‘Well, I’ve found out . . . I know for sure now. He’s definitely havinganaffair.’ She runs all the words together as if she wants them to be in her mouth for as short a time as possible.
‘Oh my God, Sarah. I’m so, so sorry. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m leaving him. Me and Jakey, we’re leaving him. Actually, we have already. We need somewhere to stay for a few days and I was wondering whether . . .?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, come straight round. I’ll fit you both in somewhere.’
She sighs with relief. ‘Thanks, Rach. I knew you’d say yes – I’m on the mobile outside your front door.’
She’s a mess, isn’t she? Glenn’s got a lot to answer for, I know that. And look at little Jake, following his mum everywhere, making sure he’s in physical contact with some part of her all the time. He’s never seemed as small and pale as this before, and I wonder what he witnessed between his parents before Sarah and he left the house.
Sarah’s brought a carrier bag with clothes screwed up inside and another bag with toys in it. I’m fearfully eyeing the large yellow plastic microphone that’s tumbling out, but Jake pays it no attention. The Gameboy that he got for his birthday last year, his absolute favourite toy, is in there too, but he does not even look at the bag. His wide eyes are focused on his mum, who is slumped on the sofa, red-eyed and sniffly.
‘I heard Glenn talking to Hector,’ Sarah is saying quietly. ‘Hector was telling him off about it, how selfish and irresponsible it was of him. And he says he’s going to get some money back off Glenn if he doesn’t end it, so it seems my husband has been borrowing money from his brother to lavish attention on this woman.’ Her voice breaks and she sobs into her hand for a few moments.
‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ Jake says, gazing up at her from his position by her side on the sofa, snuggled into her. ‘Please don’t cry.’
But she either doesn’t hear him or ignores him. ‘Look at me, Rach,’ she says, looking down at her sweatshirt and jeans, which look like they might have come from Tesco’s. A long time ago. ‘Don’t you think I could do with having something lavished on me? And Jakey, what about him? Doesn’t he deserve the odd treat or two?’
I glance at Jake, who is vigorously wiping his nose with his hand, which is then smeared on to my carpet.
I look away quickly and focus on Sarah, who is still sobbing and shaking her head, saying ‘Why? Why?’ over and over, more to herself than to me. I’m not even going to think about answering, even if she’s expecting me to.
Jake is trying to be the adult, rubbing her back the way she must have done for him countless times over scraped knees and bumped heads. He takes her face between his own tiny hands and says, ‘Try to be brave, Mummy,’ and it’s clear that he’s got no understanding of what’s happening. Sarah smiles at him weakly and bundles him tightly into her arms, rocking him as she would have done when he was much smaller. I’m not sure if this action is to comfort him or herself.
Later on, she tries to settle him on my bed but he won’t let her leave the room. As I’m trying to clear their things up a bit in the living room, I hear from along the hallway the low murmurs of Sarah’s voice, soothing, reassuring, followed by the high-pitched staccato of Jake’s anxious tones. Their words are indistinct but I feel sure she is telling him that no, they can’t go home yet, and yes, Mickey the hamster will be fine without him. She doesn’t reappear from the room and eventually I settle myself down on the sofa for the night, my legs bent double so my distended belly is compressed uncomfortably into my ribs. Plum objects immediately, pushing hard against the new smaller environment, but he’s the lucky one – when I push against the arm of the sofa to try to get comfortable, it doesn’t budge an inch.
Evidently the refugees manage to get some sleep. Can you hear that noise? That’s one or both of them still snoring softly when I leave the next morning. I’m peeking in to make sure they’re all right: Sarah has rolled away from her son and into the foetal position, the curve of her back facing towards him. Jake is making an exact small replica of his mum, a diminutive curled lump under the covers, knees drawn up tightly, mouth slightly open. I close the door and tiptoe out.
So now I have the dilemma of should I tell Chrissie and Hector or not? I’m going to leave thinking about Hector until I have enough time to do it justice.
