by Helga Jensen
Twice in a Lifetime
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1 A cottage in Laugharne, west Wales – D-Day
Chapter 2 Sian’s house – Shark Day
Chapter 3 Mum’s house – the end of an era
Chapter 4 At home – Aunt Emily
Chapter 5 The living room – reminiscing
Chapter 6 The kitchen – I am officially Supermum
Chapter 7 In a cafe – finding Perfect Patrick
Chapter 8 Somewhere online – we will find Patrick
Chapter 9 My house – divorce party
Chapter 10 Laugharne/New York – is this Patrick?
Chapter 11 A mysterious location – WhatsApp
Chapter 12 Sian’s house – the moment of truth
Chapter 13 At home – cheap plonk with Jamie
Chapter 14 Both sides of the Atlantic – hello Patrick
Chapter 15 A very dark room – time to Skype
Chapter 16 Aldi – an unexpected phone call
Chapter 17 A Welsh castle – The Annual Medieval Day
Chapter 18 A furniture store two months later – Fundraising
Chapter 19 Laugharne – all going wrong
Chapter 20 At home – saying goodbye to the boys
Chapter 21 Somewhere over the Atlantic – the future is bright
Chapter 22 New York – good to be back
Chapter 23 A dodgy deli – not the perfect start
Chapter 24 Tiffany’s – meeting Perfect Patrick
Chapter 25 Manhattan – I’ve lost Patrick
Chapter 26 Sacramento – where is that?
Chapter 27 Streets of Manhattan – time to shop
Chapter 28 Two sides of the States – seeing is believing
Chapter 29 A back street salon – a little pampering
Chapter 30 Turning Japanese – pass me the saké
Chapter 31 The hotel – the time has come
Chapter 32 The hotel room – waking up with a sex god
Chapter 33 An alleyway – following Patrick
Chapter 34 The airport – time to leave
Chapter 35 On an aircraft – time to go home
Chapter 36 Heathrow airport – back with my boys
Chapter 37 Bashful Brides – I hate my dress
Chapter 38 Laugharne – preparing for Patrick’s arrival
Chapter 39 Laugharne – Patrick has arrived
Chapter 40 A paintball field in Pembrokeshire – this is war
Chapter 41 Laugharne – the truth about Patrick
Chapter 42 The nearest hospital – poor Jamie
Chapter 43 WhatsApp – an apology
Chapter 44 West Wales – news from the hospital
Chapter 45 Laugharne – healing rifts
Chapter 46 Gretna Green – Sian’s wedding day
Nine Months Later
Chapter 47 Laugharne – one big happy family
A letter from Helga
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Twice in a Lifetime
Helga Jensen
To James
Dream Big
Prologue
When I discovered that my husband had been having an affair for the past year with Tanja Tart (she only added the ‘J’ in there for effect, by the way), there were three options:
I could cut holes in every pair of Richard’s designer jeans, and pull Tanja Tart’s hair extensions out one by one whilst hoping that the glue was firmly attached to her scalp.
Sell any of Richard’s leftover belongings on eBay, along with a story detailing his indiscretions, in the hope that people would feel sorry for me. Who knows, someone might bid millions for his sheer and utter crap, including the racing bike and those stupid Lycra cycling shorts that he started wearing on his forty-fifth birthday.
Or, move on graciously, even if it means gobbling enough Nutella to bring on a nut allergy, drinking Pinot Grigio through an eco-friendly straw and a teeny dabble with Botox. There is also a rather handsome New Yorker in there somewhere too.
Naturally, I chose number 3. After all, you should always choose the route in which Pinot Grigio and Nutella are involved.
Chapter 1
A cottage in Laugharne, west Wales – D-Day
It’s a beautiful, warm summer’s morning outside, but inside my heart feels bitterly cold.
As I look at the decree absolute that has just landed on my doormat, I realise that my life has fallen apart. Not even a soothing cup of tea can make things better; vodka would be so much more appropriate right now. In fact, I believe you should be sent a complimentary bottle of Absolut with every decree absolute.
Free bottle of wine/vodka/gin (state your preference) with every decree absolute.
I would definitely use that as a marketing technique if I were a lawyer; after all, they charge enough.
Even this envelope that I am staring at most probably cost enough to save part of the rainforest. Then there’s the stamp and the piece of paper inside. I am pretty sure they were all invoiced at an enormous profit, one that presumably bought the partner’s wife a new Jaguar.
Of course, I would have preferred a new Jaguar, or to spend the £250 an hour in Dolce & Gabbana on their latest collection and not at the law firm Thomas and Smith, but life doesn’t always turn out the way you planned. If it had, then I would be lounging in a villa in Mustique beside a sizzling hot Red Arrows pilot, with big strong arms, drinking Cristal and chatting to some celebrity or other. No, forget the celebrities, all I need are those big strong arms. A hug would make things so much better right now.
