Good Enough

by PH Morris

  “I will,” I can’t help but smile, “and thanks, Kat. See ya.”

  “See ya, babe,” and she puts the phone down.

  As I stare again at the grinning picture of me and Mark, a text beeps through from Kat confirming the post code for their weekend location, followed by another message:

  ‘ – in case you change your mind :-) LOL.’

  Not sure if she means ‘laugh out loud’ at how ridiculous she’s just been or ‘lots of love’ at the sad situation I currently find myself in. I type a quick thanks and a smiley face with its tongue hanging out in response, and sigh.

  It’s now gone half-five, and no matter what time Mark gets in now we are not going anywhere tonight due to Friday evening, bank holiday traffic and the likely big fight we will have when he eventually walks through the door. We will probably have to go tomorrow. So, I spend the next hour or so talking myself through the possible reasons for his absence.

  Maybe he got a promotion, that would be awesome and worth missing the afternoon so that we could celebrate more fully. Perhaps it was just a difficult client, and then he will probably be in a stinking mood and not in the right frame of mind to deal with me. Oh my god, maybe it’s terrible news, and he’s been made redundant. That could explain why he’s been so distant and keeping things from me, trying to protect me. I have to listen to him and see what he says and work hard not to jump down his throat.

  I rustle up a quick sandwich and a brew for me and lean against the kitchen cupboards, eating but not tasting, and stare into space. I plate up a separate sandwich for him and leave it to one side, covered with foil. If he wants something else later, then I am sure I can rustle up something more substantial.

  I plonk myself down on the couch and flick on the TV, but I am not watching the usual Friday evening programmes, which are a mix of quiz shows and news. I stifle a yawn, thinking that the lack of sleep is catching up on me.

  The next thing I know is I hear the front door open, and at first, I am disorientated, trying to figure out what day and time it is. I quickly recall my reality and look up to see a dishevelled Mark come through the door. Squinting at the clock, I realise it’s after 11pm.

  “Oh my god, Mark, what’s happened?” I quickly shoot upright and then stand to hover, not sure if I need to rush to him in support or if it’s better to stand still in case I decide to kick him in the balls.

  “Melisssaa,” he says, extending my name with a slur and a crooked smile.

  “Are you drunk?” I spit out the last word. “What the fuck, Mark.”

  He goes from seemingly happy drunk to barely contained rage.

  “Oh, don’t fucking start, Mel.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing but don’t want to argue with him while he’s drunk and I’m sober.

  “Let’s just go to bed, Mark, and we can talk in the morning.”

  I really can’t do this now. I get up to turn off the TV and head up to bed. I know he’ll fall asleep on the couch and, to be honest, I don’t want to be in the same room as him as I’m so upset and angry and will probably cry. I know he’s angry, and I also know that he won’t hurt me physically, but he’s too difficult to reason with when he’s like this and, no matter what I say, I know he’ll turn it around and make it my fault somehow.

  “No,” he whispers, so quietly that I hardly realise he’s spoken. I turn towards him as he slumps on the couch.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Mel,” he says in defeat.

  “What? What do you mean you can’t do this anymore? Let’s talk in the morning; you’re drunk and I’m tired, and we both might say something we’ll regret—”

  “No,” he interrupts, a bit louder this time, and he looks at me, and he can somehow read the fear on my face, and he then says the next bit so quietly I can’t hear him over the sound of the blood rushing through my ears. “I’m leaving, Mel; I don’t love you anymore.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you are not leaving,” I scoff, but my heart is pounding so loud and I can’t believe he can’t hear it.

  “Yes, I am, Mel, I don’t want any of this anymore,” and he waves a shaky hand in the air as if to take in the expanse of the room and its contents.

  “Mark, please let’s leave it tonight and talk tomorrow – you’re drunk, you’re not serious, and you are scaring me.” I can barely get the words out.

