Broken Chords

by Carrie Elks

  “How's your dad?” Tina walks back into the kitchen and I follow her, Max clutching desperately to my shirt as if he's frightened I'll try to put him down. His earlier cries have mellowed into a low-level grizzle. I shift him onto my hip in an effort to hold him more easily.

  “He's fine. I spoke to him a few weeks ago. Said he was enjoying the weather and getting out in the garden.”

  “You should invite him here for lunch some time,” Tina suggests. “It doesn't seem right him rattling around that big house on his own. Does he come up to London much?”

  “Not really. The last time he came was for our wedding. We took Max down for a visit a few months ago, but he didn’t seem that interested.”

  “What a shame.” With her close-knit family, and her fierce love of her children, Tina finds it hard to understand the detachment I have from my father. It's not that I hate him, or even dislike him, we simply don't have much in common.

  Even before my mum died we rarely spoke. In that sad, clichéd way, she was the glue that held our family together. When she died seven years ago, there didn't seem anything left. Just the odd sense of obligation, and even that dissipated as time went on. Visits became phone calls, which eventually petered out into Christmas and birthday cards. Nowadays if he calls, I immediately assume something is wrong.

  Alex pops his head around the door. “You're out of oil. I'm gonna walk over to the petrol station.”

  “Ooh, can you pick up a couple of pints of milk while you're there? I want to make custard,” Tina replies.

  It's stupid how much the thought of custard cheers me up. After a week of no sleep, and constant crying from Max, all I want is the sweet, creamy goodness.

  “You're making custard?” Alex looks as excited as I am. “What are we having it with?”

  “Apple pie,” Tina replies, smugly. As much as we get on, she makes no secret of the fact she likes to spoil Alex rotten with her cooking. Luckily for her, this is the one thing I don't mind her being better at than me. Especially if it means I get a proper dinner every Sunday. “I can give you the recipe if you like?”

  Alex bursts out laughing. “Lara couldn't make it. She cremates water.”

  I'm about to say something snarky back, when Tina places a cool hand on my shoulder and turns to look at her son. “Actually, I was talking to you.”

  “Ooh, burn.” I lick my finger and put it in the air, making a sizzling noise. “Alex doesn't even know how to turn on the oven.”

  He laughs and flips me the bird, grabbing his jacket from the kitchen chair. “I'll leave you ladies to your bloody gossip, while I go out and do the man jobs.” He kisses my cheek then ruffles Max's scant hair and heads out the back door.

  I think about the way Alex and I must seem so normal to his mum. We still joke, we still wind each other up, and yes, I still think he's the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

  But… and there's always a but.

  There's an awkwardness there which didn't exist before. It's like having a perfect china plate, then running my finger over it and feeling an imperfection. It doesn't matter how beautiful that plate looks, or how everybody stares at it and thinks it's flawless, the problem is I know the crack is there.

  So I cover it with piles of strawberries and chocolate and hope nobody notices.

  Alex is quiet when he gets back from the shop. Andrea arrives a little after two, and goes upstairs to drag a protesting Amy out of bed, who then proceeds to regale us with a long explanation of why she didn't get to bed until five in the morning, and how she ended up with only one shoe.

  “So why did you give the guy only one shoe?” Andrea scratches her head. I'm glad she's as lost as I am. Things that make sense in Amy's world seem absolutely crazy in mine.

  “He said he'd come and find me at the end of the night,” Amy explains, getting slightly impatient. “You know, like Cinderella.”

  “But he didn't?” Andrea clarifies. I bite my lip in an attempt not to laugh. Tina ignores them both; she's too well versed in the craziness of Amy to bother commenting.

  “Well, clearly. Duh!”

  For someone so intelligent, Amy doesn't have a clue when it comes to common sense. I wish I could say this was unusual, but there have been too many Sunday lunches like this for that to be true.

  Alex's phone starts to ring, and he scrambles in his pocket, pressing the button to reject the call. “Sorry.” He says it to Tina. She has a strict no phone at the table policy.

