by Joy Richards
“Wow, this is old-school,” he said with a grin.
“I told you, I need the money to go travelling.”
“You’ll deserve it after a year living here,” he said, sardonically, plopping himself on his very creaky bed. She had gone through the whole room, decluttered it of various junk and re-bleached the walls. She’d thoroughly cleaned it, going over the old faded carpet twice with the hoover, and even with some special carpet shampoo she got online. It wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t disgusting either.
She sat down next to him, immediately aware they were both sitting on a bed, a double bed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. She had not expected him to cry. She vigorously rubbed his back.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I am really, really sorry, look at me, actually crying.”
“That’s okay.” She rubbed his back more gently. “Want to talk about it?”
“I guess it’s not really about the house.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” He looked wounded. She had to learn to calibrate when she spoke to him. He got offended so easily, and would spend hours with a slight shadow on his face. He never seemed to understand when she was affectionately quipping.
“I guess it’s pretty obvious.” He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. It was a quirk of his, to wipe his glasses and, as needed, his eyes with the outstretched sleeves of his coarse-knit jumpers. “I think it was about my chance at proper happiness. You know, like that’s the kind of house where you get to be happy.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. That’s horseshit, she thought, a house couldn’t make you happy any more than a job could. Maybe for a little, but not for long, and not really. This was not, she felt, the time to bring this up. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Yes please,” he said, with a smile. “And I’ve brought you some gin in my bag.”
Four hours later, they were halfway through the bottle of gin, it was Hendrick’s, in its dark black glass bottle that looked like it would forever be full. Holly didn’t have any mixer in the house, why would she, so they were drinking it mixed with a little water and vanilla essence from the baking cupboard. It was actually delicious. She’d made chicken soup earlier that day, and they sat on the small overstuffed couch drinking gin and slurping soup as they chatted.
Holly blinked deeply. Everything was a bit blurry, her contact lenses slightly drying right on her eyeballs. Paul looked blurry too. She had a terrifying flashback to a night out. Waiting for the night-bus. She had been so embarrassed the day after, but clearly he’d been so drunk he didn’t remember. It was when her hair was still dark red. Now she’d changed it, it was bright turquoise at the ends with her dark, natural roots showing for a few inches. Maybe he would like that better. She leaned over, and she kissed him. She slipped, so she missed his mouth and landed somewhere between his upper lip and his nose.
He leaped back. She felt so mortified, her cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just got carried away. I thought you would like my hair better now it’s blue.” She giggled. Christ almighty, was she giggling? What next? The pizza guy was going to come round?
He sat down, looked at her with large confused eyes. “So you remember when you tried to kiss me at the bus stop?”
She laughed. “Of course. Why do men always think women can’t hold their liquor?” She giggled again, comically speaking, she was on fire.
“Why didn’t you say anything? I wanted to talk to you.”
“It was embarrassing, wasn’t it? Men are meant to get rejected, not women! What the hell kind of office romance are we conducting here?”
He wrapped her in his arms. Things were taking a turn some kind of way. Wait, was he smelling her hair? He certainly was. Had she washed it today? Nope. Damn.
He loosened the hug just enough to look her in the face. She took off his glasses.
“I wasn’t aware we were having an office romance,” he said quietly.
“It’s been a secret,” she replied, whispering. “Until now.”
Holly woke up with the sun streaming through her open curtains. In the heat of the moment, they hadn’t bothered to close them the previous night. Paul was a warm presence, right behind her. Oh shit. Paul. The sex was bad, of course it was bad, they’d both been pretty drunk and her granny’s bed was not the steadiest surface at any rate. Oh, God, how was she going to cope with the embarrassment? What was she going to do? She still had to see him at work, and now the sex had been bad there was really very little chance they’d get a second go. Why did she drink the gin? You don’t get drunk with your best friend, whom you hopelessly fancy. It’s Life 101 stuff.
She turned round, hoping to locate something to put on as she went to shower. Paul’s eyes were open, which startled her.
“Good morning,” she said, aiming to sound natural.
“Good morning.” He wrapped her up in his arms, held her close. “I have the world’s worst hangover.”
“No,” she corrected him gently, “you have the world’s second worst hangover. I have the world’s worst.”
He smiled. He looked even more naked than he already was without his glasses. Where had they got to? And wait, he did not seem particularly repulsed, or ashamed. He seemed happy instead.
“We should have a talk,” he said, smiling slowly. “Is there somewhere in all of Hatfield Peverel that does coffee that isn’t burnt?”
She smiled. This was going to be a good talk.
And so it was. They didn’t decide anything, other than whatever had happened was very much a very good idea, and they should do it again. It was a Saturday morning, they had two days to figure it out. Even if they didn’t, there was no hurry. They walked back to the cottage in the golden glow of the autumnal sun, basking in its glory as it warmed up the wet pavement. The leaves on the trees were starting to turn, and the birch near the cottage was glistening with half-golden leaves.