  “No. I’m not, Mel… well, yes, I guess I am, a little drunk that is, but I am serious, and if I don’t get the words out tonight then I won’t ever say them.” He looks bleary-eyed, but I can see the conviction and sadness on his face.

  I’m scared to ask, but I need to know: “What exactly are you saying, Mark?”

  He leans forward and scrubs his hands through his dark hair, making it stick up wildly in different directions, almost like he’s trying to pull it out, and looks up at me with a barely focused look.

  “I don’t want to be with you anymore, Mel,” he repeats. “It’s over. I want out.”

  “Is there someone else?” I ask, and I sit down in a nearby chair to hear his reply before my legs give out.

  He’s staring at the floor as he mutters, “No, no, there’s no one else.”

  “Mark, look at me… look at me, Mark, and tell me there’s no one else.” I barely get the words out as my voice hitches in my throat, my sight blurred with unshed tears. I blink slowly and this releases the tears, which are so big they miss my cheek and hit the carpet without making a noise.

  Mark looks up and repeats, “No, there’s no one else, I’ve just had enough.”

  I try to rewind my mind to the things that have changed in the last few months, maybe longer, the conversation with Kat earlier, and try to piece it together to find out the answer, but nothing is making sense. I am vaguely aware of how I’m babbling on about how I can change and how I know I’ve put him under pressure recently and maybe we could try and see if we could make it work, and so on. I don’t even know how long I talk at him. He won’t respond or answer any questions, but I need answers, I need to know. My mind is running at a mile a minute.

  “Stop, just stop!” he shouts. “It’s not about that, Mel, there’s nothing to do, nothing to change, it’s just not the same, I’m sorry.” He flops back against the sofa and stares, unblinking, at the ceiling.

  “How long?” I whisper.

  “How long what?” he asks.

  “How long have you felt this way?” I know I don’t want to know, but I need to know.

  “Six months,” he slurs.

  Six months, Jesus. I try to mentally run through the things we’ve done over the last six months. Christ, that includes Christmas and New Year.

  I stand and stare at him, taking in his unkempt appearance, his tie poking out of his pocket, and he has a few visible beer stains on his shirt. I can’t think of anything, any way out, any way to persuade him. He’s closed down.

  I don’t know what to do, and I want my mum, but the bed will have to do for now. Good old independent me: choke down the emotions, don’t complain, don’t share. Just get on with getting on with it; the old feelings are starting to surface.

  I don’t want to cry like an idiot or beg anymore. I know I am sobbing, big choking sobs that threaten to make me sick as my breath catches in my throat. I grab onto the handrail and drag myself upstairs, throw myself on the bed. I don’t even try to hide the noise by burying my head in the pillow. Why should I? He needs to hear what he’s done to me.

  I don’t know what time I fall asleep; all I know is that I cry for hours before sleep finally drags me under.

  Chapter 2

  I awake with a headache and light pouring in through the window. I drag myself up to peek in the mirror at the mess I am. My eyes are almost swollen shut, my face is a puffy mess and the tears I shed last night have run into my lovely hair and soaked it. Now it looks all frizzy around my puffy red face. Bu
t I don’t especially care about the look on my face when I remember why I look like this, and I rub at the pain in my chest, trying to ease how I feel.

  I’m still not convinced what happened last night actually happened. Maybe it was a drunken mistake. That’s it, just a drunken mistake. I am aware of the fact that I still have my clothes on from yesterday, but right now I don’t care as I make my way gingerly down the stairs, listening for noises of Mark quietly snoring on the couch. I know I’m going to be hurting for a while about what he said to me, but I know that we can work through it.

  I open the door into the lounge, but it’s empty. The cushions from the couch are littered on the floor, making me think that Mark slept there. Then I see a note on the fireplace. I reach for it, with a shaky hand; please don’t make it a ‘Dear John’ letter.

  Dear Mel

  I know that last night came as a shock and I am so sorry about the way I behaved. I know you planned the weekend away for us to be together, but I just couldn’t face going away and continuing to live a lie.