  Before she can say anything, it rings again. I see his mouth twitch as he rejects the call for the second time.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “It's only Stuart. I'll call him back later.”

  When his phone buzzes with a text alert, I hear Tina sigh. “Just answer it for God’s sake.”

  “It's a text, Mum.”

  “Then read it and turn the bloody thing off. I'm trying to eat my dinner here.”

  The next minute, Alex is standing up. “He says it's urgent. I'll go outside and call him back, okay?”

  He doesn't wait for an answer, just sidles out, and I look over at his mum. “Sorry.”

  “Don't apologise for him, love. He's ugly enough to do that himself.”

  “Don't let him hear you say that,” Andrea says. “You know how vain he is.”

  “Oh God,” Amy giggles, “Do you remember the time he used that hair bleach? His hair was so orange he looked like one of the Weasleys.”

  I smile even though I've heard the story before. Alex claims the whole incident scarred him for any future hair dye use. He also reckons it delayed him losing his virginity by at least a year.

  He can be such a liar.

  Having said that, I've seen the pictures. He did look like one of the Weasley twins.

  When he comes back, there's a huge grin spread across Alex's face. He taps the phone against his chin a couple of times, then grabs hold of me, swinging me around before planting a huge kiss on my lips. “Guess what?”

  “What?” I'm breathless from his sudden change in demeanour.

  “Stuart got a call from Alfie. The Freaks' manager have offered us a gig supporting them on their next tour.”

  I've heard of The Freaks. They're not massive, but big enough for their songs to be played on the radio. Even if I hadn't known of them, I'd realise from the look on Alex's face that this is big news.

  “That's brilliant. When do you start?”

  “Yeah, that's the catch. Their original support act has pulled out. The first concert is next month.”

  “That doesn't give you a lot of time.”

  “We’ll have to put the work in. We can use the same set as the festival. According to Stuart, Alfie said their record company was really interested in us. They want to see how we get on in the tour.”

  He's so happy, I can't help but grin. Alex has been dreaming about this for ages, ever since I met him seven years ago. “You can do it, I know you can. How long is the tour for?”

  “There're only twenty dates, but spread across three months.”

  “That's not so bad.” At least he'll be home in between. Plus I can go and watch him at the local ones.

  “Yeah, I was getting to that. Although there's only twenty, they're also spread across North America, so we're going to need to stay there for the whole three months.”

  I try not to let my smile falter, but the combination of no sleep and Alex's casually dropped bombshell doesn't make it easy. “Three months?”

  “Yeah. I know it's a long time, but the pay is good, in fact it’s so good we might be able to save some cash. Like Stuart said, it's our first big break, we'd be crazy to turn it down.”

  “That's fantastic.” Tina walks over and hugs him. “I'm so proud of you.” The expression on her face is one of pure delight as she says all the words that are frozen on my tongue. By some force of nature, I keep the smile plastered to my face, but it's a lie. Because that little voice who notices everything pipes up in my brain, pointing out what I already know.


  He didn't even ask me what I think about him leaving.

  10

  By the time we get home that evening we’ve barely said two words to each other. Every time I look at Alex a cocktail of anger and fear squeezes me from the inside out.

  Alex carries the buggy up while I hold a sleepy Max in my arms. His breathing is still laboured and harsh, each feeble exhale punctuated by a liquid wheeze. His nose is raw from the way I have to keep wiping it and his lips are dry from his constant attempts to breathe. Even asleep, his eyes are still red-rimmed from his tears.

  It hurts to look at him. To know he’s suffering. But more than anything, it’s breaking my heart to know his daddy doesn’t even seem to care.

  How can he? If Alex loved him, he wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t leave me, either. And he is leaving, I know that much. The way he announced it, using his family as some kind of buffer, tells me how serious he is. If he’d mentioned it to me first, given us time to talk it over, perhaps the outcome would have been different. But he’s put it out there for everybody to hear. If I try to stop him, I’m going to look like the bad wife.

