The Torn Up Marriage (22 page)

“Well, if you need a help with the washing up later, I’m happy to call back. Just give me a ring.”

“Thanks, that’s really sweet. But I’m afraid my parents will definitely have beaten you to it. My father is the washing-up king.”

“Okay, well, see you about.”

“Bye.”

He walked away down the hall to the front door, opened it, and turned to give her a warm smile, lingered there a second or two, then closed the door carefully behind him. Kate sighed, wishing she could offer something more than friendship, then headed back to the kitchen. From the window she could see Emily had got her steam back, squealing as she raced about, probably high on cake once more. Kate was still watching her when Michael came in.

“Thanks for doing all this for Emmie,” His voice was warm, had an affectionate tone to it. It jolted her. “It seems to be a big success,” he continued.

Kate felt her heart hammering in her chest. How did he still do this to her? Standing here together in the kitchen of what was their family home, where they’d shared meals and kisses, and where he had told her that night that he was having an affair. Over his shoulder, Kate spotted Sophie loitering at the kitchen door. She busied herself with cutting more cake, methodically laying out slices on tea plates, along with a “Fairy Princess” paper napkin.

“That’s okay,” she muttered coolly, looking down as she worked, “I’m just glad it’s gone off well.”

George, Michael’s father, appeared, brushing past Sophie with a gruff “’Scuse me”, then muttering, “Don’t know why you had to bring
her
along”. He glared at Michael.

“
Excuse
me?” Sophie’s voice was high and sharp.

“I’m just coming to make Dorothy a cup of tea.” He totally ignored her reaction.

“Dad, I’m sorry but you can’t just barge by saying things like that.”

“And why not, son? She
really
shouldn’t be here. It’s not her place. It’s a
family
party. And she’s just your bit of trollop as far as I’m concerned.” George was reddening in the face, puffing the words out.

Michael looked taken aback.

“Actually, George, Emily wanted her to come, and I said ‘yes’. That’s why she’s here,” Kate’s voice was surprisingly calm. As the words came out, she couldn’t believe she was sticking up for the woman.

“Dad, let’s just pretend you never said that. Okay?”

George just harrumphed as he put on the kettle.

Sophie glared at them all, then slipped out into the hall.

Michael stood quietly a moment, then said, “Can I take some of that cake round for you?” Maybe he needed to keep busy, too.

“Yes, thanks. It’s for the people in the front room. I’ve done all the garden.”

He set off, shaking his head softly at his father as he passed.

George looked across at Kate, “Sorry about that. Maybe out of turn, but it just makes me so bloody cross. And rubbing it in all our faces, too. There’s Dorothy ill and still the chemo to come. We’ve enough on our bloody plates. I just wanted a nice family day together, that’s all. I didn’t know
she’d
be here.”

“It’s okay, George, I understand… See that sore bit there,” She poked out her tongue, it did actually look a bit reddish and white at the end, like there was an ulcer forming. “That’s where I’ve been biting it all day.”

They both laughed, George shaking his head at the madness of it all.

“Come on, then,” added Kate, “I’ll make up a pot, and we’ll see if anyone else wants tea.”

“He wants some sense knocking into him, that boy. If I was a few years younger, I would have snapped you up myself and never let go.” He gave her a wink.

“Now what would Dorothy have to say about that?”

They grinned.

Tea was offered and Kate headed back through the hall, for the safety of the kitchen once more. Michael and Sophie were exchanging words at the far end of the hallway near the front door. Kate glanced at them, felt awkward. Sophie’s shoulders were stiff. Michael’s arms were flailing in exasperation as he spoke. She’d seen that action before. Snatches of Sophie’s terse words came to her, “Just stood there” and “Let him say that”.

Michael’s replies including wafts of “A hard time” and “Respect that.”

Kate was swiftly moving on when she heard Sophie’s voice go up a pitch, “And what about showing some respect for
me
, Michael? Some loyalty to
me
!”

Mel was now in the kitchen with Kev, pouring herself another glass of cava. “Ooh, hope it’s okay to help myself. Lost your dad there for a while now.”

“Oh, he’s in the lounge, finally taking a rest with a cup of tea.”

“Anyway, how’s it all going?” Mel asked. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, I’m okay. Don’t know about those two, though.” Kate gestured out to the hall, where the voices were getting louder, then abruptly stopped.

