Playing Away

by Adele Parks

  I miss Luke. I miss him every moment, of every minute, of every hour, of every day.

  Well, that's not exactly true. That's a bit of an exaggeration but I do miss him. And I don't just miss him in a selfish, I-don't-know-how-to-fix-the-fuse-box, or whether-our-leaking-dishwasher-is-insured way. Although at first I missed him in this way. I spent weeks just getting to grips with the enormous number of tasks he did round the house. But I've managed. I sat in front of our big, mahogany desk and cried over deeds and Access bills. Not because the bills were high, but sitting there I remembered that Luke spent every Tuesday evening, as regular as clockwork, poring over bills, estimates and junk mail. Sorting our post into our life. Making sure that it all ticked over, ran seamlessly. Having done it for a number of weeks myself I realize just how time-consuming and dull it is. My responsibility in the house had been limited to remembering everybody's birthdays. I bought the cards and the stamps, I posted them. God, I blush now when I remember how much I used to go on about that. To be honest, it's quite fun choosing cards, celebrating birthdays, buying cakes and presents. Much more interesting than direct debit and minimum payments, which is what I have to get my head round now. Of course I'd done these things for myself before I met Luke. I managed to pay bills on time (ish) and my landlords never had cause to change the locks on my door. But in those days the bills I used

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  to pay were limited to Miss Selfridge accounts. My bills are so much more important now: mortgages, insurance, health care, pensions. It isn't as if the money is a problem. My wage allows me financial independence, and anyway, Luke, in his predictably decent way, hasn't stopped having his wage paid into our joint account. The cash flow is the same, it just seems such an enormous responsibility for one person.

  For this person.

  For me. But I've got to grips with it slowly, and after a couple of weeks I realize it isn't so hard, and I realize that I don't need Luke to explain council tax and rates. But this doesn't mean I miss him less. I miss him more. I realize I don't need him, I just want him. I want his smile, his mess, his sense, his advice. I want him around to see the new and improved me. The me that organizes her own MOT and returns library books on time. I want him to be proud of me. I want him to congratulate me. I even want him to shout at me for leaving soggy towels on the floor.

  I miss Luke when I have a good day at work because he used to be so pleased with me when I'd managed a project well. I miss him when I've had a foul day at work; there is no one to rub my feet and tell me that they don't deserve me. I have no idea how the restaurant re-design is progressing. I miss his excited chatter about sourcing marble from Italy that is "just perfect," or finding a clever, stylish solution to a stairway that has to accommodate fire regulations. I want to tell him about my photography classes. They are going surprisingly well. I'd been very nervous at first and probably would have ducked out of the first class, except that Lucy turned up unexpectedly. Apparently she was meeting someone in a bar right by the adult education center so she gave me a lift there.

  The center smelt funny. A peculiar but distinct smell that is known only in places of education (read torture). A mix of chalk, floor polish, dust and nervous bodies. But it turned out

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  that I had nothing to worry about, the other guys on the course are great. A mixed bunch; some fairly experienced, others unsure of the difference between a lens cap and a tripod. To my relief, there are very few beards or sandals, hardly anyone is a Communist, or wishes to die for their art. I'm learning such a lot, so quickly. I know quite a bit about shutter speeds, composition, action pictures, flash photography. I'm learning a whole new vocabulary: bracketing exposure, pushing film, apertures, grain and depth of field. I spend every spare moment I can composing, taking and developing pictures. I've upgraded my retail therapy from clothes to cameras. I love it. I get a buzz from it. A number of my friends have been surprisingly impressed with my work. Lucy even suggested that I put a portfolio together.

  "But what for? It isn't as though I am going to suddenly change career and become a photographer."

  "Why not? You stopped being a devoted wife and became an adulteress relatively easily. I think that shows your willingness to embrace change."

