Losing It

by Jane Asher

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she went on, and stepped back from the doorway to let me pass.

  ‘Thanks.’ I pushed past her into the hall, turning sideways with my back towards her to avoid the potential embarrassment of brushing her breasts as I passed.

  ‘I just wanted to collect a few things, is that OK?’

  ‘I can’t stop you, can I?’

  As I walked through the hall and into the living room my mind was whirling in a panicky assessment of what I might need in the next few weeks and what could be left to a future, more organised division of our property. I began to appreciate for the first time the problems encountered by my clients: the innumerable piles of objects that belonged to me assailed me on every side, so to speak, and I couldn’t think how to begin to choose which to pack up and take away. Judy was trailing after me as if she expected me to make a run for it with something of hers, and I found myself leaving the living room and climbing the stairs to the bedroom without having made a single decision. I had foolishly not thought to bring a case or trunk with me, so I was aware that, even should I be able to make a few rational decisions about what to take, I would have to run the gauntlet of trying to pick a suitcase that might fairly be considered mine. As most of my work was based in London, I rarely travelled alone – Judy was the one who occasionally had to move around the country on inspections or for meetings – and, as I pictured the pieces of luggage stored in the attic, I realised that in all probability they had all been bought by her, even if we had jointly used them on family holidays. I certainly didn’t fancy risking a row over something so inessential – I’d rather save it for the time I felt sure would have to come when argument would be inescapable.

  ‘Can I borrow a bin liner or something, do you think? I mean, I didn’t bring a case or anything, so I’ll need something to take my stuff away in.’

  ‘How much are you planning to take, then?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ I said casually, scratching the side of my chin to ease a nonexistent itch. ‘Just a few essentials, that’s all.’

  ‘Why, are you planning to come back, then? Why not take the lot?’

  ‘That’s hardly practical, Jude, at this stage, is it? I’d have thought that was fairly obvious.’

  ‘Oh, I see, it’s just the practicality of it. Do forgive me – you see, it may be obvious to you, but we’re a bit in the dark here. We rather thought you lived here – that you were a husband and father, in fact, but – as I say, you’ll have to bear with me as I’ve obviously got the wrong end of the stick – but do explain exactly what your relationship is to us, will you? And whether we may be expecting the pleasure of your company in this house again, or whether perhaps you’ve pissed off for good?’

  ‘Judy, that really isn’t going to help, is it? I mean, we can surely discuss this like –’ (oh, God, everything I went to say sounded like a scene from a badly written romantic drama) ‘– like sensible adults.’

  ‘Would you say that you’ve behaved like a sensible adult, though? I suppose that’s something we have to look at, learned counsel. I rather think you’ve behaved like a bastard – and how does a bastard discuss this kind of issue with his wife – or, ex-wife, should I say? Or about-to-be ex-wife, I presume.’

  I was moving around the bedroom, vaguely collecting a handful of socks here, a pile of boxer shorts there. I put them down on the bed, then opened up the wardrobe and stared hopelessly at the rail of dark suits, and sighed as I pictured the hooks of the hangers bursting through the black plastic of a bin liner. Even should I be able to retrieve such a thing from the kitchen under the relentless tirade that I could see was going to trail my every move, it would hardly be strong enough for me to be able to take away any reasonable amount of clothes, let alone books, papers and all the other bits and pieces that physically marked my existence in the house. I pulled a chair over to stand on so as to reach the top cupboards above the wardrobe, hoping I might find a holdall or something that would tide me over until my next visit, but, as I lifted one foot onto it, Judy leapt towards me at incredible speed and pulled it away. I nearly fell over.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t you dare go anywhere near those cupboards. That’s private, you know that! All my – all my feminine stuff, as you always patronisingly call it.’

  I was quite startled by the ferocity of this attack in defence of her depilatories or pessaries or whatever else I assumed she stored up there, but put it down to justifiable rage at her situation.

