You, Me and Other People

‘Before, you know, it took ages … It was only a one-night stand, at least that’s what he swore to me, but it took a long time to rebuild that trust again.’

Caroline is still handing me tissues. ‘Research shows,’ she says, ‘that it takes between one and three years to recover from a breach of loyalty within a marriage, so why do you think he did it again?’

‘Because he could? Because he’s a bastard? I don’t know, are you trying to say that this could be my fault; something I didn’t see?’

‘No, no, of course not, but if you raise the point, is it valid?’

Now, I’m furious. I resist the urge to march out through the door and never come back. But something keeps me here, rooted to the chair, and she at least has the grace to avoid my eyes. Silence.

The fact is, she’s right. There were signs. We weren’t as physically close as usual and he seemed uncommunicative, emotionally detached for months before the night I found out. I ignored it. I can feel my neck colour, feel my part in this whole mess crawl up my face. My defences are now on red alert. Since when has it become my burden to stop my husband dropping his pants?

‘Apparently,’ I break the silence, ‘somewhere between fifty and seventy per cent of married men have an affair at some time, as opposed to between twenty and forty per cent for women? A lot of marriages survive and, of those that don’t, up to eighty per cent of those who divorce over an affair regret their decision.’ I am armed with my own research, compliments of a survey in a trashy magazine.

Caroline nods sagely.

‘So, without going all Mars and Venus on me, why is it, Dr Gothenburg, that men are bigger fuckers, literally?’

A hint of a smile. ‘Well, evolutionary psychology says that men are predisposed to spread their seed but, if we bring evolution into it, historically women would have feared sex more because of the possibility of pregnancy, so maybe they just didn’t indulge as willingly, who knows?’ she finishes, shaking her head.

‘Or maybe they’re just greedy, immature and selfish?’ I say, and we laugh together.

My agent Josh has an office just off Soho Square. He rents first-floor space in a dilapidated old building and insists the building’s more ‘shabby’ and less ‘chic’ appearance is a must for ‘creatives’. He’s asked me in for coffee, which will accompany a good portion of the ‘Now, this is what we’re going to do about your career’ chat. I’m sitting opposite him in his favourite old leather Conran chair. I only know Terence Conran designed it because Josh tells me he did. On the low-slung coffee table in between us is the predictable array of tiny pastries. In my hand is a hot mug of Arabica roast with lashings of frothy milk. In the thirteen years I have known Josh, we have never consumed anything together other than cake and coffee.

He starts the ‘chat’ by bringing me up to speed on the sales of ‘Missing’, which are better than I’d expected. He confirms that two Nashville publishers have options on three other songs. My eyebrows rise: this is all good news, really good news, so I reach for a Danish. Then he tells me about the fact that he’s been approached for me to write a song for a movie. I put the Danish down and listen.

‘It’s all hush-hush for now.’ He taps the end of his nose with his forefinger. ‘But they’re looking at three UK writers and you’re one of them.’

I nod, feeling excited, so I pick up the cake again, allowing myself a small swirly bit. It tastes like sugary paste. I’ve been here before, supposedly shortlisted, presented newly written material, only to be told: maybe next time; not quite what we were looking for.

‘Think “Twilight”,’ Josh adds. He wanders around the office, searching in various different piles of paper for something. Upstairs the sound of a lunchtime soap’s theme music vibrates through the floorboards. ‘Which movie was it? You know, the one with Bella’s wedding to the Dracula guy?’

I smile. ‘Not Dracula, Edward.’

‘Edward, whoever. Anyway that song, the one about him loving her for a thousand years? Or her loving him for a thousand years, whatever.’

I nod my head.

‘Think that!’ He points at me, wagging his finger. ‘Only not that, obviously. We have to be different. And better,’ he adds, handing me a red folder. ‘The script. Page 312 is where the song appears. Make it work?’

I ignore the slight pleading inflection. ‘Right. Love song. Wedding. Make it work.’

He scratches his head. ‘Read the script. It’s not a wedding. It’s a love song. It’s a sort of “I’ve loved you forever, will always love you” love song. But the storyline is a couple who split up, get back together and er …’ He eyeballs me. ‘Well, they get back together and—’

‘Live happily ever after?’ I snort loudly, then sip my cooling coffee. ‘Movies,’ I say. ‘Only in the movies.’

