by Tara Ford
The glorious weather was on our side and ensured that the kids were mostly out, doing their own things or enjoying the outdoor activity centre. Emma had been given back some freedom, more for our sake than hers. The only person who didn’t go out was Aaron. Only in a virtual world did he travel anywhere.
There had been many opportunities to talk, whisper-scream, curse and quiz Grant, but none of it had got us anywhere. My stubborn streak would not budge and his actions of that night would never go away, only pale into insignificance over time, or so I hoped and prayed. The mobile had remained untouched. Grant had not dared to turn it on or move it from its place of routine inspection, until now. Shakily I picked it up and hobbled through to the living room where he sat staring into space.
“Turn it on,” I said abruptly as I threw it across the room to land in his lap.
“No Alex, I don’t want this to get any worse. I’d rather go and buy a new one with a new number.”
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,” I snorted back. “The text messages can’t get any worse, can they?” Doubt raised its ugly head again.
Reluctantly he turned the phone on and we sat together for the first time in days and waited.
Hi sexy, call me when you get this. xxx The first text message came through. I’m hot and horny, wanna chat? Love R xxx Then more and more:Would love to meet up with you at the weekend if you’re not busy R xxx
“See what I mean? She’s crazy.”
“Right, let’s go and see her. I’ll tell her to back off.” Feeling brave, I felt I had to go and see her and tell her myself. That way I felt more secure about it being finished.
“Bloody hell Alex, no way.” Grant’s eyes widened to the size of golf balls.
“It’s the only way we’ll get over this Grant.”
“Oh my God, seriously Alex?”
“Yes, seriously.” I gulped.
To be fair to Grant, I checked his sent messages and could see that he had not in any way encouraged her. In fact he’d discouraged her from calling or texting him in his own ‘cute’ way.
Her persistence was at fault here and I needed to deal with it for myself if there was any chance of us getting back to normal. Finally agreeing to me texting a message to her from my phone, Grant hesitantly gave me the number.
My name is Alex, I’m Grant’s wife. Please leave him alone and DO NOT contact him anymore. Thank you.
The phone stayed silent for a couple of hours before the familiar ‘beep beep’ announced a text message. Nervously I opened up the message from Rachel. No worries, you can have him. Didn’t fancy him anyway, LOL.
Furiously I replied, BITCH.
“Was that her?” whispered Grant as we sat in the living room watching TV and eating a takeaway, lovingly brought by Jack.
“Hmm,” I nodded with a mouthful. “She just said ‘fine’.”
Relief replaced the days of dread etched on Grant’s face. I then understood that he had made the biggest mistake of his life and that he would never again risk losing me for a cheap drunken thrill.
As the evening drew to a close a feeling of love and warmth drifted over me. I would never have given him up that easily anyway. I’m a fighter and my husband and family mean everything.
Picturing the obsessive tart with huge tits sitting in a lonely bedsit plotting her next victim, I smiled as I surveyed the beautiful room I was sitting in, surrounded by beautiful people.
Bedtime came and my husband and I were reunited as one, as his lovemaking expressed a thousand apologies.
Staring at the ceiling in the darkness, Grant remained motionless as the euphoria subsided and his clammy body began to chill. His lovemaking had been gentle and erotic. Alex was his lifelong love and would continue to be forever. They now both understood this and realised the extent of the potential damage caused by a single person. No one would come between them ever again. Although he hadn’t told her everything, he hoped he could forget the whole sorry affair and that it would never rear its ugly head to bite him again.
The phone sex session had been rather unusual, he thought – didn’t most men fantasise about the woman they were talking to?
Rachel had led him into a state of frenzy with her sexually sordid words and explicitly detailed description of her own actions as she coerced him into a state of heightened pleasure. The unusual part of it was that the image Grant held in his mind throughout the whole experience was that of his beloved wife.
The mysterious illness was the only pressing issue left to deal with, apart from Alex’s mother and the nosey neighbour Evelyn. Grant knew he could deal with anything as long as he had Alex by his side. Admitting he had totally fallen apart when she became ill, he thought of the children and the strength he should have drawn from them. It was too late for that now, but maybe a lesson learned, he thought as he smiled to himself and fell asleep.
Another Sunday morning arrived. Mum had been on the phone constantly since I’d arrived home and I’d practically switched off my listening ear every time I was trapped into taking the calls.
“Evelyn’s so upset, you know. I can’t believe he spoke to her like that.”
“Mum, he’s been really stressed out. He hasn’t coped well with me being in hospital,” I huffed. “I’ll get him to apologise to her. She’ll be okay.”
“Well he ought to learn how to cope in these types of situations Alex. For goodness’ sake, he’s not a child.”
Raising my eyebrows at the handset, I tutted. “Yes, I know Mum.”
Having counted the calls and the repeated conversations, I concluded that we had gone through the same dialogue no less than fourteen times, over the course of three days.
Oh, and the other one was—
“Will you have a word with your dad about this blasted boat? The museum has called twice now to arrange a convenient time to collect it but your father is adamant that he wants you to see it afloat.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, put him on the phone.”
