by Roxie Cooper
A million things rush through my head before she asks me the question I’ve been dreading coming for years.
I don’t want to lie to her but the truth is just too awful to admit.
‘Are you having an affair, Jamie?’
She stares straight at me, looking at me for any indication that I might be lying. Do I blink too many times? Should I look straight at her? Should I pause before I answer? Will that make it worse? I feel the weight of her eyes on me, desperate for an answer.
‘No,’ I say immediately. ‘I am not.’
It’s the truth. But I also feel like I’m telling a big, fat lie. Being asked this question goes to the core of the betrayal I have inflicted upon our marriage over the past nine years. It’s much easier to lie when you’re not being directly asked about your infidelity by the one person you’ve betrayed. Littering your everyday life with little white lies seems much less devilish than one big black lie to your loved one’s face, even though it all amounts to the exact same thing. And it’s nothing less than I deserve. The pain Helen would feel if she knew the extent of my actions – no, I cannot bear to think of it.
We stare at each other for what seems like minutes. I don’t know if it makes me look more or less guilty. The lights of passing headlights and lampposts flash on to her face. She eventually turns her head to look out of the window and spends the rest of the journey like that.
When we arrive home, Helen storms out of the cab, slamming the car door. I apologise to the driver for the drama and he replies ‘Good luck, mate’, raising his eyebrows. She heads straight upstairs to bed and I pay the babysitter.
Going to the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of whisky. Kicking my shoes off, I take it into the living room and switch the lamps on. All of Sebby’s toys are still strewn about the room. Half-built Lego structures, remote-controlled cars and random gadget toys lie dormant, in the same place they were abandoned before bedtime, ready to be activated early morning tomorrow.
I get up and mooch into the study for my art pad and pencil, picking up the post I brought home from school earlier today. Returning to the living room, I sink into the sofa and start doodling, whilst spinning ‘Stop Me If You Heard This Before’ by The Smiths on the record player I treated myself to for my thirtieth birthday. I love the hissing, crackle sound as you place the needle on to the vinyl – it takes me back to being a child. There are some things you lose with modern technology.
As the pencil glides over the smooth white paper, my mind flashes back to the early days of meeting my wife. We were so different then. She was funny and quirky and I loved her creativity. We’d get lost together in a locker of art, beauty and visual heaven. I adored her passion for it all, which was equal to my own. I hadn’t met anyone like that before. I loved her free spirit and wildness. She loved my dedication and ambition. I guess we fell in love with very different people to what we are now. People change.
Remembering I’m waiting for a cheque from a teaching course I did, I start going through my post from school. Most of it is just alumni stuff from Saint Martins. Except the last one.
It’s a white A4 envelope marked ‘Private’. The school address has been handwritten. I open it and pull out an information pack of some sort.
Dear Mr Dobson
Thank you for your recent application to be considered for the 2016 annual Elaine Carpenter Art Award. Please read the attached information and consider the process carefully. You must submit three pieces of original work to be considered by our panel by 15 March. You will be informed by 1 April as to whether you have been shortlisted as a finalist.
The three finalists will have the opportunity to showcase a selection of their work in an exhibition in Cambridge, in December 2016. This exhibition attracts national press and a number of well-known art critics and collectors from London. Many of our previous finalists have gone on to forge prestigious careers through entry to this competition. Should you become a finalist, your main piece will be an original painting and you are free to interpret the theme as you wish. You must also provide a statement of intent detailing why you chose the subject. The theme this year is ‘The Perfection of Beauty in a Broken World’.
The finalists’ exhibitions will be assessed by three independent judges from within the relevant field, including the well-known artist David Nelson. The winner of the award will win £10,000 to assist in launching their art career, an internship with David Nelson and can expect significant media exposure.
The panel for the first stage of the process this year consists of:
Michael Carpenter – late husband of Elaine Carpenter and CEO of Carpenter Software Solutions
Hannah Thornton – Lecturer in Art History from Cambridge University
Dominic Jervis – Arts Editor from The Cambridge
Arts Review newspaper
I didn’t apply for this competition, so I’m momentarily confused. It’s obviously the award Stephanie’s dad runs every year because I recognise her mum and dad’s names. Michael and Elaine Carpenter.
Then, it suddenly makes sense. I laugh at the sheer irony of it, wishing I could tell him why. But I can’t, so I text him this instead:
Cal, thanks for the kick up the arse and entering me for the art award mate! Maybe this is my time to get my stuff out there!
I wait for a reply, laughing at Cal – my best friend who always has my back. He always said I’d know when the time was right. I’m just not sure this is the right way. My phone pings seconds later.
No idea what you’re on about?
Staring at the text, it dawns on me there’s only one other person who could have sent this to me.
CHAPTER 24
Tuesday 5 April 2016
Stephanie
‘Stop at the road!’ I yell at Evie, who is hurtling towards the country lane at alarming speed. It’s the quietest road in the world, but it doesn’t stop me worrying every single time. It only takes a second for someone you love to be taken away from you. One minute they’re there, laughing, breathing, chatting and the next they’re gone, forever. Matt calls me over-protective. I think I’m cautious. I’d protect my girls with my life.
