The two friends agreed to have a couple of beers later in the week and chat about how Barry was coping since Gina had chucked him out and changed the locks. Answer: he wasn’t. David already craved another nicotine hit. Instead, he kept his fingers busy by picking apart precious flower heads.
When the time for the speeches came, David ran upstairs to find his wedding ring. The metal irritated his skin, but maybe the gold would protect him in some way, like in Lord of the Rings, or maybe he was misremembering that? He had prepared a short speech, peppered with affectionate light-hearted jokes, but when it was time to deliver it, he decided to speak from the heart instead, and unlike other occasions this speech wasn’t garbled or rambling or repetitive. Telling the truth about his love for Rachel was relaxing, felt like a meditation. Everything he felt, he was able to say truthfully. The soppy and silly stories that he told their friends and family, which would once have made him feel self-conscious and clichéd, now made him invincible. He loved Rachel and wanted everyone to know it. She never needed to find out about Amelia-Rose and he was certain he would never stray again. His head was not for turning. He saw the pain of utter regret cross Barry’s face, which threatened to break into tears. David quickly raised his glass and called out: ‘Salut!’
The next morning, David’s head was banging. Mixing the grape and the grain had given him a horrendous migraine. He inhaled the scent of Rachel’s anniversary blueberry pancakes, regretting he couldn’t opt for the well-proven hangover cure of eggs, bacon and sausage. He tried to work out his worries. He was no closer to shrugging off his burden of guilt. Even the business section of the Sunday Times couldn’t distract him from his nagging thoughts and regrets.
Barry messaged to say he’d headed to the White Hart pub for a swift half. In under quarter of an hour David had joined him there and the hair of the dog immediately soothed their aching heads. After the first beer, both men visibly relaxed. David sat for two hours listening to Barry explain, through sniffs and sobs, how much he missed Gina and how he wished she would take him back. And how not seeing the kids was killing him. It was embarrassing, Barry told him. He’d had to sneak in on sports day to watch his youngest fall over in the relay.
David listened to him explain about asset separation and divorce papers while all the time thinking about Rachel. His own infidelity had hit him like a bullet to the brain. Every night since, he had been haunted by thoughts of Rachel burning his clothes and calling in a locksmith.
Barry was now living in a bedsit opposite David’s gym on the outskirts of town, which gave him an indication of the sort of place any new bachelor could expect to find himself living in. It was grotty, with next to no furniture but for a microwave with a friendly resident cockroach Barry had named Cocky.
After three pints David called time and walked home slowly. He sought comfort from Rachel and held her tight in his arms on the sofa, praying he would never lose her. The violence and betrayal they watched in Game of Thrones only increased his inner turmoil and anxiety.
David was the founding director of a bespoke IT firm. This was the company he and Rachel had started from scratch together years earlier before she had diverted to marketing and event management. He was now on the brink of selling the company to a multi-national. It should bring in enough to pay off the mortgage and buy the place by the sea that he and Rachel both coveted. It was a deal that had been in the works for over two years and part of the plan was for David to continue to work in a non-executive advisory role. The incoming Chief Executive would have the benefit of the company founder’s opinions and strategy without needing to accept any input in the managerial side of things. It would be hard for David to keep to an arms-length approach though. DC Computing was his company; it would always be his company even when, as it transpired, it belonged to someone else.
David was checking the final heads of agreement when he heard the front door open and shut. Rachel was home unexpectedly in the middle of the day. Was she ovulating? Had she come home to demand sex? He was wearing his working from home attire: grey baggy joggers and an old t-shirt. He slipped his hand into his boxer shorts. Come on, ol’ boy. This is it. You’ve been in training your whole life. He started to think about Rachel and looked at a photo of the two of them on their wedding night. They were young and full of hopes and dreams. You can do this, easy does it. Amelia-Rose popped into his mind unexpectedly. Go away! Back to Rachel … he imagined – taking off her bra his favourite black lace one. Yes, feeling good! A notification popped up on his screen. One new email: You have a LinkedIn request from Amelia-Rose Springer. Fuck off! It was no use. He’d have to feign a headache. When he heard Rachel run up the stairs he pretended to punch numbers into the barely used desk calculator.
