The Aftermath

by Gail Schimmel

  No, a real friend might prove an impediment. So it is probably better that I don’t have friends.

  TUESDAY

  Claire

  Mackenzie’s teacher’s face today is all sympathy and understanding, and again I want to kill Daniel for sending Julia to school yesterday, and Julia for telling Mrs Wood who she is. I could not believe it when I got the call: ‘There’s a woman here claiming to be Daniel’s girlfriend . . . ?’ And I had to swallow my pride and say, ‘Yes, she can take Mackenzie.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Wood’s voice was so heavy with questions my phone almost fell out of my hand, but I bit my cheeks and I refused to say more. ‘All good then.’

  And Mackenzie was made to go home with Julia.

  Today all those questions are jostling for a place on Mrs Wood’s face and I want to punch her, but instead I smile and say, ‘Lovely weather we’re having.’

  Mrs Wood puts her hand on my arm and pulls me to the side. ‘Claire,’ she says, ‘it’s none of my business what’s going on at home, but it is important for us to know when there’s a major change or disruption to a child’s life, so that we can manage it from school.’

  I close my eyes for a moment, because I know she’s actually right.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, but I don’t offer any more. She waits a few beats for me to carry on, to spill out my heart. But I just stand there smiling.

  ‘Okay then,’ she says. And I can see that not only have I failed to tell her what is going on, but I’ve also offended her. She wanted to be the one who got it first hand. She wanted to be the one to tell them in the staff-room, and cluck to the other mothers in muted tones. I know her type. I also know they make dangerous enemies.

  ‘It’s hard for me to talk about,’ I say, touching her arm. ‘I’ll send you an email with all the important information that affects Mackenzie. I’m sure I can count on your discretion.’ I squeeze her arm so she feels she’s important.

  And now she’s glowing and I add a mental note to the medley in my head to send the bloody email.

  I walk to my car and Janice intercepts me. ‘Thanks for coming to the lunch yesterday,’ she says, kissing my cheek.

  ‘It was fabulous,’ I lie. ‘So much fun. Well done.’

  Janice laughs. ‘Oh, I had very little to do with it. But I’m so glad you enjoyed it. And thank you for the generous donation.’

  ‘Such a good cause,’ I say, although I can’t remember what it actually was, because Janice has many causes and the speeches were very boring. Rhinos? Syrians? No, it was a medical sort of thing – there were diagrams on the PowerPoint. Cerebral palsy maybe. I’d arrived late after the mess of my morning, and after the call from the school, I couldn’t focus on anything.

  ‘So important,’ I say to Janice, hoping that will cover anything.

  ‘Not everyone sees it that way,’ says Janice darkly, which doesn’t seem to fit with cerebral palsy. Gay rights? Persecuted Muslims? Persecuted Christians? Palestine? Israel? – surely I would have remembered if it was that controversial? But then what were the medical diagrams about? I have another moment of insight: everything was pink. A woman’s disease. Cervical or breast cancer, or maybe osteoarthritis. But who would have anything against fundraising for that?

  I nod, looking serious. ‘It’s a challenge.’

  ‘And it’s people like you who help the cause.’ Janice gives me another hug. ‘Lots of love!’

  ‘Lots of love,’ I echo as she walks off. I really must check what her cause is.

  I finally get into my car. I have back-to-back meetings this morning with the bands I plan to use at the wedding venue. I’ve drawn up a careful schedule of which weddings have overlapping guests, and have realised that I basically need to design three prototype weddings, and then let each bride tweak a few details, so no guest will attend the same basic wedding twice.

  Before I meet the bands, I need to send out a press release for the hotel, and set up a series of scheduled tweets on their account. Time is tight, and I start the car, determined to leave before anyone else interrupts me.

  My phone beeps with an incoming WhatsApp. It’s Daniel.

  Please fetch my suits from the dry-cleaners.

