Authors: Helen FitzGerald
Snapshots of him, roughly edited.
The bathroom door is open. Will is taking a morning piss. From a slightly hairy bum he squeezes a fart, as he usually does, interrupting the flow only slightly.
He’s channel flicking. The babies are crying but he doesn’t seem to notice. His mouth is half open. There’s a curry stain on his T-shirt. His blond hair’s not as thick as it was but it still manages to stick up, in all directions. There’s stubble on his face. He needs Botox on his forehead. He needs a bath.
He’s chopping onions and it’s taking him a long time.
He’s snoring in bed. The covers don’t cover his
alcohol-induced
belly.
He’s saying, ‘Hello, gorgeous!’
‘What do you love about me?’ she’s asking from behind the lens.
‘Um …’ he says. ‘Everything.’
‘No, what, exactly, specifically?’ she asks.
‘All of you. You’re great,’ he says.
He’s turning the music down, then up a bit, then down a bit.
He’s reading the arts section then nodding at it, then shaking his head at it.
He’s stacking the dishwasher and it’s taking him a long time.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he’s saying.
‘Talk to me,’ she says. ‘Tell me something.’
‘Um … What would you like to talk about?’ he replies. ‘What would you like me to tell you?’
He’s choosing a shirt from the cupboard and it’s taking him a long time.
Making a sandwich – ham or salami?
Farting over the toilet again.
Snoring again.
Channel flicking again.
Nodding at the paper, then shaking his head at it, again.
Ahhh! Will turned it off, replaced it with the far less irritating
Pingu
.
He understood. He would have left him if he could. He was officially the most boring, disgusting,
spaced-out
, dithery person on the planet. By the age of
thirty-three
he had become a seventy-five-year-old, and not even an interesting one with Suez Crisis stories and valuable knick-knacks and stuff.
The images made him ill to the pit of his stomach. Who was he? How could he inspire such disgust – in Cynthia, yes – but mostly in himself? He had never hated himself so fully.
Will put the girls to bed, told them a story and played the video again, then again. Stopping,
rewinding
and replaying the failure before him, the man with no goals, no spine, no drive, no pride, no lover, no hair gel. The man with nothing.
He cried.
She didn’t even say goodbye. Couldn’t she have done that? A heart-wrenching but beautiful goodbye, as
tear-jerking
as that song ‘Time to Say Goodbye’.
He put the CD on, listened to it over and over. This is what he should have had, at least.
What an idiot he’d been to not see it, to assume that she loved him because he loved her, that stress and two glasses of wine had doped her out each evening, that she’d put deposits down for the new kitchen and bathroom they’d planned and not used the money to shoot up, that she was out filming a music video or at Pilates with Janet and not fucking Heath in his flat in Denistoun.
Fucking Heath.
Will’s neighbourhood, a sea of red sandstone, was cut off from other neighbourhoods by three main roads and a train line. Several hundred identical 1920s
terraces
lined undulating leafy avenues. Each contained affluent white married couples with between one and three children who were all enrolled in the excellent
local
schools. Churchgoers all went to the same Church of Scotland church. Boys went to the same Scout hall, girls were badged by the same Brown Owl, suits got the same train into town, joggers carved the same four-mile route around the postcode’s boundary. Why would anyone venture beyond when the supermarket, post office, off-licence, florist, park, hairdresser’s and tanning salon were all within walking distance? Why go into town at night when you could dine, drink and flirt in each other’s houses? So everyone knew
everyone
. And everyone knew everything. As such, that summer, Will was the talk of the area.
Georgie and Kay’s first day of nursery arrived a week after Cynthia left. When Will was on his way back,
tearfully
looking over the photos he’d taken on his digital camera, a gaggle of suit-widow yummy mummies saw him approaching and synchronised a gesture of
sympathy
– a collective slumping of shoulders, nodding of heads, sighing. He walked past them as fast as he could, but one, with blonde curly hair, dressed in
three-quarter
length Lycra jogging trousers and trainers, raced after him. ‘Will,’ she said. ‘My name’s Linda.’
‘Hello.’
‘We’ve … I’ve heard about your wife … and I wanted you to know I’m happy to do anything I can to help.’
Can you remind me to breathe?
he thought to himself.
Can you fuck off?
