Happily Ever After?

by Benison Anne O'Reilly

  With Isabel he was next to useless. His fallback position was ‘until they find a way for men to grow breasts I fail to see what use I can be’, but he kept up his regular fitness routine without offering me any reprieve and, unlike other new fathers I’d heard about, never once - unprompted at least - offered to bathe her or rock her or take her for a walk in the pram. But the single most insensitive thing he did during this time was complain if Isabel’s crying kept him awake at night, he who got uninterrupted sleep in hotels with room service whilst he was away.

  He must have got some sleep because he managed to interview brilliantly for Cathay, as I knew he would, and was offered a job. The only thing I thought might go against him in the recruitment process was this perception of arrogance, but he had kept favour with enough senior guys (those he really did respect) to have good quality referees and if they weeded out all the pilots who could be accused of arrogance, well let’s just say the flying ranks would be rather thin.

  This meant he had to disappear to Hong Kong for almost three months for ground school and line training. Just like that. My family was aghast at his lack of sensitivity but I was almost glad to see him go.

  And when he left he had still not tried to touch me.

  ***

  When Isabel was about five months old Mum called me one day to say she was coming over for a visit.

  She made some tea and sat down across the kitchen table from me. Then, jiggling Isabel on her knee, she announced, ‘I have some news for you. I’ve just handed in my resignation at work - I’m taking early retirement.’

  ‘Oh…but I thought you were planning to stay on for a couple of years so you could redo the bathroom.’

  ‘I can do without a new bathroom I’ve decided. What I can’t do without is a happy daughter. I’ve been watching you slowly sink these past few months, especially with Tony away - I’m still angry with him about that, I don’t care if it was a good opportunity. Anyway, I think it would be best if you went back to work and I will look after Isabel for you.’

  ‘Mum, I can’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘You didn’t ask, I volunteered.’

  ‘But then I might not bond with her.’

  ‘Oh rubbish. It’s not like she’d be sitting in a child care centre for hours on end, Eleanor. Just think - her grandmother will be looking after her. I’m pretty experienced at this caper. So what do you think?’

  I took a gulp of milky tea as tears of relief dripped down my face. I had kept this guilty secret to myself for months, too scared to acknowledge the truth. My little daughter had been so longed for that it had seemed disloyal to admit that I hated my life. And how could I separate the profound love I had for this baby from my feelings of utter incompetence as a mother? ‘The authorities’ had unwittingly given me responsibility for this tiny, deeply precious, life but I barely felt capable of looking after myself. Now finally the truth had been acknowledged: I was sinking. I didn’t have to pretend anymore. Who else but my mother could have sensed this?

  ‘No-one told me it would be like this Mum.’

  ‘No, no-one ever does, sweetheart. It’s a conspiracy to ensure the survival of the species. Having said that, Isabel is more demanding than most - but gorgeous aren’t you darling?’ she said, giving Issy a quick cuddle and smile to let her know there were no hard feelings. ‘Anyway, would you?’

  I nodded. Now the tears flowed in earnest and Isabel was required to squish over so I could get a cuddle as well. I thought of all the times over the years when I’d complained about my mum being too bossy or too loud or too opinionated or even on occasion downright embarrassing, but I was reminded that day that she is also the nicest, kindest mum in the whole world.

  ***

  Did I have postnatal depression? I never sought a diagnosis but I think probably not. It might have been difficult to separate a genuine case of depression from the stress brought on by my marriage problems and sleep deprivation caused by having such a difficult baby. Whatever the case, going back to work turned out to be the best thing for me.

  The funny thing was as soon as I made that decision things started improving with Isabel. It may have been because I weaned her and she was more content as a bottle fed baby, or because I started her on solid foods and she was less hungry, or maybe if we want to get a bit New Age here, her tension was feeding off my tension and once I relaxed she also calmed down too.

  Anyway, whilst part of me found this all rather exasperating, I was ultimately glad as it meant I was leaving a much more content and easy to manage baby who would be less of a burden for Mum. In fact I got the impression Mum genuinely enjoyed looking after her granddaughter. Also, I’d managed to negotiate to return to a four-day week - which essentially meant I did five days’ work in four for less money - but I did get to spend Mondays with Isabel, a task I approached with much more enthusiasm knowing that I could retreat to the safer and charted waters of the office the next day. And as Isabel grew, and with her my feelings of competence as a mother, I came to love our Mondays together beyond measure. We maintained this happy arrangement until my resignation only a few weeks ago.

  Once I went back to work - wearing my favourite suit with the skirt zip str-a-i-ning to contain my upsized version - it was almost as if I’d never been away. Except now I was a mum. I was part of the club I’d longed to join for so long.

  Tony completed his training and returned from Hong Kong. He seemed in a better mood; maybe the change of airline did agree with him.

  After a few weeks back at work I felt the clouds lifting and my sense of equilibrium returning.

