Getting over Gary (Whitsborough Bay Trilogy Book 2)

by Jessica Redland

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’

  I shook my head. ‘You did, Gary, but you chose to do nothing about it and I, like always, didn’t push the issue. It’s how it’s always been with the two of us isn’t it? I stay quiet and keep the peace and you ignore your mother’s appalling behaviour.’

  He looked down at the floor, which showed me that he agreed.

  ‘I won’t say anything,’ I said again, ‘but I suggest you don’t leave it too late to tell your mother yourself. We live in a small town and word has a habit of getting around.’ I opened the front door.

  He remained in the hall. ‘You think she’ll find out about Rob?’ he whispered, panic etched across his face.

  ‘Of course she’ll find out. The woman’s a walking gossip column.’ I closed the door again as realisation hit me. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? That’s really why you married me. So she didn’t disown you like Lloyd.’

  Gary’s silence and downcast eyes said it all.

  ‘I think you’ve just answered my question.’ I opened the door again. ‘I’ll text you or email you next week about the practical stuff and I’ll text you if your mother rings, but please don’t get in touch with me. You’ve got what you want, but I need some time to get my head round the huge lie that our life has been and decide what I want.’

  ‘But—’

  I put my hand up in a stop gesture. ‘No, Gary. Listen to what I’m saying for once in your life. I mean it. Leave me alone and this can remain amicable. Keep pestering me and things will turn nasty. That’s not a threat, by the way, it’s a statement of fact. I need time and I need space. Goodbye Gary.’

  The moment I closed the door, my jelly legs gave way and I sank to the floor, sobbing. It was a lie from the start. Right from the very start. Exactly what I’d feared the most. He’d never loved me, except as a friend. He’d just used me. And I’d let him.

  It was cold by the front door. I couldn’t stay there. I pulled myself to my feet, made my way upstairs, and curled up under the duvet, shivering. What a mess. And all because of what happened with his brother. Nine years Gary’s senior, Lloyd had moved to London with his job shortly after I’d started seeing Gary. I remembered his mum being overly dramatic about it and sounding off about big cities being smelly, unsafe, and far too multi-cultural. Gary once told me that she was terrified Lloyd would meet someone who wasn’t a white, middle-class, Tory Christian. She was therefore thrilled when he announced a year later that he was bringing his girlfriend, Zoe — a practicing Christian — home to meet the family. What he’d failed to mention was that Zoe hailed from Jamaica. I could vividly remember sitting in Gary’s lounge with Gary and his dad, Malcolm, while Cynthia fussed around us, straightening doilies and handing out hors d’oeuvres. She was at a critical point with cooking lunch when the taxi pulled up outside so she couldn’t go to the door. When she returned to the lounge, Lloyd and Zoe were taking off their coats. ‘Darling!’ she cried, holding her arms out towards Lloyd. Then she stopped, the smile slipping from her face as her hand clutched her throat. ‘Good Lord! She’s coloured.’ Half an hour later, Lloyd and Zoe were in a taxi heading back to the train station.

  I’d tried over the years to forget what I’d witnessed that day. I’d had no idea that anyone could possess such abhorrent views based purely on the colour of someone’s skin. My parents had called each other names, but it had been tame compared to the venom that exploded from Cynthia. Gary had tried to defend her later, saying it was just the surprise, but I knew her behaviour had shocked him to the core too. A few days later, Malcolm had a mild heart attack. A few weeks after that, he had a fatal one. Although she’d treated him like a minion, Cynthia had been absolutely devastated by Malcolm’s passing. She blamed Lloyd and Zoe for it. She wrote to Lloyd to tell him his father had died, that it was his fault, that he was dead to the family, and he wasn’t welcome at the funeral.

