Playing Away

by Adele Parks

  The girls are silent. Sam chews on a banana and Lucy deeply inhales on her cigarette.

  "Perhaps I should have shown him more of my feelings? Maybe if I'd been more up-front."

  Sam tries to smile sympathetically, Lucy tries not to throttle me.

  "I'm not sure what I should have done, what could I have said that would have held his attention?"

  Lucy smirks and says, "I've got the answer."

  I look at her hopefully.

  "Maybe if you'd said nothing. Been absolutely mute from September to February, only opened your mouth to take in his cock, then you just might have hung on to him."

  playing away

  I try to treat her with the disdain she deserves. I play the past months over and over in my head, but I can't think how I could have acted differently. Not on rewind, pause or fast-forward. The take is always the same.

  I leave them to their Chardonnay and I drive home. I park in front of our large Clapham home and I howl.

  I sob.

  I cry for John, for Luke, for me. I beat my hand down on the steering wheel, envying my husband's certainty.

  I'm not going to work. I am sick. I am broken-hearted, miserable, mournful, desolate, despairing, devastated, disappointed, disconsolate, inconsolable, prostrated, sorrowful and wretched—that has to be worse than flu. Besides which, I am very tired. I haven't slept for months and now I feel as though I could sleep for England. My friends, colleagues and associates don't seem to realize that I'm keen to do a good impression of Tutankhamen. The phone never stops ringing but I ignore it and when I can't ignore it any longer, I take it off the hook. After about five minutes I am disturbed by a high-pitched tone and a very prim voice informing me, "You have failed to replace the handset correctly, you have failed to replace the handset correctly."

  "I know," I yell as I yank the lead out of the wall, "but that is the least of my problems!"

  Luke is staying at some castle in Scotland. A stockbroker friend of ours has bought it for the price of a small car and has commissioned Luke to renovate it. Luke wanted to stay there, to see it in all lights. Since it is February and Scotland, I reckon the ranges of light he will see are dark, mid-dark and very dark, but he was insistent. He isn't due home until Saturday morning. I wish he was here, he'd cheer me up. He's the only person who can ever laugh me out of my disappointments. Like that time I'd wanted my haircut before we got married.

  a de Ic parted

  He kept telling me not to do it, or at least not before the wedding.

  "Why not? I think I'd suit it short," I'd argued.

  "I'm sure you'd look beautiful, long, short, bald. It's just that all those bridal magazines, that you so avidly read and quote, advise you not to do anything too dramatic with your hair just before the wedding."

  I ignored him of course, and regretted it. I cried for about four days and refused to go out of the house. He bought me a joke orange clown wig and tugged on my remaining hair to stimulate growth. I did sort of get used to it by the time the wedding came round but I don't know how I'd have got through those first few days without him. Typical that he isn't here now when I really need him!

  At about six o'clock I hear a key in the door.

  "It's just me," Luke shouts. He bounds up the stairs but I don't bother to sit up. "I came home as soon as I heard the news," he declares.

  He sits on the side of the bed and I freeze. He's heard!

  "Are you in there?"

  He lowers the sheet from my face and pushes a huge bunch of white roses in front of my nose. The leaves rustle and the scent drifts. I can feel his icy hand on my forehead, "You're not ill as well, are you? Poor darling."

  I gawk at him and say nothing. He waves the roses; they are the most colossal bunch I've ever seen.

  "A consolation prize."

  This is surreal. My husband is buying me roses because my lover has dumped me. It seems improbable. I slowly sit up. His cold lips hit my warm ones. I don't know why but a large tear falls down my face. It isn't that the kiss is unpleasant, quite the opposite actually.

  "Hey, don't cry, pumpkin." He keeps pumpkin for very special occasions. "I know you are disappointed, that's natural."

  playing away

  Is it? Yes, I suppose it is. But his reaction is far from natural. I am stupefied, I still say nothing.

  "But maybe in this case the best woman won. Hard as it is to take." He strokes my hair. How does he know Andrea?

  "And she's worked very hard for it."

  Me too, I silently cry, but I am still too astonished to risk speaking. Should he be taking this quite so calmly?

