Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  I knew exactly what the room was normally used for. It was the sort of room I would probably have looked for with Mick if he had taken up my hint. The sort of room that the management let at great cost and with great discretion. It was decently decorated, if not a little obvious. There were no mirrors like in the main bar but there were lashings of red velvet. Red velvet cushioned walls, red velvet flowing curtains and a red velvet daybed. The room said sex. And hell.

  There was one lone bucket in which rested a cold bottle of champagne, not Crystal now but a bottle of house. There were no glasses. In his haste to arrange this seduction, Joe must have forgotten to specify. I assumed that he’d screamed instructions and passed wedges of cash across the counter as he collected our coats.

  I groaned, told him I really didn’t want anything more to drink, just wanted to go home. He asked me to relax, suggested I needed to lie down and sleep off the excess. I stayed standing. Joe tried to get me to drink the champagne from the bottle but I clamped my mouth closed and the sticky bubbles ran down my chin and shirt. He licked up the mess and I didn’t stop him.

  In that moment I thought the quickest way to get home was to give in to it.

  Mick waits for me to respond to his suggestion. I pull out a box of cigarettes from my bag. I offer him one. He refuses but helps me to light up; my hands are shaking and I can’t see the damn lighter because tears are threatening. I blink furiously and take a deep breath.

  ‘I would put it behind me. I had. But there’s a problem. He has not.’

  ‘He’s fallen for you?’

  ‘Inevitably.’I flash Mick a grin but it’s entirely fake. I’ve never felt worse. ‘He’s turned into a bit of a stalker, actually.’I try to laugh but the effort breaks me. The tears can no longer be kept in check. Mick’s kindness is a fatal blow. I start to sob. ‘He contacts me all the time, text, e-mail and on messenger.’

  ‘How’s he managed that?’

  ‘He’s tampered with my laptop. He got my mobile number from Julia. I’ve had to change phones but last night he rang me at home. He thinks we have something going. He won’t accept that I was drunk and that he was a mistake. He hounds me, asking when we can meet again. Mick, he’s scaring me. I don’t want to lose my family or my job but I definitely don’t ever want to have to do that with him again.’

  ‘It’s OK, Princess, it’s OK.’Mick is around my side of the table and he’s kneeling on the floor next to me. He’s rubbing his hand on my back. ‘I’ll sort this out. We’ll sort it out together. Don’t worry. We’ll have the bastard fired by this afternoon.’

  I have never before believed in the need for, or the existence of, a knight in shining armour. But right now I think I can hear Mick’s horse gallop towards me and I’m enormously grateful.

  Mick establishes that I have kept some of the e-mails but none of the texts. I show him my BlackBerry and he seems confident that we have a case of sexual harassment. Depressingly he says that there will be no disagreement that Joe has affected my performance at work in the past month.

  ‘But I had sex with him.’

  ‘So what? You don’t want to have sex with him again. He needs to know that no is no. Besides, morally he’s behaved hideously. He took advantage of you when you were plastered.’

  ‘But it’s going to be so embarrassing if Ralph knows what I’ve done. And anyway, even if Ralph does fire Joe, mud sticks. I’ll be marked out as a troublemaker.’

  Mick can’t deny that I have a point. My career in the City will only survive until the next set of culling and then I’ll probably be offered a hearty redundancy package and shown the door too. The City doesn’t like squealers.

  ‘Well, before we try the official channels, we can confront him together, if you prefer.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘Say that we will go to Ralph if he doesn’t resign.’Neither of us considers the possibility of just asking Joe to stop pestering me – it’s gone too far for that. ‘This isn’t just about his inappropriate behaviour in terms of harassing a co-worker. These e-mails suggest the man’s bonkers. He needs help. We’ll put that to him. If he has a shred of sanity or dignity left he’ll get out sharpish. He won’t want a blot in his copybook either.’

  ‘It might work,’I admit.

