by Ben Adams
Firstly I have started paying attention to my own body again. Many married women take themselves for granted, let themselves go to seed, put on a few pounds here and there or let their personal grooming habits slip slightly. Let’s face it, our men let themselves go so why shouldn’t we? I know I did when I was married.
I will never turn myself into a 21-year-old au pair with a perfect rear end, but over the past year I have at least aspired to become a MILF. I have put myself back in the shop window rather than in some dark and dingy corner in the back of the grannies’ discount cardigans section.
Secondly, practice makes perfect as they say. You won’t rediscover a love for sex without actually having sex. I am not ashamed to confess that I have had a few one-night stands. They were all slightly unsatisfactory. The first was a bit of a fumble, the second was over in seconds and the third was very pleasant but I think he liked me - awkward. These one-night stands have served their purpose. After fifteen years of only getting naked in front of one man, I have now overcome my inhibitions and rebuilt my confidence. As a bonus I have also learnt a few new tricks for future use in the bedroom.
And thirdly, within the last month or so I have found a man who I can enjoy sex with. Finding a new man was part of my master plan. You can’t buy a new man to order but you can put yourself ‘out there’, be open to meeting new people. I met him walking my dog of all things.
One dog walk led to another and one thing led to another.
Our dalliances may not be the all-action shagging we get to see so often in raunchy Hollywood blockbusters but we do at least disturb a few cushions. I am now looking forward to that period where we spend hours getting to know each other’s bodies, how to please each other in a hundred different ways and in every room in the house. Not to mention the garden. The joy of discovering a new body and of someone else discovering yours is something to behold.
The grass may not always be greener, but sometimes it just is.
Amy
Ex bored housewife.
Well, who’d have thought it? I am not sure what to make of that. I suppose if nothing else it makes me feel better about my indiscretion with Julia. The other thought that occurred to me is did I use a condom?
‘What’s an au pair?’ Sean asked as I finished reading the article.
‘Never mind that,’ Jack muttered from the armchair, ‘I hope you haven’t ‘pleased each other’ in this chair. Gross.’
Once the boys had gone back to their mum’s, I texted Amy. We still haven’t slipped back in to our stride with each other since the incidents with my ex so I didn’t feel relaxed enough to phone her. Our text chat was fairly friendly though.
Me: ‘My boys just found your ‘sex after marriage’ article down the side of my sofa. x’
Amy: ‘Shit, sorry. x’
Me: ‘Did you mean all that stuff about the one night stands? x’
Amy: ‘Sorry again. They meant nothing. x’
Me: ‘Never mind. I am just looking forward to having sex in every room in your double-fronted house. You must have a hundred rooms.’
Monday 1st September
Someone from Merton Council contacted me this afternoon and told me they were having problems getting hold of one of my referees. I told them that, as far as I know, Richard Branson is out of the country for the foreseeable future and they might struggle getting hold of him. ‘Have you got his mobile number?’ she asked. ‘No, but I know he is with Virgin Mobile if that’s any help,’ I replied. She said she’d try directory enquiries.
Wednesday 3rd September
It’s official. As of 15th September I am going to be a fully functioning member of society again. Either Richard Branson came through with my reference or Merton gave up on him and relied on my good character. That is excellent news for financial reasons, but also because now that the World Cup and the cricket have finished, I am having to resort to daytime telly.
I was supposed to be hosting round three of our Raynes Park set dinner party tonight. Katie and Bryan, John and Tracey, Julia and I all put the date in our diaries at the end of the last dinner party. But with Katie now an alcoholic, Bryan sleeping with Tracey, not a clue who if anyone John is sleeping with and me having had a one night stand with Julia and now being with Amy, I decided on reflection to cancel the planned dinner.