  A fierce sense of protectiveness takes hold of me. Because as much as I love Alex, I love this tiny, defenceless little boy, too. I carry Max into our bedroom and lay him down in his cot, leaving the covers hanging loosely around him. His mild fever makes him kick the blankets away, tiny legs scrabbling until they’re a rumpled pile at the bottom of the cot. He moans, his hands curling into tight fists.

  When I walk back into the living room Alex is sitting next to the window, his guitar resting on his knee. He plucks at a few chords, the sound melancholic as it echoes against the glass. He’s hunched over, his head lowered over his chest so all I can see is the top of his head. His expression is completely obscured.

  “It’s Sunday.” My voice sounds thick and congested. Maybe I’m catching Max’s cold.

  Alex looks up, his face blank. “What?” A moment later his brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  I take a deep breath, closing my eyes in an attempt to calm myself. “I mean it’s a non-working day. Not the sort of day that a tour manager would be making calls. It seems weird that today’s the first time you’ve heard about the tour.”

  Alex stops strumming. There’s a faint thud of wood against plaster as he props his guitar against the wall. “What are you trying to say?” His tone is sharp; like a needle, it pierces. “What are you accusing me of this time?”

  Though my eyes are still closed, I hear his approach. His bare feet pad across the polished floor boards, each one bringing him closer. Then he’s so near I can feel the warmth of him, smell his aftershave. His breaths are hard and heavy, overwhelming my senses. When I open my eyes the tears stream out.

  “Is today the first time you’ve known about the tour?” My words come out as a sob. I’ve lost it again. But this time it’s not anger that’s burning me from the inside out. It’s hurt and desperation.

  “Does it matter? You’ve made it perfectly fucking clear what you think of it.” He’s still bitter, still angry. “Whatever I say, you’ve made up your mind I’m the bad guy. And for the record, yes, I’ve known it’s a possibility. We discussed it last weekend at the festival, but I didn’t want to upset you. You were in a bad enough state already.”

  He takes another deep breath, this time stepping back. The distance between us grows. “Everything’s about you, isn’t it, babe? Most girls would be delighted for their husbands, but you have to be so fucking melodramatic about it all.”

  I make his point for him by sobbing louder. Lifting my hand, I angrily wipe the tears away, wishing I didn’t look so bloody weak. I’m not that girl who manipulates with tears, who bends and breaks every time she comes up against an obstacle. I’m a fighter, I don’t back down. If it wasn’t for all these hormones taking over my emotions, holding them hostage, I’d be giving as good as I’m getting.

  “You think I’m being unsupportive?” I ask, horrified. “I’ve done nothing except support you. I’ve come to all your concerts, always cheered you on. God knows how many times I’ve slept alone because you’ve been at the recording studio. And what about paying the fucking rent so you could give up a steady wage and put everything into the band?” The angrier I get, the harder it is to get the words out. I almost spit them.

  “Oh, I knew you’d throw that one back in my face. We both know I was made redundant, and we both agreed I’d spend more time on music.” He takes a step closer, face red, eyes narrowed. “Who do you think has been paying the rent so you could stay at home for six fucking months and look after Max? Do you really think I enjoyed going to a building site every day, breaking my fucking back so you could take extra maternity leave? Well, I didn’t. But I did it because I love you and I want you to be happy.” He laughs harshly. “Fat lot of good that did.”

  “I had maternity pay.”

  “It didn’t even cover the rent. But I knew how important being with Max was to you.”

  I open my mouth to breathe, but my chest constricts painfully. It hurts to speak. “To us.” I correct. “Max is important to us.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No you didn’t. You just compared your bloody band to our son. You think I should understand how important music is to you because you understand how important Max is to me. But that’s bollocks, because Max should be important to you, too. And if he was, there’s no way you’d want to leave him to go running off with the band for months.”

