by Annie Lyons
‘Please, Nat,’ begged Ed. ‘I would never do anything to hurt you, sweetness. You’re my best friend and I miss you!’ His eyes were misting with tears.
‘Don’t bloody cry,’ I snapped. ‘You don’t get to turn this into one of your drama-queen moments. This isn’t about you.’
He nodded. ‘Sorry. I just can’t bear the thought of losing you.’
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘And what about you? Can you bear the thought of losing me? Or Woody, for that matter?’ A woman walking past with a small rat-like dog stared up at us in alarm. ‘Keep going, madam,’ I cried, ‘there’s nothing to see here. Just a couple of traitorous men and a fool.’
‘Nat, please can we discuss this inside? Even if you don’t care, think of Woody,’ said Dan.
I nearly punched him when he said that. My hand balled into a fist as I jabbed my finger at his chest. ‘Don’t you fucking dare use our son to make me feel bad. You do not get to do that.’ I did take a step back though. ‘Come the fuck in or fuck the fuck off,’ I said. Wow, Nat, your Tourette’s is getting worse. I led them into the living room and folded my arms. ‘I would offer you tea or coffee but I hate you so I’m not going to.’
They trooped in, sitting on one sofa each. I remained standing with my arms folded. I realised I was shaking.
Keep your arms folded, Nat, it’s the only way you’re going to hang onto the righteous anger and not dissolve into tears.
I stared at Dan. ‘So, say your piece and then you can get lost.’
He ran a hand through his hair and looked up at me. ‘I’m not sure where to begin.’
‘Oh dear, shall we get Abigail on the phone so that she can tell you what to say?’
His gaze was so sorrowful. For a fleeting second he looked just like Woody.
Don’t look at him, Nat. He’ll melt your anger and then you’ll have nothing left.
I turned away as he began to speak. ‘I know I’ve caused you a lot of heartache over the past few months and for that I am truly sorry. That was never my intention. I had to work everything out in my own head before I could talk to you.’
‘So talk to me then,’ I dared him.
Dan hesitated. ‘Talk to her,’ said Ed.
He looked me in the eye. ‘There’s nothing going on between Ed and me. I’m not gay.’
‘What?’ I said, an involuntary laugh of surprise escaping from my mouth. ‘So what were you doing at his flat?’
‘Believe it or not, I went to Ed because he knows you better than anyone. I wanted him to help me work out the best way to talk to you. The counselling has helped me put my thoughts in order but I wasn’t sure how best to approach you.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Dan. I’m your wife. You should be able to talk to me.’
‘I know and I’m sorry. I understand why you’re angry – you have every right to be but the truth is, I had to be sure.’
‘Had to be sure of what?’ As I asked the question, I knew the answer and it made me feel sick. Sick and scared.
He stared into my eyes. I wanted to look away but something stopped me. ‘Nat, I still love you. I’m just not in love with you,’ he said.
‘Oh, and our sixteen-year-old therapist made you see this, did she?’ I snapped.
He held my gaze. ‘Actually, you did.’
‘I beg your fucking pardon? How dare you try and level this at me! I didn’t walk out and abandon my family.’ I felt hot with fury. ‘Do you know what? I don’t want to hear this. Get out.’ I pointed towards the door.
‘Nat, I know you hate me and you have every right to, but you should hear what Dan has to say,’ said Ed softly.
Bloody Ed. He knew me so well. He knew I could rant for England, and he knew how to stop me in my tracks too. I was furious with him but I knew he was right. I sighed and sat down, gesturing for Dan to continue.
Dan hadn’t taken his eyes off me. He ran a hand over his mouth. ‘So you remember when my dad died…’ I nodded. ‘…and you told me at the time that I should go for counselling because you didn’t think I was dealing with my grief.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘And you told me to go back to my incense-burning and dismissed the whole thing.’ I remembered it all too well.
Dan’s father had died about two years ago and, having endured the demise of my own dad, I considered myself to be a world expert in dealing with grief. I remembered finding Dan’s demeanour a little unusual. I never saw him cry once. I know some men don’t cry but actually Dan wasn’t one of them. He cried on our wedding day, when Woody was born, when Liverpool won a cup. All the usual stuff.
