Until Next Weekend

by Rachel Marks

  ‘Of course I will be.’

  ‘Good. Have a lovely weekend. Oh, and actually whilst I’ve got you on the phone, Gabriel mentioned that he saw a woman in your flat the last time they stayed with you. If it’s something serious, great, but please introduce her to the kids properly rather than them being faced in the middle of the night with a strange naked woman.’

  ‘He must’ve dreamt it. You know he’s got a vivid imagination.’

  ‘So there wasn’t a naked woman in your flat when they stayed?’

  ‘Well, there was, but she was in my room the whole time with the door shut and I made sure she left before they woke up.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you need to tell your girlfriend to be careful when she’s having her naked night-time bathroom trips. It was a bit scary for a sleepy little boy going for a wee to be faced with that.’

  ‘Trust me, it wouldn’t have been an unpleasant sight.’

  Could I be any more of a dick? Is it possible?

  ‘Oh grow up, Noah. Just try to think of them, OK? It’s confusing for them.’

  ‘And seeing Jerry’s hairy arse walking around the house isn’t?’

  ‘For your information, he doesn’t walk around naked. And besides, it’s different. We love each other. He loves the boys. They love him.’

  I always thought that being heartbroken was just an expression, a state of being, but it’s not. It’s a physical thing, a real pain, like something in your chest is actually cracking.

  ‘That’s not what they tell me.’

  Actually, it is. Not in so many words, but more and more often I hear it in the way they talk about all the great things he does with them, the homework he’s helped Gabe with, the exciting bedtime story he’s reading them both. But I don’t want Kate to know that. For a while I hoped (and maybe a tiny, stupid part of me still hopes) that this ‘getting divorced and Kate living with another man thing’ was just a blip. A pretty big blip, I’ll admit. But we’ve had several breaks over the years, Kate telling me she’s done and taking the boys to live with her parents for a few days, but I always managed to win her back in the end. I thought our love was powerful enough to last forever, to overcome anything. And I know my love’s still that strong, but I think perhaps I destroyed hers – chipped away at it bit by bit until there was nothing left.

  ‘Cheerio, Noah. I’ll see you on Sunday. No later than six. I need to get them sorted for school.’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘I’m going, Noah. Take care.’

  She puts the phone down and, to fight the desire to ring her back, I open another beer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Harley’s mum has been late every day this week. It’s Friday. Using my exceptional ability with numbers, that means that for the last five days I have had to stand outside the classroom door, shivering my tits off, engaging in riveting conversation with my favourite pupil.

  The clock hits twenty-five to four. Enough is enough. I bundle Harley out of the playhouse, through the classroom and march him down to the office.

  ‘Sit just there a second. I’ll get them to ring Mummy and find out where she is.’

  Harley clambers up on to one of the shabby grey fabric chairs that sit outside the office. It makes him look tiny, like a Playmobil person placed on a high chair. ‘She’s probably asleep.’

  ‘No, it’s not bedtime, Harley. It’s just the end of school.’

  ‘She sleeps in the day too, not just bedtime. She’s poorly so she has to sleep a lot.’

  I rack my brain for anything I’ve read in Harley’s notes that mentions his mum being ill. For a class of thirty, particularly at my school, there’s a lot of paperwork to get through but there definitely wasn’t anything serious, like cancer. I would’ve noticed that. He joined us about a month ago, just as I was naively celebrating what a lovely class I had this year. Mum reportedly told our head teacher that she hadn’t been happy with the previous school, but now I wonder if it was more that the school hadn’t been particularly happy trying to manage Harley.

  I sit down on the chair beside him. ‘What’s wrong with Mummy? Has she got a bug?’

  Harley shrugs. ‘I don’t know. She just says she doesn’t feel very well and goes to bed. Not all the time. Some days we go to the park or the cinema. Mummy lets me have as much pick ’n’ mix as I want. It’s so much fun.’

  ‘That does sound fun. And what do you do when she goes to bed?’

  ‘Watch TV. Play with my Power Rangers. Play on my DS.’

