by Roxie Cooper
Ebony asks if I’ve been for my hospital check-up – she went for hers last month. I say I have, so as not to worry her, and make a mental note to make another appointment first thing on Monday for the one I missed.
‘Did you get the results back? Mine were clear.’ She does a sigh of relief.
‘Oh, yes,’ I stumble. ‘Mine too. It’s such a relief to get the letter, isn’t it?’
I feel terrible lying to her, but I’m just all over the place at the moment. Must sort it ASAP.
‘And how are your therapy sessions going? You still go, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I lie. ‘But they’re less frequent now, more of an ad hoc thing, when I need a bit of support.’
I haven’t actually been since the night I fell out with Jamie.
I deliberately asked Ebony around today to distract myself from mooning around because of today’s date. Our weekend.
God, I just feel so … empty today. Sitting on the huge white armchair, cuddling into Adelaide watching the DVD, I feel so bereft. Like a piece of the jigsaw is missing.
Matt pops his head into the lounge and the kids run to him for a hug. Sweeping them up, he smothers their faces in kisses.
‘I’m going out,’ he says abruptly. He looks pasty, his eyes puffy and glassy. He’s hungover. I heard him come upstairs at about 1 a.m., after drinking alone in the living room.
I nod. ‘Will you want some lunch?’
‘Not sure when I’ll be back. Don’t worry about dinner either. Don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘See you.’
He dives back out and Ebony looks aghast.
‘What the hell?’ she whispers, her green eyes wild with outrage.
‘Don’t, Ebs. Just how we are.’
I’m actually relieved when Matt calls to say he’s decided to go out for the night, so it’s just me and the girls. After I’ve popped them to bed, I have a glass of wine and sit in the lounge with the TV off, enjoying the silence.
I replay those few moments at Rotherton House so often. In reality, it lasted no more than about fifteen seconds, but it felt like minutes. I should have said something, but of course I couldn’t. He was the last person I expected to see. I was completely unprepared, and it shook me to my core. Not even being able to turn around, look at him, speak to him – probably for the best.
I justify the fact that he is no longer in my life by telling myself he’s an inconsiderate, confusing, infuriating twat. But I know this isn’t true. The worst part about it all is that the reason he isn’t in my life is because I’m jealous. That’s it. The only reason. Plain, old green-eyed jealousy. Not of her, particularly. But because she has him and I don’t. She gets to say he’s her husband, but I know that a little part of him belongs to me and always will. I didn’t plan on this taking over when I got into it. I thought I could contain it, it wouldn’t matter. I could box it off. I was so special to him and he was risking everything doing it, so why would I get jealous? My God, how naïve of me. Days and weeks were spent obsessing over this man I saw once a year. The man I’d pretended to myself I wasn’t having an affair with.
‘It’s harmless’ we told ourselves in the beginning. It would have probably been less harmful if we’d had a six-month intense fling in which we’d fucked every week and it fizzled out. This is actually far more destructive. When you deliberately have to make a conscious decision to stay away from each other, with no contact, you really should know that what you’re doing is dangerous. Emotions have got involved in the game and you’re basically screwed.
Why were we ever so stupid?
Ultimately, you have to make a choice about what you can tolerate and balance it up with what your life is like without someone there. We all do it to some extent. Everyone has habits, behaviours and quirks their partners don’t like, don’t they? It’s a matter of degree how much you can put up with it.
How can I miss someone I barely saw?
Looking around the room, it dawns on me how untidy the house is these days. I’ve always had a well-kept home – well, as much as you can with kids. I took pride in keeping it nice for everyone. But lately, I just don’t have the motivation to do it. I glance around the room and don’t even flinch at the sight of glasses the girls had bedtime drinks out of, chewed straws sticking out of remnants of warm milk. Dolls are scattered all over the floor, as are whole farmyards of plastic animals. No point in clearing them up, they’ll be playing with them tomorrow.
