Love Me Or Leave Me

by Claudia Carroll

  But right now Jo was rightly flummoxed. One of the ‘assignments’ that Kate, their marital relations counsellor, had given each of them earlier was to write down all the positive qualities that they loved and respected about each other and that was the whole problem. She could still accurately list off what she’d initially liked – loved – about Dave.

  The way he put up with her, for instance. Which by the way, most other fellas in their sane minds wouldn’t. At least, not for very long. Then there was the way he made her laugh. Even at herself. With a pang, Jo suddenly found herself missing that. I haven’t laughed in so long, she thought, I’m actually starting to forget what my teeth look like.

  But her worry now was … would Dave be able to do the same for her? Given the way she’d been treating him of late?

  Re-reading a pile of emails from just a few days before they’d checked into the Hope Street Hotel certainly didn’t throw her any crumbs of comfort either.

  From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  To: davesblog@hotmail.com

  Subject: My fabulous divorce.

  July 9th, 10.27 a.m.

  You up yet, arsehole?

  Doubtless you won’t even see this email until long after you’ve stirred from the alcoholic coma you and your delightful chum Bash drank yourselves into last night. Same as the pair of you do every other night after you collect your dole. Bit like a twenty-first century version of that movie about the drunks that Richard E. Grant was in.

  But when you do finally surface to the gourmet meal of eggs on toast that Mammy will lovingly serve up to you, would you kindly have the goodness to confirm that you actually got it together to keep your appointment with Chloe Townsend at the hotel yesterday? And that you didn’t manage to make a holy, mortifying show of yourself? I’ve just met with her now and can confidently say that I think we’re in.

  As long as you did absolutely nothing to f**k this up on me.

  As you can appreciate, I’m anxious to put the sad spectre of what could be laughingly called our marriage out of its misery once and for all.

  Jo.

  PS. Am on my way to Berlin. Kindly get back to me before I take off, to confirm.

  Even reading it made Jo wince now. And his reply was, if possible, even worse.

  From: davesblog@hotmail.com

  To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  Subject: My fabulous divorce.

  July 9th, 10.37 a.m.

  Dearest soon-to-be-ex,

  Dole? Dole?!!! You think I’m still on the scratch???!!!

  I am aware that in Jo-world, the phrase ‘I’m sorry,’ is an acute sign of weakness, but prepare, dearest one, to swallow your words. Had you taken the time/trouble over the past eight weeks to do your wifely duty and inquire as to what was happening in my life, you’d know that I’ve actually gone and landed a part in a telly gig. Ha! So take that and swallow it!

  Enjoying the bittersweet taste of your own words, my lovely? Anyway, said gig involves many, many long hours shooting late into the night, so as it happens I’m currently enjoying a typical actor’s breakfast and preparing for a busy day ahead in front of the cameras.

  And no, before heading off on your broomstick to go and terrorize your minions in some far-flung corner of the globe as yet uncolonized by Digitech, allow me to reassure you that brekkie for me these days doesn’t actually involve Irish coffee and vodka on cornflakes, as it once might have done. Or, more correctly, as you once drove me to.

  Cue shock horror in Jo-land! I can just picture you now, dearest heart, sitting up in your air-conditioned corporate lounge at the airport, espresso coffee frozen mid-air in manicured claw as your jaw freezes somewhere around your collarbone whilst reading this. But then my angel, you never did like having to recalibrate your bad opinion of anyone, did you? Least of all me.

  So sorry to disappoint your preferred assumption that your husband is an out-of-work washed-up alcoholic, with the liver of Richard Burton and the work ethic of Withnail from that Richard E Grant movie, that you so lovingly – and inaccurately refer to.

  And just as an aside, how can any human alive not know every immortal line of dialogue ever uttered in that movie? For the love of Uncle Monty, how?!! What did you spend all your years in college doing, anyway? Studying? When you could have been far more gainfully employed learning Withnail and Monty Python off by heart?