It would be a good day to get the watercolours out, thought Holly. She said so out loud, and to her surprise Paul asked if he could watch her paint. They picked up some sandwiches from the local offie and made it to the canal. Holly painted until well into the afternoon, while Paul read his book and looked at her work, methodically.
“I should be painting you,” she said. “That’s what happens in all the movies.”
“That’s all right,” he replied straight back. “There are enough pictures of pale white men out there. Paint something beautiful, like the ducks.”
Obediently, she sketched out some ducks for him on her pad. It became a fun game: he’d point at something, she’d sketch it and colour it in as quickly as possible. When they got tired of this, they packed up and started walking back towards the cottage.
“Can I make you dinner?” asked Paul, respectfully, like an old-school gentleman asking for a dance.
“I would love that.” Holly was not prepared for what was to come. Paul ran, as in literally ran, to the shops and returned with a couple of mystery bags. He then secluded himself in her horrible kitchen, only to re-emerge two hours later with a true vegetarian feast. Oven-baked French onion soup, loaded with cheese. Baked sweet potato, with home-made hummus and crunchy chickpeas. Roasted red peppers, mixed with rocket, pine nuts and crunchy slithers of pink beetroot, as a sort of autumnal salad with a honey and mustard dressing. Poached pears for dessert, which sounded boring but was actually unspeakably delicious. Her granny’s table had not looked so full of joy since before she went into care.
They had a magical Saturday night, and a magical Sunday. On Monday, they went to work together. No need to stagger entrances, everybody knew Paul was crashing at her place for a couple of weeks. Ideal way to take the pressure off. Tuesday was one of her work from home days, and she attempted being domestic by making spaghetti carbonara while he was at work. It was fun, even though she hated cooking and had to phone her mother three times for emergency instruc
tions. Wednesday night she had drinks with her non-work friends, and came home late to find Paul had gone to sleep in her bed without her. She smiled as she squeezed herself in the tiny wedge of space left.
Thursday was another work from home day, and Paul joined her. They did very little work, and put on very few clothes. They watched a movie at night, snuggled together. Paul made them hot chocolates and popcorn, just because. Friday they spent working hard making up for the time they had squandered on Thursday. Holly had a project on a young adult novel she was reading due by the evening, and didn’t see Paul all day.
After work, the whole work gang went out. They went for drinks, then to a gig. Holly enjoyed turning round at random moments in the night, to catch Paul staring at her with a secret grin. She couldn’t help but smile herself. The rest of the group seemed oblivious, but they probably knew everything already. Why else would two people be constantly smiling to themselves? They caught the last train just in time, and made it home in total darkness. Before she knew it, she had been happy for a whole week.
10
Florence
They had gotten married at the Greenwich Observatory on 1 February 2015. It had been, quite simply, the perfect wedding. She had spent six months scouring the boutiques of London and the south east for her wedding dress, often alone, sometimes with various combinations of family and friends. Every time, it was a magical experience. People are so nice to you when they find out you are engaged and planning a wedding. They gush over the engagement ring – hers was a vintage emerald John had received from his grandma. They offer you champagne as you wait, they ask you questions about the flowers, the colour scheme. She had taken her time. She planned on her wedding being her greatest art project yet. It had even been featured in a magazine. None of her art had ever made it to a magazine.
She had settled on a deceptively simple gown in ivory satin, cut to look vintage even though it was new. It was a column dress, cut narrowly to her thin frame and softly gathered at the waist. It had a deep V-neck and it made her feel beautiful. She looked even thinner than she really was in her wedding gown, and somehow the way the waist was cut under her chest made her look bustier. She left her long blonde hair flowing down her back, and carried a small bouquet of white hellebores. As she stood on the shiny black-and-white chequered floor of the room where they’d held the ceremony, she could see how she looked in John’s eyes.
Her four bridesmaids all wore pale grey tulle dresses, the matt fabric contrasting against the shiny silkiness of her own gown. Her friends had loved her for it: finally a bridesmaid dress you actually want to wear again. They had purple flowers, Lenten roses that looked almost black with acerbic green centres. She had even convinced her mother to wear light pink, for no other reason than it would look good with the rest of the wedding party. John had worn his dark grey suit, as instructed, and had been in awe of the whole event. It was a misty February afternoon, very mild for that time of year but still chilly, and they had stood on the terrace for hours having their photos taken. Her family, then his family. The wedding party. All the boys, then all the girls. Then the bride and groom. Everyone looked so good, their cheeks flush with the winter wind, standing in front of a fairy-tale view of the city clouded in little ribbons of fog.
They had been so happy. There was a large-print photo of them in the hallway, kissing. It was black and white, in a white frame. No matter how busy she was, she would always stop to look at it for a second as she rushed in and out of the house. She always remembered how she’d felt on that terrace above London, looking at her new husband as though he were the only man in the world. The cold wind wrapping her body through her paper-thin dress. Not a care in the world. As she sat on the floor, with the picture frame in her hands, Florence felt deeply surprised there were no tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn’t feel sad, she didn’t want to cry at all. She just felt empty, as though someone had gone through her heart, packed everything up in neat little boxes and hauled it all away. She looked at her phone. It was half-past midday, on the 31st. They would have exchanged by now. They would be on their way to the next step in their lives. But they hadn’t. God, she hoped this had been the right thing to do.
