You, Me and Other People (4 page)

Maybe given time,

Fine might mean fine,

But right now it’s early days,

I hurt in a hundred ways,

And I’m not fine.

Climbing the stairs to bed, I yawn – a long, gaping, sleepy yawn, and am so relieved that I crawl fully clothed under the bed covers. In my dreams, Gordon Ramsay is in my bed.

‘You can’t call it “The F Word”,’ he says.

‘How did you get here?’ I say.

He doesn’t answer but I have to admit that he looks quite dishy there, his head resting on Adam’s pillow.

‘But since you’re here, does the “F” stand for fuck or for fine?’ I lean up on my left elbow. ‘See, around here when you say “fine”, it’s called “The F Word”,’ I explain.

‘No,’ he says, raising his head to meet mine. ‘It definitely stands for
fuck
in our house.’

‘But this is my house,’ I pout. In my dreams, my pout is suggestive, my lips dressed in scarlet gloss.

‘Who the fuck cares,’ he says, and kisses me. Gordon, it seems, is not averse to my garlic kisses.

Emma has a fourteen-year-old son called Harold. Not Harry – Harold. I imagine him to be complete with spots and a pathological hatred of both his name and his divorced parents.

So far, because I generally visit the White House at weekends, when Harold is with his father, Alan, I have avoided meeting him. Last night was an exception to this rule. A Wednesday and dinner at the White House was on, because Alan had taken Harold to the cinema straight after his school tennis match. They would not be back until ten, by which time, having eaten dinner, I would be gone. That was the plan. Like all best-laid plans in my life, it didn’t quite pan out – which is why I’m sitting in St Thomas’s A&E department, nursing a minor head wound. I don’t blame Harold. He and Alan had argued, so he’d come back early. Any child of fourteen who’d walked in to find a stranger mounted on his mother on the white rug would do the same thing. I think his tennis racket came off worse.

‘How are you feeling?’ Meg asks. I haven’t yet explained what happened since calling her on a payphone.

‘Fine, it looks worse than it is.’ I tug on the bandage.

‘Leave it,’ she says, ‘I don’t think the bleeding’s stopped yet.’

I look around. No sign of a doctor with the X-ray results yet.

‘Did she bring you here?’

I nod, slightly.

‘So, where is she? Why did you call me?’

‘She had to go, be with her boy.’

‘She has a son?’

I nod again.

‘How old?’

‘Fourteen. With a hell of a right swing …’

Meg’s face scrunches. She looks me up and down, and frowns in a way that makes her look like her mother. ‘Please tell me he didn’t catch you,’ she whispers.

I remain silent. I feel nauseous, and the antiseptic scent of the surroundings doesn’t help; that clawing taste that lingers at the back of my throat.

‘You already have Mum in therapy and now some poor child will probably need counselling for the rest of his life. You’re disgusting,’ she says, looking far into the distance, ‘absolutely disgusting.’

I would nod again, agree with her, but I’m afraid the motion would make me puke.

‘Mr Hall?’

We both turn to see the doctor who’d spoken to me earlier. I raise my hand, acknowledging my name.

‘Ahh, there you are. Well, the good news is there’s nothing broken, no fractures. You have a mild concussion. You may feel nauseous, even vomit, but if it lasts longer than twenty-four hours, come straight back to us.’ He smiles at Meg. ‘You are?’

‘His daughter,’ she says, her lips curling in distaste.

‘He shouldn’t be alone, just in case he’s sick?’

She nods, pulls me upright and pushes me towards the exit.

‘His clothes?’ The doctor, noting my state of undress, looks back towards the A&E department. I have no shoes or socks on, no shirt; just a large, blood-splattered white bath sheet, presumably Emma’s.

‘Doctor, he doesn’t deserve clothes,’ is her response, as I’m pushed through the swinging door to the car park and the bite of the midnight air.

I awake to the sound of birdsong. Meg is standing above me with a glass of water in her hands.

‘Drink,’ she orders.

I do as I’m told, the cold, limey tap water a relief on my furry tongue. I’m in her room, in the house she shares with two other girls in Clapham. From here, it’s not far to where she studies at Westminster.

‘Why am I here?’ I sit up in her narrow bed. ‘Where did you sleep?’

She points to a couple of duvets on the floor. ‘You fell asleep in the car and we were nearer here than Ben’s. Don’t you remember getting here?’

‘No. Look, I’m sorry, Meg.’ I move to get up, the pain in my head sudden and sharp, like a machete has pierced my skull. I fight the urge to vomit.

‘Stay put. Let’s make sure you keep the water down.’

‘I need to call the office.’ I look for my jacket, my phone.

Meg shrugs. ‘I assume your stuff is still at
hers
. Besides. I’ve already called Matt and told him you’re not coming in today.’

‘You did?’ I close my eyes and lean back on her thin pillow, the throbbing in my head mirroring the beating of my heart. ‘How?’

‘I called Mum for his number.’

My eyes shoot open and I groan aloud. ‘No, Meg, please tell me you didn’t—’

She raises a palm to silence me. ‘Enough, Dad. I didn’t tell her the truth. See?’ She swings her long hair around at me, looks like an ad image for shampoo, except for the anger flashing in her eyes. ‘See, now you even have me lying to her. Christ, you’re a piece of work.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Well, I had to tell her you were hurt. I just lied about the circumstances – told her you’d been mugged.’

A soft smile shapes my lips. ‘Well I was, sort of.’

