Lessons for a Sunday Father (10 page)

It was pathetic, of course, Scott insisted on having a talk, then all he did was trot out the same old excuses—how it was just sex and didn’t mean anything, how lots of couples go through this and it didn’t have to be a big deal. He even told me it wasn’t very good and that she was a bit fat—as if that meant it shouldn’t count. And men are always claiming that we’re the ones who are illogical.

The worst thing was when he said, “It’s made me realize just how much I really love you.” Oh, well, that’s fine then. Why not do it every week just to make sure? I came this close to hitting him, I really did. I wish I had done, I wish I’d really let rip and screamed at him, but I didn’t. I was using all my energy to hold myself together, my voice getting more and more calm and controlled, every bit of my body tight and stiff. I had to. I thought that if I let go for even a split second, then I’d sort of explode inside-out and become this horrible screaming, crying heap. And then there’d be no Gail any more, just a raw red blob shuddering with rage and fear in the corner.

I pressed my toes down hard against the floor and pinched the skin on my arms.

“Honestly, Scott, you’ve had enough time to think about this. Is that really the best you can manage?”

And, get this, he even had the cheek to say, “But we were getting on so badly—” Well, there was no way I was letting him shift all the blame onto me. Typical Scott. He’s worse than a toddler. If he breaks something, he never says sorry, it’s always, “I don’t know how that happened, it jumped off the shelf. I was nowhere near it.”

“And sleeping with another woman was your idea of a miracle cure for our problems, was it?”

“No, course not,” he said, looking all awkward, like a teenager. Like Nat, in fact. “It’s just—I didn’t know how to make it better.”

“It’s not exactly making an appointment with Relate, is it, Scott?”

“I’d have
gone.
You never
said
!”

Can you believe it? What is he, twelve years old?

“That’s you all over, isn’t it?” I practically screeched at him, while still trying to keep my voice down. “'You never said.’ Why the hell is it
my
job? I suppose it’s like the way it’s
my
job to be cook, cleaner and general household dogsbody. Why is everything up to me all the time? And anyway—anyway, you’re a pathetic liar. No way would you have gone for marriage guidance even if I had suggested it—and you know it.”

“I might have.”

I laughed then. I actually laughed. He seemed to be getting younger and younger. Before, he seemed about twelve. Now, he looked only about four years old, saying “I might have” trying to defy teacher with his bottom lip stuck out.

He sniffed.

“Well, you wouldn’t want some nosy do-gooder asking personal questions about our sex life either.”

“Why ever not? Unlike some people in this room,
I’ve
got nothing to hide.”

Then I just felt so sick of it all, of him sitting there trying to make out that he was this poor, sweet, innocent boy who just happened to have made this tiny little mistake that any other woman would have forgiven without a second thought. He acted as if I was being a loathsome bitch trying to victimize him and it wasn’t his fault that he’d cheated on me. He never takes responsibility, so he gets to be the one who’s spontaneous and larks about the whole time, while look who gets stuck with having to be the sensible grown-up. So I made some dig about him being like a child, it was a silly thing to say, but it just came out and suddenly I thought maybe I’d gone too far. His face darkened, his jaw thrust forward as if he really was a little boy doing his best not to cry.

“That is well out of order, Gail. You really have crossed the line now.” Then he started shouting: “I have
always
provided for my family—I’ve
always
worked— you and the kids have never gone short—
never
—Jeez, you make me sound like some fucking sponger. How
can
you say that?”

I felt a bit bad, really I did. I hadn’t meant it. I’d just wanted to hurt him, I suppose, make him feel useless and humiliated—the way he’d made me feel. And now it looked like I had World War Three on my hands.

“I’m sorry, Scott. I really am. I only said it because I feel so hurt and angry.”

“Hurt and angry?
You
—hurt and angry! I’m the one living like a fucking gypsy out of a fucking carrier bag! How
dare
you make yourself into such a martyr—here you are in
our
nice warm house with
our
comfy settee and
our
proper kitchen and
our
big bed and
our
—repeat,
our
—children while I’m having to accept charity and live like a sodding student and be woken up by crap rock music at seven o’clock in the fucking morning. For fuck’s sake—HURT and ANGRY? You haven’t got a fucking clue.”

