desk and I’ve run out of reasons not to go in.
There’s two people ahead of me, but I know she’s seen me. The muscles in her face have gone tight, like they’ve been strained on wires. She’s smiling at the woman in front of her, but her smile’s too deliberate, too bright and her voice sounds high and unfamiliar.
“Please take a seat, Mrs Connors. Dr Wojczek is running about fifteen minutes behind.” She turns to the man next, who’s holding out a small piece of paper. “Repeat prescription only, is it? Yes, you can go straight to the dispensary—just along there, OK?”
A person watching her now would think how polite she was, how helpful, how concerned. Ha!
“Gail.” I rest my hand on the edge of the counter and fiddle with the leaflets stacked in the rack. “Stressed?” it says at the top of one. Tell me about it. “Sexual problems?” says another. You could say that. “How’s your heart?” stares back at me. Crap, thanks, but cheers for asking.
“What do you want?” She won’t look at me and her voice is so quiet I can hardly hear her.
I shrug.
“To talk of course. Just to talk.” There’s something else I meant to say, something I’m supposed to say. What the hell is it? “And to apologize.” She sits down at the desk and taps at the keyboard, eyes staring straight ahead at the screen.
“Did you have an appointment?” she asks in her nice, calm receptionist voice, then drops to a whisper, but it’s a whisper with teeth and claws all over it: “What? You say sorry and you think you can come back now, as easy as that?”
“Course not.” The very idea. What the hell else does she want from me? “I was thinking you could have me publicly flogged in the High Street.”
“I’m glad you find it amusing.” Her voice is cold, as though I’m a stranger bothering her on the street. “It must be lovely never to have to take anything seriously. Still, the answer is no, I don’t want to talk to you. Probably not ever again.” She turns away and bends down to riffle through a filing cabinet.
“Gail!”
She turns back towards me.
“Ah, about your specimen, is it?” She raises her voice and a couple of people look up from their magazines. Time to go, I think.
“I’ll call you later.”
This is not part of the master plan.
I phoned her later, at home, but she let the answerphone get it so I’m saying, “Hello? Hello? Gail, come on, love, pick up,” talking to thin air like a total wally. Then I turn up at home, but she won’t open the door.
“At least let me see the kids then. You can’t stop me seeing the kids.” I can see her face through the frosted glass panels. The pattern’s called Arctic. It’s all right but all the world and his wife’s got it. I’ve been meaning to swap it for something unusual, etched glass maybe, sort of Victorian style.
“I can do whatever I like, Scott. You’ve forfeited any rights you may have had.”
Well, that’s not true, is it? She can’t do that, can she? I’m not a wife-beater for chrissakes, though I’m thinking of taking it up. Joke. And I’ve certainly never laid a hand on either of the kids. I’m the last person on the planet to do that. She can’t keep me away from them.
“You can’t do this!” I’m shouting now.
She shushes me and tells me to listen.
“Scott, calm down a minute. You can’t see them because they’re not here. Nat’s got late practice tonight and Rosie’s over at Kira’s.”
“Can’t you just let me in so we can talk?”
There is a silence. She’s coming round. She realizes we have to talk, that she’s just been making a mountain out of a molehill. She’s going to open the door. We’ll go into the kitchen and have a nice calm chat.
“No,” she says, “I’m too upset to see you or talk to just now.” She doesn’t sound remotely upset to me, just cold and hard and horrible. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
“But what am I supposed—?”
“Just go away now, Scott. Please, just go away.” Then she walks away and I see her shape retreating down the hall.
I think of going down the side path and banging on the door of the back porch, pressing my nose to the glass, making silly faces. If I can make her laugh, if I can only make her laugh, then she’ll have me back, I know she will. But I haven’t the heart for it. I can’t bear the way she looks at me now, like she’s never seen me before.
I sit in the car, wondering what the hell to do next. Then I drive up to the pub and go in and have a pint. I spread the paper out in front of me, but I can’t read it. The words are just black bits on the page, like an army of ants frozen on the spot. I turn the pages, a man catching up with the news, dropping in for a quick pint on the way home to his wife and family, looking forward to a home-cooked meal and a warm house, having a well-earned break after a hard day. Is that how I seem? Or do I look like a man who’s managed to lose his wife, his kids and his home, with a ho-hum job, a crap car and nowhere to sleep tonight? And I’m sodding starving.
I pick up a burger and fries in town and eat them sitting in the car parked on a double yellow till a warden tells me you can’t park here, didn’t you see the lines, you’ll have to move on now unless you want a ticket. Why do they say that? Who would want a ticket? Though in my case, frankly, it’s the best offer I’ve had all day. It’s the only offer I’ve had all day. Life not miserable enough? Have some rubbish food and scoff it down in your car in 30 seconds flat so you get indigestion and have a bit of an argy-bargy with a traffic warden. Another excellent plan from the man who just chucked his entire life down the toilet.
So I head back to work, stopping off at that petrol station on the way, the one with the jet wash. My car’s filthy and God knows I’ve got nothing else to do with my life, I may as well kill time and wash the bloody thing. Least then I’ll have a clean car. I’ll still be a miserable sod, true, but at least I’ll be a miserable sod with a clean car. It’s important to have some standards, right?
I don’t know if you’ve ever been on an industrial estate at night. Probably not. You’re probably someone who’s got a normal life that doesn’t involve sleeping at work, having your spouse chuck you out on the street at midnight, or creeping about industrial estates after everyone else has gone home. Anyway, if you were thinking of trying it, I shouldn’t bother. First Glass is on an estate a couple of miles outside town and it’s dead creepy at night, not a soul to be seen. There’s security lighting of course so the parking areas are all bright as a floodlit football pitch, but it’s quiet as a graveyard. I manage a chirpy whistle and jangle my keys noisily to scare anyone off who might be lurking. Really scary that, a man jangling his keys. Is it a gun? Is it a knife? No, it’s a man, fully armed with a set of … keys. Terrific.
I do the alarm and slump into my chair in the office. On my desk there’s a cheese roll and an apple and a banana muffin. My lunch. Cheers, Harry. The burger didn’t do much to fill me up so I chew my way through my late lunch and think about whether I’m going to phone Colin or Jeff.
Jeff’s basically a decent bloke, but he’s never grown out of playing air guitar to godawful old rock music and since his wife flew the coop the house is a bit of a pigsty. Jeff’s one of those people who likes to leave the washing-up till later. Much later. Till it starts crawling towards the sink on its own it’s so desperate for a wash. So I opt for Colin. Yvonne answers. Of course. Thank you, God, no chance of your playing on my side for a while, is there? If it wouldn’t put you out too much. You know, just for a day or two would be nice.
“Yvonne! All right, angel? Is Col around?”
“Is that Scott?” How long has she known me? Unbelievable.
“Yes, it’s me. How’re you doing?”
There’s a baffled laugh from the other end of the phone.
“I’m doing fine, thank you, Scott. And how are you? How’s Gail and the kids?”
Go and get Colin, for chrissakes. “Fine, thanks! We’re all fine! Is Colin there?” “No, he’s round at his mum’s. Won’t be back till late.”
“OK then! Not to worry!” My jaw aches from trying to keep a smile in my voice.
Jeff it is.
“—'lo?”
Cheerful as ever. This is going to be fun. “Jeff mate, it’s me. Scott. How ya doing?” “'m OK.”
I can feel my shoulders sagging just listening to him. “Fancy a pint tonight?”
“All right.” Don’t get too overexcited now, will you? “See you in the Coach & Horses in twenty minutes?” “All right.”
This is not my life. This is someone else’s life that I’ve fallen into by mistake. I’ve slipped through a black hole or a time warp or something and I’ve become Mr Sad, ringing up his depressed friends so we can be depressed and drunk together rather than being depressed and stone-cold sober on my own, being chirpy and nice so’s I can talk some other sad sod into letting me doss down on his settee for the night rather than trying to sleep on my desk or under my desk or on a workbench or just slitting my wrists somewhere and making an end of it.
So I meet Jeff in the pub, we both have more to drink than’s good for us and I tell him my life’s fallen apart and he says it’s the women, always the women, and he’ll never get over her, never, and do I know that she broke his heart, do I know that. And I say I do know that, Jeff, I do, and I silently hope to hell my life will never be as lousy as his because I wouldn’t bother getting up in the morning. Then we roll back to his house and it’s even worse than I remembered, but I’m so tired and also had just a little bit too much liquid refreshment maybe. But not drunk. No, I’m definitely not drunk. And he says course I can stay, I can stay any time, he’d do anything for me, his old mate, I can have his old bedroom, the one he used to—the one he and his wife—where they—he can’t sleep in it any more, he’s in the back room, course I can stay there, no probs, as long as I like, any time.
I have a slash, then blunder through to the bedroom. The quilt’s covered in blue flowers and the chest of drawers has got one of them little china statues on it, a whatsit, a figurine. It’s like a little boy sitting on a stool with his hands in front of his face and his head bent forward as if he’s sobbing his little heart out, you know? Also, he’s been dropped or chucked across the room at some point ‘cause he’s got these two ruddy great cracks in him and been glued together again. If I had that in my bedroom, I wouldn’t want to sleep in there either. Anyway, I pat the little fellow on the head and say, “Know how you feel, matey. Don’t worry—things can only get better.” Then I shed my clothes in a pile and slide under the quilt and the last thing I hear is Jeff stumbling about, cursing at the door, the wall, the toilet and anything else that gets in his way. I slip into sleep, telling myself it’s all just a bad dream and every-thing’ll be all right in the morning. When it’s tomorrow, it’ll all be OK. Roll on tomorrow.
If I let him back tonight, I wouldn’t have to tell the children. I wouldn’t be standing here with my insides churning away like a cement mixer, trying to think up fairy stories as to why their father’s suddenly disappeared without trace. We could go to see a marriage guidance counsellor, talk to someone about his problems in an adult fashion. I picture it in my head—me, sitting legs-crossed and very calm, my voice low and reasonable. I am saying that he’s betrayed my trust, and I feel as if I mean absolutely nothing to him. Also, as well as carrying on with another woman, he’s irresponsible and leaves me to do everything plus I can’t remember the last time we had a real conversation. I rest my hands, one neatly across the other, on my leg, and say we rarely make love and when we do, it’s a routine, as predictable as loading the dishwasher: slot everything in their correct positions, add powder, close door, twist dial and push in. All systems go. He starts by nuzzling my neck, murmuring into my ear. Then he moves to my breasts; he tends to favour the left, because he’s right-handed, I suppose, but then he might say, “Oh, and I mustn’t neglect you, must I?” That’s him, talking to my right breast. He does that, chats to them as if they’re cute little pets. He keeps one hand on my breast, tweaking the nipple or cupping the whole thing in his palm as if he’s trying to guess the weight of the cake at a village fête, while the other slides lower, following its inevitable route downwards as surely as a swallow heading south for winter.
I suppose I’m no better when it comes to our love life. We’ve found what works, more or less, so why change it? It’s like once you’ve hit on how to bake a half-decent sponge cake, why bother to scout round for another recipe?
Next time he phones, I could talk to him instead of hanging up. Or I could phone him. That’s what Cassie would do. She’d say I need to decide what I want and start taking control. Sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Except I don’t even know what I want.
We could work through this. People do. This happens to thousands of couples, millions probably. I tell myself that it’s no big deal. It happens all the time. I bet that’s what he’s thinking—that everyone does it only he’s just unlucky he got caught.
For the hundredth time today, the thousandth time, I think of last night. I had the weirdest feeling I was watching the whole thing on a cinema screen, like it wasn’t really happening to me at all. Scott kept saying the same ridiculous things over and over again—pretending to be sorry and saying how much he loved me one minute, then trying to offload his guilt by claiming I’d pushed him into it because he’d felt so rejected and unloved. How pathetic can you get? That is so typical of him, he never takes responsibility for anything. Never. My own voice sounded cold and distant, as if I was only speaking a part that had been written for me by someone else. It sounded harsh and bitter, only I kept thinking I should be feeling so much more upset. But I just felt sick and strange and afraid and all I wanted was not to have to look at him any more; I couldn’t bear the thought of looking into his eyes and not knowing whether he was lying.
Maybe I should make him tell Nat and Rosie, see how he feels when he has to tell his own children why he can’t be at home with them any more. It’s his fault, so why should I have to come up with an explanation that they can handle? But, if he tells them, he’s bound to lie. He’d try to twist it all around, make them think I’m being unreasonable and unfair, that he’s being punished for one small mistake. No, I have to do it.
I phone him on his mobile.
“Gail!” His voice is full of relief, I can hear it. He thinks I’ve forgiven him, that I’m going to ask him to come back. You arrogant little shit, I think, feeling real anger stirring inside me, making me come alive again. “I’m so—”
“Save it. I’m not ringing to exchange pleasantries.” My voice stays calm, a model of control.
“But can I—?”
“No, you can’t. I’m going to tell the children. Tonight. I’m just letting you know.”
There is a silence. Scott’s usually a bit of a babbler, so I wonder if his phone’s lost the signal.
“Scott? Hello?”
“Yeah. Still here. Sorry. What are you going to say?”
“I think I should tell them the truth, don’t you? They’re not babies any more.”
“Do you have to?”
Typical Scott, wanting to worm his way out of trouble.
“Well, I realize you may not prize honesty as much as I do, but I don’t see why I should be expected to lie to my own children.”
“No, course not. Not lie exactly. But can’t you just …?” His tone is wheedling, whingeing, like a child wanting its own way.
“Can’t I just phrase it so you come out of it all smelling of roses? And you think that’s a reasonable thing for you to ask, do you?” This is not the way I meant to sound. I was going to be calm, sensible and mature, but it comes out bitter and sneering. I sound like a schoolteacher, telling him off.
“No. I guess not.”
“Fine, that’s agreed then.”
I wonder where he’s sleeping. I wonder if he’s staying with her. I bet he is, I bet he went straight there, fell into her bed and—, I’m not going to think about it.
“I’m planning to sort out your things in a day or two. Where are you staying?” “At Jeff’s. But Gail, we really need to—”
“You can pick them up one day next week, once the kids have gone to school.”
