by Tracy Bloom
‘It’s the wine, you know. We drink much better quality wine these days,’ says Mark. ‘Means we don’t feel like that any more.’
I seem to remember quite enjoying it. We lay in bed all day in each other’s arms. Sleeping, moaning, whispering. It was actually a really lovely day. One of the best.
‘I changed the bedding about a week later,’ I tell him. ‘I found a condom screwed up down the bottom corner of the sheet. I realised it must have fallen off. Four weeks later, I realised I was pregnant.’
‘You never said.’
‘What? That I’d found a condom?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Probably because I really wanted to be pregnant but I was worried that you weren’t ready. But I was ready. Finding out I was pregnant with Ellie was one of the happiest days of my life.’
I’d taken the test in the middle of the night. I’d bought a kit but hadn’t dared use it, then I woke up at three in the morning and couldn’t stand it any longer. I sneaked into the bathroom and found my prayers had been answered.
‘I’ve slept with someone.’
For a moment I think I have misheard but it only takes a look at his face to know he just said it. His mouth is slightly open as though shocked at his confession. He’s white as a sheet, searching my face for a response.
‘I know,’ I manage to whisper.
He reels in shock.
‘How? When?’ he asks, his face stricken.
‘I came to see you at work one night. You were in your office with… with her.’
He sways a little. I’m frozen to the spot. I don’t know what to do. I’d always thought I would be in control of this situation when it happened – I hadn’t expected it to be thrust upon me. Especially not here in this familiar/unfamiliar room. In this room where our lives began. Where our children’s lives began. Mark drops down onto the edge of the bed and puts his head in his hands. It’s a vintage-style floral-patterned quilt cover. We never had one of those. It was Mark’s house when I moved in and it took a long time to filter in signs of femininity and it never quite reached the choice of duvet cover.
‘How long has it been going on?’ I ask. My heart is pounding. I don’t know where we’re going. I’ve tried so hard to be in control of things recently that being out of control of what might come out of this conversation is terrifying.
Mark lifts his head from his hands and stares hard at the fitted wardrobe door in front of him.
‘A few months.’
‘How long?’ I ask again more urgently. He looks up sharply.
‘Since I went on the New York trip.’
I remember that trip. It was last December. I’d always wanted to go to New York in December. See the Christmas lights and go ice-skating in Central Park. It sounded so romantic. Clearly it was.
‘She went with you?’
‘Yes,’ he whispers.
‘Did you go ice-skating?’
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘No,’ he says again.
This gives me a curious relief. Him taking her ice-skating would have felt like a betrayal. He knows I would have loved to do that.
‘You just shagged her,’ I say. ‘That’s all right then.’
‘No, no, it isn’t,’ he says.
‘Too bloody right it isn’t,’ I say, raising my voice and fighting the urge to hit him, batter him with everything I’ve got. Hurt him really bad. Hurt him until he can feel how much he is hurting me.
We’re staring at each other, my breathing heavy as a result of my heart pounding, when we hear the tapping of estate agent boy’s leather soles across the wooden floor down below.
‘Everything okay?’ he shouts from the bottom of the stairs.
I say nothing.
‘We’re fine,’ shouts Mark, his voice cracking. ‘Just doing some measurements. Won’t be long.’
We both hold our breath as we listen to his footsteps tap again across the floor and fall silent, presumably as he returns to the carpeted lounge.
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Mark. ‘Really I am.’
I almost laugh at the inadequacy of it. I walk over and sit on the large sill of the bay window. She’s made a cushion for it – I always wanted to do that but never got round to it. She’s clearly a better woman than I’ll ever be.
I sigh and look over to him. I should tell him. I should tell him the only reason I found him fucking over the filing cabinet was because I have cancer. I was on my way to tell you this horrendous news but you were too busy screwing around to listen. You think you feel guilty now about having affair. Well, you throw cancer into that and see how it feels.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ he asks. ‘When you found out?’
I want to laugh again. This situation is absurd. Ridiculous. I brace my hands on the edge of the sill and look up. I don’t want to tell him. Not like this. I don’t want his affair to tarnish my cancer. I tell him now and his response, everything, will be sullied by the fact he’s just admitted adultery. That’s not fair. My cancer deserves more: it’s an only child, not a twin.
‘How could you not say anything?’ he asks.
‘I wanted you to have the decency to tell me,’ I say.
He looks down in shame. He says ‘Sorry’ to the floor.
‘It’s over,’ he adds. ‘I ended it.’ He puts his head in his hands again then looks up to study the built-in wardrobe door. It’s pine, it’s not very interesting.
He swallows. His face has an expression I have never seen before on him: confusion and fear. I wonder what particular aspect of this mess he is confused and fearful of.
‘When did you end it?’ I ask.
‘Last week,’ he says. ‘It was weak and stupid,’ he continues, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know why I did it, I really don’t. She meant absolutely nothing to me. It’s the stupidest thing I have ever done.’
I’m not sure he’s saying this to convince me. I think he’s saying it to voice his complete confusion as to how or why this has happened.
