After spending two cheap days, one at the beach and the other around the pool, I assess the cost as being around a hundred euros for both days. I check the spending money. I don’t mind going home broke, but I want to make sure that it is going to last the week.
The amount does not seem right – I am at least a hundred euros down. I don’t understand it, and I know the children haven’t touched it. They have no need to, and I have the only key. I get that gut feeling again to split up the money, but I dismiss it and tell myself that I have counted it wrong. There seems to be no other explanation.
We go on the Barcelona trip, and it includes visiting the football arena, the aquarium, and the dancing fountains in the royal palace grounds. The children love the flame-throwing illusionists and the clowns around the palace, and the fountains are amazing. Polly’s favourite place is the aquarium; we see hammerhead and blue sharks that are huge, and the aquarium is attached to the ocean.
The next day, we visit the water park and have a great day. We have one trip left, and my money is disappearing fast. I still cannot explain it because I am normally very careful. The Port Adventurer Theme Park is tomorrow, and I am nearly out of cash.
We walk to the theme park and have a great time, Jonah worries that we will not have enough money to get back, but I reassure him that I have some in the safe. Later, we get a taxi back, and I ask the driver to wait for me to get the money. When I get back to the hotel reception, I can hear a man screaming at the manager, “What is the fucking point of having a safe, when you bastards are stealing all my money out of it?” Suddenly I have an eureka moment, and everything falls into place. Someone has been robbing me! It is Frankie’s birthday the day before we leave, and all I can afford to get him is a Spiderman lolly that whistles. Jonah says, “Mam, you can’t just give him that.” I explain that I am broke, and I tell them what has been happening with the money. I promise Frankie a proper gift when I get home. Frankie is sucking on his lolly and is happy.
Throughout the holiday, I have rung Roger Two. He doesn’t answer the phone, or when he does, he says, “What do you want now?” I overhear him telling his friends that I stalk him. The cheeky bastard! I hang up on him. I am only ringing him to tell him that I have forgotten my phone charger, so before my mobile died on me, I wanted to give our flight details so that he won’t be late picking me up. I think, Fuck him. I have spare cash in the house for emergencies. I will get a taxi home and pay when I get there. That bastard can go fuck himself. I have had enough.
Jonah approaches. He needs some more change for the pool table, and he asks if I am OK, I give him a kiss on the head and reply, “Yes, I’m fine.” I tell him to hurry up and race him back to the others.
The evening before we leave, I use the sample pack of San Tropa tanning lotion. It has three steps: first a defoliater, next the moisturiser, and then the tanning lotion, to get a natural, all-over tan effect. It’s a great job, if I do say so myself. The boys have gone down to watch telly in the lobby; Jonah is a great help with his brothers and looks out for them. Polly is lying on the bed, waiting for me.
The next day as we get on the plane, some of the passengers are giving me funny looks. They cannot believe how tanned I am. I have my holiday make-up on with coral lipstick, and my hair is scrunched and in a loose side plait. I have lost a little weight and am wearing a black halter-neck dress and slip-on, low-heeled shoes.
A few hours later, we land, pick up our luggage, and leave the airport. I am about to start looking for a taxi rank when I see Roger Two stood there. He has a black eye and is feeling sorry for himself. He said he had been waiting for hours and left me loads of messages. He looks me up and down and asks if the tan is real. I reply of course. The boys are not sure because they weren’t there when I applied it, and Polly doesn’t understand the question.
He asks why I didn’t answer any of his messages. I reply that I forgot to pack my charger. He struggles to get into the car and tells me he was jumped on a night out, and that it was all Stuart’s fault. Stuart is his mate, a womaniser and sex addict. He explains that Stuart was chatting up a girl when her boyfriend arrived with a load of mates. He tells me that Stuart ran off, leaving him to take a beating. He is waiting for me to sympathise and ask him if he is OK, but I do not. We get home and unpack the car, and the children go up to bed. Roger asks if he can stay over; it is late, and he tells me that the journey has worn him out. I agree he can stay, and he tells me to forget sex tonight because he is not up to it with his injuries – and he knows what I’m like! I ignore the remark, lock up the house, and tell him I am going to bed. I feel pathetic and lonely, because of this I cannot seem to go through with dumping him.
Roger has started to come to the house in the evenings after work three nights a week. I cook a Sunday lunch on Monday because I work a Saturday and go out therefore, and I’m too hung-over to cook the following day. My mother would never forgive me if I made her redundant and did not eat her famous Sunday lunch; she enjoys feeding the family. I always make a special effort with my cooking, and I have heard that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I sit Roger opposite me at the head of the table, and the children sit in the middle. Roger always comments on how Frankie uses his knife and folk; he is left handed like me and does not have strong hand control. He is small for his age, and looks much younger. To be honest, I have never noticed this before.
Frankie doesn’t like Roger. I put it down to jealousy and the fact that he and the older boys do not want a father figure and are happy with the way things are. Roger asks if there is more gravy, and as I leave the room to get it I hear Frankie shout, “Mam! He is staring at me!” I enter the room, and Frankie adds, “Why do you always sit me opposite ugly?” Everyone except Roger laughs.
