by Sue Watson
I was just walking past the dry cleaners when I felt a hand on my arm. It was Dan. ‘You forgot your change,’ he said, handing me a twenty pence piece. I thanked him, but wondered why he’d run down the high street just to give me 20p?
‘Is that where you work?’ he asked, obviously wanting to continue our conversation.
‘Yeah. For now. I started on a temporary basis... and it’s, er, been a little longer than I anticipated.’
‘How long?’
‘I don’t want to think about it,’ I smiled. ‘I just sometimes feel like it’s swallowing me up and I need to get out, but it’s not easy to find work at the moment.’
‘I know what you mean. It’s good to make changes, throw everything in the air now and then and see where it lands—but it takes guts to do that. Worth it though... if you can.’
‘It's scary though; I mean there’s loads of things I want to change and loads of things I want to do, but it’s not just about having the courage.’
‘What is it that’s stopping you then?’ We were having this weird conversation about life in the middle of the street, outside a pound shop early in the morning and I wasn’t ready for his interrogation.
‘What’s stopping me...? Good question,’ I sighed. ‘I have a daughter, a job, responsibilities. I’d love to go to Paris for the afternoon and eat macaroons in a beautiful Parisian teashop but a) I have to be at work in five minutes, b) I can’t afford the air fare, and c) I don’t have a passport... other than that, nothing’s stopping me.’ I hadn’t mentioned the fact I was married and would be going home to cook tea—he didn’t have to know everything about me.
‘No passport? Well, I reckon that’s your first stop,’ he said. ‘Get passported up and book that flight to France.’
‘Yeah... tomorrow,’ I smiled, making to walk away. I was late for work but flattered he wanted to chat. ‘Today I’m doing a Santorini sunset and making a wish at the Trevi Fountain.’
He smiled and touched my arm. ‘Just don’t be away too long.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I called behind me, walking now, ‘I’ve got a full head of highlights at three p.m., so I’ll have to be back by then.’
It was just beginning to rain but he didn’t seem to be aware—just wanted to chat as if we had all day and it was blazing sunshine. He didn’t move, just leaned against the dry cleaner’s window waving me off until I reached the salon. I walked in, greeted by the familiar rush of heat and hairspray, which filled my head and squashed my heart and made me long to just run outside and find Dan again.
6
SLOW-PULLED PORK AND ICE ROAD TRUCKERS
I was still missing Emma, and the gap that had re-opened again like a wound was hard to put back together. I’d found the past couple of weeks difficult, readjusting to me and Craig alone again. Without Emma there was no laughter, no fun and the only place I felt at home, ironically, was at work.
I’d gone out with Craig since we were fifteen and we’d stayed together during my first year at university when he was an apprentice plumber. Then, in my second year, I'd met Alex, a fellow English student, and on a visit home had told Craig it was over. He agreed it wasn’t working long distance and we slept together for one last time... or so we thought. I went back to uni, started to see Alex more often, and just as I was beginning to fall for him, he slept with someone else. It was then I discovered I was pregnant with Craig’s baby, which was devastating. I told Craig and he immediately did the right thing and suggested we get married. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I was pregnant and alone and at the time it was the only thing to do. I was grateful to Craig; he’d stood by me and it made me fall back in love with him a little, especially after Alex had treated me so badly. I decided to leave uni and continue my degree once the baby was old enough, and a registry office wedding was hastily arranged by parents on both sides. I didn’t know it then, but that day in my pale cream dress and coat I said goodbye to everything I’d planned. It was the end of a university education, world travel, and the start of a life with someone who’d never share my passions or want the same things I did.
