by Fiona Gibson
‘Off you go,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be fine here. I’ll probably just have an early night.’
She ums and ahs some more, and now it’s my turn to insist she goes, which leaves me alone, replaying today’s conversation with Nate.
Couldn’t you have given me a chance, instead of springing this on me?
Given him a chance! What did he think I was trying to do when I suggested we went for couples counselling?
‘What do we need that for?’ he’d exclaimed as we stood face to face in our kitchen. ‘We’re fine, aren’t we?’
‘I don’t feel fine,’ I’d retorted. ‘I feel completely overburdened, to be honest, like we’re not a proper couple anymore. It’s as if we happen to live in the same house. Come on, Nate. You must feel it too …’
‘I don’t feel anything—’
‘Well, that much is true!’ I’d exclaimed.
He fell into a sulk then, his default setting when things don’t go his way. ‘There’s no way I’m lying on a stranger’s couch, telling them my innermost feelings,’ he huffed.
‘Because you don’t have any,’ I shot back, at which he tossed the oven gloves across the kitchen – probably the most violent gesture he’s ever made.
‘And therapists don’t have couches,’ I added. ‘That’s only in films.’
‘Therapy,’ he repeated witheringly. ‘Isn’t it all about raking over your childhood, crying because you weren’t allowed – I don’t know – a trampoline at seven years old?’
Fury bubbled up in me then. ‘Why can’t you take this seriously? Why can’t we talk about something that matters for once?’
Nate glared at me. ‘We can – of course we can. I just don’t think there’s any point in actually paying someone—’
‘Of course there’s a point, if you care about us. Is that what you’re saying? That you don’t care enough to try to make things better?’
We both flinched at the sound of the front door opening. Flynn was home. ‘If you think you need therapy,’ Nate mumbled, ‘then why don’t you just see someone by yourself?’
When I remember all that, resentment starts to build in me again – and I know I was right to leave him. And now, having tried, unsuccessfully, to settle in front of the TV, I pour a glass of wine and fiddle with my phone, replying to a text from Michelle, checking on how I’m doing.
I’m lucky, I decide, to have friends who care; but I can’t stay at Abby’s forever. When I have a place of my own, I’ll ask Flynn if he wants to live with me. That would be better; the two of us together, close enough to Nate so he can see him whenever he wants – although, of course, it’s quite likely that he’ll choose to stay with his dad.
It’s just gone nine, and I’m finishing my second glass of wine when my phone rings. Nate again, I imagine, grabbing it from the coffee table and vowing to be firmer this time: Don’t phone me at work unless it’s an actual emergency! But it’s not Nate’s name on the screen. It’s Brett.
‘Hi!’ I say in surprise, aware that I shouldn’t be so pleased to hear from him.
‘Hey,’ he says brightly. ‘Hope it’s okay to call?’
‘Of course it is, yes. It’s lovely to hear from you.’
‘So good to catch up, wasn’t it? That was such a fun night.’
‘It was,’ I say truthfully, figuring now that of course he’s calling to organise another gathering; a party or some kind of event.
‘So, how are things going?’
‘Getting there, I think,’ I fib.
‘That’s good to hear. So, um, I was just wondering if you fancied a drink sometime?’
Just us? I want to ask – but of course that’s what he means. ‘That would be lovely,’ I say.
‘Great. Well, look – I’m sorry I haven’t called until now. I wasn’t sure, you know, if it’d be okay with all the stuff that’s been happening.’ He pauses. ‘But it really was lovely to see you again. Are you free any nights this week?’
‘Um, I think so,’ I say, feigning uncertainty.
‘Well, look, I have a client in Hesslevale. I’m working on rebranding for a pie company and I thought maybe, if we could get together after my meeting, we could have dinner or something?’
So not just a drink, but dinner. ‘That sounds great,’ I say, as if all of this is perfectly normal. I shrug off a wave of guilt. ‘So, when’s your meeting?’
‘I wanted to check with you first. How about Thursday? Are you free then?’
I find myself smiling as I wander through to Abby’s kitchen and top up my glass. ‘Thursday’s good for me,’ I say. ‘Shall we chat nearer the time and sort out a time and place?’