Instead I phoned Amy and asked her if she fancied coming over. She politely declined, citing some issue with Lucy. Something about her tone made me wonder whether she was being evasive. She sounded a bit reserved. Other than at the pub with the lads that Saturday night, I haven’t seen Amy for a fortnight. We haven’t been talking as much on the phone either. It just hasn’t been the same since my ex met her twice in a couple of days. Amy did at least agree to meet me for a pizza in Wimbledon on Friday but I didn’t get the sense that she was looking forward to it.
Until the last week or so, I was beginning to feel more confident about my future. It was to be a future shared with Amy and, at least for part of the time, with my boys. I had felt that I was building a new life, a new normal. But now things are looking decidedly less optimistic. I know what I want. I want Amy. I will make that clear to her on Friday.
Friday 5th September
I didn’t get the chance to make my feelings clear.
I got to the restaurant over the road from the theatre slightly early and took the liberty of ordering us both a Peroni. I wasn’t sure whether this would end up being a romantic dinner or not. I couldn’t help fearing that Amy might turn it in to an intolerable parting of the ways. Other than to confirm she would be at the restaurant at seven, she hasn’t been answering my texts in the last couple of days.
I had nearly finished my beer by the time Amy turned up. As soon as I saw her push open the door, I knew she had an agenda for tonight, and not an agenda I would like either. She wasn’t her normal smiling, care-free self. She looked tired.
As she sat down I leant forward to give her a kiss. She presented her cheek. That didn’t bode well either. ‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Your wife came to see me yesterday.’
‘My ex?’
‘Your ex.’
‘What did she want?’ I asked, already feeling my hackles raising.
‘She asked how I would feel if my fourteen-year-old daughter was regularly staying over with her boyfriend.’
‘What, she wants Lucy to stay with Jack?’ I asked incredulously.
‘No, the opposite. She doesn’t want you and me sleeping together. It sets a bad example for Jack and Lucy.’
‘Why didn’t she talk to me about this?’ Count to ten Graham, count to ten.
‘I told her that. She said you would get pissed at her.’
‘Too right I would.’ What a bloody cheek. What right did my ex have talking to Amy about our love lives? What right did she have talking to Amy about our children?
‘She has got a point though, hasn’t she?’ Amy observed. My ex might be one hundred per cent right, but I didn’t need to hear Amy agreeing with her right now.
‘Maybe she has, but it didn’t stop you asking me to stay when you knew Lucy was home the other day,’ I pointed out.
‘Lucy is my daughter. I am responsible for her and I can talk to her.’ Amy was frowning. This conversation wasn’t easy for her.
‘I am responsible for Jack. I can talk to him too,’ I argued.
Amy went on to tell me that my ex had also brought up the subject of the impact of his father and brother’s relationships on Sean. Eventually she chucked in my ex’s punchline. ‘Your ex told me she would talk to her solicitor about ending your visitation rights if we continue to set a bad example to Sean.’
And breathe. Who does my ex think she is? Admittedly, mine and Jack’s relationships with Amy and Lucy are far from conventional, but they make us happy. I haven’t always thought of all of the possible consequences of our complicated situation but I haven’t done anything crass or inappropriate. I haven’t suggested that the boys and I all sleep at
Amy’s. I haven’t slept with Amy while Jack and Sean have been with me. I haven’t left Jack and Lucy alone together in a bedroom. I haven’t even left Sean alone with Jack and Amy because I wouldn’t want him feeling like a gooseberry. There have been no sordid orgies. My ex needs to chill out.
‘Graham, I just don’t know that I can deal with the hassle of having your ex looking over my shoulder right now,’ Amy concluded. ‘I have just about got my own ex out of my life. The last thing I need is someone else’s throwing their weight around.’
I was a little bit shell-shocked. Not to mention a little bit angry. I sat there nursing my empty beer bottle, not trusting myself to say anything. After what seemed like ages but was probably only a minute or so, the waitress approached to take our order. Amy pushed her chair back and walked out of the restaurant with a tear running down her cheek. Was she walking out of my life too?