  My brain is already making the calculations – if I swing past the dry-cleaners now, then I might not manage the press release but I’ll still manage the tweets, but if I wait till I fetch Mackenzie from school, then I can do the dry-cleaners between her ballet lesson and the tea date we have with her friend. Or I can ask my mum to help, because since everything happened, she wants to help all the time . . .

  And then I stop. And I remember. Daniel’s suits are not my problem. I look back at my phone and I type: Do it yourself. I’m still laughing as I drive away from the school.

  Julia

  I’m still exhausted from the fight I had with Daniel yesterday after the school fiasco. He just can’t understand why it didn’t all go smoothly, and why Claire had become involved, and why I’d felt the need to tell the teacher about my relationship with him, and why I was so upset. His face had become very still and he’d muttered that he ‘doesn’t like scenes’ and that he ‘isn’t used to this sort of thing’, and he walked out.

  And then of course I knew he was comparing me to Claire and everything he has given up to be with me, and I was sure he was regretting it. The thing about Claire is that she manages everything, and she manages it perfectly, and she does it all with a smile.

  Oh God. At the beginning of our friendship, Claire used to make me laugh so much – she always had a funny observation. And even though she’s so nice, she’d say mad bitchy things about people, but the way she did it, it was just funny, so when you saw her talking to them later it wasn’t like she was being two-faced.

  Like the widows in our pottery class – she could make me cry with laughter about the widows. She’d do these whole skits where she pretended to be one widow talking to another widow about replacing their dead husbands with pottery husbands, and it would be hilarious – especially the bits about sex with the pottery husbands (and the obvious advantages of the pottery husbands) and it was so surprising that for such a proper-looking person, Claire could be so outrageous about sex.

  And we would weep with laughter; but then Claire would be lovely to the widows and knew which was which, a feat I couldn’t manage. And before I even knew their names, she was doing little chores for them and popping in to have tea, and bringing little gifts like a particular sort of jam that Grace (or Liz or Ivy) had mentioned that she loved. And it wasn’t like she was a person desperate for company, because she has millions of friends and always has spectacular arrangements – coffee with this one and lunch with that one, and weekends away at her parents’ farm. And she runs a successful business and looks after Mackenzie. Because Claire can manage everything and then some more. And Daniel had asked me to do one thing and I had completely messed it up and he couldn’t grasp it because he thinks all women are like Claire.

  So he walked out and I wept and then I phoned him and I begged him to come back. He made me wait. His voice was tight and he said that he needed to think. I was convinced he’d gone straight back to Claire and that she was listening to the call, with sad eyes because he was in this terrible situation with a crazy bitch like me. I couldn’t think where else Daniel could have gone because he hates his parents, who fought throughout his childhood both with each other and with him, and in the times in-between basically forgot they had a child and just paid other people to look after him. That’s why Daniel hates chaos and conflict. And the truth is that Daniel doesn’t seem to have many friends of his own.

  So the only place he could have gone, I thought, was back to Claire and Mackenzie.

  But then after about two hours he came home and he smelt of alcohol, and I was so relieved because it meant he’d just gone to a bar. And as soon as he walked in, we were all over each other and ended up having sex up against the wall in the passage, and he yelled, ‘I love you’ again and again. Which w
as very reassuring, and I’m trying very hard to ignore that I found it a bit of a turn-off, because that is just perverse of me – all I’ve wanted for so long is for Daniel to love me. And now I have that.

  And then it was late, but I still couldn’t sleep because Daniel had his arms and legs wrapped around me and he smelt of whiskey and was snoring, but every time I pushed him off, he found me again and clung on tighter. Eventually I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off I felt like I was climbing out of a deep hole, but I had to get up and go to work. Daniel just went on sleeping and barely even moved when I kissed him goodbye and whispered, ‘Love ya.’ He’s the boss and is in advertising, so getting to work on time isn’t a big deal for him.

