by Roxie Cooper
I can’t do this to Matt. He’s a good person and doesn’t deserve this. I have to stop it before it goes any further. I’ll have to do whatever it takes to get Jamie out of my head. Thank God I saw the Chaplins there last night.
It was the wake-up call I needed.
Sitting at my French dressing table, I glare into the three-way mirror. That self-destructive side of me I know so well stares back, the wet hair slicked back from my face, no make-up. Just me. There she is.
My phone pings in my handbag. Reaching for it, I see a message from Jamie. I hold my breath looking at it. I swipe right to open it and it takes me to the message which is a link to YouTube and one single ‘x’. Quickly grabbing my earphones, I plug them in.
Clicking on the link takes me directly to a music video I’ve seen so many times. I’ve always loved it. Sexy, sensual, the twangy guitar, his haunting, unusual voice … and the beautiful lyrics. Chris Isaak’s ‘Wicked Game’ echoes through my head and I listen to every single word. I’m hypnotised watching him and Helena Christensen flirt about on a beach. All I want to do is call Jamie, text him, tell him how much I enjoyed the weekend and how I wish I could have kissed him.
But I can’t.
I compose a message and link back, then press send. I have no idea if he likes that song, but I hope that over the next year, whenever he hears ‘You Do Something To Me’ by Paul Weller, he will think of me.
CHAPTER 8
Tuesday 6 January 2009
Jamie
I look at her sometimes, usually when she’s doing something mundane like pouring a glass of wine and that’s when I ask myself: what are you doing to her? She’s so oblivious, has no idea that you’ve developed this inexplicable connection with someone else. Is that even possible? Is it real if you’ve only met someone three times? We’re not doing anything physically wrong. But we’re doing everything emotionally wrong.
I can’t stop thinking about her. The guilt crushes down and I feel the weight of it suffocating me, like I can’t breathe sometimes.
I always imagined the kind of men who do this as arrogant, tawdry, smug twats. They float around with not one thought for their poor unknowing, suffering wife. They brag about it to their equally-as-vile friends, sharing tales of their illicit hook ups, laughing about it. They book hotels, tell lies about where they’re going, take their wedding ring off when they’re with her. They revel in the excitement of it all.
Am I really any better than them? Is Stephanie? We are, but I guess we’re not … not really.
We’ve not had sex. We’ve kissed once. We just love being with each other. Is that better? Or is it even worse? Does it really matter if you’re a bit classier about it? If you keep it to yourself? Does it matter if you start having a few feelings? You’re still lying. Being unfaithful.
Cheating.
It doesn’t matter how you dress it up.
And, yet, I can’t stop it.
Helen deserves better than this … than me. I can’t begin to imagine what people would think of me if they knew. Our couples friends, who we’ve spent many nights down the pub with, laughing, doing pub quizzes, talking about serious subjects and daft ones. What would they think of me? Well, I know what they’d think of me. And, at the same time, I’m the last person they’d expect this from.
I know, more than anyone, the pain this kind of behaviour causes. I’ll never forget the day my dad left home, leaving Mum for another woman. They’d been having an affair for eight months and the only reason he came clean and told Mum about it was because everyone on the estate knew about it and someone was about to tell her. That’s how much of a coward he was.
I was only ten at the time. I sat on my bed, listening to them rowing for hours. This kind of thing was normal in our house. Dad was a plasterer and worked long hours, preferring to spend his time after work in the pub getting bladdered with his mates before coming home to us. We lived in a tiny terraced house on a rough estate in Manchester; the kind of place where everyone had a nickname and nobody had any hope of escaping. Mum worked as a dinner lady at my school and Dad always had a very cavalier attitude – even as a child I recognised it. He had a swagger about him, wound people up the wrong way. He irritated men, but women loved him. We never had a close relationship. He was never around long enough. But he used to draw pictures for me. He had a talent for illustration and could have done something with it, given half the chance.
