‘Want some of this …?’ he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
‘Ah, a man on his knees, just the way I like them.’ I hold out my glass to him and tip back my head as the room swoons slightly around me.
‘Hiya.’ Fergus stands in the living-room doorway looking from Gareth to me. The room comes to an abrupt halt and I sit up, pushing my hair off my face. Gareth sits back on his heels, putting the bottle of wine on the floor.
‘Hiya! You’re home early,’ I say, not sounding as delighted as I meant to, as I feel, after the initial shock. Instead, I feel like I used to when I called a sickie into work or when I was very little and got Mum’s make-up out without her permission. I stand up rather unsteadily and go to him, putting my arms around his face and kissing his stubbled cheek. ‘I thought you weren’t going to be home for hours.’
Fergus shrugs and breaks free from our embrace. Looking into his eyes I’m relieved to see that he’s exhausted, not jealous or angry with me. Relieved and a little disappointed.
‘So, how’s the garden going then?’ Fergus extends his hand to the now standing Gareth.
‘Getting there, mate, yeah. Start getting the plants in, lawn down and all that.’ Gareth jams his hands into his pockets. I’m sure he’d like to get out of the room, but Fergus is still positioned in the doorway. ‘Um, so, anyway, best be off.’ Gareth nods at him to step aside, but instead Fergus turns around and walks out of the room to the kitchen, calling after him, ‘Are we having that pie for dinner, it smells ni— Oh, you’ve eaten.’
‘I’ll see you later then,’ Gareth says, winking at me as I open the door for him.
‘Yeah, and thanks for staying, I mean, and missing your date,’ I say, glancing over my shoulder.
‘Oh, no worries.’ He steps out into the rain-freshened air. ‘I’m only about an hour late. I reckon she’ll still be waiting.’ And he’s already pulling out his mobile as he opens his van door.
I look down the road, the promise of a warm spring evening sparkling on the damp pavements, and feel some kind of regret as I close the door and go back to the kitchen.
‘I wish you’d told me you weren’t going to be busy today. I could have got a sitter, we could have gone out maybe.’ I go to lean on the fridge as Fergus examines the contents of the freezer with a scowl on his face.
‘We are still busy, but I managed to get through a lot and I thought I’d come home on time for once.’ He straightens his back with a beer in his hand, opens the can and takes a long drink straight from it. ‘You sound like you’d rather I was late.’ His tone is slightly defensive and I instantly climb down from my own slightly antagonised position. Fergus in one of his rare dark moods. I’ve learnt over the last year that with Fergus you can’t make a direct reference to it; you can’t, for example, ask him ‘What’s up?’, because if you do you’re nagging him or refusing to let him have his space. Instead you have to sort of placate him on a general level and sometimes whatever it is that is bothering him will come out and sometimes it just won’t.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I say, going to him and putting my arms around him. ‘I’m just surprised to see you early, that’s all. It’s great. I’ll order you a Chinese and we can talk.’ I kiss his tightly closed lips and open the freezer, looking for something to microwave for him, sensing that the very last thing he wants to do today is talk to me. ‘Do you want another beer?’
Fergus shakes his head and looks at the work we’ve done on the garden closely for a moment before turning his back on the window dismissively.
‘Where’s my girl?’ he says, a shadow of a smile on his lips. ‘I think one of her smiles is just what I need right now!’
‘Asleep,’ I say, wondering if one of my smiles will do. ‘She went to sleep after playing in the mud. One minute she was all thrashing about and shouting, the next snoring her head off.’ I produce the smile. ‘She’s so funny.’
Fergus half laughs, but it doesn’t look as if my smile has the right ingredients to lift his mood, at least not tonight. Right on cue, Ella’s cries echo down the stairs as if the end of the world is imminent.
‘Oh well,’ I say. ‘You order and I’ll sort her out.’
Fergus glances at the menu I hand him, drops it back on the worktop and then disappears into the living room without another word.
