Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect (2 page)

Always kisses from Holly but again, nothing since, so I have no idea if she’s coming tomorrow or not.  I’m tempted to text her but … I’ve told myself on lots of occasions, I must let them go.  If she wants to come, she’ll come.  I don’t want her to feel she’s
got
to.

Gaz gets up and stands right in front of me, staring me out. 

Are you going to take me for a walk, or what?
he says. 

Well, he doesn’t say that, obviously, but that’s what I do … I imagine great long conversations with him.  He’s my best friend now – he listens to everything I have to say and never criticises me. 

If he was a human he would, however, no doubt, be having counselling.  He has a lot of ‘issues’, does Gaz.  He’s frightened of loud noises, including fireworks and thunder (which is understandable) but also includes very distant gunfire, hairdryers and hoovers.  He also has a complex about anything that goes wrong in the house; if I drop a mug on the floor, he thinks it’s his fault and rushes to his bed.  He can’t go through doors, if they’re not wide open and doesn’t like being in the garden on his own.  He’s not really a ‘dog person’, either – he has a great capacity to blank other dogs, but will rush up to complete dog-walking strangers, as if he knows them.

These are but a few of his little foibles.  He doesn’t seem to be particularly worried about David’s absence – I was always his main carer.

“Well, go and find your lead and ball, then,” I say, and he runs off.  I, meanwhile, continue to sit on the sofa, too tired and fed up, to move.

Here I am, I found the ball and I’m now going to drop it on your lap to remind you that you said …
and with that he lets the ball roll down my legs into my lap, again staring at me, willing me to get up. 

“Where’s your lead?” I say, not really expecting him to know, but deliberately winding him up.  He does a quick circle, as if chasing his tail and barks. 

“Okay, okay,” I say and I drag myself up.  I pull on my dog-walking coat and we go into the outside world together, like an old married couple.

*

We live on a small estate (that word ‘we’ – I must start saying ‘I’).  Nothing very exciting … but it’s home and everything around me is familiar.  I feel safe here … it’s my little universe, but since David left, I’m just existing in a bubble, floating about … alone.

I turn left and walk down the enthusiastically named, Primrose Avenue.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a primrose and it’s certainly not avenue-like – I would expect an avenue to have towering trees, on either side.  On the contrary, there are just rather average looking houses and bungalows, circa 1970 on either side, with well-kept, small front gardens.

I pass John, washing his Escort – which always looks as if he’s just polished it – and we exchange a few pleasantries about the weather, along the lines of, “Not very summery today, is it?” from John and “No, but at least it’s not raining,” from me.  Our conversations usually go like that, with a few variations about the sun, the sky or the frost.  We’ve never got past this level and neither of us show any desire to do otherwise.  I know his name purely because I heard his invisible wife call to him through an open window once.  I’m not sure he knows mine.  He’s more likely to know Gaz’ name, as I sometimes bring him into the conversation with something like, “Gaz doesn’t mind the rain.”  John’s seen me with David, of course, in the past.  I wonder if he’s registered that he’s gone?  Probably not.

I pass June, a few doors down, who’s hanging out her washing – and the old man at number seventy-five, who seems to be permanently pruning his roses.  June says, “Hello, dear” and number seventy-five, grunts.  I don’t really mind that no one wants to talk to me.  I’m not in the mood, to be honest.

We walk across Tulip Close and into Daisy Lane (yes, a pattern is emerging) and reach the main road.  I cross over and go down towards the ‘rec’ as we locals call it – an open space where people play football and cricket and where dog-walkers allow their dogs to foul the grass, much to the indignation of sports lovers.  I try to be community spirited and always take my plastic bag to collect the evidence.  It makes me gag every time, but I do it and then place it in the disgusting bin that is certainly not ‘fit for purpose’ as it’s over-flowing and hanging off its post.  Gaz always looks embarrassed by it all, as if he knows he shouldn’t relieve himself there, poor thing.

There’s a bench at the rec where I often sit, while Gaz wanders around, sniffing aimlessly.  Today, is no exception; I sit down and watch him as he walks the periphery of the grass, lifting his leg on various blades of grass.

This is the bench – I mean …
the
bench.  The bench where David told me his ‘news’.  I still go all funny when I think about that afternoon.

Chapter Two

You’d been quiet all morning – not unusual for you, really, but looking back, you were less smiley – more intense.  It was a Saturday and we were both tired, for different reasons. 

You’d had a particularly difficult week at school; we’d discussed various problems you were facing as Headmaster at supper every night that week – funding, inspections, discipline – the list was long – and I’d tried to be as sympathetic as possible, but I sometimes felt as if I was on the opposing ‘side’, as a mere teacher at the coalface, so to speak.  You were now so cut off from the reality of actual teaching, you’d forgotten what it was like to be confronted day in, day out with rows of teenagers, concealing their mobile phones, talking, plotting and throwing things.  I felt you’d forgotten why you’d gone into teaching in the first place, but I didn't say that … anyway, the reason I was tired was unrelated.  My hormones have been all over the place for months and the consequence is chronic sleeplessness.  At the time, it was getting ridiculous … each morning, I was feeling as if I’d had no sleep at all.  I was lying awake most of the night and then falling asleep at around 4.30 am and being dragged out of semi-unconsciousness at 7 am, by Jim Naughtie on Radio Four. 

So, all things considered, I wasn’t surprised that we didn’t talk to each other that Saturday morning.  We’d got up late; we sat together at the breakfast table, you looking at your iPad and me, reading the Times.  Married couples do that though – you don’t have to talk to each other all the time, do you?  Sometimes, it’s nice to sit companionably silent.