So, Chrissie. I conjure up her face in the car and look at the expression on it as I’m telling her. What do you think? Is that a sympathetic look? To me she looks scandalized – but in a hungry way. I am swaying towards thinking that, although she will be shocked, horrified, sympathetic and attentive, there will be some very small, possibly even subconscious – and possibly not all that small – part of her that will get a kick out of it. Maybe I’m feeling this way about her because if I’m really, completely honest with myself and with you, I did get a little kick out of it when I saw Glenn in the car park.
God, it’s good to get that off my chest. You know, I only felt it for a short time and since then I’ve tried really hard to make it up to her. I’ve phoned her and visited her loads more often than usual and now I’m sleeping on my own two-seater and I’m six months’ pregnant. What more can I do?
Not tell Chrissie. That’s what I could do.
But then we’re a foursome, we’re close friends. If one of us was in need or unhappy about something, and I was the only one that didn’t know because the others didn’t tell me, I’d be really fed up, and rightly so, I think. Plus, of course, it’s probably very hypocritical of me not to tell her because I suspect her reaction will be the same as mine.
There is no dilemma about telling Hector. Glenn is his brother – he needs to know. I will call him as soon as I get to the office.
Oh God, more guilt. I am such a bad person. Can you believe I am actually grateful to have this reason, this excuse, to call him again?
In the office, I head quickly for my station. It’s six minutes to nine, so I can ring Hector now, before the calls start coming in, and discuss what we can do together to help our good friends get through this crisis. We can take a bit of time over it, have a really long talk. As I’m heading eagerly to my station, I spot Chrissie at her desk, hunched over, apparently already on a call. She looks up as she spots me approaching, and I am shaken by her appearance. She has no make-up on, which immediately makes her look like she’s dying of TB. She has dark shadows beneath her eyes, which are red-rimmed and puffy, her hair is flat and lifeless – it looks in need of a wash, actually – and she’s wearing a dirty pink hoodie and big white jogging trousers.
She ends the call she’s on and greets me listlessly.
‘Hi, Rach. All right?’
I pause on my way to my turret, the call to Hector momentarily forgotten. ‘Chrissie, are you all right? You don’t look very well.’
‘I’m letting my skin have a rest, that’s all. God, if one more person . . .’
‘But you . . . I mean, you look as if . . . Have you been crying?’
Chrissie pulls her handbag up from the floor and rummages around inside for a tissue. ‘Yes, all right, I’ve been crying. I’ve had some bad news, that’s all.’ She puts up a hand as I start to walk towards her. ‘Oh, nothing as devastating as your news, naturally, but it upset me. OK?’
I go over there anyway and stand by her desk. ‘I thought so. You were upset yesterday but you rushed off before I had a chance to speak to you.’ She’s certainly got quick-exit clothes on today – much better for running than yesterday’s ensemble. I perch my behind on the edge of the desk. ‘What is it?’
She blows her nose loudly on the tissue and Jim from station fourteen looks up briefly. ‘Nothing. Just a disappointment, that’s all. I’ll get over it – I always do.’
So it was a man. For I think the first time in all the twenty years of our friendship, I can actually understand. I had never experienced it before Nick and have always been a teensy bit, well, impatient with Chrissie or Susan or anyone else who routinely goes through
these soggy dramatics at the end of a relationship. Why didn’t they just accept that it’s a fact of life that can only be avoided by avoiding the cause? And that would be far worse than dealing with the consequences. Like getting old – no point crying about it, unless you want to avoid it all together and die young. Mum says I might change my thinking when I’m thirty-nine. Anyway, at least Chrissie hasn’t been left pregnant by her disappointer.
‘Well—’ I start to say, but she cuts me off.
‘Yes, I know, at least I’m not pregnant. Turn the conversation back to yourself.’
‘That’s not—’
‘Fair? Maybe not, but just because you’re in worse circumstances, doesn’t make mine hurt less. We don’t all feel what we feel in relation to you, you know.’ She meets my eyes for a second, then turns away hurriedly.
I think the only other time you have seen this expression on my face was the moment when Dr Kant was giving me the wonderful slash dreadful news back in August. It’s a combination of shock, hurt, anxiety, disappointment and, if I’m totally honest with you, and myself, deep down in there is realization of my own stupidity. The second time in six months. What a year.