  ‘Look, Jude, why don’t I come back another time,’ I said as gently as I could, shutting the wardrobe doors and turning towards her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, frankly, this is impossible. I haven’t got a case; I daren’t ask for one of ours in case you claim it as yours and, even if I could think of some way of transporting my things, I can’t make any decisions with you following me round like this and abusing me.’ I grimaced as soon as I’d said it, and resolved not to say another word, certain that I’d triggered another sarcastic reply that would spiral us further downwards into useless recriminations. I was wrong: there was a moment’s silence then, to my surprise, Judy suddenly sank down on the bed and burst into tears.

  I sat down beside her without thinking. I can honestly, and shamefully, say that I felt not a twinge of sympathy or even fondness at the sight of my wife desperately sobbing, so maddened and distracted was I by love. I was simply aping the behaviour patterns of a reasonable man in an instinctive attempt to smooth my path back to Stacey in whatever way I could.

  ‘Look here, old girl,’ I said, putting an arm round her shoulders and, cruelly, giving them a little squeeze as if in affection. ‘I know this is totally incomprehensible, but you have to see it as me going through some sort of – what can I say? – going through a breakdown, I suppose. This isn’t easy for either of us, and it’s terrible that I’ve had to hurt you like this. I know you don’t want to believe it, but it’s the truth. I’ve explained to you that I’ve, quite unintentionally, fallen in love with someone else. I didn’t think these things really happened, but they do – and it has. To me.’

  She lifted her head at this and made the most awful sound – a kind of scream as if she was in physical pain, but with something else, something horrible, echoing behind it. I think in my pre-Stacey incarnation I’d have found it hard to bear, but in my numbed state I merely silently appraised and noted it, and moved on.

  I patted her shoulder and got up, filled now with a surprising calm, and opened up the wardrobe again. I glanced along the rail and imagined myself in Stacey’s living room wearing first one, then another, of my suits and jackets. I pulled out a dark-navy blazer, a black suit with a tiny grey pinstripe, a couple of pairs of cotton trousers, a plain black suit, an old beige corduroy one and a brown tweed jacket. I hesitated for a second or two over my dinner jacket, but then grabbed it in a flash of enthusiasm and smiled as I pictured myself dressed in black tie beside a glittering Stacey at some evening function. Stacey in full-length evening dress and covered in jewels was an image to treasure. I remembered the time Judy and I had been astonished when I helped her work out the amount of material she needed to make a full, circular skirt for Sally to wear in a school play. Hah! I thought, as I looked down at her still sitting on the bed, with her head in her hands. You ain’t seen nothing.

  ‘I’m taking the old trunk,’ I said, ‘and I’ll return it to you once I’ve unpacked it, OK?’

  She was snuffling into a tissue that she’d produced from somewhere about her person, but didn’t reply.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I went on in a tone of cheerful practicality, ‘I don’t want to flatten you – can you just shift along a bit while I dump these on the bed? And you’re sitting on the socks.’

  I didn’t wait for a reply, but flung the suits onto the white bedcover and went over to my shelves of shirts, from which I chose a dozen or so of the most useful. I added a handful of ties and then walked quickly out of the room and up the stairs to
the tiny box room at the top that we called the attic, grabbed the old brown trunk that had belonged to Judy’s father and carried it, with difficulty, down the stairs and onto the landing outside the bedroom. I was having to stop myself whistling – an overexcited optimism had overtaken me, a sense of something wonderful about to happen.

  I threw open the trunk and, in a couple of journeys, transferred the clothes into it, adding a few pairs of shoes and tutting to myself at my stupidity in not having put them and the other heavy, hard objects in first. Never mind: squashed suits and shirts could be sorted out easily enough. As I closed the trunk in readiness to carry it downstairs, I glanced at my wife, still sitting on the edge of the bed with her reddened, swollen, runny-nosed face turned towards me. Squashed people, I thought abstractedly, are another matter altogether.

  Crystal

  Coo-eeee!!

