by Tony Spencer
fairness, Lesley never promised me anything, I clearly took her for granted, so whatever happened was my fault. She was perfect and I'm not just saying that, she was and I had always thought so. Perhaps too perfect for little old imperfect me. The fact that I was only a stopgap in her life wasn't really her fault. I had five years and two months, the best 62 months of my life and I should be grateful and thank her for them, they were more than I deserved.
Accentuate the positive, I thought, this was a day for me to be assertive and the day I finally took my destiny into my own hands. So I forced my lips into the biggest smile I could muster and gave her the saccharine version of my life.
"Actually, I have a great life and it is getting even better after today," I paused for a moment as the smiling Rosamund approached with a tray containing our coffees. I helped her unload them, thanked and sent her cheerfully on her way. The back view of the departing waitress was just as good as the front and my gaze lingered. Lesley regarded me with a quizzical look. I chuckled, I couldn't really help it. I had decided I was quite happy at that very moment. For some reason a veil of misery had lifted and I felt good. OK, it looked like I was going to have to elaborate somewhat on the artificially sweetened tale I had been going to weave.
"Lesley, you find my life in a state of flux. Everything changes today. This sad, pathetic, bald, overweight nobody has been pushed around for over twenty-five years. Sorry, sweetheart," I said as I held and squeezed one of her hands, "I include you a little unfairly in my life of subservience. Today, my marriage of twelve years is finally over, although I now know it never really got going. I have no career, other than writing a few short romance stories for a woman's magazine for pocket change. I am a house husband caring for my three children."
I paused, gathering my thoughts, how much to say, what to leave out? After all, I'll never see Lesley again, would I?
"Go on," urged Lesley, "You used to write all the time all those years ago and couldn't get published, other than the ad agency. You are the most loving and sensitive man I have ever known, and I can see you as being a great father. Please continue, honey."
"My children, who I adore, are my life. David and Lisa, are at school, and little Nathaniel, Nat, was at play school this morning where I dropped him off but has been collected by my mother an hour or so ago. The older two kids are walking around to Granny's after school for tea and I will meet them there and tell them that their mummy isn't coming home. All her stuff is in black rubbish sacks in the garage and all the house locks were changed this morning." I took a deep breath. "About three weeks ago I found out that my children are not my children, the DNA clinic says that I have worse than a million-to-one chance of being the father."
"Oh, Alan, I'm so sorry. Is there a chance the clinic mixed up your sample with someone else? Isn't it worth doing again?"
"No chance," I said sadly, "With Mum's blessing I sent her sample along with mine and the kids. There were two samples for each so they keep one as a back up. The results confirmed that Mum and I are closely related but next to no chance that her grandchildren are even remotely related to her. Never mind the results, they are still my kids. I just wanted to check to discover the extent of my wife's duplicity. I may not be their biological father but I'm 100% their Dad and always will be. There's no way their sperm donor will ever get his hands on them."
By now I felt myself getting a bit loud, Rosamund was giving me a funny look. Even Lesley looked sad and concerned, now holding onto both my hands with both of hers.
Of course they were my kids, I reasoned as I calmed down. I had stayed at home with them, fed, changed and bathed them, nursed them through their illnesses, taken them for their shots, their first steps, first words, first day at nursery, school, secondary school, all of their plays, activities, homework. They had my speech patterns, my mannerisms, my family values, not those of the gutter like their real mother and father.
"The children almost certainly share the same father, which means that my wife has been sleeping with the same lover for twelve years, at least as long as I have been married. Well, she's welcome to him. I wash my hands of both of them."
"I am so sorry, I wish I could stay but I've got to go, Alan, I have another appointment down town, I'm running late. Come here, Alan, please honey." Lesley stood up and pulled me towards her, we put our arms around each other like two old ex-lovers, one to comfort the other on the occasion of some great loss. I buried my face in her sweet-smelling hair. I think, I know I cried silent tears, selfish tears.
I heard the lift ding. We both did. At the same time we turned towards the sound. The doors opened and several people walked out.
An elderly smiling couple emerged first, holding hands, wreathed in smiles, looking around to get their bearings. They saw Lesley and I as we embraced and they waved cheerily. Lesley waved back automatically. Then a couple of businessmen came out behind them, wearing name badges for some conference, carrying a few pamphlets, deep in conversation, almost running into the back of the elderly couple.
