Husbands

by Adele Parks

  In those days she was overworked, underpaid and not glossy. Now, the opposite is true.

  I was newly separated from my husband. Oscar left when Eddie was six months old. He said he needed to find himself, which is male-coward-speak for, ‘I’ve met someone else.’ This left me in what the British would call ‘a tight spot’ and we guys from down under would call ‘up shit creek without a paddle’. My family were all thousands of miles and an expensive flight away. I’d packed in work just before Eddie was born, I didn’t know anyone well enough to ask them to come over and dish out the Kleenex. Most of my other friends were halves of couples that had been our friends and while many tried to be helpful and sympathetic about Oscar’s speedy exit, it was difficult. I felt I couldn’t talk to them in case they repeated things to their husbands who might let stuff slip to Oscar. For ‘talk’ read monstrously slag off, bitterly condemn and continually revile – obviously. Eddie was able to consume my hours with demands for food, nappy changes, cuddles and baths but he didn’t offer much in the way of feedback beyond ‘google ga, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ga ga’.

  I was lonely.

  Bella and I met just two months after the, frankly, gob-smacking catastrophic event. At that time the greatest distance I’d managed to wander from home was to the local child-friendly café in the high street. Its appeal was that I didn’t really have to make any effort at all there. All the customers had squealing babies or unruly toddlers. Looking rat-shit, rolls of post natal fat and gaunt, sleep-deprived faces were de rigueur. I was sure that I merged into the noisy fray and that’s what I wanted. Ideally, I’d have liked to fade away altogether; it’s a common state of mind when your marriage is done for. However, it appeared my trust in my camouflage (elasticized daks, grey face, and scungy hair) was misplaced. I still stood out. I discovered as much when one day a waitress (Bella) said to me, ‘You really are quite fucking miserable, aren’t you?’

  I intended to ignore the comment and just move to another table. However, instinct and curiosity took over and I couldn’t resist a peek at the perpetrator of such an ‘out-there’ un-English comment. I looked up and was greeted by the broadest smile and biggest brown eyes; both assets were shimmering at me. For the first time in a couple of months I saw kindness.

  ‘Totally,’ I confessed.

  Bella put a plate on to the table. There sat two large sticky buns, covered in icing sugar and cinnamon; they glistened temptingly. I felt disproportionately grateful. I hadn’t eaten much since Oscar had left. Or rather I’d eaten loads but nothing nice. I found going to the supermarket (chockers with happy housewives), an overwhelming task so I made do with whatever was in the house. At first I ate reasonably but as the freezer and cupboard resources depleted I found myself eating increasingly weird combinations, such as fillets of skinless, boneless fish (good) with cornflakes (slightly odd) or cold baked beans with spaghetti. That particular lunchtime I’d eaten a jar of anchovies and tinned rice pudding. My taste buds had been abused.

  ‘These are my favourite. I thought you’d like them,’ said the waitress, pointing to the buns.

  ‘Thanks,’ I muttered. Did I know this pretty woman with a dark, curly bob and a big grin? I didn’t think so but she was behaving as though we were friends.

  ‘Eat,’ she demanded. Obediently I picked up a bun and bit into it. Tiny flakes of cinnamon and sugar stuck to my lips. Warm dough melted on my tongue and it felt like heaven.

  ‘I’m Bella.’

  I managed to mutter, ‘Laura,’ before I started to cry. Bella handed me a tissue. I think she’d used it but I didn’t care.

  That was how Bella became my bezzie mate.

  Bella and I recognized in one another certain similarities. Not that she had been abandoned by her husband and left holding the baby, far from it. Bella had never been married and from what I could gather, back then, she wasn’t capable of staying interested in a relationship with a guy much longer than the initial three-month oh-la-la stage. But we were both travellers, both searching for something.

  I was born in Wollongong, Australia. It has everything a girl could ask for; a big port and a smelting and steel plant. Wollongong is the Oz aesthetic equivalent of Slough. Or so I’m told; I haven’t been to Slough so I might be doing one or the other of the two places a disservice. I’m the youngest of four children. My older brothers and sister all grew up gracefully, sat and passed exams, went away to uni, moved back home, married the neighbours and settled down to live the same lives as my parents had lived.

