by Fiona Gibson
I hear Flynn emerging from the bathroom. Once he’s back in his room, I dive in, turn on the shower and take another look at the list, as apparently I hadn’t quite got to the end.
You treat me like an idiot (i.e., always texting to remind me not to leave things on trains)
Don’t make me feel special
Keep referring to Rachel as ‘your shrink’ (i.e., making a joke of it and so belittling the issue)
Constant untidiness
Mouse issue (traps!!!)
YOUR MOTHER!
Refusal to pick up Scout’s poos in garden!!!
The exclamation marks are coming thick and fast now, pinging into my face like air rifle pellets.
‘Dad?’ Flynn raps on the bathroom door.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s ten past eight. I can just get the bus if it’s easier?’
‘No, it’s okay.’
‘Why are you insisting on driving me? I don’t get it …’
Because it’s imperative that you go to school under the impression that everything is normal, as indeed it will be by the time you come home this afternoon, because I fully intend to sort everything out.
‘I’m nearly ready, okay?’ I shout back. Through the door, I hear him muttering about my weirdness – the word ‘mental’ is clearly audible – then wandering back to his bedroom and firmly closing the door.
I drop the note on the floor, pull off my pyjamas and kick them, rebelliously, into the corner by the bin. In the shower I use Sinead’s posh Penhaligon’s ‘Juniper Sling’ shower gel rather than the cheap blue stuff – another devil-may-care gesture – and mentally run through as many of her complaints as I can remember whilst sluicing myself down.
The big ones – about being an uncaring, selfish arsehole – all swirl into one terrible, heady mess, and I find myself fixating instead on the more tangible matter of Scout’s poos. Okay, maybe I have missed the odd tiny deposit in our garden, down in the long grass by the shed. Or at least, they have been missed (clearly, and without my knowledge, this has become my responsibility). This matter can be easily rectified. From now on I will never again let Scout – or, specifically, Scout’s arse – out of my sight.
With a wave of petulance, I dry off briskly and check my phone in case Sinead called while I was showering. Nothing. I’m tempted to phone around her closest friends, but I don’t want to alarm anyone and, anyway, what would I say? ‘Hello, it’s Nate. Sinead seems to have gone missing’? No need for any of that.
It also occurs to me now that, because she’s gone AWOL, I’ll have to walk Scout and Bella before Flynn and I can set off. Sinead usually takes Scout around the block first thing, before driving Flynn to school, then she parks back by our house and walks to the gift shop a few streets away, where she works. On top of all that, she also pops home at lunchtime to let Scout into our back garden (naturally, she never fails to pick up his poos). Oh, God, the colossal amount of stuff she does! No wonder she’s hacked off. All this perpetual nipping back and forth, plus taking care of most of the shopping, cooking, laundry and homework supervision – and that’s just for starters. But then, she’s never complained about anything specifically before now … At least, I don’t think she has (admittedly, I find it hard to keep up with everything sometimes). Instead of harbouring all of these resentments, couldn’t she just have let me know?
In our bedroom now I pull on my white shirt and smart dark grey trousers: pretty standard driving examiners’ attire. I also text Liv, the manager at one of the three test centres I work from: Sorry Liv, running slightly late, bit of a family situation, be in asap. It sounds terrible to say this, but all three managers – and Liv in particular – are aware of the situation with Flynn, and are extremely understanding whenever something unexpected happens.
Suddenly remembering that Sinead’s thorough character assassination of me is still lying on our bathroom floor, I rush to retrieve it, shove it into my trouser pocket and call out to Flynn: ‘Just taking the dogs out. Make sure you’re ready for when I get back, okay?’
His bedroom door flies open. ‘I am ready.’ Indeed, he is kitted out in the faded sweatshirt and skinny black jeans he manages to pass off as school uniform. ‘It’s you who’s making us late,’ he adds, not incorrectly. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘I told you, she must’ve nipped out …’ To escape his suspicious gaze, I head downstairs, and search the entire ground floor for my specs, eventually spotting them by the kettle, where I found the note. Jamming them onto my face, I summon my canine charges with a stern command – no woolly boundaries there! – and step out into our well-tended terraced street.