‘So what happens next?’ I ask quietly.
‘I don’t know,’ he cries. I can see that this is the truth.
‘I don’t know,’ he repeats with a pleading tone in his voice. Like he wants me to tell him what to do with this sordid mess. Like he wants me to tell him it’s all okay and give him all the reasons why we should just stay together and ignore what has happened so that he doesn’t have to think of them.
Of course I could give him one big fat enormous reason: I’m dying of cancer, that’s why we should get past this. Maybe he should know all the facts. Maybe he should know that he could be facing two years of torture ahead of him as he watches me die if he sticks around. Or he could leave, then forever have to live with the guilt of deserting his wife virtually on her deathbed. If he knew that, what would he do? Would it be different?
I stand up and pull down my brown suede skirt.
‘Well, I think you’d better make your mind up, hadn’t you?’ I tell him. I walk past him, leaving him to contemplate our future together in the very spot where so much of our lives began.
* * *
‘So what’s the verdict?’ estate agent boy asks me, rubbing his hands together as I descend the stairs. He must be well excited we’ve spent so long up there – he probably thinks we’re a sure thing on this one.
‘I think it’s more suitable for a young couple,’ I tell him. ‘It feels like a great place to start something and I don’t think that’s where we’re at any more.’
Thirty-Five
I get in the car. I can see Mark standing at the door of number forty-four talking to estate agent boy. The temptation to drive away and leave him stranded is almost too much to bear. He’s raking his hand through his hair and casting me occasional nervous glances. What is he talking to him about? Anything perhaps to avoid getting in the car with me. Eventually I switch the engine on, prompting estate agent boy to shake Mark’s hand for the second time and bid his farewells. Mark walks towards the car without onc
e making eye contact.
I’m in gear and releasing the handbrake before he even gets his seatbelt on. His safety is not my priority right now. We’re on the ring road before he caves and breaks the silence.
‘Perhaps I should move out for a while,’ he says. ‘Give us some space.’
‘Space to shag her until you get her out of your system?’
‘I said it was over,’ he reiterates. ‘I was thinking of going to stay with Mum and Dad for a bit.’
‘Oh.’
‘I want you to know that I didn’t plan this, you know. I didn’t go looking for it.’
‘Oh, it just fell into your lap over a cosmopolitan and a hotdog, did it?’
It was tearing me apart that it started in New York. Their 1996 in Corfu was 2015 in New York City. It was breaking my heart to think of it having such an epic beginning. Mark’s and mine was an epic beginning, not theirs. But suddenly Corfu didn’t sound so fancy.
‘I just need to get my head straight,’ he says. ‘The deal should finalise next week too and I just can’t think. It’s all too much.’
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ I say. ‘An affair and the deal of the century. No wonder you’re stressed.’
‘That was red by the way.’
‘What?’
‘You just went through a red light.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me how to drive!’ I shout in frustration. ‘I need you to tell me what my future is. That’s what I need you to do, since you’ve decided to play fast and loose with it.’
I stop. I know I’m not being entirely fair. I know my future – the big bad wolf comes and reminds me most nights now. The truth is I have no future for Mark to play fast and loose with. Still, that doesn’t mean he can tell me how to fucking drive, does it?
Mark is hanging onto the handle in the roof, leaning as far away from me as possible. He’s rubbing his eyes with his free hand. Playing for time. Trying to make a decision.
‘I’ll go to my parents’ tonight,’ he says eventually. ‘Just for a few days, then we’ll talk.’
Talk! What does that mean, talk?
‘What will you tell the kids?’ I ask.
That’s a great question. I almost pat myself on the back. I’ve been storing it up for a few minutes. Waiting for the right moment. Here is the reality, Mark. You’ve got kids you might have to confess an affair to. Add that to your stressful, overloaded week.
‘I’ll tell them I’m going on a trip for now,’ he says. ‘They probably won’t notice I’m gone anyway.’
‘I was going to ask you to spend some time with George this week.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you never do and because he needs you and because, well, because he’s wanking a lot apparently.’
‘What! How do you know that?’ he says, looking at me sharply.
‘Maureen told me.’
‘Maureen?’
‘Maureen from Shady Grove.’
‘How on earth does she know?’
‘She’s planning the food for my party with George – he’s in charge of catering.’
‘You’re kidding me. He can’t manage that.’
I’m tempted to stop the car but we’re on the dual carriageway now so I’ll just have to do my best to continue.
‘I think he can,’ I say. ‘And so does Maureen.’
‘And who the hell does Maureen think she is to be the expert on our son all of a sudden?’
‘The woman who got him to say more in an hour than me, you or the damn therapist have managed put together.’ I decide not to mention the fact she got him drunk. ‘Now will you talk to him about this wanking thing or not? He needs to know he’s normal. Perhaps don’t use yourself as an example of how to gain control over your urges though, eh?’
Mark slumps back in his seat.
‘Do you really think it’s necessary?’ he asks.
‘Yes!’ I say. ‘It’s called being a dad. It might be something you want to think about whilst you’re on your “trip”.’