  For as long as I can remember I have wanted more. Not more money. When I was growing up we always had enough money but not too much, and as a consequence I’ve never given money much thought. I wanted more experiences. I wanted to see more, do more, feel, taste and touch more. I didn’t go to uni: instead of getting a degree I got several part-time jobs and started to save up for a ticket that would take me around the world. I wanted to see the Taj Mahal, the Empire State Building, the Eiffel Tower and all those other monuments that end up inside plastic domes that scatter snow.

  I wanted to meet different people from the ones in my neighbourhood; who were very lovely but scarily similar, in a Stepford wives sort of way. I left Oz in 1993, aged twenty-one, and set off on my big adventure. In truth, most twenty-one-year-olds embark on an adventure; it’s called life. But my adventure seemed to be more significant, more vital because it was mine.

  I worked my way across Europe. And it was every bit pure gold, just as I’d imagined, and sometimes it was as terrible as my poor mum feared. The highlights included working in a circus – not that I was doing anything exotic like a trapeze artist or a flame thrower – I sold tickets and mucked out elephants. Another highlight was meeting a French lesbian who became a great mate. Briefly I wondered if we should become lovers, just for the experience, but she introduced me to her brother who was just like her but with a dick so I had a thing with him instead. I saw the Eiffel Tower, the Vatican and the tulip fields in Holland. The low lights included being employed as a dunny cleaner in public loos in Spain and sleeping on a floor for three nights in Florence train station because I couldn’t get a job and I’d run out of money. Best not dwell.

  I met myriad people; some fascinating, some so dull they brought on rigor mortis, some astute – I’ll always remember their soundbites of wisdom. Some were totally nong yet their nonsensical chatter pops into my head at inconvenient moments. In 1998, aged twenty-six, I met Oscar. I’d never believed I was looking for ‘the one’, that my search and wanderlust were born from something as prosaic as that. But when I met him I thought I heard the pieces of my life drop into place.

  Oscar was twenty-eight, just two years older than me but he seemed the epitome of grown-up sophistication. He owned his own flat, a small one-bedroom thing, above a dry-cleaner’s in Fulham. He had a car. He threw dinner parties. It was only a few short months before he suggested that it was time for me to hang up my travelling boots and hinted that maybe he could swing a job for me as a receptionist at the media buying company he worked for. I never saw the Empire State Building or the Taj Mahal.

  Not that I had a problem with that at the time because I felt a seismic shift. Something like relief washed over me and I hastily agreed. I believed that meeting the love of my life had answered all my questions and needs. And he had to be the love of my life, didn’t he? He was clever enough, good looking enough and even though he hadn’t travelled (because you can’t class two-week package holidays to Crete or Ibiza as travel) he seemed happy enough to listen to my boisterous recounting of adventures and I fancied him so much I practically fizzed when he walked into the room. It seemed like love to me.

  Three years, a white wedding, a baby boy and a decree absolute later I realized I was still on life’s journey. Far from Oscar answering all my questions, his existence just forced me to ask new, harder ones.

  Bella hadn’t actually worn out her passport and crossed continents like I had but she was always seeking out new experiences too; she
was a stone that gathered no moss. Bella looked Latin although born in Scotland and had moved to London in her early twenties. I’m not sure how she passed her time before that, she doesn’t yak about her family much. My guess is that she has a perfectly respectable middle-class background and a respectable 2:2 degree to boot. This hardly fits in with the bohemian lifestyle that she likes to pursue and portray so she is tight-lipped about her teen years.

  We bonded because we were broke and knew well the tedium of temping. We bonded because we soon discovered that we love a decent paperback, our Boots loyalty cards, window shopping and white wine. We bonded because we believe you have to laugh or else you’d cry and we believe that there’s something in horoscopes. We bonded because Bella said nice things about my son (even while he was in his buggy and asleep she noticed his above-average intelligence and creative temperament). We bonded because, in short, she is kind.

  Bella’s line rings. She picks up the handset quickly. Philip is probably asleep and she won’t want to wake him.

