In one single hour, Cheryl Parker’s whole existence had tipped upside down and her insides had been scooped out. At least that’s what it felt like as she stood in her tiny kitchen, hand shaking as she gripped the page of paper which had ended her life as she knew it.
She wished life were like TV. She wished she could press the rewind button back to just before she had opened the letter. She wished she had put it on one side until she returned from work so that Gary could have found it first and had time to think up an excuse which she might have swallowed and life would have carried on as normal. But she had opened it and what she had found could not be unread. An hour ago she had been making breakfast toast and tea for two whilst Gary was taking a shower and it was just a normal Thursday morning; two more days at work to get out of the way and then the familiar joy of the weekend to look forward to: fish and chips from Cod’s Gift with Gary for Saturday lunch as usual, a bottle of wine and some beers in front of Ant and Dec on the TV. Now she was alone – single – and couldn’t think past the moment. And her heart had been ripped out and stamped all over.
The postman hardly ever came first thing in the morning, but today he had. And he had delivered three envelopes: one containing a catalogue full of rubbishy gadgets, a dental reminder for Cheryl and that envelope from the building society. A quarterly statement. And Cheryl had opened it and found that the account which should have had four thousand seven hundred and twenty pounds in it, had a nil balance.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, unable to move, listening to Gary mooching about upstairs. She imagined him towel-drying his thick light-brown hair, spraying a cloud of Lynx over himself, getting dressed, blissfully unaware of what trauma his long-term girlfriend was going through. Cheryl heard his feet on the stairs, watched the door into the kitchen open. She saw his eyes lock on to the paper she was holding, then flick up to her face and from the expression she was wearing, he knew instantly what she had discovered.
The words came out in a croak. ‘Where’s it gone, Gary? Where’s the money?’ It was a rhetorical question because she knew. She would have bet her life savings – oh, the irony – that the money was in the till of William Hill.
Gary’s eyes began to flicker, which they did when he was anxious. She knew that his brain would be scrabbling around for something viable to tell her.
‘You won’t believe me …’ he began eventually. No, she wouldn’t. Because she had wanted to believe him every single time and every single time he had let her down.
‘Try me,’ she said. Deep down she wished he would say those words which would make it all right. But also, deeper down, she knew he wouldn’t.
‘You weren’t supposed to know. I was hoping to have it back in the account before you noticed,’ he said. His hands were in his hair. ‘Oh God, Chez, I am so sorry. I thought I could do it. One last time. For us. For the ba—’
‘No!’ The loudness in her own voice surprised her. ‘Don’t you dare say it. Don’t you DARE.’
He had used those same words eighteen months ago. He had taken the money she had scrimped and squirrelled away for IVF treatment in the hope of doubling it, trebling it even, he said. He’d been given a tip – a sure thing from someone in the know. She would never forget the name of the horse as long as she lived – Babyface. He had put every penny on its nose and it had come in second. And he had cried and she had comforted him and told him that she forgave him but this was the last chance – no more gambling. And he had given her his word that he would never bet on another horse or dog ever. And she had started saving all over again and had been stupid enough to give him the benefit of the doubt and keep their joint account going as a sign of her trust in his ability to change.
But he would never change, she knew that now. They’d reached the end of the road. Actually they’d done that eighteen months ago and now they were well off the beaten track, stumbling over increasingly rough terrain until they had arrived at this point and could go no further. For ten years she had listened to his Del-boy Trotter promises that ‘this time next year they would be millionaires’ and yet they were still living in the same tiny two-up, two-down rented house with no garden and damp patches on the walls because Gary had been convinced he could win his fortune. For ten years she had been trapped in a vicious circle of her saving a bit of money in a teapot, him gambling his wage away, her having to borrow back from the teapot, him promising to alter his ways and doing it for a couple of months, him gambling his wage away … This time her heart would not be penetrated by the sight of the tears slipping down his face.
When she looked back later, she couldn’t remember in detail what words had been said that day. She told him it was over and he knew somehow that she meant it this time. He asked her if he should leave and she said yes. He packed a few things in a suitcase and wiped his eyes, telling her that he was sorry and he loved her and he’d put the money back whatever happened. He promised. She hadn’t believed him. She hadn’t attached any faith to his words, she’d seen them for the bullshit they were. Then he had walked out with his head bent low to the same battered car they’d had for the past eight years. And it hadn’t been new when they’d bought it.
Cheryl listened to the car starting, heard the engine chugging: the hole in the exhaust was getting worse. Her ear followed the rattle until it was no longer discernible and she hiccupped a single sob, as she felt whatever it was that had held them together finally stretch to its limit and then snap.
Don’t you dare, she said to herself. Don’t you dare cry one more tear over that man. Haven’t you shed enough?
Enough to fill five mop buckets over the years. And she had enough tears inside her now to fill another. She daren’t let a single one slip out because it would be quickly joined by thousands more. Something inside her groaned, probably her stomach, but it sounded as if her heart had cracked. And she felt as if it had, too.
She threw the building society statement down on the work surface and picked up her bag full of cleaning stuff. She was doing her monthly blitz on Mr Ackworth’s house this morning, which she hated because he barked orders at her as if she were a dog, then a four-hander at her favourite client’s with lazy Ruth Fallis, then a one-off clean in an office. It was going to be a long, hard day.
She needed to get to work, keep busy and not think about anything but the jobs in hand. If only life could be spruced up and made perfect with a J-cloth and a spray of Mr Sheen, she thought as she realised that if today wasn’t bad enough already, she’d have to get the bus to work from now on.