‘Georgie and Kay are in my Bethanay’s class. Would they maybe like to come for a play after nursery? Give you a wee break?’
Georgie, as difficult as she had been that morning, did indeed want to play at Bethanay’s, so that
afternoon
Will found himself following Linda and her Cabbage-Patch-doll daughter and mad-as-a-snake
toddler
to their house, which was just one block from his.
‘Come in for coffee.’ She wasn’t asking so he couldn’t say no, so he followed her through her hall (identical to his but for a larger oak table) and into her kitchen (identical to his but with the new units he thought Cynthia had ordered at Magnet). He sipped coffee, wondering why on earth this woman thought it was helpful to prevent him from going home to prepare dinner and finish off his work and do the washing and pre-pack tomorrow’s lunches.
Linda’s husband travelled a lot. This left Linda with a super king-size bed that was usually half empty. She pointed it out to Will while giving him a detailed tour of her house (identical to his bar a two-bedroom attic conversion). But she was an optimist and thought of her bed as being half full and Will knew before he left that first afternoon that he was the one she hoped would fill the other half. ‘You mustn’t let yourself get lonely,’ she said, for example, after pointing out the original oil painting above the super king-size bed, and then, ‘Don’t forget I’m here to make sure you don’t get down. If there’s anything,
anything
, you need …’ etcetera and so on.
At six thirty Will walked the girls home and told himself he must never talk to any of the mothers again, especially Linda. When he unlocked the front door, both girls began crying because they were tired and starving and over-stimulated and
Where’s Mummy? Why hasn’t she come home yet?
As always, Will was honest with the kids. He sat the two three-year-olds down and told them again that their mummy was in a place far away, and that she had an addiction problem.
‘What does that mean?’ Kay asked.
‘It means her body tells her she needs bad things.’
‘What bad things?’ asked Georgie.
‘They’re called drugs,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of like mummy’s sick. And she doesn’t feel able to see you at the moment. Maybe we should let her be. Maybe we should count our blessings.’
‘Okay then, Daddy,’ said little Kay.
‘What’s blessings?’ mumbled Georgie.
Will poured himself a glass of wine, his mood
mirroring
the disastrous journey of the baked beans he’d put on the cooker: simmering, boiling, burning: holy crap, he couldn’t even cook baked beans.
Georgie refused to eat them. ‘You ruin everything! You made Mummy leave! I hate you! It’s all your fault!’ She pushed the bowl of blackened beans off the table. They splattered to the floor. Unremorseful, she looked at her father and said, ‘You’re stupid.’
She was only three, wee Georgie, but so angry and unhappy. Will had never experienced anything as sad as watching a sad child.
*
That night, Will wrote a letter.
Dear Cynthia,
Georgie and Kay started nursery today. They are beautiful little girls, but Georgie in particular is angry and she doesn’t understand why you left her.
She blames me. Could you write to her? Could you send her some photos? Could you come and see her? Perhaps you could explain why she has no mother, because I can’t.
Will
He never sent it, of course.
*
Despite Will’s pledge never to speak to Linda again, the girls’ busy lives necessitated constant interaction with her and the other suit-widows. He had no time for male friends. Si hadn’t been in touch since Cynthia left – why would he be? Will had neither the emotional nor
physical
resources to play golf, drink and fuck around. Before long, he was declared to be one of the girls. But he didn’t fully belong in any of the places he needed to be: ballet classes, cheese-and-wine nights at the nursery, PTA
meetings
. He may as well have been a little green alien. His newfound peers talked about face creams, curtains and unhelpful partners. They looked at him like they looked at their kids –
Ah, isn’t he cute.
They wanted to feed him. They wanted to pat him on the head. They wanted their partners to be as good at getting out stains as he was. They wanted coffee mornings to be at his house so they could watch him at work, admiring and despising him at the same time (
Look, he’s a man, and he’s slicing a cake. Isn’t that great? Look, he’s a man, and he’s slicing a cake, isn’t that screwe
d
up? Take the knife from him now! Make him a ginormous
salami
sandwich! Turn on the football! Offer him your body!
)
It took three months before Linda officially offered Will hers. The ballet show had run late. She came into his house on the way home (Bethanay had left her favourite teddy in the bedroom, or some such excuse) and asked for a drink.