  I nod, my child protection antennae flashing steady amber. It’s not enough to fill in a form about, but it’s worth keeping an eye on. Often he doesn’t bring his bookbag in, or a coat, Mum’s listening to him read is sporadic, little things like that, but he’s certainly not the only one. Sometimes I wonder if teachers said similar things about me and Ben, or whether all the things our mum did for us when she was in a good headspace were enough to stop them being concerned about the lack of care and attention when she wasn’t. Every so often, I contemplate whether things would’ve worked out differently if someone had noticed and raised the alarm, but in my experience as a teacher, external agencies getting involved usually just makes things worse. I think sometimes we report stuff for our own benefit, so we feel like we’re doing something, even though we know it probably won’t make a positive difference for the child involved.

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll give Mummy a ring. See what’s going on. She’s probably just stuck in traffic.’

  ‘We don’t have a car.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Well, I’m sure she’ll be along in a minute. Just hold on there for a sec, will you?’

  Harley plays with the Velcro on his bookbag and I go into the office to ring his mum. Just as I pick up the phone, she appears, walking through the glass doors at a pace that suggests she’s early rather than half an hour late. She’s dressed in joggers and a hoody, no make-up, her hair tied back in a messy bun. She looks exhausted, as if the process of putting one foot in front of the other is using up the last of her strength.

  ‘Come on then, H. Let’s go.’

  Harley climbs down off the chair and I step out of the office. His mum glances up at me, but then looks back at her son. No apology. Nothing.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Mr Carlton,’ Harley says, walking underneath his mum’s arm, as she holds open the door.

  ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow, Harley, but I’ll see you on Monday. Bright and early, OK?’

  I.e., get him here on time for once, Mum.

  ‘OK, Mr Carlton,’ Harley says, and they walk off down the school drive, Harley chatting away animatedly whilst his mum stares off into the distance somewhere.

  *

  Heading back to my classroom, I bump into Dan and Jack. They’re the only other male members of staff so we’ve kind of been thrown into this arbitrary friendship based solely on gender. I mean, Dan’s actually a pretty decent bloke. He’s in his mid-twenties, engaged to the girl he met at university. But Jack’s a bit of a twat. Since he hit thirty, he seems to feel the need to constantly prove that he’s still wild, crazy. When you ask him if he’s all right in the morning, he always grabs his head and moans about his ‘killer hangover’. His weekends are always ‘insane’, his phone’s always beeping (I swear he purposefully puts it on its loudest setting) with messages from ‘clingy’ girls.

  ‘You coming to the pub, mate?’ Jack says, swinging his rucksack on to his shoulder.

  I check my watch. ‘I better not. I’ve got to get the boys in a bit.’

  ‘You’ve got time for one, haven’t you? Come on, don’t be a Larry Lightweight.’

  I often wonder how it would feel to put my fist through his face. I imagine it would be intensely cathartic.

  ‘Yeah, come on. I’m buying,’ Dan chips in. ‘Don’t leave me with just Jack for company.’

  Jack guffaws, but I get the sense Dan’s not joking.

  As much as I tell my kids not to give in to peer pressure, I’m terrible at saying ‘no’ and, besides, the
thought of a drink is like the promise of a million-pound lottery win. I feel my willpower dwindling. It never has been very strong.

  ‘Oh, go on then. Just one.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Jack says, slapping me on the back. ‘Meet you in there?’

  ‘Yeah, cool. I’ll just grab my stuff.’

  I go back to the classroom, unplug my laptop and put it into my bag, then leave school, avoiding the route past the head’s office so she doesn’t see me sneaking off early. When I get to the pub around the corner, Jack and Dan are sat propping up the bar with three pints lined up in front of them.

  ‘Ah, here you go, mate,’ Dan says, pushing a glass towards me.

  A freshly poured pint is a thing of beauty. The way the light shines through it, making it glow, the deep amber colour, the glisten of the condensation on the glass. I take a very large swig, the tension in my shoulders easing almost immediately as the liquid runs down my throat.

  ‘Ah, that’s better. Thanks, mate.’ I put my glass back on the bar. ‘I swear that boy is going to be the end of me.’