  What a sense of humor she has. I'd scowled, "Yeah and look where that got me. Anyway, I need to get more formal qualifications. Taking a few snaps on a night course is hardly going to turn me into the next Robert Mapplethorpe."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, maybe I'd have to go to art school or at least do a foundation course."

  "So what's stopping you? I think you've got something here." Lucy was looking at a portrait of herself, which probably explains why she was being so free with her compliments, but I am aware that she never says things she doesn't mean. I don't really think that I have enough talent to get on one of those courses, but out of curiosity I might send away for one or two prospectuses. I am, for the first time in weeks, able to think about a future. But it doesn't make me miss Luke any less. I just want to talk to him. I want to know how he is. I

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  want to see if he looks OK. I hope he does. I hope he is fine, and not suffering.

  No, I don't. I hope he looks like hell and is so unhappy that it shows.

  I wonder, I can't help it, if there is even the smallest chance that he is missing me. He's been so controlled. Packing in silence, leaving without a row. His subsequent visits to pick up his CDs and more clothes have always been while I'm at work. Occasionally, an admin necessity forces him to call me, but then he's succinct and businesslike.

  Cold.

  Apart.

  I am leafing through my wedding photos, noting the smiles and the composition, when the phone rings.

  "It's me, Luke." I hate it that he adds "Luke." Of course I recognize his voice even though he hasn't returned fifty-three of my fifty-nine calls over the last six weeks.

  "I'm calling to say that I think you are right, we should talk."

  Thank you, God! Thank you!! Thank you, God!

  "I've got a solicitor and I think it's time you got one, too."

  God? God? Luke? Solicitor? Shit!

  "I'll be around at seven-thirty—OK?"

  "OK," I whisper.

  He rings off.

  OK? OK? No, it's not OK. It's very un-OK, actually. No. No. I will not let this happen. My stomach churns. I discover that it is true. When you are extremely scared, when the bottom drops out of your world, the world does drop out of your bottom. I run to the bathroom and sit on the loo. No. No. He is my husband. He is my husband. I am not going to lose him. My heart is beating so fast I can almost feel it pulse against my tongue. I think I might pass out, but this is no time for Victorian histrionics.

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  It is not over until it is over.

  It is not over until the fat lady sings. I cannot hear any singing.

  I have a husband to re-snare. And I have precisely, I look at my watch, five and a half hours to prepare for it. What to wear? What to wear? I fling open my wardrobe and almost climb inside. Frantically I search rail after rail. Nothing is suitable. I try on the usual black and white tops, the black, navy, brown, khaki and gray trousers. I pull garments off and then on again, with extreme irritation. Nothing is special enough. I grab my credit card and car keys.

  I return home, four hours later, with an assortment of bags from posh shops. I'd hoped to purchase a bit of suitability, and perhaps some luck, as well. In fact all the shops are out of both. Instead, I settle for a short, red, flirty dress, with a halter neck and some red-leather mules. Neither Luke nor I are particular fans of Chris De Burgh but no one in the Western world can fail to appreciate the "lady in red" reference. I pray that the dress will send subliminal messages to him.

  I bathe in Body Shop sensuous bath oil, shower, scrub, shower again and then rub on Clarins anti-cellulite cream. I apply a dozen moisturizers. I put on full makeup, take it off, decide to do without mak
eup, he's always liked me natural. This all reminds me of something, but I don't have time to think of what. I have to look perfect. I have to get him to fall in love with me again. I wonder if I should consider my underwear. It seems presumptuous, yet I don't want to risk white/gray M8tS briefs. I spend some time trying on every set of underwear I own, then I decide that I won't wear any. It is a long time since I've done that for Luke, but if I remember correctly he used to love it. Finally, at twenty past seven, I am ready.

  As I'll ever be.

  The house is ready, the food is ready. I stand in front of the

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  mirror. My reflection surprises me. I look good. I look nervous. I see a woman. Not a girl. I have a bust and a couple of wrinkles. I'm not young. I look substantial but not old. I think that, maybe, I could be mistaken for someone I might have admired, many years ago, when I imagined what "older women" look like. I wonder why I am wearing red! I look so garish. But before I have time to think of changing, the bell rings.