He turns away from me and looks out of the window.
‘I just need a bit of time, Jenny, that’s all. Please.’
‘Time,’ I say, nodding. ‘Yeah, don’t we all?’
* * *
I sit in the lounge whilst I listen to Mark parading upstairs across our bedroom as he packs his suitcase. There’s no other sound. George and Ellie are both in their rooms, either ignoring the arrival of their parents or protected from every move by headphones pumping out tuneless noise.
My phone beeps next to me on the arm of the chair: it’s Karen, she’s left me a message. She’s found two sumo suits going begging and a foam machine. Oh my God, how I have missed her! She says she’s driving back from a meeting in Nottingham, something to do with a new wine-tasting venue. She wants to call in as she says she’ll be virtually passing our front door.
Her timing’s not great, to be honest. The day your husband walks out is possibly not the greatest day to deal with a reunion with your best friend you lost touch with twenty years ago. But, I figure, what’s the worst that can happen? I break down and tell her my life is a disaster whilst she shares with me her gloriously happy, post-affair marriage and wildly successful event-planning career? I can deal with that, can’t I? Piece of cake.
I hear Mark knock on a door upstairs and then open it, closing it behind him. He’s not in there long. Then there’s a second knock: George’s room this time, I think. He goes in. He’s longer than with Ellie. I hope that’s a good sign. Normally he wouldn’t even bother to tell either of them he won’t be around for a few days. He’d just leave me to fill in the gaps when they eventually realised they hadn’t seen him in a while. So I don’t know how long it should take to tell your son you are going on a ‘trip’ for a few days – and by the way let’s talk about what you’ve been getting up to in this room all alone.
Ten minutes later there’s a thud in the hall as the medium suitcase hits the floorboards. Hopeful, I think. It’s not the large suitcase.
Mark walks into the living room. ‘Possibly the worst moment of my life,’ he says.
‘Packing for your trip?’
‘No, talking to George.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘Actually all right. I told him I could manage it in the time it took my mum to turn off her alarm, get out of bed, go to the bathroom and knock on my door to get up.’
‘Boys are disgusting,’ I say.
‘You asked me to talk to him about it,’ he shrugs.
‘Did you make him feel better?’
‘I think so,’ he says. ‘Who knows?’
‘He needs you, you know.’
He looks at me with a pained expression.
‘And that’s not meant to be emotional blackmail. Irrelevant to all of this going on,’ I say, pointing to the suitcase in the hall, ‘he really needs you. He’s growing up, you need to try harder with him.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Jenny, I’ve just talked to him about having a wank, what more do you want?’
I doubt very much we will have a sensible conversation at this precise moment about Mark’s lack of interest in his son. My attack on his parenting skills would just be used against me, rather than propelling him to do anything about their fractured relationship. I will have to bide my time on that one. Squeeze it in at a less rocky moment. Whenever that might be. There is one last thing I have to mention, however, before he departs for his childhood bedroom to get some ‘space’.
‘I’ve invited Tim and Julie over for dinner on Friday night,’ I announce.
Mark is speechless. He raises his arms in wonder. He may have expected me to have lain down in front of the door to stop him leaving, but he wasn’t expecting me to throw in a conversation about wanking with his son followed by a random dinner invite to his best mate who he hasn’t seen in far too long.
‘When did you do that?’ he eventually asks when his mouth has stopped opening and closing in a struggle to comprehend anything t
hat is going on.
‘This morning,’ I say. ‘Looking at pictures of Chester Green online reminded me what a great time we used to have. We’ve not seen them for ages. Thought it would be good to catch up – you were such good mates.’
He’s shaking his head now in wonder.
‘What the hell is going on here, Jenny? It’s like you’re trying to send us back in time. What with the ridiculous visit to Chester Green and now inviting Tim round? We’ve moved on, Jenny. That was the past. Look, big fancy detached house,’ he says, waving his arms around the room. ‘And as for me and Tim, well, we live in completely different worlds now. He’s not interested in my negotiations on supply chain protection any more than I’m interested in how many bathrooms he managed to fit this week. We were always destined to drift apart. No big deal. I just don’t get why you are suddenly obsessed with the past.’
I look up at him in his smart suit and tie, all still perfectly in place despite the epic journey we seem to have been on over the last few hours.
‘Maybe because I liked you better then,’ I say.
I can’t help myself. One thing that thinking about 1996 all the time has achieved is to make me realise that maybe Mark isn’t the person now that he was then.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘You’ve changed,’ I say.
‘I haven’t!’
‘Yes you have.’
‘Well, if growing up and making a success of my life is change then maybe I have, but how can that be a bad thing?’
I sigh.
‘You used to be fun,’ I say.
He turns away.
When he turns back, he’s red in the face.
‘Well, I’m very sorry if I haven’t been “Fun Time Frankie” whilst I’ve been working my arse off to keep this family in the manner to which it is accustomed.’
‘We never asked you to do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘Sacrifice fun for work.’
‘Someone in this family had to earn a decent living.’
‘You can earn a decent living without turning into a…’