Playing Away

by Adele Parks

  Finally, I find my voice, "Not over the phone. I can't explain it over the phone."

  "Connie, you'd be struggling to explain this one face-to-face, by letter, phone, e-mail, fax" —he spits this word out— "Morse code, Braille, smoke signals or any form of communication known to man, invented or yet to come."

  He is right of course. He always is. We are silent. I'm scared he'll put the phone down. This is more frightening than anything else in the world right now. I don't mind that he is angry, I just need to be connected to him, even if it is through millions of cold cables. Nothing would be as bad as him hanging up.

  "Just tell me one thing. Are you having an affair?" Except perhaps that question.

  "No," I insist firmly. I think I hear him sigh at the other end of the phone. Is it relief? Is it disbelief? Is he tired? How badly have I hurt him?

  "Have you ever had an affair?"

  You said tell you one thing! I hold my breath. Should I lie? Can I get away with it? Can I invent anything that would be even remotely plausible and can we rewind the last three days? My mind goes blank.

  "Yes," I whisper. The silence is deafening. It slams round my head and heart. In the absence of guile (having a nap, been on overtime recently), conscience has crept out flanked by "the right thing to do" and "time to come clean." To be honest I'm not keen on any of them. They always cause trouble.

  "I can explain."

  "I doubt it."

  "I need to talk," I insist.

  "Oh God, here we go again, what Constance Green needs. Well, I'm sick of it, Connie. What about my needs? Right now, what I need is to go away and think about all of this. Alone. I

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  don't need you and I don't want you." I can't remember him ever thinking so badly of me. I guess that's what happens, sleep with someone other than your husband and you lose his respect. Yup, sounds pretty straightforward. But the clarity of the situation did not become apparent until afterward. Why was that? He puts down the phone.

  And my heart breaks.

  All the pain I ever felt before, the falling off my bike when I was a kid, failing exams, Simon Le Bon getting married, impacted wisdom teeth, having curly hair, not getting the job I really, really wanted and deserved, and even John coming on my tits, they were dress rehearsals.

  This is pain.

  Knowing that I've hurt the person I love more than anyone else in the world. Knowing that the damage I've caused is irreparable. Knowing this knowledge is all too late, is pain.

  My friends stop calling round. They take me at my word when I continually insist that I want to be on my own. Which I don't think is very nice of them.

  Alone, I become semi-delirious. I feel I am walking a fine line between bewilderment and heightened consciousness, fact and fiction. I'm sleeping a lot, it's all I am capable of. But now, even my sleep is contaminated by my sense of fuckeditupness. It becomes impossible to distinguish dream from fear, truth from lies, answers from dream, truth from fear. But that could be the alcohol?

  The telephone rings.

  "Luke?" I say eagerly, as I pick it up.

  "No, sorry. It's me, Rose." Rose never quite dares play the "It's me" game, in case we fail to recognize her. Her apology is because she knows that the only person I want to talk to is Luke.

  "Hi, Rose," I say, with some trepidation. I've been dreading this. The worst thing about being a bad person is talking to

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  good ones. No, God, please. I know I have sinned, I am very, very sorry. And I am going to make amends, God. I haven't quite worked out how yet, but I promise I will. You can age me prematurely, you can send a plague of Lotus Notes, you can let the authorities catch up with me for avoiding my council tax, but please God, not this. Not a sanctimonious lecture from Rose. I won't be able to stand it.

  "Sam tells me you are," she hesitates, "off sick." Rose sounds nervous. I am sick, most of the time, as I continue to jump into the bottle. It seems easier than growing up.

  "I wondered if you wanted some company? I'm going to take the boys to the park and I wondered if you wanted some fresh air. I'll understand if you'd rather be on your own but—"

  "Rose, that would be great," I say, and, surprisingly, I mean it. I haven't left the house for ten days, not even when I ran out of milk. I just drank the emergency supply of powdered stuff that I'd bought in case of nuclear disaster. Getting some fresh air is a homely remedy, but a proven one.

  "Fine." Rose sounds delighted. "I'll pick you up at eleven."

