by Emlyn Rees
‘I’m not surprised it’s tough. Living in that grotty flat. In London. It would be so much better if you lived nearer me. You could have a proper house then. Ben has positively thrived in all this fresh air, with a big garden –’
‘I’ve told you before, we can’t afford to move –’
‘But if you lived near me, you could get a part-time job, and I could look after Ben.’
She’s obviously got it all figured out. I can’t believe I’m in the middle of the biggest relationship crisis of my life and, somehow, it’s all about her.
‘I couldn’t get the type of job I wanted around here,’ I say, dismissing her scary suggestion. ‘Look, it’s no problem, Mum. I like looking after Ben. I thought it was what you wanted me to do?’
‘I do, but I hate to see you scrimping and saving. If that husband of yours got a proper job, instead of mucking about doing all that gardening for next to nothing . . .’
‘It’s not mucking about, and it’s not for next to nothing,’ I say, feeling my hackles rise. I thought she was pleased that Jack was working for Greensleeves. ‘Jack gave up his dream of being an artist so that he could support me and Ben. You can’t ask for more of a sacrifice than that.’ I stand up. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use this opportunity to start picking apart our marriage, because, for your information, Mother, it’s a very good one.’
‘Not from where I’m sitting, it’s not. You might not want to hear it, Amy, but it takes two to tango. You might have made a few mistakes, but why? That’s what you’ve got to ask. Because that so-called brilliant husband of yours wasn’t paying enough attention, that’s why.’
‘Can you just stop making assumptions?’
‘And as for him taking parenting seriously? Well!’
There’s no stopping her. She’s on a roll.
‘Will you shut up! Jack’s an excellent father. Ben worships him,’ I shout at her.
‘So where is he? Where is he when it counts?’
My chin wobbles and tears fall down my face. It’s checkmate. I hate her.
Facing The Enemy
My mother has clearly not followed any of my instructions whilst I was away. Ben’s routine is out of the window, and he’s fast asleep by the time we get to the flat, even though it’s nearly teatime.
Jack must be back, I tell myself, in spite of the fact that I’ve already called the home phone five times and only got his voice on the answer machine.
I will him to be there. I will him to have come to his senses and left Matt’s house. I open the door, struggling with my bag and Ben, who is like a deadweight on my shoulder. I haven’t carried this much for years and my muscles scream with agony.
Hearing the thump of the front door behind me brings my familiar world back in a sudden rush, washing away New York, breaking the whole experience from me like a piece of driftwood.
‘Jack?’ I call out. ‘Jack?’
I’m exhausted. I’m on my knees.
I need him.
He must have calmed down by now. He must have realised how bad I’m feeling. He must be desperate to see Ben, if nothing else.
I strain my ears, desperate for him to call out my name, for the hysteria of New York, the misunderstandings, to be washed away too, for sanity and normality to be returned.
The flat is empty.
I put Ben in his cot in our room. I watch him stir, but he doesn’t wake up. I lean down over him and stroke his face. I’m glad he’s home. I’m glad he’s back with me, where he belongs.
I look around our bedroom. At first it all seems normal, and then I notice that the alarm clock from Jack’s side of the bed has gone, along with my favourite framed picture of Ben. I open the wardrobe and gasp. Jack’s taken most of his clothes. The only thing that remains is the suit that he got married in.
I grab the arm of it and hold it to my face.
And I swallow. My throat feels scratchy and dry.
This is real, then. I haven’t returned to normality, at all. Jack has gone.
Frantically, I search the rest of the flat. There’s no note, no communication at all. There’s a message on the answer machine from Kate, telling me that she’s away, but has heard what’s happened and will be home tomorrow to chat. Like I need her advice.
I leaf through the pile of mail on the hall table, and in amongst all the pizza flyers, I spot an envelope addressed to me.
I rip it open.
Inside is a signed photo.
The photo I requested from Radio CapitalChat.
Of Jessie Kay.
