by Annie Lyons
At least that’s what I wished I’d done later but at the time an odd sensation of calm descended. It was as if this wasn’t really happening to me. It was at best some kind of joke and at worst, something that could be sorted.
This wasn’t in the plan. This kind of thing was never going to happen to us. Other people split up, their marriages disintegrating like a swiftly disappearing desert island, but that was never going to happen to us. We were rock solid – a steady ship; Nat and Dan, Dan and Nat. It had the ring of one of those American teen shows that Woody loved to watch on Nick Junior; all jazz hands and sparkly teeth.
We were a great couple. Everyone said so. We were the kind of couple that others looked at with awe and secret envy. Everybody loved Dan. He’s just one of those men that people like – old ladies, babies, men, women, children have all told me over the course of our marriage, what a really great guy he is.
I would go on nights out with my female friends as they ripped apart their partners and husbands, picking over their faults like vultures feasting on carrion. I would nod with sympathy but never really had anything to add. They would often turn their sleepy, drunken gaze to me, pat me on the shoulder and slur, ‘’Course you’re lucky, Nat. You’ve got Dan. He’s such a lovely guy.’
And he was. Possibly still is.
Dan was my husband, my soul mate. Of course he had his faults. The underpants on the floor and the toilet seat in the perpetual ‘up’ position were an irritation, but not exactly a major crime against domesticity. He was, is a good man – a good husband and father. He was my happy ever after.
Naturally, we had disagreements and wobbles. Who doesn’t? We didn’t spend as much time together on our own as we would like but that’s to be expected. We’re busy with work, Woody and life. Obviously it would be lovely to go on the odd date-night or even have sex but frankly, we were usually too knackered. I’d always thought that the shared bottle of wine on Friday night with a movie was good enough. Clearly I have been labouring under a major misapprehension.
Initially, I went into full-on denial mode when he dropped the bombshell. I wondered later if my body had actually gone into shock in a bid to protect myself from the truth. Certainly at the time, my brain sent me a quick succession of messages to counter his statement: he didn’t mean it (he did), he’d been drinking (he hadn’t), he was tired (true) and angry (not true). It wasn’t until I’d picked over the remnants of that evening with various friends (my turn to be the vulture now) that I’d fully taken in the order of events.
It was a Tuesday evening. I hate Tuesdays. They make me feel restless and impatient. Monday is supposed to be the worst day but for me, it has always been Tuesday. I can deal with the post-weekend slump and Monday is usually my most productive day but by Tuesday, I am longing for the week to move ‘over the hump’ towards the downhill joy of Thursday. I often long for a glass of wine on Tuesday evenings but on this particular day I was disappointingly sober because I was having a so-called healthy week. At least I was before he said it.
It was around 8.30 and we had just finished dinner. Woody was reading in his room before lights-out and I had been about to go and tuck him in. I normally love this part of the day; the feeling that another episode of motherhood is successfully complete; no one died. Everyone is safe.
If I had been paying attention, I would have noticed that Dan was particularly uncommunicative during dinner. Again, it wasn’t until later that I recalled the details; his downward gaze and hands fidgeting with the cutlery, his water glass, the pepper mill.
I had been telling him about a problem with my latest book. I am a children’s picture-book writer and have enjoyed some success with my series of books about ‘Ned Bobbin – the small boy with the big imagination’, as my publisher tags it. There have been three books so far and my editor wants another three but I was struggling with ideas and wondering whether to take him down the super-hero route.
When I recalled the conversation later, I realized that I had done all the talking; posing and answering my own questions with just the odd ‘mhmm’ or nod from Dan. That was the problem with being a writer – you spent too much time at home on your own with no one to talk to.
I talk to myself all the time when I’m working. I read back what I’ve just written, talk to the radio or hold imaginary conversations with all manner of people, including Ned. I read somewhere that adults have a certain number of words they need to say in a day and that the word quota for a woman is higher than a man’s. I believe this. It isn’t unusual, therefore, for me to unpack my day to Dan when he gets home. I thought he liked it. Maybe I was wrong about that too.
I had finished my dinner; an unimaginative stir-fry containing any vaguely vegetable-like item I’d found in the fridge on opening it at 7.30. Woody had eaten earlier. He was eight years old and always starving when he returned home from school so I tended to feed him straight away and then either Dan or I cooked our dinner later.
