by Carrie Elks
“That’s awful, poor Alex.” I catch her eye. “Poor you, too, it’s horrible seeing somebody you love go through that.”
“That’s the worst bit—he thinks it’s wonderful. Gives him carte blanche to pursue his dreams of stardom. I’m not sure how he thinks we’re going to pay the rent or put food on the table.” She rolls her eyes. “And he knows I want us to try for a baby. There’s no way we can afford to do that on just one wage.”
I didn’t realise they’d got that far in their planning. I feel a bit of heaviness in my chest at the thought of it. Though I love Lara to the ends of the earth, I can’t help feeling envious at the concept of a baby. It’s something I’ll never have, and I thought I’d come to terms with it, but since I’ve been thinking about the past, it’s made me change my mind. Maybe I just wasn’t ready for a baby until now. Could it be that my biological clock has finally started ticking?
Am I going to feel like this forever?
“Does Alex not want a baby?” I ask.
“I thought he did. But now I think he’s going through a midlife crisis. He says the threat of losing his job has given him a chance to re-evaluate things. He wants to see if he can make a go of music before we try for a family.”
She looks pissed off, and I don’t blame her. Lara is thirty-one and I know she’s been wanting a baby for a while. The problem is, with London rent and rubbish salaries, there’s never going to be a good time for them to try. They can’t really afford a baby, as much as they want one. While Simon and I can afford it, it’s something we’ll never have.
“Maybe if you let him try it, he’ll realise it’s not for him.”
“He’s so excited, though. He’s even got Niall designing the cover sleeve of their new CD. Reckons that’s guaranteed sales just for the artwork.”
“Niall Joseph?” I clarify. I nearly said “my Niall” but managed to stop myself in time. I need to be more careful.
“Yeah. They really hit it off that night we all went out.”
“I didn’t realise.” I don’t know how to feel about that. Part of me is excited there’s another connection between us, since I’m friends with Lara and he’s friends with Alex. I find myself wondering how I can invite myself over to their place more often. I’m also a bit jealous that they get to spend time with him, and they’re all having fun without me. It sounds childish and selfish, but I can’t help it.
“Why would you? It’s not as if we all run in the same circles. Although I sometimes think Niall is more suited to yours than mine. He is a successful artist, after all. Not a starving one like Alex is going to be.”
“You won’t starve. I won’t let you. I’ll hand you coupons for McDonald’s or something,” I tease. It coaxes a small smile from her, but not enough to plump up her cheeks or crinkle her eyes. “Seriously, Alex will get some redundancy pay, enough for you to get by while he sees if it all works out. Maybe you should agree a time limit on his attempts for stardom. A year or something.”
“That’s a good idea.” She stares off into the distance, as if she’s thinking it through. “Maybe we need to sit down and write it all out, like a calendar. If I know we can start trying in a year or so, I might be okay with that.”
“It’s not as if you have to worry about time running out yet. Plus it gives you some time to get as much drinking done as possible, because you’ll have to give all that up when the baby comes.” I’m teasing again. Lara’s not a heavy drinker. A shandy here, a Spritzer there. She’s mostly high on life.
“I’ll have to read fifty things to do before you have a baby.”
“Don’t joke, I bet somebody’s written it. Travel to the Taj Mahal, eat kangaroo dung, see if you can turn your husband into a rock star.”
She laughs and it sounds genuine. “Thank you.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “For letting me spout off and then cheering me up.”
“It’s a pleasure.” I return her smile.
If only my own problems were as easy to solve.
* * *
Two weeks later, it feels as though everything in my marriage is wrong. I measure my failure in bitter asides and pointed silences; in broken gazes and absences that taste like dust.
Simon’s still not talking to me—nothing more than pleasantries and the necessary exchange of information. “I’m going to be late tonight,” “Can you get me some more deodorant?” and “What’s the capital of Namibia?” were among the more notable interactions we’ve had this week. The latter was him trying to finish the Times crossword, something that seemed infinitely more preferable than having to spend time with me.
The longer it goes on, the worse I feel. It’s with that sense of shame that I call up a relationship clinic in St. John’s Wood and make an appointment for Simon and myself. When I mention it to him, he doesn’t refuse to come. That has to be a good thing. Maybe if we can actually talk things through, we can move on. There has to be a way we can compromise.
Yet, I find myself sitting in the pale green waiting room five minutes after our appointment is due to start, making stupid excuses for why he hasn’t turned up. Maybe he’s tied up with a client, or his taxi has broken down halfway across London. I play with a dozen different scenarios in my mind, all of them preferable to the one I’m trying my best to ignore.
He’s making a point.
I suppose I could call and leave messages on his answerphone, or send texts he never responds to. I could scream and shout and rail at him and let him know he’s hurt me all over again. But I don’t. Instead, I turn off my own phone and push it deep down in my handbag until it’s buried under half-ripped tissues and balled-up pieces of paper and Maltesers that’ve spilled out of a half-opened packet. Then I zip it up firmly and follow the receptionist’s directions to Louise Norton’s office, hoping I’ll find some sort of salvation there.