We lived a married life of sorts, contributing to the love and upbringing of our daughter, and I’d never really considered an alternative. There had always been problems in our relationship, based on the fact that we were incompatible, but recently I’d become more aware of the differences between us. I wanted spontaneity, romance and adventure, but Craig didn’t like change, do small talk, or eat foreign food. I wanted a husband who would take me on the kitchen table and sing to me under the stars, but Craig liked sex in bed, his tea on the table and everything in its place. I enjoyed reading and cooking, but Craig wasn’t interested in books and his dodgy digestive system caused him to taste only the essence of ‘battery acid’ in my delicate, lovingly prepared sauces. But the biggest catastrophe for me was that I’d always longed to see the world and Craig was scared of flying and Weston-super-Mare was as far as he’d go. I dreamed of that trip to the Trevi Fountain, that Vespa ride through Rome, but the nearest I’d get to Italy with Craig was a takeaway pizza.
My mother’s death two years earlier had shocked me into the awareness that my horizons were shrinking as each year passed. It’s sad at the end of your life to realise that you never saw those faraway places with strange-sounding names. But knowing in early middle age that the man you will share the rest of your life with won’t even get on a plane was devastating... even for an optimist like me. If I stayed with Craig, I would never tick anything off my living list, but would just go on adding more futile dreams that would never come to fruition. I had gone over and over in my head what I would say to him when it came time for me to leave, but hadn’t really worked out when that would be. Was there ever a right time to end your marriage? Was I just putting this off, like I was everything else? As Dan from the deli had said earlier that day; ‘What’s stopping you, Faye?’
I think, ultimately, this was what gave me the courage to do what I did on that wet Wednesday night in February—the idea that being married to Craig was holding me back. I was using him and my marriage as an excuse, and it was stopping me from being me. I would tell him tonight.
I arrived home late with the ingredients for a gourmet meal to find Craig birthing the innards of a washing machine on the kitchen table, the overpowering smell of WD-40 permeating the house.
‘Craig,’ I tried, hearing the nagging in my own voice, ‘I’ve been to the supermarket and bought food for a nice meal... I want us to have a proper talk tonight...’ I couldn’t concentrate for the overpowering stench. ‘That stuff gives me a headache—why don’t you open a window?’ I plonked the bags with the ingredients on the kitchen worktop.
‘I’m not opening a window; it’ll let the heat out... it’s February in England, not the bloody Caribbean.’
‘I wish I was in the bloody Caribbean,’ I hissed.
‘Yeah I wish you were too,’ he muttered from somewhere inside a washer drum.
So, what a great start—both wishing the other were on a different continent. Good luck with the difficult conversation, Faye, I thought.
‘Will you need the table for long—I want to set it?’ I snapped.
‘Oh, is someone coming?’
I sighed and put the kettle on. ‘Craig... we have to discuss... stuff. Okay?’ I looked at him and for a second he glanced at me and I detected a faint nod.
‘What are you making?’
I sighed again. ‘Slow roasted pork with spiced rhubarb.’ I picked up the packet of rhubarb and began reading from it; I found it easier to read from a script than talk to him. ‘This delightful British rhubarb has been grown in the dark and harvested by candlelight. Forced rhubarb has a superior, delicate flavour and is more tender than the summer version…’
‘I don’t know why you bought pork. You know I don’t like pork; it plays havoc with my guts.’
I wanted to whack him in the face with the bloody pork but remembered I had to keep things on an even keel.
‘Forced rhubarb is a seasonal fruit grown in the British Isles and...’ I continued reading, ‘used to shove up the arses of husbands who won’t eat pork.’
He didn’t flinch. Then I remembered I had to keep things nice if I wanted it all to go smoothly so slipped into my default voice of cajoling Mum, ‘Please, just try the pork—for me?’ I asked, hating the pleading in my own voice.
Craig was now texting, leaving the mechanical patient to fight for its life while he smirked into his phone. ‘Well, you can put me a bit on a plate,’ he sighed, looking away from his phone for a nanosecond, ‘and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks, that’s so kind of you,’ I said sarcastically. Here I was, presenting this man with the dying embers of my love, smothered with the sweet stickiness of rhubarb harvested by candlelight—and he just didn’t get it.