A few seconds later, Michael popped his head into the kitchen. “We’re going now,” he looked flustered. “I’ll just go find the girls and say goodbye. Thanks, Kate, it’s been a great party for Em.” He dashed out to the garden.

The front door slammed, shaking the walls.

“Ooops. Sounds like he’s in big boy’s trouble,” said Mel.

Michael came trotting back, poked his head around the door again. “Bye, then, Kate. Would you mind saying goodbye to your parents for me? Sorry, got to dash.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Mel commented, as they heard his footsteps retreating. “I knew the real world would have to kick in sometime. It always does.” She sipped her cava thoughtfully.

Kate felt like having a glass to join her, but stuck the kettle back on. A cup of tea would do fine. She still had a lot of tidying up to do. She remembered the smudged piece of chocolate cake one of the boys had dropped on the carpet. She pulled out the dustpan and brush, reaching the hall, just as the front door closed behind Michael.

“Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes,” muttered Kevin.

“For once, can you think about me?” Sophie thumped down her coffee cup on the lounge table, little splashes of brown licking the air, the argument still roaring away back at the flat. “It’s always,
always
about someone else. The girls, your dad, your mum, even Kate.
Oh no, too soon to get a divorce, it might upset Kate.
”

“What?” Michael shifted in his seat, glaring at her.

“Well,
I’ve
had to give up a lot to be with you, too. I’ve had to put up with your children being stroppy and resenting me. And your dad! Your dad was
so
rude to me today, it was unbelievable. But the worst of it is, Michael,
you let him
. You stood there and let him to speak to me like that. Where was your support, then? You’re meant to be there for me, too.”

“Now hang on there, hang on a minute,” Michael faced her square-on, “My mother has fucking cancer. No wonder Dad let off steam. Yes, he was a bit out of order, but I’m not going to have a go at him right now. She’s got chemo coming up in a week, Sophie.”

“But he was so horrible to me, so unfair. Blaming
me
for splitting all of you up, your lovely ideal family. But what about
you
in all this, their darling son? Why don’t they blame
you
? You were the one who went off with someone else, the one who walked out on them all. Or have they all conveniently forgotten that?” She stared at the wall for a couple of seconds, then started again, her voice lower, mumbling, “I could have met some nice unattached guy. Now that would have been far easier, and maybe he would have stood up for me when his father started to have a go.”

“That’s enough.
Enough,
Sophie. It’s not all about you.”

“Oh, and don’t I know it, Michael? It’s about every fucking thing else.” She stood up, ready to march out of the room.

“It’s
my family
,” his voice stopped her in her tracks. “I can’t just shove them off. And you knew, you
knew
what you were getting into.”

“No. No, I didn’t… I didn’t know it would be like this. Not this hard.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be with me any more, then, if it’s such a goddam awful place to be. Maybe I should just go, take my girls and my life somewhere else. ‘Cos if you had the slightest bit of compassion, you might realise how we’re all feeling right now. I hope to God your mother never gets ill, Sophie… I hope to God…” With that, he got up and strode out past her, the door to the flat slamming as he left, leaving the walls trembling.

He found himself parking up on the track, staring out at the dunes ahead to glimpses of a sunset sea. He sat there for a while, feeling drained. Then he walked down the sandy path, cutting through the coarse marram grass. A few terns circled above the beach, a solitary dog and owner silhouetted a little further down the bay. He didn’t know what had drawn him to this place, but there was a peace here that was soothing. The waves gently lapped the shore as he walked along it, the dampness of the sand soaking up into the leather of his shoes. It was chilly. He hadn’t a coat, was still in his smart shirt and jeans from the party. His Emily, now three, back at home – in what was once his house, where he wasn’t meant to go any more – probably tucked up in bed away in a world of birthday dreams. And he wondered where his world had gone, what he had done to it?

The dog bounded past, sending up an arc of spray in the shallows. A jolt of memory – Kate dashing for the sea, Lottie, a toddler, close at her heels. And he was running, too, steadily, carrying something… Emily, yes that was it, she was just a baby in his arms. The four of them splashing up the waves, fat droplets of water catching the sunlight like crystals. Icy-cold water and the warmth of the summer sun. Sounds of laughter and giggling.

Life had seemed so simple, then. He had changed all that. A vice-like ache for what might have been gripped his heart. But it had all gone too far. He had messed it all up. Stolen their laughter.