Dad was a joker and I didn’t take him seriously when he said the museum was not getting it. I reminded him that they had a special place reserved for the magnificent ship, a prime spot at the very front of their Titanic display.
“It’s an honour, Dad. Stop messing about, you’re doing Mum’s head in.”
Dad was a quiet old chap but he did enjoy pulling Mum’s leg – constantly.
Other calls had been taken by Grant and the kids, and each time I waved my hands rapidly to denote, ‘I’m not here’ and ‘I’m busy’. The ‘I’m asleep’ gesture was the easiest one to convey as I clasped my hands together in a sideways prayer and tucked them under my chin. I hadn’t been in any stable state of mind to talk to anyone other than Mum and Dad, and even that was very forced.
My renewed, gorgeous husband had been to the shop midweek to collect the mail and send my gratitude to the staff, and then came home with a carrier bag full of ‘Get well soon’ cards which brought a lump to my already lumpy throat. The mantelpiece ornaments were fighting for their rightful place amongst the countless cards I had received. Not realising I had so many friends and acquaintances, I felt humbled to have been given so many gifts and flowers too.
As for the children, life had returned to normal, except for the fact that their mum was a bit slower off the mark, and their dad had been grumpier than usual and spent far more time in his shed in one week than he had done in the previous year.
The house was more flower-scented and less sooty, and the shopping arrived on Friday night to fill the empty cupboards and fridge.
A smiling face suggested that Aaron was pleased with his new phone, and Grant too had a new mobile and number. My decision to text the other woman had taken the situation out of his hands and given him some relief. He could now start to lead a near normal existence again.
Grant and Aaron’s Saturday shopping experience had been heart-warming but haphazard as they both hated shopping on any day of the week, and weekends were even worse. But they had done it. They’d survived and they
were happy as they could be. However, as they dashed through the precinct like two tearaway thieves, the local policeman gave them a decidedly suspicious stare as they ran from the phone shop with boxes tucked under their arms.
“You should have taken the carrier bags you were offered,” I scoffed. “It wouldn’t have looked good if you’d been arrested Grant, would it? Not after the things that you’ve been up to lately.” I eyed him with contempt.
The police report had still not been completed, due to Grant’s lack of responsibility and inept capabilities when situations arose. His motto of the week was “I’ll do it ASAP.”
Having resigned himself to the fact that yet another bike had disappeared into the underworld of bike thieves, Joe ranted on and on to anyone who would care to listen about the killer cows in Brookling Field, trying to gain an ounce of sympathy. Sadly he received the same response from every one of his listeners, as he retold his story while everyone just rolled around laughing.
It was a momentous day for Emma when she decided one morning that she would train to be a nurse when she left school. Tending to her thumb and several of her Dad’s ailments had gone extremely well, she said, although she wasn’t sure whether to take up the embalming course as well.
In the knowledge that I was healing in body, mind and facial features, Jack decided to get a last-minute flight to the Costa del Sol, joining his mates on an extended holiday. He would be leaving in the early hours to catch the Monday morning flight from London. Whistling around the house and most annoyingly humming Rule Britannia, he packed Bermuda shorts and tight fitting t-shirts into his army-issue holdall. A real break, sun-kissed girls and copious amounts of alcohol were just what he needed before he returned to Germany and work.
Already back with the twins in Wales, Josie expected that the boys would be excited about a summer trip to the Frey household for one last time before they grew up completely and preferred to do the same thing as Jack, and they were pleased. However, accompanied or alone in the future, Josie would always venture east to spend some holidays in England, and more specifically, with the only family she had.
The walking was getting easier and easier by the day as my strength returned. The hospital discharge letter described my condition as a systemic viral illness, which I presumed left it open to many possibilities. Next week I would venture to the doctor’s and pick up the test results, but for now I had no worries, certain that I was returning to full health, as before.
It was inevitable that the phone would start its usual trill on a Sunday morning. Mum, I thought as I hobbled over to get it.
“Alex, is that you?” she shrieked.
“Yes Mum, are you—”
“Can you get over here quick? Your father – oh,” she sobbed.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” I asked. Muffled sniffles and slurping noises came through the earpiece. “Mum?” I paused and listened. “Are you okay?”
“Oh dear, Alex, what can I do?” A sudden burst of howling and Mum was inarticulate.
“What is going on?” I shouted. “Mother, talk to me.”
Sniffing and shaky-voiced, she managed to pull herself together. “I knew it Alex, I bloody knew it.”
“Knew what?” I was getting anxious now. “Come on, spit it out.”
“It’s the garage, I’ve seen it.” She started bawling again with more fervency.
“Seen what, for heaven’s sake? What the hell is going on?”
“The garage. I wondered why he’d left the car...”
“Left it where?” I bet it’s been stolen. She’s so over the top.
“Left what where? What are you talking about?” she replied with a shirty tone.
“You just said he’s left the car!” I yelled obnoxiously.
“Oh no, I can’t take anymore. Can you come over?” The phone almost vibrated as she roared down it.
“Mum, tell me what has happened, will you?” Losing my patience, I held the phone away and shook it vigorously whilst growling at it. “Calm down please.”
