The Alone Alternative

by Linda MacDonald

  ‘Edward has been in touch via Twitter,’ says Marianne.

  ‘Edward Harvey?’ says Taryn. ‘Your long-lost crush? My dalliance? Our downfall?’ As ever, Taryn speaks her thoughts, generally not one for tact and diplomacy.

  ‘The very same. He started following me a few days ago. And I probably shouldn’t be telling you.’

  ‘Of course you should be telling me. This is wonderful news – isn’t it? Time you were distracted. And you don’t need to worry about me.’ Nowadays her dark brown hair is in a neat bob with fringe and it barely moves despite the flamboyance of her gestures.

  ‘I wasn’t.’ She believes Taryn is no threat any more, not only because Edward was never particularly interested in her, but because she is now safely domesticated in the clutches of Neil.

  ‘He wants me to follow him back so he can send me a direct message. I’m not sure whether I should. Direct messages will likely lead to personal revelations.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious to know about his life? If he’s no longer with Felicity, just think.’

  ‘And if he is?’

  ‘He’s the one choosing contact. You could have him as a friend again. You always claimed that was all you wanted.’

  ‘I never told him about Johnny, so it’s unlikely that he knows.’

  ‘If you don’t message him, you’ll be forever in the dark. I can’t believe you would want that. Surely it is worth taking a chance?’

  ‘I’ve never forgotten him,’ says Marianne. ‘I never forgot him between the ages of eleven and forty-five, so it was hardly likely I’d forget him over the past five years.’

  ‘I know,’ says Taryn. ‘Finding him changed your life. He will always be part of your psyche. You have to respond.’

  Marianne is thoughtful. The business of her separation from Edward is a confused muddle. Without Johnny, there is no safety-net, no power-assisted emotional brakes, and she suspects it wouldn’t take much to push her feelings beyond the bounds of propriety. If Edward and Felicity are still together, she may be the one who can’t stand it if they resume contact; she may be the one who will need to run away. But Taryn is correct in that an even more unsatisfactory option would be to remain ignorant of what has befallen him in the intervening years.

  When they part, Marianne drives home to do some more preliminary marketing of her book. After the madness of proof checking, she has been as lost as a parent sending a child on a first holiday with the school, worrying about what may befall it and whether the transformation upon return will be as expected.

  This Twitter business from Edward has unsettled her. It is all she can think about. She submits the dilemma to an in-depth ‘Mari-analysis’, a term coined by Edward when he was staying with them to describe her extraordinary powers of endless scrutiny. He claimed he had never known anyone to dissect a problem like she did. It was as if she placed all the components on a cloth-covered bench, sorting them into categories and re-arranging them to see what fit best with what. She was adept in identifying which elements to discard and which to keep, assigning imaginary points to possible outcomes. Her logic ensured a workable solution. So long as the problem wasn’t hers, in which case the bench had no cloth to highlight the pieces and all ended up in a jumble of indecision.

  When dealing with her own issues, she occasionally resorts to the Runes. These were introduced to her by a woman from work who knew her fascination for astrology and other forms of fortune-telling. A little bag of psychologists is how she thinks of them. Designed to connect questioners to their Higher Selves; to what they already know but are unable to see because conscious thought obscures the view.

  She sits on the floor in her living room, quietly contemplating her dilemma, with the red velvet bag containing the twenty-five runes clasped between her hands. She dips her hand into the bag and feels the flat stones slipping through her fingers. To message or not? she asks. Do I open the door; forgive the hurt? She draws out a stone that seems to stick to her fingers. It is blank: the Unknowable. This is the rune that calls for taking a chance with what we can’t yet see. It highlights our fears of being abandoned. It is a test of faith, pointing to self-change.

  The meaning is unambiguous. She knows exactly what it is telling her to do. She always knew.

  7

  Reawakening

  And all that fills the hearts of friends,

  When first they feel, with secret pain,

  Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,

  And never shall be one again.

