by Roxie Cooper
It’s OK. Didn’t expect to hear from you again but glad you’re well. I know it wasn’t intentional. Many congratulations! Xx
There was so much more I wanted to say. I wanted to say that I missed him. I wanted to say that I’d been thinking about him a lot.
When he told me he couldn’t see me any more, I was devastated. I wanted to beg him to reconsider. But I knew there was no other way. He’s trying to do the right thing. And, ultimately, whatever it was we had together was doomed anyway.
It’s so very hard, doing this. But I don’t have a bad life and I need to appreciate that. You can’t always get what you want. I’m financially comfortable, I have a supportive family, a good job, a beautiful house, a nice car and go on lovely holidays.
So why is it that when Jamie Dobson told me he didn’t want to see me again it felt as if I was having my soul ripped out? And I’d give up everything I have to see him as I have done, just one tiny weekend a year. That’s all. Is that really too much to ask? Yes, of course it is, because he’s moved on, and so must I.
CHAPTER 12
Friday 20 August 2010
Jamie
The first night in a new house always prompts a mixture of emotions: sheer exhaustion from moving day, sadness at leaving one chapter behind, excitement to start a new one.
And in this particular case, an anxious thrill I can’t quite compute – or rather, daren’t.
Switching the ‘big light’ on in what will be Seb’s nursery when we get it sorted, I scan the room looking at the vast amount of boxes piled up in Tetris-like shapes with NURSERY and SEB scrawled on in black permanent marker.
I’ve come to realise that relationships are all about compromise. How big those compromises are depends very much on individual couples. Some people sacrifice more than others. I never, ever imagined I would move down south, far away from where I grew up. I also never thought I’d leave my job. The things you do for love, hey?
People warn you all the time about how hard having a baby is. They love telling you about how tiring it is, as though they get a sick satisfaction out of it. Parents of newborns, babies and toddlers actively seek out expectant dads and about-to-drop pregnant mums simply to inform them just how hard their lives are about to become. ‘Make the most of the sleep you have now!’ they crow, dramatically jiggling a whinging infant on their knee. ‘You won’t sleep again until they’re sixteen!’ Right, yes. ‘Enjoy the peace and quiet! Be spontaneous and just go out because you feel like it – the cinema, shopping, anywhere. Just because you can.’ Honestly, anyone would think you’re signing up for a prison sentence.
Before Seb came along, Helen and I would roll our eyes at these people the second their backs were turned. Oh, heard this one before, mate. Yeah, thanks for that. Haven’t you got anything original to say?
And then he was born and, three months down the line, I laugh at how right they all were. Because, it’s not that I didn’t hear them, I just didn’t listen.
Becoming a parent is so huge, so life-changing, so enormous, you can’t even begin to comprehend the job you’re about to undertake – not really. Not even when you’re painting the nursery or lovingly gazing at that black-and-white scan photo. It’s still all pretend. Sure, you think, ‘Yep, I’m so ready for this. Look at me now, all grown up, about to become a parent and shit,’ but it’s laughable how unprepared you are. You read the parenting books, you buy the (wrong size) romper suits and all the crap from Mamas & Papas they con you into thinking you need and you kid yourself into thinking you’re ready. But you’re not. You’re nowhere near.
All that stuff only becomes real when you’re in the delivery room and you see that little human being coming into the world.
That moment.
That’s the second you grow up. That’s the minute you become a parent and you’re responsible for another tiny little person.
I’d prepared myself for the ultimate cliché of Helen gripping on to my hand while screaming her head off – it actually became a joke between us. But, when the time came, there was no actual screaming, nor did she need me or my hand. She just zoned out and listened to the midwife. I was just standing there, looking and feeling like I was getting in the way.
When he was born with a little funny-shaped head because of the suction thing they used to get him out, they straight away took him for oxygen and I hugged Helen, who looked like she’d run a marathon.
‘Is he OK?’ she panted. ‘Is Sebby OK?’
