Perfect Ten

by Jacqueline Ward

  I just stare at her. She walks away and I close the door. Oh God. How am I going to pull this off? One thing’s for sure, if I don’t I’ll lose my job and my children.

  I sit down heavily and look at Twitter. #teamCaro is trending again, and someone is arguing that feminism is in its sixth phase. A couple of teenage boys are baiting an academic who is trying to argue that posting the pictures on Facebook is postmodern communication. It’s out of control and has exceeded what I could have ever imagined, but now I need to curb it.

  I put the kettle on and pour some water down the hole onto the glowing embers of my past misdemeanours. I feel strangely cleansed and suddenly optimistic. The one thing Emma didn’t mention was her marriage. How he married her while he was still married to me. I hurry back into the house and grab the decree absolute. This is my way to get my children back.

  This really is it.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I switch on the TV. I watch a nature programme and sip a cup of tea and then, at the end of the news, I turn the volume up for the local news report. I need to keep calm and not let my mind race to the meeting. I’m just dropping off to sleep when there’s a knock on the door. I peer out from behind the curtains. It’s Paula. I let her in and she stands in the hallway in front of me.

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  I push a box off the couch but she stays standing. Something’s not right. She gets her phone out and shows me a picture. It’s The Tea Cosy. Busy, and Frances is behind the counter.

  ‘Never shut.’ She’s sullen and sulky. ‘I had a brew and one of the old dears told me it was just an infestation. Got the pest control in and it was all over in a day.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m genuinely pleased I didn’t cause any real damage. I look more closely at the picture and Frances is smiling. But Paula is still standing in my lounge looking uncomfortable. She finally speaks.

  ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you.’

  I fucking knew it. I get up and face her. I fucking knew she was lying. But she’s swiping the photos on her phone, one after another. She stops and holds it up in front of me. It’s her and a woman with long black hair. She’s got a tattoo on her arm, the same as Paula’s. She’s showing it off to the camera.

  ‘This is Patti. This is why I kept away.’ Her eyes fill with tears and she shakes her head. ‘It’s been hard for me. I had to move away. My mates didn’t understand. I’ve moved in with Patti. I didn’t know how you’d feel about it.’

  I look at her. Patti. One of the bridesmaids.

  ‘So you’re …?’

  ‘Gay. Yes. You can say it out loud, you know.’

  ‘My God. Is that all this is? I thought you were going to say that you had slept with Jack after all. God, Paula, as long as you are happy, I’m happy.’

  A tear rolls down her cheek and drops onto a small pile of boxes at her feet.

  ‘I wasn’t sure how you’d react. It all looked so perfect, your life, and I was scared of telling you in case you didn’t understand. But it turned out that you were struggling just as much as me.’ She sits down heavily. ‘We could have helped each other.’

  I take her hand.

  ‘We can now.’

  I make something to eat and, later on, when it’s properly dark, I push made-up Monica’s laptop, saved from burning in the hole by my obsession with Facebook, in my bag and we head for the trams. I feel a little bit sad that this will be my last time as Monica. I log on and it’s incredible. The #allgirlstogether thread is so long now that it’s impossible to read it all. I switch on my mobile and there’s a call from a TV researcher asking if I would consider giving my point of view.

  A couple of days ago I would have done, but not now. Even if Emma goes back on her word, it’s the end. It is. I delete the message and go back to the Facebook thread. I hover over the delete button, but change my mind. I’ll deactivate the accounts instead. That way it will always be there. Just in case.

  I go to made-up Monica’s account and scroll through it. I’m listening to my cheating bastard playlist with Paula, an earphone each like we did when we were kids, and ‘DOA’ by the Foo Fighters comes on – definitely in my top ten. I silently acknowledge High Fidelity and this difference in my state of mind since I read the journal. My anti-High Fidelity resolve, revenge rather than making peace. I know now it’s not that simple. The pictures still make me wince, but I’m used to it now. It’s been reported to Facebook for nudity and they’ve sent an email telling me to remove a particular image, the one where Jack is fucking Pam in our room.