It’s taken me over an hour to get her back to sleep, and it’s almost nine when I join Fergus, still clutching on to the faint hope that we might talk – I don’t really mind about what, but just something that requires real words and proper sentences. He’s staring blankly at the TV, not watching some cop drama. I pause for a moment in the door frame and decide what to do.
I sit beside him and lay my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence. I know I should let him be from Mars and sit in his cave or whatever it is, but something about this mood seems different and, as a girl, I feel obliged to pester him about it until he either reveals what the problem is or accuses me of interfering and nagging.
‘What’s up?’ I say casually, eternally optimistic that it might just be that easy. Fergus ignores me, his attention rapt in the plot of an advert he’s seen at least a million times before.
‘Fergus? I said, what’s up,’ I repeat, faintly annoyed. The talent he has for not acknowledging my existence these days is truly a remarkable one, one that makes me want to kill him, but a remarkable one nevertheless. Maybe on the planes of the Russian steppes early man had to develop this talent to cut out all surrounding distractions to hunt mammoths or something. Now, a few hundred thousand years later, there are no mammoths, just millions of really annoyed women contemplating murder. After deliberating over which to prioritise, the sofa arms or his wife, he turns to look at me, somewhat reluctantly.
‘Ha, yeah, I know!’ he says, hopeful that it will suffice.
‘I said, what’s up? Is there anything up?’ My carefully constructed conciliatory tone has completely evaporated.
‘Nothing, nothing’s up. I’m fine. Just watching telly.’ He puts his arm around me and stares at the screen again, clearly deciding that that will be enough to end my interrogation. I watch his profile for a moment, pursing my lips. Never go to bed on an argument, Camille always says, and I agree with her. It’s just that sometimes you have to get the argument going before you can get over it and go to bed.
‘You seem annoyed about something. Was it Gareth?’ I finally voice my anxiety. I mean, I know and Gareth knows we only play flirt, but my tired and overworked husband might not.
‘Who? Oh the gardener, why would he annoy me?’ Fergus shakes his head. ‘I’m not annoyed,’ he lies. ‘Can I watch this now?’ He gestures at a car ad.
I sigh and sit back in the chair. Unlike me, Fergus doesn’t seem to see the cathartic benefits of airing his problems. I know that two train journeys, a day in an office and all the responsibility he has is tiring, and I know that sitting at home dandling a baby on my knee and turning on the dishwasher shouldn’t be, even though it is. I just want some time to talk to him, some time to be listened to, some time to … exist for him.
‘Well, I’ll go and tidy the kitchen, okay?’ I say, hoping he’ll pick up on my rare offer to be domestic, a last ditch bid for attention, and come and sit with me. His gaze doesn’t leave the TV and I’m fairly sure he hasn’t heard me.
‘Okay,’ he says. As I stand up from the sofa, his arm flops heavily down as if he’s forgotten I was there at all.
For a moment I stare at the kitchen wall as if I can see Fergus on the other side of it. It’s not his fault, I tell myself. He’s got a lot on his plate. He’s too tired to realise that we never talk any more, or even just gossip and joke like we used to. I just have to give him some time to himself, and at the weekend we can be together properly, that’s if the whole thing doesn’t fly by in what seems like two hours, most of which he’s asleep for. I tip the remains of the pie into the bin, decide that’s enough cleaning for one night, and get out a packet of biscuits instead, eating two a
s I settle down to call Dora.
I listen to the ring tone for a very long time, waiting for her answer-machine to click on, not expecting her to be in. I am just about to hang up when she picks up the call, sounding a little breathless.
‘Yes?’ she sounds irritated.
‘Dora, it’s me,’ I say apologetically. ‘Were you asleep?’ I can hear her sigh.
‘No, not exactly. I was in bed though.’ There’s a short pause in which she is inevitably lighting a cigarette. ‘I hope this is an emergency. I hope Fergus has fallen under a train and you need to borrow something black or something because I was halfway through a pretty good shag.’ She sounds cross, but I know that she isn’t. Besides, Dora once told me that she’s never actually enjoyed sex, she just does it a lot because it seems polite. She was laughing when she said it, but I don’t think she was lying.