Then the lift ejected the last two occupants, a man and a woman, holding hands and carrying small overnight bags. They made a beautiful couple, he was tall and tanned, blond-haired, freshly shaved, devastatingly handsome and wearing what was obviously an expensive hand-made suit. He looked old money, established classy wealth.
She was a little shorter, slim built, brunette, similarly power-dressed, but haughty, driven, ambitious, controlling, certainly beautiful, glowing even.
They had eyes only for each other and as they stepped out of the lift they kissed passionately and moved away in opposite directions, holding onto outstretched hands as long as possible, still maintaining smiling eye contact, no doubt each thinking "until we meet again soon, sweetheart".
I released Lesley, stepped around the thick, buttoned leather chair and strode powerfully towards the lift. I called over my shoulder, "Look after my laptop, please Lesley, I'll be back in a jiff."
I nodded and smiled at the nice old couple as I passed them, although my smile may have been a little on the grim side. The businessmen saw me approach and separated to let me barge through between them. And there they were, the couple, oblivious to everything but themselves.
"Natalie!" I said sharply, like addressing a naughty child. She looked up, somewhat shocked to see me.
"Alan? What-"
I looked away and focussed on him.
"Old Man, this isn't what it looks-" started her lover but I stopped him with my right fist on the point of his nose. Those punch bag sessions down the school gym paid off as he went down like a sack of spuds, blood spouting from his imploding nose, splashing Natalie and me. Natalie screamed, piercing, short and sharp.
"Honey?!" came a shout from behind me. I turned and faced Lesley, her handbag over one shoulder, her briefcase in one hand and my laptop clutched in the other. Her face was grim-set, disapproving. Perhaps she hated violence, she wouldn't hurt a fly, I remembered, she only ever hurt me.
A groan from behind alerted me to the fact that lover-boy was getting up. I turned, bringing my fists up into the defensive position as my coach had taught me so recently. He had assured me that I would never be a contender, but he taught me both how to punch and how to take a good licking. Just get a good one or two punches in, he had said sagely, and remember them while you recover from the beating you are going to get, you are a writer not a fighter. Damn, I wasn't even a better lover than a fighter.
His handsome face didn't look as pretty any more, his blood splattered lips twisted into a hideous scowl. He was taller, heavier and had a longer reach than me, but I had taken a few punches in the last month and was prepared to give as good as I got. Considered it cathartic. He held his fists up too, comfortably, moving his feet well as he circled me, our eyes focussed warily on each other. Damn, he was probably coached at public school and may have kept it up since.
"Roger!" the shout came from nowhere and took his attention away from me just for a moment. He looked to his right
, then a flash of silver hit him hard in the face. This time he went down for the count.
I turned to face Lesley. She held up my mangled laptop.
"Sorry, I'm right-handed," she said by way of apology.
"Nothing that can't be replaced." I shrugged as I relieved her of the wreckage.
"I'll call my next appointment and reschedule for the morning." She hauled out her phone. "Your Mum serves fish fingers and alphabet spaghetti for the kid's tea?"
"Almost every time," I said.
"I haven't had a fish finger sarnie with ketchup for years. Does she ... you think ... keep a large stock in the fridge?"
"There's an Iceland on the way to the multi-storey. Better to be safe than sorry."
"Great." She found the entry in her phone and launched the number.
"Don't make that appointment too early in the morning," I said.
"Mr Jones? … Lesley. … Something's come up … sorry. … Same time tomorrow afternoon? … Great. See you then. … Bye!"
She put the phone away and looked at me with those soft grey-blue eyes again.
"Introductions are in order, I think," she said. "Meet Hubby, my husband, soon to be ex-husband. Roger? Oh, he's still out for the count. Perhaps, Alan, you can recommend a good solicitor?"
"I have her card somewhere," I said. "I’ll look it out later."
"Thanks."
"So, he wasn't 'the one', then?" I ventured as I held out the crook of my arm. "Still looking?"
"He wasn't 'the one'. Not for a millisecond, never in a million years. I settled," she said as she tucked her slim elegant arm in mine and we moved towards the exit. I took out ten, no make it fifteen, and handed it to the hovering open-mouthed Rosamund.
"Am I still looking?" Lesley continued, "I've never stopped ... for twenty years I've tried to find 'the one' ... again."
THE END
Tony Spencer
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