“But what about the weekend? Can’t I—?”
“No. I’m taking the kids to my parents this weekend.”
“You can’t stop me seeing them.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I can and can’t do!” My throat feels dry, dry and sour. I slump down on the stairs and lower my head, feeling sick and faint.
“When can I see them?”
I don’t know, I don’t know. I can’t do this. I don’t want this to be happening. I hate him for doing this to us. This isn’t my life. I don’t know how to do this.
“I don’t know.” I take a deep breath and clutch one of the banisters as if it might save me. I feel as if I’ve been thrown overboard and I’m lost, adrift and alone, with no hope of rescue. “Um, maybe next weekend. You know I wouldn’t stop you seeing them. You’re being ridiculous, trying to make out I’m being mean to you and that you’re the victim in all this.”
“I’m not. I just—”
“We need a few days’ breathing space, that’s all I’m saying. Please just leave us alone for a few days.”
“Well, OK then. If that’s what you want. And could you tell the kids—?”
“What?”
“Tell them I said—just tell them I said hi.”
I suppose I ought to mention the event that triggered off my Great Departure. I didn’t exactly leave of my own accord. Not entirely. Gail encouraged me to go. Yup, I guess locking me out on the front step in the middle of the night definitely counts as encouragement. Now, it’s not quite what it sounds like, so bear with me. OK, it is what it sounds like but I know as soon as I confess that I slept with someone else you’ll write me off and be thinking “Cheating slimebag—no wonder she chucked him out” and it really wasn’t like that. I guess I should have filled you in properly before, but I reckon you’re not stupid and it wouldn’t take an Einstein to figure it out. Whatever. Anyway, the fact is that, due to circumstances beyond my control—i.e. being a man—my dick accidentally ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or wrong person, more accurately. And Gail found out.
First of all, let me say I did not have an affair; it was barely even a fling—not so much a one-night stand as a one-hour stand and it’s doubly unfair because I’ve never strayed before, not even once. I realize that doesn’t let me off the hook but I just wanted you to know that I don’t make a habit of this. I know it must sound like I’m trying to get myself off the hook—"Miss, Miss, it didn’t count ‘cause I didn’t enjoy it.” But it’s like soggy chips—you feel you’re wasting your—your sort of wickedness allowance because for the same fat and calories and what have you, you could have had really good chips and enjoyed being bad. But you’ve bought them now so what are you going to do but eat them and feel pissed off that you’ve used up your chips quota? Then you have to have a Diet Coke with them, to cancel them out. And maybe a doughnut after to have something properly bad to make yourself feel better because of the chips and to get rid of the taste of the Diet Coke.
I’ll tell you about Angela later, the one who was the cause of all the trouble, the one who accidentally became over-familiar with the contents of my underpants. Anyway, after our totally insignificant semi-shag, I’d gone back to work to fetch my stuff and then I went home. Now if I’d been more of a devious bastard instead of just a stupid fathead, I’d never have slipped up. But it’s not like I carry a copy of How to Commit Adultery—And Get Away With It in my back pocket.
So I got back, kissed Rosie, said how ya doing. Nat was out somewhere, at swimming practice I think. Kissed Gail. This little frown crossed her face but I didn’t think much of it at the time and she didn’t say anything. Maybe it was because Rosie was there, chattering away and telling us things, the way she does. You know, “Did you know that in sixteen-something-or-other, the River Thames froze rock solid and they had a frost fair on it with people skating up and down and they lit fires and everything right on the ice?” That kind of thing.
We had our tea, some sort of chicken thing it was, then Rosie went up to do her homework and Natty came in and Gail went through to give him his food. We all watched a bit of telly then Nat went upstairs, supposedly to do his homework but probably to fool around on the computer as usual. It was all so bloody normal, do you see? An evening like a hundred others, a thousand others. Gail said she was off to have a bath and could I load the dishwasher and I said, “In a minute” and she said, “No, now” over her shoulder as she went up the stairs and I ignored her. I carried on watching this programme; it was one of those docusoaps, you know, where ordinary people suddenly get all famous from being on TV. I was stretched out on the settee wondering what it would be like if they brought TV cameras into work and who’d end up the star, whether it would be me as the manager, or Lee ‘cause he’s a cocky bastard frankly or Harry ‘cause he’s a real salt-of-the-earth type. Then I relived the day—well, mainly the bit with Angela—in my head like watching a video, replaying the good bit which was the anticipation and the moment we started kissing and pulling each other’s clothes off and sort of rewriting the less good bit so that I lasted longer and took her to levels of ecstasy she didn’t even know had been invented yet.
I stacked the plates on the counter, then thought better of it and loaded them properly in the dishwasher and rummaged under the sink for the powder. Why are these things so fiddly? Jeez, by the time you’ve done all that you could have washed them by hand. I locked up and went upstairs.
Gail’s at her dressing-table, taking off her make-up.
“Good day?” she asks, speaking to me in the mirror.
“Yeah, all right.” I start getting undressed. “Just boring, usual stuff, you know.”
“Did you remember to pick up my jacket from the cleaner’s?”
“Oh, bugger. Sorry. I’ll get it tomorrow. Promise.”
She sighs.
“You said that yesterday. It’s not as if I ask you to do much.”
“I said sorry. You weren’t planning to wear it in the middle of the night, were you?” I take off my trousers.
“Scott?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are your pants inside-out?”
“What? They’re not. Are they?”
“Apparently.”
I look down. Oh, fuck. Fuckety-fuck.
I shrug. Stay cool. Don’t get flustered.
“Must have put them on like that this morning. Getting more senile by the day. Soon be time to send me to the Twilight Home, eh?”
Gail’s voice is cold as ice.
“You didn’t. I remember.”
“What—did you carry out an inspection? Course I did. Must’ve done.”
She turns round from the mirror then and stands up.
“I noticed your pants this morning because those are the ones with the hole on the left-hand side which you promised you would throw away.”
“Hole? What hole?” Playing for time. I feel for the hole. Shit. It’s now on the right. Remain calm. Make a joke of it. “What are you, Inspector Morse?”
“Who was she, Scott?” Her voice is calm and low. I can barely hear her, but I figure now’s not the time to ask her to speak up a bit.
“Now come on! You’ve been spoiling for a fight all evening. What’s all this about? If you had a crap day, then fine—just say so, but don’t start taking it out on me. That’s so typical of you. Just because a person’s pants are inside out doesn’t mean—”
“What does it mean then?”
Behind her, the mirror of her dressing-table catches my eye.
“Look, you must have seen me in the mirror this morning. That’s why you thought it was on the other side. But they were already wrong, right?”
“Wrong. You’re the one who’s wrong. Right?”
It would have been better if she’d been shouting at me, crying and hysterical, then I could be the reasonable one concentrating on trying to calm her down. But she was already calm, which was much more scary. And I was running out of ideas.
“I remember now. I—I did take my things off after a job but only because—because I got a splinter of glass in my leg so I had to take my trousers off.”
“And you removed your pants for what reason exactly?”
“Because there was this sharp bit. Look!” I stab at a point on my hip. “I thought I’d got a bit of glass right here, so I took them off in the toilet at work to check, but I couldn’t see anything and I put them right back on. That was it. End of story. Ask anyone. Lee was there. Ask him. Ask Harry.”
She just stands there, her arms folded, eyes cold and shining—like glass.
“You’re a lying bastard!” Her voice is suddenly loud, the words snapping out like blows to my belly. “And you smelt of some awful perfume or soap earlier. You slept with someone else, I know you did!”
“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.” I’m going for calm with a touch of outrage. “I can see how you might have got that impression, but you’re just wrong. Honestly.”
“You swear?”
“Yes, I swear. I said so, didn’t I? Now come on, love. You know I’d never do that.”
“What on?”
* * *
Can you believe it? I mean, she’s wasted as a sodding doctor’s receptionist, she should be a lawyer. I was still going for the What—me? approach.
“Come on, Gail. Let’s be sensible now. What do you mean, what on? What, like the Bible? I think you’re getting things all out of proportion. When’s your period due?”
Now, normally of course, I might think that but as I value my life, I don’t say it. Nothing sends Gail into a strop faster than suggesting she has PMT and it’s all down to her hormones. Don’t know why—you think she’d be pleased to have an excuse. When I’m in a mood, it’s just I’m being an awkward bugger and there’s the end of it. But I thought it was a good diversionary tactic, like lobbing a hand grenade out the front while you escape out the back.
She doesn’t rise to it though, just raises one eyebrow at me. Not a good sign.
“Swear you didn’t sleep with someone else …”
“I swear. I didn’t sleep with anyone else. OK?”
She shakes her head.
“Not good enough.”
“I swear—look, I swear on my life. All right? Can we let it drop now? It’s been a long day.”
“No. Swear on Rosie’s life. On Nat’s life.”
“What? You’re being ridiculous now. I don’t know what’s got into you.”
“Swear on our children’s lives. Come on. You can’t do it, can you?”
“Course. I—”
* * *
It’s dead quiet. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, my breathing. I imagine I can even hear the blood rushing round my body, as if it’s hunting in every corner of me for a miracle, a good excuse. It’s only a lie. I can cross my fingers behind my back. I can say I don’t really mean it inside my head, to cancel it out. I should just risk it. I’m not even superstitious for chrissakes. Come on, Scotty, what’s the difference? Say it, for God’s sake, man, just say it. I try it inside my head, saying it quickly, silently. I swear on Rosie’s life, on Nat’s life, that I didn’t sleep with another woman. Even silent, the words crackle with danger, like they’ve sparked a deadly fuse—images flicker through my mind, in split-second flashes—Rosie cycling along the pavement on her purple bicycle—car taking the corner too fast—driver’s face in shock, his whisky-dulled reflexes going in slow motion—mounting the kerb—Rosie’s face, her little mouth falling open in a silent “O"—the sickening screech of tyres. And Nat—suddenly older—at a club—body so lean and tall, he looks like he’s not yet grown into it, not ready for it yet—he steps back to let a girl pass, knocks someone’s drink—a face, hot with hate, close to his—pushing—broken glass—the flash of a knife pulled from a sock—Nat’s face, the surprise on it, his eyes as he looks down to see his own blood.
“I—”
* * *
Outside, a car suddenly revs up and we both jump. And then I lose it completely and start babbling:
“It was only the once. It really was. It was nothing, meant nothing. She doesn’t mean anything to me—it wasn’t what you think—it wasn’t an affair, nothing like that—honestly—it just happened—it’ll never happen again—I’ll never see her again—I swear—I promise—you see, it—”
“Ssshh!” Gail says. “The kids’ll hear. Keep your voice down.”
“Sorry.”
She snorts through her nose at my limp apology.
“Kitchen.” She heads downstairs. “Put something on.”
I pull my trousers back on over the treacherous underpants, and my shirt that I’d flung over the back of a chair.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of water. I offer her coffee but she snorts again. Still, I need to do something with my hands, which won’t stop shaking, so I fumble with the kettle, the coffee jar, drag out the business of opening the fridge, pouring the milk, slowly taking the lid off the sugar bowl, looking down into my coffee as I stir it, as if the answer of what to do next would suddenly be revealed in my mug. Wipe at the wet coffee ring on the counter and spread the cloth out to dry properly, showing her what a good husband I am. Pick up a tea-towel hanging over the back of a chair, clutch it for something to hold onto, as if it could somehow save me.
“I didn’t realize our marriage meant nothing to you.”
“It doesn’t! It means everything, you know it does.”
Gail shakes her head.
“Ssh! Fifteen years down the drain. Bit of a waste, I’d say.”
“C’mon, love. Don’t be like that. We can work things out.”
“Like what? Don’t you dare tell me how to behave. How dare you! You fucking little shit, you could have given me a disease, AIDS, anything!”
I flinch hearing Gail swear. I can’t think the last time I heard her swear. She’s normally really good about it, because of setting an example to Nat and Rosie. It’s like hearing a nun swear or something.
“No, Gail. There’s no need to worry about that. We used protection.”
“Oh, I see. It was totally unplanned and you had no idea your wayward willy was going to lead you into some slag’s bed but you happened to have a packet of condoms on you. Am I supposed to be grateful?”
You can’t win, can you?
“They weren’t mine. She had them.”
After that, there’s no stopping her, on and on she goes, one question after another, firing them off like bullets but still strangely controlled, like she’s a quizmaster reading them from an autocue: Who is this bitch? What’s her name? How old is she? Where does she live? How did I meet her? Did I tell her I was married? Does she want me to move in? On and on. Nothing I say seems to make any difference.
“It’s nothing like that, Gail. I told you, it was—”
“Oh, shut up, Scott. Just shut up. I haven’t got the energy to be screaming at each other all night.” I hadn’t been screaming, but now wasn’t the time to be picking her up on details. Then suddenly she stood up. “It’s bin day tomorrow. Did you remember to put the rubbish out?”
“Er, no. Strangely, it slipped my mind.” Still, it seems like a good sign, you know, that things are settling down and we’re getting back to normal again. I start thinking, we’ll sleep on it and she’ll be better in the morning, we can have a talk and I’ll explain how it was.
“Well, I can’t do it. I’ve not got my slippers on.”
I even feel grateful that I’ve got something to do. Something physical, something I could actually manage without making a total balls-up of it. I flick the tea-towel over my shoulder like a chef and shove my bare feet into my loafers from the shoe rack in the hall. Go round the side to get the bin. I hear the front door click shut. Put the bin out front then tap lightly on the glass.
“Gail?”
“Yes?” Her voice is cold, distant.
“Open up, love. It’s cold out here.”
“Who’s there?”
Oh, great, we’re going to play silly buggers, are we?
“Come on. It’s me. Stop pissing about.”
“I’m afraid you don’t live here any more.”
I squat down to talk to her through the letterbox.
“Gail!”
“Sssh!” Her eyes meet mine. “Don’t you dare upset the children. I realize you’ve got no regard for my feelings, but I’d have thought you’d at least care about theirs.”
“Gail. Sweetheart. I’m freezing out here. A joke’s a joke, but that’s enough now. Let me in and we can have a proper talk, eh?”