David was relieved when she said she had to change quickly and return to work. He raced down the stairs and set the coffee machine to work. When he heard the front door slam shut, he felt his chest tighten alarmingly.
The doctor, a locum David had never seen before, invited him to take a seat. David described his chest pains and the doctor asked him twenty questions about his general health and lifestyle. Alcohol (four times a week, probably too many units), food (healthy), red meat (less than average), exercise (runs three times a week, recently joined the gym), anxiety (high), stress (lots). His blood pressure was healthy, very healthy.
‘However, as a precautionary measure considering your family medical history, I think we’ll refer you for an assessment with the local heart clinic.’
He was made to feel like he’d wasted his and the doctor’s time.
David said thanks and goodbye, lingering for a moment as he thought about airing a secondary problem.
‘Ah, the old door handle.’
David was confused.
‘Sometimes, Mr …’ the doctor checked the computer monitor ‘… Chatsworth, people aren’t forthcoming about their primary cause for concern until they are halfway out of the door.’
David sat back down. He explained the situation with their plan to start a family, and the anxiety of having to be ready to go, at any moment. He admitted that he’d thought it would be a fun time – trying for a baby – but now his thoughts were interfering with the inner-workings of his ball sack.
‘See how you go with these.’ The doctor prescribed him a low dosage of Viagra, just in case. David had never felt less sexy in his entire life. He left the surgery with a nagging sense of unease.
At home, David found Rachel in the hallway peering past the curtain into the road. She was whispering into her phone. When she saw him she rushed upstairs and continued her call from the bathroom. He stood outside their en-suite bathroom and could hear her talking. Who was she talking to that she had to take the call in private? He pressed his ear against the door but couldn’t make out any of the words. Was the sink blocked again? Rachel had an annoying habit of calling in her brother Kevin to fix things when she had a perfectly incapable husband at home. Technology was David’s thing. Pipes and plumbing definitely were not.
He checked his watch – it was getting late – Tuesday and Thursday nights were his gym nights, for legs and arms respectively. He had intended to tell Rachel that he was going to Barry’s instead of the gym but she was still in the bathroom.
David parked outside the gym. He crossed the road, not watching where he was going, and nearly walked straight into a white van. He could have sworn he heard the driver shout ‘wanker’ in his direction. David pushed the buzzer to Apartment 3C. The lift had an Out of Order sign. ‘I know how you feel,’ he said to it, and headed for the stairs.
Barry opened the door and David stepped into his best friend’s grim bedsit. There were a number of brown cardboard boxes with Scandinavian names on them piled up against the wall. Flatpack furniture waiting to be assembled, with one box doubling as a coffee table and covered with empty lager cans. The bin was overflowing with takeaway containers.
Up until recently David and Barry watched the football at Barry and Gina’s, but B
arry no longer had a TV, let alone a fancy sports package, and the Arsenal game was on Sky Sports.
They started to open IKEA boxes. David was still distracted by Rachel’s bathroom phone call.
‘Why does it always take longer to read the instructions and identify the right screws than it does to build the bloody things?’ Barry complained.
Between the two men, they managed to put together a table, a couple of chairs, a bookcase and a bed frame.
‘Let’s go for a beer and catch the end of the match.’ David was desperate to get out of the tiny man-flat.
On the way to the pub, he saw a missed call from Rachel and quickly returned it. She was barely audible, her voice low. He told her he was going for a post-gym pint. The fib caught in the back of his throat and he saw Barry roll his eyes. David told Rachel he loved her, but it didn’t make up for the white lie.
