by Adele Parks
As I hoped, the smell of bacon and eggs swiftly lures Ben from his bed. I hear his tread on the stairs. Little butterflies of anticipation flutter in my stomach. Confessing everything will be horrible, but I’m anticipating his forgiveness, his understanding. If I stay focused on that, I’ll be strong enough to say what I must. What I should have said a long time ago. Ben comes through the door and I’m surprised because he’s fully dressed – I’d expected bed shorts and T-shirt. He looks a little formal for a cooked breakfast but I plough on regardless.
‘How do you want your eggs? Poached, fried?’
It’s our way to get over our occasional rows; we offer an olive branch, pretend the row hasn’t happened for a sentence or two and then whoever is at fault will apologise. We’ll laugh, put it behind us.
‘No thank you,’ he says stiffly. He puts his head around the door to where the girls are sprawled on the sofa, absorbed by some brightly clad, unfeasibly smiley children’s TV presenter. ‘Come on girls, eat your breakfast quickly. We’ve got plans today.’
‘Plans?’ I ask.
‘I’m taking the girls to my mother’s.’ He doesn’t meet my eye, but starts to pour orange juice. Two glasses, one for Imogen, one for Lily. He doesn’t pour one for me, although I have orange juice every morning.
‘Your mother’s? For how long?’
‘The weekend, at least. Maybe longer. I think I’ll take the girls out of school next week.’
‘You can’t just take the girls out of school.’
‘Yes, I can. I’m sure their headmistress will understand when I explain everything.’
‘But what about work?’
‘I’ll explain to them that I have personal issues. I’ll work remotely.’
I’m stunned. Ben has been going on about how busy work is at the moment; he never takes time away from the office. He’d have to feel desperate to do that.
I point out, ‘But you can’t even get wi-fi at your mother’s. You hate trying to work from there.’
‘I’d rather be there than here.’
The words slap me, as they are designed to. ‘I don’t understand, are you—’ I stutter, ‘are you leaving me?’ The thought is absurd.
‘We need some time apart, we both need some time alone to think.’
This is the last thing I need. I’ve done my thinking, last night. Now I want to tell him all about it. I need to cling to him. We all need to cleave to one another, stick together. Not dissipate. The girls choose this moment to trail into the kitchen, with demands to be fed, so I’m unable to plead my case. I try to concentrate on making the breakfast but I burn the toast and the eggs stick to the bottom of the pan, they split as I scrape them onto the waiting plates. Lily lets out short, sharp yells of disappointment and Imogen tuts, as though this is all she can expect of me. The breakfast is consumed without any joy. Lily asks if I’m coming with them to Nana Ellie’s but before I can answer Ben jumps in.
‘Mummy has to stay here and work.’
The girls know we can only manage a summer holiday all together by sharing childcare cover throughout all the other school holidays, which means that Ben and I usually take most of our holiday allowance separately, so they accept this. The moment they’ve finished, Ben ushers them upstairs, tells them to get dressed and brush their teeth. I see suitcases in the hallway. I open them up and a quick poke about confirms that he’s packed for himself and the girls, enough for a week at least.
‘Don’t do this,’ I plead.
Ben still won’t look at me but tells his shoes, ‘I have to. I don’t know you right now. I don’t understand you.’ He sighs. It’s a weighty, clouded sigh, as though all hope is leaving him. ‘If I stay here, we’ll just row. I don’t want the girls to hear any more of that. They’ve been through enough recently.’
‘I understand, nor do I want to put them through anything more,’ I insist, putting my hand on his arm. His skin feels warm and familiar, I long for him to pull me into a hug. ‘Stay, we won’t row. I promise.’
He shakes his head, moves away from my reach. He doesn’t believe anything I say anymore. I can hear the girls upstairs, chatting while the tap water is running. They’re excited to be going to see Nana Ellie in Newcastle. She’ll spoil them. They’re likely to dress in a hurry. I know that I only have about ten minutes to explain myself.
‘I’m so sorry about what I said last night – you know I don’t mean it.’ The apology isn’t up to much. It’s spiked with embarrassment. Words are sometimes so inadequate. Ben is underwhelmed, he shrugs.
‘How could you have sent that film to Rob? You’ve made things worse.’