The sky is a clear pale blue and streaked with gauzy clouds, the air cool on this bright May morning. We live on the edge of Hesslevale, a thriving and popular West Yorkshire town nestling in a lush green valley. There are numerous charming restaurants, pubs and a cinema, and the former textile mills now house artists’ studios and craft workshops. We are lucky to live here … aren’t we? At least, I always believed we were pretty happy and sorted, and that my wife thought so too.
I peer hopefully up and down our street, willing an only slightly miffed (or perhaps even contrite) Sinead to be walking towards me. There’s just Howard from next door, striding out in baggy chinos and a faded peach rugby top with Monty, their enormous labradoodle, who has a tendency to try and hump everything in sight, hence my family’s nickname for him: Mounty. While he splatters Betty Ratcliffe’s wheelie bin in a seemingly never-ending arc of pee, Howard catches my eye and waves.
Clearly, he expects us to catch up with them for a circuit around the block. He and his wife Katrina are terribly cheery and gung-ho, and we often chat over the fence that divides our adjoining back gardens. I shouldn’t moan about having friendly neighbours. However, thankfully, there’s no time for neighbourly chit-chat now, not when there’s school and work to get to, not to mention about eighty-five personality defects for me to address. I raise a hand in greeting, noticing with relief that Sinead’s silver Skoda is parked on the corner – suggesting that she hasn’t gone far – and start walking briskly in the opposite direction to where Howard is waiting. Unfriendly, perhaps, but preferable to keeping up the everything-is-normal facade.
The dogs and I trudge on. As Bella stops to pee, I glance down at Scout. He keeps looking up at me, intently, as if he knows. ‘How can she stand being married to me if I’m so awful?’ I ask him, consumed by a wave of self-pity. Scout just hunches his back in that familiar way, and squats to do his business. I’ve snatched a bag from my pocket and bagged up his deposit before it’s barely hit the ground.
As we recommence our walk, I try Sinead’s number again. Still voicemail. Where are you? I text her. What’s going on? Right now, I don’t know what else to say. I just need to get home and cajole Flynn into having a proper breakfast (i.e., not just Oreos), but then, should we really be policing these things now? Of course, if Sinead had been there, he’d have had a bowl of cornflakes, some granary toast, fresh fruit salad and his orange juice in a glass and not just slugged straight from the carton.
In a driving test, you are allowed up to fifteen faults (what we call ‘minors’). One serious fault – a ‘major’ – and you’ll fail. I’d consider the woolly boundaries thing – in fact, most of the points on her list – to be minors, but who am I to know? The main thing, I decide as the dogs and I troop back to the house, is not to panic. Sinead probably just needs some space, in order to think things over, so I won’t call her again until her break. On the rare occasions I’ve popped into the gift shop where she works – Tawny Owl, or whatever it’s called – it’s been serene and peaceful, so hopefully she’ll be in a better mood by lunchtime. In the meantime, I’ll drive Flynn to school – he doesn’t need to know anything about this – and then onwards to work.
Once I’m there, I’ll act normal and be the conscientious examiner I am paid to be, just as I have for the past decade, after a couple of years of working as a driving instruct
or, when it had become apparent that my playing in bands, and teaching kids to play guitar, just wasn’t bringing in enough regular cash. That was okay; I’d given music a decent shot and prolonged my adolescence more than most people manage to get away with. Flynn was just four, and I was thirty-one, and it was high time I grew up. It had always made sense for Sinead to be at home full-time to give Flynn the time and attention he needed.
Plus, I’d enjoyed driving various bands around over the years. I’d loved the banter and camaraderie and, yes, even the farty vans and interminable all-night journeys punctuated with bleary service-station stops. Gallons of bad coffee and oily sausages and eggs: it had all been huge fun, but I was ready for a change, and Sinead had often commented about what a courteous, unruffleable driver I was (looking back, could that now be perceived as a fault? Would she have preferred a screaming maniac with scant respect for The Highway Code?).