‘Yes, let’s do that,’ Brett says. We finish the call, and as I climb into Abby’s spare bed, I reassure myself that of course it’s okay to meet him. It’s just dinner, after all. A catch-up with an old friend; that’s definitely all it’s going to be. But still, for the first time since I wrote that damned list, I feel a sense of lightness settling over me as I drift off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nate
Although I’m grateful for their concern, it’s also something of a relief that Liv, Eric and Nadira have calmed down about my newly single state. I am no longer the subject of fretful glances or copious invitations to go round to dinner. Naturally, they were all taken aback when I snuck off from Liv’s barbecue without saying goodbye. However, nearly three weeks on – and over a month since Sinead left me – my only real regret about that night is the fact that my watch still hasn’t been found.
‘Would you, erm … mind checking inside the Wendy house?’ I asked, last time I brought it up.
‘The Wendy house?’ Liv spluttered. ‘How on earth would it have got in there?’
I shrugged. ‘I, er, just thought it might be worth a look …’
‘What were you doing in the Wendy house?’ She’d stared at me.
I considered explaining that I’d been sheltering from the rain – because, of course, that would have seemed normal when there was a perfectly serviceable, proper house just a few metres away, where everyone else went. ‘I just, er, sat in it for a few minutes,’ I muttered. ‘I sort of needed to be by myself.’
‘Ava did mention that she found a load of watermelon skins in there,’ Liv added.
‘Probably taken in by foxes,’ I remarked, suddenly the nature expert.
‘Then they must have taken the tray in there too,’ she said with a smile.
A little light teasing, I could cope with. In fact, for the first time in my life, I’m thankful for the non-stop nature of my working days. If it wasn’t for Flynn, I’d volunteer to work Saturdays too – not that our weekends together amount to much really. Whilst they still stretch on interminably, at least the hours fly by at the test centres. I only manage a hasty phone exchange with Stan – of Stan’s Records – who’s back from his travels and suggests coming over to view my collection tonight.
‘That okay for you?’ he asks.
‘Yes, sure,’ I say, reminding myself why I’m doing this. Your bloody record collection, she wrote.
Back home on this rain-lashed Tuesday evening, I make fish fingers, oven chips and baked beans for the two of us – foods Sinead would never contemplate eating – and try, unsuccessfully, to engage Flynn in some chat about school, his teachers, his subjects. I know he excels at maths, music and history, whereas English he’s not so hot on … at least, I think that’s still the case. Tonight, though, my conversation openers come out sounding so clunky, I am almost relieved when he dumps his cutlery on his empty plate, then proceeds to make himself one of his beloved microwave cakes: ingredients chucked into a mug, stirred, then nuked for three minutes.
Leaving a flurry of flour and cocoa powder in his wake, he carries his concoction through to the living room.
‘D’you have much homework tonight?’ I ask, hovering in the doorway.
‘Nah.’ He’s spooning the gloopy mess into his mouth with gusto, as if I hadn’t made him
any dinner at all.
‘You don’t seem to have much at the moment, do you?’
He merely shrugs and focuses on the contents of his mug.
Has homework stopped then? I want to ask. Or are you still being given the normal amount but just never bothering to do it? It doesn’t feel like the right moment to prod him about this – but then, when is the right time? I don’t want ‘pays no attention to Flynn’s education’ to be added to my list of shortcomings.
‘I meant to tell you,’ I add, ‘someone’s coming round tonight to look at my records.’
‘To look at them?’ He frowns.
‘I mean, to buy them, possibly. I’m hoping he’ll take the lot.’
Flynn throws me a confused look. Admittedly, I was hoping for a more shocked response.
We look at each other for a moment, and I wait for him to cry out, No, Dad, please! You can’t possibly do that!
‘Why?’ he asks, spooning in more cake.
I shrug. ‘I just thought we could use the space.’
Flynn glances around at row upon row of neatly-aligned albums, then turns back to me. ‘Have we got money trouble or something?’
‘No,’ I exclaim. ‘Well, no more than usual. No – I just thought, do I really need to hang onto hundreds of records we hardly ever play? I mean, as you said, they’re not your thing at all, so really, I just—’ I stop babbling at the sound of a sharp rap on the door, and go to answer it.