  ‘Hiya.’ I don’t need to introduce myself.

  3. I Need Somebody to Lean On

  Monday 10th May 2004

  Bella

  Philip has already eaten half a grapefruit and two slices of wholemeal toast by the time I make it to the kitchen. He is standing at the sink rinsing his plates before he stacks them in the dishwasher. He does this because, he tells me, a build-up of crumbs, rice or even tomato sauce will eventually cause the dishwasher to break and, he points out, nobody likes putting their hand in the filter bit to scoop out soggy spaghetti or peas. He is undoubtedly right but still I am aware that I rarely rinse. He smiles and pats his hands on a tea towel before turning his attention to brewing me a cup of the strong, black, Colombian coffee that I need to kick-start my morning.

  ‘You didn’t need to get up,’ he says. ‘It’s not yet seven.’

  It’s true that I don’t need to get up, I’m officially resting, that much Philip and I agree on. What I am resting from and for is far more complex. I think I am resting from a lifetime of catapulting from unsuitable job to unsuitable job. I live in hope that a bit of ‘me-time’ will give me the necessary space to discover my vocation. Philip thinks I am resting to prepare my body for pregnancy. Look, he might be right. I might conclude the same after my ‘me-time’. Or I might not. I have issues. It’s complex.

  I can see that some kids are nice kids. My friends’ kids, for example. Amelie’s eight-year-old, Freya, and six-year-old Davey, and Laura’s Eddie, are ‘nice kids’. If they weren’t I probably wouldn’t see their mums or at least not until the children were safely tucked up in bed. If, one day, I was ever to have kids I’d definitely want ‘nice ones’, like Freya, Davey and Eddie. But ‘if’ and ‘one day’ are the phrases I’m most likely to use when I talk about kids, whereas Philip has chosen names and picked out schools for an entire football team.

  I keep telling him there’s no rush, I’m just thirty. Phil and my friends view my considered approach out of character; I’m famed for making rash decisions (few of which, in retrospect, are ever too brilliant, which is my point). In the past I changed job and home with the same frequency as other people change their sheets. Historically, I haven’t been too reliable with men either. So, I’m rather proud of my cautious and considered approach to motherhood. Philip doesn’t see it that way; he thinks I’m being obstreperous. We’ve been married just shy of six months and in his ideal world I would now be five months up the duff. I’m just getting used to ordering for two when I ring the pizza delivery guy.

  ‘I like getting up to see you off to work,’ I smile and I plant a fat kiss on Phil’s lips. He pats my bum and grins appreciatively. Secretly, he likes the fact that I always scramble out of bed to wave him off to work in the mornings; he values any effort I make. I yawn widely.

  ‘Were you on the phone to Amelie until late last night?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘Amelie and then Laura.’

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Amelie was a bit quiet. It was Ben’s birthday yesterday. He would have been thirty-seven.’

  ‘That poor woman. She’s done so well.’

  ‘I know. She’s endured Christmas, the children’s birthdays, her birthday. It’s so sad, isn’t it? Previously, these were such joyous occasions, now they are just horrible days she has to get through. It just keeps going on and on.’

  I met Amelie Gordon six years ago when I got a job as a cleaner and general dogsbody at Richmond Rep Theatre. At that time I had a vague notion that I might like to ‘get into theatre’, perhaps be a make-up artist or a set designer. Ben was a playwright and, that season, Amelie was producing one of his plays. It soon became apparent to me that Amelie was a trooper. Not only had she just given birth to Davey but she managed everything from ticket sales to resolving artistic differences between the cast. She even rolled up her sleeves and painted scenery alongside me. Lots of Ben’s success can be attributed to Amelie’s talents and dedication.

  Amelie is the sort who glares back at the bullying brutality and realities of life with courage and humour. I haven’t got the same va-va-voom. I’m not a shrinking violet but then nor am I the sort of woman who faces problems full on. When inevitable difficulties or even inconveniences come my way, I try to ignore them. I can be very boy-like. I fill my life with inconsequential concerns; I dance, duck and dive past harsh realities. I used to hate it when it came to handing in my notice, however frequently I did it. Invariably I’d resort to sending an e-mail as I walked out of the office on Friday night. Neither I nor my staple gun was ever to be seen again. I was also a bit of a wuss when it came to giving guys the elbow. I’d ignore calls, break dates and let bunches of flowers wilt rather than say that I didn’t fancy someone any longer.