“A joke? Is that what this is to you? You just turn my entire life upside-down and throw fifteen years of my life away and you think it’s a joke. Well, I’m sorry if I don’t share your sense of humour. Try not to get in the milkman’s way if you’re planning to camp on the front step all night.”
The hall light clicks off.
“Gail! For chrissakes. Look, let’s all calm down now—”
“I’m perfectly calm. Yes, I seem to be. I’m quite calm.”
“At least open the door to give me my car keys, Gail. You wouldn’t have me walk the streets all night, would you?”
There is a silence. I stand up, seeing her shape move about through the frosted glass of the door. There’s a jangling sound—my keys—what could be taking so long? I duck down again so I can peer through the letterbox and she nearly pokes my sodding eye out with the keys. She’s taken my house keys off the ring, leaving just my car and work keys. Cheers, darling. Then she bends down and I’m staring straight into her eyes through the slot.
“I’ve taken off your house keys because you won’t be needing them again.”
“Gail, sweetheart, c’mon now, let’s not get—”
Then she shoves the flap back in my face.
“Can I have my jacket then? Please.”
“It won’t fit through the letterbox.”
I feel like Hannibal the Cannibal in Silence of the Lambs. You know, Hannibal Lecter and all his food and papers has to go through this slot otherwise he’ll take a bite out of you as soon as look at you.
“Just open the door a crack.” I figure if I can just get my foot in the door, I can keep her talking a bit longer, get her to see reason.
She’s just the other side of the door. Then I hear her slam the bolt across and double-lock the door. I watch her through the letterbox, the backs of her bare feet as she climbs the stairs to our bedroom alone.
“Gail!”
Ha! She’ll probably come down in ten minutes to let me in. She’s just trying to get her own back, punish me by having me freeze on my own front doorstep. Still, what if she doesn’t? Anyway, I couldn’t stay out there all night. I get in the car and start the engine to warm it up, thinking what the hell do I do now? Where can I go, where can I go?
And that’s how I ended up spending the night at work.
Nat’s a big, fat liar. He said that Dad’s left us and he’s not coming back, he said Dad never came home last night and Mum was lying when she told us he’d gone out with a friend and that’s why he wasn’t eating with us. Mum says it’s wrong to lie. That time when I broke the yellow teapot and I hid all the pieces in the garden behind the shed and said I hadn’t seen it, then Mum said you have to tell the truth and if you do everything will be all right. Nat tells lies the whole time. He says he’s doing his homework when he’s playing on his computer. He says he hasn’t any money for the bus, so Mum gives it to him and then he walks to school and keeps the money. He says it is all right and not really like lying because he might need the money for the bus and anyway it is not hurting anyone.
Dad wasn’t at breakfast this morning, and he didn’t say goodbye again, same as yesterday.
When Mum wasn’t looking, Nat kicked me under the table and said, “See?” He nodded at Dad’s empty chair. I kicked Nat then tucked my legs up under me so he couldn’t get me back again.
* * *
Then Mum told us we were going to Nana and Grandad’s for the weekend. Nat made a face, but he likes it there really. Nana makes the best roast potatoes in the whole wide world and last time Grandad told us he had a picture of the Queen each for us behind the clock on the mantelpiece and when we looked there were two ten pound notes. Nat asked Mum if Dad was coming too. He took an orange out of the fruit bowl and started throwing it up in the air and catching it in one hand. Then Mum said, actually, no he wouldn’t be coming and then her face went all funny and she sat down in a chair really quickly and said she needed to talk to us.
Nat turned round and dropped his orange.
“See, Rosie! I told you!”
“Nathan! Don’t shout at Rosie.”
“I’ve got to go.”
Mum looked at the clock.
“You’ve got a minute. Please come and sit down.”
“I’ll stand.”
Mum sighed, then she said that she and Dad had decided that they were going to have a little bit of time apart and so Dad wouldn’t be living with us at home for a while. She said it wasn’t because of us and we must understand that Mummy and Daddy both still loved us very much. Nat was standing to one side and he poked his finger in his mouth, like he does if something makes him sick.
Nat picked up his orange and dropped it on the table like a ball, as if he thought it would bounce.
“Don’t do that, Nathan. You’ll spoil it.”
“So?”
“I realize you must be upset, Natty …” Mum stretched out her arms, like she was going to give him a hug, but he stepped back away from her.
“I’m not. I don’t give a toss what you two get up to.”
Then he kicked his chair and went out into the hall.
“Wait, Nat! We really need to—” Mum started to get up.
“Got to go. You’ll make me late.” Then the front door slammed. Mum sat down again.
“Rosie? Do you understand what I’ve been saying?”
I tipped my bowl to get the last Rice Krispies onto my spoon.
“Are you getting a divorce?”
“No, Rosie love, nothing like that. We’re just—your dad’s just moved out for a little while, that’s all. You know what it’s like when you fall out with a friend at school and you get cross with each other? Well, it’s a bit like that.”
“Miss Collins says we have to make up and say we’re sorry and if we don’t we might as well be back in the Infants.”
Mum started clearing the table and I got up to put my glass and bowl in the dishwasher.
“Yes.” Mum said, and she gave a funny sort of laugh. “Well, I suppose she’s right.”
Cassie came over. I told her what happened and about locking Scott out and she practically choked on her Bacardi.
“And he was literally kneeling on your front step, begging? God, I wish I’d seen that. Can’t get Derek down on his knees for love nor money, know what I mean?” She nudged me and cackled. She’s got a filthy mind, has Cassie.
I picked up the bottle of rum and nodded at her glass.
“Just keep it coming,” she said. “You must have scared the shit out of him. So, how long are you going to make him suffer? Hey—easy on the Coke. You don’t want to drown it.”
“Make him suffer? Hardly. He got off bloody lightly. I should have gone for his vitals with a cheese grater.”
She gave a sharp intake of breath.
“Nasty. You quiet ones are always the most vicious. But you are going to have him back, right?”
I shrugged.
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh, come on. You’re kidding? But, Gail—seriously, now.” She took my arm and turned to look into my eyes. She even put down her drink. “I mean, after all these years, you don’t want to throw all that away just for—well.”
“Just for a meaningless fling, you mean? You sound like Scott. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. Of course I am.”
“It’s not meaningless to me. And anyway, just because he keeps claiming it was only a fling doesn’t mean it was. I can’t trust a word he says. He could have been carrying on with her for years, or screwing a different woman every week for all I know. We’ve been together over fifteen years. Surely that should count for something? But it’s like it means absolutely nothing to him. Less than nothing.”
Cassie was shaking her head and reaching for the bottle again.
“Come on, you know that’s not true. The problem is you’re thinking like a woman.”
“Well … yes, strangely enough.”
“See, what you’re doing is imagining how you’d feel if you were to sleep with someone else. I bet you’d have to be madly in love with the guy, right?”
“I wouldn’t do it at all. I never would.”
“God, you’re annoying. Don’t you ever do anything wrong? Look, all I’m saying is, if you were to be unfaithful, it would mean that something pretty serious was going on …”
“Ye-es …”
“… whereas with Scott—like most men if you ask me—it doesn’t mean much more than he got lucky and he couldn’t bring himself to say no.”
“And that makes it all right in your book?”
“No!” She looked round. “Any more ice?”
“In the icebox. Finish what you’re saying first.”
“Right. All I’m saying is a lot of guys see no inconsistency in being in love with their wives but having a fling with someone else. They split it off in their heads, so it doesn’t count. It’s just fulfilling a basic need: you’re thirsty—have a drink. You’ve got a hard-on—have a shag.”
“So you think I should just forgive him and say, fine, you can come back now?”
“No. I’m not dispensing advice, just telling you how I see it. I think you should do whatever you want to do. Maybe you’re happy to have an excuse to get shot of him. How the hell should I know? You do play your cards pretty close to your chest a lot of the time.” She got up and went through to the kitchen to fetch the ice.
What did she mean by that, do you think? About having an excuse? It puzzled me at the time, but I didn’t ask her, I don’t know why. I’m pretty close to Cassie, closer than to my sisters really, but I suppose I don’t tell her everything. I’m not one of these people who have to keep talking about how they feel the whole time. A lot of that’s best kept to yourself, if you ask me. People say you should be open and express yourself, but half the time I think that’s just an excuse so they can offload their problems onto you or make out they’re an interesting person when really it’s just that they’re bloody neurotic.
Cassie sees it differently because she was unfaithful to Derek. It only happened the once and she was pretty drunk, but I’m sure she regrets it now. She’s genuinely sorry about it, not like Scott. Derek doesn’t know, of course. I couldn’t live with it, if it were me. I’d just be worrying all the time, wondering if he’d find out somehow.
“You know Scott loves you to bits. He’s crazy about you.”
“He’s got a funny way of showing it.”
“Well, that’s men for you, the little darlings. Who knows why they act the way they do? Maybe Scott was feeling old or unloved? Mid-life crisis? How’s your sex life? Maybe this woman offered—that’s enough for most men. Bit of an ego boost. I’m sure it was no more than a stupid fling on his part. A mistake. Talk to him. Give him a chance to explain.”
I shook my head.
“Why are you so keen to let him off the hook? He cheated on me and then he lied about it. End of story. I feel old and unloved all the time but I don’t go around leaping into bed with one of the doctors, do I? If I talk to Scott, all he’ll do is give me a whole load of excuses, make out it wasn’t his fault in any way. He never takes responsibility for anything.”
* * *
You see, that evening when I found out, I wanted to know if it had been going on for months, how serious it was, and all he kept saying was no, no, it wasn’t like that. And I could just see, stretching ahead of me like some appalling endless road that leads nowhere, just years and years of this—arguing and excuses and lies. And then I just knew I didn’t want it, not any of it. I wasn’t going to let my life become that. I felt I’d give anything, absolutely anything not to get sucked into that. There was a sudden flush of energy through my body, so strong that I stood up as if a current of electricity had jerked me from my seat. I said something about the rubbish needing to go out—I just wanted not to see his lying face in front of me, even for a minute, you see. And then Scott went outside and I was standing in the hall. I looked at the front door and I thought, “I could push it closed with one finger and end all this right now.” And, as I thought it, I watched my own hand stretch out in front of me, the very tip of my finger touching the door. He hadn’t even put it on the latch. I didn’t really have to do anything. Just one tiny push and that was it. The door clicked closed. It needn’t even have been me. It could have been the wind—making the decision for me. Not my responsibility at all. And now I could just turn my back on him and start a new life for myself and the kids.
“OK, fair enough, make him suffer for a week or two. But surely you’ll miss him after a while, right?” Cassie’s voice was unexpectedly quiet. “I mean, I know you moan about him enough, but why have you stuck with him all these years if you’re so ready to ditch him?”
I looked at her, her face suddenly sharply in focus.
“Do I moan about him?” I read the answer in her eyes. “I—I don’t know, I always feel like I’m having to nag him, spur him on. Like I’m his mum or something. Honestly, sometimes, it is just like having another child to worry about. I’m so sick of having to be the grown-up all the time. Why’s it my job? I know, I’m not making any sense.” I covered my face with my hands. “I’m just so tired.”
“Here.” She topped up my glass. “Drown your sorrows.”
I wish I could. How I wish it were that easy.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll work things out.” Cassie patted me on the arm, then gave me a squeeze. “If you want to …”
“Mn,” I said, the way Nat does, so you don’t know what he means—yes or no, or maybe or I’m not listening, just leave me alone. Leave me alone.
If I tell you about Angela, promise you’ll hear me out, OK? I bet you anything you like that—if you’re 100 per cent honest, hand on heart—you’ll admit you’d probably have done the same as I did. I swear, a monk would have hoisted his habit and been up for it. A bishop—actually, that’s not a good example. They’re always at it, aren’t they? Can’t hardly open the paper without reading about yet another member of the God Squad who’s taken a bit of a tumble from the Path of Righteousness. And they’re such sodding hypocrites, that’s what I can’t stand. They never come clean and say, “She gave me the green light, so we had a quickie in the vestry.” They always pretend to be all humble and start going on about how they see they have sinned but they felt moved by the Holy Spirit and were really just doing God’s will—like God’s got time to fanny about looking for nookie opportunities for the clergy when he’s got avalanches and plane crashes to organize. I mean, what’s all that about? Admit it, you were desperate for a shag and some sex-starved widow came to you for comfort and one minute you’re saying, “There, there, the Lord loves you” and the next you’ve got your hand on her tit and are struggling to undo the buttons on your cassock.
Where was I? Oh, Angela. Right. So I’m in the office and suddenly Lee sticks his head round the door. Doesn’t bother to knock, but what else is new? And he says someone’s asking to see the manager. With a complaint. Course, what he actually said was, “Ere, Scott—'s a stroppy cow out front what wants yer bollocks.”
Dunno what charm school Lee went to but I reckon he’s due a refund. God knows why he’s got so many birds after him. They’re practically lining up, gagging for it. We get them on the phone, giggling so much they can’t hardly speak. One time he was seeing four at once so we had to have a list by the phone of which ones he’d talk to. You know, it was like Melanie—Yes; Chrissy—Yes; Sandra—No; Laura—Don’t even think about it. But we had to take it down because Maureen said she wouldn’t be party to that sort of thing, thank you very much, and Lee shouldn’t be getting personal calls at work anyhow. He thinks he is seriously cool but mostly he’s just an arrogant smarmy git. You reckon I’m jealous, don’t you? OK—I am a bit. He’s a good-looking bastard, there’s no getting round it, and he’s got all the moves and the designer gear and that. He doesn’t even have to try. Not like the rest of us.
Which brings me back to Angela. So I put my jacket on and go out front and there’s this woman by the counter and you don’t need a degree in psychology to see that she’s not a happy bunny. She doesn’t waste time with the niceties—hello, good afternoon—none of that, she’s straight in: “Are you the person who passes for a manager in this …” she looks round at the scruffy seats and the dusty floor as if someone’s just done a fart “… establishment?”