But when his dad, with whom he’d had a good relationship, died, he seemed to shut off somehow. In the early days leading up to the funeral, life had been busy. There wasn’t time for emotional outbursts but at the funeral, when his mum, his relatives and even I were wailing like banshees, he stood dry-eyed, staring forwards at the coffin. He delivered the eulogy in his calm and reasonable way, offered comfort to his mother and anyone else who needed it. I had watched him carefully over the following weeks, waiting for him to fall apart, ready to comfort and console, but he never crumbled and as far as I was aware, never shed a single tear for his dad.
He turned to me. ‘Well, you were right. I never dealt with that grief and it started to eat away at me.’ He looked at the floor. ‘It got pretty bad. I never told you because …’
‘Why? Why did you never tell me?’ I pleaded.
He stared up at me with mournful eyes. ‘I was ashamed.’
‘Ashamed?’ The word hung there, low-hanging fruit in the dying tree of our relationship. ‘Ashamed of what?’
He hesitated.
‘Say it,’ I demanded. Hold onto your anger, Nat. Make him tell you. You have to hear this. It’s going to hurt, like pulling off a plaster, but you have to do it.
‘I was ashamed – that my feelings for you had changed.’
I folded my arms. ‘So your dad dies and suddenly you don’t love me any more.’
Dan shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Well, how was it then, Dan? How was it? Tell me.’
He ran a hand through his hair again. ‘There wasn’t one thing. It happened over time. After dad died, I didn’t feel sad or angry or any of those things you’re supposed to feel. I just felt empty. Completely hollowed out. It made me question everything about life, about what kind of man I was and what kind of life I was leading.’
I stared at him. ‘You were leading a family life. With Woody and me.’
‘I know. And I love you both so much, but I just didn’t feel that I fitted in any more.’
‘Fitted in any more? What the hell does that mean? We’re a family. You married me. We had a son. It’s the stuff of life. You get on with it.’
‘But that’s just the thing, Nat. I couldn’t get on with it. And I saw the way you carried on, being a brilliant mother and wife, but I felt as if I couldn’t be part of it any more, as if my whole life was a lie.’
‘You’re saying that your life with Woody and me was a lie?’
‘No, I’m saying that I was lying to myself about being able to stay. And I did stay for a while, I tried to suppress my feelings and carry on.’
‘Big of you,’ I snorted.
He ignored my sarcasm. ‘But I realised in the end that it was wrong. I wasn’t being fair on you or Woody by staying.’
I stared at him. ‘How could you think that? Why couldn’t you talk to me? Am I really that bad?’
He shook his head. ‘Quite the opposite. You’re absolutely perfect, Nat.’
Oh yeah, I’m really perfect. The perfect bloody idiot. I gave a bitter laugh. ‘Well I’ve never been called THAT in my life. I think you must want the next house down.’
‘It’s true. You deserve better than me.’
No, I don’t. And I don’t want it either. Couldn’t you just try a little bit harder? I folded my arms. ‘So you decided that just buggering off would be the best thing?’
‘In
the long term, yes.’
‘And what about us? What about Woody? What about me? Don’t we get a say in your life-changing moment?’
Dan stared into my eyes. ‘You have to believe that I never wanted this to happen and I never ever set out to hurt you or Woody. I just can’t ignore this any longer. I won’t make you happy by staying. I honestly believe that now.’
‘And what about you?’ I snapped at Ed. ‘What do you have to say about this?
Ed’s eyes were pleading. ‘Honestly, Nat, Dan only came to me for advice. He wanted me to help find a way to tell you without hurting you or Woody.’
‘Well, you did a bloody crap job,’ I snapped. Ed looked chastened.
‘Look,’ said Dan. ‘I know this is a lot to take in. It’s been a lot for me to take in too.’
‘Well, boo flipping hoo,’ I snapped. ‘I hope you’re not after my sympathy.’
‘Of course not,’ said Dan, so reasonable I could have slapped him. ‘But I can’t live a lie any more and we have to find a way through this.’