  If Amelie is an owl, then I’m an ostrich and my friend Laura is a swan. She’d tell you she is a duck because her self-esteem isn’t what it should be. But she is a swan.

  Even though Amelie is one of my best friends I was astounded when she came to my wedding only months after she lost Ben. Throughout the day, if I caught her eye, guilt slashed me to the bone. It seemed irresponsible to be pretty and happy in front of Amelie who, despite the disguise of a wide crimson hat, was clearly stricken. If I had been in her position I’d have sat at home with a big box of tissues and an even bigger box of tranquillizers. But Amelie came to the wedding and behaved with unimaginable dignity, bravery and poise. She embodies the twenty-first-century equivalent of the British war spirit. I live in awe of her.

  ‘Things will get easier for her,’ says Philip. He kisses the top of my head.

  ‘And will Laura meet the man of her dreams and fall head over heels in love?’

  ‘Definitely,’ grins Phil.

  I love his calm, confident responses. Whenever I talk to Amelie I cannot imagine her grief fading and it’s hard to imagine the man who will make Laura happy; for one thing she never meets a soul. But when I talk to Philip I do believe their lives will be joyful again.

  Phil and I are not alike yet we are well suited. His ambition complements my lack of it. His direction and drive have stopped me meandering aimlessly and I was in serious danger of doing that, ad infinitum. My gregarious nature compensates for his shyer moments. My dress sense has saved him from being labelled a young fogey. And he makes a perfect cup of coffee.

  ‘What are your plans today?’

  ‘I’m meeting Laura for a coffee. I’ll probably go to the gym and I’m thinking of tidying out my winter wardrobe. Bagging stuff up for the charity shops, deciding what I’ll need to buy for the summer.’ I try to sound as industrious as possible despite my day being essentially one of mooching and lolling. Philip has the good grace not to notice my idleness, or at least, not to comment on it.

  ‘Sounds fun. I’m going to shave.’

  ‘Kiss me,’ I demand.

  ‘I’ll scratch you,’ he warns.

  ‘I don’t care.’

  We kiss and I know I am the luckiest woman on the
planet.

  4. Money Honey

  Laura

  This morning, like most mornings, I got up approximately two hours before I woke up. Eddie’s disregard for sleep is directly proportional to my dire need for it. I operate in a zombie-state. I can sing, recite rhymes, answer an unending string of ‘why’ questions and still not be fully conscious.

  I try to keep Eddie in either my or his bedroom until at least 6 a.m. when kids’ TV starts, then I let him charge, like a cork from a champagne bottle, into the sitting room. I leave him alone with the remote (mastered aged two) and I return to patchy sleep, often interrupted as I hear him switch from Noddy to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I can hear him stampede around the room insisting that some imaginary baddie die. I long for thicker walls. Not that thicker walls would mean my child would display fewer signs of delinquency, but at least I wouldn’t be as aware of them.

  At seven I drag myself into the shower and turn the water on full blast. It’s freezing cold which makes me scream.

  ‘Problem, Mummy?’ asks Eddie with his trademark composure.

  It strikes me that currently Eddie has no concept of real problems. Happily, he still lives in the state of nirvana where I can solve any problem by proffering an ice cream or agreeing to take him to the park on his bike. I wonder how I’ll cope with him enduring any difficulty as he grows up. My heart almost breaks when I think that some floozy, one day, might bin him because his car is not cool or because he can’t dance. I already want to rip off the heads of little morons who don’t play nicely with him in the playground.

  ‘No problem, just cold,’ I mutter, as I towel dry and plunge one foot into a trouser leg. ‘No hot water, again,’ I add. Eddie could not care less. I know I’ll be lucky if I get to slosh a sponge around his face before he goes to kindie, he has a predisposition towards filth. ‘The bloody builders must have altered the timer,’ I mutter.