Stan and I greet each other briskly. He is possibly aged around sixty, although it’s tricky to tell. Short and thin and with an unseasonal tan, he has a fifties-style quiff, a triumph of styling and liberal usage of product, considering his dramatically receded hairline.
‘Thanks for coming …’ I form a tight smile and shake his hand.
‘No problem. Thanks for calling me.’ He follows me into the living room.
‘This is my son Flynn,’ I add.
‘Hi, mate.’ Stan beams at him. ‘So, is it you who’s persuaded your old man to part with his collection?’
‘Er, not exactly,’ Flynn says with an awkward laugh as he gathers himself up from the sofa. I catch him assessing Stan’s black shirt, its collar embellished with white embroidery, as he zooms out of the room.
‘Okay then,’ Stan says, swaggering towards my records, his skinny legs tightly encased in drainpipe jeans. ‘This is the lot, is it?’
‘Yep, that’s it,’ I reply.
His wide smile creases his weathered face. ‘It comes to a lot of people, this. You know when it’s the right time, don’t you?’
No, actually, I am only doing this to please my wife. ‘I guess so,’ I murmur, silently urging him to wrap up this transaction as swiftly as possible. It’s like the last time I had to have a tooth pulled out. ‘There’s no saving this beauty, I’m afraid,’ my dentist said. Then, rather than just yanking it out, he proceeded to chat away, gathering his implements together – rather sadistically, I felt – whilst trying to engage me in bloke-chat about golf, and the best way to go about treating a rotting fence, as if I’d share his interests, simply as a fellow male.
Stan is clearly in no hurry to leave. Records are pulled from the shelves, examined and discussed, then slotted neatly back into place. An hour – then two – drift by. Music booms down from Flynn’s bedroom. I’d expected Stan to flick through my collection, but now he’s accepted my rather half-hearted offer of a mug of tea, and then he spots my Fender which happened to be propped up in the corner of the living room, and we get to talking about guitars and records and bands we love. It turns out that Stan is a drummer. Although we have never played together, we know numerous people in common.
‘I knew your face was familiar,’ he says. ‘Still playing these days?’
‘No, that’s all in the past for me,’ I reply.
Stan nods. ‘Other stuff gets in the way, doesn’t it?’
‘It certainly does,’ I say, affecting a shrug to show that I don’t care really.
Now Stan has arranged himself cross-legged on the floor, despite the sofa and armchairs being available. He pulls out a small, ratty notebook from a jeans pocket, plus a stubby pencil. ‘Give me a minute to figure this out …’
The minute stretches to five, then ten, fifteen, and finally, he shows me the figure he’s written down. ‘I think that’s fair, do you?’
‘Yep, sounds good to me,’ I say briskly, not really caring about the money at all. ‘… So, um … d’you want to take them tonight?’
‘Might as well. I find it’s best to deal with something like this right away.’ He gives me a wry look, as if he knows what I’m thinking. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot, kinda thing.’
I blink at him. ‘Are you worried I might change my mind?’
‘It does happen.’ Stan chuckles. ‘Sentimental value and all that.’
I raise a smile. I can’t bring myself to dislike the man; he’s been perfectly decent company and, after all, I called him.
‘Shall we pack them up now, then?’ I suggest. ‘D’you have boxes and stuff?’
‘Yeah, plenty out in the van.’
And so the two of us pack up my entire collection into plastic crates. I’m relieved that Stan hasn’t suggested I ask Flynn to help, as he’d struggle to lift hefty boxes of vinyl and, anyway, he’s still holed up in his bedroom. Stan and I march back and forth from our living room to his battered old unmarked white van.
It’s around half-ten, and I’m passing Stan a crate of back-breaking weight, when Howard and Katrina’s front door opens.
‘Hi there!’ Howard says, bounding out with Monty straining on his lead.
‘Hey, Howard,’ I say with a tense smile.
‘What’s happening here, then?’ His gaze lands upon the crate in my arms.
‘Erm, this is Stan,’ I explain. ‘He’s just bought my record collection.’
