Lessons for a Sunday Father (7 page)

“No!” She looked round. “Any more ice?”

“In the icebox. Finish what you’re saying first.”

“Right. All I’m saying is a lot of guys see no inconsistency in being in love with their wives but having a fling with someone else. They split it off in their heads, so it doesn’t count. It’s just fulfilling a basic need: you’re thirsty—have a drink. You’ve got a hard-on—have a shag.”

“So you think I should just forgive him and say, fine, you can come back now?”

“No. I’m not dispensing advice, just telling you how I see it. I think you should do whatever you want to do. Maybe you’re happy to have an excuse to get shot of him. How the hell should I know? You do play your cards pretty close to your chest a lot of the time.” She got up and went through to the kitchen to fetch the ice.

What did she mean by that, do you think? About having an excuse? It puzzled me at the time, but I didn’t ask her, I don’t know why. I’m pretty close to Cassie, closer than to my sisters really, but I suppose I don’t tell her everything. I’m not one of these people who have to keep talking about how they feel the whole time. A lot of that’s best kept to yourself, if you ask me. People say you should be open and express yourself, but half the time I think that’s just an excuse so they can offload their problems onto you or make out they’re an interesting person when really it’s just that they’re bloody neurotic.

Cassie sees it differently because she was unfaithful to Derek. It only happened the once and she was pretty drunk, but I’m sure she regrets it now. She’s genuinely sorry about it, not like Scott. Derek doesn’t know, of course. I couldn’t live with it, if it were me. I’d just be worrying all the time, wondering if he’d find out somehow.

“You know Scott loves you to bits. He’s crazy about you.”

“He’s got a funny way of showing it.”

“Well, that’s men for you, the little darlings. Who knows why they act the way they do? Maybe Scott was feeling old or unloved? Mid-life crisis? How’s your sex life? Maybe this woman offered—that’s enough for most men. Bit of an ego boost. I’m sure it was no more than a stupid fling on his part. A mistake. Talk to him. Give him a chance to explain.”

I shook my head.

“Why are you so keen to let him off the hook? He cheated on me and then he lied about it. End of story.
I
feel old and unloved all the time but I don’t go around leaping into bed with one of the doctors, do I? If I talk to Scott, all he’ll do is give me a whole load of excuses, make out it wasn’t his fault in any way. He
never
takes responsibility for anything.”

   *   *   *

You see, that evening when I found out, I wanted to know if it had been going on for months, how serious it was, and all he kept saying was no, no, it wasn’t like that. And I could just see, stretching ahead of me like some appalling endless road that leads nowhere, just years and years of this—arguing and excuses and lies. And then I just knew I didn’t want it, not any of it. I wasn’t going to let my life become that. I felt I’d give anything, absolutely anything not to get sucked into that. There was a sudden flush of energy through my body, so strong that I stood up as if a current of electricity had jerked me from my seat. I said something about the rubbish needing to go out—I just wanted not to see his lying face in front of me, even for a minute, you see. And then Scott went outside and I was standing in the hall. I looked at the front door and I thought, “I could push it closed with one finger and end all this right now.” And, as I thought it, I watched my own hand stretch out in front of me, the very tip of my finger touching the door. He hadn’t even put it on the latch. I didn’t really have to do anything. Just one tiny push and that was it. The door clicked closed. It needn’t even have been me. It could have been the wind—making the decision for me. Not my responsibility at all. And now I could just turn my back on him and start a new life for myself and the kids.

“OK, fair enough, make him suffer for a week or two. But surely you’ll miss him after a while, right?” Cassie’s voice was unexpectedly quiet. “I mean, I know you moan about him enough, but why have you stuck with him all these years if you’re so ready to ditch him?”

I looked at her, her face suddenly sharply in focus.

“Do I moan about him?” I read the answer in her eyes. “I—I don’t know, I always feel like I’m having to nag him, spur him on. Like I’m his mum or something. Honestly, sometimes, it
is
just like having another child to worry about. I’m so sick of having to be the grown-up all the time. Why’s it
my
job? I know, I’m not making any sense.” I covered my face with my hands. “I’m just
so
tired.”

“Here.” She topped up my glass. “Drown your sorrows.”