  The silence that follows is thick, taking on a life of its own, loaded with anger and accusation. It stretches between us, waiting for somebody to break it. I look at Alex and it’s as if I don’t know him anymore. A stranger with my husband’s face. There’s no love or desire or understanding in his expression.

  He looks as though he hates me.

  Even worse, I can feel my anger reflecting back at him. It’s in the set of my mouth, in the furrow of my brow. We stand here, more combatants than lovers, each waiting for the other to strike the final blow. I don’t even know if I have it in me anymore. There’s nothing I want more than to curl up into a ball and pull a blanket over me, hiding until the storm passes. But it’s too late to batten down the hatches, the rain’s already flooding in.

  “Sometimes I don’t know you at all.” His voice is calm, maybe too calm. “I’m looking at you and wondering who the hell you are. Because you sure as hell aren't the girl I married.”

  It hurts as much as the first time he said it; more, probably. Because now I know he really means it. The rejection slaps me right in the face, stinging me. I have to bite at my lips to stifle another sob, but my chest hitches anyway.

  “Fuck you.” Though I say it quietly, I’m screaming inside. “Even if I’ve changed it doesn’t make me wrong.”

  “It makes you selfish, though.” With these final words he slays me.

  I close in on myself, trying to dry my tears with angry hands. Then I turn away, because it hurts too much to look at him anymore.

  “Then piss off and leave me alone. I’m clearly holding you back and making you miserable.” I turn and leave, holding onto a thin layer of sanity with my fingernails. It hurts to talk, to blink, to breathe. Every movement is excruciating. Yet somehow I walk away.

  “Lara?” He sounds uncertain. I wait for him to say something else. I’m still waiting when I walk into our bedroom, and when I throw myself on the bed. Still listening as I curl myself up into a tight, anxious ball.

  I wait and nothing comes. Only the sound of a guitar case being zipped, followed by loud footsteps across the living room floor. When I hear the front door slam shut, my whole body stiffens, my mouth falling open into a single, silent scream.

  * * *

  I hardly sleep that night. As soon as I start to doze off, Max wakes himself up coughing, the hacking turning into throaty sobs as he realises how poorly he feels. So I end up bringing him into bed with me, letting him settle on my chest, his s
kin hot and clammy as it touches mine. Even when he falls back to sleep he cries softly, and I bend into him, sobbing too.

  I don't think I've cried this much since my mum died seven years ago. That's how it feels, as if I'm mourning something. Not the death of my marriage, that's taking it too far; I'm mourning the life I thought I'd have, the slow suffocation of my dreams, as the hopeless optimism inside me takes it's final, rattling breath.

  It was meant to be easy, it was Alex and me against the world. When two turned into three we were supposed to become this perfect little unit, walking hand in hand towards a peachy-orange horizon, confident in our happily ever after.

  But it doesn't work that way. Instead, I'm alone with a poorly baby, the bed noticeably empty on Alex's side. He hasn't called or texted to tell me where he is. Not that I've tried calling him, either. Because as sad as I am, I'm still angry, too, and the two emotions have fused together, planting ugly thoughts in my mind. Ones where he doesn't give a shit, just disappears and pursues his dreams, leaving Max and me behind like rubbish blowing in the breeze.

  The anxiety leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I've had insomnia before, I know the crippling effects of free-floating anxiety, yet I'm still unable to rationalise the fears that wrap around my chest.

  No matter how angry I am, I still miss him and the reassuring cadence of his breath close to my ear as I feel the warmth spread over my skin. I wonder where he is, if he's sleeping now. Whether he is feeling the slightest bit guilty about leaving Max and me.

  Simply thinking about him again makes me cry harder, so I bury my face in Max's soft, chubby neck, comforting him, taking comfort in return. That's how we pass the night, in a miserable cocoon, our faces wet, and our throats dry.

  * * *

  “Are you okay?” Holly, Max's nursery care worker, asks as I hand him over, dropping his bag and dummy in the process. I scramble around the floor, trying not to catch her eye, coughing loudly as if to fool her.