Louise is sitting on an easy chair when I walk into her room. She looks up at me with a welcoming smile on her red-painted lips. Her black, bobbed hair falls into her eyes and she smooths it away, standing up as I walk over to greet her.
“Beth? Please come and take a seat. Is Simon on his way?”
This is what a hundred pounds per hour gets you. A friendly face and somebody who has enough time to read your history before you walk into your appointment. I sit down in the soft, comfy chair opposite hers.
“I don’t think he’s coming. I’ve tried ringing him but there’s no answer.” It’s stupid, starting out by lying, yet it feels preferable to pitying stares. “I’m so sorry he’s not here.”
She tips her head to the side and looks at me. “Do you think he’ll get here soon?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” This is what gets me most of all. I’m all riled up and ready to talk. I’ve been fixating on this for days. It’s a kick in the gut. All the words I have stored up to say are floating around my mind, making me dizzy.
“Would you like to rearrange? I can ask the receptionist to make another appointment for you?” She’s still smiling, and it doesn’t look forced at all. I wonder at her ability to seem so open and approachable.
“Actually, can we talk, just you and me?”
For the first time Louise looks surprised. “I offer individual counselling as well as couples’ therapy, but I’m afraid I can’t mix the two. If you want to talk to me now, you’ll need to find another therapist to treat the two of you together.” She must notice the way my face falls, because she continues, “Sometimes that can work out for the best. Often I ask couples to go away to get individual therapy before they come back to me. And I can refer you to another relationship counsellor when you’re ready.”
“That sounds good.” It really does. It might be self-indulgent to take an hour to talk through my problems, but Lara’s made me a great believer in the power of counselling. It’s an opportunity to reveal my darkest fears, my rawest emotions, with someone who holds no stake in my life.
Louise opens the session by telling me a little bit about herse
lf and the type of therapy she offers. She also promises me complete confidentiality. I find myself relaxing in the chair.
“Let’s start with why you’re here. What made you come?” She’s still wearing that open expression; making me feel special, as though she’s genuinely interested.
“I guess I want to save my marriage.”
“What are you trying to save it from?”
I give a small smile. “I don’t know. From failing, I suppose.”
“What makes you think it’s failing?”
Her question makes me stop and think. Why is it failing? Is it me or is it Simon? Both of us, perhaps? Is it sinking under the weight of expectations we’ve both put on each other? The silence lingers as I try to find the words.
“We both want different things. Simon wants me to be his wife first, to put him before everything else. And part of me wants that, too. But if that’s all I am I think I’d end up disappearing. I want more. I want to help people. I want my job to mean something.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“I help at a substance abuse clinic. I run an outreach club for children of addicts, and I fundraise on the clinic’s behalf.”
“That sounds like an important role.”
That surprises me. I’m not sure anybody has said that before. That I’m important. That what I do counts. “It is to me.”
“What makes it so important?”
Another moment of thinking. “It’s the fact I’m able to make a difference. These kids don’t have a lot, and I can tell by their faces they really get a kick out of the program. Sometimes when they’re having a rubbish week, that’s about all they have to cling to.”
“The kids mean a lot to you?”
“They mean everything.” I choke up. “They can be annoying and argumentative but they’re kids, that’s their job. At the end of the day most of them simply need some attention and love. Even if I only get to give them it for a few hours a week, it has to be better than nothing, doesn’t it?” I can feel myself getting emotional again. Hot tears scald my eyes. “I don’t want to leave them, not even for Simon.” Grabbing a tissue from the box on the coffee table, I dab at my eyes. My skin feels puffy and painful, and the tissue makes it worse.
“What do you think will happen if you don’t leave?”
“Simon will leave me instead.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Not in so many words. But he told me I had to quit.” I screw up my face as I try to think what the consequences of non-compliance would be. I assumed from his ultimatum that it meant we were over if I refused. “I suppose I should have asked him.”
“Sometimes people say things in the heat of the moment that they don’t really mean. And you won’t know unless you talk things through.” She leans toward me. “This week’s homework is for you to try to explain to Simon why the clinic is so important to you. Try not to get over-emotional, or to back yourself against the wall. Just make sure he understands what the clinic means to you. Nothing more.”
While she speaks, I nod in agreement, but deep down I’m wondering if I can actually do that. I’m not even sure we’re at a point where we can talk things through without it descending into an argument. Though that would be better than the silent treatment I’m currently getting.
I’ve always found it hard to defy authority. I hated being told off at school, and would have done anything to avoid being reprimanded by my parents. Simon is merely one in a long line of authority figures I’ve found myself cowering before.
When we finish, Louise hands me a notebook and asks me to start keeping a note of my moods. I shove it in my bag and stand up, my legs feeling wobbly as I do. Even when I’m back in reception, I’m still shaky. I don’t like how the world is becoming such an uncertain place.
Buttoning up my jacket, I wrap my green scarf around my neck, before pulling open the glass-and-metal door that separates the clinic from the street. When I step out into the fresh air, there’s a certain comfort as London swallows me whole, dragging me deep into her pumping veins.