Our routine at the weekend was usually: me going to the supermarket to do the weekly shop, while you took Gaz for a walk.  We’d go to the pub for a drink at lunchtime and in the summer, we’d go down to the club and play tennis in the afternoon, either as a mixed doubles pair, or as singles.  We had friends and acquaintances down there and we could usually find someone to play with.  We made good doubles partners – you were good at the net and I was good at lobs, at the back.  If it was winter, you might still go to tennis, but I was strictly a fair weather player, so I’d stay at home and catch up on housework or marking.  If you didn’t play tennis, you’d watch rugby and shout at the television or, do the Telegraph crossword.

That Saturday morning, you’d suggested we went for a walk together, which, although it wasn’t unprecedented, was unusual enough for me to take note. 

What’s that about, I remember thinking?  Little did I know what was coming.

We did our usual walk – Gaz was pottering happily and you suggested we sat down on the bench.  I didn’t particularly want to, it wasn’t that warm and I wanted to get on, but you insisted – so we sat and I remember watching, as Gaz triumphantly found a ball in the undergrowth and ran over to us, with it gripped between his teeth. 

That image is burnt into my brain now
– the happy dog running towards me, the yellow of the tennis ball – it’s as if he’s running in hyper slow-motion towards a truck that is going to come out from nowhere and run him over …splat.  That’s how it felt – it was as if you’d run me down, and then reversed over my prone body again and again, to make sure I was dead.

“Anna, I need to tell you something,” you said.  I can remember hearing those words and not thinking anything much.  I can remember not even turning to look at you; I was watching Gaz, wasn’t I?

“Anna, did you hear me?”

“Yes, well … get on with it, then,” I said, sort of jokily ironic, in the way we were prone to speak to each other.

There was a long pause and this made me turn towards you.  You looked pale, your eyes had black rings under them, and for the first time, I wondered what was wrong.  Maybe he’s ill, I thought.  Maybe he’s going to say he hates his new job and wants to quit?

“Anna, there’s no easy way to say this … I’m sorry …”

“What?” I said, finally realising it was something important.

“Anna … I’ve fallen in love with someone else …”

Those words still have the same effect on me now, when I think about them.  I hear your voice, I see your face … and I feel the pain that
literally
hit me in the stomach that day.  I can remember momentarily wondering if this was your idea of a sick joke … maybe it’s an ill-thought out jape and you’re suddenly going to burst out laughing?  But it was fleeting – I only had to look at your face to see that it was true.  The pain I felt, flashed through my entire body, leaving me breathless; at that moment, the life drained out of me.  I felt I was going to faint.

“Anna … Anna … did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, I heard.”

I remember leaning forward, putting my head in my hands, my elbows resting on my knees and almost blacking out.  It was such a shock.  I had no idea you were going to say that to me, no idea at all.  No inkling.

“I’m so sorry,” you said.  “I
had
to tell you.  It’s been killing me.  I couldn’t live like this, any more.”

You put your hand on my back but I couldn’t bear your touch.  I stood up and almost fell over, as my legs gave way.  Gaz, ever hopeful, thought I was going to throw the ball and spat it out at my feet, looking up expectantly.

“Anna, say something … anything … shout at me, if you want,” you said.  I turned towards you and for a split second, I can remember feeling sorry for you – your face looked haggard, ravaged even, but then I remembered what you’d said.

“Who is it?”

Your face took on a guilty look and I understood, instantly, that it was someone I knew.

*

“Who?” I shouted to the air, not caring that an old couple walking nearby were staring at us.  They were quite blatant – they didn’t try to hide their interest at all.

“Sit down,” you said.  “Sit down and I’ll explain.”

I didn’t want to hear your explanation; I thought it might, quite literally, kill me.  But I sat down, like one of your pupils about to be told off.  I couldn’t look at you, so I set my eyes on Gaz who was standing in front of me, still holding the ball, with a look of disappointment on his face.

“I’m so sorry, Anna, I really am.  I never meant this to happen.  I never set out to hurt you.  It crept up on us.”

The ‘us’ pained me like no other word could.  ‘Us’ now referred to you and someone else, not you and me.  It was as if you’d stabbed me with a knife, right through the ribs.  I drew my eyes away from Gaz and turned to face you. 

“It just happened,” you said.

“That’s what they all say,” I said.  “But it doesn’t
just happen
, does it? ”

There was a long silence.  The old couple had moved on now, so had Gaz.  There was no one else on the rec.  I noticed a small flock of black birds swooping overhead; the only sound I could hear was the distant rumble of traffic from the dual-carriageway.

“So … who is she, then?” 

You looked directly at me, opened your mouth, closed it again and then whispered, “Suzie Barton.”

Why didn’t I see that coming?  Suzie Barton.   The woman all the men drool over when she bounces through the staffroom door in her tracksuit, whistle round her neck, blond ponytail swinging.  She can’t be more than thirty-six, for God’s sake.  I’ve never really got to know her – the PE staff are a group apart, with all their energy and outdoor activities. 

These thoughts were rushing through my head as I stared at you, your face now white, your eyes, haunted.  If you’re so in love, why don’t you look happier?

“Well, say something …” you said.  “I’m so sorry … but … you needed to know.”

“She’s married, isn’t she?”

“She was … she left him.  She and her daughter …”

“How old?”

“Her daughter?  Gemma’s three – they moved out …”

“So … was this before or after you ‘fell in love’?” I said, in the most damning, hurtful tone I could muster.  I wanted you to see how ridiculous you were being, to make you see how clichéd it was to ‘fall in love’ at your age.  I wanted to hurt you, as much as you’d hurt me.

“Before … they’d split up months before – I wasn’t the cause of their breakup …”

“How convenient,” I spat, “for her, I mean, to fall in love with someone on a good salary ..."

“It wasn’t like that.”

“How long … how long have you been screwing her?”

“Anna … please … it’s not like that … if it was just sex, it’d be easier.”