It was the house which gave it away when my mum became ill. Looking back, it was obvious. She’d always kept the house so clean and tidy. She hadn’t worked since she married Dad – she didn’t need to. She was proud to be a housewife and her family was her life. She looked after us and made our home a lovely place. Then, all of a sudden, the house began to get messy. My bed still hadn’t been made when I got home from school and the cushions in the lounge were all squashed in the corner of the sofa. Mum usually wouldn’t stand for this. What was going on?
‘Your mum’s not feeling very well,’ Dad said. ‘She just needs some rest.’
‘Will she be OK?’ I asked.
He looked at me, worry in his face. Even as a thirteen-year-old I could see it. Adults try to hide things from kids but they aren’t stupid, they pick up on things far quicker than adults.
‘She just needs to rest, love,’ he’d say.
Then all of a sudden someone called Granny Moira started picking us up from school. I didn’t even know I had a Granny Moira until Mum became ill. She was introduced to us by Dad, who told us she was Mum’s mum. A kind-looking woman with a soft grey bob which curled up at the ends, she had bright green eyes like Mum’s and wore pale pink lipstick and her perfume stuck to me even after she cuddled me. She started coming to the house a lot after Mum became ill. I asked Dad why we hadn’t met her before, to which he replied, ‘It’s a long story.’ Apparently, my grandad had died a few years ago. It was all weird.
Mum started disappearing for days at a time, with no explanation as to where. She’d come back looking less like herself, almost as if the soul had been sucked out of her. Her sparkle was gone. Every time she left the house after that a part of her didn’t come back. Even though she was obviously very ill, she still tried to make an effort to look normal for us. She’d wear her usual clothes and brush her hair but it wasn’t the same. Her complexion was grey, she was skinnier. I was old enough to know something was drastically wrong, but also naïve enough to think it might get better. I just needed someone to tell me the truth. But nobody did.
It wasn’t long before she could no longer walk and she didn’t even have the energy to speak. Just watching her attempt to muster the energy to smile broke my heart. This woman – my mum – who used to be so full of life, now crippled with … something.
Over the next few weeks, she was at the house less and less, until one day she didn’t return.
She just left the house one day and didn’t come back. It wasn’t until after she’d gone we were told it was breast cancer. All I could feel was a crushing weight of missing something – like I couldn’t breathe with the very loss of her. And it’s so weird when you’re a kid and your mum dies. Everyone wants to comfort and protect you, but they fuck it up and say the wrong thing.
‘You’ve got to be a grown-up now, Steph. You’re the woman of the house. Look after your daddy,’ they’d say, which struck me as weird because I was a child. Shouldn’t he be looking after me and Ebony? Why did I need to look after an adult?
Why am I always the woman of the house and looking after everyone else?
Finishing off my wine and making my way upstairs, I briefly remember when Leanne came to work for us. Dad hired a nanny just after Mum died as he didn’t have a clue how to handle everything. We used to hear him crying at night, shut away in his bedroom. He stayed at work most of the time and left us with Leanne. She was very kind but Ebony and I did not want her in our house. Ebony refused to get dressed for school or eat anything she c
ooked for us, so in the end, I told Dad to let Leanne go and I’d sort everything; homework, meals, getting us ready for school, getting us to bed.
That’s a lot to take on when you’re thirteen and grieving for the person you’ve effectively replaced.
Lying in bed now, cocooned in the duvet and listening to my music, I make a promise to myself to confront what I’m hiding from. That’s what my mum would have wanted and I owe it to her to sort this out. As the iPod switches on to the next song, I can’t help but think how apt it is, and in a knee-jerk moment of madness I start composing a text to Jamie, linking the song from YouTube to the message.
Shall I do it? Hovering my finger over the send button, the lyrics could not express any better how I feel at this moment. Listening to the bluesy voice of Solomon Burke crooning out ‘Don’t Give Up On Me’, I suddenly have a brainwave. Why have I not thought of this before? Smiling, I delete the message. I’ve got a better idea.
