The SECRET TO NOT DROWNING

by Colette Snowden

  I’m tying knots in the empty biscuit packet to see how many I can do and I hear his key turning in the door. I am sitting in the living room in my legwarmers and cardigan with a knotted biscuit packet in my hand and he appears at the living room door.

  “So this is what you get up to when I’m not around.”

  Anyone would think He’d caught me devil-worshipping or piercing my own belly button. I feel like I’ve been kept back in detention and the headmaster has caught me enjoying myself when I’m supposed to be considering the error of my ways. He’s waiting for me to say something but I don’t know what to say.

  I don’t know what to say.

  He waits.

  The next film is starting in the Friday afternoon black and white double bill. The music is very loud. It makes me jump when it comes on.

  “Can we turn that thing off?” He says and He just strides across the room and switches it off. And then He walks across to me and takes the knotted biscuit packet out of my hand.

  “What’s this?” He asks.

  Bloody stupid question. It might be tied in knots but you can tell it’s an empty biscuit packet. Anyone could tell it’s an empty biscuit packet.

  I don’t say anything. He doesn’t expect me to. He doesn’t want me to.

  “And what are those?” He asks and He points to my legwarmers with the knotted biscuit packet. It’s exhibit A raised to accuse me with exhibit B. If I didn’t know better I’d think He was having a laugh. He looks like He is. If my mum walked back in the house right now, having forgotten her handbag or something, she would think He was just having a laugh and He would play along. But He’s not.

  Again I don’t answer and again He doesn’t expect me to. I could leap to the defence of my legwarmers, but there’s no point. It wouldn’t change anything.

  “I thought I threw those out,” He says, sneering at them. “Didn’t I throw them out?”

  And that’s my cue to speak. But maybe I don’t want to speak to Him. It’s not like He’s offering me a conversation. So I just nod.

  “Pardon?”

  He’s not going to let me off that easily.

  “Yes.” I think it’s best to keep it short and to the point but maybe that’s not the best plan today because He pauses to wait for me to say some more.

  I brace myself for what He’s going to say next and it feels like we’re both holding our breath. But it’s his phone that breaks the silence with its Mission Impossible theme tune ring-tone. If only these legwarmers would self-destruct in 30 seconds we’d be fine. If only He would.

  It’s Jimmy.

  “Probably best not tonight,” He says, “Marion’s still, you know, a bit fragile and that. Yeah, she’ll be alright. She’s a tough old bird. Tough as old boots,” He looks at me while He’s talking to Jimmy. He’s talking to Jimmy but talking to me too. “Tough as old boots but higher bloody maintenance. All right, no worries. I’m sure I’ll get a pass to come out at some point over the weekend.”

  He puts his phone back into his pocket and looks me up and down, letting his eyes rest on the legwarmers.

  “Fine,” He says eventually. “If they mean that much to you, keep the disgusting, flea-bitten things. If that’s what you need to do to get through it all, hang on to your youth with a revolting pair of sad, fat-girl legwarmers, you do that. Just don’t let me see them on you again though, eh? Same goes for that moth-eaten cardigan.”

  Not the most generously expressed change of heart I’ve ever heard, but it’s better than wrestling with potato peelings in the outside bin again, so I’ll take it.

  “D’you fancy take-out for dinner?” He asks and I just say yes. Why not? And He even asks me if I’ve got any requests. And He even kisses me on the cheek before He picks up his keys and pulls the front door closed behind Him.

  And while He’s gone, I take off the legwarmers and take them upstairs and squirrel them away at the back of my knicker drawer. And there in the corner of my knicker drawer, just where I left it, is the little card that Julie gave me with the printed name and telephone numbers and email address on the front and the hand-written home number scrawled on the back. I look at the name, Julie S. Woodburn. I don’t know what the ‘S’ stands for. I wonder what it stands for. I wonder which number it’s best for me to ring.

  I try the home number. She’s bound to have an answering machine. Bound to. And I don’t want to end up trying to explain who I am to some secretary if I ring her on her work number. And I don’t want to disturb her while she’s chatting to someone or in a meeting or something by calling her on her mobile number.

  I count the rings while I wait for her to answer. They are so slow compared to the ridiculous pace my heart is beating. Stupid. What’s it doing that for? Four... Five...

  “Hello?”

  “Julie?”

  “Yes. Hello?”

  “It’s Marion,” I say, “you know, from school. I saw you the other day at the train station. You did say to ring you.”

  “I did,” she says, “and you chose just the right time. I’m not usually home this early but I had a meeting this afternoon and decided to come straight home. You must’ve known.”

  I don’t know what to say next but it’s OK. It’s like she really was waiting for me to call. Like she’s thought what she’ll say when I do.

  “I don’t have any plans for tomorrow,” she says. “Fancy coming round for lunch?”

  “OK,” I say without even thinking about it. Without even thinking what He’ll say. Normally Saturday is supermarket day but my mum’s been visiting so the cupboards are already full to bursting.

  “Brilliant,” she says, and she sounds like she’s genuinely pleased. “About half twelve then. Do you remember which house it is?”

  I hear the front door close. He’s back. He shouts hello up the stairs.