He walked on, hardly registering the damp of his shoes, the chill in the air. The dusky orange of the sky infused with navy, gradually turning to indigo, until the line between sky and sea faded. The dog-walker gone now, the terns gone to roost. They knew where they belonged. He’d better head back, go to the flat that still didn’t quite feel like home.

As he turned back, he noticed the inky blackness of the gathering clouds. Plops of rain started to fall, pinging off him, starting to drench him.

And suddenly there it was. Another walk, another memory. He and Kate had gone away. It was their first anniversary, yes, he remembered that. A long weekend in a country hotel in the Lake District. They were up in the fells. It had been beautiful when they set off, but the clouds had built and the higher they got, the gloomier the sky. Boy did it rain! Big, fat plops, with no respite. Soaking them within seconds. They probably didn’t have the right gear on at all, both dressed in jeans. Kate had a blouse on, pale-blue, which went dark with the wet and stuck to her skin. He could picture her vividly. He was probably in a t-shirt, couldn’t remember now.

They’d started to jog back down the hillside to try and find cover, but it was useless in the face of such elements. It was a long way down, back to the hotel in the valley. And then it started to get slippery, dangerous, as underfoot became rivulets. So they slowed. Took a look at each other, dripping from head to foot. And just stood and laughed. Real shuddering laughter.

Kate’s laugh – he’d give anything to hear that now. See her smile. Her face lit up with her old happy grin. Not the tight polite smile of the present, the smile she presented as he dropped off the girls.

And they’d finally got back to the hotel. They’d paused, dripping, just inside the entrance. The receptionist giving them a quizzical, slightly concerned look. “Just a light shower” he had quipped. She’d offered to fetch them towels, but he’d said they’d head straight up to their room. Where he helped peel Kate out of her clothes. She was shivering by now. And it was no mean feat, her jeans stuck like glue to her damp skin. She lay on the bed as he’d tugged at the ankles of her trousers. More laughter, amidst the shivering. She climbed damp and naked under the duvet, her body beckoned him. He pulled off his own wet jeans, boxers. Climbed in. They warmed up by making love, slowly, tenderly. She’d giggled afterwards, saying “Happy Anniversary!”, tousling his wet hair.

They’d shared a long, lingering bath after that. There was a huge Victorian-style tub. Soaping each other. The warmth of hot water, bare skin, kisses. It was late when they finally ventured down for dinner.

How had they changed so much? And why the hell was he thinking about all this now? Memories colliding with the present.

He got back to his car, sat in, his trousers sticking to the leather of the seat. Looked in the rear-view mirror as he ruffled a hand through his hair, flicking some of the rain off. Dried his hands on a cloth he kept in the dash, wiped his face with it, before putting his driving glasses on. He started the engine. He’d better head back.

Back to Sophie. The argument there in his mind now. Yes, his father’s words must have hurt her, yet she had to see that she had to let his family in, understand them all more. They came as a job lot. And he needed
her
support, too. He’d try and talk it through with her more calmly later. He used his key, entered the flat quietly. He hadn’t realised how late it had got. There was no noise within. He approached their bedroom, the door ajar, heard the soft sound of her breathing, saw a box of tissues on the bedside table. He could just slip between the sheets as though nothing had happened, feel the warmth of her skin. He wished he hadn’t been so harsh with her now. He stood torn for a second or two, then turned away to cross into the girls’ room, stripped down to his boxers and got into the bottom bunk; Em’s bed, his feet poking out from under the single duvet, cold against the metal railing. He felt tired, tired of it all. He’d wrecked his whole family, for what? The woman of his dreams, or so he thought, a chance of a new life, and here he was messing up this new relationship, too. It
had
to be worth it, had to be more than this. He
had
to make this work or he’d destroyed them all for nothing.

A lonely bed in a spare room. He was wary of turning over with all the creaking it was making; the joints didn’t seem that sturdy, no doubt meant for a six-year-old, not a thirty-four year-old. It had come flat-packed, self-assembly. DIY was never his strong point. He’d probably not done it right. The whole lot could come down at any time.

Eventually he drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep.

Words spoken above him or maybe in a dream, “Michael, are you awake? I-I’m sorry.” Someone gently shaking his shoulder. The whisper of their breath on his cheek.

He came to, focusing on her brown eyes, which were still puffy from crying.

“Come to bed, back to our room. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re having a bad time, and your mum and dad, too. I’ll just forget what George said, if that’s what you want. We can just move on.”