He forgot to ask her who she was speaking to in the bathroom. What if it wasn’t her brother? What if Rachel was being unfaithful? What if she was planning to leave him? Where was she? Was she even at home? What if she …? Stop, David, you’re spiralling again. He felt his chest tighten at the thought of her packing her bags and told himself to concentrate on his breathing.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The pub was full. Football on a weeknight was a treat. An extra game for the sporting calendar. In the time Arsenal had scored a goal, relined their defence and nearly scored a second straight away, David had formed a plan, a strategy fuelled by a four-pack of Stella Artois and a pint of Amstel. He was going to swallow the guilt, suck it up, and no matter how terrible he felt, he was not going to ruin his marriage by telling Rachel. And he was definitely going to stop wallowing in self-pity. David bought another round of drinks.
‘Mate!’ He passed Barry his pint. He tried to talk through his idea with his friend amongst the noisy crowd; Barry had to bend his head closer to hear.
‘I’m sorry about you and Gina.’
Barry clinked David’s glass with his own.
‘Hold on to Rachel, mate.’
David clinked his glass against Barry’s and gulped down his anxiety.
‘I’m going to be a better husband. I love Rachel, I’m not going to ruin it. I’m not going to end up in a bedsit – no offence.’
‘None taken, mate. If any good comes from me fucking up my life … take it! Have it!’
‘I’m going to go home and get her pregnant,’ David said loudly.
Barry gave him the thumbs up. And the tall man standing next to Barry congratulated David on his plan.
When Arsenal were awarded a last-minute penalty the pub erupted. David repeated to Barry and their new friend that right now he needed to go home and impregnate his wife. The penalty was scored and the final whistle sounded. The pub descended into chaos. Glasses clashed and beer spilled.
Their new best friend started a chant, ‘GO, GET YER WIFE PREGNANT …’ The rest of the pub starting singing along. ‘GONNA GO AND GET YER WIFE PREGNANT.’
David took a mini-bow to thank them for the encouragement. More cheers were unleashed.
Barry slapped his best mate on the back and wished him luck. ‘Before you go – could you lend us twenty quid? I wouldn’t ask but … you know …’
David raised his left eyebrow.
‘Gina, mate. She’s stopped all my cards.’
David checked his wallet and handed Barry the contents: ten crisp £10 notes.
‘Thanks, Dave, I’ll pay you back.’
As David slipped out of the door, he heard the final hurrah as a man bellowed, ‘THREE CHEERS FOR THE BLOKE WHO’S GONNA GET HIS WIFE PREGNANT!’
Rachel
11
Rachel didn’t want to go home but Stefan Stratos had instructed her not to leave the house so as not to lose her rights to the property. But how could she stay? She would once have trusted David to be fair in the divorce settlement, separation, splitting of assets, or whatever on earth they called it. But then again, he was hardly trustworthy of late.
Rachel would try to act normally if only to discover what the hell happened fifteen years earlier to cause him to pull the wool over her eyes about their marriage. She joined her never-husband for a cocktail.
ESPRESSO MARTINI RECIPE
50 ml Grey Goose Vodka
35 ml coffee liqueur
1 shot (25 ml) of freshly ground coffee, strong blend Ice
‘Cheers!’ they said at the same time as they clinked glasses. Before Rachel had the chance to take a sip of her drink, David opened his laptop. Hello?! I’m right here, she thought.
‘Do you remember our wedding?’ she asked.
‘Is this about our anniversary? I already feel bad enough about not booking the restaurant in time.’
‘Why did we go to Bali in the first place?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Was it your idea or mine?’ Rachel moved closer to see the laptop screen.
‘I can’t remember.’ He slammed it shut before she could see what or who was capturing his attention. ‘By the way, about the weekend … there’s a small chance I may have to work.’
Rachel opened her hand and let the glass drop to the slate floor. The 1920s-style Champagne saucer smashed. Splashes of chocolate brown liquid plastered the duck egg blue wallpaper. The wall resembled a shit-stained Jackson Pollock.
