by Carol Mason
‘Well, maybe you should have,’ I say. ‘Because I’ve a feeling she might be under the impression that I broke up your marriage. And maybe that’s why she’s having a very hard time with my presence in her life.’
Maybe this is what she meant when she told Toby that her mum and dad split up because he was having an affair!
I’m the affair!
‘My God,’ he says, after seeming to ruminate on this. ‘You really missed your vocation. You should have gone into psychiatry.’
There is no ignoring the sarcastic tone. It’s a nasty dig, and one I’d least expect from him. For some odd reason, I think of the day we met. How genuinely impressed he was that I was studying to be a doctor. And now he’s putting me down for it.
How far we have fallen.
‘You know what?’ I say, jumping to my feet. ‘Screw you.’
His jaw drops. Then he says, ‘What did you say?’
‘I said screw you. You’re threatened by any opinion you don’t share, aren’t you?’ My heart hammers. ‘Maybe it was because I’m twelve years younger than you that made you feel so secure with me, Joe. Because I couldn’t challenge or threaten your ego, or your parenting skills . . . Well, fuck this bullshit!’
I don’t think I’ve ever sworn at him. He just stares at me, astonishment blazing in his eyes.
‘You’re right,’ I say, with a little less vitriol. ‘She’s your daughter. Get on with parenting her. Don’t listen to a thing I’ve got to say. What would I know? Because you know everything. And, I mean, Grace – clearly – has been the beneficiary of that!’
I walk to our bedroom, go in and slam the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
For some inexplicable reason, I have patients who feel like old friends or family, and those who are mere faces, bodies, problems to solve. I can be remarkably detached from their conditions, or they can trouble me for days.
I’ve been on shift about two hours when they come in. A young guy clutching his wife’s hands. His big thumb caressing her wrist.
‘Everybody just keeps telling her to give it time,’ he speaks on her behalf. ‘But it’s gone on way too long. Nobody seems to be taking this seriously.’
Twenty-six-year-old Renata Nicols can’t keep anything down, not even liquids. She has lost twenty pounds in three weeks. X-rays of her stomach and bowel taken during her last visit to A&E eight days ago all came back normal, as did her blood work. She is pale and despondent but quietly enduring. Her husband is clearly worried sick.
‘You definitely shouldn’t still be vomiting like this if it was just food poisoning,’ I say when she talks me through all her symptoms. ‘And I’m very sorry you’ve felt no one is taking you seriously.’ I address both of them. ‘I can promise you I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do.’
They thank me profusely, and there’s a moment where I look at both their faces and catch a simultaneous welling in their eyes.
‘I see you’ve an appointment with a gastroenterologist, but it’s three months away. Obviously you can’t wait that long or there’ll be nothing left of you, will there?’ I try to sound upbeat. She attempts to smile. ‘So what I’m going to do is get a scope down to take a look at your oesophagus – today. It might mean waiting around a while, but give me an hour or so and let me see what I can come up with.’
They thank me profusely again.
I pull my gaze away from their joined hands and try to tamp down an unexpected surge of envy at how wrapped up in themselves they are. They don’t have kids, ex-wives, friends who don’t understand them. They are the centre of each other’s universe, cocooned in their newly married bubble. And no one would expect it to be any other way.
I walk back to my station and am just about to page the duty gastroenterologist when my mobile rings.
‘Grace denied it,’ Joe says – almost like he’s serving a ball for me to hit back. ‘She said there was never any stealing of any waistcoat, never any conversation about it with you . . . She had no idea what I was talking about, in fact.’ There’s a pause and then he says, ‘Why would you say that about her if it wasn’t true?’
The blood rushes to my face, pounds in my ears. Once again I find myself walking to the less populated end of the unit – to take a damned personal call.
‘I don’t know, Joe!’ I fire back, under my breath. ‘Think about it. Why would I . . . ? Don’t you think that perhaps Grace’s reasons for lying are greater than mine?’
‘I don’t know what to believe, to be honest,’ he says, after a protracted silence. ‘I’m starting to think I have no idea what’s really going on in our home or . . .’
In our marriage? Because neither do I!
I take a deep breath. ‘This is horrible timing for me. You can’t bother me at work with this stuff.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, sounding one part guilty and two parts offended. ‘We can talk about this later.’
I feel like saying, Why don’t you talk to your damned daughter?
But then he adds, ‘Anyway, it’s gone away. The earbuds thing. Sara withdrew her accusation. Meredith gave her the money to buy a replacement pair.’
Because she knows Grace stole them! She paid the girl off! I want to scream Doesn’t that say it all? Is everybody burying their heads in the sand? But as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, he says, ‘It just seemed easier than the whole business of one girl’s word against the other.’
Easier to believe a lie if it’s your daughter’s lie. Of course.
‘You know, Joe . . .’ I say. ‘I thought you had more integrity than that.’ And then I hang up.
I go back to my station to try to remember exactly what I was doing but I cannot pluck that conversation out of my head. I can just picture that distasteful little scenario. Sara, you’re a liar. You’ve accused my daughter of being a thief and risked getting her expelled, but here’s a pair of expensive earbuds anyway. Just because, you know, we’re generous people.
