by Carrie Elks
“Alex said six o'clock, which in festival language probably means seven.” When I glance at my watch I note it's not quite noon. Seeing the sun so high in the sky reminds me that Max should be wearing a hat to go along with his sunscreen, and I lean across David to rummage through his baby bag.
It's really weird having Max strapped to my front, as if I’m regressing back to pregnancy, except this time all the kicks are on the outside. I keep forgetting he's there and squashing him until he starts to squeal.
With his hat on and sunscreen liberally applied, we make our way across the fields, carried along with the stream of people all heading in the same destination. Unsurprisingly, there aren't many children here, but the few I do spot seem to be having a great time, running around on the grass, kicking footballs and throwing Frisbees. In the past few years festivals have become more family friendly, as the twenty-somethings who are the main clientele have started to settle down and have kids of their own. But that doesn't stop the family field from seeming a little ghettoized, the sole escape from the sex, drugs and rock and roll spread throughout the rest of the site.
“Have you told Alex we're here?” Andrea asks, and I realise that in the rush of our arrival I completely forgot. I pull my phone from the bag she's holding and try to send him a text.
It gets pinged back immediately.
“No signal.” The curse of the English countryside. It may be beautiful, but the lack of coverage is a big problem. “He said they'll be near the backstage area. We should probably go and look there.” I feel a bit stupid; I've dragged them all the way over here, and can't even manage to find my own husband.
It takes us half an hour to locate the backstage area. After a long detour which takes us past the food stands, we show our passes to the security team who stand aside and let us through.
The atmosphere is different in this part of the festival; charged and edgy. It may have something to do with the booze that seems to be flowing freely, or the rush of adrenaline that comes from performing live. Though there are no huge bands playing—no superstar headliners—I recognize a lot of the faces as we push our way through the crowd. There are musicians and girlfriends, kids and groupies, all mixing in the same area.
I spot Stuart first. He's about twenty feet away, a beer in one hand as he gesticulates wildly, telling some story which is making him grin. A circle of people surround him, mostly guys, all drinking and rocking on their feet in the way that men do. I've noticed before that when a group of men congregate to drink, standing still rarely seems to be an option.
“Is that Alex?” Andrea asks, pointing to the left of Stuart. I follow her gaze and I see him.
A moment later I wish I hadn’t looked.
He's standing outside of the circle, not listening to Stuart. Instead he's in deep conversation with some blonde girl who has a joint between her fingers and the biggest smile on her face. And I watch, as if in slow motion, as she slowly raises it to Alex's lips. His mouth closes around the end and he shuts his eyes as he inhales, his fingers wrapping around her forearm as if to keep it steady. When he exhales, she lifts the joint to her own mouth, and takes a deep mouthful inside, before slowly, languorously, letting the smoke escape.
And she’s wearing a crop top.
Suddenly, I'm furious. Not because I think he's cheating; no matter how bloody firm that girl's stomach is, I know Alex well enough to accept he isn't the cheating kind. Neither of us are; we've always sworn we would walk away first. But what's making me so angry is he promised he wouldn't take any more drugs, and he knew I was coming here today with Max. Yet still he thought it would be a good idea to share a smoke with some blonde in the middle of a field.
It’s so unthoughtful, as if he's lied to me only to shut me up, while carrying on in exactly the way he wants to. It’s not only me, there's Max to think about now; a little boy who will be growing up, and possibly thinking that drugs must be okay if Daddy does them.
It hits me then, that as much as I've changed since we had Max, Alex hasn't adapted in the same way. Maybe he hasn't had to. But the thought makes me sad and angry at the same time.
“Are you okay?” David asks quietly. He must have sensed my posture stiffening, my hands balling into fists next to my sides.
“I'm fine.” I sound terse, but I can't say any more, I'm holding things together by a fragile hair. This isn't the time or the place for confrontations. Not only because we are surrounded by people, although a public row would be embarrassing enough, but because this is the band's big break and a huge argument will ruin it for them.