We knew from the twenty-week scan it was a boy. We weren’t one of these couples who could wait. We wanted to create a little personality for him and give him a name. It felt like we knew him already.
‘He’s going to be fine. You did so well and I love you so much,’ I whispered, grinning from ear to ear.
She smiled, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulled me close to her.
‘I love you too,’ she said, as the midwife brought our son over and handed him to us.
The whirlwind of having a newborn is a bit like when someone dies, I’ve decided. There’s an initial period of hysteria: everyone comes around to see you, the house is always busy, people constantly ask if there’s anything they can do – yeah, tidy up, make the tea and do the food shopping. Family bring flowers and cards and the house smells delicious. There are random balloons, teddy bears, and the kitchen is full of baked goods. It’s lovely … but it’s not real life. This period lasts for about a week before it starts to tail off and you realise this is real life. Then you’re left to deal with it on your own.
All of a sudden, it’s just the three of you.
Your previously always-tidy house is now like a tornado has gone through it, throwing off all kinds of baby paraphernalia. Helen has always been an immaculately tidy person and I’m not that bad but not a slob either. However, you don’t get a choice about these things once a baby is thrown into the mix. Before you know it, your house is a bombsite and you don’t really know how it’s happened. There’s a load of washing-up that needs doing, you live on microwave meals, you don’t sleep, you don’t get dressed or shower. How is this even possible? This baby is tiny and I absolutely love him to bits, but how can one small person change our lives so much?
The reality properly kicked in when I went back to work after my paternity leave. Nothing prepares you for the levels of tiredness you reach. You know you’re living on the edge when you consider it a triumph to get three hours of unbroken sleep a night. It turns you into a monster.
Then the rows start. The classic who-has-the-hardest-job one is the most frequent and explosive. I have the hardest job because I have to work on no sleep. But Helen has the hardest job because she has lost her identity and social standing and at least I can get dressed and go and talk to people all day. It’s a battle nobody ever wins. We’re both suffering.
The sex stopped, not that this was a surprise; we were far too knackered to even contemplate it. But the intimacy stopped too, which was sad. We were both so wrapped up in the baby we neglected each other – and ourselves. I’d settle down for an evening on the sofa with Helen when Seb was asleep in his little Moses basket, bring her a glass of wine and put my arm around her, which she’d remove, saying she just wanted some space of her own. Fair enough, seeing as she spent most of her time with an infant practically Velcroed to her body. But I wanted to reconnect with her.
How on earth does a three-month-old have this much stuff? I glance at the cot which is unassembled, waiting for me to put it together tomorrow, the art I made for him leaning against the wall. I can’t wait to make this room special for him. Opening one of the boxes, I smile as I pull out a fluffy white cuddly rabbit. Running my hands over the fur, I remember exactly when I bought it for him. My smile slowly fades as the events of that day return to me.
Eight months after last seeing Stephanie, it was a hot June weekend. Sebby was a month old and slept most of the time. But he was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen.
Helen had arranged for us to go o
n this family picnic day with some of her work colleagues in the park. It involved all kinds of intricate planning just to leave the house for more than four hours (including a forty-five minute drive, there and back). Nappies, bottles, bottle warmers, nineteen spare changes of clothes, baby hats, parasols, blankets, baby toys, baby wipes, dummies, nappy sacks … the boot was practically full when we left the house. I mean, it’s just ridiculous. Sebby cried all the way there which stressed us both out. The car was hot and traffic was slow. The atmosphere in the car became even hotter as a result of the constant bickering between me and Helen the entire journey.
‘The car’s too hot’, ‘open the window’, ‘he needs feeding’, ‘no, he doesn’t’, ‘turn the air con off’, ‘give him a dummy’, ‘turn the radio down’, ‘you’re driving too fast’ … the whole journey was mega-stressful. By the time we arrived at the National Heritage middle-class fest that was this Teddy Bears’ Picnic, which cost twenty pounds just to enter, we were already wanting to murder each other.
