I knew I was in trouble the moment I met her. It had started out a simple evening with a group from work in the restaurant where she works. She flirted with me. Private winks, smiles. At first I thought I was imagining it, until Matt, my business partner, cornered me outside the loo.
‘Don’t do it, mate,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Don’t go there. You’re so flattered some blonde totty fancies you, you’ve been twirling your wedding ring under the table all night.’
‘I have not.’
‘Don’t be such a tosser, Adam. You and Beth have a good thing.’
But by the time I shared a taxi home with Emma, my ring was in my pocket, my choice made. I thought of Beth, my gorgeous, loyal, talented wife; the woman who made me laugh at least once a day; the woman I loved, the woman I would have died for, still would. I did think of her, but only briefly.
Emma was the most forward woman I’d ever met, launching herself on me in the back of the taxi, cupping my balls with long manicured fingers. I was weak, powerless. And months later, I’m still a weak forty-three-year-old man who has hurt his wife so much he doesn’t know how to fix it, so chooses to ignore it and indulge in copious amounts of fantastic, life-affirming sex with a new and younger woman.
I leave the office early, exit the underground car park to a beautiful September evening, the sun still quite high in the sky. Just across the river to my right, I see the shape of the London Eye, its capsules laden with carefree tourists. It’s Friday and normally I’d be heading across the river and down the A3 towards home, after staying the week in town. Eight months ago, Beth and I decided to ‘borrow’ my brother Ben’s flat while he’s abroad for a year. Both parties have a good deal. We pay a lot less than market rent, covering his mortgage, and he knows his tenants. The plan was we’d stay there during the week, cut out the commute for me, and Beth could enjoy London and write her songs. A new environment, new inspirations – that was the plan.
I turn the car east towards the highway, heading to Docklands, to the one-bedroom flat near the river, intent on staying in this evening. Tonight’s plan is for an Emma-free zone; give myself some head-space with a takeaway and Sky Plus footie on the telly. Why then do I keep driving east along the A13, towards the M25, taking a long route towards the house I used to call home?
I call ahead on the hands-free. She’ll kill me if I just turn up. I can imagine dying on the spot in the power of her penetrating stare. But I feel the need to see her, to try and explain. I have no words, just the will to try, because I can’t bear her hating me. The phone rings out and I hear her voice.
‘You have reached Adam and Beth Hall. Sorry we can’t get to the phone – leave a message. We’ll get back to you.’
Only she hasn’t got back to me yet. I dial another number, hoping the other person I’ve hurt is still talking to me.
‘Hey, Dad,’ she says, picking up on the third ring.
‘Hey, Meg.’ I resist using my pet name of Pumpkin for her. ‘You all right?’ I can hear my heartbeat.
‘As all right as I possibly can be with an arsehole for a father …’
I sigh – an audible, slow sigh. ‘I deserve that. I’m sorry.’
‘You do and somehow sorry doesn’t quite cut it. Are you still with her?’
Straight for the jugular – she may have my eyes, my long legs and the hair colour that Beth calls conker, directly from my gene pool, but when it comes down to it, Meg is Beth’s daughter. She doesn’t believe in wasting words.
So I respond in the same vein. ‘Yes.’
‘Right … Why did you call?’
‘You’re my daughter, Meg. I’d like to see you. Please?’
‘And what? Introduce me to your bitch totty so we can play dysfunctional families?’
I flinch at her words. And blame Beth. My daughter has a potty mouth too.
‘I—’
‘Look, Dad. It’s too soon. Too raw. You’re not the man I thought you were. The man I respected.’ I can imagine her shaking her head as she continues. ‘You’re just not that man.’
I bite my lower lip, feel it tremble. She’s right. I’m not that man, but then, I never have been. ‘I’m sorry,’ I offer lamely.
‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She hangs up.
I pull over to the hard shoulder. The contents of my stomach heave onto the edge of the A13. I have managed to pebble-dash the door of my beloved Lexus. Words of my long-dead mother echo in my ears: ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself, Adam.’ I wipe my mouth with my shirtsleeve, stare across three lanes of fast-flowing traffic and look up to the sky. Meg hates me. I have screwed up. I have really screwed up large.