‘Write the song.’ He’s back opposite me, wide-eyed. ‘Please?’

‘I’ll write the song.’

‘Beth, have you talked to Adam yet?’ He refills his own mug from a shiny red machine in the corner.

I don’t look at him. Instead I think about his American accent and the way he says Beth. Coming from Nashville, he’s the only living person I know who can add a twang to a one-syllable word.

‘Beth?’ He’s suddenly standing beside me.

There it is again. I look up. ‘Josh, I really have nothing to say to Adam.’

‘You never did tell me exactly what happened. I mean, how did you know? I mean, I know he had an affair and left and that it’s not the first time, but what actually happened?’

He says all of this without taking a breath. And I realize I’m holding mine as the memory of the night plays in sepia in my head:

‘Where have you been till now, Adam?’

‘Matt and I worked late on a new pitch, then went for a curry.’

‘You didn’t think to call?’

‘I just didn’t notice the time, Beth, sorry.’

He then undresses in the bathroom. And scrubs his teeth. Not brushes them, scrubs them. Then, he takes a shower.

‘You tired?’ I ask when he gets into bed.

‘Mmmm. Beat.’ He plants a brief kiss on my cheek then turns over. I get up and go to the bathroom. He has pushed his clothes into the end of the linen basket, covered them with other items. I sit on the loo and pull it towards me. His shirt is in my hands. I smell it. Lemons. Citrus perfume. From the doorway, I rub my right hand slowly left to right over the place I know my heart lies beneath my skin. It’s like I’m massaging it, willing it to keep beating. I look at his body, already curled away from my side of the bed.

‘Adam. Who is she?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing much “happened”. I smelt perfume on his clothes, tackled him, he folded and I asked him to leave. End of story.’ I give a gentle shrug.

Josh reaches over, takes my hand, and stares for a long time at my ring-less finger. ‘You’re a songwriter,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘That is never the end of the story.’

Home by three, I check the answerphone to find a message from my mother. Hearing her voice makes me sigh. Hearing what she says makes me scrunch my face painfully. ‘Elizabeth! If you do not call me back, I shall be forced to get in my car and drive to see you. I’d prefer not to have to get in my car to drive to see you, but I will.’

I call her back, knowing that if I think about it too much, I’ll never call her. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I do know it will be laced with lies. I cannot tell her that Adam left me. As it happens, I only have to lie to her answerphone. Giddy fibs trip easily from my tongue as I tell her machine that I’m sorry for not being in touch, that I’ve been busy with an amazing project. I guess I have, really. I’ve been surviving. Ending it with a ‘Let’s meet for lunch?’ comment seems like a good idea.

I put a recorded episode of CSI on the telly and start surfing the net on my iPad. I Google everything that has anything to do with infidelity. I find all sorts of stories and heart-wrenching tales that make me feel quite lucky. At least my dastardly husband is a crap liar. At least the smug bastard confessed when confronted. According to the Internet, I’m lucky that he hasn’t been running three wives at a time and that he doesn’t wear my knickers while shagging them. I’ve found a website full of questionnaires that are supposed to tell you how you’re dealing with betrayal and I’m completing my third one. I think that it’s helping:

Question One: Did you know something was wrong before you found out?

Answer: No. (There is only a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ response box. There is none that says ‘well, maybe, maybe just a little’.)

Question Two: Has your partner ever been unfaithful before in your or in previous relationships?

Answer: Yes. (The bastard.)

Question Three: Do you find yourself consumed with the physical betrayal?

Answer: Yes. (I can’t stop thinking about Adam being inside another woman.)

Question Four: Are you finding it difficult to cope with your anger?

Answer: Yes.

Question Five: Do you believe your marriage can be saved?

Shit … I surf again and find lots and lots of positive mantras, the sort that Caroline wants me to embrace. I send them to my printer upstairs. Tomorrow, I will place them randomly all over the house, making sure to use Sellotape rather than Blu-tack, just because I can and because I know it would piss him off. I then discover an Internet forum site that has live web-chats for women who have been cheated on.

Amy from Hull is online.

‘Sometimes I just want to call him up and say, “Okay, point proved. Come on home now.” Then, other times I want to smash his face in,’ she says.

