Simon's Choice (16 page)

“Not a problem, Simon, not a problem. Good to see you too. Not seen you about for a long time. Still I suppose you’re busy with your little one, especially seeing as she’s in cattle-class. You’ll have your hands full keeping an eye on the doctors who are supposed to be treating her. You’re with a lucky man there, Simon. I was just talking to our Jim here ...” He gestured at a sycophantic looking youth behind the bar, “ ... and we was saying, bit unfair your winning that egg last week, Pavit. What with you being Muslim and all.”

“Bye, Kevin.” Simon gave what he hoped was a winning smile, grabbed Pavit by the arm, and marched him into the next room.

Chapter 18

Porridge was whining and scraping at the back door when Simon let himself in at the rear entrance to his house. The Labrador shot past him and into the garden, relieving himself noisily against the wooden shed.

“That was much needed, Porridge. Have you had your legs plaited, lad?” Simon bent down and buried his face in the dog’s fur. Porridge, having dealt with his more immediate bladder concerns, now greeted his dad enthusiastically. “Where’s mum then, eh? Haven’t you had a walk?”

Man and dog strolled into the silent kitchen. Porridge headed straight for his empty bowl, looked pointedly at it and then back at Simon, who glanced at the clock. “Only three-thirty, boy. Please don’t look at me like that.” Simon rolled his eyes. “Come on then, give us that bowl and we’ll do a fresh one.”

He refilled Porridge’s bowl and checked the answer machine. There was one message from Lorraine, Melissa’s partner at the florists - something to do with ribbons. Simon scribbled a note onto a Post-it.

He opened the fridge, contemplated a beer and decided it was too early. He turned the TV on in the conservatory and flicked through the channels. Sport, no. Carry On Matron, no. 50 Best Looking Booties in Pop, no. He settled finally for the last half of 'Live and Let Die' and changed his mind about the beer. With a deep sigh, he sank into the squashy sofa with Porridge at his feet. He stared at the TV for a while, but despite his usual love of all things Bond, Roger Moore failed to hold his attention. Finishing his beer and grabbing another from the fridge, he started opening cupboards, deciding what to make Sarah for tea and then remembered that Sarah was not there.

He checked the time again – four-thirty now, and wondered where Melissa was. He knew she'd had a wedding that day, but usually the hard work was in the morning and they were finished and away for twelve. The venue usually took care of the leftover floral arrangements, no doubt recycling them for their non-wedding events or gala dinners. It wasn’t like Mel not to have checked in with him. And what about Porridge? She usually took him with her if she went out in the afternoon.

A prickle of concern registered but was quickly cast aside. Simon decided to call Madron House and check on Sarah for the evening. The nurses were in the habit of answering the main desk telephone if they happened to be passing, and he was pleased to get Fiona on the line. Sarah was tucked in for the night. The nausea that had plagued her the previous night was under control, and they were hoping she would have a good night. They let him speak to her briefly, though she was sleepy and tipsy on morphine.

There was, it seemed, a likelihood that Sarah would stay at the hospice permanently. She was increasingly unable to come down stairs and there was an escalated need for nursing care. There had, much to Sarah’s distress, been a couple of bed-wetting incidents. She was also becoming less able to take solid food. A decision was to be made on Monday, but it looked likely that Sarah had moved on.

Simon felt calmer with that realization than he would have thought. The past week had been one of the hardest yet. Sarah’s illness was a constant dark presence haunting the household. He had come to recognize that she was more comfortable in the hospice. Since she slept throughout most of the day, she often woke in the night. At Madron there was always someone there with whom she could chat. A person who could read to her, soothe her. During the day she wasn't confined to watching yet more TV. She could interact with other children, play, paint. There had been a little theatre performance only recently. The troop had even visited the rooms of those children well enough to watch, but too poorly to leave their beds.

Still, the silence grated. Five-thirty. Three Budweisers. Where was Mel? He pulled his mobile out, checking to see if he had missed any messages. None. He reached into the fridge for another beer and then stopped, frowning as he noticed a folded piece of violet coloured paper propped against the last beer at the back of the fridge.