‘You should have just let it ring!’ I say.
‘I was letting it ring! But it kept on and on, putting me off my rhythm, and I thought it might be you and I didn’t want to miss you.’ I hear a muffled voice in the background.
‘No, no. I have to take this call, it’s an emergency. I’ll be with you in a bit. Have another beer.’
I laugh.
‘Not the love of your life then?’ I ask her.
‘Christ no. Nice shag and everything, but about as much personality as a block of wood. That’s the trouble with these NA types, they think the fact that they’ve been stupid enough to get themselves addicted to something makes them fascinating, but really it’s the only thing they’ve got to talk about and it’s fucking boring.’ I laugh again, picturing Dora, more than likely naked, taking a drag on her fag. And then something occurs to me.
‘Hang on, if he’s NA and you’re NA, then you shouldn’t be drinking beer, should you?’
There’s a pause. ‘I’m not. He is. And anyway beer doesn’t really count, it’s not mandatory you give it up, just recommended. It’s like having a can of pop when you compare it with some of the things he’s got up to.’ She sounds sunny and self-assured, as if I’m worrying over nothing.
‘Okay,’ I say cautiously. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do, it’s fine. So anyway, how are you? How’s the kid and PC?’
‘PC?’ I can’t think why Dora should be enquiring after our computer.
‘Prince Charming! I can’t be arsed to say the full-length version any more and I can’t bring myself to use that fucking stupid name. I mean, who calls their kid Fergus?’
‘Dora! Leave it out. I like it. Anyway Fergus is, he’s … Well, he’s pissed off actually and I don’t know why. I tried to pick a fight with him but he wouldn’t go for it.’ I take a chocolate-chip biscuit out of the packet and stuff half of it into my mouth.
‘Inconsiderate bastard,’ Dora says. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised that he’s pissed off, what with everything,’ she says mildly. ‘So how’s the baby? I almost bought her …’
I interrupt her. ‘Why aren’t you surprised? What with everything what?’ I say, wondering how my best friend seems to have a greater insight into my husband’s moods than I do, and thinking of Fergus’s forgotten encounter with her.
‘Well, I.S.S, they’re in a bit of trouble, aren’t they? I heard my boss talking about it the other day. Something to do with spending millions on training their staff to sell and install this new generation software and no one’s going for it. No one wants to make the investment at an uncertain economic time or something.’ She says it as if she’s reading a shopping list. ‘He must have told you all this, surely?’ she adds incredulously.
‘No, no,’ I say slowly, through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Do you think he might be in trouble then?’
The muffled voice of Dora’s guest prevents her response.
‘Okay, okay. I’m coming. Look, mate, I’ve got to go. Um, I don’t know if he’s in real trouble, that’s just what I heard on the grapevine. I doubt it, though, I mean he’s the CEO’s blue-eyed boy, right?’
I listen hard for some nuances in Dora’s voice, but I can tell that in her mind she’s already off the phone and back in bed.
‘Okay. Well, call me soon, okay? I miss you.’ I hang up the receiver and look at the phone. Fergus walks into the kitchen with his empty plate and looks at me, dark shadows draining the colour out of his eyes.
‘That was fucking revolting. Dora or Camille?’ he asks.
‘Dora. I’m sorry I didn’t cook – here, have a biscuit.’ I hand him a cookie and wonder if I should ask him about work directly, or if I should skirt around to it. I look at the set of his chin as he washes up his plate despite the perfectly good dishwasher and decide to skirt around to it.
‘Fergus, you know we don’t really need a gardener. I know I’ve made a big fuss about wanting a lovely garden, but it could wait, it doesn’t have to be right now, and maybe we don’t even need to have the patio done either. I mean, we’ve got the kitchen and the bathroom sorted. That’s all we need, really.’ I look at his back, inwardly screaming at the thought of having this huge empty house to myself again. Fergus turns around, drying his hands, and sits down next to me.
‘Why wouldn’t we have that stuff done? Now that they’ve started?’ He smiles his stock reassuring smile, which doesn’t make it to his overcast eyes.