  And then work today is crazy, with Gerald having various technical breakdowns trying to submit online tax returns and blaming all of us for it, so I eventually told him just to give me all his files and I would do it. Which he’s done. And there are hundreds of them – great bundles of paper in no particular order and I want to cry.

  In the middle of all this, Daniel messages me.

  Please can you fetch my suits from the dry-cleaners near my office? Thanks, babes. Xx

  I glance around like maybe someone is playing a joke on me. I message back: I’m at work. Sorry. Xxx

  I put my phone down and it beeps almost immediately.

  I asked Claire and she was really very rude about it. Please, babes. X

  I type before I can think: You asked CLAIRE to pick up your dry-cleaning? I mean, what the actual . . . ? On what planet does a person ask his estranged wife to collect his dry-cleaning? My phone beeps.

  She always does it. She’s never been funny about it before. And someone needs to.

  I can’t even believe we are having this conversation.

  She did it before because you were married. You can’t ask her to do things for you any more.

  I send the message and then wait. I take a deep breath because I know I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to. I messed up yesterday with the school, is it really so hard for me to pick up the bloody suits?

  Fine, I text. I’ll get them. But I’ll be a bit late home then. Xxx

  I expect a response, a thank you, but I get nothing. And suddenly I want to phone Claire so badly. ‘Can you believe the cheek of him?’ I want to say to her. And we’d have a good bitch, and we’d laugh and I’d feel better. But that’s not an option any more. I put down my phone and start inputting online tax returns, trying to ignore the headache building behind my eyes.

  Daniel

  I get home late because Julia said she would be late, and she’s furious because she’s cooked a special meal for me and now it’s cold.

  For a start, calling Julia’s place ‘home’ doesn’t feel natural. It’s not a bad place, as flats go. It has the decent proportions of older flats, and the building is attractive and well maintained. I like the parquet floors and the high ceilings. And it’s close enough to my old house for me to fetch Mackenzie when it’s my weekend, because Claire is very odd about driving Mackenzie here. And there’s a good shopping centre nearby, which is nice when I need Julia to pop out for something, or when I want to have a quiet coffee or browse the bookshop. But even though there are two bedrooms, it’s definitely not big enough for two of us. I have to keep my stuff in the spare room. And the few times Mackenzie has stayed overnight, it’s a squash.

  When I first moved in, I told Julia we should get a bigger place and she looked really excited and started talking about good areas and swimming pools and how she’d love a garden. But she’s done nothing about it and it’s been almost a month, so I guess she’s gone off the idea.

  While she’s slamming plates around in the small kitchen, I try to reassure her that the microwave also works, but she doesn’t like that and starts saying things like ‘I don’t know why I bothered’. I should point out that it’s her fault because she specifically told me she would be late.

  Then I stumble over the box of my books that Julia still hasn’t unpacked, and go into our bedroom, which I always think of as Julia’s bedroom, and I see she’s flung my clean suits across the bed so they’ll be all creased and unwearable. She’s going to have to get them dry-cleaned again. I don’t understand it – Claire always used to put them away in my cupboard with no fuss. And Claire used to calmly reheat my food if I was later than I said I would be. It was never a big deal. It’s hard to believe Julia loves me as much as she says she does, but then I go back to the kitchen and see that she’s crying. She’s really upset so she must love me, and she clings to me and it’s nice because Claire never needed me like this. This is what it’s all about.

  I put my arms around her and feel her sink against my body. ‘It’s okay about the suits,’ I whisper. ‘You can just take them back tomorrow.’

  She pulls away from me and looks confused. And then all hell breaks loose.

  When we fought yesterday, I promised I wouldn’t walk out again, so this time I stay. But that doesn’t mean I’m prepared to take this hysteria. So I sit down on the sofa while Julia screams at me, and I allow my brain to drift away like I did when I was a child.

  Eventually, she seems to run out of steam, so she stops and is almost panting slightly. It’s a little bit gross and a little bit sexy, and for a moment I consider scooping her up and just taking her to bed. But first, I’d better say something that makes it sound like I’ve been listening, even though I’m only really aware of the keywords she’s been repeating: ‘dry-cleaning’, ‘selfish’, ‘school’, and ‘Claire’.