Patsy from Seattle replies.

‘Oh, I get that one! My best friend was so angry with her ex that she posted frozen prawns to him every day for a week when she knew he was away. Even though my ex is awful, I don’t think I’d have the nerve.’

I laugh out loud. ‘Hi,’ I type. ‘My name is Beth and I’m almost an alcoholic.’ I hope they get the irony and don’t really think I’m an alcoholic. I touch my wine glass, which is almost empty, and put it to one side. In reality, I think I am drinking too much, beginning to rely on that glass of wine, self-medicating.

‘Hi Beth, LOL and welcome! What’s your story?’ Sally from Manchester … Shit. Where do I begin?

‘My husband cheated on me with a younger woman. He is immature and selfish and I am so angry with him that although I don’t want to smash his face in, I think I quite like the prawn idea.’ I hit the return button.

‘Is she beautiful?’ Sally asks. ‘My husband is currently shagging an ex-Miss Great Britain,’ she says. ‘As I’m twenty pounds overweight from giving birth to his one son-and-heir six months ago, I find this fact harder to take than the fact that he has cheated. He cheated on me with a younger, solvent, skinny woman with a flat, scar-free stomach and pert tits.’

‘Chin up Sally.’ Briana from Queens … ‘Mine left me for a man. Sorry for appearing to downgrade your pain, but I think I’d prefer an ex-beauty queen to another man.’

Christ. It’s overwhelming. I take a break and make a cup of tea before resuming my position on the sofa, where I read a few more tales of woe before finally deciding to be more proactive. Having spent an entire episode of CSI on the worldwide web of betrayal, I am armed and dangerous. I email Adam.

-----Original Message-----

From: bhall@intranethalluk.net

30 September 2014 21:42 PM

To: ahall@hall&fryuk.net

Subject: You

I don’t want to talk to you, but I do want to let you know how I feel. The dictionary says that monogamy is ‘a state of being paired with a single mate’. So, Adam, a question: What do you have in common with gibbon apes, grey wolves, swans, barn owls, beavers, black vultures, whales and termites?

Answer: Absolutely nothing. They all mate for life. You, on the other hand, are a specimen beneath the level of a termite. How does that make you feel? Proud of yourself?

Now that I’ve got that off my chest, I’d like you to stay away from me.

Beth

PS Meg said you were mugged. I’m trying to be sympathetic but sort of feel it may be some karmic force at work. Meg assures me you’re well and completely unaffected by what happened and knowing this has allowed me to send this email. I mean what I say Adam, I want nothing to do with you any more.

After I press the send button, I make my way to the garage to do some left-handed damage to the punchbag.

Chapter Eight

I’m sipping my first coffee of the day, sitting at the tiny wrought-iron bistro table on Ben’s balcony. Though the noise of the street below is sometimes intrusive, today I find it a positive distraction from the noise in my head. I have to go to work, but I want to crawl back into bed.

Though, if I do, the nightmares will be back. Dreams of my parents when they were alive, dreams of Beth and I when we were young … It seems my brain simply doesn’t want to sleep. It seems my brain is in frightening overdrive as soon as my head nears a pillow. Last night, my mother was shouting at me about Ben’s broken guitar, telling me that I was responsible. Then she burst into song. It was like something from The Sound of Music. Then Beth called her a termite. I asked her if she meant me. Isn’t it me who’s the termite? Just before I woke, Beth morphed into an enormous insect and bit my mother’s head off. Completely screwed. My head is completely screwed.

In the kitchen, I munch on a week-old croissant that I find in the bread bin. It tastes stale but the cupboards are bare. I’ve never really had to consider food shopping before. Beth always took care of it and the cooking. Briefly I wonder how she is, if she’s ready to talk.

The email from her telling me she wants nothing to do with me, the one that is probably the root cause of my nightmares, is now a week old. I was tempted, so tempted to tell her to sod off and pay for everything if she’s so goddamned independent, but I didn’t. I slam the plate and coffee cup into the sink, head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My head is banging. I touch the back of it, run my fingers over the scar Harold gave me. It still feels bruised and sore. I root through the tiny medicine box that Beth brought up from the house; there are plasters, antiseptic lotion, some loose gauze but no paracetamol. In need of some form of analgesic, I stare at my mirror image and am horrified to see it start to cry.