  Not long after this, one Sunday night as I lay reading in bed and Isabel slept peacefully in the next room, my husband reached over, removed the book from my hands and started kissing me. How my parched and neglected lips drank in those kisses. Then he lifted my pyjama top over my head and caressing those breasts he’d long adored, loomed over me, all muscles and golden hairs on golden skin, and made love to me for the first time in almost a year and a half. I ached to find how much I had missed the feeling of him inside me, a connection that arguments and crying babies and long absences could not completely extinguish.

  These were the thoughts I was having when, still holding me, he said, ‘I have something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said lazily, still exulting in the afterglow.

  ‘While I was in Hong Kong I had a relationship with another woman.’

  7

  Punch drunk

  Quite a few years ago, when Tony and I had been together a year or thereabouts, a group of us went to the races. I think it was Sydney Cup Day at Randwick, part of the Autumn Racing Carnival, but don’t quote me on that. It was unseasonably warm for April so people were drinking a lot and unfortunately it was not just water - way too much alcohol was consumed. Late in the day, as we were standing just in front of the stands, a fight broke out between two young guys down by the barrier, several metres away.

  One of these guys was significantly smaller than the other and ended up taking a hammering. The very first punch he received was a doozy and knocked him to the ground. I thought he was out for the count but he staggered to his feet and, spurred on by too much booze and testosterone, laid into his opponent with all his strength. Still, the other guy kept landing the better punches - several of them - until he got a clear knockout shot. This time our little pugilist really was out for the count.

  When I think back on this time of my life, I am always reminded of this fight. I was the little guy who took the beating of course. My opponent was not Tony - he was brought up a gentleman and gentlemen don’t hit ladies - just life. Life kept handing me out a series of heavy blows until all the resistance was knocked out of me. Although, having exonerated my husband, he did have his hand firmly behind that last killer punch.

  I abhor physical violence of any type and begged Tony to intervene that autu
mn day but he wisely said no. The security guys came running over just as the fight concluded. And here’s the interesting thing. The little guy was lying there on the ground: completely defeated, completely vulnerable, completely pathetic. And what did the other guy do? Did he take pity and help him to his feet? No - he laid the boot in. He kicked him several times in the stomach, really hard. I still shudder to think of the damage he could have done.

  And that, I think, is also a metaphor. I think we’d all like to believe that being presented with someone vulnerable and defeated, we would be roused to compassion. That we would help them up and dust them off and make them a cup of tea and tell them everything was going to be alright. And sometimes we would do that. But other times pathetic people can come across as a bit repellent. We don’t want to be associated with them, in case whatever they have is catching. And sometimes we even have the urge to kick them again while they’re down.

  For a time that became the story of my marriage.

  ***

  Not that any of this was apparent at first - on the contrary I was a spitting viper to begin with.

  There was a short delay as the offending words sunk in, my comprehension dulled by the shock of it.

  I stiffened in his arms. Why was I even in his arms? Why did he think that would be a good idea? Did he think it would soften the blow or something? There may be no right way to confess to an affair but this was clearly the wrong way. Sometimes I was startled at how little he understood women.

  If I’d had my wits about me I would have kneed him in his unprotected testicles. Instead I shoved him away violently, my palms hitting his chest with force: ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Just as I said…I was involved briefly with another woman.’

  ‘What does “involved” mean? You mean you were screwing her.’

  ‘It was a bit more complicated than that.’

  Nice one Tony. He had to let me know that it was more than just sex.

  ‘Are you telling me this because you want to leave me? Was this the farewell fuck or something? Thought you’d graciously bestow it on me because I wouldn’t be getting one anywhere else for a long time…’

  ‘No, I’ve ended the other relationship. I’m still committed to our marriage.’

  He sure had a funny way of showing it.

  ‘Then why are you telling me this?’

  This didn’t compute with anything I understood. Weren’t men usually cornered into confessions of infidelity? Didn’t they usually admit to their crime only when the evidence was so damning it was futile to deny it?

  ‘I thought it was best if I was honest with you.’

  ‘Did you? Am I expected to be grateful for that? That you’ve deigned to tell me. If the relationship is over - as you claim - I would rather have not known. You could have spared me this. It’s because you want to hurt me…You want to completely destroy me.’

  ‘Why would I want to destroy you?’ he asked in a maddeningly calm tone.

  ‘Because you blame me for William’s death.’

  ‘Now you’re talking like a mad woman.’

  ‘You’ve made me that way.’

  ‘And you’re going to wake up Isabel if you keep yelling like that.’

  Somewhere along the line I’d scrambled out of the bed; a breeze from an open window reminded me I was naked. It’s hard to muster much dignity when you’re so exposed, especially when you’re overweight and exposed. The extra kilos that hadn’t seemed so important a few minutes ago were now everything. It was clear I was so fat and repulsive that my husband had sought out other women for sex.

  I wrenched my pyjamas back on. He threw on some shorts, not even allowing me the moral advantage of clothing.

  ‘Have there been others?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘only the one,’ in a tone that suggested I should congratulate him for his restraint.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Does that really matter?’

  ‘Yes it does.’

  ‘Just a flight attendant I met.’