The house looks just the same. I’m not sure why I thought it wouldn’t. The time I’ve been away has been no longer than an average holiday, yet so much has changed. Beth’s car is not in the driveway and I wonder if she’s using the garage, now that mine isn’t here. I pop a mint into my mouth and without thinking too much about what I’m about to do, step out of the car.
The bell trills under my fingertip. No answer. I try the phone. Answerphone. I have keys but I dare not … I walk towards the garage, peer in the side window. No car, so she’s definitely out. I clean the glass with the back of my hand and stare inside. Tidy shelves line the sides, everything organized. The empty space in the middle reserved for the car I loved, the one that now has puke on the passenger door.
I decide to use the keys and try the lower Chubb. No luck. The Banham refuses to move too. Then it dawns – she’s changed the locks. Suddenly, I have a feeling that she’s in there. She’s been there all the time. I prise open the letterbox.
‘Beth! Open the door!’ I am greeted by silence. Now I’m on my knees peering through the letterbox, my head tilted sideways.
‘Hello, Adam.’
I leap to my feet. Sylvia, our next-door neighbour, the one we’re attached to, is standing at a gap in the laurel hedge.
‘Sylvia,’ I say, wiping the dust from my trousers. ‘I er—’
‘The locks have been changed,’ she confirms, staring at the driveway.
‘I see.’ I aim for eye contact; after all, we have been dinner-party mates for more than ten years. ‘I don’t suppose …’ Sylvia is also key-holder for the alarm company.
‘Don’t ask me that, Adam, please.’
‘No.’ I nod. ‘Sorry. Do you know where she is?’
Sylvia shrugs. I see it then. Sadness, pity, in her expression. I’m not sure what to call it, but I am sure I’m not ready to be judged on my own doorstep.
‘Okay, not to worry. I’ll call her later.’ With that, I nod to my erstwhile dinner-party mate and head to the safety of my pukey Lexus. Jesus … I lean back into the soft leather of the driver’s seat and wonder where my wife is. She could be out with her mate, Karen. I start the engine, do a three-point turn out of the driveway. In the rear-view mirror, I see the house sign, ‘The Lodge’, shrink as I move away. I’m feeling a slow reality check develop in the pit of my stomach. Beth can do as she likes. I no longer have the right to wonder where she is on a Friday night – or any night, for that matter. An image of her with another man flashes briefly in my brain. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. By the time I reach the motorway, I can only conclude that I like myself even less.
Chapter Three
‘I’d like you to write about yourself,’ she says, just as the hour is up. ‘I want you to only write about you – not Adam, not Meg, nor your mum, your alcoholic father, your dead baby brother or anyone else – just you. Don’t think about it too much. Just let it flow.’
I write every day, but the idea of me, and only me, being my subject matter makes me want to grab my knees and rock back and forth in my chair.
‘Use the Russian doll idea,’ she suggests, picking up a small barrel-shaped doll from the coffee table. Last time I was here, I noticed a whole shelf of them nearby. Opening it up, she reveals five layers, with the final one being the size and shape of a monke
y nut.
‘That’s where you need to get to,’ she says, pointing a filed French nail to the monkey nut centre. ‘Peel back the outer layers, get to yourself. Your core.’ She is smiling, as though she’s rather pleased with herself.
‘I’m not sure …’ The anxiety in my voice is audible. ‘I can’t get that small, I don’t think I’d know my inner bits if they walked up and introduced themselves.’
‘Maybe you could start with, “Who am I?”,’ she says, leaning back.
I imagine this in my head using word association, and panic as I only have enough words to cover the two outer dolls at most. She tells me to breathe, breathe, slowly in and out.
I close my eyes.
‘Then go on to “How do I feel?”,’ she continues.
Oh God, I feel a little sick. Please don’t let that be vomit at the back of my throat.