‘I’d better get the kids to sleep,’ Will said.
‘Put them in front of a video. They’ll be asleep in two seconds.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? They’ll be
knackered
tomorrow.’
‘I’m sure it’s a good idea,’ she said, switching on SpongeBob and pouring them both a glass of red wine.
‘I love watching you with your kids,’ she said. ‘You put me to shame. So patient and devoted!’
‘You know what I find amazing?’ Will said. ‘Sometimes when I think about them, or look at them, I get
butterflies
. Y’know that falling in love feeling? No matter how difficult they’re being, or how tired I am. That’s lucky, hey? To have that. I don’t suppose the chemistry goes the same way as it does for lovers, does it?’
‘I only get that when they’re asleep,’ Linda laughed, moving closer. ‘You are a lovely man.’
Will closed his eyes as she kissed him, trying to immerse himself in her decision.
You are someone who likes me
, he said to himself, tongue now implicated.
You
are not Cynthia. Cynthia does not exist.
‘I can’t.’ He pushed her away a little roughly.
‘I’m sorry …’ She sounded annoyed.
So was Will.
It wasn’t that he didn’t find her attractive. Linda was a good-looking woman. She had the kind of bum men can’t help but want to grab. She had smiley blue eyes. Her breasts appeared defiantly upright despite
thirty-three
years of bouncing and three of breastfeeding. The problem was that Will was still in love with a woman he hoped – expected – would turn up one day, sorry and shamefaced and drug free and desperate to love him. This part of him stared out the window each night after the kids went to bed willing her to appear. It practised what she might say when he opened the door:
Forgive me.
How can you forgive me?
I beg you to forgive me.
Where are they? Are they sleeping?
It practised what she might write in a letter:
Dear Will,
Get me away from this man! He holds me here. I will try to escape again tomorrow.
Yours, C.
Or …
Dear Will,
I left to go into rehab. I couldn’t face telling you how serious my problem was. But I am doing well, and I will be home soon.
Yours, C.
It practised what she might say on the phone:
I am on my way. Nothing you can say will stop me from making it up to you.
It practised opening the door, seeing her there. Being silent, then angry, then sexually aggressive, then tender, forgiving, loving, for the rest of his life.
It practised switching off from anyone or anything that might prevent this reconciliation from happening. Linda, for example, who held back after that fateful kitchen kiss, and became his friend.
‘Good Guy’, she called him. ‘Hey, Good Guy, I’m taking you to the supermarket.’
‘Good Guy, we’re going walking. It doesn’t matter that it’s raining!’
‘Come over for dinner, Good Guy.’
Dinner was the first of many bad ideas. It was the usual Saturday night in the neighbourhood. Four
couples
gathered in every fourth house to eat meals
involving
fresh coriander. In this case, there were three
couples
and Will.
He had to bring the kids. And, while Kay played with Archie and Bethanay upstairs, Georgie wouldn’t leave Will alone. She sat on his knee throughout the four-course ordeal like a poised-to-pounce cat, not
eating
anything, not talking, crying, screaming, anything. It was as if she was Tasered by the coupledom – Ah, so that’s what a married couple acts like, her wide eyes seemed to say as she gazed around the table.
*
‘Your husband is very nice,’ Will said to Linda the next time she saw him in the school playground.
‘He is. But …’
‘But what?’ Will said.
‘I dunno. Guess we’ve been together a long time. Kind of becomes a business, marriage, after a while. Not sure who’s the managing director. And there’s always the possibility of cutbacks.’
‘Is he good in bed?’
Linda slapped him on the arm. ‘He’s a little girly, maybe.’
‘What about counselling?’ Will suggested.
‘It’s not that bad. But, yeah, can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind, for the kids, like. They must sense the
atmosphere
’s a bit strained.’ Linda sighed. ‘Counselling. Get everything out in the open. Is that really a good idea?’
The conversation was interrupted by Bethanay and Kay racing out of school, Georgie skulking along behind with a wad of her latest drawings in hand.
‘Daddy!’ Kay said, wrapping herself around his legs.
Without dislodging cling-on Kay, he leant down to hug Georgie. ‘You scrunched my artwork, you idiot,’ she said, elbowing a quick release and walking away.