  “Yes,” I say “that’s fine. He’s just got back, I’d better go.”

  “OK,” She says, speaking more quietly as though there’s a danger He might hear her. “See you tomorrow.”

  And the phone clicks as she hangs up and I turn around to see Him standing in the doorway.

  “Who was on the phone?” He asks.

  “My mum,” I answer. I don’t know why I don’t just tell Him. Maybe I know He’d be cross. Maybe I just want a secret to replace the legwarmers.

  “So what’s fine?” He says.

  Think quickly Marion: what’s fine? “She left her bra here because I put it in the wash for her the other day,” I tell Him. “I’ve said I’ll post it back to her.” End of conversation: he doesn’t want to think about my mum’s bra. Stroke of genius.

  “The food’s in the kitchen,” He says. “Let’s get it while it’s hot.”

  13

  There are other women. Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. Why else would He always suspect me of eyeing up anyone and everyone? Why else would he always think that everyone we know is having an affair?

  Maybe I am looking for someone else and I just don’t know that I’m doing it. Maybe everyone we know is having an affair. But I don’t think so.

  There’s a crazy one (obviously!), she’s an adrenalin junkie. She did all the textbook crazy-girl stuff back in the day. She bungee-jumped in Australia, she went white water rafting. She backpacked, she hitchhiked, she walked home alone through the dodgy park near her flat where all the druggies and the weirdos hung out. Well into her twenties she was like a five year old kid who thinks she’ll live for ever. Who thinks bad things only happen to other people. Bad things only happen to people on the telly, not to anyone you know in real life. She was like that as a teenager, like that as a student, like that in her post-student haze when she could still drink until two in the morning then wake up God knows where next to a complete stranger and still make it into work for nine with her hair tied back and her shoes on the right feet.
/>   But now she’s at least thirty-two, maybe even thirty-five. Maybe pushing forty even. It’s hard to know. She still dresses like she did when she was twenty. Not like any other twenty-year-old you’d see now. She’s not pretending to be a twenty-year-old, she’s just stuck in a time warp. She just can’t leave her twenty-year-old self behind. And in an ideal world she’d still be taking home the skinny, self-obsessed twenty-somethings she used to sleep with back then and she’d still be playing the stupid drinking games and daring and double-daring them to do something daft. She’d still be taking pictures of them asleep in her bed to put in her scrap book. But they’re not interested in her any more. She can fool herself that she’s still a slip of a girl. She can skip meals. She can give herself bubble gum days when she’s allowed to chew gum but swallow nothing except water to keep her skinny little backside in her skinny, skinny jeans. She can abseil, pot hole and run a thousand miles for charity but she can’t compete with the genuine article. She can dress like she did years ago, act like she did, feel like she did but no-one’s interested any more. No-one except Him anyway.

  He’s happy to travel with her on her nostalgia trip. He encourages her. He makes her feel like she’s the most exciting person on earth. He’s good at that, up to a point. He goes to hers for nights in drinking vodka or tequila or her secret recipe cocktails that she mixes up in a blender in the kitchen and carries through to the living room, spilling them on the carpet because she’s too drunk to hold them steady and too drunk to care about the spills. It’s a rented flat anyway and a carpet that’s seen better days. She doesn’t care about it. She doesn’t care about anything much. She doesn’t even care about Him. But she cares about how he feels about her.

  She thinks He loves her. And she has good reason to. He professes his love to her long and loud every time He sees her. But He’s never sober when He says it. And He never sees her unless He’s bored and He’s got nothing to do. She’s his last resort girl. She’s his confidence boost. He rings her to tell her He’s coming round and she always says yes. Or He just turns up and she’s there and she’s glad to see Him and she never turns Him down.

  But then one evening He turns up at her flat and she’s not there. She’s nowhere in particular. She’s gone late night shopping or something. She’s gone out for a drink after work and just stayed out because she felt like it. And why shouldn’t she? She didn’t know He was coming round. It’d be different if she knew when to expect Him, but He’s being unreasonable. She’s not a mind reader. She has a life of her own. And why shouldn’t she be out with other people once in a while? She thinks it’s fine. She thinks it’s fine to say all that to Him. But He soon lets her know that it’s not.

  He tells her that she’s a sad case. That she’s mutton dressed as lamb. He tells her that He’s only interested in her because she’s an easy lay and a good excuse for a night on the piss. He tells her that they stay in because He doesn’t want to be seen with her in public. He tells her that she’s boring, inane, dull as digestive biscuits.

  She listens and says nothing. She just sits there while He tries to make her angry and lets the words float over her like they’re nothing. She lets Him rattle on like He’s nothing. Like she can’t even hear Him. So soon enough He runs out of steam. It doesn’t matter what nastiness He comes up with, if she’s not bothered, what’s the point?

  So in the end He just gets up out of the chair and pours Himself another drink. “One for the road,” He says. And she holds out her glass for another one too but now it’s his turn to ignore her and He pointedly screws the lid back onto the bottle and puts it back on the table. He doesn’t say a word. He just behaves like a little kid who doesn’t want to share his toys with his ex-best friend.

