by Sue Margolis
“So, how long has this been going on?” I said, arms folded under my bosom, like some old battle-axe.
“This is the first time.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I am not lying. I promise you, this is the first time.” Then he did what he always did and tried to schmooze me. “Come on,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “This Procter and Gamble campaign is really stressing me out. Liebowitz is constantly on my case. If I can’t go to the casino ’cos you want me home each night, then this is all I’ve got.”
“So you’re saying this is my fault?”
He closed the lid on his laptop. “No, it’s not your fault, but the fact is I need an outlet.”
“Mike, has it ever occurred to you to get another job?”
“Where would I go? ABT is one of the top ad agencies in the world. They employ the most talented people. And over the years, I’ve become one of them. Yes, it’s stressful and yes, I have moral issues around advertising, but I need to keep stretching and challenging myself. I enjoy being at the top. It’s who I am.” He started nibbling my earlobe. “Tell you what—why don’t we go away for a few days? Just the two of us. What about Venice? I’ll see if I can get us into the Gritti Palace.”
“But that’s, like, a seven-star hotel.”
“So what? We can afford it.”
We did the usual touristy things, drank the best hot chocolate on the planet at Caffè Florian, people watched at Harry’s Bar, smooched in the back of a gondola. We ate and made love with equal passion. We also laughed. This was down to Mike’s repeated observation that in the whole of Venice, there didn’t appear to be a single venetian blind. One night, after a boozy dinner, he insisted we go on a venetian blind hunt.
We got back to London and for a while I stopped nagging him about the Golden Nugget.
But eventually, the worry and fear built up again. A pattern emerged. Every few months I would confront him and accuse him of being an addict and he would convince me that I was worrying about nothing. Then he would start kissing me. In between he’d say something daft like, “Do you think Satan had a last name?” Or “I tell you what’s a dangerous insect—that hepatitis bee.” I could never resist him for long. His ridiculous one-liners, the way he swallowed me up in his arms, convinced me that he would never let anything bad happen.
But he did. It started with my debit card being declined in stores. Then it was the ATM. More often than not, it spat back my card and laughed: “Two hundred quid? Yeah, right, lady. In your dreams.” On the few occasions the damn thing relented, I swear I could hear violins playing and bluebirds singing. I decided that the sweetest words in the English language were, “Your cash is being counted.”
Mike always had an excuse: a load of direct debits had left our account at the same time; his salary had been paid late that month.
Then I found a stack of unpaid bills. I’d been rooting around Mike’s desk looking for a stapler. There were a dozen or more—all unopened. Heart hammering, I gathered them up. It took me a full ten minutes to pluck up the courage to start opening the envelopes. Finally I ripped into them. The utilities companies were threatening to cut us off. The credit card companies were about to take us to court. The letter from a firm of bailiffs was particularly menacing. If we didn’t pay what we owed in thirty days, they would distrain on our goods and property.
It got worse. There was a letter from the bursar at the children’s posh school saying that unless we paid the three thousand pounds we owed, he would have no choice but to ask us to withdraw Dan and Ella.
The final letter was from the mortgage company. We hadn’t made a payment in nine months and they were threatening to repossess the house. I felt the blood drain from my head. I just managed to get to the loo before I threw up.
I blamed Mike. I also blamed myself for all the times I’d allowed him to get round me and convince me that he wasn’t an addict. Yes, I’d been on his case, but while we had money, my attempts had only ever been halfhearted. Instead, I’d been too busy having fun spending a fortune on granite worktops and fancy German showerheads. Instead of insisting Mike get help, instead of checking how much money was going out of our bank account and scrutinizing it daily, making sure that bills were being dealt with, that our mortgage payments were going out, I had allowed him to remain in charge of our finances. I had let myself be drawn into his insane fantasy that everything was under control. To say I’d been naive was an understatement. I was the mother of two small children. I should have been doing everything in my power to protect them. And what had I done? Sod all.
I dealt with my guilt by yelling at him.
“Sarah, you have to calm down. This isn’t as bad as you think. I’m sorting it. OK?”
“No, it’s not bloody OK! You need help. We need financial advice. We have to speak to the building society—see if we can make some kind of a deal which would enable us to keep the house. Please. I’m begging you. We have to do something. We can’t go on like this.”
Screaming at him did no good. He simply walked away. I didn’t know where to turn. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. I was losing my temper with the kids. I was fearful that any minute they were going to be tossed out of school and that the bailiffs would arrive and turn us out onto the street. Where would we go? What would I tell Dan and Ella?
In the end, I did something I should have done years ago. I called Gamblers Anonymous. I was put through to one of their counselors. Her name was Kathy. Up to this point, I hadn’t told a soul about Mike’s addiction and our financial problems. I was too ashamed. Now, as this kind, soft-spoken woman urged me to tell her what was going on, everything came spilling out. Words tumbled over one another. I told Kathy how scared I was that we were going to lose the house, how furious I was with Mike. How furious I was with myself. I’d been weak, a coward, a bad mother. I should have listened to my instincts, taken control, and I hadn’t. I would never forgive myself.