  I look at my watch. Eleven! My heart plummets, this only gives me an hour to get ready. I look in the mirror. It is bad, very bad. I haven't brushed, let alone washed, my hair since Luke left. Oddly I've been perpetually cold since he went. Too lazy to take my clothes off and wash them, I've stockpiled. I'm wearing about six layers of alcohol- and sweat-encrusted garments. I am a bit embarrassed as I realize that my knickers are ten days old. My skin is gray, with interesting hues of black under my eyes. Ten constant days of crying has left me wrinkled and puckered. I look like some of the vegetables in my fridge.

  And I'm not the worst of it.

  The house is abysmal, a serious health risk. I am ashamed. I begin to load the dishwasher, scraping away the debris from Luke's and my last meal together. I soak the risotto dish and

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  put away the vodka bottle. I throw out the foil that I'd lovingly baked the artichokes in. I clear the dirty wineglasses and put the bottles in black sacks. I empty the various vessels that I have since turned into makeshift ashtrays: milk bottles, discarded beer cans, saucers, pans, bowls. I throw out the rotting vegetables and molding bread and empty the bins. I open the windows and drag the hoover across the floor, and then finally I put the sheets in the wash. The ones that are stained with black currant ice cream and smell of him. This nearly kills me. But I don't cry. I'm not sure why I don't. Maybe I am wrung dry.

  I haul myself into the bathroom and start to undress. It is like unwrapping a mummy, not a pretty sight. I throw my clothes into the corner; for a moment I think there is a real possibility that they'll walk out of the door in protest at having been so badly treated. I run a hot, deep bath and climb in. I scrub and scrub trying to shift the dirty feeling I am carrying. I wash my hair but can't bring myself to style it; instead I scrape it back into a ponytail. I drag my body into tracksuit bottoms and pull on a polo-neck jumper. I am just tying my Nike laces when the doorbell rings.

  "Oh, Connie. You look ..." Rose pauses.

  "Like shit?" I fill in helpfully.

  Rose blushes, she doesn't like expletives.

  "I am going to say very thin." I think I have the monopoly on surprises, because Rose's transformation is much more dramatic than my own. I hardly recognize her. She is wearing a caftan, which I think is vile but she obviously loves. She is wearing a ton of costume jewelry and makeup.

  "Peter always hated the hippie-gypsy in me," she comments, grinning. "The boys are in the car. Are you ready?"

  Rose and I walk the boys around Richmond Park. Stopping to look at the deer and to feed ducks. We buy coffee from a vendor and sit on a bench sipping it. So my debut back into the

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  living world isn't very glamorous, but it's a bright day and the cute dependency the children radiate takes me out of myself.

  For a while.

  Rose has, so far, studiously avoided talking about Luke and me. It is only when we sit down, with the kids safely ensconced in a sand pit, that she turns to me.

  "So, how are you?"

  I am very grateful to be asked.

  "Horrible. Terrible," I manage to squeak before I start to cry again. So much for being wrung dry. Rose hands me a tissue.

  "Hmmm?"

  "He won't talk to me. He won't take my calls. How will I cope without him?"

  "Luke is very unhappy, too," says Rose and her voice, which usually irritates me, soothes me—strange, that.

  "You've seen him?" I pounce on this informa
tion. I know he's still staying with Simon and the temporary nature of the arrangement suits me. "How does he look? Is he eating? I wish he'd talk to me. I need to see him so much."

  "What happened?" I stare at Rose amazed. She is curious. She wants to gossip, just like the rest of us. "I mean, without knowing all the facts it's hard for me to comment..." She pauses, waiting hopefully. After Daisy had found out about my affair I'd begged her not to tell Rose. Which, eventually, she agreed to. We all censor what we tell Rose, she is after all an older sister. Rose is human, she must be dying to know the nitty-gritty. I find myself telling her the truth before I've even worked out whether this is to my advantage or not.

  "I had an affair." The words sound ludicrous. Not at all cool, as they'd sounded when I told Lucy way back in November. "It just happened. I couldn't resist."