They say you’ve got to hit rock bottom before you can start healing again. I know this is true because I’ve been there before. But I’m my own worst enemy sometimes. I hopped on to this emotional rollercoaster when I was thirteen and never really got off it until I met him.
He’s the only thing which made me feel secure enough to get off it.
CHAPTER 23
Friday 6 November 2015
Jamie
Helen and I are going out with her work friends tonight. We occasionally organise couples’ nights where we get together with assembled friends and their other halves. They’re always Helen’s friends. She wouldn’t really get on with my teacher friends; they’re nowhere near trendy enough. I’m not massively into her advertising crew; they’re OK but I wouldn’t choose to hang out with them unless I had to. They’re all a bit, well, into everything I’m not. They buy all kinds of posh foods I’ve never heard of from Waitrose and go to Pilates three times a week. That kind of thing. I used to make more of an effort with them, but they’re all so up their own arses, I can’t be bothered now. They take the piss out of me being such a ‘working-class hero’ but I’d rather be that than a stuck-up wanker.
They’re always talking about politics and topical subjects – even Helen gets involved, which is strange, because she’s never been that interested. And her accent has also changed a bit, which irritates me: a slight inflection at the end of every sentence. Like a posh telephone voice, but only when she’s in their company. I tease her about it, but she gets cross whenever I mention it.
We’re going to a dinner party at John and Lucy’s. They live in an enormous, minimalistic house, like something off Grand Designs in a village about twenty minutes away. After spending a fortune on a taxi to get there, we are greeted by Lucy who ushers us in, giving us a brief tour before we sit down for dinner.
Most of the chat is limited to work-related topics I can’t really join in with. But then the topic of conversation turns to the seven-year itch as a result of one of the couples having just celebrated their seven-year anniversary. They then start gossiping about one of their colleagues, a man who’s been caught out having an affair with one of the junior writers. The guy, who is fairly senior, was married (no children), and had apparently completely fallen head over heels for this young girl and it was all a bit of a mess, not to mention the scandal of the year.
‘I feel so sorry for poor Gemma. Imagine finding out that your husband is a complete bastard!’ says Claudia, as I shuffle uncomfortably in my chair. Naturally, everyone agrees, nodding their heads and echoing the words ‘Complete bastard!’ and ‘What a twat!’.
‘What the hell was he thinking, anyway? Have you seen Gemma?’ John says, screwing his face up before shaking his head. ‘You wouldn’t be playing away if you had that at home, would you?’
‘Exactly! She’s such a gorgeous girl! And a lovely personality too,’ Lucy chimes in. ‘These fucking men, thinking they can just get away with all sorts.’
‘Absolutely!’ Helen agrees. ‘He just never looked the type to do it, did he? He always seemed so … nice.’
‘Nice?’ I ask. Everyone looks at me.
‘Oh, Jamie, honestly, he’s the most unlikely person to do something like this. And now he’s leaving his wife for this slag! After only two years of marriage! Unbelievable!’ John outrages.
I don’t know if it’s the fact I’ve drunk the best part of two bottles of wine, or that I’m in the company of these judgemental arseholes, but someone needs to play devil’s advocate here. Or maybe I’m just fucking stupid because this is far too close to the bone.
‘Maybe there’s more to it than that, John,’ I reply in an irritated tone. Helen shoots me a stern look.
‘More to it? Like what? He’s in love with her or something? Give me a break! He’s in love with her twenty-six-year-old pert tits, more like!’ John says and laughs, as does everyone else around the table.
‘Well, I think anyone who is prepared to leave their marriage and cause that much pain to their wife has probably thought long and hard about it, actually. You don’t do that on a whim,’ I say, aware that everyone is staring at me. ‘If anything, he’s probably quite brave. If they think they’re in love, good luck to them. Hope it works out.’