Simon opened his beer, seeing no rush to read what was clearly going to either hurt or infuriate him. He shoved a small slice of lemon in the top and sucked the rim of the bottle quickly as the beer foamed up. He walked over to the shabby sofa in the conservatory, chewing the inside of his cheek, and unfolded the paper.

Simon -

If you have found this (as I know you will), then you will have drunk nearly all the beer.

As you know, Sarah will not be coming out of Madron House. Therefore, as per our conversation at the florist’s, I want you out of the house. I am staying at my parents and would like you to be gone by Tuesday. As you do not start work again until next Thursday, this should give you time to find digs or whatever.

I’m sorry that it has come to this. I would have thought that I would need you more than ever during this time. But I find that I am the stronger one and that you, rather than providing strength, are merely pulling me down.

You know when you are the designated driver at a party? You hate that moment, don’t you, Simon, when everyone has just started to get drunk. You always get grumpy and want to leave. You say it is like we are at different parties – the jokes aren’t funny to you and the conversation doesn’t flow naturally. That’s what living with you is like for me at the moment. Even if you are not unconscious with booze, you are not all there ... It’s like I’m living on my own anyway. You’re either tipsy or hung over and I don’t know where I fit in. I don’t think it would even matter if you weren’t drinking, to be honest. I just don’t know what you are thinking anymore.

I don’t want Sarah to know anything about any of this. We can still go to the hospice together and we must put on a show. Frankly, I think it’s been a show for a long time, hasn’t it, Simon? We’ll keep going until the end. After that, I’d like us to move forward with a divorce. A new start might help you. I know it will help me.

I’ve left Porridge there. I haven’t decided what I think should be done about him. I felt that you would probably appreciate the company tonight. I hope you got back before he had an accident. If he did, there’s some special spray under the sink.

I’m sorry to do this, Simon. I just think that we have come to a fork in our lives and that you have chosen a different path to the one that I am on. Perhaps we will remain friends. I’d like that.

I hope your mum and dad don’t hate me.

Still yours, though as a friend,

Mel xxx

The thing that irritated Simon the most, he thought miserably, were the kisses at the end. Why did women do that? And what did three mean? Simon looked down at Porridge, who gazed up at him, totally unaware of the fissure in his life that widened by the minute. His Labrador eyes were watery and loving and at the side of his mouth his black lips curled into a totally unknowing smile.

“Come on, Porridge. Let’s go to the pub.”

* * *

The Whippet and Wastrel, Simon’s local pub, was relatively busy. Relative that is, to the other three pubs in the village, all of which had shut or were on the verge of shutting, following the smoking ban. Thankfully, The Whippet accepted dogs, providing bowls of water and a dog-loving clientèle who were more than happy to share their pork scratchings. As a consequence, Porridge was a big fan of the pub.

Strains of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘Survivor’ blasted out as Simon opened the pub door. The complete destruction of the vocal part indicated that Saturday’s karaoke was in full swing. Simon smiled, receiving a warm reception from the motley group of drinkers at one end of the bar. They comprised the usual assortment of pub regulars: the men with large noses and larger guts, accompanied by women clutching half pints of lager. Porridge got the louder welcome, the younger girls coming over to pat the genial Labrador and the pub’s other canine residents padding over for a little friendly bottom sniffing.

“’Usual, Simon?” The wiry landlord gestured with a pint glass.

“Please, Steve.”

Simon fielded a number of generic
‘how are you’s
and
‘what you been up to’s
, paid for his pint and made his usual feeble request that Porridge should not be fed, knowing full well that he would be roundly ignored.

The Gloria Gaynor attempt came to a finish, the applause scant, and the karaoke master called up another name to the stage. The lilting opening chords of Roger Miller’s ‘King of the Road’ made the crowd cheer.

The evening sped by in a blur of ‘just one more pints’, dreadful singing and worse jokes. Porridge lay underneath a table, satiated and flatulent. His owner sat on a bar stool nearby, tipsy but compos mentis.