I stand and stare at her for ages, feeling sick. She’s smiling, her sultry eyes transmitting a knowing intelligence. She has perfect make-up, perfect teeth, glossy hair and a neckline that plunges to a perfect cleavage. So much for being ‘lumpy and on the turn’. She’s undeniably gorgeous. The kind of woman men of all ages drool over.
I look up and see my own reflection in the mirror on the wall. By contrast, I look creased and washed out. I’ve got blobs of make-up wedged in the corners of my bloodshot eyes, which are lined with deep gothic shadows. My hair is greasy and pulled back from my face and I’ve got a smear of ketchup down my white T-shirt. When I breathe in, I realise that the nasty smell in the flat is me.
Is half Jack’s upset to do with regret? Is he pissed off that he didn’t do anything with her? That he had the opportunity to fuck the living daylights out of a woman like Jessie and he didn’t do it? And now he feels a fool and wishes he had, because he knows that while he wasn’t kissing her, I was kissing someone else.
Maybe that’s why he’s not here. Maybe he’s intent on revenge. Maybe he’s gone on the rampage, to find someone to be unfaithful with, like his lying, cheating wife.
Maybe he’s even gone back to Jessie. Maybe he’s there right now.
I’m too miserable to eat anything and nothing in the fridge appeals. I open a bottle of wine and pour myself a large glass.
I sit at the kitchen table, feeling totally at a loss. Without Jack here, it doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a cramped little cage.
I sigh and put my head on the table.
This is intolerable.
I get up and retrieve the picture of Jessie Kay. Then I take one of Ben’s felt-tip pens and draw a moustache on her face. Then I rip it into tiny pieces and throw it in the bin.
I’m not sure why I hate her so much. I’m not sure which is worse: that she tried to seduce Jack, or that she failed. Because the fact she failed, when Tom didn’t, means that Jack is stronger than I am – and that’s something I can’t live with, because he’ll never let me forget it.
I boot up my laptop and get on line. Just as I suspect, there’s an e-mail in my in-box from Tom.
Amy from West London – are you back? Did you have a chance to think? I’d love to see you again . . .
A wave of revulsion and annoyance sweeps over me. He’s like an overenthusiastic puppy. And H is right. He hardly knows me. How dare he think that I’ll just give in to him. If it wasn’t for Tom, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
There is nothing to think about, I type back. I’m sorry if I confused you and gave you the wrong signals, but I am not the girl for you.
I stare at my message. Then delete the word ‘girl’ and replace it with ‘woman’. And then, to make sure I don’t leave any room for manoeuvre, I add: Don’t ever contact me again.
I press Send, and then I delete his details from my mail list. Just like that, he vanishes back to cyberspace.
Action Stations
A few hours later, H is pacing in my kitchen. I’ve poured my heart out to her and told her everything that’s happened.
‘Didn’t I warn you?’ she says, clearly exasperated.
‘I didn’t think he’d go off the deep end, like that. I thought . . .’
I fizzle out. What did I think? Or didn’t I think at all? At the time, I certainly didn’t think about the consequences of spilling the beans. All I wanted to do was the actual spilling. I felt so
dreadful after Jack’s confession, I just couldn’t help myself. But it seems that H was right. All I’ve succeeded in doing is making a giant sloppy mess.
‘You stupid, stupid idiot, Amy.’
She sighs and shakes her head, then she looks at me and her features soften into sympathy as yet more tears start leaking out of my eyes.
‘You’ve got to help me get him back, H. He won’t listen to me, but he might listen to you.’
‘Where is he?
‘He’s moved back in with Matt. He must know I’m home, though. He knew the times of my flight. I thought if we went round there . . .’
I look at her, expecting her to refuse. I know how she feels about seeing Matt. After their tempestuous relationship ended, they’ve done nothing but bitch each other off. But to my surprise, she nods.
‘Let’s go.’
She’s amazing. Cometh the hour, cometh the woman. I feel stronger with her by my side.