  ‘You’re very irrational,’ I eventually say in a calm voice. ‘If this is what you’re like now, I’d hate to see you pregnant.’

  And Julia is completely silent and then our eyes meet, and even though I’m sitting down, it feels like I am falling into a deep hole, and suddenly I know.

  Julia

  It’s not like I was deliberately keeping it from him. I’m barely sure myself. My period is late but it’s not the first time, and I’m on the pill so I couldn’t be pregnant. Granted, over the last few months I have been a bit all over the place and I forget to take it quite often. But I just catch it up, and that should work. I googled pregnancy symptoms and none of them applied, and with all the drama in the last two months of Daniel leaving Claire and us settling into living together and planning how to talk to my mother, I just kind of forgot about it. I haven’t even done a test, so I might not be pregnant. I probably haven’t had a period because of messing with the pill so much, I think.

  But when Daniel blurts out that he wonders what I’ll be like when I’m pregnant, I know. Of course I’m pregnant. My period is more than just late, and I’m moody and tired and I feel a bit sick all the time. I thought it was because of all the other stuff, but I’ve been lying to myself.

  Daniel sinks back in the sofa and puts his hands on his head, and I sink down into the armchair facing him.

  ‘I think I might be pregnant,’ I say in a small voice, like I haven’t just been screaming and this is all normal. I don’t mean to, but I start crying again. Before it was tears of anger, but now I don’t know what it is. I read somewhere that different tears have a different structure, and I think maybe these tears I’m crying are new to science.

  ‘You aren’t sure?’ I don’t know if the catch in Daniel’s voice is hope or exasperation.

  ‘I’ve been trying not to think about it,’ I say.

  Daniel looks confused and I suppose from his point of view it is confusing. Claire probably had a pregnancy plan that she followed from the moment of conception.

  ‘Have you done a home test?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re gross.’ I did one a few years ago, and peeing on the little stick is much harder than they make it sound. I got wee all over my fingers and I could smell it all day, no matter how many times I washed my hands.

  ‘Well, then go to the doctor or something,’ he says. ‘You can’t walk around not knowing. If you’re pregnant, we need to
make decisions. For God’s sake, this isn’t some joke, Julia.’

  I swallow. I can’t quite believe how mean he’s being.

  ‘I never said it was a joke,’ I say,

  ‘Well, then stop acting like a child. Do a test, or go to the doctor. I don’t care. Just sort this out.’

  ‘I’m really pretty sure that I am,’ I say. My voice is small.

  ‘And will we have it?’ he asks. ‘Or will you terminate? I believe it’s very painless.’

  I can hardly process what he’s saying. It’s never crossed my mind that I would ever terminate a baby. I don’t think it’s wrong, but it’s never occurred to me that I’d be in this position. And now I am.

  ‘I think I want to keep it,’ I say.

  I guess I should be glad that he’s the sort of man who asks what I want, although it’s clear what he’d prefer.

  Daniel sighs. ‘Christ,’ he says. ‘But just go to the bloody doctor.’

  WEDNESDAY

  Claire

  My day starts early. I get up before Mackenzie and make three lasagnes: one for me and Mackenzie to eat over the next two days because I know I’ll be too busy to cook; one for Liandri, who has a child in Mackenzie’s class and has just had a baby; and one for poor Mrs James down the road, who had her appendix out last week. Mrs James has no family and I try to visit her often. Today I’ll take her some new novels with the lasagne because I think she’ll like them, and I’ll feel better if she has something to do.

  I wake Mackenzie up and we go through the usual drama of breakfast and getting dressed, which is a fraught business when you are six. Today Mackenzie wants a ponytail, but apparently not the ponytail I’m doing.

  ‘A different one,’ she says, but she can’t explain what she means and she starts crying.