by Emlyn Rees
‘What bugs you more? The fact that he did it, or the fact that he didn’t tell you?’ asks Jules.
‘I’m not sure. All I know is that because he didn’t tell me, it makes the whole holiday – our relationship – mean nothing.’
‘But he did tell you eventually, and in my book that takes a lot of balls.’
I should have known. This is such a typical male response. I don’t want to hear how ballsy Jack has been. He’s not brave in my book.
Our starters arrive.
‘I had an affair once,’ Jules says, after a while.
I almost choke on my food. Not Jules? Not wholesome family man, Jules? Not Mr Declarations Of Love To His Wife In The Office (before lunch!), Jules? Not him as well?
‘Ann knows about it.’
‘You told her?’ I ask incredulously.
‘Sure I did.’
‘How? I mean.’ I stare at him and then check myself. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’
‘My affair was a lot worse than Jack’s,’ Jules admits. ‘I slept with another woman for six weeks, and then it took another six weeks before I had the guts to tell Ann about it.’
‘Why didn’t you keep it a secret?’ I try not to sound as pursed-lipped as I’m feeling.
‘Because she suspected. Because I realised that by censoring the truth, I was being totally disrespectful. She deserved the truth and it was hers to deal with. She trusted me, so I had to trust her back.’
‘But wasn’t she terribly upset?’
‘Of course she was, but she also realised that I’d risked everything in telling her. She knew that I could lose her, the kids, our home, everything. And she also knew that that was the last thing that I wanted.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘Wretched. I couldn’t believe I’d hurt her so badly, or that I’d been stupid enough to have an affair in the first place.’
‘So what happened?’
‘We worked it out. It took time, but our relationship is much stronger as a result. The thing about the truth is that you can’t argue with it. And if you trust someone enough to tell them the truth about things like that, no matter how hard it is, it means that you love them.’
I want to ask him if he thinks that Jack told me about Sally because he loves me, but I stop myself. Jules doesn’t know Jack. He’d just be guessing.
Just like me.
‘It sounds to me like you’ve been pretty harsh on him,’ Jules says, quietly.
I twist my lips and look at him.
‘You should have at least read the letter and found out what he had to say. I doubt if he had much more of an excuse than the fact that he’s male, but you could have heard his side.’
‘But how can I trust him again?’
‘Why wouldn’t you? He’s told you the worst.’
‘But if he’s so male, won’t he do it again?’
Jules laughs at my jibe. ‘He might want to, but the point about love is that it’s much more than just sex. And next time he’d probably think a little harder.’
‘What does that mean? Would you have an affair again?’
‘No.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t regret it, though. It made me clear about my feelings. It also made me realise that you can’t be complacent in relationships. You have to work at them.’
I push my knife and fork together on my plate. I feel confused.
‘It’s simple. Do you love him?’ asks Jules.
‘But—’
‘If you love him, then you have to accept that he’s human. I’m sorry, Amy, but this ain’t the movies.’
When I get home, I unpack my shopping from Sainsbury’s and steel myself to open the holiday photos. Jenny had the film developed at lunchtime and the pack of pictures have been taunting me all afternoon. It takes me a glass of wine before I have the guts to look through them. I make a pact with myself: I’m not going to blub.
But as soon as I open them, I start to feel wobbly. I look through them with an other-worldly sensation. Somehow they don’t seem real. There’s Jack on the bike, looking tanned, me on the beach, fast asleep. I hold my breath, willing myself to carry on. But each photo stabs a little deeper.
I’m nearly through the whole pack and I’m about to congratulate myself, when I come to the ones of both of us. And that’s when it hits me. Because in the photos we’re together.
Really together.
Together as if it would last for ever.
We’re standing near the taverna and Jack has one arm around me and is holding the camera up with the other. I had no idea that the shots would come out, but they have. And as I look through them, my heart starts to ache, because here is Jack looking into my eyes and I can see my feelings suspended in the space between our faces. He’s grinning, his nose touching mine, and I can’t look any more. Because I can feel his arm around me and smell his skin. And my pact is well and truly broken.