Sadly, there is no hug, or cwtch as we like to say in Wales, and I am not in Mustique, not even close. I am, instead, sat in my rather bijou kitchen, eyeing up the dish cloth that needs to be thrown out and wondering how many germs are currently breeding on it. Apparently, it is 200,000 times dirtier than my toilet seat – I googled.
Funny what you do to procrastinate when there are divorce papers in front of you. Today feels so final and, even though I knew this day would come, I still feel unprepared.
The envelope won’t wait for me much longer, though, and I have no choice but to tear it open. I place it to one side where it lies discarded and of no importance. Ironic, as that is actually how I would describe the way I feel about myself right now.
My eyes scan across the official letter with its angry-looking big red stamp.
Between Amelia Simpson and Richard Simpson
Between the petitioner and the respondent be dissolved by reason that since the celebration thereof said respondent had been guilty of adultery…
I don’t read the rest of it. There really is no need. I know what happened. Tanja Tart looked my husband up on Facebook and the rest, as they say, is history.
You see, Tanja Tart was in university with Dick. I try not to call him Richard any longer. There is only one word for him and I feel that sums it up. Not that I am bitter, or anything.
It all started out innocently enough.
OMG! Richard, I found you on Facebook
or something like that.
This was promptly followed by some photos that she ‘conveniently’ found of the two of them. I should have known then that it wouldn’t take long before he got carried away. Dick was always on Friends Reunited when it was launched all those years ago. He would spend hours being nostalgic about his past. What is it about middle-aged men and reminiscing? They look back at the past with rose-tinted spectacles – that are probably bifocal by now – and it takes them right back to their twenties. Suddenly they don’t have kids and revert to a time when
they had a girlfriend with perky boobs and no cellulite.
Over the past few months, I have found it difficult to believe that a midlife crisis and a woman who puts a silent J in her name, just to be pretentious, could result in the end of a fifteen-year marriage and all the history that we shared. Sadly, however, a couple of messages on Facebook and Dick was right back in university, although he seemed to forget the bit about his student accommodation and the fact that he had to live on noodles for four years. Instead, he was taken back to a time when he was there with Tanja, perusing art galleries and drinking pints in the Student Union bar while she supped on Babycham.
Even though it cannot be denied that Dick could be a cantankerous little shit on many occasions, my heart died a little when I read the messages one year, seven months, thirteen days and twenty-one hours ago. I wasn’t snooping when I discovered them; he had left his messages on the desktop for all to see. I had only popped on the computer to check the weather for our day out in Tenby the next day. I assume he wanted to be found out, and naturally that was the end of the Tenby trip that the boys and I had been so excited about.
The knot in my stomach grew bigger as I read the exchange in front of me and the shock began to sink in. Yet I also couldn’t stop myself from reading further.
Awww, Richard, it’s so amazeballs chatting to you after all this time! XXXX
Who says amazeballs over the age of twenty-one?
Remember that night in Savannah’s and you spilt red wine all down your shirt. The moment you took it off and… LOL X
I most certainly wasn’t laughing out loud when I came across Dick’s reply.
How can I ever forget? Want to meet up and you can tell me whether I still have abs or a dad bod?
It was even followed with a winking bloody emoji.
As their relationship grew closer, the emojis developed into hearts! I even spotted an eggplant and can only presume Dick was considering the commitment of an allotment with Tanja at that point.
I confronted him as soon as he returned from the golf course and a look of relief washed over his face. It was as though it was all my fault that he had to lead a double life. There was no question of reconciliation. He packed his bags and left for Tanja’s immediately, whilst the life I knew came tumbling down in an instant. It seems harder for the one left behind who was oblivious to it all; I suppose he had more time to prepare.
On a positive note, though, I don’t ever have to look at Dick’s unforgiving, far too clingy, cycling shorts ever again. Those are now Tanja’s problem.
With that thought in mind, I sign the paperwork that I have dreaded so much.
‘There, you’re welcome to him, Tanja Tart,’ I say a little too loudly.
‘What’s that, Mummy?’ shouts Jasper.
‘Oh, sorry, munchkins, Mummy’s talking to herself.’
I’m giving Jasper the hug I need so badly when Rupert appears from his room.
‘Stop being so loud. I’m trying to build a castle on Minecraft. It’s very important.’ He gives me a scornful look and walks back inside.
It is hard to believe they are twins sometimes; they are both so different. Jasper has mousy brown hair and Rupert is fairer. Jasper loves to wear crocs and collects little flags to pop into the holes, whilst Rupert prefers his smart trainers. They might share a love of computer games and the same eating habits, but that is about all. When we went to the local bonfire event last year, their differences were obvious, even to strangers. Jasper became upset that a little girl was crying as she wanted his candy-floss. He is such a sweetie that he handed her the candy-floss that he was about to tuck into. The toddler’s mum looked at me in horror when Rupert shouted, ‘Oi, give that back. That cost £2!’ and grabbed it back from her. He is so similar to his dad it can be scary.