I kind of stumble round the end of the desks, past Val and along to my own, my throat aching as I’m desperately trying not to cry. The rational part of me is telling me calmly not to be silly, Chrissie is just upset and lashing out at anyone because she’s hurt, but the rational part of me is very small these days. All the other parts of me are shouting in unison, ‘CRY! Go on, CRY!’
I keep my head low over my turret until the tears dry up. Luckily, there’s an old, partially stuck-together but dry tissue at the bottom of my bag, so I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, in that order, on it. When I look up, there’s a steaming cup of hot chocolate on my desk and Val smiles at me when I look over gratefully.
And now I don’t have time to call Hector. I acknowledge to myself that if my intention is pure and centred only on Sarah and informing Hector about her well-being, I should call him immediately, even if I can only talk for ninety seconds, in between calls. That is what I should do. What I want to do is talk to him for ten, twenty, forty years. Minutes. I mean minutes. I decide I’ll stop on the way home and call him on the mobile, in the car. That way, Sarah won’t overhear, and I won’t be interrupted by work calls.
As I’m shutting down my turret at five o’clock, I turn to find Chrissie standing there. She looks dreadful.
‘I’m sorry, Rach,’ she says immediately. ‘I didn’t mean it. I’m just fucked up at the moment.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I knew that. Look, why don’t you come to my place for tea? We can open a bottle of wine, and I can watch you drink it.’
Chrissie smiles gratefully. She’s got nothing else on tonight.
It’s not until I’m driving home that I remember two things: one – Sarah and Jake are there, so now I’m cooking for four – well, five, technically, if you include Plum; and two – I can’t really stop the car and pull over for a twenty-to forty-minute phone conversation with Hector, while Chrissie is following along behind in her car. Arses.
When we get in, we’re greeted by the sound of a man explaining how to make a handy pen and note holder in the shape of a headless corpse. I’m hoping it’s the television.
In the living room, Jake is not watching Art Attack but is hunched over a pile of Lego, talking to himself. He’s still in his pyjamas and the bottoms have slipped down a little bit at the back revealing a miniature and untypically beautiful builder’s bum. It is that more than anything, more than the small bumps of his spinal bones visible in a curve through his top, more than the quiet sound of his nonsense chatter, more than the velvet valley of the back of his neck, his messy hair or his reluctance to look up when I greet him, that wrenches into me just how tiny and vulnerable, how fragile, this little person is.
‘Hiya, Jake. What you doing?’
He doesn’t answer. Well, he barely knows me, even though I am his godmother, and that is my fault. In that moment, suddenly I wish that he was running up to me and flinging his arms around my knees, crying out, ‘Auntie Rachel!’, delighted to see me, feeling better for me being there. Indifference is excruciating. I’m determined to get to know him.
Chrissie’s gone awfully quiet and still, hasn’t she? She looks a bit appalled by what she’s seeing – Jake here in my living room in his pyjamas, the mess of Lego and other toys, the carrier bag spilling out Postman Pat T-shirts and Spiderman shorts, the blanket on the sofa. The look of horror on her face is pissing me right off.
‘Is Sarah . . .?’
‘Sarah and Jake stayed here last night. Sarah’s left Glenn.’
The blood drains from her face. ‘Oh Christ. Why?’
Her eyes have taken on a hunted look, wide and frightened. I’m looking at her quizzically. This is a strange reaction. What’s it all about? I bet you’ve guessed, haven’t you? But it’s easier to see things when you’re observing them and not in the middle of it all.
‘She found out he’s been having an affair.’
She starts to shake her head. ‘Oh no, no. No. She shouldn’t have left him . . .’
‘I think it was the only thing she could do, Chrissie. He’s treated her and Jake like dirt and Sarah does have some self respect.’