  You are a great person, and we have had some good times, but I feel it’s not the same anymore and it’s really nothing you have done. I know it is cliché to say that it’s not you, it’s me, but that is the truth. I have gone to stay with my mate for a few days, to give you time. You can stay in the house if you need to as the rent is paid for at least the next five months.

  I wish I could give you more of an explanation, I’m sorry.

  I will call back to get some more of my stuff sometime next week.

  Mark

  I read and re-read the short note over and over, trying to see some meaning in the words, but there’s nothing. Just the words that hurt the most –ironically, three little words –’live a lie’. Just how long has he been living a lie? Last night he said six months, but that can’t be right, we’d been happy, hadn’t we?

  And as the reality sinks in, I feel such a fool. What an idiot, and fresh tears streak down my face.

  I look around the house. It’s not even ours. He always said we could save up, but he really meant there was no point in buying because he realised there was no future.

  I don’t know how long I cry, but I know I look a mess. I need someone to talk to, but who? I can’t face my mum or dad; I don’t want them to worry.

  Kat is the obvious choice, but she’s at the retreat. I look at my messages, and there it is staring me in the face. The postcode.

  That’s it, I need a plan, and all I’m going to focus on right now is getting to see a friendly face. I quickly shower and try to do something with my appearance, my eyes and hair. I know I am failing miserably, but there’s certainly no point in applying any make-up only to cry it off as soon as I see Kate.

  I grab the weekend bag that I have already packed for Mark and me and try not to focus on that; instead, I grab handfuls of Mark’s stuff and throw it on the bed, including his clothes, shaver and toiletries.

  Without a backward glance, I grab my satnav and my large sunglasses, jump into my little Mini and pull out of the drive. I find the most rocking music I can, staying well away from my Adele albums for risk of a full meltdown, which clearly would be a bad idea while driving on the motorway. I opt for Nirvana and crank up the volume. I get about half an hour up the road before the waterworks start again, and I manage to safely navigate to the next service station before I have a full meltdown with tears and snot everywhere.

  If I’m going to get anywhere I need to get a serious grip, so with sunglasses firmly in place, I grab a large latte with the extra shot of coffee and a large bar of chocolate, avoiding the frown and confusion from the barista who is obviously puzzled as to why I’m wearing sunglasses inside. I ignore her and get back on the road.

  I am very pleased with my efforts, although I know I have driven in a bit of a blur and definitely above the speed limit given that no one has passed me on the motorway, but I honestly can’t recall having driven the last seventy miles. Now all I can think about is how I need a wee.

  As I approach the retreat, I fire a quick text off to Kat, as breezy as I can manage:

  ‘Hi Kat, I changed my mind, will tell you when I get there. Can you let them know I’m here and let me know where to go? Got to warn you, you were all right about Mark.’

  I press send and do a silent prayer that she’s got her phone on her and she’s not gone off for a facial somewhere. Just as I am contemplating a wee in the nearby trees, my phone beeps with her reply.

  ‘Oh, babe. Tell security you are with the Bradshaw party in lodge 1211 and they will show you in. Make your way to the car park, and I will come and find you.’

  I do as instructed and pull up into the car park; as I do, I spot Kate scanning the car park, frantically looking for my distinctive red Mini. She’s dressed in her casual clothes and is able to run to me. I just about park the car and turn off the ignition before the tears start again, and she yanks the door open and leans in, pulling me into a hug.

  She ssshhhes me, and I am only aware of my wracking sobs and her gentle words of support and comfort. She has her arm around my shoulder as we half walk to where the girls are staying. I am greeted with warm hugs and sympathetic noises, and a cup of sweet tea is pushed into my hand. Just as I’m about to take a sip of the hot fluid, it’s wrestled out of my hand and replaced with a cold drink; I already know it’s a vodka and Diet Coke before I take a sip.

  The sofa moves at the side of me as Kate sits down. “Do you want to talk, babe?” she whispers.