  For the first time in a month I allow myself to feel hopeful. I lean across and hug Mick. ‘You really are a friend. Thank you.’

  ‘No. A true friend would have shagged you when you offered and saved you from Joe,’says Mick with a sheepish grin. After seeing me cry he’s unsure how much joshing I can take.

  ‘Yes, this is all your fault.’I try to smile through my snot and tears. ‘Seriously though, some good has come out of this debacle,’I add.

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Something’s changed for me. I’ve started to appreciate what I have now it’s all at risk. I know I’m so lucky to have my husband, my daughter, my friends.’I squeeze Mick’s hand affectionately. Suddenly, the relief that Mick’s support has afforded disappears. ‘Oh shit. Peter.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘I wouldn’t. But then I’ve never been married, so I don’t know.’

  ‘Peter’s ex-wife knows about Joe,’I confess.

  ‘What?’Mick can’t believe my life can get any more tragic or farcical. Neither can I. ‘How?’

  ‘I have no idea but she does. She made reference to it when I saw her last Sunday. I’ve hardly slept since.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll tell your husband?’

  ‘I don’t know. She doesn’t owe me any favours. Oh God, I’m so ashamed. What have I done? You see, Mick, in my book having sex with a hideous little man was terrible but I had managed to compartmentalize the disaster in my brain. I had done a lousy thing. But it was over and I’ll never do it again.’

  ‘There were mitigating circumstances and no precalculation,’adds Mick supportively.

  ‘Exactly. But the consequences are foul. I saw that when I looked into Rose’s face on Sunday. I destroyed her family because I loved Peter so much and I had to have him for myself. It’s complex to explain, but Rose glared at me as though I’d destroyed her all over again. You’d expect her to be joyful or vengeful but she looked devastated. For the first time in my life I felt like a thoroughly bad person.’

  ‘You said you loved Peter. Do you still?’

  ‘Yes. More than ever. But as Rose knows, loving a person sometimes isn’t enough. She loved Peter and they still separated and Rose hadn’t even done anything wrong.’

  ‘But he loved you.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Does he still?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Enough?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’

  ‘Who says I want to find out?’

  ‘I can’t help you with that, I’m afraid, Princess. Work, yes, but home is so much more –’

  ‘Personal?’

  ‘Just so much more. Full stop.’

  Mick and I know that we have to get back to the office. We need to face Joe and Ralph will be wondering where the hell we are. Mick tries to pay but I stop him. These coffees really must be on me. I leave the money on the table. The coins roll into my slops and spillages. It seems I can’t do anything right any more.

  47

  Wednesday 6 December

  Rose

  Time marches on and waits for no man, let alone a slightly harassed single mum who is approximately fifteen minutes late for her final night class on car maintenance. I try to sneak into the back of the class, unnoticed, but the tutor is too polite to allow this and insists on interrupting his instruction to welcome me and to sympathize about the unreliability of public transport. Helen grins at me and Susanne throws a small wave. They both look slightly more glamorous than they usually do, which in Helen’s case means she looks as though she’s just stepped out of the pages of a glossy magaz
ine and in Susanne’s case means she’s wearing lipstick. I am in shoes with a three-inch heel (which I am unused to, hence my being late for the bus and, in turn, the class). None of us are appropriately dressed for playing around with engines but tonight we are celebrating surviving the course.

  We’re going to a local Italian restaurant straight after class and I, for one, am extremely excited about the prospect of sitting with a glass of Chianti and munching a pizza. Since Lucy-gate I have mostly lived in my own head, with nothing other than my confusion and anger for company. The idea of sitting still for a few hours, chatting about cheery girl-stuff, is just what I need.

  The moment the class is over Helen, Susanne and I charge out of the musty room. I’m not sorry to leave behind the smell of oil and creosote. We thank the tutor and nod goodbye to the various spotty boys but firmly refuse their generous invite to join them in the pub to talk sparkplugs.