That all happened a couple of hours ago. I hung around at the restaurant for a while after Amy had gone in case she changed her mind and came back. She didn’t. Since I got home, I have been gazing in to the bottom of a bottle of lager reflecting upon events. The more I think about it, the more I think my ex is totally out of order. I haven’t been a bad role model or exposed my children to anything inappropriate. For a while tonight I contemplated going straight round to my ex’s and ranting at her. In the end I didn’t bother. She isn’t the important one right now. She can prattle on with her empty threats all she likes but I am not going to dignify them with a response.
What tonight has made me realise is how much I want to be with Amy. When I am not with her I miss her laughter, I miss her scent. I miss her touch. Amy has got to be my priority, not ranting at my ex. Where would ranting at my ex get me anyway? Amy didn’t categorically say she doesn’t want to see me anymore, but she didn’t say she does want to see me either. I am not sure where we stand. Are we still an item?
Starting from tomorrow I am going to do my best to make sure we are.
Saturday 6th September
I don’t know how to say this other than to just come out with it. Amy is in a coma in St George’s Hospital. She went to pick Lucy up from her ex’s after she left me at the restaurant last night but she didn’t get there. She was knocked down.
I didn’t find out until this morning. Jack phoned me first. And then Ray phoned. I don’t know any details yet. All Ray could tell me is that his brother and Amy’s mother are at the hospital by Amy’s bedside.
I can’t believe it. I feel totally lost, dazed, overwhelmed. I have never experienced trauma like this before. No one I have been close to has ever ended up in intensive care. Grandparents have died but that is meant to happen. Amy is my age. She isn’t meant to die.
She can’t die. I didn’t even say goodbye to her when she left the restaurant. She doesn’t know how I feel about her. Why didn’t I tell her yesterday when I had the chance? We haven’t even done a fraction of the things that couples do together. We haven’t stayed in on a wet night and watched a film. We haven’t welcomed each other home from work with a kiss and a steaming hot plate of food. We haven’t argued about where to go on holiday. We haven’t argued. She can’t die without us having had a good dingdong. She can’t die because the last time I saw her, she had a tear in her eye.
I am being selfish. She can’t die because she has Lucy to mother. Jack had heard the news from Amy’s distraught daughter. He wants to come over to the flat but I put him off because I want to go to the hospital. I want to be there for Amy, to hold her hand, to tell her we will get through this together, to tell her it will be alright. Ray tried to put me off going to the hospital. I am not interested in having a scene with his brother but I am not going to stay away from Amy either. I told Ray I would go this afternoon and if his brother was still there, he would just have to deal with me turning up.
I have spent the last couple of hours trying to function, to do things, anything that will stop me going straight to the hospital. I just washed up my breakfast stuff. I could see cars passing on the road below my window. Dogs were barking too. All around my flat, life is carrying on. The traffic lights are still changing colour. Leaves on the trees are still shifting in the breeze. But, to me, today the world is on hold. Everything has stopped except for Amy’s struggle for life. Nothing else matters.
I am off to the hospital.
Sunday 7th September
Amy is in intensive care, still fighting. Luckily the accident happened just down the road from St George’s hospital. She hit her head pretty hard. The surgeons operated on her almost straight away on Friday night to relieve the pressure on her swollen brain. She has been kept in an induced coma since the accident to give her brain time to recover. This afternoon we were told that the treatment seems to be working as the swelling is going down. They are going to reduce her medication over the next day or so and hopefully bring her out of her coma. No one official is making any predictions yet, though, about her long-term health.
When I arrived at the hospital yesterday and eventually found the right wing, the right floor and the right section, I immediately recognised Amy’s mother sitting in a waiting area next to a nurse’s station. Amy has her mother’s hair and her mother’s eyes.
‘Hi, you must be Imogen. I’m Graham,’ I said, holding out my alcohol-rubbed hand.