Before I can calm myself down, Alex looks up and spots us. He says something to the blonde and she gives him a quick wave, before he slowly ambles over towards us.
I'm still surrounded by angry, red mist when he arrives. As a counsellor I've gone through anger-management strategies with clients so many times. Deep breaths through the nose, silent counting. Closing eyes and picturing a happy place. But following my own advice is harder, especially when we've been through all this before.
Alex presses his mouth to my cheek first, then ruffles Max's hair, leaning down to kiss him.
I bristle. “Don't breathe on him.” Okay, so maybe I'm not in control of this at all. I remind myself where we are.
His head shoots straight up. When he looks at me, there's the merest hint of redness to the whites of his eyes, as if he's suffering from mild hay fever. “What?”
“Don't breathe your druggy breath on him,” I spit through gritted teeth.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Alex grabs hold of my upper arm and the next minute is a whirlwind. Somehow, David manages to scoop Max out of the baby sling and away from the two of us, and I'm suddenly feeling light-headed and unbalanced.
“I saw you smoking over there with that blonde. And I'd rather you didn't exhale your cannabis all over my son and give him a contact high.”
“Your son?” Alex repeats. In spite of the intoxication, his voice takes on a dangerous edge. It holds more than a hint of maliciousness.
I'm not proud of myself right now. I said it to get a rise out of him and it worked. But it's backfired spectacularly, making me feel like shit and giving him the moral high ground.
“Our son.” I correct myself. “Stop giving our son a contact high.”
He shakes his head and lets out a bitter laugh. “You're a real fucking killjoy, you know that? We’re in an open field, surrounded by fresh air. The possibility of Max getting a contact high are approximately zero. I wanted to say hello to my son and my beautiful wife who I've been talking about non-stop for the past few hours. Then you walk in here and start acting like a bitch.”
“You promised me you wouldn't smoke.”
“Yeah, well you promised me having a kid together wouldn't change you, I guess we're both liars now.”
I open my mouth to retort, then shut it again. Even though I'm so angry I could spit, I have enough self-awareness to know I can't do this. Not here, not now. But if I stay here I'm going to explode and we will end up having an almighty argument in front of all these people. We're already making enough of a spectacle of ourselves as it is. I need to be a better person, to step back, to walk away.
I glance to my left and see David holding the baby while Andrea plays with his feet. Max is completely oblivious to everything going on between Alex and me—thank goodness—but from the awkward smile David shoots at me when he catches me looking at them, I know he and Andrea are all too aware.
I feel embarrassed. The need to get out of here claws at me. “I'm going to get some food,” I mumble, not able to look at Alex. “I'll take Max for a walk.”
Alex squeezes my bicep gently, then in the softest voice asks, “We good?”
No, we aren't good. We're not even in the same vicinity of good. But I force myself to look up and nod, all the while trying not to cry. “It's fine, we'll talk later. Good luck with the gig.”
“I'll see you before we go on, won't I?”
&
nbsp; I don't say anything. There's about five hours before they're due on stage, and the way I'm feeling now I can't see myself calming down by then. And the closer it gets to their set, I know what an arsehole Alex becomes. It's a recipe for disaster.
Fire, meet touch paper.
“Yeah, sure.” If he carries on drinking and smoking he won't even notice I'm gone. The sad fact is, out of sight out of mind works excellently for Alex. When we’re together, just the three of us, he makes it feel as though we are his world. But right now, I feel like a piece of gum clinging to the sole of his shoe.
David and Andrea are angels. When I walk over to them and explain I need to go for a walk, they don't ask any questions. Instead, David unravels the empty baby sling from me and straps Max to himself, while Andrea walks over to her brother and gives him a quick hug. Though I can't hear what she whispers in his ear, I can see him smile and nod, and for some reason that makes me feel sad.