I’m curled up in bed, suffering from a combined white widow and wine hangover, when there’s a knock at my door. Grumbling, I turn my head until it’s facing the pillow and shout out muffled words.
“I’m asleep.”
“Then wake up.”
I recognise that voice. That lilt. A little pulse of excitement pushes through my leaden body. “I can’t. Your friends have poisoned me.”
A low laugh. “Is the door locked?”
I’ve no idea. Before I can work it out, the handle turns and the door swings open. Through half-shut eyes I see him enter the room, clutching a bag of crisps and a bottle of non-diet Coke.
“You’re a bit late for the munchies,” I tell him.
Niall sits down at the end of my bed and pushes the hair from his eyes. “I looked for you today after lectures.”
“I didn’t go.” That’s pretty obvious. I’m almost certain I have the look of a girl who’s been in bed all day.
“So I noticed.” He pauses for a moment. “I hear last night was fun.”
Finally, I sit up and catch his eye. “I thought you were going to be there. I didn’t realise I was supposed to invite you. It was all really confusing.”
“It’s not your fault. Digby’s useless at organising anything. That’s what comes of having money your whole life. He needs a secretary.”
I smile, remembering the way he looked after me. I’m beginning to have a soft spot for him. “What kind of parent calls their kid Digby anyway?”
Niall starts to laugh. “You think his parents called him Digby? Does he look like the biggest dog in the world to you?”
“Not really. So why’s he called Digby?”
“No idea. I assume he had a penchant for digging holes as a kid or something. His real name’s James.”
There’s no stopping the giggle that comes out of my mouth. I stare up at Niall, marvelling that this beautiful, funny boy is spending time with me. If I wasn’t feeling so crap, I’d be pulling him down on top of me.
“Here, drink this.” He passes me the litre bottle of Coke he’s just opened. I lift it to my mouth and take huge gulps. The sticky-sweet liquid pours down my throat. After I’ve swallowed almost half the bottle, I pass it back to him.
“Now you can get up.” He pulls the covers off my bed. I’m still in my jeans and top from last night. “Come on, hurry.”
I frown. “Why, what are we doing?” I like the sound of ‘we’. Want to say it again.
“We’re breaking into the art building. All my supplies are there. It’s about time I get to paint you.”
11
Silence can be so much louder than words. Maybe not in volume, or decibels, or however you choose to quantify it, but in meaning and intent, Simon’s muteness is deafening. He hasn’t mentioned missing our appointment, or asked me how I got on. Over the past month since then, he’s stopped making any attempt at pleasantries or conversation. In fact, he’s become active in his avoidance of me. Early meetings, late-night dinners, weekend working. He’s finally started to text me with excuses, when all I long for is his voice.
While I feel angry, I also feel guilty. Just a few simple words from me and we’d be able to work our way back to where we started. All I have to do is promise to give up my work and I know he’d thaw. That thought, though, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. He’s trying to emotionally blackmail me and it just doesn’t seem fair. I’ve already failed on my first homework assignment for Louise. I’m too afraid to explain why I want to stay at the clinic.
He’s made it patently clear it’s his way or the highway. He’s used to making the decisions while I do as he asks. I’m not living up to my side of our bargain.
On Thursday he disappears to the country for the weekend. I go into the clinic early to seek out Lara, to ask her if she wants to do something on Saturday; anything to avoid four days alone.
“I’d love to, but Alex is whisking m
e away.” She looks a lot happier than she did last week. “We said we’d go to a nice hotel in the country and talk. Try to work things through.”
I smile at her as if it’s the best news in the world. And it would be, if I didn’t have that little bit of envy gnawing at my stomach. “That sounds lovely. You two will work it out, I know it.” They will, because they’re speaking to each other.
A smile stretches across her face. “It’s not cheap, but separating would be more expensive, so we’re going for it anyway.”
Separation. I wonder if that’s where Simon and I are headed. I wish I could see into his mind, work out if he’s playing brinkmanship or has simply thrown in the towel. How can I fight for something if he’s already given up on it? Even if I want to.
Lara looks at me quizzically. “Are you okay?”
I snap out of my thoughts. “Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
There’s no way I’m telling her about Simon and me. She has her own worries. She’s been so strong for me in the past, the least I can do is show some support to her now.
“I don’t know, you just looked far away. Sad. You’d tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn’t you?”
I force a smile. “Of course I would. Stop projecting on me. You and Alex are going to be fine. You’re back on track.”
She grins. “D’you know what? I think we are.”
At two thirty that afternoon I’m pulling supplies out of the art cupboard when the door swings open. Niall walks in and hangs his jacket over a chair, revealing a baggy, paint-stained t-shirt that barely reaches his waistband
“You didn’t have to dress up just for me,” I say, deadpan.
He catches my eye and laughs. “What, this old thing?” He pulls at the hem and I get a brief glimpse of skin. I quickly raise my eyes so I’m looking at his face. “Just something I found at the bottom of the wardrobe.”