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  When he tells her he has to leave, her eyes fill with tears. They are in her kitchen, sitting at the table; it is morning, after breakfast, just before leaving for work.

  He says, ‘I am too involved with you and I cannot bear being so close and yet not close enough.’

  Then he almost cries. Almost, but not quite, because he is an expert in not crying, learned from prep school days.

  And then he tells her that he needs to sever all contact; to forget her in order to focus on his marriage.

  ‘No phone calls?’ she says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even an email?’

  ‘That’s how it all started. It will be easier for both of us in the end.’

  ‘You truly believe that?’

  ‘I know that. And so do you.’

  She walks away.

  For the remaining weeks of his term, she hardly speaks to him. Then on his final morning she comes to his room, her daughter’s room, where he is gathering the last of his belongings and zipping up his case. First she hovers in the doorway.

  ‘I’m so sorry you’re leaving us and even sorrier that you don’t want to keep in touch.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. But you do understand … don’t you?’ He sits down on the bed and gestures for her to come in and sit next to him.

  She closes the door. It is Friday. Her day off since she went part-time at the college. Her husband Johnny has gone to work at his school. They are alone.

  Edward dares to put his arm around her shoulder and she leans towards him, allowing herself to be hugged. She sniffs and he notices her eyes are wet.

  She says, ‘Yes, I understand. But it’s so harsh. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  He wants to tell her that his heart is breaking; that without his weekly visits to Beechview Close, his world will darken. Their time together forms a montage in his brain: the suppers and breakfasts, the debates with Johnny, the gentle flirting with Marianne, meaning nothing, meaning everything; the laughter – oh how she made him laugh with her off-the-wall zaniness, the randomness of her thoughts, her original take on events. And she has looked after him in a way that Felicity seems to have forgotten how to do. She is a feather pillow on which to lay his troubled soul. But she isn’t free to love him back in the way he wants and even if she were, he isn’t free either.

  He has a wife, and a marriage to save, and there is no chance of that while he works most of the week in London and no chance while he spends so much time thinking about Marianne.

  He dares to kiss her hair, so lightly she may not notice. It would be easy – knowing he is going – to kiss her on the mouth. But it wouldn’t be fair. Instead he wraps her in both his arms, and she hugs him back, hugging in a way they never have before. It is okay to hug like this if you are about to say goodbye forever. There they stay for an age until she starts to cry audibly and he too has to choke back tears.

  ‘I’ll miss you beyond words,’ she says.

  Beyond words.

  He has never forgotten her face: the hurt, the tears …

  *

  It was July 2007 when he left. Almost five years ago. And it is three days since their brief exchange of tweets. He cannot bear this waiting; this wondering if she will give him a chance to make amends. Now he has found her, it consumes his waking moments and his dreams. On Monday morning, before going down to breakfast, he tries again.

  @marihay1 Please.

  It is a simple
enough request. She will understand the weight of emotion behind the word; she who bestows meaning on the quantity of exclamation marks in emails – even when they signify nothing.

  Downstairs, he catches sight of Rick in the greenhouse. Rick is the gardener, among other things. Tall and lean, wild hair, early forties and a reputation in the locality as long as one of his organic leeks. If Felicity was going to have an affair, it would surely have been with Rick. That’s what Edward thought and that is why when Rick and Felicity were together by the beehives or in the greenhouse he watched them closely, searching for signs of intimacy beyond the weekly gardening schedule. That is why he never bothered to keep an eye on Gianni the chef; never noticed what was going on in the upstairs flat of the restaurant after the clientele were gone and the plates were cleared. He naively thought this was when the menus were concocted; never dreamed one of the courses involved a shag with his wife.

  Now Rick has become a confidant of Edward’s. They rarely used to speak before; hardly a word. But since Felicity left, Edward is often on his own in the evenings or at weekends and Rick sometimes drops in for a cup of tea before he goes back home. At first they talked about Felicity.