‘Graham,’ she repeated in a tired voice while nodding to herself. She showed no recognition of my name. No interest in me either. She just continued to stare at one of a number of curtained-off areas across the room. My hand was left dangling un-grasped until I awkwardly withdrew it.
You are supposed to meet parents of partners over dinner, or drinks, or if you are really lucky you wouldn’t need to meet them at all. You certainly aren’t supposed to meet them in a hospital waiting area with busy health professionals moving purposefully to and fro around you. You aren’t supposed to meet them when the person you have in common is fighting for her life.
I sat down opposite Imogen and waited. Isn’t that what you do in waiting areas? I hadn’t heard anything about Amy’s condition at that point other than what Ray had told me on the phone. I didn’t want to intrude on Imogen’s thoughts but I had to know. I asked her how Amy was. Finally she seemed to register that there was someone else present.
‘What did you say your name was again?’ she asked.
‘Graham. Graham Hope. I’m Amy’s, er, I am a friend of Amy’s,’ I managed.
Imogen nodded again and then proceeded to tell me in hushed tones about the operation to relieve the pressure on Amy’s brain. When she had finished, I asked if I could see Amy.
‘There’s someone in with her at the moment,’ Imogen replied. And at that moment Ray’s brother, also known as Amy’s ex, also known as Stuart, brushed aside the curtain that Imogen had been studying so intently and walked over to us.
Imogen stood up. ‘Has anything changed?’ she asked anxiously. Stuart shook his head. And then he focussed on me.
‘Who are you?’
‘Hi, you must be Stuart. I’m Graham,’ I said, holding out my hand and having the proffered handshake refused for the second time in ten minutes. Did I overdo it on the alcohol rub?
‘Ray has told me about you. I don’t give a shit if you are his mate. As far as I am concerned you can piss off.’ A young nurse lifted her head up from the paperwork she was studying and gave us both a withering look. She was about to say something when Imogen stepped in and put a stop to our unseemly banter.
I didn’t get in to see Amy yesterday. As Stuart pointed out in no uncertain terms, I am not family. Technically speaking, now that he is divorced from Amy, neither is he. But in fear of getting a smack I decided not to push the point.
When I went back to the hospital today, Stuart wasn’t there. The curtains around Amy’s bed were closed, as were those around the other patients. It struck me how quiet it was in the intensive care unit. Other than the hum of mechanical noise from the machines keeping the people on this ward alive, there was lit
tle noise at all from the patients. Presumably they were all sedated like Amy.
I was pleading my case with the same nurse who had given us the look yesterday to let me go in and see Amy when Imogen stuck her head around the curtain and beckoned me in.
I have watched my fair share of hospital dramas but nothing prepared me for how fragile Amy looked. Her head from her eyes upwards was pretty much covered in bandages. Wires and tubes were feeding in to space-aged machines at the side of her bed. The machines were beeping and gurgling and displays were flashing, some at regular intervals, some irregularly. I couldn’t help wondering if the irregular beeps should have been regular.
Until that point, this whole episode had felt a bit unreal. I was almost going through the motions of saying and doing the right thing. But seeing Amy looking so battered and helpless threw me over the edge. I haven’t broken down so completely since, well, ever. Imogen sat me down in the one bedside chair and kneaded my shoulder while I held my head in my hands.
Amy looked so damaged. The whole left side of her face was scratched raw, presumably from when she landed on the tarmac. Her skin, where it wasn’t cut up, looked impossibly pale. It took me a while to compose myself.
Imogen and I sat with Amy for a good hour, both of us mainly lost in our own thoughts about the woman we cared for. Imogen did break her reverie to tell me the news about the doctors gradually reducing her medication in the hope that she would slowly wake from her induced coma. She also told me about Amy’s left eye. Something pierced it in the accident. The doctors are concentrating on Amy’s brain at the moment but one of them told Imogen this morning that if she does recover, they aren’t sure that they will be able to save her eye.