30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  Usually, I'm barely even aware of my phone. Sometimes I leave it in the boat when I'm out all day. Now, though, I'm a teenager, fraught with worry that I may – God forbid - have misplaced it. Only now, since last night, there are two phones. My usual phone, which is blue, is in my left pocket. My new phone, the important one, is red, and this is in my right pocket. Suddenly, I am a married man with a mistress.

  I glance around, aware of the look Jenny has given me and knowing exactly what it means. We were married for so long. Really, we should still be married, we both know that. The barman in the black waistcoat busies himself by slowly and meticulously updating the blackboard behind the bar with white chalk. An old lady with a Tesco bag hanging from the handles of her mobility scooter zooms from one game to another. I'm reminded of Ken and his lady friend, wonder whether he is working today, curious if he's had any more trouble from unidentified sources. I smile at a young mother, standing over a young toddler at her feet. She smiles back and I notice the wetness of her lips, the possible undertone of the look.

  "Daddy, I scored a 92!"

  There is a tinge of guilt as I feel the weight of my daughter on my thigh. I don't even think I would have a blue phone were it not for Emma. The rest of the room disappears as I remember the first time I set eyes on her, twelve years ago. Emma was a pink, bloody bundle with a dome-shaped head like a member of the Ku Klux Klan, and yet I stared at her, amazed that this beautiful little girl could possibly have anything to do with me. Now I'm amazed she is so tall, that she is so delightful, that she possibly has anything to do with me. I often don't absorb the words she says because my mind is fascinated by her very being. I recall what she tells me, but I am unsure what it really means.

  "Is that good?"

  Emma's face opens into mock frustration. She turns to her mum, who shakes her head, sharing her agony. Emma slaps her palm against her forehead. There is plenty to slap, to be honest, for her long, blonde hair is clawed back into a ponytail. Jenny chuckles, just as she used to when she was my wife, when we were happy.

  "Well, it might not be a great score for say Liz Johnson..."

  "Who?"

  Emma turns back to her mum for support. Jenny shakes her head again, although it is clear to both of us she doesn't have a clue who Liz Johnson is either.

  "Just one of the best female bowlers ever, that's all!"

  "So not as good as the men, then...?"

  Emma playfully punches my shoulder. Her playful punches are much harder than I remember. I'm sure she must be the tallest girl in her class. "You've just explained that 92 is a good score - for you - and so now I'm extremely impressed and massively proud. Maybe we can forget school and those awful exams and just focus on a career in bowls instead? At the very least, it justifies the £4.90 I spent for you to play..."

  Emma makes a sign with her fingers which, I hope, indicated I was a cheapskate, although, to be fair, it does look very much like the letter 'L'. Jenny waves a hand in front of my eyes. I am in a trance, again, gazing open-mouthed at our daughter.

  “Daddy, what did the floor say to the door?”

  She still tells me a joke, every time we meet. It is kind of a thing we have going.

  “I don't know. What did the floor say to the door?”

  “I can see your knob.”

  Wow, I think, as Emma puts her hand to her mouth, these jokes certainly have progressed with the passing years.

  "So how is that boyfriend of yours?" I ask, grinning. "Jack, is it? You need to tell me if he is not treating you right, and I'll have that quiet fatherly word in his ear. I've always wanted to do that. Just like in the movies. Just give me the sign, Emma."

  Emma slaps my chest. My right leg has gone numb. She really is getting big. Every time I mention this to Jenny - express my amazement that our daughter has grown - she reassures me that this is what children do, that it is perfectly normal for them to grow. "Jack isn't my boyfriend. I'm much too young to settle down with a boy, Dad, and have far too much life to enjoy first. And besides, Jack is the biggest boy in our class. He probably wouldn't be scared by your quiet word in his ear. He is nearly as tall as you are, and much younger and fitter, of course."

  I ask myself if this girl really is still only twelve, or if I've absent-mindedly missed a few years. Jenny laughs. I join in. Emma jumps to her feet. "You gave me enough money for a second game," she informs me. I think that I should have checked how much a game was before freely giving away my money. Of course, I'm not really a cheapskate, I just don't give a damn about money, and I play up to it. She skips off.

  Jenny puts her face back into the clutches of her hands. I have delayed her for long enough. I can't put her off any longer. "You didn't message or phone her. She was missing her daddy. You've always been her favourite; we both know that."

  Jenny always says this, and it is always in jest. I don't protest, because I know she'll only reply with a list of reasons why I'm Emma's favourite.

  It wasn't supposed to end like this, of course. I wasn't supposed to be the dad who met his daughter for a few hours at the bowling complex, who bought her presents and treated her to fizzy drinks and popcorn before she returned to her real life with her mother. I detested those fathers. Being a daddy was about getting up in the middle of the night to comfort my girl when she was ill or upset. It was not about presents and trips out. All that shit was just compensation for abandoning the kid, merely a token gesture to say sorry. I'm aware that I'm a contradiction, that I'm a hypocrite. It grates me, but not enough to hide my true feelings. Not this time. I actually wanted to be that glossy magazine image of a perfect family, settling down together on the sofa to watch television. I loved my wife and beautiful daughter more than anything else in the world, to the point I didn't even contemplate any other life. Of course, I still love them. If I could turn back time and change events then I'd still be living that life. However, this is not a productive thought process; Richard would remind me to have the courage to accept the things I cannot change. I am not religious, but I agree with Richard on this point: the serenity prayer has always been – I don't know – logical to me.