The entire site had been draped in streamers and helium balloons. They blew about in the breeze, enchanting the infants nearby who reached out to grab them. All of Helen’s friends are ahead of us in the parenting stakes. We are the newbies. They spend most of the time talking about their offspring – mainly about how advanced they are, and how they reached all their milestones months ahead of when they were supposed to. There wasn’t really much we could add to the conversation apart from doing amazed, ‘wow!’ faces and, in my case, trying not to look as bored as I was. I would have much preferred to be at home with just Helen and Seb, enjoying the weather, but I knew she liked these sorts of things.
As we all sprawled out on the grass, everyone unloaded the boxes and baskets of food they’d brought. It occurred to me how different picnics are now to when I was a kid. I used to love a proper scraggy picnic at the seaside or at the park, sitting on the grass, devouring soggy sausage rolls and squashed ham sandwiches on – God forbid! – white bread, then tucking into some Space Raider crisps and a Trio biscuit. It would all be washed down with a can of sugary pop, obviously. It always tasted so much nicer when you ate it outside, then Mum would fuss around, gathering all the rubbish.
These days, it’s all carrot sticks, brown pitta bread, hummus, cucumber slices – seriously, what kid has ever eaten a cucumber slice and enjoyed it? – and smoothie drinks, it’s all militantly laid out in compartmentalised Tupperware boxes. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There I was, just trying to get dressed and feel like I’ve survived the day, and these people had time to make tomato and cucumber pinwheels for their three-year-olds.
Thankfully, Seb had worn himself out screaming the car down on the journey there, so he was fast asleep in his pram, giving me and Helen time to actually eat our lunch in peace. Well, I say lunch but it was 11.15 a.m. which counts as lunch when you’ve been up since 5.40 a.m. As I was stuffing my mouth with sandwiches, constantly on edge that the calmness could be interrupted by the baby at any second, one of the little girls in our group started acting up, getting grouchy in the heat. She was about four years old with long blonde hair, wearing a little pink summer dress. She wasn’t being naughty, just a bit bored.
‘Isabella! For goodness’ sake! Will you sit down and stop messing about?’ yelled her mother, a work colleague of Helen’s.
‘I’m not messing about, Mummy!’ She started to cry, holding her rabbit cuddly toy by the leg.
‘Everyone else is trying to eat their lunch in peace, so stop acting like a baby and sit down!’ this woman snarled at her. Jesus Christ, calm down.
The little girl just stood there on her own, crying, and I thought – why would you do that?
Reaching into the changing bag, I pulled out my drawing pad and pens – I take them everywhere, it’s like a comfort blanket for me.
‘That’s a very cute bunny,’ I said to Isabella. ‘Shall we draw him?’
‘She’s a girl!’ Isabella said, as if it were perfectly obviously from its all-over pale-grey exterior.
‘Oh! Of course she is!’ I replied. ‘Let’s draw her with a nice pink bow in her hair, shall we?’
She nodded excitedly and I set to work. It didn’t take long to knock a quick bunny up and it kept her entertained for fifteen minutes or so. After proudly drawing her own dress and bow on the bunny, she was proud as punch and hopped off to show her mummy.
‘Oooh, baby! That’s so clever!’ her mother cooed, cuddling her now angelic girl. ‘Did Jamie help you with that?’
‘Yep! He did the ears,’ she said, proudly. Everyone laughed.
‘What is it you do, Jamie?’ asked the mother, making me the centre of attention, which I hated.
‘I’m an art teacher at the local secondary school.’
‘You’re wasted there,’ the mother’s husband said. ‘You’ve got a talent. Have you thought about moving into the commercial world? You’d earn a fortune. Far more than you do now and for much less work—’
‘I keep telling him that but he won’t have it!’ Helen interrupted.
‘I enjoy what I do now, thanks,’ I said to all of them, generally.
‘Eugh, I don’t know how you do it,’ offered some guy in an oversized straw hat which was both ridiculous and unnecessary. ‘All those kids screaming and shouting all day.’