When we go out drinking together, Roger looks around the pub and eyes other women. When I confront him, he insists that he is just “people watching”. He then says he was thinking that if I lost weight, I would be the smartest girl in the pub. He tells me that I have a pretty face. Then he reminds me that his two ex-wives were size eights and that he is struggling to enjoy a sexual relationship with me. He says to be honest: he likes his women slim, and I am not. I am a size fourteen. I think to myself, OK, I can diet and lose weight – and then dump you, you cheeky bastard!
Roger and I go to the Social Club on a Saturday night with his friends, as couples. Roger still insists on his boys’ night out every Friday, so I continue to see my friends every Sunday. We always have a laugh, and we have been going to the nearby village each week for a few years. There are several busy pubs that are no more than ten metres apart; this is important when you wear heels. They are always packed, and we know most of the locals. The nightlife consists of different types of people. The local men consist of twenty-five- to thirty-year-olds who are in various relationships and seem to swap partners every other week. Then you have the thirty- to fifty-year-olds; these consist of mostly divorced individuals who are in different stages of the mid-life crisis. They are mostly balding and squashed into a size thirty-four waist pair of Levi’s and a checked shirt, which is tucked in to disguise their man boobs and pot bellies. They are confident individuals. Their normal chat-up line is something like, “If you play your cards right, I might shag you!” I call these men the non-committers.
The women are mostly middle-aged and newly divorced. They have been on the divorce diet and sunbeds, to disguise the stretch marks, and they are confident that they look amazing. They also believe that they can still pull off the leather miniskirt and matching boob tube. These women are fresh meat for the non-committers. The other type include the women who have been divorced for several years and wised up. We have learnt to befriend the non-committers, realising that they make much better friends than lovers.
My friends are all dating non-committers. Their boyfriends live off them all week, but they are not allowed to look or touch their phones. They follow them around like pu
ppies to ensure no other women can get near them. There is no use trying to talk to them because they will never end the relationship, despite what advice I give. I tell Sophie about my friends and their partners. She asks if it sounds like me and Roger. I reply, “No, of course not!”
Time has passed quickly. I have been dating Roger for almost a year. Polly likes him coming around, and she wants a father figure in her life. Her own father hardly sees her or the boys, but they do still visit their grandparents on a weekly basis. Jonah and I joke about his nan’s daily routine. She is a bitter, nasty individual, and the only time she leaves the house is when she is going to the shop to restock on flagons of Strongbow for her and her husband. Jonah and I joke that when she goes to the shop, it is like a day trip for her, and going to town must feel like a holiday.
A week later, Jonah comes home and tells me he could have died earlier. He went to his nan’s after school, and she croaked, “All right, Jon?”
He replied, “Hi, Nan.” He went on to tell me that she had her coat on, so he asked her, “Off out, are you?”
She replied, “I’m going on holiday, Jon. I’m off to town.”
He looked over at Polly because she had arrived before him, and she said, “It was funny! I didn’t know it was a secret!”
I reminded him that she is only a child and that her nan should grow up. They constantly ask the children whether Roger stays the night. The children quickly learn to say as little as possible and always tell them no. They are sick of being interrogated by them.
It is nearly Christmas, and the shop is really busy. I am working full-time, attending all of the children’s Christmas plays, shopping for presents, decorating the house, and trying to maintain a social life. I am exhausted. I am also constantly worried that Roger will two-time me. I am stressed out, and it affects my health. I suffer with a bad stomach and get terrible cramps.
It is the Saturday before Christmas. The shop is packed. I get up in the morning, and suffering severe constipation. the cramps ane so painful. My mother comes over to have the children in the morning, and she observes how pale I am. I am always pale, but today I am like a ghost. I tell her what is wrong, adding I have to go to work because I cannot let down my customers.
I work all day but need to run back and forth to the toilet; the cramps are excruciating. The customers are concerned but say, “Once you have done my hair, you should go home. You look awful.” I feel like I am dying. My senior stylist and friend, Ali, tells me when I get home, I should sit over a bowl of boiling water and let the steam “get in there”. I reply if I do that and Jonah sees me, it will go viral on YouTube the same night. She laughs.
Eventually, after taking every constipation tablet I can find, I head home. Ali asks me to let her know I’m OK later, and I tell her I will. When I get in, I head straight to the medicine cupboard and take some of Eligh’s Senicot and Laxtilose. I return to the living room and sit on the sofa. My mother asks if I am OK, and I tell her, “No – I’m in agony.” I ask if she will watch the kids if I have a nap. I feel like I am sat on an egg. Twenty minutes later, I come around, and Mam tells me to go upstairs and try to go to the toilet again. I sit onto the loo. and in between the cramps and cold sweats. I pray to god, the angels. and anyone up there to take away this pain. I am rocking back and forth. Around ten minutes later, I have an urge to push down. My back passage feels like it is going to split apart before I eventually pass the blockage, and it hits the lavatory like a torpedo.
