There’s enough of that nonsense when you’re an adult.
I tuck her in and kiss her on the head and we sing three versions of ‘Old MacDonald’ together. Her speaking is getting so good now, I can understand every word.
I didn’t tell Riley the truth. Esther isn’t at work. She’s gone to Vivienne and Sean’s party. I was invited too, half-heartedly at 3pm this afternoon, but Esther knew we weren’t going to go to the effort of getting a babysitter so that I could go as well. It was weird, her not telling me about it beforehand.
After I tuck Riley in, I do something I’ve been meaning to do for ages. I go up to the loft and dig out a box of my old DVDs. Esther had told the removal men to put them up there. Annoying, but she either thought she was protecting my feelings, or she didn’t think I would care. Not sure which is worse.
She’s never even asked to watch them.
I don’t have as many as I thought. Just eight. My own scribbled handwriting on the covers.
Halls Club June 2001
French House March – Support 2001
The Comedy Cellar August 2002
Best of Edinburgh Shows (Compilation) 2002
Robin Morgan Showreel 2002
Etc., etc.
Not much for a lifetime’s work.
I sit back.
I take out the Best of Edinburgh DVD and push it into the slot on the small portable television we’ve had for years that’s been sitting on the floor in the corner of the loft conversion, waiting to be found a home. It takes a few seconds to sort itself out, but eventually the screen fills with the image of me, standing in front of a dark purple curtain someone has clearly masking-taped to the back of the titchy stage.
God, what a dive.
But my eyes are drawn to her, of course. Sarah.
She is standing next to me. We begin our old routine – sparring off one another, riffing and laughing and loving it. It was original, back then. Our whole thing was her outwitting me as I struggled to argue my case for being a belligerent, self-indulgent waste of space. My Better Half, that was the name of our first show. At the end we got the audience to vote for who they thought was the better half – a show of hands, not particularly accurate, but even so. Sarah always won, but that’s only because the blokes in the audience wanted to fuck her.
I watch a few minutes, but that’s all I can stand. I press the pause button, freezing myself mid ridiculous leap across the stage. The audience are laughing along with me, but it’s obvious it’s just because they’re all pissed out of their heads.
I’ve got the energy and enthusiasm all right. I’m young, sweaty and hairy, bouncing about like some demented Tigger. They’re swept up in it – my unshakeable self-belief. That’s what always got me through. But there’s no point in denying it: watching now, in 2018, I’m not funny.
Just like the drugs, the jokes don’t work anymore. I just look like a tosser.
I sit back, staring at the image of a much younger me. A much younger me who still believed he was going to do something with his life. Still believed he had the talent to stand out. Still believed he would be famous one day.
And then I look at Sarah. She was always funnier than me. That’s what hurt.
Sarah, the love of my life. The one I thought I’d keep forever. But no, of course I didn’t. Set myself right up for that one, didn’t I? We spent two years touring this show until Sarah herself also realised that she truly was the better half, and upgraded.
What’s not fair is that I know my sitcom is better than the shit we used to perform. Much, much better. I’ve matured as a writer; I’ve got nuance and subtlety and the wisdom and humour which come with age. And yet, because of her, there’s no chance of it ever seeing the light of day.
There are only two choices available to me now. One is to cry.
I don’t cry.
Instead, I do something more ‘in character’. I kick the television screen. I’m wearing the old-man slippers Esther bought me for Christmas. I like the irony. The TV screen shatters against the force, makes a strange fizzing noise.
Blood pools inside my slipper, soaking through the material. I shake it off and grab my foot right before the blood drips on to our new oatmeal carpet. Seconds later the throbbing starts.
There’s a small – also oatmeal – towel in the en-suite bathroom that adjoins the loft bedroom, and I yank it from its rail and wrap it around my smashed foot. Then I go back to the bedroom, where the television is still hissing and buzzing, and turn it off at the socket.
I’ll deal with it later.
As I limp downstairs, I hear someone scratching at the front door lock. I am standing in the middle of the bottom staircase as Esther comes in.
Her hair is a mess, her cheeks flushed. I thought she would be out for hours.
She stares at me for a few seconds.
‘What have you done to your foot?’ she says, as a spot of blood escapes from my towel-bandage, and drips on to the floor.
‘How was the party?’ I say, in the kitchen, my foot wrapped in a bag of ice.
‘It was . . .’ Esther says, looking away. She is panting slightly. ‘I don’t know. Loud. Fine. Whatever. How was Riley?’
‘Still coughing a bit but the rivers of green slime have stopped cascading from her micro nostrils at least. I did really hate that towel,’ I say, looking over at it, offering a grin. Esther has left it soaking in cold water in the sink, but it’ll never be the same again. Blood is one of the trickiest stains to shift. ‘I mean, it’s beige. But sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘What happened?’
She hasn’t been upstairs yet. I consider my options.
‘I tripped,’ I say, my head down. ‘I . . . was watching some of my old stuff back. And I tripped, and my foot went through the television screen.’
‘You tripped,’ she repeats, and I look up at her.
‘Your hands are trembling,’ I say, taking one of hers with my free hand and rubbing it.