  "She's so worried about how you will react, she's been calling you all day."

  Who has? Andrea? Does she have my number? This is perplexing.

  "Call her," he says, handing me the phone.

  "But I don't know her number," I stammer.

  "You are ill. It's in memory, just press four." Luke smiles his huge, enveloping, patient smile.

  "I'm calling Sam?" I ask uncertainly.

  "Of course, who else would I be talking about?" Luke is using the tone that he uses when he speaks to small children. "To congratulate her. It's the right thing to do, especially since she's going to be your boss now. Head of Department, that's quite a promotion. I'm sure you were in the running, too, darling, but she has been there a lot longer than you. I'll go and put the kettle on, leave you to it."

  Luke leaves the room and I stare at the phone. I piece it together. Yes, Sam did tell me that she was applying for Head of Department. She'd taken me for coffee and very seriously asked me whether I thought it would impact on our friendship if she got the job.

  "I won't even apply if you think it might come between us," said Sam, her eyes wide with sincerity. "You should apply, too, I think you've got a good chance."

  "Do you like this suit?" I'd asked her. "It's new."

  "Yes, very much," she'd replied, somewhat confused as to what the connection was. So she'd applied for the job and evi-

  adclc parka

  dently she's got it. Well, good for her! I can't believe that my friends, and even my husband, think that I'd get this upset over a job! I never even got round to putting an application in. I call Sam. Luke comes back into the bedroom, puts a cup of tea on my nightstand and beams at me.

  "We'll have to have a party to celebrate, Sam. This is brilliant news," I gush down the telephone.

  I catch Luke's eye and he mouths, "I'm so proud of you."

  Lucy is going away for a weekend in Paris with her married lover. She is very excited about it and wants to talk of little else. I am being unfair. I won't let her. There is nothing more depressing than listening to a friend go on and on about her successful love affair when yours is in shreds. Especially when said friend is insisting on taking a mini-break in the same city as shredded love affair played out its promising beginning.

  "It will be marvelous, three whole days together. No dashing home. No looking over his shoulder." She's gushing.

  "Then he said, 'Nice trousers. Where do you get them?'" I blow my nose. Lucy realizes that as I'm not going to join in her conversation she might as well join me in mine.

  "The bastard. I bet he is going to buy them for his girlfriend." It's depressing that she jumps to the same conclusion I did. "I hate it when they go back to their wives and girlfriends. It's so . . ." She searches around for the correct word.

  "Degrading," I offer.

  She shakes her head.

  "Disappointing," I sniff, barely holding back the tears.

  "Annoying is the word I am thinking of." Lucy holds up a chemise, examines it and then dismisses it.

  "Is red too obvious?" she asks as she holds up a red La Perla bra and knickers set which, arguably, would have been at home in an Amsterdam brothel.

  "Definitely," I sigh. Lucy immediately drops them into her

  playing away

  basket. Despite my black gloom I can't help but screech, "That's £175 pounds' worth of bra a
nd £80 pounds' worth of knickers." I doubt she is getting her money's worth as they are both minuscule. Her smile indicates that perhaps she is getting her money's worth.

  "Men like to know you've made an effort with your underwear," she breezes. Maybe, but Luke would think I was crazy to spend that type of money on knickers; he fancies me even if I am in M&S. Now what was I talking about? Oh yes, John.

  "You know, I once wore John's underwear to work and he always kept a pair of my knickers. I always left some garment with him. Not on purpose, it was just that I always seemed to be in a hurry to get dressed as I left." I don't dwell on this train of thought for too long. "Do you think it is extraordinarily sexy that he wanted to keep my underwear?" I ask Lucy, hopefully.

  "Commonplace, darling," she whispers conspiratorially and then somewhat pityingly she adds, "Where have you been?"

  By the time we leave Harrods it's dark and pouring with rain. We stand, vainly trying to hail a cab. The circumstances are against us. Past experience proves that we might be waiting weeks before we get one. A spot of rain in London and everything slows to a halt. I am disdainful of softy Southerners.

