by Annie Lyons
I didn’t even swear, which is unusual for me. There were no words. There were no sounds to describe the utter horror that I felt at that moment. I stood for a second, staring from Ed to Dan and back again. I had a sudden awful feeling that I might be sick. Please, God, don’t let me be sick.
It was Ed who tried to take my arm. ‘Nat—’
I pushed him away. ‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ I said, my heart pumping fast as unspeakable anger flooded my veins.
‘Nat, this isn’t what you think it is,’ said Dan, standing up and walking towards me.
Fight or flight? Punch him in the face or hurl yourself through the window? My brain was struggling with which to choose. I took a step back, fumbling towards the door. Flight. Run away, Nat. Run away as quickly as you can.
Dan followed me. ‘Nat, let me explain. Please.’
I turned on him. Fight. Yes, fight now, Nat. Tell the bastard what he needs to hear. It’s about bloody time.
Fury rose up and came spilling out as I spat the words. ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘You don’t get to call the fucking shots. So you’re ready to talk now, are you? I mean, what the fuck is this? Did you get bored being married to me? So now you’ve decided to try being gay for a while and you’re shacked up with my best friend? Well, whoop-de-fuckingdoo. I hope you’ll be very happy. You deserve each other.’
I turned and fled down the stairs. And now we run away. Now we run and don’t look back.
‘Nat!’ cried Dan. ‘Please.’
‘Let her go, Dan,’ said Ed.
Yes, let me go, you selfish bastard. Watch me run and not look back, running away from your lies and your betrayal and your utter, utter contempt for me, our marriage and everything we’ve shared for the past twenty years. You have broken my heart. I am done.
I ran to the Tube, trying to wipe away the flood of tears as they fell. I slumped into a seat and sobbed. I didn’t care any more. Fortunately, this is London and people leave you alone. The other passengers looked alarmed but no-one was going to ask if I was okay. I was probably some nutter.
Actually, that wasn’t far from the truth. I had certainly lost my grip on reality. I had no idea who Dan was and no idea where that left me. All I knew was that my world was in pieces, lots and lots of pieces, too numerous and complicated to repair.
A terrifying thought struck me. How am I going to explain this to Woody?
Oh hey, sorry, son, but your dad is actually gay. Yeah, it’s really weird. We were together for the best part of twenty years and I had no idea. Oh, and he seems to have moved in with your Uncle Ed, but it’s all good because now you’ll have two dads, so double birthdays and Christmases – yay!
I know it happens. It’s just that I never thought it would happen to me.
By the time I collected Woody from school I was feeling utterly empty but I had at least managed to stop crying. One thing I’ve learnt about weeping is that you can’t do it all day. You run out of tears eventually and it’s very tiring.
I stood by the edge of the playground, desperately hoping that Woody would come out early and alone. Unfortunately he was arm-in-arm with Matilda, which meant that we now had to walk home with Caroline. Marvellous.
‘Can we get an ice cream, pleeeease?’ asked Woody as we passed the van parked outside the school gates.
‘Pleeeeease, Mummy?’ said Matilda, joining in.
‘Fine by me,’ I replied.
‘Only on Fridays, Matilda. You know the rules,’ said Caroline, giving me a superior look.
Oh, piss off, Caroline, you judgemental cow.
Woody frowned. ‘We can have ice cream when we get home,’ I whispered. He gave me a cheeky wink, which made my heart soar with love and nearly brought on fresh tears. Keep it together, Nat. For everyone’s sake.
‘So how was your day?’ asked Caroline. I was considering how to answer this question when she leapt in. ‘Mine has been absolutely manic! I’ve basically been on the phone to the choir competition people all day. Lord knows when I’m supposed to get anything else done.’
Yes, it must be a nightmare still being married to a man who isn’t gay, living in a perfect house and having to basically make phone calls all day. What a drag.
She chattered on and on all the way along the road but actually it was a blessed relief not having to think or talk about the day’s events. As we reached her house, she smiled. ‘Right, well, I’m sorry. I can’t stand about chatting all day. There’s so much to do. See you later!’