  But she doesn’t care. She’s got something up her sleeve. She’s a resourceful woman and she’s kicked tougher men than Him out of her flat before now.

  She walks calmly to the bottle and pours herself a drink. And while He’s trying hard to ignore her to get back at her for ignoring Him, she reaches into the pocket of the coat that He left hanging on the chair by the table.

  And she walks back to her own chair, large glass of vodka in one hand, car keys in the other. She sits down, glugs the drink and says in a strong clear voice, “Let’s go for a drive.”

  It takes Him a minute to realise what she’s saying and to cotton on to the fact that it’s his car keys in her hand. And in that minute she’s at the front door and heading out to the street to where he parked the car earlier.

  She’s already in the driving seat by the time he gets to the car and she’s starting the engine. He has to decide whether to get into the car with her or just let her drive off. For a moment He considers standing in front of the car and blocking her way but even through half a bottle of vodka He can see that she’s going to drive whether He’s standing there or not. So He gets in the passenger side and fumbles around trying to fasten the seatbelt as she speeds off.

  And He’s contrite now. He tells her He’s sorry. He tells her that it was just the drink talking and He didn’t mean any of it. He’s actually scared. He has no idea where she’s driving to or what she plans to do when she gets there.

  The truth is, neither does she. She doesn’t have a plan but she’s enjoying putting the fear of God into Him. And she’s still saying nothing. He’s apologising like He’s never apologised before in his life. He’s making promises about a weekend away in Paris, telling her He loves her, telling her He’ll leave me and she can hear every word but she’s not prepared to listen to any of his bullshit.

  She’s hooning around corners like a joyrider. She’s having fun. She’s loving every minute of her improvised rally circuit and loving it even more that He’s squirming in his seat thinking that’s she’s lost it.

  She hasn’t. She’s drunk and she’s angry and she’s upset but she’s not a psychopath. But she hasn’t got a plan. She doesn’t really know how she’s going to end this whole fiasco without doing a full-on Thelma and Louise. And she knows He’s not worth that. He’s definitely not worth that.

  So she just drives them into a supermarket car park. She revs up to crash through the barrier but then just crashes the car into a post instead. She’s not hurt anyone. She’s not done anything she’s going to be arrested for. She’s just given Him a big bill for the crumpled bumper and smashed headlight at the front of his car.

  She switches off the engine and hands Him the keys. “Nice knowing you,” she says. “Explain that to your wife, why don’t you?”

  And as far as she’s concerned, they’re even.

  14

  I’m playing the ‘what if?’ game.

  What if I’d gone to University and moved away from here? What if I’d met someone different? What if I hadn’t phoned Him up and persuaded Him to give it another go the first time we split up? What if we’d gone backpacking around the Far East instead of getting married?

  It’s a great game. I can come up with different answers every time I play. I can play out the sort of life I might have had if I changed just one thing. But it’s not real. In real life I was never going to do things differently. People like me never do.

  I’m thinking about the game, imagining myself in some floaty summer frock wandering around a marketplace in India, and I don’t notice the traffic lights changing before I step out into the road. The road was empty a moment ago but now there is a truck coming straight at me and I know I should get out of the way but there are cars coming in the other direction too and the pavement seems a long way off. The truck driver sounds his horn loudly. It sounds like a ship’s foghorn. And he must have put his foot down on the brake at the same time because it screeches to a halt just in front of me. It’s like some silent movie clip where the heroine is tied to the railway track and the train stops just in time. Except my hero is no handsome movie star, he’s a big, fat truck driver. And he’s not going to whisk me into his arms and kiss me. He’s
going to yell at me for being so bloody stupid.

  He gets down from the cab and there are cars beeping behind him and pointedly swerving past his truck to get to where they’re going, staring at me as they drive past.

  I think he’s going to yell. I’m bracing myself for a good ticking off but instead he just puts his arm round my shoulder and leads me onto the pavement.

  “Are you all right love?”

  I just nod at him. I can’t believe he’s being so nice.

  “Stay there,” he says, “I’ll just get the truck out of the way and put my hazards on. Just stay there.”

  So I do as I’m told and a minute later he’s back with a flask of tea in his hand.

  “They say you need sweet tea after a shock,” he says, opening the flask and pouring a cup. “I always drink mine sweet. You should have some.”

  And he hands me the tea and I want to ask him why he’s being so nice but people are still staring at me and I think I should just politely sip the tea and get going.

  But the tea is hot so I can’t drink it too quickly and he seems not to care that his wagon is causing traffic chaos around us. He must be able to see what I’m thinking on my face because he puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Don’t worry love, it’s Saturday, they can’t have anywhere all that urgent to get to.”

  I smile at him and he smiles back and I just can’t believe he’s being so nice. Why is he being so nice? It’s funny that a complete stranger can be so kind and yet I know if my own husband were with me He’d be yelling at me for being so stupid and be more concerned about the five minutes added on to everyone’s journey than the fact that I nearly just got squashed like a beetle underfoot. Maybe I’m doing Him a disservice. Maybe He’d be finding me somewhere to sit down and telling me to sod the lot of them. But I don’t think so.

  My truck driver is still hovering next to me and I can tell he wants to head off.