I stood up to clear the plates, reaching out for Dan’s. He looked up at me and only then did I notice how pale he looked – that handsome face, slightly pinched with age, but still handsome. He stared at me, unsmiling, and I realized he was nervous.
‘What?’ I asked with an encouraging smile.
He swallowed and bit his lip. Then he said it.
At first I assumed he was joking.
‘Yeah right, and I’m having an affair with James McAvoy.’ I shook my head and made for the door.
‘Nat.’
I paused, turning to look back at him. He was crying and that was when I knew it wasn’t a joke. It was the first rumble of a threatening storm. Still, my brain told me to keep going, carry the plates out, kiss Woody goodnight, come down and sort this out. It was just another thing to be sorted, like pairing the socks in a basket of washing.
I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I padded upstairs, pausing outside my son’s bedroom door. I focused for a moment on the wooden letters stuck to the upper panel, spelling ‘WOODY’. Each letter was represented by an animal with the same corresponding first letter and I reached out a hand to stroke the wombat’s cheery face. I will sort this out. I’m good at sorting. All will be well.
I pushed the door open, blinking into the half-light, feeling immediately reassured by the sight of my son. He was sitting up in bed reading by the light of the twisty snake-lamp we had given him last birthday, propped up by the patchwork cushion my mum had made him when he was born. His chin was resting on his chest, that customary frown creasing his perfect face. He flicked his gaze in my direction and then back down at his book.
‘How’s Mr Fox doing?’ I asked, as if nothing had happened, as if my world was still intact.
Woody sighed. ‘Not good. Boggis, Bunce and Bean shot him.’
‘Ooh, that’s not good.’
Woody shook his head in agreement but kept reading, his eyes darting left and right. I looked around his room at the dog-eared football posters, the framed prints of scenes from some of my books, the Lego models and the shelves stacked with books. Woody was a bookworm. He had learnt to read at the age of three and not really stopped since. He had probably read Fantastic Mr Fox at least fifty times. I felt a sense of calm descend. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to nestle down at the end of Woody’s bed, to pretend Dan hadn’t said what he had just said and hope that it all went away. I felt safe there.
‘Time for lights-out, fella,’ said Dan’s voice from the doorway. I jumped, jolted back to reality. I couldn’t see his face properly but his voice was throaty from crying.
Woody glanced at him and then me. ‘Can I just finish this chapter, please?’ His expression was wide-eyed and impossible to resist.
Dan stepped forwards and ruffled his hair. ‘Okay, but then straight to sleep.’
‘’Kay,’ replied Woody. ‘’Night, Mum.’
I leant down and kissed him. ‘’Night, darling boy. Love you. Sleep well.’
‘Love you. Sleep well,’ repeated
Woody like a robot. ‘’Night, Dad.’
‘’Night,’ said Dan. He turned towards the door and paused, looking back over his shoulder at me. ‘Coming?’
I stared down at my son as if he might offer a solution. He sensed my hesitation and looked up. ‘’Night, Mum,’ he said again with a trace of impatience.
‘’Night,’ I answered, turning and following Dan out of the room and down the stairs. We didn’t speak again until we reached the dining room.
‘I’m going to get a glass of wine,’ I said. ‘Want one?’
‘No,’ sighed Dan, ‘thanks. We do need to talk, Nat.’
‘And that’s why I need a glass of wine,’ I said, making my way to the kitchen. I poured a polite helping and then doubled it. Taking a large gulp, I refilled it and carried the glass into the dining room. Dan was sitting at the table, his hands in prayer position.
I slid into the chair opposite. ‘So,’ I began, trying to stay calm and matter-of-fact. ‘What’s this all about?’
Dan ran a hand through his neatly parted hair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I’m leaving.’
I was surprised to learn that two gulps of wine could inflame immediate righteous anger. ‘Because you don’t love me anymore?’ I almost spat the words.
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’ I snapped. ‘Because that’s a fucking big statement if you’re not sure. Do you love me or not? Simple question.’ My voice was increasing in volume and it unnerved me. My childhood had been punctuated by anger between my father and mother. As an adult I had made a monumental effort to keep mine under control but all bets were off now. Red was the new black.
Dan stared at his hands, unable to look me in the eye. ‘No, I don’t and I’m sorry.’
The sarcasm devil took control of my brain. ‘Well that’s all right then. If you’re sorry then I forgive you. That makes it all just fine.’ I folded my arms and stared at him.
I couldn’t get a grip on my brain somehow, couldn’t work out what I was supposed to say or how I was supposed to feel. I had no point of reference for this moment. It felt like somebody else’s life.