  ‘Can’t understand why she would want to leave all this,’ said Rick, reassuringly. ‘She’s bonkers. You and the kids; so much to lose. Must be her age.’

  And Edward agreed, unable to face the thought that he might be partly to blame.

  Now, they talk about what to do with the garden. Mostly it is Rick who makes suggestions and Edward who concurs. Felicity was the one with the botanical brain but Edward is keen to maintain production and keep the household supplied with fresh and nutritious organic vegetables. Rick continues to sell the excess produce at the farmers’ markets, but on Edward’s behalf. It pays his wages. He comes and goes during the daytime, letting Meg into the garden while he plants or harvests, digs or waters.

  It is a smoothly operating arrangement, but in recent weeks Edward has been thinking about the future. Although it is great having home-grown produce, he believes this could be achieved on a much smaller scale. After breakfast, he grabs his car keys, locks the door and heads for the greenhouse.

  Rick looks up from his thinning and potting on of various seedlings.

  ‘I’m thinking we should turn some of the vegetable plots back to grass,’ says Edward. ‘Lower maintenance.’

  ‘Trying to make me redundant,’ says Rick.

  ‘No chance of that just yet, but I have to plan ahead. I may not always be here,’ he adds. ‘We could scale back on the quantity we send to market. We’ll talk some more at the weekend, see what you think.’

  At work he wonders if there are savings to be made in the department. Cutbacks in funding mean constant pressure to tighten belts and avoid waste. The photocopying bill is huge and he considers that some of the packs they produce for students could either be recycled or purchased by individuals if required. While he was away in London, his colleagues had become profligate with resources and so much ended in the scrap box or recycling bin. Their bad habits have been hard to eradicate.

  In the evening, Harriet confronts him in the hallway as soon as he walks through the front door.

  ‘Rick says you’re planning to reduce his hours.’

  Edward reaches down to pat Meg who is delighted that he is home and is anticipating a walk. ‘I said we need to talk about downsizing but nothing’s been decided.’

  ‘It’s the profits from the surplus that pay a large part of Rick’s wages.’

  ‘This isn’t about money, Harriet. It’s about whether it is practical to continue on this scale – especially as I may want to move somewhere smaller eventually. In the meantime I fancied a return to more grass.’

  ‘It will need to be mown.’

  Edward had forgotten about that. ‘I will pay Rick to mow it then.’

  ‘Not very cost-effective compared with the vegetables. I don’t think you’ve thought this through.’

  He hadn’t. ‘I’ll give it some more consideration. But now I would like a cup of tea.’

  They move through to the kitchen and Harriet switches on the kettle. She says, ‘Any contact with Fanclub yet?’

  Edward flushes. ‘I’ve said hello and she said hello back, but she hasn’t followed me yet so no personal details have been exchanged.’

  Harriet narrows her kohl-rimmed eyes and gives him a searching stare.

  If Marianne responds, he wonders how quickly he should tell her about Felicity. Might it frighten her off if she knew he was effectively single? Might she wonder at his intentions? But how can he omit this most major happening in his life?

  Later in the evening, he finds the longed-for tweet. Even before he reads the words, he pictures her face; the face that she had five years ago.

  @Edward_Harvey1 Curiosity has made me follow you back.

  He contemplates what this means; the tone of voice. She wrote it only twelve minutes earlier. He wonders if she is still there; still sitting at her computer in the upstairs spare room. He sends a direct message, away from the prying eyes of other Twitter users. He decides to deliver the most shocking information first.

  @marihay1 Felicity has run off to Italy with Gianni the chef.

  He knows that this will bring a gasp. She cannot be emotionally immune to the news. Then he alerts her to the DM by tweeting in her timeline.

  He waits. Harriet told him there is often a delay in a direct message showing up on Twitter, but they can sometimes be accessed more quickly via email.

  @Edward_Harvey1 Sorry to hear.

  She is still there. Good. Perhaps they can converse. He must write quickly before she moves away from the computer. And he must be careful about every word he uses.