  "Really?" she sighs. "Yes, I imagine that resisting would have been very uncomfortable for you."

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  I surprise myself by not taking offense; instead I try to explain. "I thought, incorrectly, that he was different. I thought he was so different that he must be my destiny."

  What am I doing having this grown-up conversation with Rose?

  "Do you still think that?"

  "No. Now I know that I just fancied him. Intrigued a bit too. Flattered. Nothing more serious."

  "Do you still want him?"

  "No." I am definitive.

  "Do you want Luke?" I don't reply directly although the answer is very simple.

  "He's gone."

  "It puts it all into perspective, doesn't it?" she asks.

  I've always hated perspective. It's so dull. But I know now what it's for. I know with absolute clarity and certainty that I want only one thing in the entire world. I want Luke to come home. I want this so much that I dare not breathe.

  "What's the point in wanting Luke?" I say to Rose. "He's too proud and stubborn to come home."

  "And too hurt," adds Rose. "You fool, Connie."

  "I know. I can't think of anything else. I can't do anything without him," I say dramatically.

  "Yes, Sam mentioned to me that you've put in a sick note for over two weeks. Do you think that is wise?"

  "Please don't tell me life goes on, Rose. I can't stand it. My life will not go on. Not without Luke," I say firmly.

  "Sam's life is going on," she says, tactfully. "She's working all hours, now her department is one down. She needs you."

  I haven't been needed for a fair while, and even in this state of self-loathing the idea attracts me. Still I'm not going to be won round that quickly. I argue sulkily, "I can't face going back. I hate my job."

  "That's been apparent for some time."

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  "Has it?" I am surprised. How come people know important things about me before I know them?

  "Yes. You should think about what you really want to do with your life and then do it. But in the meantime you have a mortgage to pay."

  The enormity of what Rose is saying hits me. She thinks of me as someone who is single and has to be responsible for their own mortgage. How horrifying!

  "Luke needs time, Con. He's very confused."

  "Unfortunately, time is one thing that I do not have," I say, petulantly.

  "Yes, you do. You have lots of it. So, you are sure you want him back?"

  "Of course I'm sure. Wouldn't anybody want him back?"

  "Well, yes," admits Rose, "but most people would never have allowed him to go away in the first place." Rose has secretly always had a soft spot for Luke.

  "How can I get him back?" This shows how desperate I am. I'm asking Rose for advice on men! Which is pretty pointless. What has come over me?

  "You have to be sure, because he loves you, and if he's not what you want it's not fair to let him think he is. You've done that once. You've got to think this through."

  Think it through! Think it through! That's all I've done, think about things. Why do people keep asking me to think about things?

  "Can't someone else think about it for me?" I whine, lazily kicking a stone between my left and right foot.

  "No," says Rose, with surprising firmness.

  "But you do still think he loves me? You do think I can get him back?" I ask excitedly.

  "I think he loves you. I have no idea if you can get him back. He's a very proud man," she says with far too much honesty.

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  & * $*

  Sam greets me like a survivor of the Marie Celeste, turning up after a few centuries' absence, rather than someone who has been off sick for just under two weeks. It is a good thing that I have come back, since work is frantic. I don't even have a chance to nip out for a sandwich at lunch. I watch Sam as she energetically plans and plots, processes and prepares presentations. She is absorbed. She is glowing. I look at her and around at the other people in my team and I realize I'm different from them. They live for their work. I work to exist. Not exactly to pay my mortgage, as Rose so depressingly suggested, but at least to buy my Gianfranco and Patrick Cox. Like my colleagues I am throwing myself into my work but I know it is not my life. I am doing this to block out my life. When was I last so absorbed? What absorbs me? I can hear Rose instructing, "Think about what you really want to do with your life." Luckily, I am far too busy to have any time to actually do this. Finally, at 8:30 P.M., Sam pronounces, "That's it, guys, the presentation is impressive. It's polished. Well done." It is good. Even the work that I've contributed but I can't understand why that's important to them.

  I begin to put away files and close down my PC.

  "Fancy a quick drink? I'm meeting Lucy," Sam tempts.