Urgh! The wrongness, and his attitude, beat away at me like a stick. Then I try to remember what this is really all about. Grace is acting out. She thinks I broke up her parents’ marriage. She thinks she’s losing Joe.
And right this minute I have to say I know how she feels.
TWENTY-SIX
Dear everyone. Things have deteriorated rapidly! SD is a thief and both parents are in denial. BM just used her money and power to make an annoying little problem go away, and what’s shocking is DH seemed fine with it. SD made up lies to her mother about me. DH doesn’t know who to believe. I am trying really hard to hope a wand can be waved and all will come good, but a horrible part of me feels my marriage was a mistake.
Miserable (No kidding!)
I post it before I’ve a chance to talk myself out of it.
When I check back half an hour later, I’ve got five replies. One of them is a nonsensical tirade about something entirely unrelated. Another, from Disillusioned, says:
There’s no such thing as a blended family. Blended implies you throw a lot of stuff in the mix but it all comes out smooth. The fact is there are always these lumps that stick in your craw.
WickedWitch:
Welcome to the club! If I could do it all over, I’d never do it over! OH will always, ALWAYS take the side of his kids. It’s the biological wiring of a father. You’re a second wife but the real second is where you fall in relation to his children. My advice? Get out before you have kids of your own with him. There are plenty of amazing single men who don’t have baggage!!!
DoginKennel:
A relationship is only worth saving if you’re on the same page, if you bring out the good in each other, if you’re able to share concerns, if his actions and words match – and, if you feel he values and respects you even in times of conflict. In my case, DH did. Ultimately that kept us together. Wishing you luck.
Odd One Out says:
Just remember there are also lots of single men who are fuck-ups too! All relationshi
ps have their challenges. Have you considered couples therapy? Might be worth a try!
I like Odd One Out’s input generally.
But – seriously – five months married and already in therapy?
I try to swallow a ball of sadness but it won’t go down.
It’s as warm as any summer’s evening so, as Joe is at a client dinner, I decide to go out for a walk. I make my way to the Heath and head towards Parliament Hill, one of my favourite routes, which takes me just over an hour. At the top of the hill I stare out across London – to Canary Wharf and the Gherkin in the distance, the Shard gleaming in the end-of-day light.
I try to get my head around what I’m feeling but am somehow deprived of my normal range of emotions. Then I realise that everything feels difficult because it is difficult. But difficult isn’t the issue. I can handle difficult.
It’s Joe. I can’t help but wonder if I like him anymore, let alone love him.
As I walk back through the village, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more disheartened. I’m rounding a corner that has a popular pub on it, one Joe and I have never ventured into because he’s not crazy about the young crowd. The place is bustling with people my age. I slow down and gaze at them through the window, some sort of vicarious longing running wild in me. The cadence of elevated voices. Wide smiles, sleek hair, short shirt sleeves on fit male arms. Their collective laughter, an echo of my own from before all this – before Joe – so faint I can barely hear it. The me I used to be. Next I’m pushing the door open, going inside.
I have to inch my way through the bodies standing with drinks in their hands. It used to be so commonplace – a night after classes, at a pub. A lot of us camped out at a big table in a beer garden in summer. A rite of passage I never even thought about until now.
The bar is less crowded than I’m expecting. Less of a tussle to get a drink. The barman sees me right away and asks what I want, and I order a gin and tonic.
As I stand there and take my first sip, I could not feel more like a fish out of water, and not because I’m the only person who appears to be on their own. Then three lads take pity on me.
One of them, the cheeky redhead, says, ‘What you doing standing here like Nellie-no-mates?’
Despite myself, I smile. Then I tell them I’m actually waiting for a friend, and she’s just walking up from the Tube. And for a moment I think, God, I wish I was! Back in those carefree days!
To give me something to do I decide to log back on to the forum to reread some of the responses. But as I do, I see I have a personal message from Odd One Out.
Dear Miserable,
Hope I haven’t been too much of a pot-stirrer on your thread. It can be a negative place in there – although nuggets of wisdom do emerge. Our situations actually sound eerily similar. Like you, there are days when I really wonder what I’ve done. Life was fairly simple before I married. I don’t regret it, for the most part, but sometimes I wish it was just a normal marriage with normal problems. Anyway, I’m not massively comfortable with my presence in the forum. If you ever need a more private vent, I am here probably feeling much the same as you. Hope that’s not too forward! By the way, my real name is Mel.
She sounds so nice. I’m excited to have a new friend! I quickly reply:
Thank you for getting in touch, Mel! Not forward at all! It will be great to connect with one person rather than a sea of strangers! And my real name is Lauren. What’s your situation? I am curious . . . Personally, I’m struggling at the moment with my choices. No sense of my husband and me being a team right now. No real idea where I belong. Seems to be a world of pressure on us as stepmothers, and very few people can relate to that. It’s great to feel someone out there understands. I look forward to being in touch! Best wishes, Lauren.
‘Big texter, your mate, is she?’ Redhead asks, swooping in to peer over my shoulder as my thumbs work the keyboard.