I love walking the girls to school and nursery. It’s my favourite part of the day. I could take them in the car, but it’s a fifteen-minute walk and I love chatting to them on the journey. Evie witters about all kinds of random, cute things, pointing out butterflies, bees and birds. She picks daisies and tenderly gives them to Adelaide, giggling as she does. I enjoy watching her skip along in her cute little school uniform, her bright white ankle socks contrasting sharply against her black shiny shoes. The royal-blue tartan pinafore bounces up and down as she proudly walks by her sister in the buggy. She insists on wearing ribbons in her hair every single day. She’s such a glamour puss. I think Adelaide will be the same.
As we head down the country lanes and through the bluebell wood, Evie tells me about the Easter egg hunt she’s looking forward to at school. I used to love Easter as a kid. Ebony and I would wake up on Easter Sunday to find little baskets hanging on our bedroom doors and then we’d have to search the house for little chocolate eggs and bunnies. In the garden, Mum hung treats from bushes and by the time we woke up it had been transformed into a kaleidoscope of sugar-coated bliss. Our baskets brimmed with goodies.
I’m so pleased it’s spring. Daffodils are all over the village now, along with other lovely little flowers I don’t know the names of. They’re very pretty, though, in fuchsia pink, violet, yellow, bright orange, lime green and red. It’s like something out of a TV show: the classic sleepy English village where nothing ever happens. Pristine gardens and perfect lives. Well, they’re not, but that’s how it looks.
After dropping the kids off, I start to feel that butterflies feeling in my tummy you get when you know something big is going to happen. I’ve tried putting it out of my mind all morning, concentrating on the kids and getting them ready. But now they’ve been safely delivered, I can’t avoid it any more.
I sprint back home and get changed for work. Except it’s not a normal day at work today and I wanted to get ready properly after the girls had gone, so I shower and put my make-up on in peace, when I get back.
I have no idea what to wear. I don’t want to look too formal, or as though I’ve made too much of an effort. But, at the same time, I need to look nice. No, not nice.
Special.
It’s typical that the one day I need to be early for work the traffic is terrible. I’m stuck on the dual carriageway for thirty minutes with no sign of going anywhere. Every cell in my body is shaking with absolute rage.
I call Georgia, our receptionist, to let her know I’ll be late.
‘OK, Stephanie. They’ve gone in to the presentation now, but hopefully you’ll make it for the coffee afterward,’ she says, breezily.
‘Yes, yes. Obviously, I’d like to meet them. Please don’t let them leave before I get there!’ I reply, hoping she can’t sense the sheer desperation in my voice. It’s now 10.46 a.m.
The lift pings at the second floor and I rush out. I don’t run, more of a very quick walk, which suggests I’m very late for something, which I am. It’s 11.25 a.m.
I shoot past reception as Georgia deals with a delivery guy, signing for some documents.
Oh God, please let them still be here.
Picking up pace as I walk down the corridor to our main function room, the anxiety returns to my stomach, taking residence there like a lump of concrete. I take a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm down, but I’m walking so fast it has no effect at all. My heels drag on the carpet and I’m convinced that at any second I’ll fall over.
Thinking about it, I should have looked through the windows of the room before barging in. I should have stopped for a second to compose myself before clumsily pushing the handle of the door down and exploding in the room at a hundred miles an hour.
But I don’t.
Straight in I go – and the first person I see is Jamie Dobson. Not my dad, or the other finalists, or panellists. No, Jamie Dobson.
It takes me a second to catch my breath. He’s standing talking to my dad. Three years of no contact, hidden feelings and a big need to apologise (from me) standing between us, and we have to act like we don’t know each other.
Turning to face me, a smile sweeps across his face, like he’s happy to see me. Thank God!
‘Ah, Jamie, can I introduce you to my daughter, Stephanie? She’s also our marketing director,’ Dad says.
Oh my God.
‘Steph, this is Jamie.’ Dad gestures towards the man I’ve been hopelessly in love with for the past ten years. ‘He’s one of our art award finalists.’
And Jamie extends his hand for me to shake. I look at his face when our hands touch, and the familiar sparks of electricity that only he’s capable of stirring, fly through me. It’s as if he plugs me in to an electrical switchboard.
‘Really pleased to meet you,’ he says. The eye contact is brief, a second or two at most. Dad then launches into telling Jamie about last year’s competition and how successful the winner went on to become. I stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do with my hands. Jamie puts his in his pockets. Our eyes flicker towards each other as Dad talks, and we smile. I don’t think either of us are listening.
He looks thinner than he did last time I saw him, but not in a bad way. Leaner, like he’s been going to the gym. His hair is still long and untamed in that way I always adored, combed back just enough to be off his face, but still has a soft look about it.
I need to get him on his own without it looking suspicious.
‘Actually, Jamie, I need some more details off you before you leave, if you wouldn’t mind? Don’t leave without seeing me first,’ I say, casually, in front of Dad.
Jamie nods. ‘Yes, of course.’
I smile at both of them before heading off to meet the other finalists, constantly aware that Jamie is watching me in the room. I can feel his eyes on me wherever I am.