‘Just low blood sugar,’ she says, pushing her fringe out of her eyes and pulling her hand back. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat.’
‘There’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re starving,’ I say. ‘From Riley’s lunch. But I was going to order a takeaway when you got in.’
‘We’re always getting takeaways,’ Esther says, pulling the Tupperware of pasta out of the fridge. ‘Expensive habit.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Guess who I saw at the party?’ she says, inhaling deeply.
‘No idea.’
‘Kim,’ she says, glancing at my foot.
‘What?’ My throat is suddenly dry. I reach for the glass of water in front of me, taking a deep glug.
‘Back from her cruise ship,’ Esther says, and then she turns away, to reach into the drawer for a fork.
‘Good for her,’ I reply, swallowing. This is what happens when you take your eye off the ball, Bird. Why the fuck did I let her go to the party?
‘Back from her cruise ship,’ Esther repeats, staring coolly at me in a way I don’t recognise. It’s as though she’s borrowed someone else’s mannerism. ‘And denying any knowledge of the twenty thousand pounds we paid her when Riley was born.’
She takes the lid off the Tupperware.
‘So,’ she says, but her hand is still shaking. ‘Tell me, Rob, why do you think that might be?’
Esther
My hand grips the lid of the Tupperware. I realise my whole arm is shaking, that my stomach is turning over like a washing machine. I should have eaten something first. Before I tackled him. I should have thought this through. Had a game plan.
That’s what he must have done.
Planned it.
The thought makes me shiver.
I look up at him.
His face is impressively
impassive. He turns away and hauls himself up on to the bar stool, still clutching his stupid foot.
The silence stretches. I find myself itching to fill it, as I always end up doing. That’s the dynamic of our relationship these days: he sulks, I rush to console. But no, not tonight.
I swallow.
He takes a breath.
‘I thought she might do something like this,’ he says, sighing.
‘Something like what?’ My voice is almost a screech. ‘What has she done?’
‘Try to come between us,’ he replies. ‘She’s been threatening . . .’ He tails off, a beat of consideration. ‘What exactly did she say?’
‘She said you never paid her a penny. She said . . . she said . . .’ What did she say? I can’t remember. I didn’t give her a chance to speak. I was so flustered I just ran off. ‘She said she never got any money, that she would never sign away the rights to her daughter!’
‘And you believed her?’ Robin looks up at me, his face breaking into a smile.
I swallow. It’s that same face he always pulls. The condescending one. The one that says ‘oh silly Esther, what a gullible twit you are’.
I hate him.
‘Yes, I believed her,’ I spit. ‘Why would she make something like that up?’
‘Because she wants more money, of course!’ he shouts. ‘For God’s sake, Esther. What did you say to her?’ He stands up, his voice a roar.
‘I didn’t say anything!’ I shout back. ‘I said I had to talk to you.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ he says, calmer again. Shifting tone as always, trying to keep me on the back foot. ‘I guess. I knew she couldn’t be trusted. I should never . . . I should never . . .’
‘Have slept with her?’ I reply bitterly. The tears begin to stream, and I’m filled with fury at myself, my own weakness. Why do I always cry when I’m angry? It’s so unfair.
‘I can’t regret that,’ Robin says, his voice suddenly soft, staring straight at me. ‘You know I can’t. Because I love our daughter. Our daughter, Esther. She’s yours and mine. Remember that. We’ve raised her. Not her. Not that . . . woman.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Of course, I regret the situation that led to it. Of course I do. But we’ve gone over that enough.’
I narrow my eyes, try to clear the muddled thinking in my head.
‘Let me get this straight, then,’ I say, speaking calmly and slowly, like I would to a belligerent colleague. ‘You’re saying that Kim sat there opposite me this evening and looked me straight in the eyes and denied ever having taken any money from us, and that she is lying? You’re saying she lied to my face?’
‘Are you surprised?’ Robin says. He scoffs. ‘Think about what you’re saying for a second. This is a woman who snogs other people’s husbands in front of them. Sleeps with them when they’re in no fit state to make that kind of . . . decision. And then happily sells her unwanted baby. And you’re surprised that she might be capable of lying to you?’
‘But . . .’ I frown, trying to straighten the tangled pieces in my head. She didn’t seem like she was lying, but then again, I don’t know this woman at all.
‘But no,’ he continues, his voice rising again. ‘No, you’d prefer to believe that I’m the one who’s lying. Even though I’ve never lied to you! Even though I’m your husband. Even though I told you as soon as she got pregnant. I told you what I’d done, that I was sorry, that I’d only consider keeping the baby if that was what you wanted too. Only if you felt you could cope with that situation. I have never lied to you! I’ve been honest with you throughout this whole . . . mess, Esther. Unlike you. But no, you prefer to believe her – a woman who basically sold her baby – over me!’
‘But why would she do that? Why deny the money? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘God knows. But more importantly, why would I do it?’ he says, ignoring me. ‘Think about that for a second. And where exactly do you think this money went? To pay off my drug dealer? To my secret family? Where exactly did this twenty thousand pounds that you put into my account go? Did it vaporise into thin air?’