‘Well, just in case you thought we had to tighten our belts a bit …’ I begin.
‘We don’t. We don’t have to tighten our belts. Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine.’
I squirm in my seat and wonder exactly how far I should push this. If it hadn’t been for my phone call with Dora I’d have believed him. I’d have been annoyed and frustrated that he brushed off my thoughts and suggestions with his usual paternal reassurance, but I’d have believed him and I’d have let it go. But if he refuses to tell me our real situation, if it happens to be something other than what I think it is, I can’t let it go.
‘Well, listen,’ I say, ‘I got a copy of the local paper today and guess what, they’ve got this part-time HR position up at the Birchwood Business College, and there’s a crèche. I though I could send in my CV and see how it goes. It’s a really great place to work and it looks really interesting, they run all these different courses and do consulting and …’
Fergus leaves the room.
‘Fergus!’ I slide off my stool and follow him to the living room. ‘Fergus! For God’s sake don’t just walk out on me! I am a person, you know, and do deserve a bit of recognition – just tell me what’s wrong!’
Fergus sits on the sofa, his face closed down.
‘There is nothing wrong. Okay? Everything is fine,’ he says testily.
I stare at him, disbelief painted all over my face.
‘Okay.’ He relents. ‘Things are a bit tight at work at the moment, there’s a lot of competition and a limited number of contracts so I’m having to work my bollocks off to keep up my targets and …’ Suddenly his forced reasonable tone erupts into anger. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you could be just a little bit pleased to see me when I get home at night and maybe just once give me something to eat that hasn’t been irradiated!’
My jaw drops open. ‘You know I’m no good at cooking. And anyway I’m not your skivvy!’ I whisper angrily, afraid that if I raise my voice I’ll wake the baby again.
‘No, you’re not my skivvy, are you. Maybe you’d like me to get a chef and a cleaner to add to your fleet of domestic staff? Free up some more time for you to sit on your arse and get even fatter.’ Fergus sits heavily on the sofa and begins to flick through the channels.
I swallow hard. I know he doesn’t mean it, I know he’s just worried and angry, but it takes a lot for me to swallow my hurt.
I kneel beside him and take his hand.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know things were rough for you at work. If you’d tell me I could be more supportive. But please don’t have a go at me because you are angry with someone or something else. I’m on your side.’ Fergus’s eyes are fixed straight
ahead. I try again, ‘Listen, why don’t I send my CV in to that job. It’s only part-time. I could see Ella during my breaks and at lunchtime, and the walk up there every day’d be some exercise …’
Fergus turns off the TV and runs his fingers through his hair.
‘No,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to do that. You don’t need to work. I can still support this family.’
‘I know, and I’m so proud of you, but …’ I falter, unable to think of the right thing to say. ‘I am proud and I love you, you know how much I love you. But I don’t care if we live in a one-bed flat with a leak in the roof, I’ll still love you. I just want to feel that I’m contributing to this family too, it’s just the way I am, and I think that if I had a job I’d start to feel a bit more like my old self …’ I trail off as Fergus drops his shoulders, his anger falling suddenly away, making him look very tired.
He pulls me into an embrace.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just stress at work. It’s nothing really, just a client I thought I’d landed pulled out at the last minute, but there are plenty more in the pipeline,’ he says, more to himself than to me. I hold him close and think of what Dora told me. If I mention it he might think that I’ve been sort of spying on him, and I have the feeling that’s the last thing we need right now. I decide not to mention it.
‘It’s okay,’ I say to his chest. ‘It’s okay.’
‘It means a lot to me that you don’t care where or how we live, but I know how you grew up and I know more than anyone how things have been. I just want to take that burden away from you. I want you to feel secure, to know that you’ll never have to struggle again, and you won’t, you won’t ever. I promise you,’ he tells me, and I lean into his arms and think for a moment. I want to tell him that if I went back to work it wouldn’t mean that he was failing, and that feeling secure in his love is the only security I need, but something tells me that to push him any more might hurt us both.
After Ever After Page 13