  “Yes, no, yes, I guess,” and I know I’m mumbling. “Where to start?” I say on a shaky breath. “Well, you know we were supposed to be going away?” I look up, and the girls are sitting around in a semi-circle with sympathetic half smiles of support and encouragement on their eager faces. “Well,” I continue, “he didn’t come home until really late, and then when he did, we had a fight, and he says he doesn’t want to…” I can hardly verbalise the words. “He doesn’t want to be with me anymore and that… he doesn’t want to live a lie.” The place almost explodes with an outrageous chorus of remarks, calling Mark a bastard and a dick, and I’m crying again.

  I hastily wipe my hand across my cheeks, chasing the tears away, and take a steadying breath and a big gulp of my vodka.

  “What are you going to do?” asks Katherine.

  “I don’t know, get pissed.” I half smile and manage an unladylike snort.

  “Good girl,” Kat says, and the rest of the girls join in with words of encouragement.

  “Look at me,” I point to my face, “I’m a mess; can we just get drunk and not talk about Mark? I can’t say that I’m not going to cry some more and the whole thing is likely to get a lot messier, but I’m glad I’m here with you.”

  “Group hug!” Katherine shouts, and I’m pulled to my feet and surrounded by hugs and kisses, which almost sets me off again.

  “Right, I need to unpack and wash my face. Where am I sleeping?”

  “I’ll show you,” states Sophie; “this way.”

  It’s only then that I even look around the place I’m staying for the weekend, and it’s pretty cute. A little wooden lodge in the middle of a forest, with small bedrooms scattered off the main hallway, there’s an open fire that is unlit and large patio doors off the main dining room. Sophie leads me to a door at the end of the corridor.

  “There’s a bed in here for you, and there’s a lovely bathroom through there, with a Jacuzzi bath.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my bag on the floor. I’m staring, unseeing, into space when the bed at the side of me depresses softly as Sophie sits tentatively next to me.

  “I’m sorry about the whole thing…with...well, you know,” she stumbles over the words and strokes my arm and leans in for a little hug. “I know I’m not as chatty as the other girls, but I’m a good listener,” she offers.

  I glance sideways at her, but hug
e, unshed tears sit on my bottom lashes, and as I slow blink, they track down my face on both sides.

  The quiet of the room is not helpful; if I’m going to get through this, then I need to practise what I preach and not think about Mark.

  Ten minutes later, face washed, an attempt at a bit of make-up, another vodka and coke down the hatch. I realise that I’ve only had a chocolate bar since yesterday’s sandwich, and the alcohol has gone right to my head.

  The evening is warm, but the heat of the day has diminished; so, armed with light coats, we make our way to the Italian the girls have booked. Sitting on a large round table, I take in my five friends.

  Kate is my best friend from the last year of school and through college. Her family had moved into the area with her dad’s job a few years ago. She is the same build as me, 5ft 4ins with brown hair. She has lovely warm blue eyes and tans easily. She is totally bonkers, warm, pretty, smart but mainly bonkers.

  Michelle, or ‘Shelle’, is cool and calm and witty and sarcastic. She is tall and slim and blonde and has legs to die for. Guys never approach her, and she likes a guy to try hard, always falling for the bad boys. But she also never puts herself out there, and that’s the way she wants it.

  Kath is Shelle’s friend from childhood, and she is a firecracker. Petite with a cracking body. She doesn’t have much in the boob department, but she has her chicken fillets, and she rocks them. She is fierce and funny and, as a hairdresser, always has the best, coolest haircuts or colours. Even today, all dressed down, she still looks amazing in her yoga pants.

  Ella is the opposite of Kath: she is buxom with a fuller figure, she has mischievous warm brown eyes and is always chuckling, and she is wise beyond her years. We often believe Ella has been here before. She’s a teacher in a rough area, and the kids love her. She totally understands the kids and, to some of them, she is the closest thing they have to a mum. She understands some of my early years’ experience, and sometimes we will talk quietly about the kids she looks after and share some life stories.