  We ride round and round on the tram, getting off to buy a new ticket every now and again. I don’t want to get into trouble. I wonder what Emma must really think of all this. How she must feel when she sees Jack with these women? Knowing Emma and knowing him, she’ll think that she has changed him. She’ll believe that she’s different, that she’s the one who has made him settle down.

  We all think that. No doubt everyone in the journal thought that until the next one came along. I snigger and shake my head because for all his protestations that I didn’t, I know Jack. He was trying too hard. He still is. Making himself believe that Emma was the one. That he didn’t want to blow it with her. That he would do anything. Maybe he really does believe that himself, that each woman is the one – until he gets bored and finds an excuse why she’s not.

  When the tram reaches full circle, we get off at the park and sit on a bench at the station. I deactivate made-up Monica’s profile and give the laptop to Paula, who changes the passwords to something I don’t know. I switch off the laptop; it’s nearly out of battery anyway. I won’t be using it again.

  When I get home I go to put everything in the hole, forgetting that it’s a smouldering pit now. Paula takes it all from me and I have to trust her. I have to trust someone again. I wonder what Emma will have told the police and how she has persuaded Allan Parrott not to tell them it was her behind the photos. I conclude that it’s none of my business and I’ve got enough to think about.

  I must have fallen asleep on the settee because when I wake up it’s a dull Monday morning and Paula’s gone, back to Patti. I make coffee and my phone rings. It’s Katy.

  ‘Hi. You OK?’

  I feel a bit bad that I need to convince her to let Jack see Jamie, but I’m glad she’s phoned.

  ‘Yeah. How are you? Feeling any better?’

  There’s a pause. She’s crying.

  ‘Not really. Did you see that they found that Emma? She was locked in a shed or something. Do you think it was him?’

  ‘No. Wasn’t it a woman?’ I make it up as I go along as usual. Careful, Caroline. Not too many details. ‘Look, I’ll be over to get my car and my stuff in a minute. Now they’ve got that guy, I might as well stay at home. But thanks for the room.’

  She brightens.

  ‘Yes. Come over.’

  Twenty minutes later I’m sitting in her front room with a cup of tea.

  ‘So what did the police want?’

  She’s biting her nails, constantly worried.

  ‘Oh, they thought I’d done something to Emma. Can you believe it?’

  Katy tuts.

  ‘God, you’re the last person to do that after what you’ve had to go through with all that Facebook stuff.’

  I want to tell her the truth and promise myself that from now on, after this is over, I won’t lie to her.

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, Emma’s OK and that’s all that matters. I’ve got other things on my mind. I’ve got a meeting with social services tomorrow. I’m going for full custody and letting Jack have visitation rights.’

  She pales.

  ‘So you’re letting him see them – if you win? I thought you said he was dangerous?’

  God. I have to do this, but I feel bad. If I know Jack, and with Emma’s influence, though, it won’t be him looking after Jamie, it’ll be Missy.

  ‘No. I know Jack is a bastard, but he’s their dad.’

  ‘I thought you
said—’

  ‘Yeah. Well. He’s a prick, that’s for sure. But no matter what’s happened between us, the kids need him, so I’m letting him see them. As long as I don’t have to see him. It’s me he’s the danger to, not Charlie and Laura.’

  She looks confused.

  ‘So have I done the wrong thing? You know, stopping him from seeing Jamie?’

  I sigh.

  ‘Only you know that, Katy. Maybe you could get him to pick him up from your mum’s so you don’t have to see him?’

  I know how she’s feeling right now: surprised because she knows that she was hooked on his little visits, the thread that she dangled on; reluctant, even now, to let that go. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome. Dependency. Love is the drug. Except it isn’t love.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  I help her out.

  ‘Jamie’ll be able to spend time with …’ It sticks in my throat with the emotion it holds but I manage to get it out. ‘His brother and sister. You won’t know what to do with your time, but we could have a little exes club, couldn’t we?’