‘If you don’t want this pork, I’ll save it for that millionaire I met online. He likes to rub the sticky sauce all over me before we do it on the dining table. Doggy style,’ I added loudly. Nothing. I was chopping and stirring, making this meal for the two of us, knowing it would be the last time. I would soon be free from Craig and his frozen pipes, constant criticism and refusal to leave terra firma. He didn’t read books, he didn’t make me laugh and he didn’t love me—all this and an indifference to the food I cooked had been the recipe for a failed marriage. I never had gastronomic indifference from Kevin Bacon. He would run his tongue lovingly around my culinary delights while groaning with pleasure... and then there was Dan, who would, I was sure, appreciate my rhubarb. He wouldn’t reject my delicacies as being too much of a challenge for his digestive system. Dan would welcome my sticky slow-pulled meat, embracing it with enthusiasm, and no whisper of ‘havoc’ being played with his ‘guts’. There was a man who appreciated good food—hell, he’d even know the spot where that rhubarb was force-grown... take me to it, then take me on it.
Craig was still face-deep in washing machine colons with no sign of moving, and as the minutes went on I just knew it was time. I wasn’t wasting any more of my precious life hours on this man who made me feel permanently hurt and angry. I wondered about his reaction; I suspected what was a natural end for me may not be for him. I chopped and marinated and whisked and tasted, and tears dripped from my face onto the pork. Eventually, I composed myself and we ate in silence on trays on our knees. Our marriage was haemorrhaging and I was offering the last rites with a lovingly prepared gourmet dinner, but it was wasted on him.
Later, after he’d eaten the ‘tough’ pork and pulled his face at the ‘sour’ rhubarb, I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what was to come. Watching him sip his tea, reading his paper, oblivious to what I was planning, made me feel guilty—but relieved. I had finally made up my mind and there was no going back. It was the right thing for me... for both of us. This had been coming for a long time.
I opened my handbag and took out the picture of the New York rooftop. You could just about see the Empire State Building lit up in the distance—what was stopping me? What was stopping me? Only I could get myself to that rooftop, and the first step on that enormous journey would be facing Craig with the truth. I put down my coffee cup. ‘Craig... I think we need to talk,’ I said quietly, calmly.
Our marriage was a dying dog in the corner of the room. Now, finally, one of us was going to put it out of its misery.
‘Craig... I’m not happy.’
He was engrossed in Ice Road Truckers but I wasn’t going to let that stop me as it had many times before. I just swallowed hard and went for it.
‘I’ve tried to tell you before... but you won’t hear it... but I just don’t want to do this anymore.’
‘But I thought you liked Ice Road Truckers?’
‘I’m not talking about the fucking TV,’ I shouted, losing it slightly. I stood up, marched across to the TV (he of course had the remote) and I turned the sound down, as it was the only way to get his full attention.
‘I need you to listen to this because it’s important,’ I started, almost wishing I could do this by PowerPoint because he’d probably need visuals if he was going to take any of it in. It struck me that a clever woman would have been able to use the insides of a washing machine as an analogy to explain the break-up, but I may have ended up hitting him over the head with it and killing him. Murdering Craig was a little extreme, even for me.
‘Craig, we don’t sleep together. We don’t talk to each other. The only thing we have in common is Emma and she’s not here anymore. I’m sorry, but I just don’t love you anymore... I want to separate.’
He sat up in his chair with a look of surprise. ‘Are you having me on?’
‘No.’
‘What’s got into you, Faye?’
‘Nothing and everything... I just can’t live with you any longer. You don’t even talk to me.’
‘That’s not true. I told you before about that Miele at number thirty-four but you weren’t listening... do you need to see a doctor?’
‘No, I don’t. Just because I don’t care about the fucking Miele at number thirty-four doesn’t mean I need medical attention. I don’t care... and even if we did talk to each other, neither of us would listen because we know exactly what the other one’s going to say.’