  ‘How original…and someone you could be working with again someday too. How are you supposed to manage that?’

  ‘No - she works for another airline.’

  ‘I bet everyone at your work knows about this. I bet they are all laughing at me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re just saying that…I bet they are…How long did it go on?…How many times?’

  ‘You don’t need to know those things.’

  ‘What was her name? I want to know.’

  ‘No, I’ve told you enough already. What good will it do to know?’

  ‘You’re just trying to protect her. You care more about her than you do about me.’

  ‘No! For fuck’s sake calm down, Ellie.’

  He made a move towards me.

  ‘Keep away from me you bastard. You’re an arrogant prick who cares about no-one but yourself. I hate your guts.’

  I fled into the spare bedroom where I sat on the bed and cried for I don’t know how long: great shuddering sobs that shook my whole body, giving way to short hiccuppy shrugs and, finally, still silent tears, until all my energy was spent. He didn’t come to see if I was alright, not once. Presumably he thought he’d wait until my anger died down and we could have a rational discussion about the fact that while I was struggling with sleepless nights and a screaming baby he was off fucking another woman.

  I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. On the way I walked past the open door of our bedroom. He was asleep. He’d casually destroyed the last shreds of my confidence and my trust in him and our marriage and then he’d just gone to sleep. He didn’t even care enough to stay awake.

  I wanted to rush over and scrape my nails down his bare back, leaving great gouges of red open flesh that would fester and scab. But when I tried to rouse myself to the fight all my energy was gone. Instead I just got down on the floor outside our bedroom door and sat there the rest of the night listening to him sleep, my arms wrapped around my knees and my head resting upon them. I stayed there for hours, like a small creature in a cocoon, until I was roused by Isabel’s early morning cry. I don’t know long she’d been crying before I heard her.

  And when the creature emerged from its chrysalis it was no longer a spitting viper, nor sadly a sparkling butterfly. It was a defenceless grub again and utterly diminished.

  ***

  I functioned on autopilot that first Monday. Having a small baby helped, the necessary rituals of caring for her filling up most of the day. Every time my husband approached me I put my hands up in a defensive pose and backed away. I refused to speak to him except to tell him to move his belongings into the spare room.

  For two weeks it was much the same. I ate virtually nothing and drank a bottle of wine by myself each evening. Nights were filled with images of him touching her, being intimate with her; they disturbed both sleep and wake. Still, I could never get a proper picture of her in my head. What sort of woman would my husband choose? What was his type? It always irritated me that I didn’t know.

  When he was home I kept my silent distance, my head bowed so I didn’t have to meet his gaze. When he was away I took my wine with me to the bedroom, where I systematically combed through his belongings in a masochistic hunt for evidence of her - the faceless flight attendant. I found nothing: no trace of perfume or lipstick, no stray hairs of a colour that didn’t match mine, no personal notes. Once when he was home but in the shower I feverishly scrolled through his mobile phone messages, but found nothing incriminating. He’d covered his bases well. It probably helps to be anally retentive when you’re having an affair.

  I went to work as planned, although I’m not sure exactly what I achieved during this time. Melanie kept asking if I was okay but I said nothing. Some things are just too raw to talk about.

  Isabel’s christeni
ng had been scheduled for the Sunday two weeks after Tony’s knock-down punch. I would have cancelled if I’d had a choice but the caterers had been booked and paid for. Pamela had insisted on hosting the lunch afterwards - I think she was resentful about how much time Isabel was spending with my mum and wanted to flex her Nana-muscles - but on that point I wasn’t complaining. I was hardly capable of mashing some boiled pumpkin for Issy’s dinner let alone hosting a lunch for fifty. The question was: would anyone notice if I didn’t turn up?

  On the Saturday night prior Tony confronted me. ‘How long is the silent treatment going to go on?’

  ‘I have no desire to speak to you again ever.’

  ‘The affair is over. I ended it. What else am I meant to do?’

  ‘You could act sorry. Do you realise you never even said you were sorry?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re actually meant to mean it.’

  ‘I know you’ll never be satisfied no matter what I say. That’s the reason…’

  ‘What are you saying? Are you going to try and blame me for this?’

  ‘No…forget it…Anyway we have this christening tomorrow so we’ll have to at least pretend we are speaking.’

  ‘I’ll try and pretend.’

  ‘Have you said anything to anyone?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It would be best if it stayed that way, especially tomorrow.’

  ‘To protect your precious reputation.’

  ‘I just don’t want a scene. My mother has gone to a lot of trouble with this lunch.’

  ‘Yeah it’s all about appearances with the Coopers isn’t it?’

  He sighed and walked away.

  I made it through the christening, wearing a frozen smile and the glazed eyes of a Valium-addicted housewife. Luckily it was Isabel who was the centre of attention, looking suitably angelic and invoking lots of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and ‘just gorgeous’ in her white lace robes. I allowed Pamela to parade her granddaughter around most of the day, while I loitered in the kitchen, helping the caterers and myself to too much wine.