‘Look, forget about that,’ I say impatiently. I haven’t got time to explain all that right now. Instead I say, ‘You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘How are you sure of such a thing?’
‘Once I call Rob and tell him it’s Liam in the film, he won’t release it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Rob is Liam’s father. Biological father.’ The words tumble out, messy and unapologetic. This isn’t how I wanted to explain. Seventeen years of holding this secret tight from anyone, ten years of lying to Ben, specifically. I thought I’d find a way of announcing this more carefully. But I’m short on time and options. Ben’s mouth drops wide open.
‘Rob is?’
‘Yes.’ I nod.
‘Abigail’s husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you said—’ He doesn’t finish the sentence; we both know what I said. I said I didn’t know who the father was, that he was an anonymous Ian who had swooped, scored and then been swallowed back into the south, never to be seen or heard of again.
‘Does Liam know?’
‘No.’
‘Abi?’
‘No. Nobody knows, except Rob.’
We’re interrupted by the sound of the girls’ footsteps clattering down the stairs. They’ve been even swifter than I anticipated. I turn around to note that they are both in strange get-ups; Imogen is wearing striped leggings with a spotty top and her party shoes, Lily is wearing her Disney pyjamas, overlaid with a tutu, and she’s put on every piece of dress-up jewellery she owns. Normally, on a more usual morning, I wouldn’t let them out of the house like this, and certainly not to go and visit my mother-in-law, but I have so much more to worry about now so I let it slide.
Ben glares at me. Distrust slithers between us, I feel it like a physical barrier. He opens the front door, points his keys at the car and clicks.
‘Get in the car, girls,’ he instructs, sharply.
I want to bar their way to the door but instead I swoop down for kisses as they rush past me. I can’t think what to do to stop this tragedy. I have no choice other than to pretend I’m OK with the plans, rather than cause a distressing scene.
Hiss-whispering, I urge, ‘Please Ben, don’t do this. You can’t take the girls. We need to talk.’ The girls are on the driveway, dancing about near the car like little butterflies, fluttering and pulsating. Imogen opens the door – they’re climbing into the car now. Out of my grasp.
‘We’ve had ten years to talk,’ he says simply, and picks up the suitcases, strides out of the door. His bulky strength, which I’ve always admired, now seems intimidating, unstoppable.
‘But don’t you see? This is good news. Rob isn’t going to post a porn video of his own son.’ I rush to explain but immediately want to swallow my tongue, bite it right off. Ben turns to me and glares. After longing for him to look me in the eye, I now wish he hadn’t bothered. His expression turns me to stone.
‘Really? If you think Rob Larsen is such a good bloke, what a shame you didn’t choose to let Liam know his dad all along.’ He throws the cases in the boot and violently slams it closed.
‘You’re his dad,’ I shout, but he doesn’t hear me. The car door bangs closed, the engine starts up and swallows my words.
The girls wave to me. Their little hands like starfish through the window. I hold my poise until
the car is out of sight, then I close the door behind me. I slide to the floor, curling my legs up to my chest. I slam the palms of my hands against my head in frustration. What have I done? What have I lost? The house seems to sigh along with me. Eerie. Empty.
I’ve never felt so alone.
43
Melanie
Sunday 22nd April
Saturday and Sunday smudge into one dark blob. After Ben and the girls left I sat in the draughty hallway for so long that my body turned stiff. I didn’t care. I didn’t have the energy to move, to stretch. What was the point? The cats mooched around me, probably wondering why I wasn’t feeding them. I wondered if this was how the cliché starts, the one about a single woman being found dead, eaten by her cats. Eventually, I called work and told them I had a stomach bug, then I dragged myself upstairs and lay on my bed. Not quite sleeping, certainly not awake. Numb. The only time I hauled myself downstairs again was to make a slice of toast, get a glass of water. It struck me as correct that a penitent such as I am should exist on bread and water.
I called Ben three times. He didn’t pick up and I didn’t leave any messages. I don’t need to; he knows I want to talk, it’s just that he doesn’t. On Saturday night, he sent me an email asking me to respect his need for a bit of space and time. He said he had a lot to think about. He sent the email well after midnight. I imagined him putting put the girls to bed and then chatting to his own mother in her kitchen. I wonder what he’s told her. Has he confided all our woes? Has he told her about Abi? The sex recording? Rob? Or has he kept his problems to himself? Proud? Ashamed? I don’t mind what he’s saying to Ellie. Whatever Ben needs.