  She smiles at this. I look at the photograph of Jamie, Charlie and Laura with Jack and Katy that she still keeps on her mantelpiece. Still pretending they are one big happy family. I smile back. Those children will still be together and in my heart I know that’s the first priority. And me and Katy. I’m slightly giddy as I realise that his ‘divide and rule’ has crumbled. She’s engaged now and chatting away.

  ‘Oh, did you see that all that stuff about Jack has been deleted off Facebook? I expect the police have done it.’

  I nod sagely.

  ‘Yes. We’ll just have to go back to stalking him on his own page now, won’t we?’

  Her expression changes. She looks like I’ve just exposed a big secret.

  ‘I … I …’

  ‘God, Katy, relax. We all do it, you know. That’s partly why he leaves it public. Because he knows we will. It’s all part of his little game.’

  As I say it, I remember my conversation about the future with Jack’s wife. She agreed to my terms and I’ve agreed to hers – and by default to Jack’s. No more game-play for us. I feel free. And my work here is done. I leave her with a hug and assure her that it will all be OK. I promise to phone her when he has the kids and I will. For once I’m not faking. I actually want to. It feels good.

  I’m home. Home. Suddenly it feels like home. I go into the lounge and clear a space on the sofa. The room smells musty, the stink of old newsprint and cardboard. It’s a big job but I take some of the newspapers outside and put them in the skip. Then I take all the takeaway menus from the hallway and the unopened junk mail and chuck that in as well.

  The empty boxes, the piles of Thomson Locals I shoved behind the kitchen door – all in the skip. By the time I’m finished, the hallway is almost clear. I keep one of the Thomson Locals and find the number for a charity shop. It rings and rings, and then I remember Lee.

  I find his number and my stomach has a knot in it as the call rings out. I know by doing this I am starting something. I know. It rings, and somewhere inside me a feeling of distrust comes. My mother’s voice saying, ‘They’re all the same.’ Are they? Are they all the same? They can’t be. There has to be something else for me. Somebody else. It’s still ringing and this feels like a huge risk. But I can take it slowly, take it slow. Then I recognise the chink of light breaking through. Hope. It’s hope.

  It turns out to be a shop number and he’s not there. I explain the situation and they say that they’ll be around later to pick ‘the things up’. I’m giggling and telling them that they might need a few trips and they thank me and wonder if I’d be interested in a charity auction.

  I find a box in the kitchen that has a Dyson vac in it and get it out. It’s a long time since I’ve used a vacuum cleaner. Or seen more than a couple of inches of carpet in here. It feels kind of good.

  I polish the mirror and the door panels and I’ve made a start. I polish up the banister and before I know it I’m standing outside Charlie’s bedroom. I know in my heart that I have to go in and assess what I need to do to make it right before they come here. But I suddenly can’t move my arms. It’s a heavy feeling, a dread that comes with facing your worst fear.

  The terror at going into my son’s bedroom is overwhelming. It brings into focus the chance that all this might be too optimistic; that it might not work out, no matter how promising it seems. After all, I can’t tell them Jack is a bigamist, because I would have to explain how I found out.

  I have to take the chance. I have to let go of the past and hope that fucking Emma is worth so much to him and that she keeps her word. I stand there and run it over in my mind: what could go wrong and, if it did, what would happen. Then I turn the handle and go in.

  It’s dusty and smells of damp. There’s a patch on the ceiling just under where the cold water tank would be. I make a mental note to get a plumber in. I sit on the bed and pick up Barney, Charlie’s teddy. I don’t expect he’ll be wanting him now, or all the Lego. I expect he’s into computers.

  I feel a pang of panic as I realise that I don’t know my own children. I leave the room as it is for now and check Laura’s. As I open the door, the butterflies I suspended from the ceiling years ago flap their wings and dust dislodges and makes me cough. Her tiny bed has a princess headboard and canopy. I need to order a new bed for her. And one for me.

  This is it. It’s all coming right at last. I’m planning, organising. Waiting for my children to come home. I’ve made a real start on sorting out my life. I leave their bedroom doors open to air the rooms and I get out my laptop and go to Amazon Prime. Instead of drunken ordering, I’ve got a purpose. I order 200 strong bin liners and an assortment of cleaning materials.