  "Yes. I'm calling a council of war," I grin. I definitely, definitely want Luke back and it is time to meet with the girls to decide exactly how I am going to achieve this. I am excited. I am hopeful. They never let me down. We always console, guide, advise one another through our crises. I am looking forward to being swaddled in their sympathy and condolences, then being uplifted by their foolproof plans.

  I push open the bar doors and the familiar smell of wood steeped in red wine hits me. I love it.

  "I want Luke back," I announce grandly. It is big. They must be thrilled. I pour the first of what, no doubt, will be

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  many glasses of Chardonnay. Sam nods and smiles sympathetically. Lucy lights a cigarette.

  "Do you mind if I ask why?"

  "He's my husband." I say this very slowly, as if I am talking to a dumb animal.

  "Correct me if I'm wrong, Connie, but hasn't Luke been your husband throughout this entire episode?"

  "Look, I made a mistake, OK."

  Silence.

  "A big one, I admit it. But what was I supposed to do? Stop noticing other men? Forget the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of men out there, which up until the point I said 'I do' were potential soul mates."

  "Yes," says Sam.

  Lucy doesn't see things in the same way. She shakes her head and comments, "Your logic is so faulty. Look, I don't care who you sleep with. I just want you to be happy. And you're not. And I think it's time you found out why not and how you could be."

  I am despondent. But I decide to be a little patient with them.

  "Do you remember the Antonio Banderas game?"

  "Erotic fantasies with unobtainable, unreal men," confirms Sam.

  "Well, it was like that."

  "Fantasy!" yells Lucy. I haven't seen Lucy since the fateful fax day and although we've swapped answering messages, I get the distinct impression that her flavor of the month I am not. I nod.

  "Yes. John was a fantasy. I'm not sure I ever really knew him."

  "Oh well, that will be a consolation to Luke," confirms Lucy sarcastically, as she reaches for the wine. The table falls silent again.

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  "Why are you being mean?" I am genuinely stumped.

  Sam shuffles uncomfortably on her seat and fingers the ashtray nervously. "It's just that m
aybe you should have been a bit more cautious. Pride comes before a fall."

  "Yes, thank you, Sam."

  "We don't want to judge."

  "But?"

  "But..." She glances at Lucy, obviously hoping that Lucy will help her out. She should know Lucy better than that by now. "Well, you still seem to be looking at this from a single point of view ..." she hesitates and Lucy interrupts.

  "Yours."

  I sigh and try again, "I realize now that John meant nothing to me."

  Lucy: "John did mean something."

  Me: "I was just bored—"

  Lucy: "So your next project is getting Luke back."

  Me: "Why are you always going on about projects?" No one replies. "You don't think he'll have me back, do you?" They don't answer but suddenly the tabletop is the most fascinating thing on the planet. Lucy studies it as though it is the Financial Times Share Index and Sam is pretending it is her engagement ring. Uncertainly I ask, "Do you think it is possible that he'll take me back?"

  "Possible is infinite, probable is more defined," says Lucy with killing accuracy.

  "Call him," offers Sam, as she pats my hand, but I can tell from her tone that she isn't putting money on it. Where are the guarantees? Why aren't they helping me? I stare from one to the other in amazement. Lucy opens a packet of crisps and offers me one. She sighs. It is a very articulate sigh. She thinks I am hopeless. She goes to the bar to order another bottle and some food. On her return Sam provides a change of conversation. She has just split up from a two-month relationship with a lawyer.

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  "We had the most silent breakup ever. I offered him a range of options, from large white wedding to let's just be friends, and he still didn't answer. A new all-time low."

  "Can't see him making much of a living as a barrister," Lucy points out.

  "Well, that is the final straw for me. I'm giving up men."

  We stare, horrified. I wonder if she is following the advice of her latest self-help book. She rang me the other day to advise that "If you have a bird and you love that bird, you must open the cage door. It will fly away but if it loves you it will come back." Wise bloody words from a woman who normally doesn't so much as open the patio doors on a sti-flingly hot summer's day, in case her man legs it over the back wall.