Swallowing my pride, I ring up Camilla and ask to borrow Yitka. Camilla makes it perfectly clear that this is a huge favour I’m asking, and I don’t have any choice but to suck up to her. Ten minutes later, Yitka turns up to look after Ben, and I leave with H.
It’s odd being back in a car outside the converted pub where Matt lives. I feel like we’re teenagers and we’re out stalking a boyfriend.
‘You ready?’ H asks.
I nod and get out of the car.
But despite knocking on the door, Matt’s not home, and if Jack’s in there, he’s not answering.
‘What do we do now?’ I ask.
‘I’ll call Matt,’ H says. I’m surprised she still has his number on her phone.
I can see the lights on inside. ‘Jack,’ I call. ‘Jack, it’s me. Open up. I’ve got to talk to you.’ I kneel down and look through the letterbox.
‘I know he’s in there. I just know it,’ I tell H.
‘Matt will be here soon,’ she says. She’s spoken to him. ‘Then we can get this thing over and done with.’
I sit on the doorstep with H, looking out at the traffic. It always used to be so quiet here, but since this area’s become more and more gentrified, it’s busier than ever.
‘Do you ever think about Matt?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Any regrets?’
‘No we both tried, but the timing was all wrong. I wanted things to go to the next stage and he wanted to go back down the pub.’
‘Are you nervous about seeing him?’
‘No. Only annoyed that I’m not wearing a big fuck-off engagement ring to shove down his throat.’
Right then Matt pulls up in his BMW, and when I glance at H, rather than looking like she would carry out such a threat, she looks like a breathless schoolgirl. We both stand up.
Matt’s as flash as ever, in a trendy Paul Smith suit, with sunglasses on his head. He smiles, as he jogs towards us.
‘Wow, H. You’re looking . . . great.’ He stops and stares at her. She stares right back.
‘Thanks.’
‘Good. Good,’ Matt says, obviously at a loss. He’s usually so full of sarcasm and banter. They still haven’t broken eye contact with each other.
‘Hi,’ I say.
Matt looks at me, as if he’s only just clocked me. ‘Er . . . yes . . . Jack. I hope you’ve come to take him home. I don’t want him.’
We’re still standing on the doorstep.
‘Come in,’ Matt says, unlocking the door.
I haven’t been to Matt’s place for ages. He’s redecorated, and I miss the old shabby décor, but still the smell of the place – the onslaught of memories of when I first got together with Jack – hits me like a slap.
I watch Matt disappear upstairs and H and I stand in the living room. The bar’s still there and the dartboard.
I wonder if she’s having a similar attack of nostalgia. She runs her hand along the back of the tatty old leather sofa and doesn’t speak.
Matt comes back down a moment later. He flexes his fingers together. ‘He won’t come out of his room,’ he says.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ H says. ‘Tell him to grow up. Make him come out.’
‘I can’t. He’s not answering and the door’s locked.’
‘What the hell’s he doing in there?’ H asks.
‘The usual. I expect. Listening to shit music. Drinking my booze. Playing guitar badly and becoming a borderline depressive. He’s been like that since he got back. In other words, he’s reverted to type. He’s doing exactly what he used to do in the old days, whenever he broke up with someone . . .’
I see H glare and him and flick her eyes towards me.
‘Oops,’ Matt says. ‘I meant to say whenever he rowed with someone.’
‘Let me speak to him,’ I say.
Matt moves to come with me.
‘Alone.’
‘Sure. Of course, of course. Go right ahead.’
I walk down the corridor to Jack’s old room and knock.
‘Jack? Jack? It’s me.’
Nothing.
I put my ear to the door. I can hear the radio playing inside. I picture him sitting on his old bed, listening to me. Just feet away.
‘I know you can hear me, and I just want you to listen.’
I rest my forehead on the closed door. This is so hard.
‘I want you to come home, Jack. I’m asking you to. For me and for Ben. For us all . . .’
Nothing.
I sigh.
‘Listen, I know you’re upset and angry, but the thing is . . . that whole thing with that other guy? With Tom. I wish you had have let me explain. I wish you hadn’t left me in New York, because you don’t need to feel as angry as you are. I know I made a mistake. I knew that almost right away. I never intended it to happen, I swear it.’