I manage to hold it together as we leave the backstage area, clasping on to Andrea's hand while David and Max walk slightly ahead of us. I think of Alex and my eyes well up again, blurring my vision so I can hardly see. By the time we've found a secluded spot and sat down on the grass, I'm sobbing loudly, while Andrea rubs my back and David holds Max, his eyes soft and kind as he watches me cry.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper. “I'm being so stupid.”
Andrea hushes me. “It's okay, it's okay.”
“He promised me he was giving up the weed. Then when I saw him with that girl...” I start crying harder.
“You know he'd never do anything to hurt you, right? Alex adores you, he worships the ground you walk on. I remember the first time he told me and Mom about you. He had this dreamy look in his eyes when he said your name and I knew you were the one. Then when he brought you home for Sunday lunch, God, I've never seen a man look at a girl the way he looked at you.”
“He doesn't look at me like that anymore,” I sob. “He thinks I've changed since I had Max. He wants the old Lara back.”
“Of course you've changed, silly. You're somebody's mum now. That has to change you. Different priorities, putting somebody else's needs first. Having a baby is supposed to have that effect on you.”
I wipe my damp cheeks. “Alex hasn't changed. He's still exactly the same.” And there lies the problem. I'm a mum first, and Lara second. Alex is just Alex.
“That's his issue, not yours.” Andrea sounds firm. “He's got a bit of growing up to do but he’ll get there, and so will you. I know Max has turned everything upside down, but the two of you will get through it—you need to give each other a bit of space.” She says it so confidently, I believe her. She's known Alex since he was born, has enough insight into the way he works for me to respect her judgement.
Even so, I still don't stop crying for an hour.
9
Despite my pent-up anger, the next two days fly past. At work I’m too busy to think about things, and at home Max has decided he can’t sleep without being cuddled. I’ve been too tired to argue, so my evenings are mostly spent holding him in my arms. By Wednesday I feel like the walking dead, so when I see I have a two hour break at lunchtime, I decide to step outside the clinic and grab some fresh air.
As soon as I leave the building, a light breeze catches my hair, lifting the strands until they tickle my face. I inhale deeply, tasting the freshness of the air, the coolness of the temperature. The sky is blotted by hazy clouds that diffuse the light, casting a peachy mellowness to the sun.
A movement to the left catches my eye. Alex pushes himself up from the wall he’s been sitting on and walks towards me, shoving his phone into his jeans pocket. His steel-capped boots are covered with a thin layer of pink dust, his jeans paint-splattered and worn. A thick checked shirt covers up an old band tee, but I know without having to look that it’s a Sex Pistols one.
“Hi.” Everything about him seems softer. Over the past two days we’ve hardly spoken. It feels strange to hear his voice.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.” Nervously, he rakes a hand through his hair. “If you’ve got the time.”
“How did you know I’d be free?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t, but I’ve been sent over to cost a job in Brick Lane, so I thought I’d pop in on the off chance. I was about to call you to see if you were free for lunch.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re not really dressed for the Dorchester.” Glancing down, I notice my frayed cardigan and boyfriend jeans. “Nor am I, for that matter.”
“Well, let’s go to the pub instead, then.”
Ten minutes later, Alex carries over two glasses of Coke, a menu tucked beneath his arm. He passes me a glass, his fingers sliding against mine as I take it, and I try not to pull away from him.
We sit in silence for a minute, letting the low murmur of conversation from other tables cut through the tension, and I try to work out exactly how to phrase what I’m feeling. Our argument still seems so raw even thinking about it hurts.
“I’m sorry.” Alex looks up at me through thick lashes. “I’m a stupid, insensitive asshole. I shouldn’t have smoked in front of you, and I shouldn’t have said all those things.”
Unexpected tears sting at my eyes and I’m not sure if they’re from anger or relief, but either way I try to blink them down.
“You know how I feel about drugs.”
He takes a slow breath in. “I do. And I understand it too. You’ve seen some really shitty things and it affects you.” Leaning back in his chair, he splays his long legs in front of him. “So I think we should clear the air and say what we really think.”
“That’s dangerous talk.”
“It is.”
