I heard him fill the kettle and switch it on.
I needed to make the most of this moment, I decided. I could see myself being too shy to tell him how I really felt and regretting it for ever more. So I had to make sure that didn’t happen.
Then again, hadn’t I just learned that he still had strong feelings for Amy? So, in the light of my half-hearted declaration in Whitby, wasn’t it more likely that he was going to say something awful like, ‘I really like you a lot, but I’m still in love with my wife’?
And if he did say that, what option would I have but to say, ‘Of course. That’s fine’?
I realised that the kettle had boiled some time ago, but that I hadn’t heard a sound after that. I put down my now empty mug and stood. I frowned and entered the kitchen. Steam was rising from the kettle. The room looked, for some reason, like a stage set. I crossed to the closed kitchen door, and as I reached for the handle, I felt a sense of unease. We didn’t often close the kitchen door, and I wondered why it was shut now.
I opened it an inch, enough to hear that there were voices coming from the front door. Joe was talking quietly – discreetly, I suppose you could say – to someone on the doorstep. I moved silently along the hallway, and then peered around the corner to see who was there.
Fourteen
Amy
I’m sure you’ve worked this out – in fact, I’m sure everyone knew this from the get-go – but Ant was not the answer. I’m not even sure what the question was, but whatever it was, Ant was not the answer.
I’d suspected it almost as soon as we’d got back to England, I guess. Because to say that Ant was difficult to live with would be a whole new crazy kind of understatement.
He complained, constantly, about everything. He’d kick off about my shoes in the middle of the room, or my handbag on the table. He’d complain about a coat on a chair back or a saucepan in the sink. He liked his dinner between six thirty and seven, and serving up at seven fifteen was enough to put him into a sulk for the entire evening.
My coping strategy, to begin with, had been to lie to myself. The flat was much too small, I admitted. We were, it was true, on top of each other.
I’d invested so much in the relationship already that, like an old car you just keep throwing money at, I continued to invest everything in Ant.
Just like a car, I would fix him, I decided. Hadn’t it been Ant himself who had said anything is possible, as long as you’re determined enough?
So, for a while, fixing Ant became my project. I’ve always been a bit obsessive, throwing myself into this thing or that, and now my obsession was making Ant whole again.
I managed to avoid getting angry when he was being difficult (read: being an asshole) by telling myself I was gathering data for my project. I needed to work out what had made him the way he was, and then I’d study it and find a cure. But staying calm was getting harder as time went by.
I didn’t like the way he treated me, and I didn’t much like the way he treated Ben. He was always pretty good with the girls, it has to be said, and when he was with them I’d kid myself that I’d got him all wrong. But then we’d go to a restaurant and he’d be rude to the waiter, or we’d be shopping and he’d insult the cashier. Of all of Ant’s quirks and foibles, which were many, I think that kind of embarrassment on his behalf, in public, was probably the hardest to bear.
After all, if someone’s rude to you personally, there’s a discussion to be had about just whose fault that might be. Maybe, just maybe, you’re the one at fault. And if you witness your partner being rude to a friend or a colleague, then there’s always the question of history. Because who knows what that person did to your beloved, a few days or even years ago? Who knows why your boyfriend has chosen to get his own back now?
But when you witness someone being mean to an absolute stranger, well, it’s really hard to ignore. Because the only thing that kind of behaviour reveals is the nature of the person being mean. And as I’m not Heather – as, unlike Heather, I’ve never been anybody’s doormat – we began to argue. And once we started arguing, we also stopped having sex.
Even then, I’d convince myself that our biggest problem was living in that flat. If we just had more space, then everything, just maybe, would be different.
But things got no better once we moved into the three-bedroom unit – in fact, if anything, they got worse. The flat needed to be sold soon, Ant reminded me. Not only was the place not ours, but it needed to be kept spotless for its new owners, who would only too soon be moving in.