Not a smile in sight. And she’s the wrong side of forty, at a guess, but not by much. She’s nice-looking though—shiny hair and well-stacked up front, but I’m not about to hit her with the patented Scott special Combi-Smile-'n'-Raised-Eyebrow, ‘cause I can see she’s cross as hell and she looks like she’d have no qualms over killing the odd glazier now and then. Still, I’m not having anyone talk to me like that. I look all round and behind me at the floor, like I’m looking for something, then I say:
“Sorry, Madam—” really polite like, laying it on thick. “Were you speaking to me? I assumed from your tone that a dog must have come in.”
But she doesn’t miss a beat.
“We’ll skip the pleasantries and the feeble attempts at wit, shall we, and cut to the chase? One of your—” she pauses, and gives a kind of sneery laugh, “—boys has made a complete cock-up of my doors and you are going to find me someone who actually knows what they’re doing to sort it out right now.”
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly five. I open my mouth to speak.
“—”
“No—Not tomorrow. Not in three days’ time. Right now.”
* * *
I’m thinking about saying I’ll get the owner and letting Harry deal with it, but he’s too soft and I reckon she’ll chew him up and spit out the leftovers and he could do without the agg.
“What actually seems to be the—?”
“Frankly, I’m too angry even to speak about it. I want you to see it with your own eyes.”
I sigh but I can’t see any way of getting rid of her.
“OK, where do you live?”
High Firs. What a surprise. Poncy so-called exclusive so-called executive houses. Detached but a cat could barely slink through the gaps, you know? People who live there think they’re a cut above, but the houses are nothing special. I knew a builder who worked on them and he says the walls are so thin you could spit through them. Anyway, I tell her I’ll follow her if she wants to go outside and wait in her car a sec and I stick my head round the door of the workroom and shout at the lads:
“Oi! Which of you tossers did some doors over on High Firs?”
“Wasn’t me, mate,” says Lee over his shoulder, ducking down to look at himself in a bevelled mirror.
“Not guilty, Your Honour,” says Martin.
I look at Gary who’s apparently concentrating on cutting, frowning down at the glass on the workbench as if he hasn’t heard me.
“Gary?”
“What?” He’s still not looking at me.
“High Firs. Fucked-up doors. Ring any bells?”
His face goes red.
“What? I did a good job. Took me ages.”
I shake my head.
“I’m going to sort it out now.”
As I leave, I hear Lee taking the piss out of him, winding him up. Gary’s only been with us a few months. First came to do work experience, and he was less clueless than the others we’d had. Quiet, just got on with it. He’s slow but that’s the best way to be when you start ‘cause you make less mistakes. He’s not overburdened with brain cells, but then if he was he’d be off at university or being a lawyer or something rather than rotting away here, yeah?
I grab my keys and jacket and tell Harry I’m off. No point worrying him with all this till I find out what the problem is. Ms Charming is standing outside, leaning against her car. It’s a gleaming black BMW. New reg. Dead slick.
“Nice motor.” I nod.
She doesn’t bother to respond.
“You’ll follow right behind?”
“Yes, Ma’am!” I say under my breath, thinking my car could do with a wash. And some new tyres. And a new engine. And a new chassis. That’ll be a new car then. Some chance.
Course, it’s five o’clock by now, or just gone, so you can imagine what a laugh and a half the ring road is. I turn up the radio and they’re doing a run of oldies. I’m starting to get into it—"I Heard it through the Grapevine,” Marvin Gaye—while I’m stuck in the traffic, and I’m singing away and having a bit of a groove in my seat, shoulders going side to side, head bobbing away, then I look ahead into Madam’s car and I can see she’s watching me in the mirror. She adjusts her mirror then and puts on some lipstick.
I feel like a teacher’s told me off in class. You know what it’s like singing in the car, same as when you’re in the shower—you’re loud, you can’t remember the words, you can’t carry a tune, but just for a few minutes you’re hot, you’re live, you’re dangerous—and the world loves you. But, soon as you suss someone’s seen you or heard you—usually I get a small clue at home ‘cause they bang on the door and tell me to shut up and I’m sensitive about subtle signals like that—well you lose it and there you are, some sad old prick singing flat in a bathroom and feeling like a balloon with all the air gone out of it. It’s weird, half the stuff I miss most is things like that, Natty banging on the bathroom door, I mean, shouting, “Oi, Dad, leave it out! I can’t hear my CD!”
Anyway. So we get there and I park and we go in. Well, I’ve been in the business sixteen years but you don’t need to be an expert to see what the problem is. It’s a nice bit of workmanship actually. He’s coming along, is Gary. Shame he’s got less common sense than a hula-hoop. The fit’s nice, yes; it’s a neat job, yes; nice bit of beading, but—it’s plain glass. Not normally what you want in a bathroom door, unless you’re a bit of a perve.
“Ah,” I say.
“You may well say ‘ah,'” she says. “But can you sort it out? The other one’s downstairs.”
Downstairs, the glass panel in the back door is frosted. It’s not a bad pattern, a bit unusual, sort of leaves and twiddly bits. It’s called “Serenade,” no idea why, probably thought it was better than “Leaves and Twiddly Bits.”
“Marvellous view of the garden, hmm?” she says. You can’t see a thing through it.
“I take it this is the one you wanted plain then?”
“Full marks. Have a gold star.”
Actually, I can see what’s happened. All the doors are the same size in these houses, see? Our clueless lad’s come in, measured one bit of glass, sees it fits the panel in the first door, puts it in, then does the second one without thinking. It’s the kind of mistake anyone could make. If they had soggy spaghetti for brains.
“Anyone can make a mistake,” I say, “but we can sort that out for you, no problem.”
“You better. Can you do it now?”
Thing is, I haven’t got my tools on me. Didn’t see the point without knowing what the problem was. Plus if I’d brought them I could tell she’d have had me there till midnight.
“Trouble is, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get it out in one piece. I can have a go but I can’t guarantee it and I don’t want to leave you with a draught blowing in on you when you’re—when you’re using the bathroom.” She gives me a look then, a sort of assessing look. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was eyeing me up. “We might have to get new.”
“Fine. So you can just drive back and get it now.”
Unfortunately, it must have been a special order because it’s not one of the most popular designs and it’s toughened, so we’ll have to reorder and start again and that’s another two days minimum. She is not happy.
“But—” Harry says the customer is always right and we rely on repeat business. “One, I’ll do it myself so you can be sure of a good job … And two, I’ll make it half-price. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”
She sighs.
“OK.”
She tells me to phone her the moment it comes in and I say I will and then when I’m at the door to go, she suddenly looks me right in the eye and gives me this dead sexy smile.
“Thanks. I’ll see you soon then.” Her eyes are sparkling and she pushes a strand of hair back from her face.
“Yes.” I feel like I’m going red. Get a grip, man, for God’s sake. “Very soon. Two days. Three at the outside.”
I can feel her eyes on me as I walk back down the path. I don’t know. One minute she’s ready to tear me limb from limb and leave me out for the vultures, the next she’s flashing me a come-to-bed smile and straightening her shoulders so her tits stick out more.
And, I have to admit it, I was intrigued. It’s not that I never get offers. In our line of work, we’ve all had bored housewives coming on to us and, OK, I’ve been pretty tempted once or twice—who wouldn’t be, so long as you still got blood in your veins, right? But you find a nice way to keep your distance and there’s no harm done. Unless you’re Lee, in which case he probably takes on all comers. But Angela was different. For a start, she was a career woman. Successful. A BMW but not a man in sight. Not the kind of woman that normally takes much notice of me, to be honest. And she was built too, you know? It’s not that I’d gone off Gail. Gail’s slim as a pencil though she goes on about her tummy like most women. But Angela was—well, on the large side if anything. Not just up front, but big hips, decent bum, something you felt you could really get a hold of. If you had the chance. I found myself thinking about her in bed that night. Besides, it’s not like Gail was throwing herself on me the second I got home every night, saying, “Take me, take me, Big Boy!” Half the time even if I tried to kiss her she’d just give me a peck back like she was my aunty or something.
The next morning, I was on to Tuff-Glass first thing and begging them to make it a rush job.
* * *
And a couple of days later, when I go back, I know at once I wasn’t imagining it. I’m barely in the door before she’s falling over herself offering me teas and coffees, laughing at my jokes and giving me posh biscuits covered in chocolate an inch thick. No custard creams for her, that’s for sure. So I’m thinking, “Ay-ay, what’s occurring here?” I still can’t figure it out, but I’m so pleased she’s stopped biting my head off, it’s possible that I go a tad too far on the smiling and flirting front.
Anyways, I crack on with the doors and I’m having a laugh with her, asking her what she does and can she get me a job ‘cause if it comes with a spanking new BMW in tow then I don’t care what it is but I’d like some of it thank you. And she says she’s a marketing consultant and she’s got her own company and she’s doing OK, only she says it like this, “Actually, I have been doing r-a-a-a-ther well of late.” Quite posh, like I told you before.
Then she’s making me another cup of tea when she says, “Married?” Just like that. Only she’s smiling in this dead sexy way as she holds out the biscuit jar.
I raise my eyebrows and delve slowly around the jar, taking my time, looking into her eyes.
“Does it make a difference?”
“I’d say you fancy yourself.”
“Well, someone’s got to.”
Now all the while this is going on, there’s another bit of my head—probably my brain, you know, the small bit—that’s saying, “Here, hang on a minute, mate, where’s all this heading?” Unfortunately, I’m not really listening to that bit. In fact, I’m kind of telling it to shut up because I’m doing just fine on my own and I’m not needing my brain at the current time.
Then she says, “I know it’s an awful cheek, but you look like you might be a handy man with a drill and I’ve gone and bought this rather large mirror. I thought it would look nice in the master bedroom.”
And I start thinking of various other things that I think would look nice in the master bedroom. I can see her blouse straining against her nipples.
“A mirror? And you never got it from us? Cheeky. Oh, go on then. Have you got a drill? Or mine’s in the car.” Never travel without a drill. You never know when it could come in handy.
She waves her hand around in the air.
“Oh there should be one somewhere. I’ve no idea. Possibly in the garage.”
I get mine to save buggering about. I follow her upstairs, getting a good look at her bum as she goes ahead of me, and think about putting my hand up her skirt. I could just reach out and touch the back of her leg, my fingers sliding over her legs, moving between her thighs, making her quiver. Then she’s at the top of the stairs and leading the way to the “master” bedroom. Why do they call it that? It’s just estate-agent bollocks, right? Still, the bed’s massive, queen size or king size or whatever. Big anyway. It’s so huge you can’t ignore it, so I say, “Nice bed.” I always was nifty with the quick one-liners. Still, at least it was short and to the point. She smiles and gestures at the mirror leaning against one wall.
I can’t help myself now, it’s like I’ve entered bad comedy zone and everything I say sounds like a come-on.
“Where do you want it then?” I smirk a bit at that ‘cause I’ve given up all pretence of trying to be cool and I know she knows I’m interested but I’m not sure what to do about it. Well, we go through the motions of offering it up to the wall and dickering about, then I mark the wall with a pencil ‘cept by now my hands are shaking and I’m wondering if I should take the risk and kiss her or if she’ll give me a slap and phone Harry to complain. Then I’m holding the mirror and she’s supporting the other side and I look at her reflection in the mirror and she’s looking straight back at me. She doesn’t look away. And then, without speaking, we put the mirror down, and I put my hand on the curve of her waist and pull her towards me and kiss her. Her arms loop round my neck and she kisses me back. She kisses me like she’s not been kissed for a while and wants to make up for lost time. I let my hand on her waist sneak down a bit so it’s on her hip, then round to her bum. I’d pull her closer but there’s not a breath of air between us as it is and I can feel her pressing hard against my groin. I slide my other hand over her blouse, as if I’m interested in assessing the texture of the material for some reason, but then my hand’s cupping her breast, thumb circling the nipple.
I hear a low moan then realize it’s me. I touch her through the cloth of her skirt then I bend to hitch it up, my hand between her thighs just like I pictured it. I feel her hesitate a moment, wondering if she should stop me, wondering what she’s doing, letting herself be touched up by some bloke she barely knows in the middle of the afternoon. Then my fingers find the satin of her knickers, slippery and getting damp. She jerks against me suddenly as my fingers cheat their way under the elastic, paddling in her flesh.
She pulls back for a moment; her face is flushed, her eyes glassy as if she’s a bit tipsy. All traces of her lipstick have been kissed to oblivion, but her lips are red and full, her breathing hot close to my face. I start to unbutton her blouse with one hand, the other hand still busy beneath her skirt, moving her towards that vast acreage of bed.
“Wait a sec,” she says, still pushing against me, her hand cupping my head as I nibble her neck. “I need to get something, you know.”
I nod and reach down to tug off my socks, then undo my trousers. She comes back from the bathroom with a packet of three. At least it’s a new packet. What could be more depressing than someone appearing with a packet of three, but there’s only one left? That’d make you feel like you were walking on a well-trodden path, eh? Anyways, she whips off the cellophane, takes one out and pushes me, with one finger, onto the bed.
“I don’t know my own strength,” she says. She reaches for me, her hand going straight to my cock. She’s not shy, that’s for sure. And I’m thinking I’m already just about ready to explode but I want to be inside her. She rolls on the condom, then lies on her side, her leg hooked over mine. I tease her for a few seconds, rubbing the tip against her, then feel her hand on my bum pulling me towards her—aa-aah, I thought I’d forgotten how to do it, but it’s coming back to me now, oh yes. I bury my face in her cleavage, smell her skin, try to reach round her to undo her bra, hands clumsy with lust. She’s grinding against me, getting more excited as I push into her, but suddenly, that’s it—I can’t wait. I want to, but I can’t. I’m past the point of no return and I’m coming, feeling as if my eyes are rolling into the back of my head, but it’s too late.
I shudder against her and collapse, my mouth hot and open on her cheek.
“Sorry. I’m really sorry. I meant to hold out …”
“Doesn’t matter.” She’s trying to be nice. I ease out carefully, then gently start to touch her again.
“I want to make you come.”
She smiles, then—can you believe it—my sodding mobile goes.
“Um …” I’m tempted to leave it but it’s probably Gail.
“Perhaps you’d better answer that?”
“Won’t be a tick.”