  "Hi, come in."

  Luke looks tanned and splendid. I catch my breath and my belly does a flip. I look closer; he also seems tired and drawn. He is wearing jeans, a Ted Baker T-shirt and a lightweight Boss jacket. I notice his gaze rest on me and flick up and down. Is it appreciatively? He hesitates on the doorstep, his doorstep! If it was anyone other than Luke, I would have been convinced that a point was being made. A rather hurtful point, at that—"I don't live here anymore, I'm a guest." My confidence is momentarily dented when he hangs around the hallway, rather than striding into the house as if he owns it. Still I'm not going to be intimidated that easily. I am going to change his mind. I am going to get him back. We can put this behind us.

  "Let me take your jacket."

  "No."

  Still, I smile.

  "Come in, come in. Glass of beer? Wine?" Tea, coffee, light refreshments? What the fuck is going on here? Who is this stranger? He looks like my husband. But he isn't acting like Luke. Where has my husband gone? The man who rubs my tummy when I have period pain, the man whose spots I'd squeeze, the man I force-feed vitamins, the man who taught me to play golf, the man I introduced to mashed-potato sandwiches? Where is he? I have to get us back onto our old footing. I have to.

  Luke opens his Budvar and mooches round the house. As

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  he passes me in the hall, I smell him. The smell is so familiar, and so him, I have to fight back tears that are using my eyes as pincushions. It takes every bit of strength I have to resist flinging my arms around him. He picks up ornaments, as though he is trying to get reacquainted, and then he puts them down again. He leafs through the post, casually shoving the envelopes addressed to him into his breast pocket. He seems so manly, so in charge. How did I ever stop fancying this man? He wanders to the window and looks out at the garden. I wonder if he misses it. Any of it? The shed? The photo albums? Me?

  "I am just making myself some pasta, there's enough for two. Will you join me?" This Oh-so-casual-I-am-just-making-supper thing is, of course, a lie. I've preplanned every detail of this evening. The pasta just happens to be fusilli, his favorite, and I have a Caesar salad already prepared (not Tesco's prepacked stuff, I've fried the croutons myself). I have a bottle of Robert Mondavi's Napa Valley Fume Blanc chilling in the fridge. I want the opportunity to remind him of our good times. I reckon that I've a chance, if I can get him to relax over a bottle of wine and some good food. In the absence of good food, my cooking will have to do.

  "I'm not hungry," he says without looking at me. Plan one out of the window, which is a bitter shame because I don't have a plan two. I'd considered laying a couple of poignant wedding photos around the sitting room. Or laying myself on our settee, with nothing but a rose between my teeth. I don't think so. Chocolates, diamonds and flowers all seemed inappropriate. There isn't an etiquette book to help out here. Unfaithful husbands have two thousand years of history setting precedents in every aspect of the reconciliation: the apology, the gift, dealing with the recriminations, the right tone to hit. I am without previous case histories.

  "Can we talk, Luke?"

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  "I can't imagine you have anything to say that—"

  "You want to hear," I finish the sentence for him, nodding like one of those plastic poodles in the back of a car. "Well, I'm asking you for the opportunity to talk," I persist. His natural good manners and habit of compliance allow him to acquiesce. He falls into the settee and sighs. I notice the way his wrist joins his hand and arm, and it's the most beautiful wrist I've ever seen, strong and fine at the same time.

  "What?" Well, now he asks, I'm not so sure what I want to say. I go for the big one.

  Mistake.

  "I love you."

  "Ha," he nearly chokes. Which worries me. Who will believe me innocent when it comes to collecting the life insurance?

  "I do," I insist.

  "You've been telling me you love me for over five years, but it turns out that you were screwing someone else, all the time."