When I looked around for the causes of Ant’s personality disorder, my gaze settled quite naturally on his mother. Because a sadder character I have never met. Just a few minutes in Marge’s presence was enough to make anyone feel depressed, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how he’d coped growing up.
If you’ve ever seen the cult movie Barbarella, you may remember that, in it, the city is built on an evil sea of green slime called the Matmos. The defining characteristic of the Matmos, as I recall, is that it absorbs positive thoughts and replaces them with negative ones.
When I told Marge that I was a yoga teacher, she said, ‘Gosh, that’s got to be a hard job to do as you get older, hasn’t it? Do you think you’ll be able to carry on?’ If you pointed to a cute kid while you were out with her, she’d say, ‘It’s such a shame we ladies have the menopause, isn’t it? Otherwise you and Ant could still have kids.’ If you made Marge a lemon meringue pie, she’d say, ‘Now, my mother used to make an incredible lemon meringue pie. Far better than anything I’ve ever tasted since. People really used to know how to cook in the old days.’
So in my mind, I started calling her The Matmos. Because if there was one thing Marge knew how to do, it was to replace positive thoughts with negative ones. And if The Matmos had damaged my boyfriend, and she indisputably had, then all I had to do was find an antidote.
But Ant did not want to be saved. As utterly broken as he was, what saved him – the defining characteristic that enabled him to continue to function in life – was his belief that he wasn’t broken at all.
Actually, Ant’s armour was even thicker than that. He didn’t just think that he wasn’t broken, he believed that he was the only person who wasn’t. Ant knew best about everything; he was perfect in every way. And anyone who disagreed with him, about anything, ever, was just plain wrong.
Once I’d worked this out, I didn’t hate him so much. If anything, I felt compassion. I could see, suddenly, how fragile his ego was. I totally got how merely admitting that others could teach him something new – admitting he didn’t know best about everything – would bring the whole edifice crumbling to the ground. And I could imagine, in my more empathetic moments, just how terrifying that might feel for him.
As the months went by, it became clear that there was no pathway by which I could help him. He was impermeable to spirituality, religion and philosophy. Meditation, he said, was ‘bullshit’, and therapy was for ‘fucked-up New York Jews’. Yoga he could just about cope with, but only because he saw it as a type of keep-fit. Actually, sometimes, when I headed off to a class, he’d ask me what time I’d be back from ‘keep-fit’. I pretty soon gave up correcting him.
Even discussions about what effects Marge’s single parenting might have had on him were shut down with anger or reproach. Because, of course, if Ant was perfect, then his upbringing must, by extrapolation, have been utterly perfect too.
By the time we moved back to the house in Chislet, I was pretty sure that our relationship was over. Sure, I wanted to give him one last chance – wanted to see how things might evolve in more comfortable and familiar surroundings. But mainly I just wanted to be in my own home so that I’d have the power to tell him to leave.
Back home, things were even worse.
Joe hadn’t exactly left the place spotless, so for days Ant and I cleaned.
But there were stains on the walls that wouldn’t go, and there were dents in the carpet where a table had on
ce stood. There was mould deep in the joints around the bath, and the door of one of the kitchen units was wonky. This lopsided door demonstrated, Ant claimed, everything one needed to know about Joe.
For months, I’d forbidden myself from letting my thoughts reach their natural conclusion, but on that Easter Tuesday, everything changed.
Ant was busy hand-washing all of the plates from one of the cupboards, ranting freely about how rubbish ‘Joe’s’ dishwasher was. Anything Ant didn’t like about the house he defined as being ‘Joe’s’. Anything that didn’t work properly was ‘Joe’s fault’, too.
‘I don’t know how you ever put up with him,’ he commented, and it was the final tug that made the veil slip.
I’d been in the process of cleaning the oven, but I now paused and looked up at him. I let myself hear what he was saying. I let myself see this stranger in my kitchen and accepted that I no longer found him attractive in any way.
I thought about Joe then, about how easy he’d been to live with, about how wonderful he’d always been with Ben. I thought about how clever and thoughtful and generous he was, how self-mocking, and modest, and open.