  Sorry I didn’t write last week, Stacey hon, I guess I get busy with my “new life” and don’t seem to be able to find the time to write so often. I am doing real well, except for a bit of vertigo now and then. My weight loss is FANTASTIC!!! and I feel pretty good most days. Last Monday I went to a support group at the hospital where I had my WLS. We all sat around and talked about our problems and we were told to share with each other some of the difficult times we’ve had in the post-op. Hey!! I wanted to say – it’s the pre-op that’s the difficult times … I can take any amount of post-op pain and sickness and all that stuff. That ain’t NOTHING compared to the heartache and pain and all before coming over. I remember when I was like you, Staceeeeeee, and hoping and praying that I’d be able to have the surgery so that I could find a way to stop all the pain and discomfort: my legs, back, hips, knees, etc ALL ACHED – day in and day out. I had to walk, at times, with a cane … and sometimes even with a walker like an old person. UGH, oh Lord, how I hate to think of that now! Not anymore!!! But there were some pre-op people there and my surgeon says he wants them to hear every side of WLS before even considering having it done. So I tried to tell them everything bad that had happened since I came over but they must have seen I was just BUSTING with the happiness of all that weight loss, so there’s no way I’m putting anyone off!!

  You gotta get out of that chair, hon – you should see me – I walk, and walk … and use exercise videos!!! Major miracle!! So, like I’ve said before … don’t give up hope!! Hey – well done for ringing that hospital – I know what it’s like, believe me, but you’ve made the first move and that’s the hardest. (What does it mean, going private?) I have lost about 52 pounds and dropped 4 sizes in clothes now!! What a wonderful feeling it is to be able to go into “normal” clothing stores, buy fashionable outfits, and not ACHE ANYMORE!!! I don’t have to take the meds I was taking pre-op for arthritis … or the pain meds …

  So what’s with this guy? He sounds kinda cute. Real British, too, the way he treats you. Is he rich? Hey – why not marry him, Stacey? He sounds cool and I guess he’s crazy about you and all, so why not, and I could come over for the wedding in a new outfit and we’d have such fun. Can you get quickie divorces over there like here? It sounds like his kids are real grown up so that’s OK. Just gotta get yourself over the other side first and start LIVING! And, talking of living, get your ass back into that internet café and get yourself onto Hotmail so I can get back to ya real quick – send me a message at angel4crystal@hotmail.com once you’re fixed up.

  Anyway, I don’t need to tell you to get over here, sweetie. But I want you to know I’m still praying for ya!

  Lots of love and kisses

  Crystal

  xxxxxxxxxxxxx

  PS My friend Josh says they don’t think angels are made of silk or anything no more, but they’re made out of a gas. I think that kinda makes sense, don’t you????

  Stacey (e-mail)

  OK Crystal! So I’m all fixed up like you said – mine’s staceysalton@hotmail.com and I can get in here easy after work each day and I just LONG to get a message so pleeeeeeeease answer this as quick as you can!! Thanks for your great letter – it’s just made me sooooooo jealous I could scream!!

  Charlie’s still around, and – yeah, you’re right – he is cute. It’s so weird, though, Crystal, the way he just stares at me and stuff. It freaks me out sometimes that someone can need me so much. I used to think I’d give ANYTHING just to have someone love me or fancy me like the girls at work have, but things are never how you imagine, are they?

  But I ain’t complaining – he keeps buying me things and my mum really likes him. Not sure about your wedding idea, though. You’re stuck then, ain’t ya? And don’t tell me about getting split and having loads of money from the divorce ’cos he’s a lawyer and guess who’d get shafted???!!

  Mind you, I do have plans for him while he’s so stuck on me. I ain’t stupid, Crystal. I’m gonna have a word with my mum about changing my domestic arrangements, as they say. Maybe I’ll be seeing ya on the Other Side sooner than we thought, eh? Geddit??