  "Not all the time," I correct, reasonably.

  "Since when?" He asks the question from under his fringe. For a fleeting second his amazing green eyes meet mine. I knew that he would ask this type of question. It's only natural. I steel myself to answer them calmly and honestly. I think he does, at least, deserve my honesty now.

  "September."

  "September." He silently stares at the ceiling. I know what he is doing. He is rerunning our entire life since September. He is rerunning the occasional, uncalled-for rows and thinking that for the first time he knows the reason for them. He is rerunning our good times and wondering if they meant anything. He is rerunning our sex life and asking himself if I've been faking it. Faking everything from the orgasms to ironing shirts. How can I explain it?

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  "You've often told me you loved me during that time. You were obviously lying. Why should I believe you now?"

  "I've never stopped loving you. It is just for a time I stopped being in love with you." Each word is painfully lodged in my throat. He makes a "ha" sound, which communicates his utter disgust. Perturbed, I soldier on. "And I think that you weren't in love with me, for a time, either. We were more like best friends, brother and sister."

  "You don't have a brother." Is he deliberately missing the point? Normally he is such an intelligent man. "You kept telling me you were happy." He looks inextricably bewildered.

  "I was happy."

  "So, tell me, when did 'happy' go out of fashion? When did it become so redundant? Isn't 'happy' enough?" Now he is becoming incensed. But I am relieved; it is better than the hushed, impenetrable Luke. I daren't answer the question, I don't have to. He answers it for me.

  "No, apparently it wasn't enough for you, Connie. You wanted it all, didn't you?" I move my head up and down a fraction. Not quite a nod.

  "But how, Connie? How? Tell me how you think you can reconcile being happily married and having extramarital affairs?"

  "I don't know. I hadn't worked out the detail," I say callously. I don't know why I do that. I want to be penitent not petulant. But nobody likes to be put on the spot. Luke decides to demonstrate the ludicrous nature of my argument logically. He is missing the point. This has nothing to do with logic.

  "It's like saying you want a boy and a girl but you only want one child. It's impossible."

  "How is Tarn?" I ask. I don't know why I try to hide in humor. It is just that real life is turning into a bit of a tragedy and I've always preferred comedy or romance. Shabby move. Luke stands up and starts to walk toward the door.

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  "Don't go," I wail. He stops walking, which is good. But doesn't turn back to me, which is bad.

  "What did you mean when you said that I was not in love with you?" he asks.

  "I think we'd started to take each other for granted," I reply carefully. I don't want to sound as though I'm blaming him. Because I'm not. "We worked long hours. We put our friends
' needs before each other's. We stopped talking to each other. We stopped delighting in each other."

  "It's called being comfortable."

  "It's called being complacent."

  "So you had an affair to shake things up?"

  "No. No. I didn't plan it." Whoops, I am raising my voice. I try to suppress my anger. "There was no passion. No danger. No drama."

  "You did all of this because you were bored? You risked our marriage, our home, our love, because you were bored?" Luke has taken my lead and is raising his voice too. I know he is exasperated, confused and vicious.

  "And a bit lonely," I add, shamefacedly.

  "Couldn't you have said something? Did you have to whip your knickers off and wave them above your head to get my attention?" He is yelling now.

  "Yes. I think I did," I scream back.

  "I thought you'd done your share of sleeping around before you met me." I think that is a bit nasty, but accurate, so I let it go. We silently stand in the hall, listening to the washing machine whirling in the laundry room below us. Luke leans against the wall and then slides down it, landing with a thud on the floor.

  "What has he got that I haven't?"

  I look at Luke and the anguish on his face as he waits for an answer. He still looks golden. He's still caring, still remarkable, a bit short on understanding but that is to be expected. I

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  think bitterly that Luke is worth ten of the dreadful man I slept with. Knowing that John is a dreadful man doesn't make my pain go away. I am simply left feeling stupid and sore. I slowly venture on.