‘Do we?’ I snarled. ‘Do we really? I didn’t ask for any of this to happen. You have done this and all of a sudden, “we” need to find a way through it? No, Dan, this is your mess. You sort it. Now fuck off out of my house.’ I stood up and folded my arms, waiting for them to leave.
Dan rose to his feet. ‘I understand that you’re angry. I know it’s a lot to take in but please don’t shut me out.’
‘What part of “fuck off” do you not understand? And why do you have to be so bloody reasonable all the time? Why am I the mad woman, ranting and raving, while you sit there and blithely announce that you don’t love me any more? Why do you get to be so cool and calm while I fall apart?’ I could feel tears pricking my eyes but my rage stopped them from falling.
Ed was staring at me. I could see that he was on my side. He knew that I needed to rant, get angry and would calm down later. In lots of ways he knew me better than Dan. In fact, at this moment, he probably knew us better than we knew each other. ‘Come on, Dan. I think you should leave Nat now. She’s upset and needs time.’
‘Thank you, Professor Freud,’ I snapped but I was grateful for his interjection.
Dan walked slowly from the room. ‘Please call me when you’re ready to talk. I want to make this right, Nat.’
I wouldn’t look at him. How could he make this right? Only going back to how we were before would make this right, but that was impossible now.
Ed stood up and turned to me. ‘I know you’re too angry to talk but I just want to say that I’m sorry for letting you down and I will do anything to win back your friendship.’
I looked at him, my face set in a frown, but I gave a barely discernible nod of acknowledgement. He placed a hand on my arm and looked relieved when I didn’t shrug him away. Then he turned and left. I stayed where I was until I heard the front door close. Then I sank onto the sofa and sobbed. My anger dissolved into sadness, like the witch melting at the end of The Wizard of Oz, as I realised that my marriage was over and I didn’t have a clue where to go from here.
After half an hour of pure unbridled self-pity, I dragged myself off the sofa and went to find my phone. Caroline answered after two rings.
‘Natalie? Is there a problem?’ She asked this in a ‘what now?’ tone of voice.
‘I’m going to have to cancel the interview,’ I said.
‘Natalie, this is the BBC. You don’t cancel the BBC.’
‘Well, I’ve got to.’
‘Is Woody ill?’
‘No.’
‘Well then. What possible reason could there be?’
I hesitated. In my list of people I’d most like to confide in about the death of my marriage, Caroline Taylor didn’t figure highly. I suspected that Katie Hopkins might offer more compassion. ‘Natalie, we have fewer than two weeks until the Final. The BBC want to feature our campaign as their end-of-the-news story this evening. You can’t bail out because of last-minute nerves. You’ll let everyone down.’
Thanks for the guilt trip, Caroline. I really need that today. ‘I just have a lot going on,’ I retorted.
‘We all have a lot going on,’ she said without a shred of sympathy or interest. ‘Sometimes you just have to buckle down and get on with it. I’ll see you at two.’ And she hung up. Again.
You’ve just told your husband to get lost but you can’t deal with Caroline Taylor. Congratulations – you are officially the biggest loser on the planet.
I stomped around the house in a foul mood but managed to make myself look half decent in a pair of smart jeans and a blouse. I spent the two hours before the film crew arrived googling ‘my husband isn’t in love with me any more’ like a woman possessed. Unsurprisingly, it offered no comfort and I felt miserable and nervous when Caroline and the film crew appeared. They set up in the dining room whilst Caroline fussed over them, wittering about ‘the best light’ and someone she once knew who was a cameraman. I was relieved. At least it stopped her from bothering me.
The woman conducting the interview put me at ease and I soon forgot the cameras as we started to chat.
‘So, Natalie and Caroline, tell us what the Hope Street Community Hall Campaign is about.’
Caroline jumped straight in. ‘Well, Anita,’ she said with her best TV-presenter smile, speaking directly into the camera. ‘It’s about preserving something which is dear to our community’s heart and maintaining it for generations to come.’
Anita nodded. ‘And you’ve formed a choir as well?’ she asked, looking at me.