‘But – but—’
‘But nothing. He’s a total shit and the slut he was with can have him. She must have known he was married, maybe even knew about Jake, but it just didn’t bother her. She’s obviously one of these people who go through life just thinking about themselves, taking absolutely no notice of how their actions are affecting other people.’ For some reason, Hector’s words pop into my head – about people who do and say things to suit no one but themselves, and I remember that he was talking about Glenn at the time. ‘They’re perfect for each other.’
‘But it wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .’
I turn slowly to look at her and she’s gazing pleadingly at me and in that instant realization hits me like a plane crash. Stills of things I’ve seen and heard flash across my mind: the woman hugging Glenn in the car park, with a floaty lemon-coloured top on; the indistinct profile of the woman in the car he drove away in; Chrissie avoiding conversations about Glenn and his overtime every time they’ve come up; Chrissie’s new hair, new clothes, new car. Revulsion floods through every particle of me at once and I narrow my eyes, struggling to keep composed in front of Jake.
‘Get out,’ I say quietly. ‘I can’t believe that you would do something like this. It’s despicable.’
‘I’m so . . . so—’
‘Save it. No one wants you here. I don’t think we’ll ever have anything to say to each other.’
‘Will you tell—’
‘I should do. But I think that Sarah’s suffering enough knowing that her husband betrayed her. I can’t see any point in letting her know that she was betrayed by her best friend as well.’
‘She already knows.’ Sarah’s appeared in the kitchen and has obviously heard enough through the open partition.
Chrissie turns to her, her eyes full of tears. ‘Sarah . . .’ It seems the enormous guilt is preventing her from speaking.
‘Just go away, Christine,’ Sarah says, refusing to make eye contact with Chrissie. ‘Go away.’
As Chrissie stifles a sob – poor thing – Sarah walks over to where Jake is hunched on the floor. She sits down there with him and places her hand on his curved back. He looks up at last, drops what he’s making and climbs on to his mum’s lap. He looks into her face and seeing tears there, wipes them away with his own small fingers.
Chrissie can’t watch this, apparently. She’s at the door, so I go over there. ‘Stay away, Chrissie. She doesn’t want you here begging for forgiveness. Just try and live with yourself.’ I shut the door behind her without saying anything else.
When I go back into the living room, Sarah and Jake are still cuddling on the floor. Jake is singing a song for his mum, his slightly nasal
voice muffled by Sarah’s shoulder, while she rocks backwards and forwards, tears falling into his hair. I leave quickly and head for the bedroom but I can’t escape the sound of Jake’s trembling rendition of ‘Funky Town’.
Chapter Eighteen
WHEN I WAS about twelve, my uncle Tony taught me to play ‘Everybody Hurts’ on his piano. I could bang it out fairly accurately but I had no sense of the emotion when I did. That didn’t stop Mum making me do it whenever we went to Uncle Tony and Auntie Janet’s. She’d get a tear in her eye every single time I thumped out the chorus.
‘So true,’ Auntie Janet would say. ‘Everybody does.’ Mum would nod, smiling and crying at the same time, and then would come over to me and gaze adoringly at me, from my shiny blond plait to my gorgeous nails, touch my face with her fingertips and shake her head sadly. I don’t know what she was sad for – nothing bad ever happened to her. Or me.
The tune and words are going round and round my head at the moment. I fall asleep hearing it; I wake up hearing it; I drive to work hearing it. While I’m selling holidays I forget about it for a few hours and as I drive home listening to the radio, I start thinking about another tune – something cheerful and upbeat that you could really move around to, like ‘Bat Out of Hell’, or something by The Killers. Then I get home, see Sarah’s face and everything except that tune is driven from my head.
This morning when I got out of the shower I was humming that song Hector and I were enjoying all those months ago, in his car: ‘I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down.’ I was walking fast along the hallway, moving my head from side to side, jigging a bit with the rhythm, enjoying the lift it was giving me. I rounded the corner into the kitchen and there was Sarah, moping over a bowl of porridge. The music in my head stopped abruptly, there was a slight pause, and then, sure enough, the gloomy, repeating notes of ‘Everybody Hurts’ began. Da-da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-da-da. It’s driven every other thought from my head. I even forgot all about ringing Hector. Can you believe that?
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 27