  We each hold on to our gossip until we are shown to our seats, have ordered our food and have a glass of wine in our hands.

  ‘Cheers,’says Susanne. ‘To Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas?’yells Helen in disbelief. ‘How can you be thinking about Christmas now? It’s weeks away.’

  How can she not be thinking about Christmas yet? Helen is clearly one of those people who buys her gifts on Christmas Eve, probably from the 7–11. In our house Christmas becomes a hot topic just after bonfire night. The boys have written, rewritten and then rewritten the rewrites of their letters to Santa, several times. They are not especially committed believers. Sebastian purports to be atheist, having declared, when he was six, that Santa, Rudolf and Mrs Christmas, etc. are all bogus; although he did concede that the North Pole was real but only after I’d shown him our Reader’s Digest world atlas. Henry hedges his bets a little more. He sets the table from time to time in December and tries to keep his room tidyish, just in case there is a naughty and nice book. I guess he’s more of an agnostic. However, as Christmas nears they both like to cover themselves and drop Santa a line detailing their plastic desires. They are a little like lapsed Catholics popping to confession once every year or so.

  ‘I feel I’ve just taken down the sodding tinsel from last year,’groans Helen.

  ‘I know. Time flies,’I agree.

  The first school term is always the busiest. I have held it together throughout harvest festival, jeans day, character from a book day, the fitting of sports mouth-guards, school photos, Hallowe’en, bonfire night and suddenly, here we are two weeks away from nativity. Two villagers’costumes to go and I’m in the clear. Well, besides embarking on the mammoth amount of work that is necessary to make sure Christmas runs smoothly.

  Daisy, Simon, Mum and Dad are coming to my house this year, as they do every year. For some reason, unaccountable to me, this has caused Daisy to throw a mini strop.

  ‘I was wondering if we could have Christmas at my house this year?’she said at the beginning of November.

  ‘We never do,’I stated flatly.

  ‘That’s my point,’she muttered.

  ‘You don’t like cooking,’I added reasonably.

  ‘You could cook at mine.’She didn’t look hopeful. I’ve been hosting Christmas for over a decade. It’s traditional. Why would we do it differently this year?

  ‘Oh, I prefer my own oven. Besides, you haven’t got as much space,’I argued.

  ‘I have a spare room for Mum and Dad. There’s the bed settee, we’d manage.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’I said firmly and finally. ‘The boys like to stay in their own home on Christmas day.’

  Daisy shot me a murderous glance. ‘The boys couldn’t care less. It’s you,’she muttered.

  I chose not to say anything else. I didn’t want a row but I certainly didn’t want to give way. I have ambiguous feelings towards Christmas and only manage to get through it if I follow a set and strict agenda. My agenda.

  Until Peter left, I loved Christmas with an unadulterated passion. His departure has complicated this, like everything else.

  I loved Christmas throughout my twenties. When friends were becoming weary and viewed it as nothing other than an excuse to get drunk and have sex with inappropriate strangers, I still saw it as a gloriously magical time. I liked choosing oh-so-perfect gifts. I liked spending evenings writing cards and carefully wrapping pressies with copious amounts of tissue and ribbons. I liked the full churches and I did not resent once-a-year-Christians appearing at midnight mass, slightly the worse for wear but well-intentioned. I loved being a great hostess and, throughout the season, I threw my doors open for several parties and gatherings besides the big day itself. I prided myself on producing delicious, distinguished, unparalleled lunches. My pheasant and pork with crackling and roast apples, seasoned delicately with thyme and parsley, served with caramelized fennel and spiced red cabbage and cranberries, is an unsurpassable feast, even if I say so myself.

  Until Peter left.

  Then I noticed that Christmas came with overwhelming expectations. Suddenly it was chilling to notice families sitting around hearths, to watch couples drag home Christmas trees and to know that tear-jerking nativity plays were being performed in every school hall up and down the country. My coping strategy was to carry on as I did before and then some. Now I invest more, not less, time into selecting thoughtful gifts. Wrapping them has become an art form. I now have two Christmas trees, one in the hall, the other in the lounge. I practise recipes for roast parsnip and honey weeks in advance of Christmas day.

