by Fiona Gibson
‘Aisha got in touch to say she’d run into the boys at an exhibition a couple of weeks ago,’ Michelle continues now. ‘Please come. Everyone wants to see you. We don’t have to talk about Nate, if you don’t want to. When’s the last time you saw everyone? Was it George and Petra’s wedding?’
‘It must be,’ I say, ‘and that was, what – ten years ago? Aisha was there too, wasn’t she? But Brett … well, I can’t remember the last time I saw him.’
Actually, I do remember. It was a couple of years after Flynn was born, and I was Christmas shopping by myself in Leeds, where everyone – including Michelle – still lives. Brett spotted me in WH Smith and came bounding over, and we caught up on each other’s news. While I’d pretty much put my jewellery business on the back-burner, his career as a graphic designer was flourishing. ‘You’ll get back into it, though, won’t you?’ he asked.
‘Maybe one day,’ I replied.
‘But you must! Promise me you will?’
I’d laughed, and promised, and we’d hugged and gone our separate ways.
‘Please don’t mention this to anyone,’ I tell Michelle now, ‘but I’ve been seeing this woman, a therapist …’
‘Oh, there’s no shame in that,’ she says. ‘Virtually everyone in New York sees someone. Seriously, to not have a therapist here – at least, amongst the people I’ve met – would seem as weird as not having a dentist—’
‘But this is Yorkshire, not New York,’ I remind her.
‘Well, if she seems to “get” you, then I think it’s a great idea. So, what would she say about a night out with your old friends?’
I smile. ‘She’d probably say go—’
‘Then you’ve got to come!’
Now I’m laughing at her forthrightness; my old friend who was always the life and soul. ‘Yes, but I’m not sure she’s such a great therapist, actually.’
‘Well, I’m saying it, then,’ Michelle insists, and I know she’s smiling. ‘We’ll see you at Fletcher’s next Friday at eight – and no backing out.’
Chapter Fourteen
Nate
Some testing situations I’ve had to deal with since Sinead left me:
My colleagues tiptoeing around me and being ever so concerned, as if I have come to work covered in a mysterious rash.
Liv offering to drop me off a casserole (politely declined due to invalid/bedpan vibes). Nadira even bringing me in a cake.
A brief, rather awkward phone conversation with my high-achieving brother Joe, head honcho at a pharmaceutical company who talks as if a war’s going on: ‘Hi, I gather from Mum that all’s not too well on the home front?’ ‘Yes, that’s about it, I suppose.’ ‘Ah well. Chin up, take care of yourself, won’t you? Let me know if you need anything? Bye!’
Eric asking repeatedly if I’d like to go for a drink.
Ditto Paolo. ‘You shouldn’t shut yourself away,’ he warned when I told him about Sinead’s lukewarm response to the flowers. I wasn’t shutting myself away, I insisted. I was going to work and coming home, picking up groceries, cooking dinner, doing housework, walking Scout, setting mousetraps and disposing of the occasional carcass, much to Flynn’s fascination and disgust. One morning, the worktop was splattered with blood. Thank God Sinead wasn’t here to see that. This is how bleak things have become: that I’m scrabbling for reasons as to why it’s a good thing that my wife has left me.
On top of all that, I’ve been trying to figure out which of my faults I should attend to next – and wondering if there’s any point, actually. After all, I have already had an altercation with Mum, scrubbed the house like a maniac, mowed the lawn and begun to deal with our apparent infestation. As Sinead wasn’t here to witness any of that, it’s hardly going to help my case. I’ve considered emailing her photos of the traps, strategically positioned and baited with bacon (‘Darling, you were right all along. There wasn’t just the one!’). But would that mark me as unhinged?
Sinead isn’t even coming round at lunchtimes to let Scout out anymore. ‘I’ll walk him during the day,’ Katrina offered, kindly, after I’d explained that Sinead had moved out. ‘Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do, Nate.’ Katrina doesn’t have a paid job – she seems to fill her time with charity lunches and suchlike – and insisted she’s out with Mounty anyway. I just hope he doesn’t sexually harass Scout.