  After the coffin was lowered into the ground, Cynthia, Gary and I had all stepped forward and dropped a rose onto it. Cynthia had turned to Gary, taken his hand, and said, ‘Promise me you’ll never let me down like Lloyd. You’re all I have left now, Gary. Promise me you’ll be a good son and never break my heart like he did.’ Gary had remained silent. ‘Please, Gary. It’s only the two of us now. If you’re going to turn out like Lloyd, you might as well push me in to join your father.’ Gary had pulled her into his embrace. ‘I promise, Mum. I’ll be the perfect son. I won’t let you down.’ And he hadn’t. Instead, he’d let me down and he’d let himself down. He’d pretended to be someone he wasn’t to keep the peace and for what? He’d messed up his life, he’d messed up my life, and Cynthia was going to find out sooner or later. And, when she did, I wouldn’t want to be around to witness it. For a brief moment, I felt sorry for Gary and actually understood why he’d done what he’d done. Then I reminded myself that he’d had a choice and that he should have been strong like his brother, sticking by what he wanted out of life. He should never have made that promise. And he should never have dragged me into it.

  Chapter 10

  I woke up a little after nine the next morning. It felt strange to be lying in the bed knowing that Gary wasn’t in the house and hadn’t been there all night. I wondered where he’d stayed. It wouldn’t be his mum’s because that would lead to too many questions. Dean’s? Rob’s? I shuddered at the thought of the latter.

  My eyes focussed on the large wooden frame on the wall opposite the bed, filled with photos of us as a couple through the years: our first day at college, our engagement meal, our wedding day, our honeymoon, graduation days, holidays, barbeques, Christmases. How could I not have known? Rolling out of bed, I moved closer to the frame and squinted at each image, looking for some sort of clue to show me that Gary wasn’t happy, that he didn’t want to be with me, that he wanted to be with a man instead. Nothing. I shook my head. What had I expected? To see Gary holding up a rainbow placard stating, ‘I am gay’?

  I turned and reached for the large framed photo on my dressing table. It had been taken on holiday in The Maldives and showed us clinking champagne flutes as we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. We looked happy and in love, didn’t we? I squinted my eyes as I focused on Gary’s face, then my eyes widened and my stomach churned. ‘His smile doesn’t reach his eyes!’ I whispered.

  I dashed out of the bedroom and onto the landing where there were more large framed photos. I snatched each one off the wall. Smiling, but not happy. Down the stairs. More of the same. Dining room. Lounge. Every image told the same story on the face of it; a couple in love, a couple devoted to each other, but scrutinise closer and it was clear that only one felt that way. It was subtle. Very subtle. But now that I knew our marriage had been a lie, I could see it.

  I stumbled into the lounge, dropped the bundle of frames on the sofa and, with shaking hands, grabbed at the sparkly silver frame on the mantelpiece. I stared at my favourite wedding photo of Gary standing behind me with his arms round my waist and his head nuzzled into my neck. Even on our wedding day. Smiling, but not happy. I felt like Jim Carrey in The Truman Show when he noticed his wife had her fingers crossed in their wedding photos before the huge web of lies his life had been unravelled around him.

  ‘How could you live that lie?’ I yelled at Gary’s image. ‘You said you realised when you were fifteen. That’s fifteen years. FIFTEEN YEARS OF LIES!’ In a frenzy, I pushed open the clips on the back of the frame and tossed the velvet backing onto the carpet. I snatched at the photo and let the frame drop to the floor with a smash of glass on the hearth. A tear dripped onto the photograph then, sucking my breath in, I ripped it in half, then again and again. I threw the pieces up in the air and watched as they floated to the floor like confetti. How ironic.

  I spun round, taking in the contents of the lounge: the leather suite we’d splashed out on when I secured my departmental headship, the lamps we’d bought from Greenwich Market on a ‘romantic’ mini-break
to London, the carved wooden box Gary had bought me for our fifth ‘wood’ wedding anniversary and the wooden chess set I’d given him, the pair of prints we’d bought on holiday in Tuscany. Every single item in the room held a memory and every single memory involved Gary.

  Sagging against the doorframe, I gasped for air. I’d been wrong to kick Gary out and stay in a place full of memories. I should have left instead.

  I had to get out of the house and away from the lies. I ran up the stairs to the bedroom, wincing with every other step, pulled off my nightie and grabbed the first skirt and T-Shirt I saw in my wardrobe. They didn’t match, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that my hair was a mess or that I hadn’t brushed my teeth. All I cared about was escaping. I just hoped I could still drive with my injured ankle.