The screen display says HOME, so I answer it and pad out to the landing, away from the rumpled bed, away from Angela lying there with her skirt tangled round her hips, away from the scene of the crime.
“Hey there!” I say brightly, suddenly feeling very naked. I shuffle closer to this plant in the corner with whacking great leaves, trying to cover myself up a bit with undergrowth as if Gail could see me through the phone.
“Hi. Just calling to say can you pick up some wine on the way home?”
“Okey-doke! What colour?”
“White. Can you get that one we had before, with the blue squiggle on the label? Where are you now? Are you nearly through?”
You could say that. Christ, this really wasn’t such a hot idea. Check my watch. Shit. It’s after five already.
“Yeah. Just clearing up now. Gary only went and put the wrong glass in this customer’s door—clear glass for a bathroom. He must have sawdust for brains.”
“And can you pick up some crisps for Rosie’s lunchbox tomorrow? Cheese-and-onion.”
“Blue squiggly wine and crisps. Got it. See ya!” I press the end call button and stand there, naked on a strange woman’s landing, holding the phone like I’ve never seen it before. What the fuck am I doing? What have I done? But I’ve not got time now to dwell on what a total prat I am.
Back into the bedroom. No sign of Angela, but the shower’s running in the en-suite.
“Er, all right in there then?” I call out.
She says something back but I can’t hear properly because of the water. I start picking up my socks and my shirt off the floor.
“Want a shower?”
Let’s see—do I want a shower? On balance, I’d say probably a yes to that. Alternatively, I could go home drenched in the smell of sweat, sex and the tang of another woman. What a good idea.
She appears in a towel and smiles at me, but I don’t have a clue what she’s thinking. I smile back.
“Sorry it was a bit … speedy.”
She shrugs and drops her head down to towel her hair.
“No sweat. Sounds like you’d better get going.”
“Yeah. Guess so.” I head for the shower.
I kiss her goodbye in the hall.
“I’ll call you,” I say.
“As you like.”
And that was that. One brief shaglet equals one perfectly good marriage out the window.
We went to Nana and Grandad’s for the weekend, but Dad didn’t come with us because him and Mum haven’t made up yet. On Sunday, Aunty Mari came over for lunch as well and she and Mum were talking in the garden for ages and ages but when I went outside Aunty told me to run along and play as if I was about five years old.
Nat didn’t hardly say a word the whole weekend and at lunch he reached right across the table for the potatoes and Aunty said, “Someone wants to start watching their manners, young man.”
“Just leave it, Mari.” Mum gave her a look.
Then Grandad said, “Come along now, let’s not spoil a lovely lunch. Who’d like a drop more wine?”
Nat said he would and Mum said not on your life and I said I would too and everyone laughed but it wasn’t funny. Then Nana poured me some lemonade instead and said, there you are, poppet, that’s much better than wine and I said thank you but then Nat gave me a snotty look because he hates it when I remember to say please and thank you but it wasn’t my fault he got told off in the first place.
I was going to ask Mum if Dad would be home again when we got back, but Nat said I was being a silly baby and I wasn’t to ask her and he’d never talk to me ever, ever again if I did. I wasn’t being a baby, I just wanted to know. Mostly on Sunday evenings, we all watch TV or a video. Mum sits at one end of the couch and Dad at the other and I go in the middle. Nat lies on the floor in the front. He doesn’t like being on the couch with us because he says he likes to spread out and anyway he can never sit still and Mum has to tell him to stop fidgeting.
When we got home, it was all quiet and there were no lights on and Mum clapped her hands together the way Miss Collins does at school and then she said right, if you’ve any homework still to do, off upstairs and finish it now. I did mine then I went in Nat’s room and he said, “See, told you Dad wouldn’t be here. You’d only have made everything worse if you’d asked Mum.”
“Why can’t they say they’re sorry and make up, then Dad could come home again?”
“Because they’re both, like, totally clueless and if you haven’t worked that one out by now then there’s no hope for you.”
So I stuck my tongue out at him and said he was a big horrible pig with greasy hair and I ran out and banged his door. I ran into my room and wedged the chair under the handle in case he tried to get me back. Then I went all the way along the shelf above my bed and shook every single one of my snow shakers. I’ve got seven altogether. My best one is the one Mum and Dad got me when they went to France on their anniversary last year and Nat and me went to stay with Nana and Grandad. It’s got the Eiffel Tower in it and it’s supposed to be night-time but instead of snow it’s got gold glitter in it. I gave it an extra shake then I knelt on my bed with my nose right up touching the glass so all I could see was the world inside it and I made believe I was in Paris all on my own with no Nat or Mum or Dad or anyone. I was doing pirouettes right on the top of the Eiffel Tower and there were lots and lots of lights and all around me was sparkly gold snowflakes floating down.
He’s not coming back. I said he wasn’t and he’s not. All that stuff Mum came out with about it just being for a little while is total crap. It might work with Rosie, but she can’t expect me to buy it. Some of his clothes have gone. I went into their bedroom and looked in the wardrobe. Before, his clothes were all on the right and Mum’s were on the left. The clothes were all squashed up because Dad says Mum’s got too many things, God knows why, she doesn’t wear a quarter of them, he says. Now her stuff’s all spaced out and there’s a gap at one end, like his things were never there at all, like he never even lived here.
Mum told us we would see him next weekend and that we can phone him whenever we like. She said he’d phone Wednesday and we could decide what to do at the weekend. I won’t be here when he phones. I’ve got swimming practice. My tumble turn’s too slow. Jason sees his dad only on weekends. He stays at his dad’s every other Saturday night and they go out and do stuff on Sunday.
* * *
I looked in the cupboard under the stairs. His fishing things were still there. He wouldn’t leave without them. Maybe he will come back. There were his rods in their covers. The big green umbrella. That funny little tent to keep the wind off. It’s not a proper tent really, no groundsheet or anything, but it’s better than nothing when the wind’s cutting along the coast or coming straight at you off the sea. We used to go a lot, Dad and me, down off the beach. I’ve got my own rod. Dad bought it for me one Christmas. The reel bit alone cost loads of money. It’s a proper one, a grown-up one. Rosie’s got a stupid little girl’s rod because she’s only come with us once or twice and then only so she wouldn’t feel left out and Mum said we had to take her and not to be a pair of spoilsports. She never caught anything except when Dad cast for her, so it didn’t count. I got a couple of flatties last time, only small though, so I chucked them back. Dad promised that one day we’d hire a boat so we could go further out. Don’t suppose he’ll bother now. He shouldn’t make promises if he’s not going to keep them.
We used to go at night sometimes. You get there on a rising tide. We’d take like a kind of a picnic, Dad made it, not Mum, with soup or cocoa and sandwiches. But we’d always get chips as well once we were there. There’s a chippie down this side street off the front. It helps keep your hands warm, holding chips. I started going when I was only six or seven. We used to take my sleeping bag in case I fell asleep. I remember Dad lifting me up, like I was a ginormous great caterpillar in this sleeping bag and laying me on the back seat of the car. Then at home, I’d feel him lift me out again. It was all dark but he’d carry me up the stairs, my legs swinging in the bag as he bounced on each step. Then he put me down on my bed, still in my clothes, and he’d pull the covers up over the sleeping bag, and the last thing I heard was him saying, “Night-night, Natty. Sleep tight,” and then tiptoeing out again. And I’d say “Night-night” back, at least I always meant to say it, but by then I was too sleepy to speak. I thought I was saying it out loud, but I wasn’t. It was just in my head. You do stuff like that when you’re only a little kid.
OK, what’s the worst-case scenario, I said to myself. Gail’s always saying I’m too much of an optimist and that’s why I keep being disappointed. But what’s the point of carrying on at all if you think everything’s going to turn out badly the whole time? Gail says it’s best to prepare yourself for the worst then if things are only a bit crap you feel like you’re ahead of the game. My words, not hers, but you get the gist.
I was still pretty sure she would come round and everything would be all right. I figured I’d be on the wrong end of some heavy-duty sulking and sarky remarks for a while and I’d get not enough nookie to keep a nun happy, but that I’d live through it. It’s not like I’m not used to it or anything. If I was really unlucky, I reckoned she might make me go to one of those marriage guidance people. I’ve seen them on telly—d’you remember that series, with all the couples? Half of them you couldn’t see why they’d ever got hitched in the first place, they never said more than “Pass the sugar.” Hopeless. Yeah, like I can afford to be smug. Anyway, the marriage guidance bods, they’re always like these really creepy blokes who sit there stroking their beards while looking at your wife’s tits and asking nosy questions about how often you have sex. And the women counsellors are just as bad, all smiling and nodding and homely looking then—pow!—just when you’re thinking maybe this isn’t so bad, they stick the knife in and jiggle it around: “So it’s been a long time since your husband’s given you any pleasure in bed?”
Gail knows I can’t stand all that stuff—like those couples that go on chat shows and talk about, well, everything: “Yes, I did find it difficult to maintain my erection, but Sue was very loving and we were able to laugh about it together …” Hilarious. What a giggle. Would you go on telly and tell millions of people you couldn’t get a stiffy? Why not send cards round to all your mates while you’re at it? Take out an ad in the paper. No need for an ad round here. They’re so desperate for news, it’d probably make front page:
MAN AT NO. 36CAN’T GET IT UP
Wife says council should support him
Anyway. That’s another thing I do that drives Gail crazy—keep going off the point. How do I know it drives her crazy? You’re thinking I must be some kind of expert on the subtle signals women are supposed to give out, right? Clearly, Gail never heard all that stuff about women being subtle. When I annoy her, which is like about fifty times a day, she starts gnashing her teeth and lunging at me with the potato peeler. “Is this all part of your feminine mystique?” I say, dodging out the way and flicking at her with the tea-towel. “I have an inkling you’re a little bit upset about something. Tell me if I’m getting warm.” Colin says when Yvonne’s pissed off (when isn’t she pissed off? I want to ask, but I’m too much of a gent), she goes into a sulk. Her mouth goes all pursed like a cat’s bum and if he goes “What’s up?” she says, “Nothing” which of course means “Everything, and you better start being sorry even if you don’t know what it is.” And it’s always something minuscule like he forgot her mum’s birthday or she’s got on a new lipstick and Colin didn’t notice.
Oh. Worst-case scenario. I remember. Well, I reckon the absolute worst, worst, worst-case scenario is if Gail doesn’t let me come back for, say—well, ever. She couldn’t stop me seeing the kids ‘cause I’ve never been cruel or violent or whatever. So, absolute worst is—no Gail to cuddle up to at night ever again.
And I’d have to find a new place to live and support me and them for a lot more than I do now.
And I’d not get to hang out with Natty and mess around with the computer or go roller-blading or swimming or fishing whenever we want.
Or tell Rosie a bedtime story and kiss her good night.
So that’d be the worst.
Fuck.
* * *
Still, that’s really, really unlikely. I mean, it was only a sodding fling, right? She’d have to have a screw loose to hold it against me for ever. It happens all the time. I read it somewhere: 50 to 75 per cent of men have at least one affair after they’re married. So, looking at it logically, I’d be downright abnormal if I hadn’t slept with someone else. It’s obviously completely natural. Look at lions, for instance—you get one male with loads of females, don’t you? I should find that article and send it to her. You know, to prove it. Then she’d see I wasn’t so bad. We could start over, a clean slate, and I wouldn’t go off the rails again. I mean, statistics might be on my side, but you don’t want to push your luck, right?
I’d like to say I’m getting used to being on my own, that I’m enjoying this unexpected return to a bachelor lifestyle. I’d like to say that living at Jeff’s house is a non-stop riot and that we have a load of girls over for drunken orgies every night. Ha! I wish. The joke is, I’ve turned into Mr House-Husband, spending half my evenings elbow-deep in suds or hoovering like a dynamo and tutting at Jeff when he leaves his cups and plates all over the house the way Nat does. With Gail, it was always moan, moan, moan that I didn’t pull my weight round the house—if only she could see me now. Maybe then she’d stop looking at me like I was some slime creature who’d crawled out from under a rock.
At first, every time I attempted to have a sensible conversation with her about the Subject, she’d go into snide overdrive and things would spiral out of control and I’d end up wishing I’d never brought it up. But eventually, she agreed to have a talk, a proper sit-down talk as opposed to her slagging me off on the front step.
“Not because I think you’ve got anything to say that’s worth listening to,” she said. “But at least once I’ve heard you out you can stop going on about it.”
I went through the whole thing again, and told her how much I love her and miss her, but nothing seemed to make any difference. I was being completely reasonable, I swear, and I pointed out that we’d been having our ups and downs and it wasn’t all down to me—but she just went right off the bloody deep end.
“It’s not that I’m trying to make light of it,” I tell Gail, “but it really didn’t mean anything, I swear.” I am trying to make light of it, of course, but so far honesty seems to have been not the best policy for the King of Fuck-Ups. “I do realize how serious this is. I’m just saying that it’s very, very common and we shouldn’t let it get all out of proportion. This happens to lots of couples, but they manage to work things out.”
“This as you so carefully put it, does not happen to lots of couples, Scott. Infidelity isn’t an earthquake or a bolt of lightning and we just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time—it wasn’t me, Miss, I was just lying there and this woman threw herself on top of my willy. It’s pathetic. Take some responsibility for once in your life. Now that you’re a big lad of forty you might try acting like a grown-up. Who knows? You might even get to like it. Many of us act like grown-ups every single day and come to no major harm.”
“Cheers. I do take responsibility. All I’m saying is plenty of blokes—and women as well for that matter—”
“But not me.”
“No, not you. I’m not saying that, course not. Where was I?” She always does that, throws you off so you lose your thread.
“Hunting for some sort of easy way out? Up shit creek without a paddle?”
She never used to talk like that. I don’t know what’s happened to her lately.
“My point is, Gail, lots of people have meaningless affairs—”
“So it was an affair? You’ve given up pretending it was a one-off mistake then? It’s a good idea to stick to the same story once you’ve started lying, Scott. Do try to keep track. Perhaps you should keep a small notebook. So, are we getting some truth out of you at last?”