  I look around at the piles and piles of Amazon boxes, monuments to my lost years. It’s an imposing task but I need to do it. I need to get rid of everything. Start again. A new life. I can feel that tomorrow is going to be a good day.

  Chapter Forty

  I wake up crying. I’ve had one of those dreams when you believe that you have murdered someone. I was searching the whole house for loose floorboards and felt like someone was coming to get me. I’d finally settled on the notion that I’d buried someone in the cupboard under the floorboards. I was sitting in the hallway just waiting for the police to arrive.

  I sit up in bed and realise it was just a dream. Just a dream. Of course, everything that has happened has had an effect on me. Why wouldn’t it? This is my subconscious trying to sort it through. It isn’t real.

  No time for lying in bed analysing my psyche today. I check my phone and there’s a text from Lee telling me he’ll be round at nine. The meeting’s at two so I need to be in town by one. I desperately need to go into work. I can fit it all in. I can. This is what life’s going to be like now. Full-time busy. It’s exciting.

  Just as Lee turns up in a large van, the postman appears.

  ‘Thought you’d finished with all this.’

  He hands me an Amazon box and stands there waiting for me to say something.

  ‘I have. This is just bin bags and the rest is going. As soon as possible.’

  He shakes his head and peers around me into the house.

  ‘Bloody hell. Big job.’

  Lee appears. In the light of day, away from the bright hotel lights, he’s about forty and he’s wearing jeans, hands in pockets and a bobble hat. Long brown hair. He assesses the situation quickly.

  ‘I’ll be sorting this lot out. She’s donating it to charity.’

  I suddenly wish I’d had a shower and put on some make-up.

  ‘Right. Shall we make a start?’

  We walk up the path and he’s looking at me.

  ‘Aren’t you that woman whose husband …?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I am.’

  He stops.

  ‘Yeah. I saw that. Terrible. I’m sorry.’

  I laugh inappropriately. It’s the nerves.

  ‘It’s not your f
ault. Don’t be sorry. Anyway, it’s sorted now.’

  But he persists.

  ‘But I am sorry. I’m apologising on behalf of decent men everywhere. We’re not all like that.’ He looks serious and I know that my face shows my mortification. But he starts to laugh. He touches my shoulder. Then he looks horrified. ‘No. No. We’re really not. That made it look like I was joking. God. This isn’t going well. I really shouldn’t be around people.’

  I smile.

  ‘I know what you meant. Thanks. But it’s sorted. I just need to get rid of all this. It’s been … well, a long year.’

  We go inside and I’m embarrassed. He’s looking around in awe.

  ‘Jesus Christ, this is the worst I’ve ever seen.’

  He’s right. He shouldn’t be around people. He goes from room to room, writing on his hand in black biro. Then up his arm. Eventually he sits on the bottom stair and looks up at me.

  ‘OK, two options: either I can just cart this all away and store it and sell it in our various shops – proceeds go to cancer charities – or we can have a charity auction and the proceeds can be split between different charities.’

  I stare at him. His eyes are … beautiful.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it. I thought you would take care of it.’

  ‘Yeah, we do. But if you had a preference … Look, it’s going to have to go into storage anyway, so how about I take it and you decide later. Within a week, if possible.’

  ‘Yes, that would be good. Do you do this for a job?’

  ‘Yep. Minimum wage. I just get paid for thirty hours a week and donate the rest.’

  I have to go. I want to stay here with Lee and my stuff, but I need to call in at work.

  ‘Look, if I give you a key, do you think you can get this done in a morning? I’m willing to pay.’

  He gets up and looks around again.

  ‘I can get it done in a day. It’ll need two of us but no need to pay. It’s our jobs. OK to put any crap in the skip?’

  It kicks in. My fear. The fear of having nothing, being in an empty house creeps up and batters me over the head. I’m looking at the skip and looking at the stuff and the tears come. I’m suddenly sobbing and Lee holds me to his chest and pats me lightly on the back.