I wasn’t allowed to see him after he left. He lived locally for a few years with ‘that woman’ and he made half-hearted attempts to see me. Mum always said the same thing: it was for the best and he’d eventually let me down. She was right. It only took about two months before he stopped trying to see me altogether. I was disappointed he didn’t try harder because I missed him and needed him at times. He wasn’t the best dad but he was mine.
He moved away in the end, somewhere down south. That was the last I heard. Everyone said I was the spitting image of him – we had the same blue eyes.
It took my mum years to get over it. It knocked her confidence and she was exhausted having to work and look after me too. I was an angry arsehole over it for a while.
Now I’m doing exactly what he did. The thought I could end up inflicting the same amount of pain on Helen, as he did to Mum, kills me. And yet I feel powerless to stop it. That’s why it’s important to contain it. Her.
Once a year.
I just want her to be in my life.
As we pull up on the drive of Helen’s parents’ house, I remember the first time I came here. I was eighteen years old and, at the time, it was the most amazing house I’d ever been in. Posh was an understatement.
It was in a cul-de-sac where everyone had trimmed hedges and pristine gardens. There were no cars without wheels outside, no playgrounds with graffiti scrawled all over the slide, and definitely no lads drinking cans of Ace lager with their feet in a paddling pool. When Helen picked me up from the bus station, I attempted to hide my nerves by chatting about our exam results but she saw straight through it.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘they can’t wait to meet you.’
Her parents’ house was like a museum. Everything was shiny, standing up straight, and it smelled of Shake n’ Vac or something clean. It was completely immaculate. There were vases of fake flowers all over the place. It was nothing like my mum’s house. We didn’t have the money for anything like this. Our house was a bit shabby, messy and all over the place.
I remember telling Mum that, after having our meal at Helen’s house, her mum immediately removed the table cover – table cover! – and polished the mahogany table underneath with a duster and special spray. Mum, who bought some dust polish and kept it under the sink, only using it on special occasions, pulled a face of absolute bewilderment and asked if they had a tumble dryer too.
I still feel a bit uneasy when I visit. I’ll always be that slightly awkward eighteen-year-old who isn’t good enough for their daughter.
‘It’s a great stroganoff, Judy!’ I gush now.
‘Thank you, Jamie. I picked the meat up from the local butcher yesterday. They have some great cuts. I must get you some,’ she offers.
I wouldn’t have the slightest clue what to do with it but I appreciate the sentiment. Helen glances at me from the across the table and laughs, which I return. I can cook basic things but I think I’d struggle with a stroganoff.
‘How was the cruise, David? Helen said you had an amazing time,’ I ask. David, Helen’s dad, is a retired GP and is now into sailing and boats. That kind of thing. He’s a nice fellow, but one of those people you never quite know how to take. Like you’re talking to him and he glares straight through you. I have never seen him in casual wear. He’s always wearing a shirt and V-neck of some sort and sensible trousers.
‘Oh, it was magnificent, wasn’t it, Judy?’ he reveals, putting his knife and fork down to properly get into this. Judy nods enthusiastically. ‘The Italian Riviera is truly stunning. Just stunning. You two should go.’
‘Not sure it’s my thing, to be honest,’ I inform the table, which was quite obviously the wrong thing to say.
‘What’s not your thing?’ David scoffs. ‘Stunning sunsets? Visiting beautiful places?’
Everyone looks at me. I walked straight into that one.
‘No, that sounds great! I just wouldn’t like being stuck on a boat for that long. I think I’d get cabin fever.’
David shakes his head, laughing in a mocking way. ‘Did you hear that, Judy? Cabin fever!’
‘Dad!’ Helen, says in a stern voice. ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. We haven’t decided where we’re going on holiday this year.’
‘I read an article, actually, about how more people are staying here for their holidays. There are some beautiful places in the UK. I’d love to visit Cornwall, it’s supposed to be stunning,’ I say. I’ve been meaning to mention it to Helen anyway.