  ‘The wonderful Harley?’ Dan raises his eyebrows.

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Try being in year six,’ Jack chips in, running his hand through his long hair. I think he’s going for Chris Hemsworth in Thor but his thin, lank hair isn’t quite achieving it. ‘I had to do sex education today. Sir, what is a wet dream? Seriously, it was excruciating.’

  Dan and I both laugh.

  ‘Yeah, but at least you don’t have to mop up piss,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t believe Sam today. He was literally stood right next to the toilet and yet proceeded to go in his trousers. And there was so much of it. How can a child that size contain that much wee?’

  The conversation continues in this vein, all of us trying to outdo each other’s tales of woe. We’ve downed our drinks by ten past four and Jack buys the next round without asking if I want one. I figure I can get a taxi to the boys, or a lift with one of the other teachers that live near them. I’ll drink this one in five and then head back to school and sort something in time to get to them.

  But after the second beer on a relatively empty stomach, I get that wonderful heady feeling where you feel like anything is possible and simultaneously that nothing really matters. Drinking is like eating Pringles: you try to put the top back on and walk away but you can’t help reopening them and having a few more until, before you know it, the whole tube is gone.

  I text Kate.

  I’m so sorry. I’m stuck in a meeting at work. Do you mind getting the boys? I’ll grab them from yours in a bit x

  And, despite all evidence to the contrary, as I write the text, I really believe it. I believe I will pick them up from Kate’s and that just being a little bit late isn’t really a big deal.

  After a few minutes, my phone starts buzzing. It’s Kate calling, presumably to have a go at me, so I ignore it, mentally preparing the excuse that I couldn’t answer my phone in a meeting. I buy the next round and, as usual, Jack starts ribbing me about my sex-life or lack thereof. I let him believe I’m still going through a serious drought despite the fact I’m probably getting more sex than him and Dan put together. It’s not something I want to shout about. I don’t see anything particularly impressive about having sex with some stranger you feel nothing for and then spending the rest of the night drowning in self-loathing. The rounds keep coming and I don’t realize the time is passing, but when I check the clock, it’s six p.m.

  It comes over me sudden and intense – the longing to call a taxi and get it to take me to Kate’s house so I can pick up the boys. But when I get down off my stool to go to the toilet, I’m unable to walk in a straight line and I know I can’t turn up there like this – and with that knowledge comes such a horrific sense of regret that I feel like my legs might give way beneath me. I use the backs of chairs to support me and manage to reach the toilets, then sit in one of the cubicles and call Kate. She doesn’t answer so I call her again and again, getting more and more frantic as I listen to the dial tone.

  I ring her home phone and Jerry answers.

  ‘I want to speak to Kate. Why isn’t she picking up her phone?’

  ‘You don’t need to shout at me, Noah. I’ll get Katie for you, but not if you’re going to shout.’

  ‘I’m shouting because she won’t answer her effing phone.’

  Kate must grab the phone because it’s her voice that comes stomping down the line. ‘I’m not answering because you’re drunk again, Noah. The boys are gutted. They love their weekends with you. They make me count down the days on the calendar. Do you realize that? I won’t let you keep hurting them like this. I just won’t.’

  Kate’s crying now and my throat feels so tight that I can’t manage to say a thing. When I don’t respond, Kate puts the phone down and I sit on the toilet with my head in my hands.

  It’s at times like this that the desire to rewind my life is so intense I don’t know how to go on. When bad things happen to you, it’s sad and it’s hard, but you can come out stronger, fighting, knowing you survived it and that you aren’t going to let it ruin you. But when you caused the bad things, when it’s all your fault for making stupid fucking decisions and never ever learning from them, the pain and regret is crippling. It’s so much harder to walk away from intact, because you’re constantly thinking if only.