I am exhausted, relieved, and thanking God at the same time. I am also bleeding, but I’m so relieved. I promise myself I will not take my health for granted again, and I decide to sort out my love life. I go downstairs and tell my mother the good news. Then I text Ali, “The rocket has been launched!” My mother tells me how relieved she is; she was about to call an ambulance. I tell her that I am fine now and thank her for watching the kids. I also reply that the babysitter will be here soon. She cannot believe that I am still going out. I joke, “My motto is that I work and play hard.” I also know that Roger has got tickets to the band in the club, and if I don’t go, he will be flirting with anything in a skirt. As he says, he isn’t getting hurt again, and I am not ready to let go. I shower and change in record time, Roger picks me up, and we head to the club.
Ali rings me. She has just got my message and thinks I am hilarious. She also cannot believe I am out already. I explain that Roger has to be the first in the place. I sit in the Social Club with him and three old men. I tell her I will see her tomorrow for our girls’ night out. Roger asks me what I want to drink, and I ask for wine and lemonade. I tell him that I have been really ill today and so cannot manage cider tonight. He returns from the bar with a half a Strongbow. He says if it’s good enough for his mate’s girlfriends, it’s good enough for me. The truth is he is too fucking tight to pay for wine.
An hour later, all the couples have arrived and notice that I am quiet and not drinking much. I tell them that I have been ill and not been able to eat all day. I manage a few sips of my cider and cannot drink any more. Roger is happy it’s a cheap night for him; he doesn’t even ask me if I am OK. Around nine thirty, I start to get some more stomach cramps and head for the loo. Two elderly ladies are leaving the toilet as I approach, crouched over in pain. They ask me if I am OK, and I tell them that I am. Before I enter the toilet, I overhear them whispering, “Perhaps she’s having a miscarriage.”
I enter the toilet. The only available cubicle is the one without a window. I manage to undo my trousers and sit on the seat just before I empty the entire contents of my stomach, including every laxative I have taken that day. The smell is like a three-week-old corpse has left my body, and I am nearly sick. As I sit on the toilet I can hear that the loos have filled up, and there is a queue outside. They are wondering what is taking me so long. I have to flush the loo three times, but the smell is still pungent. As I open the door and leave, I hear, “Argh! Who died?”
Thanks to Roger, who refuses to leave early, I have to sit there all night, enduring comments and stares whilst he watches the band. I cannot eat or drink anything, and I just want to leave.
The next day, Roger and I get up early. He leaves because he has to go to the Club for his ritual Sunday morning drink and do the tote. I wonder how he can go straight back on it after the night before.
I am feeling much better, and later in the day, I go up to Mam’s with the children for lunch. In the evening, I am going out for a catch-up with the girls. I manage to eat dinner, and my mother comments on my weight loss. Over the last six months I have lost three and a half stone. I vowed the day Roger commented on my weight that I would diet, and then he could fuck off, but I have to admit despite the way he treats me, I still like doing the couple thing and am reluctant to give it up.
As I am getting ready to go out in the evening, Jonah enters the bedroom. He comments, “Mam, how thin are you?” He has only just noticed that I have lost weight. I laugh at him. He tells me I look like a skeleton. I look in the mirror, and I am thinner than I have been since before having him. My collar bone is protruding, and I look bony around my neck and shoulders. For the first time, I can fit into size eight jeans. Roger thinks I look great – but it has not stopped him from eyeing up anything in a skirt!
I go out and meet up with Ali. She gets the first round in. I drink wine and lemonade when I am out with the girls because I am paying for it myself, and I have what I like to drink. Roger turns up with Stuart and a few of his mates. This is not his usual haunt, and he looks drunk and upset. The pub is packed, but he won’t tell me what the matter is, so I ask Stuart. He tells me not to worry about Roger; he isn’t worth it. Stuart and I have become good friends. He is married and has never flirted with me. I am out of bounds due to him and Roger being mates, anyway.
I show Stuart the girl who has been staring at me for weeks now. I ask him if he know her, and he looks at her and tells me he doesn’t, but I shoul
dn’t worry about it. I am guessing that she is newly divorced. She is tanned, nearly black with white hair, isn’t skinny, and covers up her full figure with a long, ankle-length coat.
Roger overhears our conversation, and his colour drains from his face as the woman walks up to him and says hello in a posh voice. I ask him how he knows her. He shrugs his shoulders and tells me he’s going home. He leaves the pub. I am puzzled and decide that I can’t be bothered to follow him. Ali asks me what the problem is, and I tell her about the woman. She says that she knows her; she will do a bit of investigating and let me know. She reminds me tonight is our night, so I forget about it. We move onto the next pub.
The following week, I am at work, and Ali comes in on her day off. I assume that she has come to pick up her scissors because she often leaves them behind. She asks if she can have a word. I apologise to my client and follow her into the staffroom. She says, “That bastard has been seeing that girl behind your back!” I ask her what is she on about. Roger is at my house every night of the week now, except for Fridays when he goes out with the boys. Ali tells me that she has a friend who confesses that she has been seeing him on Friday nights for the last few weeks, and that he had taken her for a meal last Thursday. I think back to that night and remember that he told me he was working. Ali says that Roger rang the girl, and he told her that he panicked on Sunday, thinking that she was going to tell me. That’s why he was upset and went home.
My True Colours Page 10