Niagara Falls has relocated to my face.
I must have bawled myself to sleep, because it’s late by the time I hear the phone. In my blurry state, I immediately think it’s Jack. But it’s not. It’s Nathan. He sounds stoned.
After talking me through the dumping of the Spanish girl for an Argentinian polo heiress and his current two-timing situation with a girl from Glasgow, he finally cottons on that I’m not saying anything. He obviously takes this as a sign that I’m pissed off and starts apologising profusely for failing to take me out to dinner.
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
‘Cool.’ Nathan sounds relieved that he’s off the hook so easily. I can hear him taking a drag on a cigarette. ‘How was the holiday with lover boy?’
‘We split up.’
There’s a pause. ‘Oh man! That’s too bad.’
I don’t say anything. This news is obviously just breaking his heart.
‘Look on the bright side …’
‘Which bright side is that?’ I interrupt, curtly.
‘He wasn’t exactly your type.’
It occurs to me that Nathan wouldn’t know my type if my type punched him in the gob. In fact, Nathan wouldn’t have the first idea what I want any more. He wouldn’t even think to ask. Because since he’s been away, he’s changed. No, he’s always been the same, he’s always been this arrogant. It’s me who’s changed. And even though I hate to admit it, I’ve changed because of Jack.
‘How do you know? You didn’t speak to him,’ I snap.
‘We didn’t have anything to say to each other,’ he says defensively.
‘And whose choice was that?’
‘Hey! Don’t take it out on me. I’m sorry, all right?’
‘Whatever.’
He sucks his teeth. ‘It’s not a good time. Look, I’ll call you.’
There’s a long pause before he hangs up. I’m glad he does it first; it saves me the effort.
‘Tosser!’ I yell, as I slam down the phone.
I’m furious.
How dare Nathan judge Jack? What does he know? It’s all his bloody fault, anyway. If he hadn’t been so rude, Jack wouldn’t have been jealous. And if Jack hadn’t been jealous, he wouldn’t have been with Sally.
But that’s no excuse, either.
Men!
Ugh!
They’re such a bunch of neanderthals. They haven’t evolved at all. All they think about are their dicks and their egos, not that there’s any difference between the two.
I shake my head, astonished at how stupid I’ve been. Even though I can see Nathan from Jack’s point of view, it doesn’t absolve Jack for one second. They’re all the bloody same. Nathan, Jack … even Jules couldn’t keep his dick to himself.
What hope is there?
I pick up the bottle of wine and down a huge slug. I put my elbows on my knees and bury my head in my hands. On the carpet is the photo of Jack leaning against the bike.
I pick it up and stare at it.
No wonder he looks so bloody happy. That bitch Sally wasn’t the only one with her mouth full; he was having hi
s cake and eating it all the time.
‘How long had you been planning it, Jack? Ever since you perved after her in the nude, pretending it was all in the name of art? It was probably in the back of your mind all the time, wasn’t it?’ I ask.
Still the same smile.
I slug back more wine.
‘So what happened, then? Tell me, I’m intrigued. You invited her over, did you, because you knew I was out with Nathan? What did you do? Cook for her? Chat to her? Ply her with wine? Hold her hand across the table and gaze into her eyes? What did you say? No, no, don’t tell me, I can guess.’
I slug more wine.
‘“You’re beautiful, you’re amazing, you’ve got the most wonderful smile.” Did you? Did you, Jack? Did you tell her the same things you told me, because you were horny. Was that it? You just wanted a fuck, because you’re a man and you have to sow your seed? Is that it?’
Still the same smile.
‘And what did she do? Accidentally trip over and land up with your dick in her mouth?’
The photo shakes in my hand. I stare very closely at Jack’s lips.