  A breeze chilled my wet cheeks, but I didn’t have the energy to wipe the tears away. Wispy clouds floated lazily across a cornflower blue sky indicating the start of another gorgeous day on the Yorkshire Coast. The weather felt wrong. It felt like there should be a storm and crashing waves to match the turmoil in my life, not the sort of weather that could elicit a smile from even the grumpiest person.

  Sitting cross-legged on the cool sand, my arms loose by my sides, I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head of any thoughts, focusing only on the soothing lapping of the waves. No thoughts. Focus on the waves. Relax. The warm sun on my face felt like a hug; just what I needed. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth in time to the waves. In through my nose, out from my mouth. In… and out… In…

  ‘Elise…?’

  Startled, I opened my eyes. ‘Kay? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Taking photos of the rock pools.’ She knelt down beside me. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Not really. It turns out my husband’s gay and our marriage was a sham…’

  ‘I’m so very sorry, Elise. Where do you go from here?’ Kay asked when I’d brought her up to date.

  I shrugged. ‘Arrange to see a solicitor, start divorce proceedings, and somehow try to re-build my life. That’s not going to be easy given that Gary’s been the most important part of it since I was fourteen.’

  ‘I’d ask whether there’s any chance of a reconciliation, but under the circumstances…’

  ‘After I caught them together, I knew it was over. After his revelation last night that he’s always known he was gay, what would be the point? If we did stay together, it would be a marriage of convenience and that’s not going to make anyone very happy. It’s not what I want and, let’s face it, he wants Rob, not me.’

  ‘Will you keep the house?’

  I sighed. ‘The house has too many memories, Kay. There are photos of us everywhere and I noticed today that Gary’s smiling in them all, but he’s not properly smiling. I know I could remove the photos, but we picked everything else together. Every piece of furniture and every item in the house right down to the utensil pot in the kitchen symbolise our life together. A lot of couples set up their own homes then meet so they’ve got their own stuff, but we were childhood sweethearts so we started from scratch together. Nothing’s mine. It’s all ours. Even if I removed everything and started afresh, there’s still the house itself. We were the first people to live in it. We had our offer accepted early enough to pick out the kitchen and bathrooms and make alterations to the layout so it was exactly what we wanted. I remember meals and barbeques and parties… and, worst of all, I remember him in the shower with Rob.’

  Kay took my hands in hers. ‘Then you know what you must do? Come and live at Smuggler’s View with me.’

  I shook my head. ‘Oh, Kay, I couldn’t impose on you like that.’

  ‘Nonsense. You wouldn’t be imposing. After more than six months travelling the world and sharing a room with Linda, I’m finding it a little too quiet on my own again so you’d be doing me a favour.’

  ‘You really mean that?’

  ‘You know I’ve always thought of you as a surrogate daughter. I want to help.’

  What a lifeline! Yes please! I looked into her eyes to make sure she was genuine and not just being nice. I saw the loneliness. I could use a mum figure in my life right now. I blinked back the tears. ‘Would tonight be too soon?’

  She grinned. ‘You can move in right now if you want.’

  I dug a shell out of the sand with my bare toes as I contemplated her offer. ‘It’s very tempting, but it will take me a while to pack. Plus, I haven’t broken the news to Jess, Dad, or Mother yet. I really need to do that today before anyone else does. I don’t think I want to stay another night in that house, though. Would tonight be okay?’

  ‘Tonight it is, then,’ Kay said. ‘Good luck with your mother. Do you want me to come with you for some moral support?’

  ‘Also tempting, but I prefer to face the enemy alone.’

  I didn’t bother trying her flat. I knew I’d find her in The Flag Inn, her run-down local; Flag Inn by name and flagging by appearance. The stale smells of beer, sweat, and years of nicotine abuse pre-smoking ban made me gag as I pushed open the heavy wooden door.

  When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I spotted a woman on her own at a table by the jukebox, nursing a tumbler of dark liquid. She wore a sky-blue cotton nightie with daisies embroidered across the top, a pale grey threadbare cardigan, and a pair of navy canvas shoes. Matted auburn curls hung round her haggard face. If I didn’t know better, I’d have placed her in her late sixties, not fifty-one.