The rest of the week passed in a bit of a blur. On Friday afternoon, I explained to Liv that I wouldn’t be coming to her fiftieth birthday barbecue on Saturday night; I simply wasn’t feeling very sociable. I’d taken in a bottle of champagne and a birthday card for her and was eager to beetle off home.
‘But it’s going to be great,’ she said, looking crestfallen. ‘My sister’s doing this thing where you drill a hole in a watermelon and pour in a bottle of vodka. Then you carve it up into chunks of boozy fruit.’
‘Sounds delicious!’ I said, trying to sound impressed.
‘Chet’s making those paneer kebabs you loved last time,’ Nadira chipped in.
‘And I’m doing that marinated lamb,’ Eric added, bringing to mind the last do at Liv’s when Sinead looked so gorgeous in a little red dress, and we all drank sangria and watched the sun go down over the fields.
No, I insisted – I’d be no fun. I didn’t want to spoil the gathering.
And now, on this rather grim Friday evening, I am installed on the sofa at home, trying to ward off self-pity by reading a thriller, set in 1960s Berlin. I was racing through it before ‘It’ happened. Now it could be the boiler instruction booklet, for all it grips my attention. Flynn is out at a gig, which is fine – I don’t expect him to stay home just to keep me company – so I channel-hop for a while. Sinead and I have never been huge telly watchers, preferring to hang out, chat, read and listen to music. At least I’d assumed she enjoyed those sort of evenings, before I learnt her true feelings about my record collection.
I turn off the TV, toss the remote onto the coffee table with such force that it skids off and lands on the floor, and glare at the rows of albums. Neatly stored on apparently terrible shelves, they represent a lifetime’s love of music. Okay – not my entire life. I’d like to think I have a few more years left in me yet. However, intense record buying really belongs to one’s youth, when music means pretty much everything. These albums of mine inspired and brought joy; they were the soundtrack to the best and worst times. It’s no exaggeration to say that they represented a sort of guidebook for life.
Could Springsteen help me now?
I select the first album I ever bought, at age thirteen. Although perhaps not a favourite of die-hard fans, Born in the USA is Springsteen’s biggest commercial success. I stretch out on the sofa with Scout on my lap, and listen to the whole of side one, then get up and flip it over to side two. Perhaps it’s ridiculous, at forty-three, to expect a lyric to jump out and inspire me. In fact, the only thought in my head is why on earth Sinead found it so offensive.
As I’ve disposed of her original list – actually it fell to bits – I go upstairs and open the document on my laptop where I typed it all out. I print off a copy and study it. Your bloody record collection, she wrote. I fold it neatly and slip it into the side of my pants drawer.
When I bring my laptop downstairs, side two is still playing. As it’s a record I seldom listen to these days, I’d have expected a rush of nostalgia on hearing it. But not tonight. Springsteen – in fact, all of my musical heroes – have served only to irritate my wife and son (‘old dead guys!’) and therefore no longer have any place in my life.
So – sod it – they can damn well go.
Settled at the kitchen table now, I do a quick Google search on my laptop: ‘Records wanted’, ‘vinyl for sale’, all the permutations. There are plenty of people in Leeds, Bradford and Huddersfield, offering to buy entire collections – then I spot something closer to home:
STAN’S RECORDS
95 Bingham Road, Solworth, West Yorkshire
We buy all vinyl. Alb
ums, 12" and 7" singles. Excellent prices paid.
Home visits and free valuations arranged.
There’s a mobile number. I hesitate to call because it’s so late. No, not because it’s late; it’s only 9.25 p.m, so that’s just an excuse. I wander through the living room, my gaze scanning row upon row of records I’ve collected over the years.
I just want to persuade Sinead to come home. Clearly, that’s going to be no mean feat, which means there’s no time to waste. The record finishes. I replace it in its sleeve, filed back under ‘S’.