Kathy told me not to be so hard on myself. She said that she’d lived with a gambling addict for thirty years. “I loved my husband and I wanted to trust him. I also knew that if I couldn’t trust him, our marriage would be over. I had a choice: end it or live in denial. I had young children who loved their father. Since I couldn’t face destroying my family, I chose denial.”
“You’ve just described me,” I said.
Kathy suggested I call the Citizens Advice Bureau, who would be able to offer me financial guidance. She also said that I should try to persuade Mike to start going to GA meetings. I told her that was never going to happen. First, Mike didn’t see himself as an addict. Second, he wasn’t a joiner. He didn’t “do” groups.
“OK … Do you think he might agree to see a counselor?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
She gave me Barbara the therapist’s number. As we said our good-byes, Kathy wished me good luck. I put down the phone. I felt lighter—how I imagined Catholics felt after going to confession.
That night I gave Mike an ultimatum. He either phoned this Barbara woman or I was leaving him and taking the kids. “I have to get them out of this atmosphere.”
“What atmosphere? We never discuss any of this in front of the kids. They’re fine.”
“For now, maybe. But how long before they start picking up on my anxiety—on the tension between us?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Get help, Mike. Or I will leave.”
“Come on. You don’t mean that.” He tried to put his arms around me.
“Don’t touch me! I do mean it. You have until the morning to make up your mind about where we take it from here.”
“But I’m doing my best. Look, I’ve paid the kids’ school fees.” He produced the receipt from his pocket and waved it in front of me.
Relieved—not to say shocked—as I was, I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.
“What do you expect me to do, fall to my knees in gratitude? The school fees are a drop in the ocean. What about
all our other debts? We owe tens of thousands. Like I said, you have until the morning.”
With that I walked out. I had forty quid in my purse. I bought a bottle of cheap Chardonnay and booked a room at the local Travelodge. I sat on the bed, drinking wine out of a plastic mug, wondering what I would do if Mike refused to make the call. I still wasn’t sure that I had the courage to leave him—to break all our hearts.
The next morning, I made sure I was home before the children woke up. Mike was getting ready for work. The sheer arrogance of it: assuming that I would be back before he needed to leave. When I asked him if he’d made up his mind about calling Barbara, all I got was: “I’m running late. I’ve got to go.” I didn’t push it. Then, around midday, he texted me to say he’d just spoken to her. My threat had worked. I had finally managed to get through to him. That night, when he got home, he told me that Barbara had suggested I come along to the first session. It seemed clear that she wanted him to start listening to me and take responsibility for the chaos he was causing. For the first time in years, I felt a surge of hope.
At Barbara’s suggestion, I carried on going to Mike’s sessions. I liked Barbara. She was a middle-aged, mothering soul and easy to open up to. Mike wasn’t so keen on her. Despite the compassion she clearly had for him, she refused to let him off the hook.
“Stress at work may have caused you to start gambling,” she said, “but it isn’t the reason you’ve carried on. You carry on because you’re an addict.”
Mike winced as she said the word.
Time and again, Barbara tried to make him look at himself and face up to the damage he was causing.
He accused her of overreacting, just like he accused me. He parried her remarks with jokes and one-liners. Occasionally, though, the jokes would dry up. When they did, he wept. And so did I. I cried for him. For me. For all of it. Barbara said he was making progress.
After a couple of months our joint sessions ended. Barbara felt that we’d sufficiently explored the effect Mike’s addiction was having on our marriage. Now it was time for him to do the real work and get clean. He would see her once a week—on his own. Barbara was anxious that I didn’t feel abandoned and unsupported, so we agreed that once a month I should see her on my own.
During our first one-on-one meeting, Barbara registered surprise that I hadn’t discussed Mike’s gambling with a close friend. She said that bottling it up could only be adding to my stress.
“I just feel so ashamed.”
“But what on earth do you have to feel ashamed about?”
I shrugged. “Mike’s my husband. It’s shame by association.”
I explained that the shame had caused me to become less sociable. “There used to be this group of women I hung out with for coffee when the children were at kindergarten, but these days I hardly ever see them.”
“But now the children are at elementary school. Surely you’ve made friends with other mothers.”
“I did, but when Mike’s gambling got really bad and we had no money, I started to pull back. My children are at a snotty private school. Can you imagine how those women would judge me?”
“But there must be somebody close to you that you can confide in.”
Once there had been Zoe and Belinda. Five years we’d lived together in that grotty flat in Shoreditch. We’d shared everything—hopes, dreams—even packets of condoms were kept in a communal bowl in the bathroom. I thought we’d be best friends forever. I used to joke about the three of us meeting up as old ladies on walkers with pee trickling down our legs. Then Zoe met Ken, who had a beard and no mustache, and the pair of them got born again. The last I heard, they were speaking in tongues in North Devon.
Belinda, who was a doctor, had got a job as a pediatric consultant at a hospital in Sydney. She was married now, living in the Eastern Suburbs and up to her eyes in toddlers. With ten thousand miles and several time zones between us, we weren’t part of each other’s lives anymore. Over time, our e-mails had fizzled out.
“No, there’s nobody else,” I said in answer to Barbara’s question.
“OK … What about telling your parents?”
