by Darren Wills
I looked straight back at her, knowing I had an uncontrollably massive smile on my face. She could always get me like this so easily, win any argument, regardless of the situation or time of day. “That sounds great.”
“Anyway, on that bombshell, I have to dash now.” She sprang up, her straight black hair hanging down as she grabbed her handbag from the kitchen worktop. “Got a meeting in half an hour. The oily surrealist from Leeds.”
“Oh yes. Toby Ackworth. Well, I hope it all works out.”
“I do hope so too, babe. Oh, I haven’t told you, have I! I’ll get a working holiday in America if today works out.”
“How come?”
“Well if we come to an agreement today, I’m going to go to the States to link up with some galleries and shops in California and Nevada. Maybe do some real business. They’re crazy about surrealism over there. Desperate for European originals.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Anyway, whatever happens, I‘ll see you tonight.”
“I’ve got squash with Jamie, and you’re going out, aren’t you?
“Oh yes. Obviously I meant later. Don’t forget about my lift.”
“Don’t worry. I know the deal. I drive you home – just like you drive me crazy.”
“Good. As long as you know your place.” The door swung closed behind her.
It seemed like a world away. It had been a love-at-first-sight moment for me when I had called into the art gallery and shop she was working at, the Northern branch of a company based in London, to ask the price of a picture that was in the window. It was outrageous, the price of that picture, but equally outrageous was my attempt to have a conversation with this beautiful woman who even my mother would have said was out of my league.
“I know this is probably not welcome but I feel I have to say it. I would love to take you out for a drink or a meal.”
“Which one? A drink or a meal?”
“Whichever one you would say yes to.”
“I don’t know. Depends what mood I’m in.”
“Well, what mood are you in?”
“You won’t get the picture any cheaper.”
“Well, perhaps you can help me get past that disappointment.”
At the time, I was sure she was humoring me, but we connected. There were no embarrassing or tense gaps in the flow of conversation that night and I recall that she did a lot of smiling. And what a smile. Within a few dates at the cinema and a trip to the seaside we both knew we were clicking big time. The long-term potential soon became apparent to both of us.
Hence, early dates soon become a full-on courtship, with an incredible physical dimension, and which eventually was summed up by a diamond ring and serious plans for the future. The planning reached a highpoint with the exchange of vows and home, initially an end terrace close to the entrance gates of Meersbrook Park, was a happy place. Waking up every day next to a sexy passionate wife was my ultimate dream.
Of course, that had all changed with the bump in the road last year. Three and a half years of marriage to a brilliant woman had not been enough for me, apparently.
“I have something to tell you.” The Gallery had sent Laura to Holland to visit several Dutch galleries. After nervously picking her up from the airport and an uncomfortable drive home, I had seated myself away from her in the living room. There were horrible pauses throughout the ensuing conversation that were torturous.
Her expression had changed. “You’ve had an affair.”
“I’ve been really stupid.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter who?”
“Fucking who, Dom?”
“Just somebody I met in town.”
“Why, Dom?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t get why I did it. I guess I was feeling a bit lonely, with you gone.”
“Quit the self-pity. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I know babe. I’m just trying to explain it.”
“Explain it? I’ve only been gone for three weeks. Couldn’t you keep it in your trousers for twenty-three days?”
“Well I had a bit to drink. I ended up chatting to someone.”
“Well, there would be drink involved wouldn’t there. Why didn’t you just chat? Why didn’t you have the decency to avoid breaking my heart? You have any idea what this is like?”
“Babe, I don’t know, and I’m sorry. And I know it’s a cliché, but she meant nothing to me.”
“Well she meant enough to you for you to fuck me over. God was I a fool for believing in you. I trusted you so much.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks, which had become pale with mortification. Horrified by the disappointment she had felt, she became angry. “You know you’ve fucked everything up now, don’t you?”
“I know. The last thing I would ever want is to upset you, but I had to tell you. I can’t live a lie. I’ve messed things up big time and now I have to face the consequences.
“Was it just the once? I don’t know why I’m saying just.”
“Of course it was once. I’ve spent the rest of the time struggling. I’ve been trying to live with myself and dreading this. I do not want to lose you. I terribly don’t want to have you not in my life.” At this point, tears were rolling down both faces.
“So you’ve had a drink and slept with some slag. You’ve destroyed our marriage in the process, and guess what? I’m going right now to pack a case.”
Sitting here alone on this weekday morning so many months on from that personal catastrophe, I didn’t want to give it more than a split-second of thought. Even now it seemed so absurd and shameful. Thank God I had persuaded her to stay with me and after some tough months and too many upsetting conversations, we had eventually both managed to move on from it all. Well, at least to some extent. I guess both of us wanted the bliss we had enjoyed before. Those early months after my confession had been tough, with arguments, suspicions and insecurity, and too many awkward conversations that deservedly tore me apart. I guessed it needed to be difficult and awkward.