  Yet at Christmas I still notice the enormous black hole in my life. However many car maintenance courses or blind dates I fit in, no matter how many committees I sit on or hours I spend reading to the children or managing their health, education and emotional needs, there is a hole. A gap. A void. Secretly, I find that I’ve started to look forward to January, when things get back to normal. Tacky tinsel is put away and over-eating and binge drinking is seen for what it was, ruinous on one’s health.

  Helen and Susanne start to talk about work. Helen has been offered a promotion but she’s unsure whether to take it. She says she sees little enough of her partner, Mike, as it is.

  ‘Besides, Mike got promoted about two months ago so it’s not as if we need the money,’she says.

  She looks embarrassed, because Susanne and I know that Mike will not have sat in the pub with his mates discussing whether the promotion would have a detrimental effect on their relationship. No doubt he took the private car parking space and the bigger office without a moment’s hesitation. She doesn’t need us to point this out to her.

  ‘I’d take it, girl. See how you get along,’says Susanne. I nod encouragingly.

  Susanne is rushed off her feet in the salon at the moment. Despite Helen’s reluctance to embrace the onslaught of Christmas, the rest of the western world are very aware that the geese are getting fat, which has a direct correlation to their hair needing to be trimmed, permed, lightened or straightened.

  ‘It’s my busiest time of year. If I’m unsociable and don’t resurface until January, don’t write me off,’says Susanne with a smile.

  ‘We won’t. I’m sure that we’ll keep in touch. You two are the best thing about the course,’I say. We all grin reassuringly at one another and luxuriate in a moment of female friendship. ‘I also liked the bit about changing tyres, I think that will be useful,’I add with a smirk.

  Susanne nudges me playfully and then asks, ‘So what next?’Next? Why do people keep asking me that? ‘I’m going to have a go at a fine art course. There’s one starting in the spring. It’s not expensive and you sketch live models in the first modular. They might have male models. It will be the first bit of naked flesh I’ve seen since –’Susanne stops talking and starts to count on her fingers.

  ‘Not for me,’I state firmly. ‘I was never any good at art and couldn’t bring myself to stare at naked bodies for hours on end. Flesh, I’ve always thought, ought to be covered up.’

  They both laugh even though I’m not
trying to be funny.

  Helen says, ‘I thought I might join a sociology class.’

  Both ladies turn to me. I shrug. I haven’t thought about it at all. All I’ve been thinking about is Lucy and Peter. Susanne lets me off the hook.

  ‘You’ve been too busy dating to give it any thought, haven’t you? How’s it going?’

  ‘Frankly, I’m wondering when I can quit the search for Mr Right. As I don’t think he exists, my task is a little like looking for an invisible needle in a haystack.’

  ‘He exists,’chorus Susanne and Helen at once.

  I stare at them both, mystified. I can understand that Helen might believe in Mr Right. After all, she has Mike, and while I might think he’s a little selfish when it comes to his career progression versus life balance, it doesn’t seem to bother her. But Susanne is alone and has been for more months than she has fingers and toes. Where do they find their optimism?

  ‘How did it go with the headmaster? We haven’t seen you since the wedding date. You’ve cut so many classes and when you do show up you rush off before we can chat,’observes Susanne.

  I stare at my pizza and wonder how honest I can be with Helen and Susanne. I’m desperate to tell someone about the revelation I uncovered at the wedding and it can’t be Connie or Daisy, not until I’ve worked out what to do about Lucy.

  ‘I had a great time,’I admit.

  ‘You liked him?’There is surprise in Helen’s voice.

  ‘Very much,’I confess with a shy smile. ‘He’s kind, thoughtful and funny. Plus, he looked great in his suit.’