‘Let’s play a joke on Dad,’ Sinead once giggled to Flynn, deliberately loud enough for me to overhear. ‘Let’s change Dad’s filing system so all the bands starting with “The” – The Beatles, The Stones, The Who and all that – go under “T”.’ They actually started to do it. I pretended to ‘catch’ them in cahoots, and laughed along as the two of them collapsed, clutching each other, on the living room floor. Our little gang. I thought it’d be the three of us forever.
I wasn’t that bad, was I? We had fun as a family … didn’t we?
Inhaling deeply, I tap out Stan’s number on my mobile. A voicemail message kicks in, and I clear my throat in readiness.
‘Hi,’ I say, ‘I’m looking to sell a record collection of, uh, probably something like a thousand albums. I really have no idea how many there are. They’re mainly sixties, seventies, eighties – all in pretty good nick. Call me if you’re interested, okay? My name’s Nate.’
Satisfied that I won’t hear anything until tomorrow, I turn on the TV again. It’s all terrible stuff: bickering families, a dreary quiz show, the graphic filming of intestinal operations.
My phone rings and I dive for it. ‘Hi, is that Nate?’ asks a male voice I don’t recognise.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Stan. Stan from Stan’s Records …’
‘Ah, right, yes …’ Christ – he’s on the ball.
‘You just called?’
‘Um, yeah—’
‘So, I’m in Solworth – you probably realised that. Could you bring your collection over to my shop sometime?’
‘There’s a record shop in Solworth?’ This piques my interest – but then, my vinyl-buying days are over.
‘Ah, well, yeah – we’re a bit tucked away and opening hours are pretty sketchy …’
‘Sorry,’ I cut in, ‘but it really is a huge collection. I was hoping you could take a look at it at my place, if that’s okay. I’m in Hesslevale …’
‘Yeah, sure – but I’m heading over to France tomorrow with a mate. We’ll be away for two or three weeks, doing some gigs, buying up records.’ He pauses. ‘You might want to call someone else, if you’re looking to get rid of them in a hurry. House clearance, is it?’
‘No, no – it’s my own collection …’
‘Ah, right. Family pressure to get rid of them?’ He chuckles, then, without waiting for a response, adds, ‘I’ll give you a call when I’m back, all right? And if you’re still selling, I’ll be right over.’
‘Great.’ I clear my dry throat.
‘It’s quality vinyl, isn’t it?’ Stan asks. ‘I’m not being funny, mate, but I’m only looking for saleable stuff.’
‘Oh, yeah, it’s top quality,’ I reply in a perky tone, as if I’m looking to sell a ratty old sideboard that I never liked much anyway.
*
On Saturday – marking my second weekend as a newly single man – Sinead calls, asking if it’s okay to ‘pop over’ in an hour or so. At first, this feels like excellent news. But it soon transpires that she’s not coming specifically to see me, but merely to pick up more of her stuff. Stuff that seemed to be disappearing in small quantities when she was still dropping in on Scout at lunchtimes, and now, it appears, is vital to her very existence.
‘What d’you want to take?’ I ask, pacing around the kitchen, phone clamped to my ear.
‘Just, you know – my things.’
‘What things?’
‘Er, clothes and stuff,’ she says lightly. ‘Books, toiletries, shoes, some records …’
‘Records?’ I bark.
She pauses. ‘Well, yes, a few of them are mine, you know. Half a dozen or so …’
Christ, I’d forgotten about those disco compilations she used to love dancing around to with Michelle and the rest of her college mates, whenever they came over for their occasional girlie nights. Those evenings seemed to fall off the radar, for some reason; maybe Sinead didn’t have the energy or inclination anymore. ‘Yeah, of course,’ I murmur. ‘I’ll get them together for you.’
‘Thanks. Um … it is okay for me to come over, isn’t it? I was planning to wait until you’re out one evening but … you know …’
No, I never socialise these days. I just watch shit telly, set mousetraps and try to read. ‘It’s fine,’ I say firmly, finishing the call and realising that at least I’m wearing decent jeans and a newish T-shirt – and our son is out yet again.
*
And that really is a good thing, as I wouldn’t have wanted him here right now as Sinead potters away in our bedroom, bundling the rest of her clothes into enormous plastic sacks.
