by S. E. Lynes
I laughed at him. “Dear God, Michael. You’ll be offering to come to NCT classes next.”
“I will if you want me to.”
“Spare me the earnestness, please. You’ll get wrinkles on your lovely forehead. Even I’m not going to NCT classes. There’s one exit, as far as I understand. Pain relief is available. And I’ll be taking everything they have. I don’t think I need to sit in some draughty church hall listening to some woman with frizzy hair and bad shoes boring on about massage techniques for four weeks or however the hell long it is.”
“OK,” he said, laughing. “No NCT classes. I’m having the sirloin, what about you?”
“Fillet mignon,” I said. “Rare. And a large glass of the Bourgogne.”
“Are you sure you can drink?”
I did not deign to reply.
He leant forward, his menu bending against the table edge. “I love that you always know exactly what you want. You don’t muck about, do you?”
I scrutinised him a moment and said, “If you want something, what’s the point in not getting it, frankly?”
We ordered, talked shop briefly, but only briefly. Our wine arrived, our steaks on rustic chopping boards – someone’s idea of a sophisticated plate replacement. The steaks were adorned rather alarmingly with twin tomatoes, blanched and peeled and sitting close together like googly eyes; at the top, a mop of watercress hair.
“Everything OK?” he asked, seeing my hesitation.
“I’m not sure. I think I might recognise this person.”
When he didn’t laugh, I should have known he was building up to something. Halfway down the bottle, he pitched.
“So,” he said, placing his glass carefully on the dark, high sheen of the wooden table top. “I’ve got an idea. About how this is all going to work. You, me, the baby. Shona, the baby.” He picked up his glass, took a long slug, placed it back on the table. He exhaled heavily, looked up and fixed me with his cavalier spaniel eyes. “I reckon I can get Shona to give up work.”
“We’re here to talk about Shona’s maternity arrangements? How nice.”
“Let me finish.” He drank again, deeply, and topped up his glass. At this rate, I thought, he’ll have passed out before he’s finished his big speech. “So,” he said. “There’s a position for a Junior Drilling Engineer going at Maple Energy. I have a good chance. More than a good chance.”
“Maple are in Aberdeen.” A flutter of concern – mild concern – passed through me. I’d pictured us somewhere a little more exotic, at least while the baby was little. “You’ll visit us at Christmas, is that it?”
“Please, Georgie. Hear me out.” He reached for my hand, which I, naturally, withdrew. “You and I will end up in Aberdeen whatever. We can’t stay in Glasgow, there isn’t enough work here and you know that as well as I do.”
“I’ve managed to pick up a contract. It’s you who’s working in a bar, darling.”
“I know. But that won’t last. You know it won’t. My idea is that we all move up. I mean, you, me, and the baby, Shona and the baby too.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, waiting for him to point and say gotcha! but his expression remained the same ... perfectly serious. “You’re insane.”
“Listen. Now here’s the plan. I tell her I’m going to work offshore. Except I don’t. I spend the two weeks she thinks I’m on the rig with you. She knows nothing. You get a job – possibly with me. We work together. I spend two weeks living with you, maybe even working with you, two weeks with her. You spend more time with me than she does because we’ll see each other at work. I’ll put her out of the way, in the country or somewhere, where she can’t bump into us.” He threw out his hands. “Everyone’s happy.”
I took a sip of wine and levelled my gaze at him. He was still earnest, his eyebrows twin arches of misguided optimism. It had a certain amusement value, I suppose, watching him set out his ridiculous argument – like watching an expensive lawyer defend a rich but guilty client.
“You’re out of your mind,” I said.