Without Ant even noticing, I walked to the hallway, grabbed my keys from the hall table and let myself out of the house.
I drove to Herne Bay seafront, where, feeling numb, I walked the full length of the beach.
It was a sunny day, but windy, and though the air temperature was low, there were mad British families with windbreaks doing their determined best to sunbathe.
At the far end of the beach, I sat down on the pebbles and rested my back against one of the wooden breakwaters.
Thinking about the situation I found myself in, I started to gently cry.
After a few minutes, I admitted to myself that I hadn’t really found myself in this situation at all. I’d quite knowingly made it happen, and so, feeling angry at myself, I began to cry more freely.
Finally, I listed everything I’d lost – no, everything I’d thrown away – and the tears began to roll down my cheeks in snotty waves of misery.
Eventually, I pulled myself together and made my way back along the beach to the car. A couple of people looked at me strangely, and I wondered if my make-up had run, or whether I was simply exuding angst.
Back at the car, I understood, from looking in the mirror, that it was the former. I had horrific panda eyes. So I wiped off what I could of my excess, blurry eyeshadow and then started to drive home. I needed to tell Ant that it was over, and I needed to tell him right now.
But as I drove into Chislet, I realised that Ant could wait. There was something else far more urgent that I needed to do, someone else I desperately needed to see first: my husband – the father of my son.
Fifteen
Heather
Amy was sobbing so hard that it was impossible to hear what she was saying.
It seems ridiculous, looking back on it, but the first thought, my very first thought, was that she had killed him. I’ve watched too much American TV, perhaps, but I imagined her having smashed a vase across Ant’s head – his body crumpled across the kitchen floor, blood leaking on to the tiles. It was a crazy idea, of course, and Joe didn’t react like someone might on hearing news of a murder. Instead, he wrapped Amy in his arms.
I was still frozen, peering around the corner, a voyeur struggling to hear. But Joe’s reassuring murmurs were too quiet and the only words I caught from Amy were ‘. . . all my fault’.
It crossed my mind that the kids were still at number 12 and I started to panic that one of them was hurt. Stepping into view, I asked what had happened. I thought, as I spoke, of Amy’s parents, and wondered if one of them had died.
Joe turned to look back at me. He frowned and gestured with one hand that I should leave them alone, and I started to withdraw, but then paused. ‘Just tell me,’ I said. ‘The kids. Are they OK?’
Joe glanced at me again, this time looking confused or maybe irritated. ‘Uh?’ he said, then, ‘Yes, yes. The kids are fine, Heather. They’re with Ant. But just . . . we need a minute here, OK?’
I returned to the kitchen and closed the door lazily. If you didn’t push it hard it always popped back open half an inch, and today that seemed like a good thing.
I sat at the table and strained my ears, but all I could hear was the reassuring tone of Joe’s voice over a series of incomprehensible whimpers from Amy.
They’d probably just had a row, I decided. But then why would she come running to Joe?
I raised a finger to my lips. I noticed that my heart was pounding in my ears. I stood, silently, and crept back towards the door so that I could eavesdrop more efficiently, but just as I got there I heard footsteps and had to scoot back to the other side of the kitchen.
Joe burst through the door and froze for a second, glaring at me. I tried to lean against the counter nonchalantly but felt sure I looked as guilty as a child. He lowered his gaze and stared at the floor for an instant, as if frowning at a stain, and then turned to swipe his keys from the worktop. ‘I, um, need to go and have a talk with Amy,’ he said. ‘There’s a bit of a crisis at number 12.’
‘What sort of crisis?’ I asked.
‘Just . . . you know . . .’ Joe said, turning and heading for the door.
‘Joe!’ I insisted. ‘What sort of crisis?’
‘Your ex,’ he said, pausing but not looking back. ‘Being a bit of a knob, apparently. You know.’
‘Is that where you’re going, then?’ I asked. ‘To number 12, to get the kids?’