Thankfully she had been able to forgive me. At least, I hoped she had. We both felt we were getting back to where we were, and it was just the occasional punctuation of difficult conversations and reminders like this morning where I always strived to give this sweet woman the reassurance she needed.
These days, thankfully, I could focus on more positive matters. I switched on the computer and scanned the listings to see how my bids were doing. Two of the CD boxed sets I was after, both Tamla Motown collections to beef up my soul collection, had received higher offers, so I countered generously. Well, there was more than one way to get a buzz.
Good Sport
I wasn’t sure that I was in the mood for this. It was a warm summer evening with just a few suggestive silvery clouds floating above, but as always in this place, I had some difficulty finding a space for the car. My best mate was already here wearing his Wednesday shirt. One day he would buy a set of whites to match mine, he assured me, but obviously that day had not yet dawned.
“On time for a change,” I yelled through the open window. I found an inconspicuous space at the end, next to the all-weather pitch.
As I approached him, he got out of his car, opened his boot, and with a broad smirk on his face, passed me three small square parcels. “Only three this week. You’re slowing down.”
What ensued was a strenuous hour and a half, with a soundtrack of sighing, swearing and grunting, and it was clear within minutes that we were no longer the young men we had once been. Ten minutes on the squash court, and we were red-faced and breathing profusely, looking very much past our sell-by dates as we toiled to keep up with a ball that seemed to have a mind and will of its own. After a lengthy rally, for one particular point, I reached to strike the ball and mis-hit it totally, sending it in to the bottom corner of the court. “What the hell was that?” In truth, we both remembe
red a time when the squash ball wasn’t so independent and unpredictable.
“That’s three points in a row. How much per point did we say?”
I gave him the finger and gestured him onwards with my sweeping arm. Jamie, a man I had lost contact with for two years. We hadn’t had words or anything, but it had become a case of our paths not crossing very much, chiefly due to our different domestic situations. He had made a profession of chasing women on dating sites. He had been married on that day in Filey when he had taken on the role of Best Man and chief tormentor, but that relationship had crumbled a few months after that and we had just lost touch. We had luckily got back on track about six months ago, through a chance meeting followed by these squash nights and the occasional night out. We both liked a drink. As far as domestic situations were concerned, we would probably always be chalk and cheese, but so what?
I wiped the sweat from my face and breathed hard to get back some composure. “I’m not beaten yet.”
It was a good job I knew how to be gracious in defeat.
Some strenuous minutes later, we were standing at the club bar waiting to be served. Jamie was savoring his victory. “I didn’t think I would win that one. Your serves lost it for you. You need to be more precise in how you hit the ball.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my serve.”
“All I can say is that it’s a good job you’re aggressive on the returns. Your racket skills aren’t bad, but when it comes to you serving, no chance. In fact, I bet I could teach you how to do better. I could even show you how to beat me one day.”
“Don’t bother. It’s only a game.”
“I feel your pain, Mr. Walker.”
I always gave as good as I got. “At least I have Laura to commiserate with me when I get home. How’s your love life looking this week?”
“For the record, my love life is as good as it can be. Just for the record, with my hectic sex diary, you’re lucky I’m here. I should really be somewhere else, having a more exciting time.”
“Well, get you. Mister Big Time. The king of the dating sites, or what.”
“Well of course. Skirt-chaser par excellence.” He made an exaggerated show of checking his watch. “Anyway, should you be here? Sitting around here wasting time with me, with that minx you married? How is it that you’re here wasting your time doing sport while you have that precious lady in your life. You know, the one who makes you go all puppy dog.”
I grinned defensively. I was always happy to provide entertainment for the man who went by the name of Trojan on the sites, a name he probably chose because he thought it made him sound tough, although he claimed it was because he was sneaky with the women, like the Trojan Horse in Greek mythology.
“It’s tricky, but I’ll find some way to fit everything in.” My feigned frown gave way to a smile. “I suppose we have to have to have a drink. Keep up this new tradition. Have to be a quick one, though. Promised Laura a lift home from town.”
A young barmaid was suddenly across the bar from us, always a welcoming sight, since there weren’t many things worse in my mind than waiting ages for a drink. Emptiness behind the bar and fullness in front of it were total pleasure-killers in my view. Whilst I ordered, Jamie was looking her up and down. It would definitely have been offensive if she had noticed him but he was crafty about it, shifting his eyeline to the optics behind her every time she looked up. He turned and gave me a knowing look. I could only shake my head in feigned disgust.
We found our usual table. He looked across the bar and declared, “She’s well fit!”
“Yes, and it’s a shame you aren’t twenty years younger.”
“I’d still pull her if I wanted, mate.”
“Oh yes. And how would you do that?”
He pointed at his forehead, as if he was revealing some great philosophy. “I’d just give her my killer chat line. No problem.”
“Fuck off. What killer chat line?”
He thought for a while. “I’d say to her, Hey lady, I’m seeing your future. I’ve got crystal balls and I see you in that old people’s home one day. You know, you’re sitting there not able to hold back the massive smile that takes over your face every time you think of that night you had with me.”