  "A smattering of rain wouldn't grind Sheffield to a standstill," I mutter. The rain is ruining my carefully applied makeup, although unaccountably Lucy still appears immaculate. My clothes are wet and heavy and it is difficult to balance my numerous chunky bags. I am sure that it isn't raining anywhere else in London, except above me. I think about those peculiar black and white films with crude special effects where the rain follows the clown around the set.

  I am that clown.

  Normally Lucy is prepared to shove the other contenders

  adclc papfea

  for a cab under the wheels of a passing bus rather than stand about. Today, she is patiently queuing. She is obviously delirious. I wonder if there are any diseases you can catch in Harrods that manifest themselves in a personality transplant. I haven't given Lucy and her extramarital affair much thought. But watching her now as she animatedly chatters about the George V Hotel and the Eiffel Tower, I realize that she's really fallen for him. If it was anybody else, Sam for instance, I'd have been quite concerned. Dating married men can only end in tears. But I know there is nothing to worry about with Lucy. She knows how to look after herself.

  "Come on." Lucy nearly pulls my arm out of the socket as she leaps over a dozen other people patiently huddled under umbrellas waiting for an orange light. Lucy has spotted one. She flings open the door and bundles me into the backseat.

  "Where to, luv?" asks the cabbie. Lucy gives her address. "You're behaving very maudlin," she says critically. "Is Luke away tonight?"

  "Yes, on business," I sigh my resignation.

  "Well, in that case you can stay with me." Lucy's clipped incisiveness is a relief, and as it turns out a contrast to the dithering cabbie who has no idea how to find Lucy's fairly prestigious and renowned address. "The Knowledge" is an urban myth. Lucy barks directions at him which allows me the opportunity to sit back and wallow. I feel woefully sorry for myself. I'm angrily tearful. The cabbie, an amateur driver but an experienced psychologist, reads my mood and switches the radio channel from the slow blues of Billie Holiday to a cheery, pointless ditty. He is well-meaning but frankly I want to indulge my misery. I wish do-gooders would jump in the Thames. The cabbie lights a fag. The cigarette smoke tickles my throat uncomfortably and reminds me of John. I want to cry. The delicate balance I call life is seriously smashed out of kilter. The rain drills down onto the cab and the manic wind-

  p lay ing away

  screen wipers, however industrious, cannot clear the downpour fast enough. The lights look like a box of costume jewelry. It is her fault. It's Lucy's fault for going on about Paris. Ha, Paris, hateful place. Why does she want to go to Paris? Nothing but endless fountains, countless elegant lampposts, innumerable tall clean trees, dozens upon dozens of grand cream buildings, wide avenues, fantastic food, delicious wine, what is there to like? More than enough charming bridges, more passionate couples than anyone can bear, what is the attraction? Paris, the loneliest city in the world.

  "What are you thinking about?" inquires Lucy.

  "Nothing," I answer, as though I am a man.

  "Look, it's to be expected you know?"

  "What is?"

  "Your feelings of self-pity and regret. Unfortunately the pain is often inversely proportional to the wanky behavior of the beloved."

  "Lucy, you are such a comfort."

  "I'll give you three weeks, four at the outside and you'll be over him. But, be warned, between now and then you'll cover more emotions than American tourists do sights on a week's trip to Europe."

  "Really." Piss off. No, not seriously. I am, of course, indebted to Lucy for her patience. In this past week she's shared countless bottles of wine and cups of coffee, while I've bored her rigid with oft-repeated questions.

  "Do you believe he meant that?" I ask, as I remember a wonderful thing that John said.

  "Yes," sighs Lucy, pouring another glass of wine, "but, Connie, you know as well as I do—"

  "I know," I interrupt her, "it is only valid for the time it takes to get from their mouths to our ears." She nods.

  "Can you believe he did that?" I ask, affronted. I'm outraged every time I remember some terrible thing that John did

  a d c I c p a r k 4

  to me, or more likely, failed to do. Like failed to call, or even to return calls, failed to be on time, or even turn up at all.

  "Yes," sighs Lucy, inhaling deeply, "but, Connie, what I can't believe is that you put up with it—"

  "I know, I know"—I hang my head—"but—" This time she interrupts. "But you wanted him." She says this in a whiny voice and for a moment I think she is imitating Sam, then I realize that she is imitating me. Despite myself, I laugh.