“No. Yes. No. I mean, I am telling the truth. No, it wasn’t an affair, I told you. Look …” I rub my fingertips hard against my forehead; my brain is beginning to throb. “Can I just say what I’m trying to say for a sec?” She shrugs, then folds her arms, her expression a perfect cross between smug superiority and complete boredom.
“I mean—just ‘cause someone goes off the rails once or twice, it’s not as if it’s really the be-all and end-all, is it? If someone makes one small mistake—which they really, really regret—it doesn’t—”
She interrupts me. This is her idea of letting me finish. I just want you to know it’s not all one way, that’s all. She may make out she’s the poor little victim but Gail can give as good as she gets. Better, even. I might as well have laid down on the floor, waved a white flag, and let her march straight over me on her way to conquer the rest of the planet.
“Scott,” she says, spitting out my name like it’s an insult. “You only ‘really, really regret’ what happened because you got caught. Otherwise you’d have been swaggering around thinking how clever you’d been. And your story still keeps changing. Was it once or was it twice? Surely even you must have noticed?—though I dare say she may not have. And if you don’t call betraying your wife’s trust and breaking your marriage vows and lying and cheating and letting down your children the be-all and end-all, then I’m afraid all I can do is feel sorry for you. You don’t have the slightest idea of what it means to be a husband and a father, do you? I think you barely understand even how to be a passable adult. You’re just a silly overgrown kid. Honestly, I might as well be a single parent half the time—I ought to have received extra child benefit for having you in the house.”
I’m stood there, words lodged in my throat, trying to swallow, feeling my sodding eyes start to water. Bugger this, I am not going to cry, I’m just not. Nobody, but nobody, makes me cry. Not any more. But I’m not having her call me a sponger. No way. So I lost my rag completely at this point, but who wouldn’t have? I meant to stay calm, I really did, but she shoved me over the edge because she gets off on being the mature, sensible one and making me look like the toddler having a temper tantrum. Well, good bloody luck to her. At least I don’t go round looking like I’ve got a poker up my arse the whole time.
It was pathetic, of course, Scott insisted on having a talk, then all he did was trot out the same old excuses—how it was just sex and didn’t mean anything, how lots of couples go through this and it didn’t have to be a big deal. He even told me it wasn’t very good and that she was a bit fat—as if that meant it shouldn’t count. And men are always claiming that we’re the ones who are illogical.
The worst thing was when he said, “It’s made me realize just how much I really love you.” Oh, well, that’s fine then. Why not do it every week just to make sure? I came this close to hitting him, I really did. I wish I had done, I wish I’d really let rip and screamed at him, but I didn’t. I was using all my energy to hold myself together, my voice getting more and more calm and controlled, every bit of my body tight and stiff. I had to. I thought that if I let go for even a split second, then I’d sort of explode inside-out and become this horrible screaming, crying heap. And then there’d be no Gail any more, just a raw red blob shuddering with rage and fear in the corner.
I pressed my toes down hard against the floor and pinched the skin on my arms.
“Honestly, Scott, you’ve had enough time to think about this. Is that really the best you can manage?”
And, get this, he even had the cheek to say, “But we were getting on so badly—” Well, there was no way I was letting him shift all the blame onto me. Typical Scott. He’s worse than a toddler. If he breaks something, he never says sorry, it’s always, “I don’t know how that happened, it jumped off the shelf. I was nowhere near it.”
“And sleeping with another woman was your idea of a miracle cure for our problems, was it?”
“No, course not,” he said, looking all awkward, like a teenager. Like Nat, in fact. “It’s just—I didn’t know how to make it better.”
“It’s not exactly making an appointment with Relate, is it, Scott?”
“I’d have gone. You never said!”
Can you believe it? What is he, twelve years old?
“That’s you all over, isn’t it?” I practically screeched at him, while still trying to keep my voice down. “'You never said.’ Why the hell is it my job? I suppose it’s like the way it’s my job to be cook, cleaner and general household dogsbody. Why is everything up to me all the time? And anyway—anyway, you’re a pathetic liar. No way would you have gone for marriage guidance even if I had suggested it—and you know it.”
“I might have.”
I laughed then. I actually laughed. He seemed to be getting younger and younger. Before, he seemed about twelve. Now, he looked only about four years old, saying “I might have” trying to defy teacher with his bottom lip stuck out.
He sniffed.
“Well, you wouldn’t want some nosy do-gooder asking personal questions about our sex life either.”
“Why ever not? Unlike some people in this room, I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Then I just felt so sick of it all, of him sitting there trying to make out that he was this poor, sweet, innocent boy who just happened to have made this tiny little mistake that any other woman would have forgiven without a second thought. He acted as if I was being a loathsome bitch trying to victimize him and it wasn’t his fault that he’d cheated on me. He never takes responsibility, so he gets to be the one who’s spontaneous and larks about the whole time, while look who gets stuck with having to be the sensible grown-up. So I made some dig about him being like a child, it was a silly thing to say, but it just came out and suddenly I thought maybe I’d gone too far. His face darkened, his jaw thrust forward as if he really was a little boy doing his best not to cry.
“That is well out of order, Gail. You really have crossed the line now.” Then he started shouting: “I have always provided for my family—I’ve always worked— you and the kids have never gone short—never—Jeez, you make me sound like some fucking sponger. How can you say that?”
I felt a bit bad, really I did. I hadn’t meant it. I’d just wanted to hurt him, I suppose, make him feel useless and humiliated—the way he’d made me feel. And now it looked like I had World War Three on my hands.
“I’m sorry, Scott. I really am. I only said it because I feel so hurt and angry.”
“Hurt and angry? You—hurt and angry! I’m the one living like a fucking gypsy out of a fucking carrier bag! How dare you make yourself into such a martyr—here you are in our nice warm house with our comfy settee and our proper kitchen and our big bed and our—repeat, our—children while I’m having to accept charity and live like a sodding student and be woken up by crap rock music at seven o’clock in the fucking morning. For fuck’s sake—HURT and ANGRY? You haven’t got a fucking clue.”
Then he got up and stomped out and down the front path. I thought of going after him, to try to get him to calm down, but my legs were shaking and I couldn’t move. I’ve never, ever seen him like that. Not about unjust parking tickets or the car being stolen or being gazumped over our first house. Never.
OK, I’ll come clean—it was twice. With Angela, I mean. But you really can’t count the first time. And the second time was only to make up for the first time being so godawful and anyway, I was already guilty by then, so it wasn’t as if it was making anything worse. It’s all water under the bridge now in any case, so what difference does it make? Still, there’s no point in telling Gail it was twice, right?
The second time. I was driving practically past Angela’s house. Well, near enough. So I thought I’d just call by, say hello, take a look at her doors and that.
“Oh hello.” Angela opened the door a little way, with just her head in the gap. “Nice of you to keep in touch.”
“Now don’t be like that. I did call but I got your machine and I didn’t know what to say.”
“How about: ‘Hello, it’s Scott, are you available for shagging purposes?'”
I’m on the verge of blushing now. Still, she seems to be smiling, so I take advantage and edge a bit closer.
“You can’t just turn up whenever you feel like it, you know. What if I’d had someone here?”
“You could say I’d come to check your garden door and other see-through items. It’s only that I was in the area and—”
“Yes, I see. Come in anyway now that you’re here. Coffee?”
“Cheers.” I shuck off my jacket, casual, as if I’m a bit hot. Angela’s wearing one of those wrap-round skirts. The sort where you undo one button and yee-har it’s on the floor. The kind of women’s clothing a man likes. I think about putting my hand on her thigh, sliding up under the material, but she’s standing the wrong side of the jutting-out counter. Hang on a minute, matey. Don’t rush.
“Sugar?” She busies herself making the coffee, fiddling with jars and teaspoons.
“One-and-a-bit. So, how’ve you been?” Slowly, I edge around the worktop.
“Oh, you know, moping by the phone waiting to hear from you.” She looks at me then. “Not really, you idiot. I’ve hardly been here, actually. Got so much work on. I’m fine.” She sighs. “Scott, I do know you’re married. I’m not looking to get into some seedy affair or lure you away from your wife, you know. I had a good time,” she laughs, hitching herself onto a stool at the counter. “Well, all right, I’ve had better but it was fine, and if we ever get it together again, that’ll be fine too. But I’m not becoming the Other Woman. I’m not looking to be somebody’s stepping-stone out of a hopeless marriage.”
“But I haven’t got a hopeless marriage. I love Gail to bits …”
“Yeah.” She looks me straight in the eye. “You probably do, but you’re at the mercy of your dick. You all are.”
I shrug in what I hope is an endearing, oh-well-that’s-us-lads sort of way and give her my best smouldering-but-sensitive look.
“You needn’t worry, I’m not the sort to tell tales. I may have knickers with loose elastic but I’m not a bitch.”
“I never thought you were. ‘s just …”
“Ye-e-e-s?”
“About the other day …”
“Other week, more like.”
“I was a bit nervous …”
“So that’s it!” She laughs, shaking slightly, perched on her stool. Her skirt comes open a little way and I notice she doesn’t tug it back together again. I nudge a bit closer, spreading out my fingers on the worktop. “Scott. You’re hilarious, you really are. Are you worried about your reputation? Good grief, you were fine. Still …” She eases herself down off the high stool.
“So then …” I stroke along her arm with one finger.
“Lord, we’ll be here all day at this rate.” She takes my hand and tows me towards the stairs. “Come upstairs if you’re coming—I’ve got to go out at three.”
Well, by now I’ve left my brain behind completely, it’s outside lurking in the driveway wondering what’s occurring, saying tut-tut through the letterbox and hoping I’ll come back to pick it up at some point. But I’m in no rush because I reckon I’m about to have a very good time without it. A very good time. If it was here, it’d only be in the way, muttering and criticizing—"What if …? Do you think this is wise? What if Gail …? You got away with it once, but—” Thank you, Brain, your services are not required at this time. Don’t call us, we’ll call you …
I bend to undo the button of her skirt, tugging at the cloth with my teeth, feeling her hand on my head, pulling me close. Her hairs curl round the sides of her silky knickers. I kneel down and knee-walk her towards the bed as I pull at her pants with my mouth. She pulls me onto the bed, feeling for the buckle of my belt, my zip, her hand hot on my skin, easing me out, holding me—pulling down my trousers, rucked around my knees—no time to take them off now—kissing—her hand driving me crazy—"Hang on, where’s the…?"— fumbling in her bedside cupboard, one hand still encircling me—rips open the packet with her teeth—rolls it on smoothly, bending over me to kiss the tip—lying back now—her thighs spread—hand guiding—I hover on the brink, teasing her—her gasp as I push in—her flesh warm around me—legs holding me—good—God, I’ve missed this feeling—being surrounded—being held—so good—building now—getting faster—should I slow down?—is she …?—mentally recite the names and phone numbers of our main suppliers—Tuff Glass 013— no need now, no need—her hips are ramming into mine—small urgent grunts—now high and breathy—our mouths open—too hot to kiss—gasping for air, for breath—shuddering—collapsing, her mouth wet on my shoulder, her hair across her face in sweaty strands.
I roll off her and we lie there for a few minutes, catching our breath. Then she levers herself upright.
“Better. A lot better. Have a gold star.” She smiles and nods, as if to herself. “God, I really needed that.” She pads towards the bathroom, calling back over her shoulder. “Do you want first shower or shall I?”
“You. Do you need me to come in and hold your … soap?”
“No thanks. I prefer to wash alone. Won’t be long.”
Then I had a shower, she gave me a kiss in the hall, said we’d best leave it for a while, and I left. When I turned to wave from the car, the front door was closed and she was gone. Then I went home—smelling of a different soap, it turned out, as Inspector Gail informed me later, that and the inside-out underpants, that’s what gave me away—not knowing that my entire life was about to be tugged away from right under my feet.
All done in barely more than half an hour. I’d been married to Gail fifteen years. It took just half an hour to wipe out fifteen years of marriage. Half an hour. Jeez.
* * *
After the big row with Gail, when she’d said all those things, I thought, “Well, bollocks to you then—if you’re going to treat me like shit and make like I’m the most evillest sinner on the whole planet, then why should I beat myself up about it as well and stay at Jeff’s"—Mr Happy’s Amazingly Cheerful Abode isn’t exactly where you want to hang out if you’re already feeling down, you know? So I drove round to Angela’s. There’s no answer when I ring the bell and I’m just hopping from foot to foot on the doorstep when she appears on the side path hefting her rubbish bin.
“Hiya!” Trying to sound breezy, casual, you know. “Let me take that. Where do you want it?” I give a little knowing smile at that last bit.
“Just passing, were you?” No hello, no squelchy kiss. This isn’t going to be a pushover, I could tell.
“Yeah, sort of. Sorry I’ve not been in touch.”
“I’d prefer it if you’d phone first, Scott. I might have had someone here.” I try to peer in through the front room window.
“Sorry. Have you?”
“No, but that’s not the point.”
“Don’t you like surprises? Come on—where’s your sense of spontaneity? No-one does anything on impulse any more—no wonder the country’s stuck in a rut.”
“So that’s Scott’s solution to all global political and economic problems, is it? Be spontaneous?”
That’s the way she talks. It’s kind of hard to tell when she’s joking. Also, I wasn’t so sure about the being spontaneous thing. Well, look at the trouble it had got me in so far.
“No danger of being offered a coffee, is there?”
She nods me in to the house.
“Sure. Can’t stand out here freezing on the front path. Besides, the neighbours might see you.”
She’s just kidding, right? Anyone’d think she was embarrassed to be seen with me.
We go in the back way, through the superbly glazed door—lovely bit of workmanship that, I pat it admiringly as I go in—and I perch on one of the stools at the breakfast bar.
“You OK?” she asks over her shoulder as she fills the kettle.
“Been better.”
“Oh?”
I’m not sure whether to play it down, just say I’ve had a bit of a barney with Gail or whether to go for the full, woe-is-me, sackcloth-and-ashes bit. Play the poor-little-me card. What would you have done? Problem is with these things, you only get one shot, so if you’re wrong you’re stuffed really, aren’t you? She shoves the sugar bowl along the counter at me, like a barman in a Western sliding that ol’ whisky bottle down to the mysterious stranger at the far end. I spoon in the sugar in a mysterious stranger kind of way, stir it in and sit there looking down into the whirlpool in my mug, not knowing what to say.