“No, I’m not. I’m very much in it. Think about it – but think about it carefully – with an open mind.” His eyes shone, his hands making clouds in the air. “You’re like me, Georgie. Unconventional. You can see the bigger picture. One, you don’t like being tied down. It bores you, you know it does, I know it does. This way, it would always be fresh between us. We’ll never end up like that couple who have nothing to say to each other – stale, bored to death, finishing each other’s sentences. That’s your biggest fear, George. This way you don’t have to settle.” Rather alarmingly, he had begun jabbing his finger into the table for emphasis. “Husband and two point four kids.” Jab. “DIY at weekends.” Jab. “Sunday roast.” Jab. “Two weeks in the sun every summer, getting fat and bored, bored, bored.” Jab jab jab. “Come on!” He sat back in his chair and pointed at me. “That’s death for you. Or am I wrong?” He leant forward – good God, the man couldn’t keep still. “Think about it, Georgie. This way, you’d have the freedom you need. But! You’d have security. You’d have me plus that little element of risk you – well, we both, love so much.”
I stared at him, again waiting, waiting for him to laugh. He didn’t. I felt for the napkin on my lap, screwed it up and threw it on the table. “You’re being ridiculous. Even if I agreed, which I obviously won’t, we’d never be able to keep it from her.”
“Yes we will.” He held up his forefinger. Next he’d be repositioning the crockery by way of demonstration, making me the condiment holster, Shona the water pitcher, himself the wine. Please.
But I let him talk since he clearly wanted to so very badly and, as I said, it was entertaining.
“I’ve figured it all out,” he went on. “Check this. I’ll give her a brand new iPhone. As a moving present. I’ll put Spyware on it. She’ll be a walking GPS system. I’ll be able to follow her every move. Her old iPhone’s buggered but she won’t buy a new one for herself – she’s not like that.”
“What a perfect saint,” I said. “You’re making me cry.”
“That way,” he continued, ignoring me, “I can locate her wherever she is.” His eyes widened. “It’s totally doable, Georgie. You and me. Freethinkers, risk-takers, visionaries – like all the great pioneers. We could have the life we actually want instead of the life we’re conditioned to think we want. You want freedom but you want me. I don’t want to lose either of my children.”
“Or your women,” I added. “How big of you.”
He grinned. “Very bigamy, I say.”
“Oh dear God.”
He shrugged, laughed at his own joke. “You’d be in the superior position. You would know everything. It’s not like I’d be cheating on you, is it? Honestly, this is what makes you so amazing. You’re the only woman I know with the vision to see that this is a brilliant idea.” He was back to jabbing the table.
I savoured my last mouthful of steak. I love meat. Love its fibrous, bloody taste. I drained my wine glass and got up.
“Michael,” I said. “Call me when you have a real plan. And by real, I mean one which doesn’t come from a Hollywood film and which, more importantly, doesn’t include her.”
I walked out. He didn’t shout after me, didn’t chase me. In fact, I have no idea how he reacted. If I had to guess, I’d say now he probably poured himself the rest of the wine, maybe ordered the tiramisu.
I went home outraged. Georgia doesn’t want me to herself. Georgia is only interested in a part-time lover. This was what he believed. For Christ’s sake, I had only given him that impression so he would worry enough to give me more. More, not less! I had played it cool – a tactic that had never failed me before. Why are people such imbeciles? Why can they not do what we want, when we want, exactly as we want? He had believed my façade but, instead of worrying himself back into my arms like a wounded little fledgling desperate to be let back into the nest, he had flown off in a whole other direction.
That night I didn’t sleep. Michael�
�s plan was preposterous. I will admit I found the idea of having him around only half the time immediately appealing, so long as he spent more time with me than with her and so long as I could guarantee his regular return. The last few months had been exciting, the sex passionate, the arrivals and departures emotional, dramatic. There had been not one instance of dirty socks left on the bathroom floor. He was offering to leave me free to do what the hell I wanted while having all the advantages of a relationship. He would have his Shona, if I wanted a second lover to fill the gap, so to speak, he could hardly object. What? Oh, don’t judge. Don’t be so parochial. And don’t tell me you haven’t wanted the same, haven’t stared at the ceiling and wondered how much longer you can cope with the tedium of it all. A change, here and there, a little chilli in the dressing, we all want it, but most of us are too cowardly to take it. I was young, attractive, financially independent. Why should I have less than him? It was his plan, after all, not mine. All I was doing was securing a future for our child. I was simply not ready to enter a convent quite yet.