‘Whoah, good work, Nate!’ Howard beams. ‘I’ve always said to Kristina – all those records, gathering dust and taking up so much room. How can Sinead even—’ He catches himself and flushes. ‘I mean, er, each to their own, of course. But who plays vinyl in this day and age?’
‘Plenty of people,’ Stan retorts. ‘It’s back, mate – big time, especially with the youngsters …’
‘What, the old gramophone?’ Howard chortles.
‘Flynn has a turntable,’ I remark dryly.
‘Ah, yeah – but that’ll be all new stuff. Not old stuff, clogging up your life …’ Like he’d know anything about new or old stuff, with his collection of precisely four atrocities. ‘Anyway, onwards and upwards, eh, Nate?’ Howard barks. ‘Nothing like a good old declutter to clear the head, haha!’ Mercifully, Monty pulls hard on his lead, virtually dragging my neighbour down the street.
‘Hmmmph,’ Stan mutters as he reaches into a jacket pocket and pulls out a chequebook. ‘I’m old-school,’ he adds. ‘Cheque okay with you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He scribbles it, and I take it from him, feeling as if I have just sold one of my children.
‘You know what?’ he adds, tweaking his quiff. ‘Most of the houses I go to, it’s just a disinterested relative selling off a collection that they couldn’t give a stuff about. So it’s been great to meet someone like you, with music in your blood. You should come and meet the guys I play with. It’s nothing serious – just a bunch of mates getting a few songs together, and we could do with some fresh input. D’you fancy that?’
‘Erm, I’m not sure at the moment …’ I picture a living room populated by several sixty-somethings, all wearing embroidered-collared shirts.
‘Ah, well, the offer’s there,’ Stan says with a shrug, climbing into his van. He waves from the driver’s side window, and off he goes, taking with him every album I have ever owned. The sight of his scrappy vehicle disappearing around the corner reminds me of standing here, in this very spot, watching Sinead drive away. Although I’m not married to Stan, obviously, I’m still hit by a wave of desolation as I step back inside.
Ti
me to move on, I tell myself silently. Time to grow up once and for all.
In the living room now, I stare at the empty shelves. They look awful without my alphabetised albums – tatty and scuffed, and conspicuously bare. What shall I put on them instead? Pot plants? Cacti? Should I go to – I don’t know – John Lewis for some vases and other decorative stuff? I’m not sure I’d have a clue what to choose. Sinead was always the one who had strong opinions on home furnishings and how things should look.
No, I decide: the shelves were built for records, and now I don’t have any, they simply have to go. I fetch my rarely-used toolbox from the shed and, as quietly as possible so as not to alert Flynn, I disassemble them piece by piece. If only my wife could see me now, working quickly and efficiently, with a screwdriver! It turns out that taking them to bits is a lot simpler than building the darn things. Once the whole structure’s in bits, I carry the sections out to the garden and prop them against the shed. Perhaps they’ll be adopted as a shelter for wildlife? As far as Sinead is concerned, they’d be a darn sight more useful that way.
Back inside, as if to underline how truly together I am now, I put on a wash, mop the kitchen floor and, for some reason, find myself wondering whether Tanzie Miles had long to wait for her bus home tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sinead
Brett hurries into the pub, wet from the rain and looking around for me. I jump up from my corner seat and wave.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, and kisses my cheek.
‘It’s fine. I’ve only been here five minutes,’ I say truthfully.
‘Well, this is nice.’ Brett looks around the pub’s small, cosy lounge, in which virtually every inch of wallspace is covered with framed sepia photographs of Hesslevale in days gone by.
‘It’s the pub that time forgot,’ I say, smiling.
‘It’s lovely. I’m so glad places like this still exist. So, what are you having?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine just now, thanks.’ I indicate the glass of wine I’ve already started to steady my nerves.
Brett nods, and as he orders a beer from the elderly lady at the bar, I decide that the Dog and Duck was a perfect choice for this wet Thursday night. Somewhat forgotten these days, it’s tucked away down by the river, well away from the town centre where – I must admit, the possibility crossed my mind – there’d be zero chance of us running into Nate on a night out with Paolo or Eric.