“It’s nothing to do with me, is it, Scott?”
I take a sip of my coffee to give me a moment more to think then immediately wish I hadn’t because it’s burnt my sodding lip and I jerk back as if I’ve been—well, burnt.
“Probably best give it a minute to cool, eh?” Angela smiles at me.
“Cheers. I think I know how to handle a cup of coffee now I’m a grown-up chappie of forty.” Well, apparently not actually, given I’d just gone and scarred myself for life.
She shrugs and wrinkles her nose at me.
“Sorry. I was trying to show concern. Come on, what’s up?”
“It’s Gail. She found out about me and you—”
“Found out what exactly? Did you tell her that it really didn’t mean anything?”
This was really making me feel so much better. Proper tonic, talking to Angela.
“Cheers, Angela. Course I tried to tell her that, but she wasn’t listening. One minute she was having a go at me, and the next I’m stood on the wrong side of my front door with no jacket, no keys, no nothing. And saying, ‘I really think we need to discuss this properly, darling’ just didn’t seem to be cutting it, you know?”
“Shit. I’m sorry. Really. But I guess you can’t be all that surprised. I mean, what did you expect she’d do— rap you across the knuckles and say try not to do it again?”
I shrug. Of course, at the time, you don’t think about what to expect because you’re not planning on being caught. If you knew you were going to be found out, you probably wouldn’t do it in the first place, right? Still, I don’t know why Angela was acting so superior. She wasn’t exactly Miss Goody Two-Shoes in all this either.
“Thing is, it looks like she won’t let me come back.”
Realization dawns. Angela clunks her mug down hard on the counter.
“Oh no. No. I’m sorry, Scott, but you’re not thinking for even a second that you might stay here?”
“Just for a couple of nights. I’ll kip on the settee if you like. Just until Gail sees reason—”
“Scott, if you want to patch things up with your wife, do you really think staying with me is the best way to go about it? Use your head instead of your dangly bits for once, for God’s sake. If she doesn’t think we’re having an affair now, she certainly will if you roll up here with a suitcase.”
I start telling her about how I’d had to sleep at work, and hadn’t managed to sleep a wink; I kind of made it sound as if I was still there, curled up under my desk in a sleeping bag.
“What about family? Friends?”
I peer down into the dregs of my coffee. Angela reaches over and gives me a playful shove.
“Oh, Scott—you’re actually pouting. Surely you’ve got good mates who’d put you up?”
I think about Jeff and spending yet another night in that house with its dim light bulbs and its sadness, its stale, endlessly re-breathed air and stench of fag smoke. Jeff sleeps with his fags by the bed so he can light up first thing in the morning. And, instead of an ashtray, he’s got this great big bowl, like a fruit bowl it is, with—literally—hundreds of fag butts in it, like he’s saving them up to give to charity or something.
“S’pose so. Still, I do think you could stand by me a bit. I mean, I don’t remember any reluctance on your part to get into my pants. You’re my partner in crime really.”
She folds her arms across her chest which I figure isn’t such a good sign. I saw some documentary about body language once and they said it was a defensive posture, but I don’t know. All I’ve noticed is that when women get cross the first thing they do is cover their tits up.
“Scott. Now let’s just get one thing absolutely clear, OK? Yes, I had sex with you, but no, I am not your ‘partner in crime’ as you so winningly put it. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve never even met your wife. She’s not a friend of mine. I haven’t betrayed her trust or broken any marital vows or anything. Your marriage is your responsibility and—frankly—your mess. I won’t be roped in. Don’t tell me for one second you thought I was in love with you or that you imagined I’d put my whole life on hold and was waiting in the wings for you to run off with me to the Bahamas.”
She looks at me in a sort of weary way, like she’s told me some long, elaborate joke and I haven’t got it. I unstick myself from the stool and puff out my cheeks. Bugger. Still, I’m not going to beg.
She comes towards me then and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Best of luck, Scott. I hope you can sort things out with your wife. Perhaps she’ll come round when she realizes it was just a fling, eh?”
“Yeah.” I button up my jacket again. “You’re probably right.”
I trudge back to the car feeling like a heap of shit, frankly. Another night at Jeff’s. Oh goody.
A spanking clean silver Merc pulls up just then and the electric window slides down on the driver’s side, smooth as silk. Rich git.
“Excuse me,” says this woman with one of those posh, would-you-mind-not-breathing-the-same-air-as-me voices. Classy looking, but she’s not going to see forty-five again, that’s for sure. “Is that your car?”
“Might be. What’s it to you?”
I know, I know. Not a good start, but with the day I’ve had minding my p’s and q’s isn’t exactly top of the agenda. Her mouth pinches together and her nostrils flinch as if I’ve farted in her jurisdiction.
“Well, if it is your car, perhaps you could move it? It’s blocking our drive, you see? Visitors and—” she pauses, giving my jacket the once over “—delivery persons etcetera are supposed to park over there.”
“Oh, fuck off. I’m just going, can’t you see? This is me, here, getting into my car and driving away from your stupid so-called exclusive sodding estate, all right? So don’t worry—any second now me and my cheap jacket and my common voice and my crap car will cease to sully your fucking poncy driveway to your overpriced, rip-off executive home and you’ll be able to drive right up to your authentic Tudor double garage—”
By this point, she’s started to say, “Well, really—” but I’m on a roll by then. She probably figures I must be some kind of nutter and her protective window glides back up again.
“And another thing—” I bellow at her through the glass, as she starts to drive away. “Those would-be Tudor windows in your ponced-up house aren’t even proper leaded lights. They’re mass-produced crap with stick-on glazing bars and if you really had any kind of class you wouldn’t be seen dead with windows like that!”
That told her.
Afterwards, I felt crap, I admit it. Really ashamed. I’m not the sort of bloke who goes around shouting at women just ‘cause they’ve got a smug voice and a posh car. I realized I’d gone a tad overboard and I thought about going back, take her a bottle of wine or some flowers maybe to say sorry. But I reckoned she’d probably call the police or send her husband out after me with a shotgun. When I got back to work, I just sat outside in the car for a while, staring at the wire fence through the windscreen. I couldn’t understand why I’d gone so ballistic. It wasn’t like me. Two more days of this and they’d have to load me up with happy pills, cart me off and chuck away the key. I looked down at my hands then I pinched the flesh on the back of my left hand as hard as I could, till it made my eyes water. I don’t know why. I think it was because I didn’t feel real any more. And worse. It sounds weird, I know, but I didn’t feel like me.
Dad’s coming on Sunday to take us out. He phoned last night and asked me what I’d been up to and what I’d done at school, like the way Nana and Grandad do. It was funny talking to him on the phone instead of sitting at the table with him or watching TV together. Normally, when we’re eating our tea or having Sunday lunch, Dad talks a lot and Mum says he shouldn’t talk with his mouth full because it sets a bad example. Dad says, “Yeah, right,” but then he forgets.
I went to go in Nat’s room. I knocked on the door first, he goes mad if you don’t, and he said, “Mn” so I went in and he said, “I never said come in,” so then I had to go out and start again.
I did a somersault on his bed. It was all messy, with the duvet all scrunched up at the foot end and things all over the floor. Nat never makes his bed and Mum says she’s given up telling him, if he wants to live in a pigsty, then let him. She says that but sometimes she goes mad and tells him to tidy up his room, no, not later, right now. Then Nat says she’s throwing a wobbly and she’ll calm down in a minute, but he’s just a copy-cat because that’s what Dad always says. Nat picks up some of the stuff from the floor and throws it in the bottom of his wardrobe or hides it under the bed and he straightens the duvet so it looks not so bad and Mum says, see, that wasn’t so very hard, was it, why couldn’t he keep it like that all the time, why does he have to wait to be nagged same as Dad?
Nat was on his computer. He never turns round to talk to me but he says he can do two things at once, so I said,
“You know Sunday? With Dad coming and everything?”
“Mn.”
“Dad said we could do anything. Whatever we like.”
“Mn.”
I wanted to go to the cinema and then go for icecream sundaes. Dad said he knows this place that does really big ones with lots of different kinds of ice-cream. But I thought maybe if Nat picked what we did he wouldn’t be in a bad mood any more.
“We could go bowling. Like you did on your birthday.”
I wasn’t allowed to go. Mum and me stayed at home and Kira came round for tea and we had trifle as a treat because of not going bowling. Nat said I couldn’t come because I was too young and would spoil things and anyway it was his birthday so it was up to him. Dad took him and his friends, but it was all boys except for his friend Kath and she’s practically like a boy. Nat wanted to ask Joanne Carter too, but he didn’t. Scaredy-cat Nat.
I unpopped all the poppers at the end of Nat’s duvet, then started to repop them all closed again.
“D’you think Dad’ll come back home soon?”
“Nah. Don’t be stupid.”
“Why’s it stupid? Mum said they were just—”
“Don’t you know anything? Grown-ups are always saying things like that, it doesn’t mean anything.”
Nat’s always being mean and trying to make me cry. I used to, when I was little. Nat said I cried the whole time, but that’s not true. I’ve got a trick now. You bite the inside of your cheek and think about something else or you say things in your head over and over. I do the colours of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet. When I think each word, I see the word in my head in big letters like it’s standing in a field and I make it the same colour as it says. Indigo is the hardest, but I think that one as purple. Violet’s like mauve. Mauve’s my best colour. I have it for everything.
“I reckon he’s not coming back ever and you better get used to it.” He didn’t even turn round from the screen, just kept playing his stupid game. He thinks he knows everything, but I know lots of things too.
“I know. Then they get a divorce and have two houses. Like Kira’s Mum and Dad.”
“Yeah, like them and like half our class practically. Jason says you’ve just got to learn how to play it right. He says to make sure and get two of everything so you don’t have to take all your stuff backwards and forwards and sometimes you can get two lots of pocket money.”
“Are you going to ask Dad?”
“What?”
“About the pocket money. On Sunday.”
“Mn. Oh, Rosie, you put me off. I’ve lost a life.”
Good, I thought, serves you right. But I never said it out loud. I went back into my room and looked at all my things to see what I had two of already—not shoes and socks, I mean, where you have to have two, but other things like sets of felt-tips and hair slides and my animals and my posters and stuff like that. But some things you can only ever have one of, like Alfie-Bear, or they’re all supposed to be kept together, like my snow shakers, so it’s quite hard actually in fact.
He’s turning up tomorrow to take us out, like that’s supposed to mean everything’s OK. Rosie won’t shut up about it. She thinks I’m going too, but I’m not. They can’t make me go. Mum tried to talk me into it and she said he phoned on Wednesday, but I stayed late at practice, doing tumble turns again and again and again until I got it perfect. It was good while I was doing them, I couldn’t think about anything else just when to turn, waiting till you’re just the right distance from the end, then gliding, tight into the turn, my feet finding the tiles, legs bending, one hard push, arms forward, pointing like an arrow, water rushing past my ears. Then there’s only me and the water, see, and no thinking. Only when to breathe and my arms and legs moving, arms slicing through the water like knives, legs making the water boil behind me, head turning … NOW—to take in air, then face down again, ploughing forward, faster, faster, heading for the end.
When I came back, I felt tired and a bit spacey, I do sometimes when I’ve swum like that, on and on, the smell of chlorine still in my nose an hour later. Mum put my food in the microwave and told me Dad had phoned, wanting to know about Sunday.
I shrugged and opened the fridge to get some juice.
“He’s coming at ten, OK? Do you want cheese on your pasta?”
“Mn.”
“Well, don’t stand there looking gormless. Honestly, Nat, there, top shelf. The cheese.”
She came over and leant across me to get it. She says you’re not supposed to lean over people, it’s bad manners. I’d have got it anyway.
I swigged some juice from the carton.
“I’m not going.”
“What do you mean, you’re not going? Of course you are.” She was grating the cheese like a maniac, going at double speed, like she was out to kill this poor little piece of Cheddar, really make it suffer. “You want to see your dad, don’t you?”
“Why should I? You don’t.”
Mum sighed and leant against the counter then, like she couldn’t be bothered to stand up any more.
“That’s a bit different, Nat. Your dad and I—”
“It’s not different. Why’s it different? I don’t want to see him and have to play at being happy families and going for ice-creams and pretending everything’s OK. I’m not going and you can’t make me. And if you’ve told him I want to see him, you’re a liar and you can just forget it.” I stirred my pasta all around and dumped a big pile of grated cheese on top.
Mum just stood there. I thought she’d have a go at me or try to talk me round or something, but she didn’t. She just stood there, completely still, like she was a statue. It was kind of spooky. I almost wished she’d shout at me instead.
Then I fetched a tray and went and ate my pasta watching TV.
It’s Sunday. Goody-good Rosie drove me mad yesterday. She spent like the whole afternoon practically packing her bag, taking everything out then putting it back in again.
“You’re not going to live with him. You’re only out for the day. What d’you need all that for?”
“It’s just things,” she said, folding her blue jumper all neat, the way Mum would do it. “Things I might need.”
Then last night, Cassie came round again. She’s Mum’s best friend. She’s older than Mum even, but she’s OK. Not like most grown-ups. She swears in front of us and you can ask her stuff and she doesn’t mind. Last night, she offered me a lager, I mean, like really casually, like it was normal. Still in the bottle, no glass, so I could swig it. I held it tight, then Mum came in and I kind of dropped my arm down by my side, so it wasn’t so obvious.
“It’s OK for Nat to have a beer now, right?” Cassie said.
“What?” Mum spun round and looked at me, clocked the beer straight away. “Cassie! I can’t leave you alone for a moment! God, you’re worse than—you’re so bad. Honestly! He’s only just thirteen.”
Cassie took a swig. She did it all slow and lazy, just letting the liquid slide into her mouth. It looked really cool.
“Ah, come on, let him have it. It’s weak as piss anyway.”
Mum gave her a shove and went and got a glass. She held up the bottle to check how alcoholic it was.