It was her encouragement that had prompted me to sign up for driving examiner training. ‘You’d be perfect for it,’ she’d insisted. ‘You’re so polite, so well behaved and law-abiding.’
Is that what’s wrong, a vital point she omitted from her list – the fact that I’m a tedious bore, lacking the nerve to break speed limits or negotiate a junction without indicating at the appropriate time? Would I seem more desirable – sexier, I suppose – if I drastically reduced my mirror usage and constantly lambasted other road users with the horn?
I pause at the privet hedge a few doors down from our house. While Scout and Bella are tinkling in tandem, I pull that wretched note out of my pocket. I read it all again, every damn word, feeling sicker at every line. As I shove it back into my pocket, I reach for my phone for the umpteenth time. But there’s no reply to my text; no ‘Sorry, I just went a bit mad there but don’t worry – I’ll be back home very soon.’
Out of habit, I tap my email icon. As the messages roll in, I spot one from her, sent less than an hour ago at 7.40 a.m:
Nate, I assume you’ve found my note by now. At least, I hope it’s you who found it and not Flynn. I’m sorry if it’s shocking but I had to tell you how I felt. I didn’t know what else to do. It’s just got so bad and you’re not hearing me. I have tried to talk to you but you won’t listen. I’ll be in touch soon, and of course I’ll spend time with Flynn and talk things through with him. It’s important that he understands that none of this is his fault.
I know we’ll be okay eventually. We’ll still be Flynn’s parents together and do the job as well as we possibly can, just as we have always done. He knows we love him and that’s never going to change. In time, I’m sure the three of us can work out the practical issues. I know it might seem alarming right now, but when you look at Flynn’s friends, it’s hardly unusual to have divorced parents—
‘What the fuck?’ I blurt out loud.
So now you have read all my reasons, my wife concludes, I hope you’ll understand why I have been so unhappy lately, and why I am leaving you.
I’m sorry, Nate.
Sinead
Chapter Three
Sinead
I have done an unspeakable thing. I have left my child. It hadn’t been my plan to do this; at least not last night after a shitload of cheap white wine. But then, something had to happen.
Installed at my friend Abby’s across town now, I just wish I could erase the image in my mind of Nate’s horrified face when he discovered my list this morning. He had no idea how bad things were. The only person who really knew was Rachel, my therapist.
Yesterday, after work, I sat in her small, sparse room with its brown nylon carpet, trying to figure out whether my marriage was definitely over. Was it really that bad? Or, after nineteen years together, was this just what being married was like? Rachel – or ‘that Rachel woman’, as Nate tends to refer to her – tucked her shiny black hair behind her ears and clasped her hands primly. ‘You might find it helpful to write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with,’ she suggested, ‘and then all the good things too.’
‘The aspects of what?’ I asked.
‘Well, of Nate and you. Of your relationship.’
I’d first come to see her six weeks ago, having googled ‘therapist’ and booked an appointment simply because I was sort of unravelling and the voice on her answerphone sounded kind. I’d deliberately chosen someone based in Solworth, rather than Hesslevale – I didn’t want to keep running into her in our local Sainsbury’s. And so I went along, dry-mouthed and nervous, anticipating an older woman full of wisdom, with an instruction book for life. I hadn’t expected to be greeted by a chic young thing in red lipstick and a short black shift with a Peter Pan collar, who probably considered Britpop to be ‘history’.
‘Writing a list is like talking to a friend,’ she explained. ‘It can help to clarify your thoughts and work through complex emotions. It’s a way of distilling the very essence of your togetherness with Nate.’
‘I’m not sure there’s anything left to distil,’ I murmured.
‘Of course there is,’ she insisted, ‘and this exercise will help you to identify what’s still there, and worth saving, underneath the pressures and resentments that clutter up our lives.’