I wish I could. How I wish it were that easy.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll work things out.” Cassie patted me on the arm, then gave me a squeeze. “If you want to …”

“Mn,” I said, the way Nat does, so you don’t know what he means—yes or no, or maybe or I’m not listening, just leave me alone. Leave me alone.

If I tell you about Angela, promise you’ll hear me out, OK? I bet you anything you like that—if you’re 100 per cent honest, hand on heart—you’ll admit you’d probably have done the same as I did. I swear, a monk would have hoisted his habit and been up for it. A bishop—actually, that’s not a good example. They’re always at it, aren’t they? Can’t hardly open the paper without reading about yet another member of the God Squad who’s taken a bit of a tumble from the Path of Righteousness. And they’re such sodding hypocrites, that’s what I can’t stand. They never come clean and say, “She gave me the green light, so we had a quickie in the vestry.” They always pretend to be all humble and start going on about how they see they have sinned but they felt moved by the Holy Spirit and were really just doing God’s will—like God’s got time to fanny about looking for nookie opportunities for the clergy when he’s got avalanches and plane crashes to organize. I mean, what’s all that about? Admit it, you were desperate for a shag and some sex-starved widow came to you for comfort and one minute you’re saying, “There, there, the Lord loves you” and the next you’ve got your hand on her tit and are struggling to undo the buttons on your cassock.

Where was I? Oh, Angela. Right. So I’m in the office and suddenly Lee sticks his head round the door. Doesn’t bother to knock, but what else is new? And he says someone’s asking to see the manager. With a complaint. Course, what he actually said was, “Ere, Scott—'s a stroppy cow out front what wants yer bollocks.”

Dunno what charm school Lee went to but I reckon he’s due a refund. God knows why he’s got so many birds after him. They’re practically lining up, gagging for it. We get them on the phone, giggling so much they can’t hardly speak. One time he was seeing four at once so we had to have a list by the phone of which ones he’d talk to. You know, it was like Melanie—Yes; Chrissy—Yes; Sandra—No; Laura—Don’t even think about it. But we had to take it down because Maureen said she wouldn’t be party to that sort of thing, thank you very much, and Lee shouldn’t be getting personal calls at work anyhow. He thinks he is seriously cool but mostly he’s just an arrogant smarmy git. You reckon I’m jealous, don’t you? OK—I am a bit. He’s a good-looking bastard, there’s no getting round it, and he’s got all the moves and the designer gear and that. He doesn’t even have to try. Not like the rest of us.

Which brings me back to Angela. So I put my jacket on and go out front and there’s this woman by the counter and you don’t need a degree in psychology to see that she’s not a happy bunny. She doesn’t waste time with the niceties—hello, good afternoon—none of that, she’s straight in: “Are you the person who passes for a manager in this …” she looks round at the scruffy seats and the dusty floor as if someone’s just done a fart “… establishment?”

Not a smile in sight. And she’s the wrong side of forty, at a guess, but not by much. She’s nice-looking though—shiny hair and well-stacked up front, but I’m not about to hit her with the patented Scott special Combi-Smile-'n'-Raised-Eyebrow, ‘cause I can see she’s cross as hell and she looks like she’d have no qualms over killing the odd glazier now and then. Still, I’m not having anyone talk to me like that. I look all round and behind me at the floor, like I’m looking for something, then I say:

“Sorry,
Madam—”
really polite like, laying it on thick. “Were you speaking to me? I assumed from your tone that a dog must have come in.”

But she doesn’t miss a beat.

“We’ll skip the pleasantries and the feeble attempts at wit, shall we, and cut to the chase? One of your—” she pauses, and gives a kind of sneery laugh, “—
boys
has made a complete cock-up of my doors and you are going to find me someone who actually knows what they’re doing to sort it out right
now.”

I look at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly five. I open my mouth to speak.

“—”

“No
—Not
tomorrow.
Not
in three days’ time.
Right now.”

   *   *   *

I’m thinking about saying I’ll get the owner and letting Harry deal with it, but he’s too soft and I reckon she’ll chew him up and spit out the leftovers and he could do without the agg.

“What actually seems to be the—?”

“Frankly, I’m too angry even to speak about it. I want you to see it with your own eyes.”

I sigh but I can’t see any way of getting rid of her.

“OK, where do you live?”