‘Which Tube stop was she at?’ his friend says. ‘Piccadilly Circus?’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’ I move my phone so Redhead can’t see it. ‘You don’t believe she’s coming, do you?’ I tease them back.
‘Seriously?’ he says. ‘Nah! But you know what? If you’re a Nellie-no-mates, there’s no shame in admitting it. We all have our crosses to bear.’ He double-nudges my arm.
I’m just smiling when another message pops up from Mel.
Okay Lauren! Nice to properly meet you! I will look forward to further chats. And yes, you are right – tremendous pressure that few understand. You got married and found yourself in the thick of someone else’s family. You’re not the kids’ parent, but you’ll still feature in their lives and memories and will help shape their perception of themselves. It’s a huge responsibility! Finding your way and your role is hard. Anyway, big topic! Don’t want to hog your evening! Nice to get to know you.
Mel.
She’s so right! Says it so well!
‘What’s the story this time then?’ Redhead asks. ‘Let me guess . . . she stood you up. Or . . . she met someone else on the way over here.’
‘Why should I tell you anything?’ I say. ‘You guys have all the answers!’ I grin. A few years ago I’d have given these lads a wide berth. But it’s been so long since I had a bit of frivolous banter with anyone – even if it’s inane – that I find it blissfully refreshing.
I type another quick note to Mel. Agree with everything you say. More to come!
Then I slug back my drink and tell my fan club I’m leaving to a chorus of ‘Argh!’s. Then I begin the rather underwhelming walk home, pleased – at least – that it seems like I’ve got a little ally in Mel.
When I walk in, Joe is sitting on the sofa in the dark, listening to opera. It’s only when I switch on the wall sconces that he notices me.
‘Oh, you’re back,’ he says. ‘I was worried you were never coming home. You didn’t text.’
I drop my bag into the armchair, slide off my jacket. ‘I thought you were out with clients. I just went to the pub for a quick glass of wine with a couple of the nurses,’ I lie, and stroke the dog.
‘So you’ve eaten?’
‘All I want, yes.’ I walk into the kitchen to pour a glass of water.
He follows. ‘I talked to Grace.’
I feel myself bracing for this conversation. I turn, meet his eyes.
‘I met her for tea after school. We had a talk. And she admitted she may have taken one or two things without paying for them. In the past. But she doesn’t do that anymore.’
One or two things. ‘The earbuds?’
He stares at his feet like a shamed altar boy.
‘So is anyone going to apologise to Sara for not believing her?’
He looks at me like I’ve got two heads. ‘What? No. That’s over now.’
‘And what are you going to do with Grace? About this stealing problem? You’re saying she took one or two things in the past, but it’s hardly in the past if she stole from a friend just a few days ago.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ he says. ‘It’s a few isolated events.’ Then he adds, ‘Meredith and I can sort that out. It’s not really for you to worry about.’
‘No,’ I say, an edge in my voice. ‘Of course not.’ It wouldn’t be.
I wait for him to say, I’m sorry. You were right. I really regret doubting you. Instead he just looks lost in his own private world again.
Then after a while he says, ‘I’m going to try to spend more time with her. Maybe Monday nights I meet her after school and we have an early dinner, just the two of us.’ Then he glances my way. ‘I think she probably did suspect you and I had an affair. I brought it up. She didn’t exactly correct me.’
I wait for more, but clearly that’s all I’m getting. The bare minimum of an account. He is telling me what I need to know. But only that.
He goes back to the sofa. I follow him this time. ‘Have you considered getting her some therapy?’ I ask.
‘Therapy?’ he says, like it’s a dirty word.
‘Mayb
e we could use some too.’
Disappointment writes itself all over his face. And then he says, ‘If you think we need therapy then maybe you should go and get some. But, believe me, you’re on your own with that.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
I have two messages from Mel when I next check.
Dear Lauren,
Sorry, I think you asked me a question before and I didn’t answer. I have been married for almost a year. Archie is twelve and Olivia is seven. OH had acrimonious divorce and doesn’t like to relinquish control – in general, but also as a parent. They are great kids – if only OH would let them breathe! I am not a quitter though. Things are a bit better now than before. My advice, not that you’re asking, would be to give it a year – that’s what I plan to do – and then reassess.
Mel.
The next one says,
PS: Where do you live? We are in London, Clapham area. Renting right now because I’m just on a teacher’s salary, and my partner is paying spousal maintenance and child support. Would love to own a house one day, maybe somewhere quieter. Anyway, hope you’re doing well. Mel.
I read these with glee. She sounds so nice. Like a kindred spirit.
I respond:
Mel, thanks for the info. We are in north London but I work in south. Actually, I pass through Clapham on the train almost every day! Maybe we should have coffee some time!
Lauren.
She replies a few minutes later.
Small world! Sure, if you ever feel like getting off the train someday (the literal one, not the metaphorical one! Haha) I’d be happy to meet for coffee. Here is my mobile. Drop me a text.
Mel.
This is great! I swiftly pop her number into my phone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Since the therapy word was outed, the silence between us is deafening and after a week or so of it I start finding other things to do with my evenings, rather than head straight home.