‘I . . .’ I say. ‘Don’t shout at me. Please. I don’t know. I’ve never gone through your bank account.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he shouts. ‘We’re married! Jesus, Esther! Think about what you’re saying. Why would I steal money from you? You’re my wife!’
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I say, shaking. ‘I just don’t understand why she would lie to me, either . . .’
‘There’s one thing I didn’t tell you,’ Robin begins, and I look back up again in fright. ‘It’s not a lie. I just decided not to bother you with it. Because I didn’t want you to worry. But she’s been pressurising me for weeks. Asking for more money. Saying that if we don’t give it to her, she’ll make a claim for custody of Riley. She’s been hassling me non-stop – endless phone calls and threats. I’ve been ignoring her. Never give in to blackmailers, that’s what they say, isn’t it? I was going to tell you but then . . . well, she went quiet. But I suspected she might be planning something like this . . . trying to get to you . . .’
He pauses. I am back in the washing machine, but instead of it being just my stomach that’s turning over, I feel like my whole body is being flung this way and that. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know who to believe. I don’t know anything anymore.
‘Why was she even at the party?’ he says. I stare at him and then out of the corner of my eye I notice something. His fingers, twitching, his forefinger rubbing over the nail of his thumb, moving round and around as though he’s trying to work loose a knot. ‘She must have gone deliberately to track you down. Did she say anything else? Anything about trying to take Riley back? Did she threaten you?’
His words have come out in a rush. Unlike the furious denial of a few seconds ago, he sounds nervous suddenly.
‘She didn’t say anything,’ I say. His nerves have calmed me. ‘Just that she never received any money from us. I was so shocked, I just left . . .’
I pause. His fingers have stopped twitching, his shoulders visibly drop. His face opens, all the tension in it suddenly vanished. He’s relaxed now. Now he knows that’s all Kim has said to me.
And that’s it. That little gesture I know so well. That’s what gives him away.
And that’s when I know for sure. He’s lying.
Esther
‘Wakey-wakey,’ Robin says, handing me a mug of tea. ‘You’re going to be late for work.’
I’m sitting at the kitchen island, watching Robin make Riley breakfast. Neither of us slept well last night. I could hardly bear to lie next to him in the same bed.
‘I . . .’ I begin. ‘I’m not feeling great. I’m going to call in sick.’
Robin raises one eyebrow.
‘More Shreddies! More Shreddies!’ Riley calls, giggling as she pours almost the entire carton into her bowl. They reach the rim and begin to spill over the top, but I don’t snap at her as I usually would. Instead I find myself transfixed, watching and waiting to see if Robin will be the bad guy and tell her that enough is enough.
I have only just realised how often I have had to be the bad cop – how often Robin has let me take the lead on discipline and boundaries. He has sat back and watched me be strict, knowing that it would make him the popular parent. The fun one.
‘I don’t think Mummy will be very happy with you for doing that, Riles,’ Robin says, taking the carton away from her. ‘You’ll make Mummy cross.’
I lift the edges of my mouth but I don’t speak. He notices, sees I am not rising to the bait.
‘What’s the matter?’ he says, as he tips Shreddies back into the box. I am perched on a stool at our perfect island unit. Part of me feels as though I’ve been reformed in the same stone as our shiny new work surface.
He raises his eyebrows at me, t
he gesture asking if I’m still upset about last night.
‘I’ve got an upset stomach,’ I reply, and bile rushes to my throat. I swallow it, breathing in sharply, trying to ignore the acidic burn. ‘It’s . . . it’s fine. I just didn’t get much sleep. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘Not the nonsense we discussed yesterday, I hope.’
‘No,’ I lie. ‘Work stuff.’
He smiles; a fixed, insincere grin.
‘Tell me. I’m all ears!’ he says, pouring milk into Riley’s bowl, and facing her. ‘That’s what you always say, isn’t it, madam? Daddy’s got big ears.’
‘Huge.’ She nods, sending a splash of milk out from her bowl as she plonks her spoon into it. ‘Not me. My ears small. Daddy’s huge.’
‘Cheeky monkey,’ he says, stroking the top of her head. ‘Now, what’s so important that it stopped poor Mummy from sleeping, I wonder?’
He glances back at me. I feel my eyes hardening. A shot of pure rage pulses through me.
It’s as though I am seeing everything clearly for the first time. Can our entire relationship really be built on lies? Can my husband really have stolen my money? Twenty thousand pounds of it?
But if it wasn’t for the money, why would Kim have ever handed her daughter over to us? It doesn’t make any sense.
Robin told me she was in debt, that she’d lived this crazy life, not looking further ahead than the next week, racked up credit card bills and overdrafts with no way of paying them off. That I could believe.
He told me that she’d threatened him with an abortion, saying she simply couldn’t afford to have the baby. If she was pregnant she couldn’t work, and if she couldn’t work, she would starve. He said it was only right that we compensate her and that yes, twenty thousand pounds was a hell of a lot of money, but it was worth it to make sure that she was comfortable while she was pregnant, and that lots of people spent the same or more on IVF.
The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020 Page 18