‘What was she like to kiss? Because I presume you kissed her, didn’t you? And what did you do? Keep your hands tied behind your back, I suppose? You didn’t by any chance go down on her, kiss the parts you’ve painted? No, you wouldn’t do that, would you, Jack, because you’ve never bragged about how pleasing women is as important as pleasing yourself! And what did she taste like? What did her skin feel like against yours?’
My heart feels like it’s in my throat and I’m gasping for breath. I stare at the picture, feeling sick.
‘Did you compare us, Jack? Did you hold me a few hours later and think about her? Did you?’
My eyes are brimming with tears and I wipe them away angrily. I finish the wine in one gulp and stand up. I’m very unsteady on my feet.
‘But I shouldn’t worry my pretty little head about it, should I? Because it doesn’t count as infidelity. You didn’t sleep with her. Silly me for getting so worked up.’
Still the same smile.
‘You BASTARD!’ I rip up the photo and hurl it across the room. Then I screw up all the others and dump them in the bin, before kicking it.
This time I’ve had it. I don’t care what Jules says. Jules and all his psychoanalytical clap trap about trust. I’ll never trust anyone ever again. It’s not worth it. From now on I’m with Jenny. I’m going to use men. I’m going to use and abuse them. I’m going to have my cake and eat it, too. And if anyone thinks they’re getting close to me, ever again, they can FUCK OFF!
On Saturday morning, I have a whopping hangover, but a sense of calm has settled over me. In fact, I feel strangely isolated from all the pain I’ve been feeling. It hasn’t gone, but it’s not immediate any more. I think my outburst last night was a turning point.
Because today is a new start.
Today I’m back to being Amy Crosbie. No more blubbing, soppy heroine. No more ball-breaking feminist. No more mental tormentor.
Just me.
Calm.
Tranquil.
Sussed.
Today, I’m going to reclaim the space in my head that has, up until now, been filled with Jack. From now it’s just going to be filled with thoughts of me.
ME.
ME.
ME.
I dig out the tape of whale noises that I bought in my brief 1990 New Age phase, and run myself a huge bath. I’m on a mission to sort out my head. I idly blow blobs of suds around, stick my big toe up the tap and let my thoughts wander. As soon as I alight on anything remotely to do with him, I sound the whoop-whoop siren and retrace my steps.
It’s quite hard, at first. I spend ages pussy-footing around my head, careful not to open the doors to any out-of-bounds memory banks. But after a while, I discover there’s loads of things to think about. Interesting things, like the plot of EastEnders, the Eurovision Song Contest, the decorative borders I might paint on my walls and, eventually, shopping.
Shopping is key.
After my bath, I spend several hours pampering myself in preparation for the almighty Visa bonanza I have in store for myself. I wax my legs, pluck my eyebrows, give myself a facial, file and paint my nails, spend an hour blow-drying my hair and by the time I’ve finished, I feel human again.
I look human again.
No, I look great.
I must do, because the workmen chipping the graffiti off the road wolf-whistle me when I set out for the shops. I don’t care, though. They’re men. They don’t count.
‘Piss off!’ I shout.
I’m not the world’s greatest shopper, I have to admit. I’ve always been a bit of an impulse buyer and have, hitherto, chosen to spend my Saturday afternoons in other ways. Down the pub, or flanging around with my ex-boyfriend, for example. But as of today, all that has changed. Today is for me. Today is for shopping. Today I’m on a mission.
Five shops later and I’ve spent more money on my Visa card than I’ll ever be able to pay back, but I don’t care. I’m on a roll.
Who needs men, when you’ve got armfuls of groovy carrier bags?
I’m in New Bond Street, fully engrossed in deliberation about a spectacularly expensive dress, when it all goes horribly wrong. I’m holding the dress up against me and looking in the mirror when I spot a familiar face browsing through the rail behind me.
I freeze.
It’s Chloe.
There’s no way I can move without her seeing me. I stare at her, not daring to blink.
But, as usual, her sixth sense is fully operating. She sees me straight away.
‘Hi!’ she gushes, coming towards me.
‘Hello,’ I manage, my back teeth glued together.