‘No,’ he said, as he left the kitchen. From the hallway he called back, ‘I’m taking her to the pub for a drink. I’ll be back in a bit.’
I walked to the front room and watched as his pickup pulled out on to the lane. I stood for a few minutes staring unfocusedly at the front garden as I waited for my thoughts to crystallise. So, Ant was being a ‘knob’ and Amy had walked out, had she? Maybe she just wanted Joe’s advice. Or maybe she just wanted Joe.
I covered my mouth with one hand and took a deep, juddering breath. We’d been so close this morning . . . We’d been about to declare our love for each other, hadn’t we?
But maybe we hadn’t. Perhaps I had got that completely wrong. Because, what if Joe had already been speaking to Amy? What if they’d already decided to get back together, to give things another try? Perhaps that was why nothing had happened in Whitby. Perhaps that was why he’d wanted to talk to me.
I snorted sourly and shook my head. After all, wouldn’t that just be typical? Wasn’t life always exactly that way, letting you glimpse what you wanted only to systematically rip it away?
Tears were forming, but I pinched the bridge of my nose and willed them to stay put. I walked through to the kitchen and switched the kettle on. I stroked Dandy, who, unaware of all the angst, rolled over so that I could tickle his tummy, and I disliked him quite intensely in that moment for not understanding me better.
I moved to the conservatory and picked up an unidentifiable object that Sarah had made out of Lego and then put it down again.
I stared out at the back garden. It was a sunny day and it looked pretty out there. It crossed my mind that if Amy and Joe got back together, then Ant would be homeless. Perhaps I’d have to take him in as a lodger. The house was in his name, after all, so maybe I wouldn’t even have a choice. And if that happened, perhaps I’d find myself right back in my old life.
I laughed manically at the idea that we could all find ourselves back exactly the way things were before, as if we’d just swapped husbands ‘on loan’ for a while. As if the nightmare I believed I’d woken up from had turned out, in fact, to be reality, while the time I’d spent with Joe was the dream. I thought about dreams and about my mother. I thought about how strange the word cuckold was.
I shook my head vigorously to dispel this latest idea. I would not go back. I would not be powerless in all of this. And if Ant did move back in, then I’d simply have to move out. I didn’t know where I could go, but I
’d leave, and I’d take the girls with me. I pictured the three of us walking down a dark street, dragging our suitcases behind us, like some dreadful image from the Blitz.
I returned to the kitchen and made coffee. I sat at the table nursing my mug, tapping my fingernails against the china and picturing Joe gesturing at me to leave him alone with his wife. I imagined him in the pub with Amy and thought, How cosy! and started to feel properly angry.
So, they’d gone off to decide their future, had they? Only in doing so, they were also deciding mine. I shook my head and sighed again. I bit my lip and scrunched up my face to prevent another bout of tears. I tapped one foot nervously on the floor. The tension of just sitting here was almost unbearable. And then suddenly, it really was unbearable, so I stood, almost knocking the chair over in the process. I pulled on some clothes, grabbed a coat from the peg and strode decisively to the front door.
Amy’s car was still parked in our driveway and I childishly imagined keying it as I left. There was very little traffic on the lane, and as I passed by number 12 I could hear playful shrieks coming from the garden. I considered grabbing the girls and simply returning home, but, no, if Joe and Amy were talking about their options, then he at least needed to know how I felt.
Who was I kidding? I thought, as I marched on towards the pub. As if I could somehow win out against Amy! I thought of Amy’s figure, her long blonde hair, and decided I hated her.
It took me ten minutes to get to The Gate. The car park was busy, but I spotted Joe’s pickup parked down a side street.
I weaved my way through the cars and the beer garden to the pub. Once inside, I scanned the room, but there was no sign of them, so I made my way to the lounge bar, only to find that they weren’t in there, either.
I stepped back outside and checked out the garden again. Happy families smiling and laughing in the sunshine. But still no sign of Amy and Joe.
From Something Old Page 32