Sitting on the edge of the bath, my tears fall. I’m painfully aware that the last time I cried was twenty-two years earlier when my parents died together. I held onto Ben at the graveside and knew our lives would never be the same.

‘Big boys don’t cry, Adam.’

My head hurts more when I shake the memory of one of my mother’s favourite mantras from my head. I don’t know what Beth would do now – possibly magic up some pain relief from a pocket somewhere – but I do know she’d fix this, just like she fixed me then, when she walked into my life a year later. And I can’t ask her because she’s not talking to me, has told me to stay away from her and would probably rather I curled up and died. A fate I possibly deserve.

I peer around the door of the office opposite mine and smile my brightest smile.

‘Jen!’

Jen, who has been both Matt and my shared PA for many years, looks up from the floor where she is sitting amongst three archive boxes full of files.

‘Ooh,’ she says, scrunching her face on seeing me. ‘Still not sleeping?’

‘Not great. As the authorized first-aider on site, please tell me you have a bucketfull of paracetamol. The Grangers are due in and my head’s lifting.’

She stands up, stretches her back out. ‘You should see your doctor, get something to help you sleep.’

I watch her open the meds cabinet; my eyes are wide like a junkie waiting for a fix.

‘Did you hear me?’

‘I did. It’ll pass. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

‘You look exhausted.’

‘I am exhausted.’ I manage a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. Matt in yet?’

‘Already on his second coffee. Can I get you one?’ She hands me six paracetamol.

I smile again. ‘Thanks, Jen. I’ll be down with him doing prep.’

She grabs my hand as she passes the tablets. ‘We’ve known each other a while, yeah?’

Smile disappeared, I’m immediately concerned. An image of her resigning and somehow Matt blaming me pops up.

‘Well, you need to look after yourself. Ever since you and Beth split, you’ve been heading straight down the shitter.’

My eyebrows rise. ‘Succinctly put, Moneypenny. I’ll take that under advisement.’

She laughs.

And I head down to Matt’s office to prepare for a meeting with our biggest client.

For the second time in a month, my car is headed towards Weybridge, apparently driving of its own accord. Somehow, I got through the working day, but now, I need to try and sort this mess with Beth out; plus, I desperately need some fresh clothes. I haven’t called ahead. If she’s in, she’s in. If not, I have a cunning plan.

It was during the Granger meeting I noticed. It was a difficult meeting, with the clients more antsy than usual, the markets having given us a thrashing these last months. I made the right noises but, as I moved my keys around in my pocket, I felt it. The back door key … She can’t lock me out of the house! My cunning plan – talk to her if she’s in, but enter my own home if she’s not. Get some clothes, have a wander around, just because I can … Maybe wait for her to come home, lounging on the oversized sofa in the living room, a glass of rioja in my hand. I hold my breath for most of the A3. When I reach Weybridge, I see that Beth’s car isn’t there and I park around the corner from the house.

From the car, I phone the house. Answerphone … I approach slowly, quietly, ring the doorbell. She’s definitely out. I’m careful not to make too much noise. I don’t want snoopy Sylvia peering over the hedge again. I head around the side entrance and place the key in the backdoor lock, turning it quickly. Smiling, I enter, feeling like a thief in the night. I lean on the back door, praying that as usual she won’t have set the alarm. Beth forgetting to set the alarm when she leaves the house was a constant battle for us. Not looking forward to the telltale siren and mad dash to the box by the front door, my heart is racing in my chest. Nothing, she has left it off. I’m thrilled yet irritated.

Slowly, my heartbeat returns to something close to normal and I move around the house. It’s October and really I could do with the lights on, but I dare not; instead I use my phone light to navigate my way. In the kitchen I run my hand along the granite worktop. Everything looks just the same as it did all those weeks ago. If anything it’s tidier because I’m not here.

I climb the stairs slowly towards our bedroom. In the en-suite, I open the wall cabinet. My things are still there: aftershave, moisturizer, razor, toenail clippers. On the back of the door, my navy striped robe hangs on the hook next to Beth’s. I walk towards the bed, feeling a Goldilocks moment. I sit down on her side, then lie down, inhaling her scent. I stare at the ceiling. This was my home. This was the home we made and shared together. It still feels like home. The only thing that’s different is I’m not in it any more. I sit up, overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt.