Then he got up and stomped out and down the front path. I thought of going after him, to try to get him to calm down, but my legs were shaking and I couldn’t move. I’ve never, ever seen him like that. Not about unjust parking tickets or the car being stolen or being gazumped over our first house. Never.

OK, I’ll come clean—it
was
twice. With Angela, I mean. But you really can’t count the first time. And the second time was only to make up for the first time being so godawful and anyway, I was already guilty by then, so it wasn’t as if it was making anything worse. It’s all water under the bridge now in any case, so what difference does it make? Still, there’s no point in telling Gail it was twice, right?

The second time. I was driving practically past Angela’s house. Well, near enough. So I thought I’d just call by, say hello, take a look at her doors and that.

“Oh hello.” Angela opened the door a little way, with just her head in the gap. “Nice of you to keep in touch.”

“Now don’t be like that. I did call but I got your machine and I didn’t know what to say.”

“How about: ‘Hello, it’s Scott, are you available for shagging purposes?'”

I’m on the verge of blushing now. Still, she seems to be smiling, so I take advantage and edge a bit closer.

“You can’t just turn up whenever you feel like it, you know. What if I’d had someone here?”

“You could say I’d come to check your garden door and other see-through items. It’s only that I was in the area and—”

“Yes, I see. Come in anyway now that you’re here. Coffee?”

“Cheers.” I shuck off my jacket, casual, as if I’m a bit hot. Angela’s wearing one of those wrap-round skirts. The sort where you undo one button and yee-har it’s on the floor. The kind of women’s clothing a man likes. I think about putting my hand on her thigh, sliding up under the material, but she’s standing the wrong side of the jutting-out counter. Hang on a minute, matey. Don’t rush.

“Sugar?” She busies herself making the coffee, fiddling with jars and teaspoons.

“One-and-a-bit. So, how’ve you been?” Slowly, I edge around the worktop.

“Oh, you know, moping by the phone waiting to hear from you.” She looks at me then. “Not really, you idiot. I’ve hardly been here, actually. Got so much work on. I’m fine.” She sighs. “Scott, I do know you’re married. I’m not looking to get into some seedy affair or lure you away from your wife, you know. I had a good time,” she laughs, hitching herself onto a stool at the counter. “Well, all right, I’ve had better but it was fine, and if we ever get it together again, that’ll be fine too. But I’m not becoming the Other Woman. I’m not looking to be somebody’s stepping-stone out of a hopeless marriage.”

“But I haven’t got a hopeless marriage. I love Gail to bits …”

“Yeah.” She looks me straight in the eye. “You probably do, but you’re at the mercy of your dick. You all are.”

I shrug in what I hope is an endearing, oh-well-that’s-us-lads sort of way and give her my best smouldering-but-sensitive look.

“You needn’t worry, I’m not the sort to tell tales. I may have knickers with loose elastic but I’m not a bitch.”

“I never thought you were. ‘s just …”

“Ye-e-e-s?”

“About the other day …”

“Other week, more like.”

“I was a bit nervous …”

“So that’s it!” She laughs, shaking slightly, perched on her stool. Her skirt comes open a little way and I notice she doesn’t tug it back together again. I nudge a bit closer, spreading out my fingers on the worktop. “Scott. You’re hilarious, you really are. Are you worried about your reputation? Good grief, you were fine. Still …” She eases herself down off the high stool.

“So then …” I stroke along her arm with one finger.

“Lord, we’ll be here all day at this rate.” She takes my hand and tows me towards the stairs. “Come upstairs if you’re coming—I’ve got to go out at three.”

Well, by now I’ve left my brain behind completely, it’s outside lurking in the driveway wondering what’s occurring, saying tut-tut through the letterbox and hoping I’ll come back to pick it up at some point. But I’m in no rush because I reckon I’m about to have a very good time without it. A very good time. If it was here, it’d only be in the way, muttering and criticizing—"What if …? Do you think this is wise? What if Gail …? You got away with it once, but—” Thank you, Brain, your services are not required at this time. Don’t call us, we’ll call you …