“You have to be kidding. There is no way I’m telling Mum and Dad.”
I explained to my therapist that neurotic Jewish parents didn’t do well under stress. I said that I wasn’t sure if I could deal with their weeping and garment rending as well as my own emotions.
Barbara said she took the point. “But in my experience, when the going gets really tough, the most unlikely people often find inner resources. Your parents might surprise you.”
I said that I doubted it.
• • •
Gradually Mike started to wean himself off the Golden Nugget. We also had a meeting with Steve, the financial advisor. His name was always being bandied about on the school playground. If you needed advice on natty tax avoidance schemes or how to boost your investment portfolio, Steve Milligan was your man. It took me ages to find the courage to call him. I expected him to tell me to go away—that his clients were loaded bankers, not pathetic, gambling-addicted losers. But he didn’t. Nor did he attempt to judge or point the finger. Instead he said that his specialty was helping people avoid bankruptcy and that we should come in for a chat.
“Remember what Steve said about the possibility of making a debt repayment deal with all our creditors. You earn a fortune and if you can prove you’ve stopped gambling, they’re bound to go for it. Why make us bankrupt when they can get the money back?”
“Good old Steve. He’s got it all worked out.”
“Actually, yes, he has. What’s more, he’s trying to help us. I don’t understand what you have against him.”
“He wears boring gray suits and he parts his hair like a Mormon.”
“That’s it? You find his clothes and hairstyle uncomfortably conservative?”
I wasn’t about to say that I thought Steve was rather attractive. To me, his Mormon look conveyed solid reliability. These days I couldn’t help finding that rather sexy. Plus he had beautiful eyes. Windex blue, my mother would have called them.
I understood perfectly well what Mike had against Steve, and it had nothing to do with the man’s hair parting or his gray suits. It had to do with Mike’s ego and pride. Here he was, being made to come face-to-face with a stable, financially competent guy his own age and admit that he was an addict and a failure. Penis-shrinking stuff.
“You know what?” Mike said, starting to get angry. “Maybe you’re right and I am finding it too painful. Maybe I don’t need Steve the Mormon’s advice or that shrink woman reminding me time after time what I’ve done and what a shitty person I am. I’d rather buy a few books and sort myself out.”
“Mike … please … don’t do this. I know it’s hard, but you’re getting there. Don’t give up now.”
“It’s not up for debate. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll carry on seeing Steve because we need to sort out the mess I’ve got us into, but I’m absolutely not going back to therapy.”
I knew there was no point in coming at him with more threats and ultimatums. It was down to me now. I had to decide once and for all whether to leave.
In the end the decision was made for me.
It was a few days before Christmas. I needed cash to buy presents for the kids, plus all the holiday groceries—the turkey, smoked salmon, booze, the posh fruitcake with Partridge in a Pear Tree icing.
• • •
Mike assured me his Christmas bonus had been paid into our account and that he had the holidays covered. But when I tried to get cash out of the ATM in the high street, it just gave me its usual sneering laugh. I brought my fist down on the keypad. “Mike, please … don’t do this to me now. Not at fucking Christmas.”
I called him at work. I was sobbing. “Mike, tell me you haven’t been back to the Golden Nugget and gambled away the money we need for food and presents for Dan and Ella.”
“OK, I fell off the wagon, but it’s not serious. I’ll sort it.”
There was panic in his voice. That was a first. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll get hold of some cash somehow. Just give me a few hours.”
I could have shouted and sworn at him—asked him if he’d given a thought to the children before he gambled away his bonus—but there seemed little point. I’d wasted my breath too many times. Instead I hung up. Furious and fearful—tears streaming down my face—I headed back to the car. I didn’t weigh it up or consider the consequences—I just started driving to Mum and Dad’s.
So far, I’d disregarded Barbara’s advice to tell my parents about Mike’s gambling and the debt we were in, but I couldn’t hold out any longer. I was in trouble and I needed them. I called to check they were in. Dad picked up.
My timing was perfect, apparently. They’d been Christmas shopping in Oxford Street and had just got back. “You should see it out there. It’s a madhouse. And do you mind telling me why they have to play pop music so loud in the shops? It was so bad it’s brought my tinnitus back. Your mother’s in the kitchen. Shall I pass you over?”
“No, just tell her I’ll be there in fifteen.”
I hit the gas and made it in ten.
Mum opened the door, a duster in her hand. “Hello darling. What, no Dan and Ella?”
“Playdates …” I gave her a hello kiss. “Listen, can we sit down? There’s something I need to talk to you and Dad about.”
“What’s the matter? Has something happened? … Omigod, look at you. You’ve been crying. Is somebody ill?”
“Nobody’s ill. We’re all fine.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“So what is it?”
“I need to speak to both of you. Where’s Dad?”
“Watching TV.” I followed along the hall. She stopped to wipe some dirt off the hall mirror.
Dad was sitting on the sofa, grimacing at horrific color footage of the Siege of Leningrad. He’d been retired a year. After spending fifty years driving a cab, he’d replaced being behind the wheel with being in front of the TV. He watched documentaries mainly. He loved anything to do with Hitler or health.