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’
‘It is a bad thing, Craig. We don’t predict the other’s thoughts and words because we’re soulmates; we do it because we’re so predictable to each other... and bored, so bloody bored. Haven’t you noticed? We aren’t together anymore. I sleep in another room. I stay late just to clean up at work. I try to go out more so I spend as little time as possible around you.’
‘It was your idea to sleep in Emma’s room... I thought it was because you were missing her. I thought you were coming back to our bed...’
‘I’m never coming back, Craig. There’s no such thing as ‘our’ bed. I left it and you a long time ago.’
I was shocked to see big tears suddenly dropping down onto his chin and he began to sob. Huge, great racking sobs, with his head in his hands. I hadn’t realised he was capable of such raw, strong emotion—especially when it came to me and our marriage. I began to cry too and went to him and, holding him in my arms, I rocked him like a baby. ‘I’m sorry, Craig... I’m so sorry, love. But I can’t go on...’
Eventually, when he’d emerged from his tears, he sat shaking his head. I brought him a cup of tea and we sat together on the sofa holding hands, finally coming together at the end.
‘I know you get fed up and you’ve wanted a holiday. We can do that... we can go wherever you want, Faye, do whatever...’
‘It’s not about a holiday, Craig. It’s more than that. I just... don’t want to be married anymore.’
We sat together by the light of the TV, as always, but now it was different. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done and felt scared, guilty and elated at the same time.
‘I think we both want someone we can talk to who will listen, Craig. I want someone who isn’t constantly criticising me and making fun of my stupid ideas... I know they’re daft, but you shouldn’t laugh at people’s dreams. I want to see the world, Craig. I want to meet new people and have new experiences... I might even finish my degree one day. You might find this hard to believe—but I don’t get an awful lot of fulfilment from washing your pants.’
‘You can’t just go like that... is there someone else?’
‘No, there isn’t. We both need some time apart,’ I said.
‘We can live apart, we can do that... but stay in the same house.’
‘No. We’ve been doing that for years. We need to live in different places, Craig.’
‘But... I still care about you Faye,’ he added, like an afterthought. I shook my head and smiled sadly at him.
‘You could go and live at your mother’s?’
‘I’m not going there,’ he said, suddenly changing his tone from victim to master. I didn’t blame him; he didn’t want any of this. Not becaus
e he loved me and couldn’t bear to be without me—he just didn’t want the hassle, the upset, the change. He was even more scared than I was.
I was tired of battling, so offered to go and stay at Sue’s for a while.
‘You do what you like. You’ll be back with your tail between your legs,’ he snapped, his resentment building now he knew my mind was set. I expected this and it was only right he should feel angry. I almost welcomed his anger. I could deal with it far more easily than his hurt.
I called Sue, who, as always, was there for me.
‘Hmm, I knew he wouldn’t leave that house... Taureans are very stubborn. Pack your bag. The spare bed’s made and there’s a bottle of rosé in the fridge,’ she said. I wanted to cry with relief.
I took one last look in Emma’s room. I tidied her teddy bears, moved a few books around and ran my hands along the blue satin throw I’d bought in the Rackham’s sale years before. I remembered bringing our baby home from the hospital and almost understood Sue’s strange emotional attachment to her cushions—our lives were woven into the fabrics of our home. Whatever we did and whoever we loved next, mine and Craig’s lives were sewn together, with Emma binding us all like the delicate stitching in the blue satin throw.
I packed my stuff in my suitcase, put the bright pink rucksack on my back and, leaving Craig by the flickering light of Ice Road Truckers, I closed the front door for the last time.
7
LOOKING FOR MR WAITROSE
Sue was waiting outside and, after hugging me and telling me it would all be okay, we put my bags in the boot and headed to hers. I felt a mix of relief it was over, but fear of the future alone. As much as I worried about telling Emma, a part of me welcomed this new life and the cacophony of colour and chaos it would hopefully bring.