  Love

  your e-mail buddy

  Stacey

  Sally

  I’m frightened about Ben. Holly rang me on my mobile last night, which was unusual in itself as we’ve never got on particularly well, so I suspected it was going to be something pretty serious. I even wondered for a split second if she was pregnant, but I figured even daft Ben has sense enough to be careful, especially after all the doom and gloom, terror shock lectures about Aids that Mum and Dad gave us a couple of years ago. What with that and seat belts, cigarettes and drugs, it’s a wonder they can sleep at night for worrying about us. I hate to tell them that Ben and I have been ‘experimenting’ as they always put it, with pretty much everything in terms of stimulants – within reason – since we were twelve or so, but then try explaining to anyone over forty that you’re not going to keel over from dropping the occasional tab at a party. Can’t be done.

  No, it was more worrying, what Holly had to say, because it confirmed something I’ve been half thinking for some time: that Benbo is seriously disturbed – or, at least, has the potential to be so. Ever since he began going on about quantum thingummies and parallel universes he’s been a little bit weird, but I thought it was just a phase. I never paid that much attention, in any case – I’ve been away on my music course at weekends or out of the house so much that most of the strange goings-on have been happening without my noticing.

  But since the grand exit I’ve had to be around a lot more. It’s a good excuse, to be honest, because I was beginning to think I ought to be doing something useful with my gap year, or at least something to earn a bit more cash. Now I’ve been able to put off doing anything dynamic for a little longer: no one can be expected to go and teach English to Nepalese babies or save three-eared toads in the Sahara or whatever while their parents are splitting up. It’s about time we had some drama in the family, in any case. They’ve always been far too normal and nice, if you ask me – I must be one of the very few in my last year of school who didn’t have at least one or two step-relations. Very pre-seventies.

  These things are never, though, how they appear from the outside. Once I calmed down after it first happened I think I imagined I could be the hard-done-by, beautiful victim of a broken home, who’d get that lovely Winona Ryder paleness and look of noble suffering. My friends just said I looked ill. It’s been rather terrible seeing Mum the way she’s been, and Ben has seemed so depressed lately that I was worried even before Holly rang.

  I don’t know how I feel about Dad. The whole business is so surreal that I find myself looking at it all from the outside, as if it’s a movie or something. It’s so completely unlike him that I can’t judge him as the same person: it’s like his body has been taken over by someone else, and if there really is some other woman involved, which is what it appears to be from Mum’s occasional hints, then that just makes it even more incredible. The idea of anyone finding Dad physically attractive, apart from it being a pretty repellent thought as far as I’m concerned, is so totally unreal that I jus
t can’t get my head round it. They say kids can never imagine their parents making love: well, Ben and I used to discuss that and, although we thought it was unlikely on the evidence that they still got it together more than occasionally, we’d quite come to terms with the idea of it in principle. But the thought of Dad doing it with someone else – well, that’s just so gross as not to be tenable.

  Anyway, Holly said Ben was saying some stuff about this being his fault and that he should be punished or something, and I don’t like the sound of it. I know just how he feels about blaming himself, but he’s such a worrier that he probably thinks he has to do something about it, rather than just wallow in a bit of self-pity, or shut himself in his room, which is more my style. It’s no good talking to Mum about it, because she’ll just get more depressed and anxious and smother him with love and pity and all that and that’s just going to convince him even more that he’s screwed everyone up and that he’s causing the problem. I’ll try and get through to him myself, but if Holly can’t help him it doesn’t bode well.

  I may have to get hold of Dad. Oh Christ.

  Charlie

  I’d forgotten what perfect happiness felt like. No – that’s not right. I hadn’t forgotten: I just hadn’t ever experienced it before. All the times I’d thought I’d been happy were mere foretastes of what was to come, and if you’d told me that I’d ever be able to live in the moment in the way I do now – in an everlasting, exquisite moment of ecstasy – I’d have said it was impossible. My pre-Stacey life was spent looking forward or back; pleasure was always in the anticipation or the recollection. Every second of my existence now is one I would quite happily settle for as being the last of my life, as each one is a lifetime of joy. When I am with her I marvel at the love I feel for her; when I am away from her I revel in simply knowing she is in the same world as I am and that it won’t be many hours before I am back with her.