Dan tried to be reasonable. That was one of his greatest strengths. He was eternally reasonable and always took other people’s opinions seriously. We rarely argued and this was largely down to Dan. He was able to defuse a situation like the most practised of bomb-disposal experts. ‘I understand that you’re angry, Nat, and you have every right to be, but if you’ll let me, I’ll try to explain.’
I took another deep gulp of wine before holding up my glass as if proposing a toast and saying, ‘Please. Be my fucking guest.’
Dan swallowed. ‘It’s nothing you’ve done or said. You have always been the perfect wife.’
‘If you’re about to use the words, it’s not you, it’s me, I will get violent,’ I retorted.
Dan looked at me, tears brimming in his eyes. ‘I have tried to stay in love with you but I just don’t have those feelings for you anymore. I love you but I’m not in love with you.’
My head was spinning from a combination of wine and fury. I stood up. ‘So you’re planning to leave?’
Dan nodded. ‘I want to speak to Woody first.’
‘Very decent of you, but you’ll have to come back to do that another time because I want you gone.’
‘Nat.’
People talk about a red mist and others talk about an out-of-body experience but for me it was neither. I thought nothing and felt nothing but pure white-hot fury as I smashed the wine glass to the floor and screamed. ‘GO! NOW! I WANT YOU FUCKING GONE!’
Whether out of self-preservation or respect for my feelings, Dan left the room. Moments later he reappeared with a bag, which I realized he must have been hiding in the back of his wardrobe for goodness knows how long. Waiting for the right moment. He had clearly been waiting for the right moment for a while.
He didn’t try to speak to me again before he left and I was oddly grateful to him for this. I heard the front door close like a full stop to my life so far. I looked around the room, numb with anger, unable to cry. I looked at the shards of broken glass and swore.
The annoying thing about a burst of righteous anger is that you have to clear up afterwards. I went to fetch the dust-pan and another glass of wine.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Victoria Oundjian for encouraging me to start this story and to my editor, Charlotte Mursell, for helping me to finish it. Thank you to Lisa Milton, Nia Beynon and the rest of the team HQ for their enthusiasm and support.
Huge thanks to my best book buddies – Sarah Livingston, Helen Abbott, Melissa Khan and Becs Little – for their sage advice, kind words and gin/Prosecco/coffee/wine-based support.
Endless thanks to my fellow writers, particularly the HQ authors past and present and the wonderful RNA bods, who are always so generous and supportive – you know who you are and I love you very much.
To the incredible bloggers and online community who read, review and share the love for my books – your support means everything to me.
Special thanks to Rebecca Minton, who has raved about my writing since day one – you’re a diamond and a good friend.
Finally, love and thanks to Lil, Alf and Rich for everything else.
Books
The following books were particularly useful to me while I was researching this book:
Happy: Why more or less everything is absolutely fine by Derren Brown
Grief Works by Julia Samuel
Websites
The VIA Institute kindly gave me permission to use parts of their fascinating free character surveys in chapter twenty-one of this book – you can try them yourself by following this link: http://www.viacharacter.org/www
Turn the page for an exclusive extract from The Choir on Hope Street, another gorgeously uplifting story from Annie Lyons!
If you enjoyed The Happiness List, then why not try another feel-good story from HQ Digital?
Also by Annie Lyons
The Choir on Hope Street
Life or Something Like It
The Secrets Between Sisters
Not Quite Perfect
About the Author
Annie Lyons decided to have a go at book writing after having worked in the worlds of bookselling and publishing. Following a creative writing course, lots of reading and an extraordinary amount of coffee, she produced Not Quite Perfect, which went on to become a number one bestseller. Her second book The Secrets Between Sisters was nominated in the best eBook category at the 2014 Festival of Romance and Life or Something Like It was a top ten bestseller.
Annie’s most recent titles, The Choir on Hope Street and The Happiness List are uplifting stories about community, hope, friendship and cake. She tries to write books which make people laugh and cry, although hopefully not at the same time. Annie lives in a shambolic money-pit of a house with her husband and two children plus a cat, who she pretends not to like. She enjoys channelling her inner Adele as part of her own beloved community choir and trying to grow cauliflower.
You can find out more about Annie on her website at www.annielyons.com, or get in touch on Twitter @1AnnieLyons or Facebook at www.facebook.com/annielyonswriter.
About the Publisher
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