And now, apart from some dust-layered crystal wine glasses, these gorgeous boys, with their funny little personalities, are the only thing left to remind me of my marriage. I am so thankful for them. I squeeze Jasper a little tighter than normal once again and give him a proper cwtch, while mentally thanking Dick for the wonderful boys we have. I might hate him right now, but there were good moments sometimes. He also helped create the most utterly precious boys in the world too, and they miss having him at home. I must remember that the boys still love their dad, even though their mother feels like punching him.
Yes, I am feeling positive. I therefore promise that I will never punch Dick in the face or pull Tanja Tart’s hair extensions out. Maybe I will even stop calling her that. No, that is going a bit far – she shall always remain as Tanja Tart.
Despite the name-calling (after all, everyone needs a bit of fun in their life), I have decided there shall be no more tears, not even a hint of bitterness. I will handle this divorce with dignity, but only if I can find that Nutella jar at the back of the cupboard.
Chapter 2
Sian’s house – Shark Day
‘Right, let’s log on to Plenty of Sharks Out There,’ says Sian enthusiastically.
She glances over at me from the laptop with the same mischievous look she has given me ever since we were in the first year of the comprehensive together, when we bonded over the heinous PE teacher, Mrs Jones. We still swear it was all her fault the school made us wear those humiliating navy nylon shorts. I am beginning to wonder if this is where my fear of cycling shorts stems from.
‘Wait, let me google something first, Sian,’ I insist.
‘No, I won’t waste a moment longer. I’m finding you a date. It’ll take your mind off Dick. It must be at least six months since Tanja moved in with him. Yet here you are still pining. Come on, you must realise it’s time to move on,’ says Sian sternly.
Her words take me back. I really don’t need reminding that Tanja Tart sold her house in Cardiff six months ago to move in with my husband. Apparently, she made a huge profit, just to add to the insult.
‘Look, Sian, I don’t want to join a dating site; it’s the last thing on my mind. My heart is irretrievably broken. I have my boys, my wine and my chocolate. It’s much safer to stick to those. Anyway, what more does a woman possibly need?’
Speaking of chocolate, I wonder if there are any Creme Eggs left in the shops. I think the Spar down the road usually has them at strange times of year. I could totally devour a Creme Egg right now.
‘Amelia, anyone can see how lonely you are. You do realise you’re substituting chocolate for a man, don’t you?’
‘I don’t want a man in my life. Not everyone needs a man. You don’t have one.’ I immediately regret the last bit. I should never have said that.
‘Look, what I mean is plenty of women are single and are happy on their own. Besides, the ink isn’t even dry on my divorce papers. I only signed them yesterday,’ I argue. ‘Anyway, give me the laptop, I’ve been thinking. I want to google something. I want to see if a phobia of cycling shorts exists.’
Sian looks at me incredulously and bursts out laughing.
As I key in ‘fear of cycling’, immediately the search engine finishes the sentence off for me. ‘Fear of cycling… shorts.’ Ha, I knew I wasn’t the only one who had ever googled such a thing.
Okay, so it doesn’t say there is a common fear of cycling shorts, as such, but there is vestiphobia, which is a fear of clothing. No, I definitely do not have a fear of clothing. I love Mango too much. There is cyclophobia, which is a fear of bicycles. I suppose I am somewhere in between.
Sian snatches the laptop off me and types something in.
‘There, that’s what you have. Sarmassophobia!’
‘What? Am I going to die?’
‘No, but you may die a lonely old woman surrounded by chocolate wrappers if you don’t do something about it.’
‘Don’t be so silly,’ I respond.
I unwrap my chocolate mini roll as Sian turns the screen towards me. ‘Read it!’ she demands.
I read the first line, wondering if sarmassophobia has anything to do with the liver; my alcohol intake has been
rather bad since I found out about Tanja Tart.
‘A fear of dating is a very real phobia,’ it succinctly explains.
‘Oh my god, so it’s nothing to do with my liver then?’
‘Amelia! Stop being such a hypochondriac. Shall we add that to your list of phobias?’
‘Oh, Sian. You said so yourself, being scared of dating is a real phobia. It’s hardly surprising after being with one person for so long, surely you get that? You know I always had a fear of heights, squirrels, cyclists… clowns. This just means I now have one more phobia,’ I say.
‘Well, then you have to face your fears. I’m going to find you a date. I’ll deal with your squirrel phobia another time. Now, let’s get back to Plenty of Sharks Out There.’