I bend to undo the button of her skirt, tugging at the cloth with my teeth, feeling her hand on my head, pulling me close. Her hairs curl round the sides of her silky knickers. I kneel down and knee-walk her towards the bed as I pull at her pants with my mouth. She pulls me onto the bed, feeling for the buckle of my belt, my zip, her hand hot on my skin, easing me out, holding me—pulling down my trousers, rucked around my knees—no time to take them off now—kissing—her hand driving me crazy—"Hang on, where’s the…?"— fumbling in her bedside cupboard, one hand still encircling me—rips open the packet with her teeth—rolls it on smoothly, bending over me to kiss the tip—lying back now—her thighs spread—hand guiding—I hover on the brink, teasing her—her gasp as I push in—her flesh warm around me—legs holding me—good—God, I’ve missed this feeling—being surrounded—being held—so good—building now—getting faster—should I slow down?—is she …?—mentally recite the names and phone numbers of our main suppliers—Tuff Glass 013— no need now, no need—her hips are ramming into mine—small urgent grunts—now high and breathy—our mouths open—too hot to kiss—gasping for air, for breath—shuddering—collapsing, her mouth wet on my shoulder, her hair across her face in sweaty strands.

I roll off her and we lie there for a few minutes, catching our breath. Then she levers herself upright.

“Better. A lot better. Have a gold star.” She smiles and nods, as if to herself. “God, I really needed that.” She pads towards the bathroom, calling back over her shoulder. “Do you want first shower or shall I?”

“You. Do you need me to come in and hold your … soap?”

“No thanks. I prefer to wash alone. Won’t be long.”

Then I had a shower, she gave me a kiss in the hall, said we’d best leave it for a while, and I left. When I turned to wave from the car, the front door was closed and she was gone. Then I went home—smelling of a different soap, it turned out, as Inspector Gail informed me later, that and the inside-out underpants, that’s what gave me away—not knowing that my entire life was about to be tugged away from right under my feet.

All done in barely more than half an hour. I’d been married to Gail fifteen years. It took just half an hour to wipe out fifteen years of marriage. Half an hour. Jeez.

   *   *   *

After the big row with Gail, when she’d said all those things, I thought, “Well, bollocks to you then—if you’re going to treat me like shit and make like I’m the most evillest sinner on the whole planet, then why should I beat myself up about it as well and stay at Jeff’s"—Mr Happy’s Amazingly Cheerful Abode isn’t exactly where you want to hang out if you’re already feeling down, you know? So I drove round to Angela’s. There’s no answer when I ring the bell and I’m just hopping from foot to foot on the doorstep when she appears on the side path hefting her rubbish bin.

“Hiya!” Trying to sound breezy, casual, you know. “Let me take that. Where do you want it?” I give a little knowing smile at that last bit.

“Just passing, were you?” No hello, no squelchy kiss. This isn’t going to be a pushover, I could tell.

“Yeah, sort of. Sorry I’ve not been in touch.”

“I’d prefer it if you’d phone first, Scott. I might have had someone here.” I try to peer in through the front room window.

“Sorry. Have you?”

“No, but that’s not the point.”

“Don’t you like surprises? Come on—where’s your sense of spontaneity? No-one does anything on impulse any more—no wonder the country’s stuck in a rut.”

“So that’s Scott’s solution to all global political and economic problems, is it? Be spontaneous?”

That’s the way she talks. It’s kind of hard to tell when she’s joking. Also, I wasn’t so sure about the being spontaneous thing. Well, look at the trouble it had got me in so far.

“No danger of being offered a coffee, is there?”

She nods me in to the house.

“Sure. Can’t stand out here freezing on the front path. Besides, the neighbours might see you.”

She’s just kidding, right? Anyone’d think she was embarrassed to be seen with me.

We go in the back way, through the superbly glazed door—lovely bit of workmanship that, I pat it admiringly as I go in—and I perch on one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

“You OK?” she asks over her shoulder as she fills the kettle.

“Been better.”

“Oh?”

I’m not sure whether to play it down, just say I’ve had a bit of a barney with Gail or whether to go for the full, woe-is-me, sackcloth-and-ashes bit. Play the poor-little-me card. What would you have done? Problem is with these things, you only get one shot, so if you’re wrong you’re stuffed really, aren’t you? She shoves the sugar bowl along the counter at me, like a barman in a Western sliding that ol’ whisky bottle down to the mysterious stranger at the far end. I spoon in the sugar in a mysterious stranger kind of way, stir it in and sit there looking down into the whirlpool in my mug, not knowing what to say.