She admires the dress. ‘Wow, that’ll look amazing on you.’
I’m stuck. My muscles won’t work. I’m holding the dress up against me like an idiot, wishing it would hide me, or make me vanish, but it doesn’t.
‘You must get it,’ she adds.
This is obviously my cue to move. I drop the dress on the floor.
‘Maybe, I urn …’ I bend down and pick it up. My hands have gone clammy.
‘How have you been?’ she asks, as I stand up, fumbling with the dress.
It’s a loaded question. She knows about Jack. She knows and I know she knows and she knows that I know that she knows.
‘Fine,’ I say, stalling for time. ‘I’ve got a new job.’
She nods slowly, scrutinising me. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Great. Just, well, it’s amazing.’ I trail off. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
There’s a long pause as I meet her eye.
‘I heard,’ she says, softly. ‘I’m sorry.’
I nod, not able to speak. She’s not sorry. She’s not sorry at all. I squeeze my lips together and carefully fold the dress over my arm.
She knows how he is. She has all the answers to all the questions I’ve just spent a fortune to stop myself thinking about. And as much as I want to shake it out of her, pay her, if necessary, to tell me every detail, my pride takes over.
There’s something about her phoney look of concern that makes me go cold. I’m damned if she’s going to see that I’m upset, or that Jack has affected me in any way. And when she reports back, as I’m sure she will, she won’t be able to tell him anything other than that I looked fine. That I am fine. That I’ve survived. That I’ve risen above it all.
Because I have.
‘You know, I think I’ll buy it,’ I say, gesturing to the dress.
Chloe looks startled. I’ve scuppered her. Shut her out and she knows it.
‘What’s the occasion?’ she asks, watching me as I gather up my bags.
‘I’m going out tonight,’ I say.
Stick that, Jack. I have a life. I’m out on the town.
‘Anywhere good?’ I can’t read her expression.
‘I’ve got tickets for the opening of a new bar in town.’ I am super
cool Amy.
The one you lost, sucker.
‘Where exactly?’
What does she mean, ‘Where exactly?’ It’s none of her business.
‘Zanzibar,’ I mumble.
‘Zanzibar in Beak Street?’ she asks.
‘Mmm,’ I nod.
‘If it’s any good, I’d love to hear about it.’
‘Sure.’
‘We must get together some time for a drink,’ she says. She gives me a questioning smile.
‘Okay,’ I manage.
She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she says, before walking away.
This whole encounter confuses the hell out of me. I pay for the dress in a daze and hail a cab.
I feel utterly depressed by the time I get home. My new purchases are of no comfort; I wish I’d never bought them. I drop my bags in the hall, kick off my shoes and collapse on my bed. Thanks to Chloe, I now have a whole new set of questions:
Will she tell Jack she saw me?
What will she say?
What if she doesn’t tell him?
What if he never gets to hear how super cool I’m being?
What if that’s it?
What if I never see Jack ever again?
What if I’ve burned my bridges with Chloe?
What if I’ve cut off the last link?
It’s all too much. My karma is blown. I’m destined for a life of confusion and unanswered questions.
It’s not fair.
When H comes round, I’m catatonic in front of Blind Date.
‘Looking good, feeling funky,’ she chirps, waggling a bottle of vodka at me and conga-ing into the flat. ‘Looking good, feeling … what’s up with you?’ she asks.
I slump down on to a chair. ‘I saw Chloe.’
H curls up her lip and grunts. ‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I didn’t let her.’
H pouts and puts her hands on her hips. I can tell she’s making a decision about whether to pursue this line of conversation. I don’t care. I ignore her.
‘Show me what you’ve bought,’ she says, abruptly.
‘What?’
‘Show me what you’ve bought. I want to see.’
I nod to the bags. ‘It’s all rubbish. I spent a fortune.’
H runs her tongue around her teeth and picks up the bags. She empties them on to the carpet and whistles. I still ignore her. She looks at all the clothes and picks out the dress and throws it over her shoulder. Then she stomps into the kitchen.