But even if I did accept, I thought then, we could never keep it up. Shona would see us together eventually. One heard about such secret arrangements but they took place with families in different cities, with men who travelled for a living. One heard about teenage children meeting up at university, discovering somehow that they’re actually half siblings. But Aberdeen was one city, and a relatively small one. The oil industry was a village. She would hear about us, at least about him, within months. No, it couldn’t last.
I rubbed my swollen belly and sighed to no one. Too late for a termination. What was I going to do?
I got out of bed, made hot milk with honey to try and abate the acid reflux brought on by the steak and the red wine. Pregnancy was playing havoc with my usual resilience. At the window, with the shutters open, I stood and sipped my milk. Below, the street shone black with rain. No cars, no one about. How quiet it was here, in the small hours of the night. From the dresser, I picked up the stork ornament he had given me, twirled its thin stem leg. Its plump body twisted this way and that. This kind of loneliness I liked: peace, sleeping when I wanted, drinking when I wanted, staring out at slick abandoned streets when I wanted. I could do whatever I pleased. Loneliness you can end isn’t loneliness, not really. If I called Michael, if I called him right now, he would come. Loneliness like this was control.
But he was not with me. He was with her. They would be asleep, together. They would wake up, smile at each other, she would bring him coffee, run her hand through his thick, soft hair. I placed my mug on the top of my belly. Beneath, the soft kick kick, making ripples in the surface of the milk. With the birth of this kicking little mite, all silence would end. In its place would be chaos, screaming and shit. Another kind of loneliness altogether. A lack of control. Was this, actually, what Michael was offering – not the best of both worlds but the worst: insecurity, jealousy, uncontrolled loneliness, two weeks out of four?
But if I refused – I wouldn’t even get the two weeks. She would get him four weeks in four. If I pushed him, threatened suicide, took a posting in Malaysia or Oman, he might not come with me. Or he might, but he would become resentful at the loss of the other child – the relationship would sour. He would leave, go back to her. She would still get him four weeks in four. I would still have lost, in the most complete way. She, the girl from Govan, would have won.
I went back to bed, lay down. I closed my eyes, tried to regulate my breathing, trick myself into sleep like I used to at boarding school. And then something occurred to me, something so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I sat bolt upright, rigid with purpose. Here I was worrying that Shona would find out.
But what if she did? So what if she did?
I laughed out loud, clenched my fists. If Shona discovered the truth, as she surely would, wouldn’t that be the best thing that could possibly happen?
I got up again, ran back to the window and looked out onto the rainy street, half-insane with the revelation.
If I fought now, I might win, but for how long? If I rang Shona and told her, forced his hand, made him do something he was not ready to do, he would, ultimately, throw it back in my face. The blame for his losing Shona, whose limited charms were apparently still fresh, would fall upon me. But! If I waited it out, if I played along like a lovestruck fool, she would still find out – it was inevitable. And she would go mad. Insane mad, yes, and furious mad. She would, would have to, leave him. The girl who fought for truth and justice would have no choice. Hell, she’d probably piss off back to Glasgow.
I was cackling by then, hysterical with the crystalline clarity of it all. She would have lost. I would have won and, in Michael’s eyes, I would be blameless. Blameless and humble and ready to accept the prize.
Back in bed, I slid a pillow between my knees, lay on my side and closed my eyes. It was too easy. A few months – that’s all it would take. A woman like her against a woman like me? I didn’t need to see her in the flesh, I’d seen her on Facebook – tiny little pipsqueak of a thing. I knew from the snippets Michael had let slip, from my conversation with Robbie, that there was no contest. She was, I had gleaned, physically and intellectually inferior – and she was governed by some misguided, outdated notion of integrity, some unutterably dull working-class moral code. Let him move her and his other child into the stinking countryside. Let her believe his lies, the fool. If she was idiot enough to believe his shaggy dog story in the first place, she deserved to be duped. I would simply ... sit it out. That’s all I had to do until she found out, flipped out and fucked off out of our lives forever. Smug fools deserved all they got. The more I thought about it, the easier it became. I would agree to the plan he thought so elegant. And I knew what my condition would be.