  *shakes head sadly in disbelief.*

  So excuse me if you will, my love. Taxi will be here shortly and to quote yourself back at you, some of us have actual work to do.

  Kisses, hugs, arsenic. What you will.

  Dave x

  PS. Hardly know why I even bother telling you all of the above. Goes without saying, not that you’re remotely interested in anything that’s going on in your husband’s life. Despite the fact that it’s actually considered quite polite in the real world to at least occasionally show some kind of interest in one’s spouse, dearest one.

  From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  To: davesblog@hotmail.com

  Subject: My fabulous divorce.

  July 9th, 10.52 a.m.

  Dave,

  Wonders will never cease. You in an actual job! And what exactly is the nature of this telly gig anyway? Playing the rear end of a panto horse on some kid’s TV channel with all of three viewers, including your mother?

  You still haven’t answered my question. Did you get to your interview with Chloe at Ferndale Hotels yesterday? And if so, would you kindly fill me in on what happened? As you’ll perhaps recall my telling you (I only sent you about thirty emails on the subject), they insist all couples be on friendly, amicable terms before they let you through the front door.

  So I bloody well hope for your sake that you remembered to keep your end up and act the part of my best friend who’s sorry his marriage is over, but who’ll continue to be friends with me once we come out the other side. Look on it as the most challenging role you’ve probably ever played in your sad little career.

  I mean it Dave. We are checking in and out of that hotel next weekend if it kills us. Under no circumstances am I prepared to drag this out for years and years through family law courts. Not when I can be rid of you in just a few short days.

  Arse this one, last thing up on me, and I will swing for you. Gladly.

  Flight’s boarding shortly. A prompt answer would be appreciated.

  Jo.

  From: davesblog@hotmail.com

  To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  Subject: My fabulous divorce.

  July 9th, 11.11 a.m.

  My my, we are in a nark today! Something awful happen to you? Champagne not sufficiently chilled for you up in business class? On-board massage facility booked out? Poor baby. Never mind though, you’ll soon cheer up once you’ve fired off a few more of your by now legendarily vitriolic emails. And of course, you always have good old Dave, aka your emotional punch bag, to act out on. At least, while we’re still this side of a divorce, you do.

  To clarify. As it happens, no, I’m not playing the rear end of a panto horse on some kid’s TV channel, though thank you for your faith in my acting prowess. I’m inclined to forget what a loving and supportive spouse you’ve always been to me.

  Once again though, with apologies for disappointing you, you’re quite wrong. In this business that we call show, my new gig is actually a highly sought after one, in a cop-opera where I play the part of a drug baron who’s under investigation. It’s a recurring role, it’s good and meaty, there’s loads of close-ups and I get my own dressing room and everything. With an actual fruit basket and freebie bottles of water.

  So how do you like that, my beauty? Absolutely certain that you still want to go through with this divorce lark now? Care to think again? Think of the scores of women out there who’ll be queuing up to date a bona fide TV star and B-list celebrity after we’re officially divorced!

  So if you change your mind, you can get back to me. There’s still time. />
  Your soon-to-be-bigger than Ross Kemp hubbie,

  Dxxx

  PS. When are you going to stop blaming me for everything? Just out of curiosity?

  From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  To: davesblog@hotmail.com

  Subject: My fabulous divorce.

  July 9th, 11.22 a.m.

  Christ Almighty Dave! I had thought that trying to have an adult conversation face-to-face with you was bad enough, but emailing you is if anything, even worse. Like trying to pick up mercury with a fork.

  For the last and final time, what exactly happened at the hotel yesterday? Bear in mind that if you tell me you slept it out or forgot all about it, then I’ll fly all the way to Reno if I have to and divorce you there and then, with or without you.

  You would be well advised not to strain my already-stretched patience any further.

  Jo.

  PS. I don’t entirely blame you. I blame myself for being idiotic enough to marry you in the first place. What was I thinking?

  From: davesblog@hotmail.com

  To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  Subject: My fabulous divorce.