‘Remember your dressing gown,’ I remark as I observe her from the doorway.
‘Yes, thank you, Nate,’ she mutters, investigating drawers now and pulling out all those pretty lacy slips and fancy knickers she used to pack whenever we had a weekend away in the early days.
In the early days. How long is it since I took her somewhere special, and we spent all night in our hotel room caressing and—
My attention is caught by a glimpse of pastel pink lace, poking out of one of the carrier bags. It’s a camisole, if I remember rightly – if that’s the proper term. The one she wore that time we went to Paris for the first time together, Oh, God …
‘I think your spare slippers are under the bed,’ I add.
‘Hmm.’
‘And remember that corduroy jacket you hung in my side of the wardrobe, ’cause you didn’t have space—’
Sinead turns to me and winces. ‘D’you mind not standing there watching me doing this?’
‘I’m only trying to help …’ I stop myself. My mother said exactly that last week. Christ.
‘It’s just a bit off-putting,’ she adds.
‘Oh. Yes, of course. Sorry.’ I stomp downstairs so she can get on with removing her every possession from our property.
Our property. What will happen to this, our jointly-owned home? I can’t even think about that right now. Anyway, Flynn has marched in, greeting me with a perfunctory ‘Hey’ in the hallway.
‘Mum’s here,’ I explain. ‘She’s, um, just collecting some of her stuff.’
‘Oh – right …’ He virtually shoves me aside in order to head upstairs to greet her, and they fall into a clearly audible conversation.
At least, it’s audible from where I’m lurking, halfway upstairs, ear cocked:
‘Hey, darling. I wasn’t sure if I’d see you today …’
‘Yeah, just been out.’
‘Rehearsing?’
‘Just going through some songs at Max’s …’
‘Going well, is it?’
‘Kind of, but my hand’s been a bit stiff lately, this bit here …’
Has it? He hasn’t mentioned this to me!
‘Oh, really?’ she says. ‘Let me see, love …’ Mumble-mumble … ‘Is it that bit there?’
‘Yeah. It’s kind of annoying …’
‘I’m sure it is. Maybe you should see Dr Kadow? You might need that cream again—’ There’s more muttering while I stand here, lunatic eavesdropping Dad, who’s clearly so low in the family pecking order that he’s not even party to a discussion on our son’s condition.
I know I’m being ridiculous, and that this is about Flynn, not me – Flynn who, apparently, has been suffering from stiffness in his hands and is merely telling his mum because she’s the one he’s always tended to go to with such matters. Why is that anyway? Have I
been unapproachable, or too preoccupied with work, never truly here for him? Maybe he just prefers to confide in her, rather than in me. Perhaps he just loves her more. Aware that I am now regarding our parenting as a ridiculous competition – one which I have clearly lost – I head into the living room and try to focus on gathering up her records instead.
Chic, Sister Sledge, The Isley Brothers, a couple of disco compilations. Good-time records. My heart seems to twist as I slip them into a carrier bag.
As Sinead and Flynn appear downstairs, laden with bags, I realise I have cocked up yet again. ‘I’d have helped you if you’d said,’ I mutter, hating the petulance that’s lacing my voice.
‘Oh, we managed fine, thanks,’ she says coolly, dropping a bulging carrier bag at her feet.
I glance at Flynn – or rather, specially at Flynn’s hands. He shuffles uncomfortably, clearly uneasy at being with his mother and me, together. As he scoots off to the back garden, already murmuring into his phone, Sinead and I start to carry her things out to her car and load up the boot. In they go, all those bags, one of them containing the pink lacy camisole that she looked so beautiful in, I could hardly believe my good fortune to be in a Parisian hotel room with her. In an open box, I glimpse her red and white spotty dressing gown and pot of face powder, her cleanser and various other mysterious creams. There’s her manicure kit, a hairbrush and a bottle of body lotion that matches her posh shower gel (incidentally, the gel is all used up; in some feeble act of rebellion, I’ve been using it liberally every day). There are the remaining bits and pieces from when she was still making jewellery, heaped into wicker baskets and now stacked neatly in the boot.