“Fancy a whisky, Simon?” Steve, the landlord took a bottle of expensive scotch down from a private, high shelf behind the bar. The pub had emptied, all but for a group of lads playing pool and a couple having a whispered argument at one of the tables. “My treat. It’s good stuff this. Brought it back from the Isle of Arran.”

Simon nodded. “And then I’d better let you lock up. Do you want a hand with anything?”

“No, don’t be daft. I’ll do the glasses in the morning. Get some of that down you.” Steve poured a generous measure of whisky into a tumbler. “How’s your little girl doing, Simon?”

“Not well.” Simon suddenly found it easier to discuss, now his tongue had been lubricated by an evening's drinking. “To be honest with you, Steve, she’s nearing the end. Probably only weeks now. It’s funny. You'd think the fear of them dying would be the worst part, but after a while it hurts even more to see them in pain. I can’t bear to see her live and I can’t bear to let her go.” He stared at his glass but saw nothing. “There’s no respite and I can’t ever see any in the future. I shall always be broken.”

“My God. I’m so sorry, mate. I had no idea it had got so bad.”

Simon shrugged. “Melissa left me.”

“What? Jesus. When? That’s bad timing isn’t it?”

“Today. This evening. Before I came in. Left a note. Twelve years of marriage, apparently disposable by
note
. Or is it a
notelet
? Melissa is forever sending people ‘notelets’. Haven’t the foggiest what one is. Perhaps I have been dispatched by notelet. Good whisky, Steve. Any chance of a lager – fancy one? I’m buying.”

“Of course, Mate. I’ll get ‘em though. No. Put your money away. So what are you going to do?”

Simon looked over at Porridge who gave a little groan in his sleep. “Don’t know. She says she wants me ‘out of the house’. By Tuesday. Don’t know anyone with a spare flat do you? Thanks.”

Steve took a deep swig of his own beer. “As a matter of fact, I do. You’re standing underneath it. I’ve got a manager’s flat upstairs, below my own. Had that ditzy barmaid and her boyfriend staying up there, but they’ve moved in with her mum to save on rent. You’re more than welcome to have it. Lord knows, I can’t think of a better tenant, but I don’t think you’ll like it. Bloody dump to be honest. It’s clean, but you know what young bar-staff are like. It’s been painted every colour from tangerine to dark purple. And it’s noisy. You can hear everything from downstairs.”

“How much?”

“Three hundred and seventy a month. Three hundred bond. Gas and ‘lecky all in.”

Simon ran his finger round the top of his beer glass. “I might be interested. Would Porridge be okay?”

Both men looked at Porridge, who, as if on cue, farted loudly. Steve grinned. “Normally, I’d say no. But I know you’re going to be clean and, as long as you don’t have an aversion to vacuum cleaners, the smelly old mutt can stay. But you’ll have to make sure his business is picked up in the beer garden, and I don’t want him barking. You want it then?”

Simon took a deep breath, then exhaled, feeling completely empty. “Why not?”

Chapter 19

Melissa sliced through the water, as sleek and streamlined as a barracuda. She kept her face in the water, her eyes wide open, watching guidelines that marked the tiles beneath her.

She performed a neat tumble-turn in the deep end and began a return lap, noting in slight irritation that a number of rubber-capped old ladies had gathered for a natter at the shallow end. The pool, a facility of the expensive private members gym, of which she was a member, was always quiet. In the afternoon, though, the elderly clientèle swam slowly, blocking the lanes and standing against the pool walls. It meant that Melissa was unable to swim with the speed and aggression with which she preferred.

Melissa loved the water. All her energy, all her anger, could be channeled into the physical act of swimming. She loved the way she could contort her face as she pushed herself to her physical limit, but nobody could see her pain. Loved the way her heart raced and her muscles ached, yet there was no sweat, no puffy red face, no damp patches, no jiggly bits, no embarrassment. Her exertion was clean, controllable, and most of all, private.

Today the chlorinated water was particularly welcome, cleansing her not only of her excess energy and anger, but also of the feeling that something about her was dirty. Now, as she executed a perfect front crawl, she began to feel a little more like herself. Cleaner. More in control.