“Could lead to more arguments.”
“Undoubtedly. But I’d rather have you shout at me than ignore me. The silent treatment is killing me.”
Though I try to bite it away, I feel a small smile creep across my face. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I don’t know what to say.”
This time, he reaches forward and puts his hand over mine. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”
“I’m thinking what an idiot you were. You knew I was coming yet you still smoked a joint. What does that say about your feelings for me?”
“It wasn’t about you. I was so fucking worked up I couldn’t think. It was the biggest gig we’d ever played and my nerves were shot to hell. I only took a couple of drags; that was it. And I wish I hadn’t.”
I wish he hadn’t, too.
“I hate the way we keep arguing over everything, Alex. It’s so bloody draining. And I know having Max around puts a strain on both of us, but I can’t keep going on like this.”
“Arguments don’t have to be a bad thing,” he points out. “They can clear the air, too. I’d rather you talk to me about how you’re feeling than let it all stew inside you. I can tell when you’re getting uptight about something.”
I look down at my feet. There’s a truth in his words, I do bottle things up. I’m like that shaken up can of cola, fizzing and ready to explode as soon as somebody pulls the key.
“But I want everything to be perfect. I want to be perfect. At the moment I feel like such a bloody failure at everything. You, Max, my job, all of it.”
He squeezes my hand. “You’re a fucking amazing mother. Seriously, I’m so proud of the way you’ve adapted to having Max. Come over to the site sometime and you’ll hear me going on about how great you are.” He smiles at me, his eyes warm. “It’s sexy as hell watching you all domesticated.”
“Seriously?” I wrinkle my nose. “You like it? Barefoot and pregnant and all that?”
“Maybe not the pregnant, bit, not yet. But the rest of it, yeah. I love it. Even the hormones.”
I burst out laughing. “You’ve been living with women for too long.” We’ve had this conversation before. He isn’t one to shy away from women when they’re feeling menstrual and angry.
“I love you, bab
e. Everything about you. And I know that you need some support. I’m trying, I really am. I’ve told Alfie that if he can get the band some high paying gigs, we’ll take them whatever we are. That way we can look at you working less hours and spending more time with Maxie.”
There’s a lump in my throat that a swallow of Coke doesn’t dissolve. “Thank you. And you will get more gigs because you were amazing last weekend. The crowd loved you.”
His eyes brighten. “You think so?”
I grin. “Yeah, you really were. There were so many cameras out, so many people singing along.”
“It was a good show. Though I hated the fact we weren’t talking to each other afterwards.”
“Me, too.”
Alex lifts my hands up to his mouth, brushing his lips along my palm. “Are we friends again?”
“Yeah, we’re friends again.”
* * *
Max has developed a summer cold. It clogs up his nostrils with sticky, green mucus, and turns his breath into a sort of hacking wheeze that's painful to hear. I can tell he's frightened from his constant need to be carried, and I try to cuddle him for reassurance, but it never seems enough.
As always, I'm buried beneath a barrage of well-meaning suggestions. Alex's mum tells me to squirt breast milk up his nostrils as that will loosen the snot. Holly, his nursery nurse, suggests a little sucking device with a rubber end that will pull the mucus out with a vacuum. The doctor looks at me as if I'm wasting his time, and tells me that on average babies get around four colds a year.
Four? The thought panics me. It's only been a week since he caught it—another thing I'm blaming the music festival for—but it's been the most drawn out seven days of my life. His sleep has been fitful and noisy, and every time I attempt to drift off, another hacking cough makes me jump up in alarm.
So when we arrive at Alex's mum's house for Sunday lunch, we are the walking dead. A couple of mornings ago I found Alex curled up on our uncomfortable leather sofa with Max laying in his baby seat beside him. Alex had a throw draped over his legs as he twisted and turned to try and find a comfortable position. Still, as soon as we walk through the door he's pointed in the direction of the lawnmower, and he lopes off, jingling his keys in his pocket, mobile phone in his other hand.