The enormity of my confession seeps into my bones and soul. I can’t believe that someone else finally knows who Liam’s biological father is. The someone else being Ben is perfectly reasonable and yet I’ve held that secret so close for ever, it seems unreal that it’s no longer a secret.
I can’t believe he just left, that he didn’t want to talk about it.
But then again, I can. I didn’t want to talk about it for years.
I still don’t really, but I know I must. I slept with my friend’s boyfriend. Not an easy thing to talk about. Even after all this time. I know he asked for space but I must reply. I have to tell him everything I should have told him years ago, everything I wanted to tell him the morning he left but couldn’t get out among the shock and disappointment. I decide to write a letter. It’s somehow more sincere than an email, it has more import. Writing a letter will force me to consider every word before I commit to them as I don’t want this to be a page of crossings-out. You can’t cross things out in life, cancel or erase. I know that to my cost.
I start slowly.
My Darling Ben,
This is not an excuse, it’s just the explanation you are owed. I know you are reeling right now and I’m, so sorry for that. I really am. Obviously, I haven’t handled any of this at all well. OK, so now you know. I slept with my best friend’s boyfriend.
They were an on-off couple. Abigail was always flirting with other boys, Rob had other women. They were not exclusive. This was the justification I made to myself at the time. I’ve cowered behind it since but I don’t want to be slippery, defensive. The fact is, I knew she loved him and I betrayed her.
When it happened, he was not in love with her, or at least if he was, he didn’t show it in any conventional way, not through fidelity, compliments or even time investment. He did send her poems. Not his own, a cryptic line or two from someone else’s from the canon. He turned up at her door after the pubs had cleared out. I argued it was a booty call, she argued it was a deep connection. Then, one night, she wasn’t in, so he knocked at the next door. My door.
She was out with another guy, actually, let’s not pretend she was ever a saint. She may have been sleeping with the other guy or she may not have been, I don’t know for sure. I do know that she wanted Rob to believe she was, she wanted to keep him on his toes. So, it was what I allowed Rob to think too.
I break off. My writing is neat but a fat tear splashes down onto the paper. Causes a puddle over the words ‘it was’. I remember it so clearly. How come I sometimes can’t remember what I’ve walked upstairs to do, but I remember that night as though I’m living it right now?
I opened the door to him and Rob leaned against the post, territorial, entitled. He was unshaven, his hair was a mess but artfully so. He stared at me from underneath his floppy fringe.
‘Is she out with that goon who played Banquo in Macbeth?’ he asked.
‘Jed is not a goon. Who even says goon? Jed is hot. Everyone thinks so,’ I replied.
‘Do they now?’ He smiled, almost amused.
‘Yes.’
‘Does everyone include Abi?’
‘Almost certainly.’
At this point in the conversation, I thought it was still about her. I thought I was doing what she wanted and then he asked, ‘And what about you? Do you think Jed is hot?’
‘He’s OK.’ I did in fact think Jed was gorgeous but I found myself colouring, adding, ‘He can be a bit immature.’
We locked eyes. He understood. It was a particular criticism to hurl at poor Jed; in fact it was a particular invite to fling at Rob.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
‘To wait for Abi?’ I knew it was unlikely she’d be home that night. She didn’t like getting the night bus alone and she’d taken her toothbrush.
‘Yeah, to wait for Abi,’ he said, with another slow smile.
We weren’t alone in the house but my housemates were already in bed. We drank red wine and whiskey in the kitchen. Then we lit candles in my bedroom.
I can’t bring myself to give Ben this level of detail. It wouldn’t help in any way. But I must be truthful. Pain is so often inextricably linked with truth, people forget that. I continue with the letter.
I wanted him. I have never looked too closely at why exactly I wanted him. Because he was beautiful, because he was a tutor, sophisticated, different – all the same reasons as Abi wanted him? Or, simply, because he was hers? I don’t know. I do know that I didn’t want to take him away from her. I never had ambitions in that direction. I adored Abi. It sounds crazy saying that in the middle of this story, but I did. I thought she was vivacious, confident and impressive. Even then I knew she was going places. I think the truth of it is, I wanted to be her. Just for one night. I don’t know. I can’t honestly remember. It’s such a long time ago.