  "It was only a few days," I say. I know this isn't good enough, and I know it isn't normal, either. "I'm sorry. You know I've missed her, too. There has been a hell of a lot going on, that's all. June so far has been utter madness."

  Jenny reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. She knows I'm not telling her everything. She knows why.

  "June?"

  I look away, so she continues talking. "I know you're distracted. You're going to strain that neck of yours the way you've been looking around everywhere, at everything but at me. This place really isn't that interesting, you know, and especially not for you. What is it? I just know it can't be work, not any more. Pretty sure you're not contemplating Robbie Williams' performance at the opening ceremony last night, either. Or how well Meghan seems to be getting along with the Queen. Wasn't like that with Diana now, was it? So, how is Erica? I really can’t believe how gorgeous that girl is. You truly are a very lucky man, Marcus. I just wish she liked me a bit more...”

  The curl on Jenny’s lips indicates mischief. I’m not going to open that Pandora’s box today. I say nothing and then turn away, again.

  “There isn’t trouble in Paradise, is there?” she asks, barely able to conceal her excitement at some possible gossip.

  "No," I say. "It isn't that. We're better than we've ever been." I stop there. I don't want to go into specifics about my wonderful relationship with Erica. I am not deliberately cruel. Jenny is still single, or at least she was the last time I asked. I know that I shouldn't really feel guilty, that it was her that fucked everything up, that it was her who threw everything away; and for what? Some crazy little fling.

  I still don't understand it. I have looked at it from every angle and discussed it relentlessly with Richard, but it still makes no sense. I forced myself not to be obsessive, not to be possessive. Jealousy was part of the problem when I was a
teenager, comparing myself adversely to others. Sure, I wanted to protect Jenny like she was a precious jewel, but my conscience told me that was not the right thing to do. Over time, it became natural to be trusting. It became logical to be trusting. We had a beautiful life. Why would Jenny possibly risk everything that we had? It made no sense.

  "What is it then?" Jenny asks. My face probably gives it away, for she quickly glances around. She knows my mind has drifted, that she has lost me to a dark place.

  I did not even pick up on any signs. I was the idiot, delusional husband. Jenny had her own life outside of me and Emma, and so in my mind I had no reason to question where she was and who she was with. It was almost exactly five years ago. The three of us at Tooting Bec park. Jenny had packed a picnic and I laid a blanket on the bumpy, hard ground. Jenny wore red shorts to her knees and a green tee-shirt that exposed her sinewy arms. Saturday morning sunlight pushed through the gaps in the trees. My memory is of Emma laughing; she's always had a delightful, contagious cackle. A bee hovered threateningly around our food. Emma was not scared. She was not up on her feet, running away. Far from it. She found my inept efforts to catch the bee hilarious. Emma rolled around on the floor with her legs up in the air, her feet kicking like she was riding a bike.

  Looking back, I'm convinced it was the pure perfection of the moment that pushed Jenny to the edge. She looked around at the beautiful scene, and was overcome with guilt. She couldn't live the lie. I recall wondering - with mere idle curiosity - what she was up to when she leaned forward at the waist and knelt down. Her knees were red from rubbing against the sharp grass. It took me a few moments to realise she was getting to her feet. She didn't say anything as she walked away, her arms held tight to her chest. I reached for Emma's hand and we struggled to catch up. Leaving all of our belongings behind, we caught up with Jenny just outside the entrance to the lido.

  "What's the matter?" I asked, genuinely concerned.

  Jenny kept trying to turn away, to turn so her back was to me. It felt like a game. We both kept spinning around in a circle. I held her around the waist, and it was only when she stopped moving that I realised her face was blotchy and wet.

  "What is it?"

  "I can't do this," she said. Her eyes stared at me so intently it felt like she could see through me and read my thoughts.

  I kissed the tip of her nose. "We don't have to. We can just go home. We don't have to have a picnic today."

  I don't know why I said that. Surely, I knew that she wasn't talking about the picnic? Why would she be so upset about a damn picnic? I think I must have known, even at that point, that I was trying to hide away from reality.

  "Not this," she said, holding open her hands to our idyllic surroundings. "This," she continued. Her hands pointed at me now. "I love you, Marcus. You need to believe me. I love you with all my life. But I have been seeing somebody else, and I can't keep doing this to you."

  I still remember exactly how I felt at that moment. I felt like pleading with her that she could do this to me, that I would sacrifice anything so long as I could spend my every moment with her and Emma. Instead, I walked away without uttering a word. I don't know whether Jenny tried to chase after me; I do know she never caught up.

  It was only late that night that Jenny found me. I sat in the conservatory, drinking sparkling white wine, morphing uncharacteristically into the angry drunk, just waiting for her. I heard her putting Emma to bed, reading her a bedtime story. It was always me who read Emma a bedtime story. Daddy. I'm not sure how long Jenny sat opposite me without saying anything. I just sensed her there, huddled in a quiet ball, her knees pressed against her chest.