Unbelievable. The woman was completely unbelievable.
Woody told me about his day as we walked the rest of the way home. He was in a good mood because he’d got a gold sticker for a class project. His excitement was a welcome distraction.
‘How about that ice cream?’ I suggested as we got home.
‘Yes, please!’ he cried. ‘With sauce and sprinkles?’
‘With sauce and sprinkles,’ I confirmed.
‘Yessss,’ he declared with a fist-pump.
As I set about making it for him, I went to the fridge and spotted the bottle of wine I’d opened yesterday. I glanced at the clock.
Surely four o’clock could be considered wine o’clock in some cultures?
I poured myself a small glass and carried it into the lounge along with the ice cream.
A treat for Woody for his gold sticker and a treat for Mum for –
– having the worst day ever?
– finding out that her husband is a closet homosexual and having an affair with her best friend?
– do I need another reason?
We sat companionably chatting about everything and nothing. Pretty soon the ice cream and wine were all gone.
‘Do you have any homework?’ I asked.
Woody nodded. ‘I need to “up-scale” some adverbial clauses.’
‘Sounds painful,’ I joked.
‘It’s not,’ said Woody with an earnest frown. ‘It’s just changing some words.’
‘Oh, well, would you like your writer-mum to help then?’
‘Nah, I’m good,’ he said, picking up his homework book and a pencil. ‘Thanks for the ice cream,’ he added before disappearing upstairs.
Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone with my thoughts and a temptingly open bottle of wine calling from the fridge.
I picked up a magazine and flicked idly through the pages before throwing it aside. Who am I kidding? I thought as I poured myself another large glass. If there was ever a night when I needed to get drunk, this was it.
I carried my glass into the dining room and sat, staring out towards the garden. It had started to rain and all of a sudden I felt completely alone. It was like a soap opera. Betrayed wife sits alone at table drinking wine and staring out at the rain. It would be comical if I had someone to share the joke with. Someone like Dan. Or Ed.
I felt a sob rising up and cursed myself. I will not become an emotional wreck. I will not allow that to happen.
I fetched my phone. I had put it on silent after the fifth call from Dan. Did he honestly think that I’d want to talk to him today? I considered who else to call and realised that there was literally no-one I’d want to talk to; no-one who would understand. And then a thought entered my mind. Before I’d had a chance to realise that it was a bad idea, I was dialling a number.
‘Tim Chambers?’ said the voice after just one ring.
‘Tim. It’s Natalie Garfield. Do you remember? From Hope Street?’
‘Of course. How lovely to hear from you. How are you?’ I was silent for a moment. ‘Is something the matter, Natalie? Is there anything I can do to help?’
The question was so simple and it struck an immediate chord. I began to cry. Again. Seriously, this has to stop. ‘I think my husband’s having an affair with my best friend,’ I blurted. ‘My best male friend, and that’s why he doesn’t love me any more.’ I closed my eyes at the horror of saying this out loud. It was like something from the front cover of one of those crappy mags I bought from time to time.
Like I said, I never thought this would happen to me.
‘Oh, Natalie, how awful for you,’ said Tim.
‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed. ‘I just don’t really have anyone to call, and you said that if I ever needed to talk to someone who’s been through a separation—’
‘Of course. Are you at home? Would you like me to come over?’
I hesitated. Nat, you’re in a bit of a state. This isn’t a good idea. Then again, it seems as if marrying Dan was a pretty rubbish idea, so what the heck?
‘Yes, please,’ I said pathetically. ‘If you’re not busy.’
‘I need to finish up here and then I’ll come over at about seven, say? I’ll bring a takeaway, shall I?’
‘That would be lovely,’ I said, crying fresh tears at his kindness. Oh, my stars. Get a grip, woman. ‘I live at number thirty Hope Street.’
‘Okay, see you in a bit.’
I hung up wondering what on earth I was playing at.