  Lucy pilots me through the awful moments, as we visit denial, self-pity and regret. I then fly on in my package tour of emotional experiences and visit irritation. It is only one stop further on before I hit on anger. Whereas irritation was an Easy Jet overnight stop, fury is quite a plush resort and I stay for some time. Scarlet, fierce, ferocious anger. I become very angry. I become very angry. This is an ugly period. I lash out at my friends and loved ones. Hating Luke for not being John, hating John for not being Luke. Incensed with myself for being so bloody simple and falling for John and his lies. I am furious with Lucy for not warning me to stay away from him, then exasperated with her when she reminds me that she did tell me to stay away from him. I rip and break and smash and swear my way through bitter March. I feel permanently premenstrual. I rage against mankind. I start each day thinking it will be awful, which generally ensures that it is, even if it began with a fighting chance of being passable. I count my causes for concern as I go into work. I am irritated by idiots that leap into the Tube as the doors are closing, risking injury and causing delays. I am terminally exasperated by teenagers listening to music that pulses loudly and incomprehensibly. I am inflamed by couples who insist on talking to each other, or worse publicly displaying their affection for one another. I find that inconceivably rude. I am mortally offended by any-

  p lay ing away

  one who has too much luggage and insists on pushing their luggage into my legs. I don't like traffic wardens, librarians, ticket inspectors, cab drivers, shoe-shop assistants—they are all mean. I loathe anyone involved with BT, British Gas or the Electricity Board—they are all incompetent. I really abhor happy people.

  "I keep seeing that piece of tinfoil skipping along the street, blowing in the wind, spinning in a sparkly way, and I see him chasing after it. A shiny, flimsy piece of tinfoil," I stutter angrily, falling over my words with indignation.

  "Bastard," Lucy confirms, not for the first time.

  "Fucking cheek of him coming on my tits," I yell, as I hurl a book at the wall.

  "Ya, gal, go," says Lucy who is evidently very pleased with this development in the emotional scale. She picks up a book and flings it a
t the wall.

  "Why are you angry?" I ask, confused.

  "I'm always angry," she answers grimly.

  "Maybe I'm just another tart and he doesn't give a shit." I can barely repeat his words, I spit them out. "Another tart, another tart. And he doesn't give a shit. Not a shit!" I noisily throw the empty Chardonnay bottle in the bin, put my hands on my hips and scowl at Lucy. "What's more, Lucy! ..." I am still yelling, she looks mildly apprehensive, but then again anyone else would have been peeing themselves following my display. Lucy has nerves of steel. "What's more, we are out of white wine, we'll have to drink red."

  "Red's fine by me," she grins.

  Luke quietly suffers throughout this roller coaster of emotion. He thinks my depression in February is to do with the prolonged winter. He thinks my anger in March is due to the fact that I missed the promotion at work. He reads lots of articles about women's hormones, then suggests that I visit the doctor to change my pill. When I glare at him he tentatively

  a de le par k^

  suggests I call a headhunter instead. Throughout, he is courteous, concerned, chivalrous and distant. He is extremely busy with a massive new contract. He's won a pitch to convert a theater into a restaurant, right in the heart of the West End. The project is extremely high profile and both the media and industry gurus are carefully monitoring his progress. We both know that this is the big break we've always talked about and it has come earlier than either of us ever hoped. If things turn out well and Luke is judged to be successful on this project, he will get endless offers of work. He is very wrapped up in it. He works even longer hours than his already unfeasibly long hours and when he isn't actually at work, he is talking about it. I am very pleased for him. Naturally. Very.

  And a bit jealous.

  Well. How is it that I am going through all of this and he just hasn't noticed? And how come he has a cool, creative, satisfying job and I don't? How come my biggest challenge is designing a new model paper plane and then getting it into the bin without moving from my chair? How come he's absolutely failed to see what is under his nose? Another thing that annoys me is that he still seems to be very golden, very A standard but we no longer seem like the golden couple or the A team. I am tarnished and coming in with D grades. Every night I fall asleep resenting . . . stuff.