It’s odd having this conversation with Jack, knowing he’s listening. I feel oddly encouraged, that I’m able to get my argument out, without him interrupting me for once.
‘Maybe it did happen because we’d been growing so far apart, but I know that I never want that to happen ever again, that I will do everything in my power to make sure we get back on track.’
I can feel tears welling up. I just want him to open the door.
‘We’ve both done stupid things, Jack,’ I feel my throat tighten, ‘and I understand why. I know that you’re angry and hurt . . .’
I wipe tears away from my eyes.
‘But those days in New York – before we fought – they were some of the best times of my life, and they made me remember how good we are together. How right.’
‘Amy?’
My heart leaps at the sound of my name.
Then I realise it’s coming from behind me, and not in front. It’s Matt whispering. He’s at the end of the corridor. I wave my hand at him, to tell him to go away. How can he be so insensitive? I press my head back against the door, willing it to open.
‘You’re the person I want to grow old with, Jack –’
‘Amy?’
I flap my hand more vigorously at Matt. Can’t he see I’m in the middle of the most important conversation of my life?
‘All I want you to do,’ I say, sniffing, ‘is to open this door and we can start our future together. Jack, please. You remember? The future we always –’
‘Amy?’
‘Go away,’ I hiss to Matt, before realising that he’s right next to me.
‘But he’s not there,’ Matt whispers, then clears his throat, and says in a normal voice, ‘I mean, Jack’s not there.’
‘Not there?’ I look at the door. The door I’ve just poured my heart out to. ‘Well, where is he?’
‘Dartmoor.’
‘Where?’
‘Dartmoor.’
‘But what’s he doing there?’
‘Fishing.’
‘Fishing?’
‘And camping. He left a note,’ Matt says, holding out a piece of paper towards me. ‘I’ve just found it. He says he needs time to think. And he really has
gone. I’ve checked. He’s taken his tent and his rod.’
‘I didn’t even know he had a tent.’
‘Oh yeah, one of the many things he’s left cluttering up my house since he moved out. He was a great one for the Boy Scout thing, before he met you. He and I used to go camping at least once a year together. He loved it, said it always helped him think. I guess that’s why he’s gone. Because he’s got a lot of thinking to do . . .’
I fight back tears and nod. Matt gives me a hug.
‘Hey, don’t worry. He might think he’s the big outdoors type, but Jack doesn’t really like his own company very much. He’ll only last a couple of days, tops – and besides,’ he adds, with a knowing smile, ‘the weather forecast is shit.’
The Waiting Game
The next day, Ben is full of energy, but I can barely function. Despite my mother’s prediction that it would take until the end of the week for my son to forgive me, he’s full of affection and cuddles. Somehow, it only makes me miss Jack more.
I can’t believe he’s gone to Dartmoor. By himself. I imagine him sitting at the river’s edge with his fishing rod, lonely and cold in the rain, thinking only that his wife has betrayed him, that the bond of trust we had is severed forever.
Then I go to Sainsbury’s and Ben kicks off. As I battle with my thrashing, spitting son, who refuses to sit in the trolley at the checkout, I picture Jack sitting at the river’s edge in the sunshine and, mentally, this time I push him in.
How dare he leave me like this!
I didn’t do anything that justifies this level of punishment. He’s being way out of line. This meting out of disproportionate revenge is, after all, how wars start. I mean, where is he planning on taking this? Are we going to end up swinging from a chandelier, like in The War of the Roses, not content until we’ve killed each other?
The cashier is running the black cherry yoghurts I’ve chosen for Jack through the scanner, and I stop her and tell her I don’t want them. She scowls at me, but I don’t care. Jack can buy his own fucking black cherry yoghurts.
Kate is in when I get home. She plays with Ben, while I put away the shopping. Then I put on a Teletubbies DVD and follow Kate into Ben’s bedroom. She’s in the middle of packing her bags.