TWENTY-THREE
It was a quiet ceremony. Not one of our acquaintances knew about it. Robbie didn’t even know we were together, so he was hardly going to be the best man. I agreed to keep Michael’s parents out of it since they already knew that Shona and he had moved in together; mine were both back in Melbourne. So no parents and no parents-in-law – talk about the best of both worlds. For the honeymoon, Michael told Shona he had a business trip and away we went on a fact-finding mission to Aberdeen. We stayed at the Craigendarroch in Ballater, flipped through property schedules in the four-poster bed, ordered room service: champagne, beef and horseradish on soft white bread. We made love, made plans, made calls to estate agents.
When I saw the two up, two down in Fittie, it struck me as a perfectly adequate temporary hideaway. I sold up in Glasgow and put in an offer. Ironically, it was me, not Michael, who got the first job. Any position Michael could get would have to be onshore and onshore work would not let him have the two-week holiday every month he would need to keep up appearances. So I was bailing him out. It was tough, tougher than I thought, but I was keeping the long game in mind.
Once Zachary was born, I took up the part-time position with Maple and moved. Simple. I can remember my first day in Fittie – trailing my hand along the white walls of that minuscule kitchen and thinking, yes, this is somewhere I can ... wait it out. Michael pretended he had to travel, that he had to do all sorts of training courses, survival weekends, you name it. He simply kissed his Glasgow mistress goodbye and travelled up to his wife in Aberdeen.
I put Zachary in Little Beans nursery up in Rosemount, fixed up the hideaway as best I could. I had everything organised more or less as I wanted. When he was in town, Michael and I lived together at the Fittie house. We were lucky. When the time came, he walked into a job at Maple and out came the property schedules once more.
The cottage was a dream, of course. As soon as I saw it I knew it was mine, would be mine, once I’d dealt with the issue at hand.
“It’s perfect.” I said to Michael. “For Shona, I mean.”
It wasn’t easy. The day he moved her up, into the cottage that would be mine, that was mine, I couldn’t concentrate. We had be
en so free. No GPS tracking devices, no subterfuge. Now she was here, things would have to change. My work suffered. I left early, pleading a migraine.
In the end, after hours imagining them half-deranged with happiness, cooing over where to put the Welsh dresser or whatever hellish crap they owned, I cracked. I had to find out if this loneliness really was the controlled state of affairs I believed it to be. Could I get him to drop everything and come to me when I needed him?
It was about 9pm when I sent him the text message. He wouldn’t have his other phone on him, not on the day he moved, so I knew I would have to contact him on what I called his Shone. He’d put my contact in that phone as George Maple so I knew I had to write some kind of work-related code that he would be able to unpick. My long-term intention was to blow his cover, of course, but I had to make it look like it had happened by accident otherwise I would lose. And that wasn’t an option. So I put something like:
Present drilling requirements at HR office asap.
Regards, George.
Again, God knows where that came from – funny, how your mind shoots off on tangents when you force it to invent.
He was at my door thirty-five minutes later. I calculated that he must have left the cottage within minutes of receiving my message and I was gratified by that.
“I came to present my drilling requirements,” he said, grinning, stepping in, lifting me up and carrying me until, bang, we hit the back wall of the living room.
“Good,” I said. “I’m in urgent need of some drilling.”
We knocked a picture off its hook, a photo of the two of us with Zachary when he was a week old. The frame broke, the glass smashed. Clothes still on, we fucked up against the wall, fell onto the floor, sweaty, flushed, exhilarated.
“That,” he said, “was unbelievable.”
That, I thought, was exciting. What would happen to that once Michael became mine alone? What would I have to do to keep that?