As I exit the bedroom and walk downstairs, I look at my watch and can’t believe I’ve already been here for over an hour. And it’s at that moment that I hear the front door opening.

I dart into the living room, towards the back door. It’s locked. Shit! Did I lock it again when I came in? Where are my keys? I hear Beth humming to herself, pottering about in the kitchen. I can tell by the opening of the fridge and the slamming of a cupboard door, she’s getting a glass of wine. Shit. She’ll come in here to drink it. I hear the glug sound of the wine pouring, search my jeans pockets. Shit! As I hear Beth’s steps pace across the marble hallway, I do the only thing possible and hide behind the curtains. When Beth ordered them about five years ago, I was horrified by their sheer floor-to-ceiling size and the cost. Cost aside, I’m now grateful for their mass. Racking my brain, I come across an image. My keys. I left them by the bathroom sink while I was handling my toiletries. Shit!

From behind the curtain, after an entire episode of The Apprentice, I pray she’ll get another drink. C’mon, Beth, you always have two, why not tonight? Or have a pee? Your bladder is like a sieve, surely you need a pee? As if on cue, she heads to the kitchen. I listen for the swish of the fridge door opening but hear the sound of the kettle being filled instead. It is quickly followed by the closing click of the cloakroom door.

I race out of the living room and up the stairs. I grab the keys, listen from the top of the stairs and take my chance. I’m in the hallway, just short of the front door, when she emerges. Leaning against the door to the coats cupboard, I catch my breath. She can’t see me from inside. She’d need to actually come out into the hall. Once she settles down to the TV again, I can open the door and slip out quietly. Passing by, she stops and turns the lamps in the hallway on, from a switch just inside. The room is now bright; if she moves just a half metre to her right I am screwed with a capital ‘S’.

She doesn’t. Instead she takes her place on the sofa by the laptop again and drinks her cup of tea. I can tell all of this by sound alone. The irony is, I haven’t seen her. I can’t tell if she looks well, or drawn. I take a deep breath and then I see it, a floodlit message written on the hallway wall in paint:

I am Beth. I am strong. I am middle aged. I like champagne, chocolate, the ocean, lacy stockings, Ikea meatballs, flip-flops, Touche Éclat, music and lyrics. I don’t like politicians, call centres, size zero women, snobs, punk rock, horseradish, dastards and women who sleep with dastards

I can’t help but smile as, without even one item of fresh clothing, I slip silently out through the front door. Horseradish … Who knew?

Chapter Nine

Her office is cold today. I shiver visibly as soon as I take my seat, rub my hands together. Without moving from her chair, Caroline leans back and tweaks a thermostat on the wall behind her.

We chat a bit about the minutiae of my life and then it’s as if she goes straight for my solar plexus. ‘Tell me about Simon?’ she says. ‘How he died, if you remember how you felt at the time?’

I’m suddenly mute, assaulted by memories of the little boy who was my brother. His dark curly hair, his tiny, ticklish feet, his laugh … I realize I haven’t thought about Simon for a very long time.

‘He was,’ I finally speak, ‘the sweetest child, a cherub, always laughing. He chatted all the time, such a little chatterbox and … he loved me. It was meningitis …’ I hesitate a moment. ‘Meningitis killed him.’

Caroline is listening, not a poised pen in sight. Briefly, I wonder if this is some new tactic of hers.

‘What do you remember of the time around his death?’

I nibble along the width of my top lip. ‘I just remember him being gone. The house emptied. That’s how it felt, like a vacuum. Hollow …’

‘What did your parents tell you?’

‘That he’d been sick, that he’d gone to heaven. My dad described it and it sounded such a beautiful place that I just didn’t understand why we couldn’t all go there. Together …’

I clamp my teeth together, take a deep breath through my nose, and release it slowly through my mouth. ‘I haven’t thought about this for years,’ I confess.

‘It’s painful, obviously; an incredible loss for you at such a young age. For someone you loved, someone who was there for half of your life up to that point, for them just not to be there ever again. It leaves a big hole.’