  "Who is he?"

  Her voice was meek and broken. "Does it matter who he is?" she replied. I know that she didn't mean to be cruel, to be heartless, that it was a genuine question. I sensed that she regretted the words as soon as they escaped her lips, that she would reel them back in if she could. But it did matter. I wanted to know what man could cast a spell so powerful on the woman I loved that she would be prepared to give up this wonderful life.

  "I think I deserve to at least know who he is, don't you?"

  She frantically nodded her head, trying to backtrack. "He is a doctor."

  That was all she said about him at the time, but it was enough. He was my intellectual superior; he was the greater man. I tended not to fear men because of their physical strength; I was intimidated by intellect. I always feared I'd be embarrassed, exposed as a fraud. Again, it was what Richard would call distorted thinking. What mattered was that Jenny was having an affair, not who she was having an affair with.

  Jenny told me more over time, over the next few days and weeks, as I began to see things clearer. We didn't discuss me moving out - it was just assumed that I would, even though she was the cheat, the fraud. I did more than move out - I quit my job, too. I moved into an apartment first before deciding that, now I was on a roll, I may as well completely transform my life. Transform was one word for it - completely fuck it up might have been a more apt description. On a whim, I purchased a long boat and made that my home. And so, for the short term at least, not only did I not have a job, but I didn't have a home that stayed in the same place for long, either.

  That was five years ago, though, and of course, things have moved on since then. Jenny has already said sorry a million and one times. There is really no need to bring it all up again, not at a bowling complex in the middle of the day, not when there are so many other things I should really be worried about.

  Jenny turns back to me. She knows that this isn't the catalyst, that this isn't the reason I am so distant, that there must be something else troubling me. "Marcus," she says, "whatever it is, it sounds serious."

  I say nothing. My silence speaks volumes. They say that a picture can paint a thousand words. My face probably reveals a lifetime of woe.

  "Has he come back?"

  This is what I wanted. I knew that, if I didn't say anything, she would work it out. Jenny knows me better than any living person.

  "In a way. But I'm doing my best not to let him in. I'm working on it with Richard. It isn't as bad as it sounds; nothing ever is. There will always be challenges, you know that. Richard assures me that it isn't a sign of a relapse, that it is just a glitch. You know the method Richard uses with me."

  Jenny nods her head. The way she holds my gaze unsettles me. She isn't convinced. "You know I think Richard is fantastic. I know how much he has done to help you keep on the straight and narrow, to live a relatively normal existence. But even Richard is human. He can't be right about absolutely everything, can he? I just think that sometimes you should keep an open mind. Maybe sometimes you shouldn't take everything he says as gospel."

  "That I should think for myself?"

  The way she arches her body back aptly indicates that I've put her on the back foot. I didn't mean to do that. Or did I? "Don't be a prick about it," she says, smiling. "I know you're perfectly capable of thinking for yourself, Marcus. You know as well as I do what an awkward, pretentious little shit you can be. I just mean exactly what I said. Don't assume that Richard is right about absolutely everything..."

  I grimace. I just don't want to admit she is right. Richard is the one lifeline I hold on to for dear life. If I doubt Richard then I doubt everything, and where does that leave me? I nod my head to show I've taken what she said on board. There is no commitment to do anything about it, though. My wandering eyes locate Emma, right in the middle of the multitude of bowling lanes. Emma hasn't changed much; she has just grown up. She has always been a fantastic bundle of energy. Emma stands with her hands on her hips as she follows the ball's slow but definite descent down the aisle. My baby girl is frozen stiff waiting to see what happens, like she is playing musical statues. Even I feel some angst from the comfort of my chair as the ball trickles closer to the skittles, or whatever it is they call them these days. I sigh with relief as the ball clatters against the skittles and each and every one of them d
isappears. Emma bends at the knees and jumps, pumping her fist in the air.

  Jenny catches me watching Emma, and she smiles. "Sometimes it takes it out of you without you even realising, you know?" she says. "You look exhausted, sweetheart. You need a break from it all. Take a holiday. You could even head back to..."

  I give her a startled look. I know where she means. We just don't speak about it, even though it is always there, consuming us both.

  "Maybe you're right," I say. I decide against listing the endless list of reasons why she might be wrong, too.

  Glancing at Jenny, I notice her wide eyes. Wasn't she the one who suggested it? Clearly, she wasn't expecting me to agree with her. She is shocked I didn't put up a fight, show resistance. Jenny knows how long it has been since I've been there. She knows that normally it just isn't an option. She knows that it is the absolute last resort. Similarly, she must realise now just how bad things are, that they must be much worse than even she feared.

  Looking up, my eyes automatically wander. My ability to focus has abandoned me. Distraction. It is a fundamental technique I use with Richard. Only, now I suspect my use is unhealthy. I use it as a method to avoid the awful reality of life.

  I blink, startled. Was that...? Here? No, it couldn't be. Not with my family around. My little girl. How would he know? I rise to my feet, but my hands remain fixed to the table. I close my eyes for a moment, regain my chain of thoughts.