“Who’s that?” whispered Grant as he strolled in from the garden.
“It’s Mum,” I mouthed with raised eyebrows as he tutted and walked past, pinching my bottom as he went. “Ouch!”
“What did you say?” Mum asked frantically.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Trying to contain a giggle, I said more seriously, “Right Mum, what’s wrong with the car?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the bloody car Alex. It’s your father. He’s gone completely insane.”
I was now totally confused. Smiling at Grant, I rolled my eyes and shrugged my shoulders in despair.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mum.”
“Your father – you know, the man you call Dad?” she replied sarcastically.
“Yes, I know, what’s he done?”
“What has he done? I’ve just told you for Christ’s sake. Weren’t you listening?” The crying had ceased, capped by sarcastic anger.
Struggling to take her obvious despair seriously, I winked at Grant. We’d been here many times before. Mum was so melodramatic. The problem was (and Grant had highlighted the issue) that when the time came for a real emergency, no one would believe in her wailing and gibberish phone calls. She could cry for the country, at the most ridiculous things. The stupid thing was that when there was something to cry about, she didn’t cry.
Only last year one of her manic phone calls rang alarm bells and Grant and I thought she was either going to divorce my dad or shoot him with his own pellet gun, and all because some pigeons had crapped on her head on three separate occasions. She’d had some sticky poo problems with the birds over the previous few months and complained to dad incessantly.
“I’ll go and bloody well shoot them all then, shall I?”
“Oh my goodness, don’t do that Charlie, no.” Distraught at the mere suggestion of harming the little feathery things, Mum asked if they could get a scarecrow in the garden.
You can imagine Dad’s reply to that.
On the day that she called me in tears, she had just discovered that Dad had actually been encouraging the birds by feeding them in the corner of the garden and throwing birdseed onto the flat roof of their conservatory. This explained the gloopy downpour onto Mum’s head whenever she went into the garden to hang out the washing.
Dad was given strict instructions to stop his form of pest control (controlling the birds so they defecated on his wife’s head for fun), although he found the whole situation very funny. So did we. Mum did not.
“Can we start this conversation again? I’m lost.” I spoke calmly although I wanted to scream at her. Get a grip on yourself, Mum!
Over by the window, Grant watched me with his deep brown eyes and shook his head in disapproval.
Shrugging again, I listened intently, trying to avoid Grant’s gaze. I knew he wanted me again, and I wanted him too.
“Start at the beginning, Mum.” Again I spoke calmly and quietly as the sniffles in the phone lowered to a barely audible puff.
“Your dad has been in the garage for days. I wondered why the car wasn’t in there.”
She paused.
“Yes, go on.”
“Then I saw him take it out this morning.” Her voice trembled and I held my breath, waiting for the next deluge of bawling, but thankfully it never came.
“What?”
“He’s tied it to the roof rack, Alex.”
Mum paused and presumably blew her nose as I heard a snorting noise like an elephant blowing water from its trunk. Images rose in my mind of what he could have possibly tied to the roof rack: a dead body? Evelyn’s dead body? Or maybe it was just an unwelcome scarecrow.
“What has he tied to the roo—”
“He’s going in a minute, you’ve got to stop him!” she squealed.
“Going where, Mum?” I screamed down the phone.
Grant jumped up, sensing my anger building. It wasn’t
funny anymore. “Shall I talk to her?” he whispered, reaching for the handset.
Shaking my head, I asked her again.
“Where is he going?”
“To the park of course. Where else would he be going with it?”
“With what Mum?” I paused, waiting for a reply as Mum huffed and puffed down the phone and I desperately tried not to sound irritated. “Why is he going to the park and what is on the car?” I asked slowly as the realisation began to dawn on me. “What exactly is on the roof rack, Mum?” I asked again, more abruptly.
“It’s a bloody three-foot-high, papier-mâché iceberg!”
Epilogue
Picking Mum up in the car, we drove down to Gilbert’s Park, not knowing quite what to expect when we arrived. It was still fairly early on Sunday morning and the boating lake didn’t open until twelve o’clock, so apart from the occasional dog walker, there weren’t many people around.
Driving down the path towards the lake, we could just see Dad’s car in the distance, but there was no sign of any other vehicles or cameramen, which was what Mum was dreading.
“There – he’s down there. I can see him standing by the edge. What is he doing?” Mum squealed. Her bulbous, red, tearful eyes glistened in the strong sunlight pouring through the windscreen.
Turning the bend, we came to a halt in front of a large oak tree, and there it was, floating majestically on the water’s surface, right in the middle of the lake. Looking menacingly real, the giant replica iceberg gently bobbed up and down on the breeze, blowing across Dad’s Atlantic Ocean.
The Titanic had left the dock and was being carefully manoeuvred across the water with radio signals, under the expert hand of Dad.
“Dad!” I shouted as Grant helped me out of the car and down to the water’s edge.
“Charlie, have you gone completely crazy?” Mum yelled as she cautiously made her way down to the familiar diving board.
“Don’t worry I’m not going to sink it really. Just thought I would get some good photographs and film to give to the museum. They’ll like it,” said Dad, coolly and calmly.