‘Well, they’re between eleven and eighteen so they don’t tend to scream or shout, really,’ I explained.
‘Oh, well, yeah. It’s just not very … you know? Sanitised, is it?’ he said.
‘Sanitised?’
‘Oh, it’s very worthwhile and selfless and all that,’ he went on. ‘But you’re not going to ever really make any money, or progress, are you?’
‘It’s hardly selfless; I get a lot out of it,’ I replied, irritated. How do these people think it’s OK to say such things? I’d never be so fucking rude.
‘Well, maybe when Hels gets the promotion she could put a word in for you. There will be loads of new opportunities in the new place,’ he said.
‘What?’ I replied, completely confused. I looked at Helen who was shaking her head at the guy, who now obviously realised he’d said something he shouldn’t have.
‘What new place and promotion?’ I asked Helen. Everyone else on the picnic turned back to their own business, clearly knowing that there was an issue about to begin between us. They all knew something I didn’t. The wife of the guy who’d let this piece of information slip started giving him grief about it in that way wives do.
‘I meant to tell you about it but wanted to decide if I even wanted it first,’ Helen said quietly.
‘Wanted what? What the hell is this?’
‘I’ve been offered a promotion. A big one. They’ve asked me to be creative director of the London office,’ she told me, nervously.
‘London?’ I spluttered.
‘Yes.’
‘From when?’
‘In three months.’
‘But Seb will only be four months old. I thought you wanted nine months off with him?’
‘Well, I did. But this opportunity came up and they asked me to go for it and I did and I got it and I can’t quite believe it!’ she said without pausing for breath.
‘When did you get it and why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Last week …’
‘And when do you have to give them an answer?’
She paused and looked at me, stuck for something to say.
‘You’ve already told them you’ll take it, haven’t you?’
‘Erm, well, not exactly. But I’ve said I’d love to …’
‘Jesus Christ, Helen. Without even properly discussing it with me? And everyone else knows?!’
‘I haven’t said I’ll take it!’
‘It sounds like you’ve made your mind up without even speaking to me about it’
‘That’s not true, I’d never do that!’
‘I mean … London! I don’t want to move to London.’
She went to say something, b
ut stopped herself, giving me a careful look instead. It was loaded with irritation but also the knowledge that she has to tread carefully here if she wants to get anywhere with this.
‘I know you don’t like the idea of it, but can you just try to keep an open mind so we can talk about it, please?’
‘Oh!’ I laughed. ‘NOW you want to talk about it?’
‘It doesn’t have to be in London,’ she suggested. ‘I’d be prepared to consider somewhere within the commuter belt.’
‘Oh, would you? And where does my job and career fit into this? Has that even crossed your mind in all this? Or am I simply an afterthought?’
‘Of course it has. You can get a job in a school anywhere. I can’t do my job anywhere. London is the next natural step for me.’
‘Yes. For you. What if I don’t want to leave my school?’
‘Oh, come on, Jamie. Don’t be awkward about this. You’re not tied to that school,’ she said, screwing her face up as she took a gulp of her Pinot Grigio out of a plastic wine glass. I was regretting agreeing to be the designated driver by this point.
‘No, but I love working there. I love my students and I enjoy working with everyone. Maybe I don’t want to just up and leave to work at a random place in London.’
At that point Seb started making noises. What started as a gentle cry swelled until it burst into a full-on bellow, letting us know he was hungry and wanted feeding now! I was grateful for the interruption. Things were about to escalate into a full-on row if we carried on and I didn’t fancy doing it in front of Helen’s work colleagues.
Scooping him out of his pram and snuggling him into my shoulder, I retrieved his bottle from the changing bag with one hand. I love the moment when a baby is crying and you start feeding them. It’s so honest and blatant. The switch between screaming their heads off one second and being utterly content and quiet the next is so satisfying to watch. I wish adults could be like that – that it was that simple. Maybe it is, and we just complicate it all. Perhaps we all just need the basics; food, water and love.