She had almost done it. Up until the 29th, she had been fine. She was focusing on the new house: jobs to do, flooring to choose, samples of wallpaper to pick up. John had left her with absolute power over all the redecorating decisions. Of course. She could even imagine he was feeling bad about the affair and was letting her do whatever she wanted as a way to keep her happy. In a way, she was happy. She picked a William Morris wallpaper for the hallway, a delicate pattern of willow leaves twirling on the wall to greet visitors to her home. They were going open space, of course, and she’d been thrilled to keep the vintage Aga that was already in there. She’d chosen a muted green for the kitchen cabinets, with wooden countertops and matt white tiles on the backsplash. She was certain John disliked it, but he hadn’t dared say a word. She was playing a little game with herself. She was picking things increasingly to her taste, things she knew John would hate. She was daring him to say something. The less he protested, the more she escalated the situation. Turning the wood-panelled study into a playroom, with brightly coloured walls: silence. Pale-pink wallpaper in the master bedroom, with an embossed design of gold-leaf flowers: not a word. Come on.
And then he’d snapped. Strangely, it was over something Florence would not have imagined he would care about. Goes to show, she thought, how I don’t know you anymore, John. Bathroom tiles. She’d wanted duck egg. She hadn’t even considered he might not like it: it was the colour of their bathroom now and he had never commented on it. So she went ahead and just ordered the damn tiles. By the time they came, they would have already moved in. They were on sale.
He was upset. She should have checked with him first, he said, it was his house too. She should be more considerate. She should respect his feelings. That’s when she lost it. Their screaming match lasted hours: the dog was initially alarmed and joined in with his barking, but eventually resigned himself and went to lie down. Tim kept watching episodes of Peppa Pig on his iPad for one, two, three hours. More screen time than he should have in a month.
John had not left quietly. Florence had imagined he may just excuse himself to pack a bag, and then quietly walk out of her life, never to be seen ever again. He was unprepared for this scenario. In fact, he looked confused that she was even bringing this up. “I thought you knew,” he’d said. “Thought you wouldn’t care. We’ve been so distant, like ships in the night.”
That only made her angrier. Those were her complaints, not his. She’d not been distant, she’d poured her heart and soul into their child. He was supposed to be a man, he was supposed to get on with it. Why did he need attention, like a toddler himself?
“Everybody needs attention,” he came straight back at her. “You’re my wife. You’re supposed to be interested in me.”
“Well,” she’d replied, pounding her thin fist on the hallway table, “I don’t anymore. I barely even recognise you.”
After begging, crying and whining, John turned and started threatening her. “You can’t live without me,” he’d said.
“I already am,” she’d replied, coolly, and he looked as though she’d struck him in the face with a lead pipe.
“You can’t move to the new house without me,” he’d said.
“I don’t care,” she’d replied.
That he would even think she would put up with the betrayal and the humiliation of him having not an affair, but a regular mistress, for the sake of a house was absurd. His tune changed immediately. She could still move, he said, pleading. He would support her and Tim as they got out of this horrible little house. He could come visit. Maybe, with time, they could find each other again. They would heal together.
She got angry. This wasn’t a horrible little house, it was a home that she had loved. That she still loved, come to think of it. Yes it was cramped, but there would be far more
room without his stuff in the way. And come to think of it, she had never wanted to move out of London. London was her life, where she’d grown up. Where all of her friends were. Her friends who would get her through this, no doubt.
“They are not really your friends,” he said. “They are just there out of proximity. You could find people like that anywhere.”
She asked him to name two of her friends. He couldn’t. He asked her to name two of his friends. She named five.
“What can I do?” he asked in a last ditch attempt. “What will get us through this. Tell me, and I will do it.” That’s when she started feeling empty. She didn’t want anything. There was nothing that could make her forget. Now she’d spoken up, there was no way to have those words unspoken. There was nothing he could do; now those feelings had been unpacked, they would never fit again in the packaging.
“Please get out,” she’d said, quietly. She didn’t want to shout anymore. The tears were burning at the back of her throat, but she didn’t have any more to cry.
“Why should I leave? If you want to leave, you get out!” he yelled back.
“Are you serious?” she asked, even more quietly.
“I guess not,” he said then left.
They’d called off the exchange. The estate agent on the other end of the line sounded like he was about to blow a gasket, but kept his cool. Please get in touch as soon as you can if you change your mind. That’s what John said too. She hadn’t told her parents yet. She would need to, and soon, but couldn’t cope with the overwhelming amount of things to do. She had somehow assumed that once they were separated, everything would become easier. She would be less burdened, less overwhelmed. John hadn’t contributed much to the childcare, the cooking or the cleaning; she wouldn’t have more on her plate. Except she had to find a lawyer. They had to figure out financial support, and visitation.