He sat up, bumping his head on the upper bunk, “Shit.”

The absurdness of the tiny bunk, the row that had blown everything out of proportion, they both broke into nervous laughter. He leant forward and held her to his bare chest, wanting so much to dissolve all the doubts within. “I’m sorry, too. I said too much, I was upset. We’ll work it out, with the girls and everything, won’t we?” He wanted to believe that.

She nodded as he held her to him, stifling her tears and laughter against his warm skin. They crossed the hallway hand in hand to their room. This
had
to be right. Had to work. They had given up so much. He kissed her as they lay down on their bed, her cheek still damp against his from her tears. He didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to mess things up even more. He took her gently, kissing her lips, it started to feel better – this was what they were good at. But later as she cried out, arched up, he realised they were both clinging on. And the doubts remained, were they any good at anything else?

George had taken the girls out for a wander in the woods, on a mission to search for acorns and pinecones, and to trudge through as many soggy leaves and puddles as possible.

It was a week after Emily’s party. Dorothy and Michael were sitting at the farmhouse kitchen table. Dorothy was booked in for her first infusion of chemotherapy in just three days’ time.

“Shall I come and see you at the hospital, Mum?”

“Oh, no need, really dear. Your father will be there with me. It’s only one day I’ll be in.”

His father, such a solid, dependable man, always there for her, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, a marriage grown even stronger over time; Michael’s own broken wedding vows silently mocked him.

“And I’ve been warned I’ll feel pretty ropey,” Dorothy continued, “Especially this first time. They might keep me in overnight, just to keep an eye on me. So once I’m in you can check with your dad, see how it’s all going. But I might even be home.” She had a look of longing that Michael recognised, just to be back home, for it all to be over with. “But don’t you worry yourself, you’re bound to be busy at work.”

“No, I’ll come. Of course I’ll come.” He was feeling churned up about it, to be honest. The thought of his mother having to go through all that. All for that bastard cancer. But if the chemo killed it all off, made sure it would never come back, then it had to be for the best. It had to be done. But the poor love… He’d gone and looked it up online: chemotherapy, treatments, side-effects, wanted to understand what she was going to go through, and then he wished he hadn’t. He’d got onto some real-life blog and it sounded fucking horrendous. And there she was, always so bloody brave. He crossed his hand over the dining table, taking hers gently. They shared an anxious smile, her blue eyes the same shade as his, full of courage and calm.

“I’ll be alright, Michael.”

He hoped he might inherit some of that bravery and kindness some day.

“Yeah,” his voice came out a little croaky. He coughed. “I’ll come and see you. I’ll check with Dad. Might you need anything? Chocolates, magazines?” He was clutching at straws.

“A magazine might be nice.” She had a stack of them half unread in the front room, but she knew he just wanted to help. “I might not fancy the chocolates.” She’d been reading the hospital advice and literature. Sickness was highly likely.

“Oh, of course, yeah.”
Stupid dick,
he told himself.

“Anyway, how are things with you and Sophie at the moment?”

“Well…”

“I’m sorry about your father at the party.”

“Oh, it’s okay. He was just a bit wound up, and worried about you, I’m sure. Probably still cross with me.” Michael paused. “It’s not been easy for me either, Mum. Changing everything, leaving Kate. It was a huge decision, and it still kills me that it had to affect the girls….”

“I know. It’s just your dad sees things in black and white sometimes.” She took her hand out from under his and placed it back over the top of his with a squeeze. It took him back to being a little boy. “Life’s not always easy, son. And the right things are sometimes hard to see, to do.” She sighed softly, “Sometimes you follow the wrong path, and get lost down it.” Her eyes seemed distant for a moment, as though she was remembering something.

He hadn’t ever felt so lost as he did now.

His mother’s eyes looked a little watery. “You haven’t instructed the solicitor yet, have you?” The last she had heard, Sophie was pressing him to get divorce papers sent out.

“No, not yet.” But they were drafted up, he knew. Sophie nagging him to just get on with it, but he wasn’t quite ready. Sophie kept bringing home house details from the estate agents too, wanting something bigger, left them lying around on the coffee table. But just thinking about selling his family home, telling Kate and the girls they’d have to move out, cut him up inside. It was going to be Christmas in a couple of months; surely it could wait till after that. He had a roof over his head with Sophie. They were okay. Michael looked across at his mother; she seemed paler than ever, tired.