  July 9th, 11.44 a.m.

  Jo, calm down, take a Zanax, take a shot of whatever tranquillizers vets give horses to knock them out, whatever it takes. Just relax, breathe and stop acting out like this.

  Yes, as it happens I did remember to keep that bloody appointment at that bloody hotel yesterday. A lovely, pretty, smiley girl called Chloe chatted to me for ages and showed me over the place. Very posh, very friendly, very fanciable.

  Chloe, that is, not the actual hotel.

  JOKE!!!

  And no, I didn’t let the side down.

  Just asked Chloe for a double shot of bourbon from the bar, then flung myself round her ankles like a kid having a tantrum and screamed, ‘I don’t want this! My wife threw me out and I don’t want a divorce!’

  As you see, I’m prepared to do absolutely anything to avert this. Threats, anything. I’ve no shame anymore. If necessary I’ll chain myself to the outside of the hotel like a suffragette, with a sign round my neck saying, ‘Getting divorced against my will.’

  I’ll do anything.

  My pride was the first casualty in this.

  Yours,

  Dx

  From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  To: davesblog@hotmail.com

  Subject: My fabulous divorce.

  July 9th, 11.57 a.m.

  Thank God you turned up yesterday and I only hope you’re messing about the rest.

  Now piss off and stop being so bloody childish.

  Have to go. Flight taxiing, snotty looks from very camp airline steward, blah-di-blah.

  I’ll see you on Friday week at the hotel.

  Don’t mess this up on me, Dave.

  Till then,

  Jo.

  God Almighty, Jo thought, sitting back against the chair by the desk in her room. She’d been vicious bordering on cruel. How did Dave manage to put up with her? And how would any man in his sane mind?

  Dave’s reply to that particular tirade didn’t make for easy reading either.

  From: davesblog@hotmail.com

  To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

  Subject: My fabulous divorce.

  July 9th, 12.14 a.m.

  Right then wifey,

  I’ve done my yoga, eaten the lumps of mouldy old cardboard that passes for healthy fare these days and drunk as much as I could of this vomity stuff called wheatgrass juice that apparently will take ten years off me and make me live to be 101. All the longer to torture you, darling girl.

  Anyway, in the shower, I had a good think. And I’m now taking full advantage of the fact that you’ll be airborne for at least the next three hours and therefore won’t be able to fire one of your snotty emails back at me with a dismissive ‘oh just piss off, Dave!’ Or similar.

  You won’t meet up with me face-to-face anymore, barring it’s at this effing hotel, which I no more want to go to. When I call you, you won’t pick up. Last time I pitched up at Digitech HQ in Dublin, you almost had a coronary and had to be restrained from calling security to escort me off the premises.

  All I’ve got left is email. So here goes.

  Jo, you’re rushing headlong into this, like you rush headlong into every major decision you’ve made about your personal life ever since I first met you. You know how I feel; God knows, I’ve told you enough times at this stage. You know I don’t want this, never wanted it. But as I’ve told you, if getting rid of me is the price I have to pay to get you back to being the girl that I once knew, then I’m prepared to do it.

  I mightn’t like it, but I will.

  And now to the elephant in the room. Jo, you know what your poor body has been through of late. You know how you’re still suffering. I can speak with some authority here, as I can claim at least 50% of that grief for myself. Sorry dearest, but you don’t get the monopoly on that particular avenue of pain.

  Doctor after doctor and specialist after consultant have all told us the same thing. With each round of IVF, our chances are diminishing each time. And I know you’re doing all this via the fertility clinic and that I’ve practically no hand, act or part in the whole process, but remember that you and I have a deal. And I’ll stick to my part of it if you stick to yours. The main thing is though, that whatever the outcome, it’ll take as long as it takes for you to heal and get back to the Jo of old. They’ve been saying it’ll take at least a year. So why won’t you allow yourself that relatively small chink of time?