I have officially taken leave of my senses and what’s worse, I don’t give a damn. I need to get drunk and I need someone to talk to while I do that. Admittedly, a Tory MP wouldn’t have been my first choice but nothing is really making sense at the moment. Plus, he’s promised a takeaway. I’d sell my grandmother for a decent chicken chow mein.
Four hours later, Woody was tucked up in bed and I was really quite drunk and laughing. This was unexpected, considering earlier events, but it was very welcome too. Tim was telling me about all the things that had been thrown at him during his time as a politician.
‘There’s eggs, obviously, and flour is a popular one. The baked beans were unusual, particularly as they were still in the tin.’
‘The perils of public office,’ I slurred. He smiled and nodded. ‘So you don’t drink at all?’ I added, topping up my glass and helping myself to a prawn cracker.
He shook his head. ‘It’s been five years, four months and twelve days,’ he said.
‘Really?’
He laughed. ‘No, not really, but I am a recovering alcoholic. Let’s just say I’m a nicer person without the booze.’
I nodded. He is a nice person, nicer than I’d expected. There was a knock at the door. I rolled my eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk to anyone, unless it’s someone bringing cake. Then I’ll talk to them.’
‘Would you like me to go?’ offered Tim.
‘That would be really kind,’ I smiled.
I heard him open the door and then I heard Dan’s voice. I closed my eyes. I could hear that Dan was surprised by Tim’s presence. I knew I had to face him. I made my way into the hall.
‘Nat,’ he said from the front doorstep.
‘Dan, go away. I’ve got nothing to say to you today.’
‘Please, Nat, I really need to talk to you.’
‘She wants you to go,’ said Tim firmly.
‘This is none of your business,’ replied Dan.
‘I’m prepared to make it my business.’
‘Just stop! Both of you,’ I cried. ‘Dan, go away. I don’t want to talk to you today and Tim, thank you, but you don’t need to fight my battles.’
Dan looked as if he wanted to speak but thought better of it. ‘I’ll go but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’
‘Whatever. I probably won’t answer. Now get lost, will you?’ Dan looked at me, his face loaded with sorrow, before turning away. I felt dizzy with anger and alcohol.
Tim closed the door and turned back to me. ‘Are you okay?’
I wasn’t okay at all but luckily I was too drunk to realise it. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. And I need more wine because I would like to propose a toast.’
Tim followed me back into the living room. I scooped up my wine glass. ‘I would like to propose a toast to discovering something new, and I’m not talking about my husband for once.’ Tim was watching me. His face was soft and kind and actually, really very handsome in a poshboy kind of way. ‘To Tim Chambers – who is all right for a Tory.’
‘Wow, Natalie,’ he smiled. ‘That’s practically a declaration of love.’ I gave a drunken bow and nearly fell over. ‘Whoa there,’ he laughed, catching hold of me.
‘Thank you,’ I said, patting his chest.
‘For what?’
‘For rescuing me.’
‘Like a knight in shining armour?’ His eyes twinkled with amusement. I noticed laughter-lines when he smiled. I’d always liked laughter lines on a man.
I giggled. ‘Or a Tory on a donkey.’
‘That as well,’ he laughed, glancing at his watch. ‘I should probably get going.’
I nodded, following him to the door. He paused on the front step. ‘I meant what I said, Natalie.’
I looked up into his intensely green eyes. ‘What’s that?’
‘That he’s an idiot to let you go,’ he replied.
I stared at him for a moment before I leaned forwards and kissed him on the lips. They were warm and welcoming. ‘Sorry,’ I said as we pulled apart. ‘I just wanted to see what it felt like.’
It felt good and thanks to the alcohol, completely guilt-free.
He smiled and touched my cheek as he left. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said, climbing into his car and driving off. After he left, a car which had been parked on the other side of the street revved into life and pulled out onto the road. It struck me as rather odd but I was too drunk to care. I went back inside and fell into bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CAROLINE
‘Natalie, you look terrible,’ I said as I spied her walking home after drop-off that morning.