I nodded, trying to process this. I’d been feeling awful for the past year or so: lost and alone, as if I was just going through the motions of getting through each day. Friends had listened as I’d tried to explain how I felt – but there’s only so much you can go on before you start to imagine they’re glazing over. Anxiety, depression or whatever it was; these things happened to other people, I’d always thought. As a younger woman, I’d always been pretty happy and optimistic, the last person I’d have imagined to end up feeling this way. And so I’d seen my GP, a kindly woman who knew all about the stresses we’d been through with Flynn over the years, who said, ‘I think you need a helping hand, Sinead, just to ease you through this rough patch.’ She prescribed an antidepressant that had made me feel as if I was viewing the world through net curtains, and killed off my libido stone dead. I’d swapped pills for therapy – and so there I was, blinking back tears in front of a woman who probably has a Snapchat account.
‘So, what should I do with this list, once I’ve made it?’ I asked. ‘I mean, should I show it to Nate?’
Rachel tipped her head to one side. ‘What do you think?’
She often does this, batting a question straight back at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. Sixty pounds an hour, I paid her. Couldn’t she tell me what to think?
She cleared her throat; my time was nearly up. Age-wise, I’d put her at thirty tops. What could she possibly know about marriage and love? ‘The important part is putting it all down,’ she replied, ‘in writing.’
And that was that. As far as Rachel was concerned, as long as I’d written the darn thing, it didn’t matter what I did with it: I could use it to line a budgie’s cage – if we had one – or set it on fire. I handed her my debit card, which she popped into the slot of her little machine. In went my pin number, as if I’d just done a grocery shop. I almost expected her to ask if I had a Nectar card.
That was hard-earned money I’d just spent. A whole day’s earnings in the shop, come to think of it. It could have bought new trainers for Flynn, the ingredients for a week’s worth of dinners or – what the hell – several bottles of industrial cheap white wine from Londis, the kind Nate calls ‘lady petrol’. ‘Fancy a fine vintage from L’Ondice tonight, darling?’ he used to ask in a faux-plummy voice, in the days when we still joked around …
When we still laughed and had fun …
When I still loved him madly and regarded him as my best friend in the world. Nate Turner, my soulmate: the brightest, kindest, funniest – and sweetest – man I had ever met.
And now?
I know he’s a hardworking man, and a good dad; we function together, but that no longer feels like enough. How can I be expected to love him when he barely registers my feelings?
Rachel had turned to her lapt
op and tapped something quickly. ‘Gosh, I’m busy next week. Could you do Thursday, Sinead? Same time?’
‘That’d be great,’ I replied, flashing a smile as I trotted out of the therapy room in her warehouse flat, as if we’d just got together for our regular coffee and it was the highlight of my week.
It was Flynn I was thinking about on my drive home, and what he’d make of me seeing a therapist (I still can’t quite believe I have one. It feels as bizarre as if I were to say ‘my butler’). I’ve been vague about it, muttering about staying late at the shop to help out Vicky, my boss – not that he’s particularly interested in what I get up to. But I know he’d be shocked if he knew where I’d really been going.
I realise it’s indulgent, and that when I describe my life, it seems like I have everything I could possibly want. I am forty-three years old, with a husband, a son and a job that doesn’t stress me terribly – and of course people have it far worse than I do. Hesslevale is a popular, family-oriented town – the kind of place where people get together and create vegetable gardens on waste ground, for anyone to enjoy. You can barely move for artisan roasted coffee and poetry readings, and I’ve found myself being wrestled into screen-printing workshops and giant community knitting projects, virtually against my will. Thankfully, our town still retains a slightly shabby edge, which prevents it from toppling into unbearable tweeness; there’s a couple of burger joints, and a noodle bar (‘Canoodles’) that no one I know has ever ventured into. It’s been a wonderful, supportive and friendly place in which to raise our son.
The trouble is, somewhere along the way I have stopped loving his dad.
Write down all the aspects you’re unhappy with …
Did Rachel really mean all of them, or just the big stuff? I’d switched on the car radio in my temperamental Skoda, trying to decide whether the whole therapy business was a colossal waste of time and money. I’d spent £360 so far, and she’d basically told me to make a list. The whole drive home, I started to think of specific reasons why I was unhappy, and where on earth I’d start if it came to writing it all down.