She tries not to grin, but I can see her fight it. ‘By a jealous fourteen-year-old boy … no, I didn’t tell her that bit.’

‘Thank you, Pumpkin.’ I reach for her hand, hanging loose by her side just inches away from me in the tiny room. She snatches it back.

‘I didn’t do it for you. I did it for her,’ she says simply.

‘I know that. Thank you anyway?’

She nods. ‘Right, if you haven’t barfed in the next few hours, I’m going to try and get to my three o’clock lecture. Do you think you can stay alive for an hour without me?’

‘Sure.’ I straighten up in the bed. The clock on the wall says eleven thirty, which reminds me I should be in work. ‘What did Matt say, by the way?’

Meg smiles. ‘I didn’t lie to Matt, Dad. I told him you’d been bashed over the head by your mistress’s sprog.’

I feel the limited contents of my stomach churn. ‘Oh shit …’

‘Funnily enough,’ Meg laughs as she pulls up a chair to sit at her desk, ‘that’s exactly what he said. Now, sleep. Talk to yourself in your head, whatever, but I have to study.’

‘I’m going.’ I move to get out of the bed.

‘Lie the hell down,’ she shouts at me, and there’s that flash in the eyes again. ‘You have to stay here until tonight. Then I have to drive you home since you have
no
clothes.’

‘I’m fine.’ I sit stubbornly on the side of the bed, ignoring the hammering in my head.

‘Dad, you’ve used the “f” word. You’re anything but fine, so be a good boy and lie down.’ Her voice softens. ‘Please?’

I do what she says. My head is fuzzy, crowded with imaginary scenes. Beth getting the call from Meg; Emma, unable to call me since my phone was still at hers. Harold, would he be damaged, having attacked his mother’s lover? Did Meg say something last night about Beth being in therapy?

I watch my daughter at her desk, surrounded by books on her chosen subject, criminology. Faces of famous serial killers stare up at her from large hardback tomes. Her room is a weird space – a pink draped bed with fairy lights on the headboard and every free gap crammed full of books on vicious minds. I notice she holds herself so upright, years of her mother teaching her not to slouch. She’s only pretending to read a particularly thick book with small writing, but I can tell she’s not concentrating.

‘Have you seen your mum lately?’

‘Last night, earlier, I was on my way back here when you called,’ she replies, without lifting her eyes from the page.

‘I sent her an email.’ I don’t tell Meg about the return one telling me where to shove my kisses. ‘How is she?’

‘Better than the last time I saw her. She’s getting there.’

I wonder where ‘there’ is. ‘Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?’

Meg seems to ignore the question.

‘Meg?’

She lifts her eyes to mine. ‘Would you?’ she says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s not the first time, is it, Dad?’

I flinch. My past is obviously now out there for debate by all and sundry, but I find myself unable to answer the question. I try to imagine how I’d feel if the roles had been reversed. Not nice, more stomach-churning, and I wonder why I do what I do. Why I can hurt the people I love, why I assume forgiveness should be their first port of call. My brain nudges images of my parents forward, and I’m reminded how their tutoring meant I was always expected to do the forgiving. I close my eyes …

‘I didn’t think so.’ Meg returns to Ted Bundy, preferring the antics of a serial killer to occupy the space in her head.

Just as I think I couldn’t possibly sink lower in my daughter’s eyes, the expression on her face when she opens the door to my brother Ben’s flat with her spare key tells me otherwise. Emma has got there before us.

‘Darling! I’ve been so worried.’ Emma leaps from the sofa, which is visible from the front door. She sees Meg immediately and I watch her face process the facts, putting two and two together. ‘Your keys …’ She points to my jacket and the rest of the clothes she’s returned, my CK jocks taking pride of place on top of the pile. ‘They were in your pocket. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Well, it seems you’ll be okay from here.’ Meg turns to leave.

‘Don’t go.’ I grab her jumper.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hisses.

My fingers immediately release her.

‘It’s good to meet you, Meg.’ Emma tries. ‘I’m sorry it’s under such strange circumstances.’ She raises both her shoulders upwards.

Meg nods in her direction, then bolts.

‘Darling,’ Emma repeats as the door closes. She nuzzles into my neck. ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry. I don’t know what came over Harold. I left him with Alan, told him to think about his behaviour, told him I expect him to apologize to you.’

I can see both our reflections in the tall windows of the living room. The sliding door to the tiny balcony is open and I can hear the sounds of the busy road below. In the glass, Emma’s tall body almost dwarfs mine as she holds me. I see myself, a forty-three-year-old idiot with a gash in his head.

‘I am just so
angry
all the time.’ I try to explain. ‘Angry and frightened and confused …’ I tell her that Karen came around with her builder brother, Brian, and they fitted a punchbag in the garage.

She grins. ‘Have you used it yet?’

‘Oh yes.’ I hold my hand out to show her the tiny bruise on the second knuckle of my right hand. ‘I convinced myself I was working out, but actually I have a picture of Adam on it.’

‘So, why exactly are you angry, Beth?’ She puts it so simply that I find myself getting annoyed at her too.

‘I’m angry because my dickwit of a husband cheated on me. I’m angry because I bet he’s stupid enough to think he’s in love. I’m angry because his fragile forty-three-year-old male ego needs to be massaged by another woman. I am angry because he’s greedy, immature and selfish. I’m angry at myself because I forgave him once before when he was greedy, immature and selfish, and I’m angry because he’s made us just another statistic.’ Tears pool in my eyes and I reach for the tissue she hands me.

‘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.

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