  ‘Hello Mother.’ I pulled out a stool and sat down opposite her.

  ‘Jess,’ she slurred. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘It’s Elise.’

  She squinted. ‘Oh. Forgot my glasses. I’d offer you a drink, but…’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll get my own.’ I stood up again.

  ‘Whiskey,’ she said. ‘Double. No ice.’

  I bit my lip. There was no point discussing it. Over the years, I’d tried it all: reasoning with her, shouting at her, enveloping her in love, shock tactics, GP appointments, counselling, but at the end of the day, she didn’t want my help or anyone else’s. I’d ended up turning to counselling myself. I’d believed that I needed to ‘fix’ her, but my counsellor, Jem, had helped me see that she didn’t want to be fixed. He was right. Only she could make that decision.

  I placed the double whiskey on the table in front of her. ‘I’m not staying long.’

  She smiled after staring at the glass for a while, as though she’d managed to focus for long enough to register that it really was the double measure she’d demanded. ‘You don’t have to stay at all if you don’t want.’

  I took a gulp on my apple juice. ‘I’ve come to tell you something and then I’ll leave you in peace because I can see you’re very busy.’ The sarcasm was lost on her, but it made me feel a little better. When she showed no interest in what I had to say, I hesitated about telling her. ‘I see you’ve got a new nightie,’ I said.

  She stroked the embroidered daisies. ‘Prettier than a dress and at a fraction of the price. You got a problem with that?’

  ‘Would you do anything about it if I had?’

  ‘No. I’d probably start coming out in my slippers too.’

  She would too, just to spite me. ‘No Irene?’ I asked. Irene was Mother’s drinking partner and, from what I’d seen of her, equally as self-centred.

  ‘Her daughter dropped a sprog and has dragged her to some hideous family photo-shoot, poor bugger.’ She knocked back the rest of her drink and picked up the one I’d bought, then stopped before she took a sip. ‘Ah. Penny drops. Is that what you’ve come to tell me? Are you finally sprogged up?’

  I cringed at the phrase and bit my lip again. ‘No. I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘Is that doctor of yours shooting blanks?’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘He is, isn’t he? He’s shooting blanks. Or, worse sti
ll, he can’t even get it up.’ She took a sip of whiskey.

  ‘I’ve come to tell you that Gary and I have split up.’

  She laughed, or should I say cackled. ‘He’s finally had enough of your pathetic “yes, Gary, no, Gary, three bags full, Gary” spineless attitude, has he? No man likes a woman with no opinions or interests of her own, you know. Men need someone they can spar with; not someone who follows them around like a lost puppy dog.’

  My stomach churned. ‘Is that really what you think of me?’

  ‘Yes and you’ve just proved it in the ten minutes you’ve been here. You’ve bought me a double without question and you’ve just rolled over and accepted that your own mother goes out dressed in a nightie without trying to debate it. For God’s sake, Elise, why don’t you grow some?’

  I stood up, picked up the rest of her whisky and tipped it into my almost-full drink. ‘How’s that for growing some? I’ll see you at Jess’ wedding. If you can drag yourself out of the pub for such a “hideous family photo-shoot”, that is.’

  Shaking from head to foot, I drove to the parking spaces near the caves, dived out of Bertie and sat on the low wall, gasping for fresh air and soaking up the heat of the sun in an effort to cleanse myself of Mother’s hurtful words. The worst part of it was knowing that, although tactlessly put, she was absolutely right. At some point during our marriage, I’d completely lost sight of me and had become all about pleasing Gary. I’d carved out a great career and knew I was good at my job, but it was like I was a different person at home: no interests of my own, no challenges, no passion for anything that wasn’t about Gary. Why had I done that? Had it been an attempt to become the exact opposite of my selfish Mother and somehow I’d gone too far the other way? Or, even more alarming, had it been that I’d known that things were wrong between Gary and me some time ago and, as the falling apart of my relationship would have meant no baby, I’d tried to become ‘the perfect wife’. If I kept the peace with his awful mother, ran a tidy and ordered house, and avoided arguments, surely there’d be no reason to ever leave me and therefore the family I craved would be just around the corner.