“All right. You can have half a glass, no more.”
I held out the bottle.
“Can’t you leave my bit in the bottle?”
“What? Whatever for?” Mum took another look at Cassie. “Cassie, see what you’ve done? Now my children think it’s cool and glamorous to go round drinking from the bottle like a down-and-out. I hope you’re happy.” Mum was doing her telling-off voice, but you could see she was joking, taking the piss out of herself. She’s never joking when she tells me off. Still, she poured some into the glass and handed me what was left in the bottle.
“So-o-o-o-o,” Cassie said, tipping a whole handful of peanuts into her mouth all at once. “Bring me up to date. What’s the latest with that errant husband of yours?”
Mum nudged her and made a face. One of those children-in-room-alert-stop-saying-anything-interesting faces that grown-ups do and think you won’t notice them doing it.
“Nat, haven’t you got homework you should be doing?”
“Not really.”
Cassie laughed. She’s got this really loud laugh, even in the street. People turn round when she laughs, thinking she must be putting it on. But she isn’t. It’s just how she is.
“Go on, my man,” she said to me. “Shove off and let us old bags have a girlie natter for half an hour. You can come back down for pizza.”
“They’ve already had their tea.”
“Mu-um.”
“Fine, fine. You can have pizza, Rosie too. I don’t know why I bother knocking myself out trying to bring them up properly and nag them to eat their vegetables, Cassie, if you’re going to undo it all in two minutes.”
Cassie hasn’t got any kids. Mum said she had something wrong with her insides and she can’t have any. Maybe that’s why she’s not like a real grown-up, I mean sometimes when you talk to her she seems like she’s the same age as me. Or a bit older, like eighteen or something. Only then, if she’s talking to Rosie, she’s different again, almost like she’s Rosie’s age. One time, she went out in the garden with Rosie and skipped with Rosie’s pink and yellow and blue striped skipping rope, while Rosie chanted some stupid playground rhyme. Then she taught Rosie an old one, like from when she was a kid. But it’s good when she’s around because Mum’s different. She laughs more and she doesn’t get in a strop about little things like whether you’ve put your plate in the dishwasher or left your trainers on the kitchen counter. When Dad was here, Cassie used to come round sometimes with her husband as well. He’s called Derek and he’s got an artificial leg. He lets us stand on his foot. You can jump up and down on it even. It’s his left leg, but when we were smaller, Rosie and me, we used to pretend we’d forgot which one it was and we used to jump on his other foot as a joke. Rosie still does it sometimes, she’s still only a kid really, but he always laughs.
This morning, Mum kept dropping things at breakfast and she drank like a whole pot of coffee. She asked us if we wanted a cooked breakfast “to keep your strength up” like as if we were going to be running a marathon or something. I said I’d have a bacon sandwich and Rosie said could she still count as vegetarian if she had bacon and Mum said, well, not strictly, no, but she wouldn’t tell anyone if Rosie didn’t. When Rosie went upstairs after, Mum asked me if I’d managed to “have a think about going out with your dad,” like as if I’d change my mind or something. I sat there, zigzagging brown sauce onto my sandwich, and said yeah, I had a bit and no, I still wasn’t going. Then she put her hand over mine and went all serious and started calling me “Nathan,” so I figured I’d had enough. She went blah-ing on about things being important and how I needed a male role model in my life, someone to look up to. I mean, explain that if you can. When he was here, she was always saying Dad was a bad example and we shouldn’t copy him because he’s got lousy table manners and he doesn’t speak properly and he never does the housework and all that. And now she’s saying I should be copying his every move. Anyway, when she turned away to load the dishwasher, I snuck out to the hall, grabbed my bag and jacket, then yelled I was off round Steve’s and ran out the door before she could stop me.
I changed clothes twice this morning before he got here. As if I was going on a date. God knows why, I don’t even want to see him. Not after last time, after that awful row. After he’d gone, I laid my head on the kitchen table. I could just lie like this for ever, I thought, but then I realized I had to leave in the next two minutes if I wasn’t to be late for Rosie. You can do this, I told myself, you have to do this. For Rosie, for Nat. I haven’t got time to have a nervous breakdown.
So this morning I wanted to show him how well I’m doing. See, you’ve spoilt everything but life goes on, la-la-la, I’m doing fine without you. Here I am, in my good black jeans and my clingy white top. I wanted to look attractive but not like I’d made any special effort.
“Dennis,” I said, nodding.
Well, calling Scott Dennis, I haven’t done that—other than to wind him up for a laugh—since, well, ever. A small flinch tightened his face. I could see him digging his nails into his palms.
He cleared his throat and looked down at his feet. Hands in pockets. We attempted to chat for a couple of minutes, but it was hopeless. I kept looking for some sign of genuine remorse in his face, but I don’t think he’s even sorry. He said he wanted to talk, but what is there to say? Why should I sit there listening to him trying to come up with new lies and excuses?
Then he asked me to get Nat, but Nat had long since gone, sneaked out this morning with barely a word. I think he couldn’t face it, so he went round to Steve’s. Can’t say I blame him really. Scott had a go at me about it though, as if I’d hidden Nat away or something. I couldn’t believe it, specially when I’d been so bloody calm and civilized about the whole thing. I’d even tried to persuade Nat to go, for goodness’ sake, told him I felt it was really important for him to see his dad. But of course, Scott being Scott wouldn’t listen, just went into a rage and tried to make out the whole thing was my fault. Once he calmed down, he looked so young, not much more than a boy himself, a boy squaring his shoulders and pretending to be a man. And suddenly I felt sorry for him then, and said something about Nat just being a typical teenager, he’d grow out of it in time.
“Oh. Right. ‘Course.” Scott was full of bluff now and it made him seem even more pathetic. “Boys that age. Yeah. When I was thirteen, all I did was hang out with my mates. No time for old fogey parents, eh?”
I nodded and forced a smile. But Nat’s never been like that and we both know it. He loved his dad like no child you’ve ever seen, used to trail after him round the garden and in the garage, copying him, the two of them standing there frowning at the car, with Nat barely big enough to see over the bonnet but, frankly, as likely to fix the engine as Scott was. Once I got into a terrible panic because I couldn’t find Nat. Scott had just gone to work and this is about six, seven years ago, yes, Nat was only six. And it was before Scott had his mobile. So I was running round the house with Rosie toddling after me and me falling over her and trying to get her to play with her toys and keep out of my way, and Nat was just nowhere to be found. Under the beds, I looked, in the wardrobes, under the kitchen sink. I ran out in the street, expecting to see his little crushed legs sticking out from under a car, people gathered round, someone slowly shaking their head. I couldn’t breathe. Then I thought maybe he’d been kidnapped, abducted or something, and I ran inside and rang Scott at work and babbled madly at whoever answered the phone that they must find him and tell him to come home at once. I was totally hysterical. Then Scott came on the phone, he’d just got there, and I was practically screaming by now, completely all over the place and crying, and Scott said,
“Hang on, sweetheart, hang on. It’s OK. He’s here with me. He’s fine.”
“What do you mean? How is he there?”
“I left the car open and he scrunched himself in the rear footwell under the blanket. I only found him just now when I got here.”
* * *
I started to cry then, really cry, thinking of how lucky I was that Nat was OK and my God why had I ever had kids when they could do this to you, make you feel your whole life was over just by playing a silly trick for ten minutes.
I looked over Scott’s shoulder and waved goodbye at Rosie sitting in his car, but I couldn’t even see her face because the windows had fogged over.
“Have her back by six,” I said.
I feel like I’m thirteen again. Nat’s age. I’m thirteen and I’m loitering by the front gate plucking up the guts to walk up the path and ring the bell for my first ever date. Her name is Sally. Sally Harrison. I’m crap with names, but I’ll never forget hers. No-one’s called Sally any more, are they? It went out of fashion. In class, Sally wrote Sally Scott, Sally Scott all over the inside back cover of her rough book, surrounded by hearts and flowers like daisies. I wonder what would have happened if I’d married Sally? I bet she’d never have locked me out of my own house in the middle of the night. She’d probably be standing by the stove peeling the spuds for Sunday dinner and laughing at my jokes, whereas Gail would rather be peeling my meat and two veg if you get my drift.
I’m stood at my own front gate, but who knows what reception I’ll get when I ring the bell. They’re my own children, but they might as well be stir-crazy tigers I’m so nervous.
As I start to walk up the path, my nerves go because the front door opens wide suddenly and Rosie comes flying out as if she’s been catapulted on elastic. Her hair bounces behind her in a ponytail; chunky trainers look comically large on her skinny girl legs. Then she stops dead right in front of me as if she’s not sure whether to stretch up for a kiss or to shake my hand.
“Rosie!”
I open my arms wide and she jumps up at me and I catch her and she clutches on like a monkey, the way she did when she was only two or three years old, exhausted after a family day out, sucking her thumb and clinging onto her blankie for comfort.
“Gail.” I nod as she appears in the doorway.
“Dennis.” A smirk crosses her face, which she immediately tries to hide. Jury, please note my tremendous restraint in not rising to this obvious piece of provocation. No-one, except my parents and they’re crumblies so they can’t help but call you by whatever stupid thing they picked out for you in the first place, calls me Dennis. Would you call anyone you liked Dennis? Course you wouldn’t. You’d give them a nickname wouldn’t you? Or say “mate” or something. Everybody else calls me by my surname, Scott—I like it, it’s a tough, stubbly, moseying-into-town, laid-back hero sort of a name. When Gail’s being nice, say once in a millennium or something, she calls—called—me Scotty. I put Rosie down and tell her to go wait in the car.
“Good one, Gail. Nice to see you’ve not lost your sense of humour.”
“Living with you has, of course, stretched it to the limits on a daily basis, but I do my best …”
Is she going to call Nat or what? I raise my eyebrows. She’s not going to make me ask, is she? Bugger this.
“Well, entertaining though this is, Dennis, chatting with you cosily on the front step, I’m very busy. Loads of clearing and chucking out to do.” She says this last with a slight grinding of her teeth as though she’s a lioness who’s spotted some defenceless bit of prey that doesn’t yet know it’s about to become a light snack.
“You’re not going to be playing silly buggers with my stuff, are you? If it’s under your feet, just stick it in the garage for now and I’ll sort it out later.”
“Bit late to be doing your Lord and Master act, don’t you think? What makes you think you can boss me around? Anyway, I have absolutely no interest in wasting my time trawling through your belongings and attempting to decide which bits of rubbish you might regard as precious. Clearly—as I foolishly imagined a fifteen-year marriage meant something whereas you thought nothing of chucking it on the scrapheap—clearly we have rather different ideas of what constitutes rubbish.”
Her tone is coolly polite but the frost on it’s so thick it gives me goosebumps. Why can’t she just shout and swear at me? Then I’d know what I was dealing with. This calm stuff gives me the creeps.
“How can you say that?!” I reach out my hand to touch her arm but she jerks away from me. “You know you—our marriage—means everything to me—”
“And sleeping with someone else is what? A demonstration of your undying love for me?”
“If I could just come in a minute and—”
“No, you cannot just come in a minute and anything. I’ve got nothing to say to you other than I think you’re a pathetic little prick and the less I see of your stupid arrogant face the better.”
“Finished? Or shall I turn round so you can stab me in the back as well while you’re at it?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Fine. Can you get my son now, please? We should be making a move.”
“Oh, your son is he now?”
I sigh deliberately, childishly loudly. It’s ten past ten in the morning and I feel like I’ve already had a long, hard day.
“Our son. Give Nat a shout, will you?”
“I can if you insist, but I doubt if he’ll hear me.”
I puff out my cheeks. This is getting annoying now.
“Well, if he’s got his music up too loud, just—”
“He can’t hear me, because he’s not here.”
And this is when I lose my rag completely. What restraint I had left is out the window faster than a rat from a sinking ship and I’m going all out from a standing start: How could she?—she’s done it deliberately—I told her—we agreed—the time was her idea, to suit her—now she’d smuggled him out the way so I couldn’t see him—my own flesh-and-blood son—I could just see it—bet she’d lost no time in bad-mouthing me—telling him I’m a liar and a cheat—not fit to be a father—did she even say I was coming?—did she?—just wait till he finds out I was here—I’d never have thought she’d sink so low—keeping me from seeing Natty—doesn’t the past count for anything?—if not for me, then for him—he needs his dad like he always did, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?
“Apparently not.” She shrugs and folds her arms, infuriatingly calm. “Of course I told him you were coming. I said it was all arranged. But he refused to see you—”
“Can I phone him at least?”
“—or speak to you. Though it’s nice to see how quickly you assumed it must be all my fault. How dare you try to blame me? I would never try to turn the children against you.” She looks away from me then and down at her feet, then adds quietly: “Though God knows you deserve it.”
I’m standing on my own front path, but it’s not really me standing here. This is just the husk of my body, swaying slightly in the wind. Inside, somewhere in the pit of my stomach is a very, very small person huddled into a tight, scrunched-up ball, covering his head with his arms and wishing the world would stop punching him in the guts. Outside, I bite my lip and square my shoulders. Gail stretches out a cautious hand towards me but I flinch from her.
“I’m fine!”
“Sorry. I—he had something he was supposed to do over at Steve’s. He’s just being a teenager, Scott. He’ll come round eventually.”
Eventually? When’s eventually? It’s not listed in my diary. I could be dead and buried by then. I need to see him now.
“Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”
Gail nods towards the car.
“You better go. Rosie’s waiting. And Scott?”
“What?”
“Don’t let her see how disappointed you are. About Nat not coming.”
“I’m fine, I’m cool with it. I don’t need lessons from you in how to be a good parent, thank you.”
And I’m walking back down the path, hearing her voice behind me, saying she’ll see me at six.
It’s cold and the car windows are misted up. Poor Rosie, I hope she’s been warm enough. I should have left the keys in so she could have the heater on. As I open the door, I see she must have leant over to draw on my window with her finger. It is one of those smiley faces kids are always doing. Only this one’s smile isn’t the perfect semicircle it’s supposed to be. It’s kind of a crooked line, the face of a smiley doing its best to smile—but not quite making it.