“She’d interrupt you and tell you where to get off before you got halfway through that monologue. It’s way too long for a chat-up line.”
“Get out of here. How is it too long?”
“It’s like a soliloquy from Shakespeare. ‘Love’s Labours Lost’ probably. She’d have walked away before you even got to the end of it.”
“Well, smart-arse, it worked a treat last week.”
“Well, whoever it was must have been thick as a brick stupid, falling for that. I can’t imagine I would have landed Laura, or any woman before Laura for that matter, with a line like that.”
“Yeah, Laura.” Jamie paused and looked at me. “I have to say something.”
“About what?”
“Pretty strange, yesterday.”
“How do you mean?”
Jamie was serious. “Have I offended your good lady in some way?”
“Not recently. Why?”
“Sure she’s not feeling off with me for anything?” He looked serious and I was never comfortable when Jamie looked serious.
“What? She thinks you’re funny. She always has. Knows you’re a good mate.”
“You’re sure she doesn’t see me as a bad influence?”
“Of course not. Because you aren’t.”
“She doesn’t think I’m luring her husband into bad ways, then?”
“What are you on about?” Now I was really confused.
“I was just wondering if she might privately blame me for your indiscretion.”
“No, not at all. She knows you were nothing to do with what happened. Christ, we weren’t even in contact then. Why are you saying that?”
Jamie paused. I could see hesitation in his face, as if he was trying to come up with the right combination of words. “The thing is, I saw her yesterday. Did she tell you?”
“Did you? Where?”
“In town. On Fargate. She was walking past the Orchard Square entrance. It was weird because she looked straight at me, but didn’t acknowledge me. She was wearing a black headscarf. Looked pretty chic. A bit Audrey Hepburn. Think Roman Holiday.”
“Laura’s always daydreaming. She won’t have seen you.” Laura did daydream sometimes, but was I just playing the loyal husband here, making a convenient excuse? Would she ignore Jamie? Very unlikely. If she had held anything of an attitude towards him for those rose-tinted, exciting times long gone by, she had never expressed it to me. I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure, but I didn’t want Jamie thinking that Laura had blanked him. “You sure it was Laura?”
“It was Laura. Umistakeable.”
“But I don’t think she owns a black headscarf. That’s not her style at all.”
“Well, she owned one yesterday. Anyway, if I hadn’t put my arm out, she would have walked straight past me. She just looked at me and said she was in a hurry. I think she must have been on her way to work.”
Laura being in a hurry was hardly a newsflash. She was always rushing around. “It’s funny she didn’t mention seeing you. She wasn’t being funny with you though. I’m sure of that. She daydreams.”
“Are you being honest with me? I can understand you sticking up for your wife.”
“She’s had a lot on her mind lately. It’s that job. There’s some right wheeler-dealing going with those pictures she buys and sells. It makes me glad I’m in teaching. There’s less uncertainty with teenagers.”
“Have you any idea how boring that makes you sound? Is your job that dull?”
“Never dull. Sometimes annoying, often frustrating, but never dull.” I became defensive. “It’s loads of things, sometim
es utterly crazy, totally does my head in at times, but I wouldn’t ever use the word dull to describe it.” On the other hand, it had driven me to drink heavily on too many occasions, so it was no bed of roses.
“Are we having another? I fancy another Guinness before I dry up. After that, I’m meeting Angeline. That’s in an hour.”
“Who’s Angeline?”
“Thirty years old, long blonde hair, and already thinks I’m lovely.”
“Get you. Wait till she meets you.”
“Yeah. It’ll be heaven for her. About that drink?”
“Have to be quick,” I replied. “Don’t want to be late for my Laura.”
“Well, don’t let her see the parcels, or a sexy night will be out of the question. She’ll put the block on. You won’t even get to second base.”
“As if!” I would definitely leave the parcels in the boot of my car.
Jamie shook his head. “Do they have a jukebox here?”
They had a jukebox. An hour and a half later, that same jukebox was playing the Arctic Monkeys and we were both singing along to ‘Mardy Bum’. Jamie had a really loud and bellowing voice but hey, we were enjoying ourselves.
The music ended. For a rare couple of minutes, we sat there for a while not saying anything, and Jamie picked out a book that was on a shelf behind us. “You ever fancied writing a book, Dom?”
“Not really. What would I write a book about?”
“You could write about our adventures at uni. There’s plenty of stuff to go at there.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t mind remembering it, but I wouldn’t have it in print.”
“It would be funny. That lass with the stutter. You’re d-d-d dumped.”
“Embarrassing more like. Would be worse than your Best Man speech.”
“Couldn’t be worse than that. I excelled even myself that day.””
“Yeah. Why did you do that? That was horrendous.”
“A bridegroom needs to squirm a little.”
“A little? You traumatized me.”
“Not really.”
“Anyway, a book about those days would be agony to read and the embarrassment would never end. I wouldn’t want anyone to read it, so what would be the point in writing it?”