High Firs. What a surprise. Poncy so-called exclusive so-called executive houses. Detached but a cat could barely slink through the gaps, you know? People who live there think they’re a cut above, but the houses are nothing special. I knew a builder who worked on them and he says the walls are so thin you could spit through them. Anyway, I tell her I’ll follow her if she wants to go outside and wait in her car a sec and I stick my head round the door of the workroom and shout at the lads:

“Oi! Which of you tossers did some doors over on High Firs?”

“Wasn’t me, mate,” says Lee over his shoulder, ducking down to look at himself in a bevelled mirror.

“Not guilty, Your Honour,” says Martin.

I look at Gary who’s apparently concentrating on cutting, frowning down at the glass on the workbench as if he hasn’t heard me.

“Gary?”

“What?” He’s still not looking at me.

“High Firs. Fucked-up doors. Ring any bells?”

His face goes red.

“What? I did a good job. Took me ages.”

I shake my head.

“I’m going to sort it out now.”

As I leave, I hear Lee taking the piss out of him, winding him up. Gary’s only been with us a few months. First came to do work experience, and he was less clueless than the others we’d had. Quiet, just got on with it. He’s slow but that’s the best way to be when you start ‘cause you make less mistakes. He’s not overburdened with brain cells, but then if he was he’d be off at university or being a lawyer or something rather than rotting away here, yeah?

I grab my keys and jacket and tell Harry I’m off. No point worrying him with all this till I find out what the problem is. Ms Charming is standing outside, leaning against her car. It’s a gleaming black BMW. New reg. Dead slick.

“Nice motor.” I nod.

She doesn’t bother to respond.

“You’ll follow right behind?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” I say under my breath, thinking my car could do with a wash. And some new tyres. And a new engine. And a new chassis. That’ll be a new car then. Some chance.

Course, it’s five o’clock by now, or just gone, so you can imagine what a laugh and a half the ring road is. I turn up the radio and they’re doing a run of oldies. I’m starting to get into it—"I Heard it through the Grapevine,” Marvin Gaye—while I’m stuck in the traffic, and I’m singing away and having a bit of a groove in my seat, shoulders going side to side, head bobbing away, then I look ahead into Madam’s car and I can see she’s watching me in the mirror. She adjusts her mirror then and puts on some lipstick.

I feel like a teacher’s told me off in class. You know what it’s like singing in the car, same as when you’re in the shower—you’re loud, you can’t remember the words, you can’t carry a tune, but just for a few minutes you’re hot, you’re live, you’re dangerous—and the world loves you. But, soon as you suss someone’s seen you or heard you—usually I get a small clue at home ‘cause they bang on the door and tell me to shut up and I’m sensitive about subtle signals like that—well you lose it and there you are, some sad old prick singing flat in a bathroom and feeling like a balloon with all the air gone out of it. It’s weird, half the stuff I miss most is things like that, Natty banging on the bathroom door, I mean, shouting, “Oi, Dad, leave it out! I can’t hear my CD!”

Anyway. So we get there and I park and we go in. Well, I’ve been in the business sixteen years but you don’t need to be an expert to see what the problem is. It’s a nice bit of workmanship actually. He’s coming along, is Gary. Shame he’s got less common sense than a hula-hoop. The fit’s nice, yes; it’s a neat job, yes; nice bit of beading, but—it’s plain glass. Not normally what you want in a bathroom door, unless you’re a bit of a perve.

“Ah,” I say.

“You may well say ‘ah,'” she says. “But can you sort it out? The other one’s downstairs.”

Downstairs, the glass panel in the back door is frosted. It’s not a bad pattern, a bit unusual, sort of leaves and twiddly bits. It’s called “Serenade,” no idea why, probably thought it was better than “Leaves and Twiddly Bits.”

“Marvellous view of the garden, hmm?” she says. You can’t see a thing through it.

“I take it this is the one you wanted plain then?”

“Full marks. Have a gold star.”

Actually, I can see what’s happened. All the doors are the same size in these houses, see? Our clueless lad’s come in, measured one bit of glass, sees it fits the panel in the first door, puts it in, then does the second one without thinking. It’s the kind of mistake anyone could make. If they had soggy spaghetti for brains.

“Anyone can make a mistake,” I say, “but we can sort that out for you, no problem.”