‘Oh my God, are you alright?’ David asked. He ran to the kitchen and returned with paper towels. He blotted the wall but it was too late; the dark liquid had already taken hold. It had permeated the wallpaper and seeped sideways. There was nothing more David could do to salvage the damage. Rachel was satisfied with the destruction. She would worry later on about whether the colour and design were still stocked by Laura Ashley and who she could get to rehang the paper.
‘I’ll make you another one,’ David said.
‘It’s okay, I’ve lost the taste for it,’ Rachel said.
Anger bubbled inside her; her hands were shaking after dropping the glass. She wanted to tell him she knew about the other woman. She wanted to hurl all the bottled up anger at his face. She wanted to declare that she knew everything. She wanted answers.
But she didn’t say anything. Mainly because she knew she couldn’t trust a word that came out of his mouth.
‘Actually I’m not feeling that well. I think I need an early night, sorry.’
David kissed her on the forehead and followed her upstairs with a glass of water and a selection of painkillers. Rachel thanked him and cocooned herself in the duvet. She was mentally and emotionally exhausted from the thoughts churning endlessly in her head.
The next day Rachel thought she could hold it together until she burst into tears in her yoga class. When the Swedish instructor hugged her, she only sobbed harder. The physical contact was too much; she took her mat and wet sleeves out of the hot sweaty exercise studio.
She saw a missed call from Jojo and replied with a text message:
Rachel:Busy day, you okay?
Jojo:All good here – we have to catch up soon. Miss your face xxx
Rachel:Miss yours more. Xxx
At home, Rachel heard the cat flap squeak and her two cats appeared, mewing for attention. She was still wearing her coat and hadn’t turned on the lights. Dusk shrouded her and as she sat down in the dark, gloomy room, her foul mood started to resurface. Where was he? David’s every movement demanded investigation and should be treated as suspicious. Where was he?
She collected herself and resolved to go through his online accounts, line-by-line. She didn’t know what that would confirm since he was a methodical and calculating bastard. Rachel didn’t find anything obvious. Stefan Stratos had offered the name of a forensic accountancy firm she could use to locate any money David might be hiding. She doubted he was, though. For one thing, she did their accounts and tax returns. The profits from selling the company were going straight to pay off the mortgage.
Rachel looked at the framed photos in their home office. Now forever to be know
n as their common-law home office. The picture on her desk was of her and David sat on the bank of the River Thames. They both looked happy, wearing silly Union Jack hats, and drinking fizzy wine from plastic flutes in honour of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.
She decided that now was as good a time as any to search the rest of the house. They shared every space, in every room. Their books were mixed together on the bookcases, they used the same medicine cabinet and all their paperwork was in their communal office.
There were limited places to hide things from each other. She opened the bank statements; a dozen or so envelopes had piled up. She really should stop them and go paperless. She didn’t know why she was surprised to discover that he’d been taking out cash, £100 at a time, here and there, nothing she would have noticed normally. David didn’t usually like to use cash and always preferred to pay by card. She double-checked the withdrawals against the desktop calendar. They were made on different days, but they were all on the wrong side of town; nowhere near their home or his office.
‘Call me Miss Marple,’ Rachel said, winking at Neville and Oscar.
David was a specialist in IT and still he was woefully lazy with regard to his digital security. Most of his passwords were random digits written on post-it notes stuck around the edge of his monitor. This was almost too easy. Rachel used her phone to take photos of the fluorescent slips of paper. She checked his blazers and found nothing. In the back pocket of a pair of indigo jeans, she found a prescription for Sildenafil. She Googled this and found its more common name: Viagra. She appropriated the flimsy piece of paper. She didn’t know David had ever used Viagra; she liked to think she would have known if he’d used it with her.
At the back of his side of the wardrobe she spied a plastic bag that she didn’t recognise and opened it. It contained a French Maid’s outfit David had bought her last year. She couldn’t remember how that came about but she remembered not taking it seriously. He’d said it was a joke gift and she’d laughed. She hadn’t given a second thought to the shoddy nylon outfit.
How to Marry Your Husband Page 7