‘Cornwall?’ Helen laughs. ‘Baby, I don’t work fifty-hour weeks to stay in this country for my annual holiday!’
David nods at Helen in agreement, almost as if I’ve just suggested we visit a war zone for a fortnight.
‘You need to get away, go abroad, Jamie!’ Judy coos.
‘I’m just thinking of money and things we’ve got to pay for this year, that’s all,’ I say. That’s about as tactful as I can be in front of her parents without screaming out ‘Aren’t we supposed to be saving up to have a baby?’
‘Well, I think I’m owed a proper holiday,’ Helen says. ‘I certainly wouldn’t turn down sitting by a pool on a ship for two weeks.’
‘Not saying I’d turn it down,’ I say, defending myself. ‘Just that it’s not really my thing.’
I spend the rest of the meal listening to the three of them chattering on about stuff which doesn’t concern me. I offer to polish the table afterwards, thinking of my mum when I do it. Both Helen and I have things to do before work tomorrow so we head back fairly early.
The car journey home starts off silent. That’s never a good sign.
‘What’s up?’ Helen says.
‘Nothing. What do you mean?’ I ask, pulling out on to the dual carriageway.
‘You were being weird. All that stuff about holidays.’
‘I wasn’t. I genuinely would like to go to Cornwall. Why is that so weird?’ I ask.
‘Really?’
‘I thought you wanted a baby, Helen? We can’t afford that if we’re going on fancy holidays. And you were on about putting the extension on the back of the house. We don’t have the money for everything. We need to prioritise what we want most and go from there. I feel like you want everything at once and I can’t give you that. I’m sorry, Helen, but you just can’t have it all.’
‘We could if we had more money coming in.’
‘But we don’t,’ I reply in a clipped tone, knowing exactly where this is going.
‘Well, I told you about the opportunities at my place. All you have to do is say the word and you’d be in with your talent. Really well-paid job, brilliant benefits, great exposure …’
‘No, Helen.’
She pauses, staring straight ahead out of the window.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I already have a job. Which is the answer I gave you last time you asked.’
‘I know you do, honey. And it’s only because you’re so talented that I want you to be properly appreciated and earn proper money from it with so many more benefits—’
‘I teach children, I love it, I get six weeks off in the summer! What more benefits do I need?’ I laugh.
‘I mean proper benefits, for the future, Jamie,’ she says, placing particular emphasis on the word ‘proper’.
‘Like what?’ I reply, irritated.
‘If we are thinking about kids, we need to think ahead. You’ve been working at the school since we graduated and you’ve got so much out of it, but your earning capacity could be so much higher …’
Hearing Helen talk about my skills and passion in such a clinical way makes me feel so depressed. Do I have a say in this at all?
‘What about my ability to provide childcare when we do have kids with all the time off I get in a year? Isn’t that a benefit? Besides, I couldn’t work at your company, Helen. I’d hate it,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just not what I want in life.’
‘Well, sorry for trying to help,’ she says in an obvious huff, turning her head towards the passenger side window. I can’t bear silences or leaving things on an argument.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s been a long week,’ I say, stretching over for her hand and holding it.
‘I’m sorry too,’ she says, reaching into the footwell for her handbag. A stab of guilt shoots through me when she does, and I return my hand to the steering wheel.
I bought that bag for Helen at Christmas. It was expensive and I did it for two reasons. Firstly, because I knew she’d love it (she did). Secondly, it was a pure guilt purchase and I thought it would somehow make me feel a bit better about meeting Stephanie a few months earlier (it didn’t). She ran her fingers over the dulled black leather exterior of the designer bag, caressing the studs on the front and shiny silver clasp.
‘Thank you so much, baby! I absolutely adore it!’ she’d squealed on Christmas Day, kissing me on the cheek before going back to admiring her new gift. She immediately took pictures of it from various angles, posting them on Facebook with the caption ‘Look what my amazing hubby bought me for Christmas! Aren’t I lucky?! Feeling very loved right now. X’. It got 154 ‘likes’.