‘And then maybe what do I like and dislike?’
‘Okay, stop!’ I get it. I look at her and her coffee-table toy. ‘You’re going to need a bigger doll.’
Caroline, as she has insisted on me calling her, has suggested that I borrow some books and CDs on relaxation techniques. She showed me a reflexology pressure point on the fleshy part of my hand, between my thumb and index finger, advising me to press it gently whenever I feel panicky. I think Abba songs work well too, so I’m singing ‘Fernando’ aloud when I reach Weybridge High Street. It’s the afternoon school run and the traffic has formed a long, snaking queue.
‘Fernando’ over, I tackle ‘The Winner Takes It All’, only to decide, midway, that it’s a bad song choice. I push one of Caroline’s CDs into the player. The sound of the sea crashing against rocks and some dolphin-like ‘clicks’ fill the car. I breathe in deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth, just like she showed me. Three minutes later, I haven’t moved an inch and I leap at the Bluetooth trill of the mobile.
‘Hey, darling,’ I say.
‘Hi, Mum. You okay?’
‘Great.’ I never lie to Meg, but now is not the moment to confirm that neither Abba nor dolphins are resolving my anxiety. I glance at the clock. ‘Didn’t you say you had lectures all afternoon?’
‘I did. I do. I didn’t go in.’
‘I see …’
‘He called me.’
‘Okay …’ The traffic still at a standstill, I prod the fleshy part on my left hand with my right thumb.
‘I mean, I’m not sure what he wants me to say? He leaves you – I mean us – for another woman, phones me up and just wants to have a chat! I asked him. I mean, I asked him if he was still with her. He didn’t even have the balls to just admit it.’
Meg takes a moment to breathe and I remove my foot from the brake, inch the car forward, jab the flesh again. I’m sure I’ll have a bruise tomorrow.
I’m determined to say the right thing. ‘Meg, love, don’t cut him off. This is about me and him. It’s our marriage that’s the problem, not you and him. He’s still your father and he loves you with all his heart.’ Even as I’m saying this, I can imagine her twisted grimace. She and I have wondered lately if he even has a heart.
‘He’s a liar,’ is her angry reply.
‘Yes, yes he is, but it’s me he’s lied to, not you.’
‘His lies still affect me! Can’t you see that, Mum?’
‘I’m sorry.’ My head is nodding. Of course I can see it. I’ve always been able to see it, but something tells me that, while she hates him now, it’s a temporary thing. Soon, she’ll love him again, and I don’t want her to feel she needs my permission. They are, and will always be, thick as thieves. ‘Just talk to him if he calls. Don’t cut him off for my sake. You need each other.’
She makes a ‘hmph’-like sound and I change the subject, urge her back to classes, insist she keep carrying on as normal. She hangs up with a promise to visit next week.
The entire exchange with my daughter lasts a few minutes and I’m still stuck in the High Street. There is nothing else for it. I press play on the CD player and surround myself with more ‘Flipper’ noises.
By the time I get home, I feel quite serene, if a little seasick. I park the car a few metres back from the double garage. It’s separate from the house, set back on the unattached side, and it’s another of Adam’s anally tidy spaces.
I enter through the up-and-over door. Inside, there is floor-to-ceiling shelving on one side, with various selections of paint, paint brushes, rollers, cleaning fluids – all filed beautifully in shades and can sizes. I find a tin of gold spray paint, which I used last Christmas to colour pine cones. I can’t quite comprehend that I ever considered pine-cone colour important. Opposite the paint shelves is the ‘car section’, with a selection of chamois leathers, T-Cut, car shampoo, mini-vacuum, wax, rolls of soft cloth.
I move a few things around. I put some paint in the car section, throw the chamois leathers on the floor and dance like a dervish on them. I remove the bag from his mini-vacuum and empty it over the chamois, then tear the bag up and replace it in the vacuum. I mix big cans with little cans of paint and, whilst I’m busy generally messing with Adam’s space, I find the can of paint I bought for the hall last year. I remember Adam being adamant.