She stared at me from behind dark glasses. ‘Thank you, Caroline. Remind me to come to you whenever I need a pick-me-up.’
Oh dear. Someone was a little tetchy this morning. ‘Is everything all right?’
She sighed. ‘Yes, I just have a tiny hangover.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘What did you tell me about alcohol not solving your problems?’
‘Again. Thank you but if you could spare me the lecture today, that would be marvellous.’
‘O-kay. I’m sorry,’ I said without really meaning it. There was no need to take out her bad mood on me. ‘So, will we be seeing you at choir later?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I dunno, Caroline. I’ll have to see. Sorry, but I’ve got to dash. See you later.’
‘Bye,’ I said. How irritating and how typical of Natalie and people like her. They had no staying power. The slightest whiff of trouble in their personal life and everything else was put on hold.
I made my way back home and opened the front door, remembering with a sinking feeling that Oliver had gone to a meeting. He’d looked a lot like his old self as he headed out before breakfast, wearing one of his sharp-fitting business suits.
‘Very handsome,’ I told him as he kissed me goodbye. We lingered over our kiss for a moment.
‘Euw!’ complained Matilda, hiding behind a box of Shreddies on the breakfast table. My mother sat, chewing her toast, staring into the distance as usual. She seemed to chew everything about five hundred times.
‘Good luck, darling,’ I told him. ‘You’ll be amazing.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’m excited about this. Hopefully, I’ll have a big surprise for you soon. See you later, Tills. Bye, Patricia. Have a good day, girls!’
I uttered a silent prayer as he left. Let it be a good job with a six-figure salary. Please let us be able to afford a fortnight in the Maldives and let me be able to find a new home for my mother before then. I really need some unbridled luxury back in my life, I thought as I wiped up Matilda’s spilt milk and glanced at the bedsheets from my mother’s bed, which were waiting to go in the washing machine. It was a daily occurrence, a revolting daily occurrence.
The washing machine was on its final spin as I let myself in through the front door. I peered into the living room. My mother was staring at the television screen, not watching, just star
ing. It was on pretty much twenty-four/seven these days. I had always wondered why nursing homes just left their residents in front of blaring TV sets for hours at a time. I realised why it was now. It was to drown out the awful silence of people essentially waiting to die. I honestly felt that was what my mother was doing now; merely existing, her body locked in time, unable to function as it had done but unable to cease functioning too. It was such a depressing thought and I hated her for making me think it.
I didn’t stop to speak to my mother, I just carried on down to the kitchen, keen to get on with my ‘to do’ list. I flicked on the kettle and feeling weighed down by the silence in the room, I decided to put on the Ella Fitzgerald CD that Jim had recently lent me. I remembered Natalie telling me that she had borrowed a different one and how wonderful she had found it.
I pressed Play and started to listen. I expected to be soothed and lifted by what I heard but for some reason, I felt deeply unhappy. It stirred up unexpected sadness and sorrow and I realised that I hadn’t heard these songs since my father had been alive. I also remembered that these were songs that my mother and father had played and sung along to on day-trips we had shared.
I could almost smell the velour-seated interior of the old Maxi we used to have and see the chunky cassette player on the dashboard. The memory was so deeply buried that I nearly cried out as I recalled sitting in the back of the car with the scratchy brown-check picnic blanket, listening and laughing as my parents smiled and sang. It was like seeing the old cine-film and I couldn’t bear it. Any happy scenes from my childhood had long since been replaced with the anger and bitterness of my mother, like an old canvas painted over with a new picture.
I was about to turn off the music when I heard singing; not Ella Fitzgerald’s perfect harmony but a small, reedy voice joining in with ‘Top Hat, White Tie and Tails’. I turned in surprise to see my mother standing in the middle of the kitchen, lost in the music, her face rapt as she sang along.
What on earth is she doing? Part of me wanted to snap her out of it. It looked so odd. But part of me wanted to see what would happen. She seemed so happy, so different all of a sudden. She didn’t seem to see me but I believe she could see my father because at one point she reached out her arms.