  I steady myself and head back out to the lads. I order more drinks, moving on from beer to shots because I might as well get absolutely wasted now. I’ve got no reason not to. It’s OK for a while, the alcohol making things feel better than they really are. But then I get sick of the empty conversation, the fake laughter, so I track down an Uber, make my excuses and head home. Except, when I’m nearly there, I can’t face the thought of going into my flat knowing that the boys should be there – making a mess, fighting over the PlayStation, hassling me for more treats – and instead opening the door to stark and empty silence. So I lean forward, poking my head through the two front seats.

  ‘Drop me at the Bear, will you, mate?’

  The driver gives me a quick once-over, an automatic reaction to my heavily slurred speech, then he nods, a sense of resignation in his movement. ‘Sure.’

  *

  ‘Same again, please.’

  I push my glass towards the barmaid and she looks at me as if I just asked her to jump on the bar and give me a striptease. I’ve not seen her here before. It’s usually cheery, middle-aged Mandy who gives me a drink free at the end of the night with a wink and a ‘This one’s on me, darlin’.’ But tonight’s barmaid is probably in her mid-twenties, bright-red cropped hair, wearing a loose-fitting black Jack Daniel’s T-shirt that falls off her shoulder (is it supposed to be ironic?). Her lipstick is the same shade as her hair and she gives the impression that she’d give you what for if you crossed her.

  ‘You sure you’ve not had enough?’ she says, her hand paused on my glass.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ I pat my pockets to show they’re empty. ‘I’m not driving.’

  She shrugs. ‘Okey doke. Another double JD and Coke coming straight up.’

  She puts a definite emphasis on the word ‘another’, like I’m reaching double figures when actually this is only my second drink of the night, or at least the second drink that she has witnessed me consuming. She releases a measure of Jack Daniel’s into my glass, repeats, then starts squirting in the Coke.

  ‘That’ll do, thanks.’

  She removes her finger from the button and pushes the glass back towards me. ‘Enjoy.’

  I take it off her with a smirk. What’s her problem? She’s supposed to be a barmaid, not my bloody AA sponsor.

  ‘Where’s Mandy, anyway? Is she poorly?’

  She shakes her head and wipes the bar with a cloth. ‘Left for better climes. Admin, I think. Got sick of watching people drinking themselves into an early grave, perhaps.’

  Her lips twitch, as if to suggest she’s joking, but it’s clear from the way she says it
that it’s what she thinks.

  ‘So you thought you’d step in on some kind of noble crusade to stop us, did you?’

  ‘Oh yeah, modern-day Mother Teresa, me.’ She laughs and her whole face softens. ‘No, I’m here for the big bucks and the numerous career perks, obviously.’

  Despite myself, I feel a smile forming on my lips.

  ‘To be honest,’ she continues, ‘I was just trying to save you from the epic hangover you’re heading for.’

  I shrug. ‘I’ve only had two drinks. But thanks for your concern.’

  She nods but there’s more than a hint of scepticism on her face and it dawns on me that I must be less accomplished at appearing sober than I first thought.

  ‘No problem.’ She starts taking glasses out of the dishwasher and stacking them in the cupboards underneath the bar. ‘Anyway, I’m closing up in five minutes. You might not, but I need my beauty sleep, so drink up, yeah?’

  I look around. The place is empty. And it feels suddenly tragic, sitting here, all on my own at the end of a Friday night, surrounded by dingy paintings on the dirty cream walls, the flashing lights of a fruit machine, miserable dark-stained wooden tables and stools with grimy, dated fabric on the seats. Before kids, Kate and I would often spend our Friday nights in pubs like this. She hated fancy bars – finding them pretentious – much preferring to while away the hours in a spit-and-sawdust establishment, drinking reasonably priced drinks and playing the selection of board games they stocked. Places like this didn’t feel tragic then. They felt cosy and warm and safe. And afterwards, we’d stumble home putting the world to rights, Kate snuggled in under my jacket. Once kids came along, we didn’t go out as much but we’d always mark the fact it was Friday night, ordering take-out and sharing a bottle of wine and laughing at crap on the telly. It was always my favourite day of the week.

  And now Friday nights look like this.

  I down all the liquid in my glass in one. ‘I can certainly do that. Well, nice to meet you …’

  ‘Amelia. Mimi for short.’