‘No way,’ he’d said, ‘it’s awful.’
And I remember just accepting that.
It’s much later, after my tuna sandwich dinner, when I return to the garage. I retrieve the can of paint, a wonderful shade of ‘Tiffany’ blue, some brushes and a roller, and begin to redecorate the hall. I’ve never liked the cold stone shade that Adam chose. The preparation – taking all the pictures down, washing the walls – takes ages, and I’m just about to give up when I pick up the tiniest brush and dip it in the paint. It seems to have a life of its own, writing in Tiffany blue over cold stone:
I am Beth. I am strong. I am middle aged. I like champagne, chocolate, the ocean, lacy stockings, Ikea meatballs, flip-flops, Touche Éclat, music and lyrics. I don’t like politicians, call centres, size zero women, snobs, punk rock, horseradish, dastards and women who sleep with dastards
I stand back and admire my work. Without realizing it, I’ve created a sort of text box on the hallway wall. Drawing a square around it, I underline ‘dastards and women who sleep with dastards’. I’m not sure it’s exactly what Caroline had in mind when she said ‘write about yourself’, but it works for me. Before going to bed, I take another peek. Marvellous.
Sleep, however, has become another problem for me. An hour later, I’m still wide awake, with the television on mute and the laptop perched next to me. A small whirring noise lets me know it’s still turned on. Lucky laptop. I leap out of bed, not wanting to think about sex.
In our en-suite bathroom, I am assaulted by images of myself. The French oval wall mirror above the walnut unit housing double sinks confirms that though my green eyes remain my best feature, they have been particularly challenged by Adam leaving. Even my fabulous Touche Éclat struggles to keep up with the dark shadowy veins of a broken marriage.
The full-length mirror to the right of the bath reveals legs that are far too short for my torso. A couple of grey pubic hairs prove beyond any Dead Sea Scrolls that God is a man. The loose bit of my skin overhanging the top of my knickers reminds me I’m a mother, as if I need reminding … My hair which – when I was twenty-two – used to be long, dark brown and shiny, is – now I am forty-two – short, dark brown and matt, compliments of L’Oréal, because I’m worth it. I cleanse my face with a wipe one more time and start to sing. I sing ‘Missing’, the last song of mine that Josh sold, which has earned me the princely sum of £10,500 so far.
‘The mirror doesn’t lie, but who is she and where am I?’ I blast out the lyric with gusto as I head downstairs and take the vacuum from the hall cupboard. I sing louder in my best voice above the drone.
I vacuum the living room, then the dining room and finally the hall. I pass my artwork and smile. When I put the vacuum away and liberate the limescale loo cleaner from the cupboard under the sin
k, I realize I’m having what Adam used to call an OCD moment, an episode that my therapist would probably have a proper Latin word for. Yellow gloves are snapped into place before I scrub the loos, still singing, with a scourer in one hand and a newly poured glass of wine in the other. If someone could see me, they’d think me quite mad. If there are any aliens watching, they’ll kidnap Sylvia next door instead. They could never take the risk.
Chapter Four
I’m sitting in my office, my head in my hands, my elbows rested on the scarred walnut antique desk that Beth sourced somewhere in rural Brittany. My wristwatch claims its ten thirty, which means I’ve been here two hours. Despite the two large screens on the wall opposite, with Bloomberg blinking red downward arrows at me, all I’ve done since I got in is paper-shuffle. Outside my door, the plaque six feet away in the reception area says HALL & FRY. The name is well known in the City. It tells people that we are a respected wealth-management firm, a highly regarded family office. If your family has money, come to us; we’ll look after it, help it grow. You want art? You want to invest in property? The markets? We are specialist consultants. Offering advice. I wish to hell someone would offer me some.
As if on cue, Matt – my business partner for almost twenty years – enters without knocking.
‘You look like shit,’ is his opening line.
I rub my two-day-old facial hair. ‘We’re not seeing clients,’ is my only offer of defence.
You, Me and Other People Page 2