  Since … well, you know since what … all you’ve done is bury your head in work and more work and travel and more of it again. Sometimes I feel it’s like you can’t bear to share the same land mass as me and will do anything to get the feck off it as often as you can.

  And now you’ve come to this snap decision that we’re checking into this flashy, snazzy hotel so you can be rid of me in a single weekend.

  Fine, if that’s what you want, if that’s what makes you happy, I’ll learn to live with it. But Jo, think. I know you hold me fully responsible and there’s only so many times I can apologize to you for what’s gone on between us. Or rather, for my part in it.

  But when are you going to stop dumping all the blame on me? I’ll happily take 50% of the blame, but draw the line at any more.

  You don’t need me to reiterate how I feel. You know, in spite of you and even more laughingly, in spite of myself and my own better judgment, that I do in fact, still love you. Very much.

  I’ll be there for you on Friday week.

  Though you’ll probably find me in the bar. Or alternatively, under it.

  Yours,

  Dx.

  Roughly, Jo shoved away her computer and it was only when she went to the bathroom and took a good look at herself in the mirror that she even realized she’d been crying.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lucy.

  Between the rest of the meetings all day Saturday about boring money (which she and Andrew just didn’t have) and even more boring property (which they no longer owned), it was just coming up to five in the afternoon before Lucy even managed to get a breather.

  She slipped up to the privacy of her room and made two quick calls. The first was to room service, to order something to perk her up a bit and the second was down to Chloe’s office. A woman called Chris with an efficient voice told her Chloe was busy in the dining room at the moment, but that she’d be sure to pass on the message.

  ‘I know she’s up to her tonsils, but could you tell her I just wanted a quick word with her?’ Lucy asked.

  And exactly ten minutes later, with a discreet knock at her door, there was Chloe herself, laden down with the tray from room service that Lucy had ordered.

  ‘Wow, now that’s what I call above and beyond the call of duty!’ Lucy beamed, genuinely delighted to see her. ‘Thanks so much for coming.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome,’
Chloe said warmly, carefully placing the tray on an empty desk. ‘I heard you wanted to speak to me. Would you like me to pour some mint tea for you?’

  ‘Nah, I’ll take care of that. This, you’ll notice, is the new me. No more boozing and making a holy mortifying show of myself from now on. Herbal teas and fitness and well-being, that’s the brand new, reinvented Lucy Belton for you.’

  And she meant it too. She was fed up waking up with a pounding head, a rasping throat and a hangover to beat the band. Last night had been bloody mortifying and today had been hell because of it.

  Enough was enough.

  ‘I’m well impressed,’ Chloe laughed, ‘and I only wish I had your self-restraint!’

  Bless the woman, Lucy thought fondly to herself, pouring out the tea into a china cup. Only someone as sensitive and diplomatic as Chloe could possibly use the word ‘self-restraint’ in connection with her. Given the way she’d been carrying on lately, anyway.

  ‘Thing is …’ Lucy said, uncertain of where to bloody well start. ‘Well, first things first. I was dying to talk to you about … well, about what happened last night. God, I made such a complete fool out of myself. How someone didn’t end up smacking me, I’ll never know.’

  Chloe said nothing though, just politely stood there, listening. It was one of the things Lucy really liked about her. Not just the girl’s discretion, but the fact that she was a listener. God knows, they were a very rare breed.

  ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ she went on. ‘On your very first night and everything – to start acting the maggot like that –’

  ‘Please, you really don’t have to –’

  ‘Trust me, it’s more of a penance if I do. But the truth is …’ Lucy sighed, easing herself wearily down onto the bed now, kicking her shoes off and stretching her long legs out. ‘That’s just not the kind of person I am. It’s like – ever since Andrew and I separated, I’ve reverted back to making the same dopey mistakes I did as a teenager and of course then I end up hating myself for it. Drinking like a fish and acting like a stupid, drunk idiot who should know better. I genuinely don’t know what’s come over me. I didn’t used to be like this not so long ago. Back when I was still –’