I lean back in my chair and finish off the last gulp of wine from my glass. I’m fed up with people constantly judging others for daring to have feelings they shouldn’t. Is this how they’d talk about me if they found out what I’d done? This guy at least had the balls to do something about it. I don’t.
Talk about a conversation-killer. The chat awkwardly moves on to monthly sales targets and client demands and Helen was frosty with me for the rest of the meal. Every time I spoke to her all I got was monosyllabic answers and no eye contact. I kept attempting to put my arm around her, only to have her wriggle away. As soon as we got into the taxi home, I couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘Can you just tell me what I’ve done wrong this time?’ I ask, as she sits as far away from me as she possibly can in the back of the cab.
‘Was there really any need for that?’ she snaps at me.
‘What?’ I ask, knowing full well what she’s referring to.
‘All that stuff about how “brave” it is to have an affair.’
‘Helen, that’s not what I said and you know it,’ I reply. ‘Don’t twist it.’
‘Did you really have to act like such a smart-arse in front of my work friends?’
‘Ah, so that’s why you’re really pissed off. I’ve embarrassed you!’ The taxi driver must be cringing at this. Or perhaps he’s loving it.
‘This is all about you and your precious work friends. As usual,’ I say, rather uncharacteristically. There’s a sadness in my voice; she can deny it all she wants – she knows I’m right. ‘Everything about you lately comes back to your work. You spend more time there, with that lot, than you do at home with me and Seb.’
‘I’m earning a living, Jamie,’ she snarls back at me.
‘Until ten most nights? Drinking with clients? Colleagues? Anyone would think you don’t want to come home.’
‘You know I have to do that, it’s just part of my job. And besides, is it any wonder I don’t want to come home when you say shit like that? I’m sorry, Jamie, but when you start standing up for guys who cheat on their wives you come across as a bit of a dick!’
This is very un-Helen-like behaviour but she’s had quite a bit to drink so she isn’t remotely bothered about speaking like this in front of anyone. She’s usually the kind of person who tells you to lower your voice if you so much as have the slightest issue in public.
‘I wasn’t standing up for him, Helen. I was simply saying things aren’t black and white when it comes to marriage or emotions, that’s all. And I don’t think people should be so judgemental, which your friends quite clearly are. Admit it – you’re embarrassed what they think of me and I reflect badly on you.’
‘Oh, give it a rest! What absolute bollocks, Jamie!’
‘I don’t know what’s
happened to you, Helen. I really don’t—’
‘You can talk! I don’t know what’s got into you,’ she throws back at me. ‘Ever since we moved down here you’ve been like a different person. Not interested in things, we aren’t as close, we never have sex any more …’
Hearing your wife say these things is mortifying. Not because they’re not true (they are), but because it’s as though someone notes your most private, intimate details and flaws and points them out. It’s so much easier to ignore them and pretend everything is OK. But we both know it’s not. And the fact is, I can’t say with 100 per cent truth that it’s all down to Stephanie either.
Helen and I have been together for so long now, since we were eighteen. We were such different people then. Kids, really. How can you decide who to spend the rest of your life with when you’re a teenager? You grow in so many ways. You’re not the same people you were nearly twenty years before. So, what’s the answer? What do you do? Do you stick it out and work at it because you have so many years under your belt? Or do you cut it loose and restart your life again?
‘We’ve had a tough few years,’ I whisper. ‘You’ve been settling into your new job, we’ve got Sebby, I’ve been busy in the art department. It’s just how things are.’
‘Well, it’s worrying, Jamie,’ she says, ignoring the last part of what I’ve said. ‘Especially when you start defending men having affairs—’ She cuts off. Then it dawns on me where she’s going with it.
Please don’t ask me.
‘I’m just going to ask you once, Jamie,’ Helen says. And I realise she’s obviously wanted to ask me this for some time. I’m completely on the spot and my heart starts to race. I’m very aware of my body language and start randomly thinking about how women are so good at reading such things.