There’s something about Christmas which makes you appreciate your other half. Maybe it’s because you spend so much time with each other. Maybe it’s because you spend hours walking around shops, thinking of things they like and enjoy, so you can buy them the perfect gift. Or, maybe, it’s because you listen to sentimental songs as you drink mulled wine around twinkly Christmas trees and wonder how the hell you could do this to them.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘You do work hard and deserve a nice holiday. I’m just worried about money if we want to try for a baby.’
‘We both deserve a nice holiday. But, listen, let’s look into the Cornwall thing. There must be some nice hotels down there. I absolutely draw the line at camping!’ Helen says and laughs.
I smile. ‘As if I’d make you do that! Sorry for being distant and snippy. January is always stressful at school.’
‘About the job thing …’ she says seriously. ‘I hope you know it’s only because I want the best for you. For us. For our family.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘And while I appreciate that you love your job, we all owe it to ourselves to grab any opportunity to make the best life for ourselves. There’s nowhere left to go in your current place so unless you’re going to stay there forever, this is the furthest you’ll go. You could start climbing a ladder elsewhere.’
‘I know what you’re saying, Helen, but I just feel like I’m selling out.’
‘Well, I think you need to accept you’re not going to be a full-time artist,’ she says, confidently, ‘but you should absolutely continue it as a hobby.’
Something hits me in the pit of my stomach when Helen says this. Is she right? I’ve always had this ‘never give up’ attitude, probably because of where I’m from. But this is my wife telling me I should forget it. Perhaps she’s right.
I don’t say anything. She’s said her piece and we drive the rest of the way in silence. It’s only a few minutes until we’re home. The house is cold and in darkness when we get back. Helen heads upstairs to prepare for a presentation tomorrow. Giving her a kiss and a hug, I tell her I love her but that I need to get some stuff sorted for my class.
The garage is freezing in winter. I pull the light cord and the strip lighting flickers on. The heaters are plugged in and the hot air starts to blast out, filling the ice-cold space. I glance around my ‘studio’ and the
pieces I’ve made in recent months. Are they even any good? I don’t know any more. Canvases are strewn around, shelves are packed out with paints and brushes. This is my space. A place where I keep the dream alive. My outlet.
I walk over to a box in the corner where I keep all the stuff from the art weekends at Heathwood Hall. Crouching down on the floor, I rummage through it; it’s full of admin forms and students’ pictures. I don’t like to throw them away – they spent a lot of time creating them. The paper is cold to touch, I should really keep it in the loft.
Buried in the middle of all the paper is exactly what I’m looking for. I hid it there in October last year and now I pull out the card Stephanie gave me last time I saw her.
On the front is a chaotic depiction of an artist’s studio. In the middle, an artist is painting on an easel.
‘Never give up on your dream’ it says inside. Nothing else.
I think about sending her a message but I don’t know what to say.
Turning my phone off, I turn the heaters up and start to draw.
CHAPTER 9
Saturday 20 June 2009
Stephanie
‘What first attracted you to Matt?’ Jane asks in the thick Liverpudlian lilt I’ve come to know so well over the years.
I didn’t know what to make of her at first. She always looks chic and yet I can’t pinpoint her style at all. One day she’ll be wearing a masculine-looking shirt and slimline trousers with extremely high heels. The next month she’ll be wearing a floaty wraparound dress. She reminds me of the women from an era of years gone by, perhaps the ’50s; she has that kind of captivating air about her.
I would love to know more about her personal life. Is she married? Does she have children? What are her friends like? Is her house messy or tidy? Does she drink coffee or tea? She knows all of my secrets and I don’t even know how old she is.
Today, she’s sitting in a new tall black chair which freaks me out. I can’t take my eyes off it. The back of it is way too tall and extends far beyond her head, like something out of a surreal horror film. Leaning to the right side of the chair, her elbow hangs off the side.