After thirty minutes I simply can’t take any more and have to interrupt him chatting to one of the other finalists.
‘Jamie, would you mind nipping to my office, please? I just need you to fill some forms in,’ I ask, a little louder than I need to.
‘Sure, no problem,’ he replies.
Jamie shakes hands with everyone in the function room as they all say goodbye. I’m not in the slightest bit surprised to see that he’s charmed them all already. I hope that bodes well for him in the final.
Leaving the room, we walk down the corridor in silence, side by side, closer than we would if we were business associates. Our arms occasionally brush against each other. We don’t look at each other when it happens. Reaching the lift area, I press the button and the big arrow illuminates red as the machinery can be heard clunking into action.
‘It’s two floors up,’ I explain. ‘I’m not running up the stairs in these heels.’
In the ten seconds or so it takes for the lift to arrive, we look around awkwardly. I just want to stare at his face because I’ve missed it so very much over the past three years.
The lift pings and the doors open. I walk in and Jamie follows behind me. I press two and after a few seconds, the doors shut.
The lift clanks as it pushes through the floors. We stand not more than a couple of feet from each other, not speaking. I don’t know what to do or say. Jamie looks at me and doesn’t break my gaze. It’s not an angry face, more like he’s just looking at me because he hasn’t seen me for so long – I can relate to that.
I’m relieved when the lift pings.
The one thing I insisted on when I started working for Dad is that I had a nice office. I am not one of these people who can concentrate in a bland, grey space. I need to put my own stamp on it, while retaining professionalism, obviously. So I have artwork on the walls, a sofa in the corner and strategically-placed lamps. I also have photos of the girls in frames on my desk. I only work part-time, but I still like to see them when I’m here.
Jamie looks around my office as I close the door. I’d love to hug him, but it doesn’t feel right … yet. I sit on the sofa and he joins me. He’s not too close and I don’t think either of us know how this is going to go. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, bolt upright, I have no idea where to even start. It should be me.
A huge smile bursts on to his face. ‘It’s fucking amazing to see you, Steph!’
‘I thought you hated me,’ I whisper, doing a cringe face.
‘I could never hate you,’ he replies, immediately.
‘I’m so, so sorry for that night,’ I blurt out. ‘Everything I said was completely uncalled for.’
‘Some of it was. Some of it, I needed to hear,’ he admits. ‘I think it was probably building up for a while, for both of us.’
‘I didn’t know how you’d respond to me sending the letter about the competition to your school. After that day I saw you, I just had to contact you.’
‘I was pleased you reached out to me. That you believed in me. You’ve always done that. That is …’ He trails off.
‘What?’
‘Look, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for this opportunity, but I just need to know. Given that it’s you – your dad. Well, I’m so thrilled to get into the final but I don’t want any part of this if you’ll fix it for me to win,’ he says, uncomfortably.
‘No, absolutely not,’ I assure him. ‘I have no influence whatsoever over who is selected to be a finalist, Jamie, or who wins. I sent you the application form, but anyone can get them. That was it. I’m purely the marketing girl. I deal with the publicity around it, that’s all.’
It’s important he believes me, because it’s true. All I ever wanted was for him to believe in himself.
‘I thought that would be the case, I just wanted to make sure.’
‘This is your chance, Jamie. Your chance to show everyone how talented you are. You’re so close now! I’ve seen the successes finalists and winners have had with this competition
. I’ve seen what you’re capable of and you have the talent to make it. What are you going to do for your exhibition? Have you decided on a subject yet?’ I’m so giddy and excited for him.
‘I’ve only just started to think about it, not decided on anything yet. The exhibition isn’t until December so I have plenty of time.’
I nod, trying to calm myself down.
‘So,’ I change the subject. ‘How is … everything else?’
‘Yeah, good. The same, really. Seb is six next month and he’s such a little rascal, keeps us busy.’
‘I can imagine. Have you had any more?’ I ask. I know I’m being nosy but I can’t help myself.
‘No. And I don’t think we will,’ Jamie says, gazing down at the floor. ‘Well, I’d like another one but Helen wants to concentrate on her career, doesn’t want any more. Especially given that she’s doing so well, heading up the London office. Her choice.’ He shrugs.
I do a half-hearted smile. I bet Jamie is such a great hands-on dad.
‘And what about you?’ he asks.
‘Oh, another girl! Evie is four, Adelaide is two.’ I smile as I tell him.
‘Bet they both look like you,’ he says.
‘They do. I didn’t think I’d have any more. But after …’ I pause, looking at my lap for a moment. ‘After you, I went through a bit of a hard time. I thought maybe I should try and make things work with Matt and then I had another baby …’
Jamie reaches out for my hand, which I take hold of and squeeze.
‘My world just went into a spin. I spiralled for a bit. But, actually, Adelaide saved me in a lot of ways,’ I say and smile. ‘She gave me something to focus on. I love my girls, I reached out to you with this competition, I’m back in therapy – I’m going through massive, healthy life changes at the moment.’
‘It sounds like it! Soooo,’ he asks, tentatively, ‘why have you contacted me now?’