The sex was good. The sort of good that allows you to tell yourself that you are not doing anything wrong, the sort of good that makes you want to do it three times in one night, the sort of good that means you sneak him out of the house at the crack of dawn and when your best friend comes home and asks you how you spent your night, you reply, ‘Early night, quite dull really.’
It was just that one night. That doesn’t excuse anything I know, but you must believe me when I say it wasn’t an affair. The next morning, sick with guilt, I almost convinced myself it hadn’t happened at all. It was something dreamlike and peculiar. Unreal. I couldn’t believe I’d done what I knew I had done. I thought it was best to just forget it. Pretend it had never happened. He never tried to get in contact with me and nor did I try to reach out to him. The odd thing was, Abi didn’t see him for over a week either and then, when he did arrive at our door, he turned up with a bunch of sunflowers and asked her to go exclusive with him. They came out as a couple, so to speak. She was Incredibly happy. Delirious. Apparently, he’d finally had a change of heart. Finally, felt he’d sewn enough wild oats.
I guess I was the last one. And the most fertile, as it happened.
By the time I found out I was pregnant two months had passed. They were in love, the talk of the uni. More gossip-worthy than ever. It was too late to say anything to Abi. Even if I had wanted to, what would I have said? How could I ever have explained my betrayal to her? How could I have told her about Rob’s treachery? I had no choice but to keep my mouth
shut.
Yes, Rob knows he is Liam’s biological father. I told him I was pregnant because I thought that was the right thing to do. Whatever the circumstances, we had made a baby together. I thought he had a right to know. Although in such a sludge of wrong things it was almost impossible to tell.
He wasn’t what anyone could describe as overjoyed.
I fall into my habit of being ironic and playful here because it kills me. Rob’s reaction kills me and I know it would kill Ben too if I say how absolute the rejection was.
Rob said, ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. I’ll pay for an abortion, of course. Or at least go halves. Private will be faster, more pleasant for you.’
Pleasant? ‘I’m not going to abort,’ I replied, sounding stronger than I felt.
He sighed. ‘Well, that’s your decision, I suppose. Although a stupid one. But to be clear, this has nothing further to do with me. How can I even be sure it’s mine? I’ve only your word for it.’
I left his office without saying another thing.
His rejection of my baby was brutal but I didn’t believe I deserved any particular courtesy. I knew then that I’d have to leave uni, and Abi, and all my other friends. As you know, I’ve always been quite tough and determined but I couldn’t cope with daily encounters, I didn’t have the skills to dissemble on an ongoing basis. Staying would cause trouble, risk exposure. Abi would have guessed there was something wrong. I wasn’t afraid of exposure for myself. Maybe I deserved it but despite everything, and how it must seem, I didn’t want to cause Abi any more upset. Most importantly, with exposure came rejection, rejection of my baby. If Liam ever knew that his father had wanted him aborted, wanted nothing to do with him, it would break his heart. I had to protect my baby and put him first. That’s why I made up Ian.
Ben, I’ve never thought of Liam as anyone other than mine, and then mine and yours. I didn’t think Rob mattered. I still don’t.
Oh Ben. My heart aches when I think of how confused and angry you are right now because of what I’ve done. I suppose you realise now that I invited Abi into our home because I owed her, not just because she was kind when she found out I was pregnant, but because I got pregnant to her then boyfriend. The man she married. If I could go back in time I would do things differently. Not with Liam, I wouldn’t do anything differently there. To be clear, having him has demanded sacrifices, prematurely aged me, thrown untold responsibility my way – responsibility that at times seemed debilitating – but I have never regretted the decision to keep him, not for a moment. Even though he can’t bring himself to speak to me right now, let alone live under the same roof. If I had a time machine, I’d go back just a few months. I wouldn’t invite Abi to stay with us. I wouldn’t even reply to her email. I’d let sleeping dogs lie. But I can’t go back in time. Yet I don’t know how to go forward, I need you and the girls at home by my side.