Caroline leapt on this. ‘Yes, Anita. It’s the Hope Street Community Choir and we’re going to be performing at the Community Choir Finals hosted by your very own Andrew Munday at the Royal Albert Hall on the twentieth of July – tickets available now!’ For some reason, she thought this would be a good moment to break into song. Anita and I stared at her in amazement as she issued forth an awkward rendition of the chorus from ‘Something Inside So Strong’.
‘Thank you, Caroline,’ said Anita with a wry smile. ‘That was enlightening. And Natalie, if I could turn to you for a moment,’ she said with meaning. ‘What made the writer of the Ned Bobbin stories want to get involved?’
I hesitated. Really I wanted to answer, ‘I didn’t want to. Caroline made me,’ because that was partly true. However, I realised that there was another reason. ‘I used to take my son to the hall as a baby. It saved me in lots of ways,’ I told her.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Anita, leaning forwards.
I swallowed. ‘Well, when you become a mother, life is very intense and sometimes you feel a bit lost. The Hope Street group offered a place to go, to be with other mothers, and in lots of ways it stopped me losing the plot.’ I wiped away a tear, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that these places are vital to parents and older people – all sorts of people really. They need to be preserved as something at the heart of our community rather than viewed as an unaffordable resource. You can’t put a price on what they give people, and that has to be worth saving.’
‘Thank you,’ said Anita, before turning back to the camera. ‘As you can see, there’s a huge strength of feeling and a great deal of support to save the Hope Street Hall. For more details, go to the BBC website. This is Anita Vangani reporting for BBC London News.’
The cameras stopped rolling and Caroline turned to me. ‘That was a great idea to cry. I wish I’d thought of it,’ she said, genuinely impressed.
I shook my head in disbelief. The camera crew packed up quickly before heading off. I walked to the door with Anita. ‘Thank you for that,’ she said. ‘I can see you care a lot about this.’
‘I do,’ I nodded.
She stared at me for a second. ‘Look, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but I received some information from a source about you.’
‘Sounds a bit James Bond,’ I said, feeling unnerved. ‘What kind of information?’
She took out her phone
and flicked it into life. ‘I was sent these pictures,’ she said, holding it up for me to see. The images were grainy but you could clearly see Tim Chambers and me standing on my doorstep kissing.
Oh, shit.
‘Look,’ she said kindly. ‘You seem like a lovely person, who genuinely wants to do something good in their community and, God knows, we could do with a few more of those. My advice is to keep a low profile before you get dragged into some MP sex scandal. I’m just here to interview you for the end-of-the-news baby-panda slot but the Red Tops will run these pictures in a second and suddenly your campaign will be getting publicity for all the wrong reasons.’
I nodded. ‘What can I do?’
She sighed. ‘Not much. I know a few people so I’ll try to play them down for you, but just be careful, okay?’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Good luck, Natalie,’ she smiled, before heading out of the door.
Caroline appeared in the hall. ‘What were you two talking about?’ she asked. ‘You seemed very chummy.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Nothing of note,’ I lied.
‘I thought it went very well,’ she said.
‘Even the singing?’ I teased.
‘What was wrong with my singing?’ she asked, looking hurt.
‘Nothing, nothing at all. Why was choir cancelled last night, by the way?’
She pursed her lips as if considering how to answer. ‘Guy had some personal affairs to attend to. Now I really must go. See you later.’
I shook my head as I watched her go, leaving without a single word of acknowledgement. I suppose I was a fool to expect it.
Thank you, Natalie, I really appreciate you giving up your time. Apologies for dumping that on your doorstep like a big turd, Natalie – I know how much stress you’re under at the moment. You’re a real pal, Natalie. I would be more likely to get a declaration of love from Tom Hiddleston than hear Caroline Taylor come out with any of these sentences.
I shook off my irritation. Frankly, I was exhausted after Ed and Dan’s visit and all that it had brought. I also realised that at least Caroline’s sheer bloody rudeness had taken my mind off the demise of my marriage and my unwelcome walk-on part in an MP’s sex scandal. You had to count your blessings, after all, however small they may be.