  @marihay1 Am glad that you have completed Lydia, but more importantly, how are you?

  @Edward_Harvey1 Truth or lie?

  @marihay1 Are you still cross with me?

  @Edward_Harvey1 Cross? Such a little word for what I felt at the time.

  @marihay1 I had no choice. I was too involved.

  @Edward_Harvey1 And now because Felicity has run off, you think it ok to be ‘involved’ again irrespective of my feelings?

  Ah, the first sign of her flashing green eyes. She is cross! He understands why she might think this, but he has considered her feelings and he can’t help himself. He is a ship adrift on an ocean tide and surely they can resume a distant e-contact as they had when she first found him on Friends Reunited? Surely if they don’t meet, then their emotions will be kept in check?

  @marihay1 I miss you.

  Perhaps this is risky. But it is truth, from the heart. Silence. Silence for a day, then two. But she doesn’t unfollow him. And he knows she is out there, tweeting away about Lydia.

  At work, in between lectures and meetings, all he can think about is Marianne. And when the weekend comes, his usual focus on his writing is constantly interrupted by her image. Their current contact has the fragility of an old dried leaf with ragged edges and holes and broken veins. He can’t stand the thought of it being crushed into dust. By Saturday afternoon, his agitation at her silence becomes unbearable and he sends another DM at a time when he knows she is tweeting.

  @marihay1 Nothing, in essence, has changed.

  What he is trying to say is that his feelings are still the same, although whether that admission will help or hinder his cause, he isn’t sure. He wants her to know that he still cares, still wishes she were his friend.

  @Edward_Harvey1 Everything has changed.

  @marihay1 How so?

  @Edward_Harvey1 To tell you would be to open up a gate that it may not be wise to open.

  @marihay1 Was I wrong to leave you?

  @Edward_Harvey1 You may have been wrong to break all contact. Took time to get used to absence. Do not want to go through again.

  @marihay1 I promise not to leave you again.

  @Edward_Harvey1 No one can ever make such a promise.

  @marihay1 As far as it is reasonable or
possible to promise.

  @Edward_Harvey1 I am more vulnerable now so less inclined to take risks.

  @marihay1 Explain.

  @Edward_Harvey1 Five years is a long time at our age. The petals begin to fall.

  @marihay1 Shakespeare wrote, ‘To me, dear friend, you never shall be old.’

  @Edward_Harvey1 Romantic clap-trap. You’re a man.

  He could see her smiling as she wrote this. This was the old Marianne again.

  @marihay1 Indeed!

  @Edward_Harvey1 And I am a woman of a certain age.

  @marihay1 ‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’

  @Edward_Harvey1 ‘Lysander riddles very prettily.’

  @marihay1 Touché.

  @Edward_Harvey1 Johnny died last year.

  The smile that was beginning to dance in his heart as the exchange grew more flirtatious, disappears to be replaced with a sensation of panic and a sharp intake of breath. Bloody hell; not Johnny!

  He sits back, immobilised, thoughts pinging and snapping like a severed power cable spouting flames as it blows against wires in a gale force wind. Johnny: this was something he hadn’t foreseen. Johnny had become something of a friend during the years Edward lodged with them at Beechview Close. And he was the husband of the woman he loved. Yes, in her absence, and since he had been alone, his feelings for her had flourished unchallenged. And now, suddenly and unexpectedly it is legitimate, he can love out loud and shout to the world. He can tell her what he has never told her about his twice-broken heart.

  No he can’t. What is he thinking? Johnny. Dead. Several minutes pass while he collects himself. The computer screen darkens before his eyes, shutting off into sleep mode. He clicks it back to life.

  @marihay1 When?

  No answer. She has gone. He checks her Twitter feed. Nothing.

  He imagines her rushing away from her computer, taking refuge with tissues, grief still fresh enough to burst forth when memories are stirred. She and Johnny were close, finding a way through the midlife mire of uncertainty and empty nest, to a comfortable, enviable companionability with a touch of added sparkle that few seem to manage.