Journey to the Centre of Myself

by Andie M. Long

  ‘I understood that. My thought was that we could adopt.’

  I shake my head. ‘We had our child. She would have grown up resembling bits of you, bits of me, but she died, and my hopes and dreams died with her. Sure it’s selfish, but I don’t want to watch somebody else's child do what Gen couldn’t. If I can’t have my daughter, I don’t want theirs.’

  ‘I hoped it was the grief talking.’

  ‘No. I’ve never changed my mind.’

  Adrian looks at me. ‘I realised that a few months ago.’ Adrian takes a deep breath.

  I watch him suck on his bottom lip. I wait. He swallows.

  ‘I knew things couldn’t go on as they were. We were suffocating. Work was light, so I worked shifts and odd jobs around decorating the room. Thank God that daft bat next door is deaf, otherwise she’d have told you about the drilling and banging, too. I got that you wanted some freedom, either working somewhere with more responsibility or travelling a bit, so I figured I’d build you an office and put up a map. You see, I realised it was never going to be another child’s room and moved on. I’ve accepted it now, Karen.’

  I nod my head.

  ‘But there’s something I need you to understand—part of what I’ve struggled to make clear to you. I don’t want a shrine, but I cannot deal with how you want to pretend she never existed. I understand seeing her photo is hard, but she lived, Karen, and I want a photograph of her somewhere. Whether it’s in the bedroom or the hallway, there will be a photo. I need that. It’s part of me accepting her death.’

  ‘So what about the gambling?’

  ‘I was stupid. I saw the horse—Gen’s Generation—and I had to back it. It won, but I only had a fiver on it… I gambled when I was broken and I hope never to go back there after all the trouble it caused. It was the name, I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘But all the names in a paper could mean something. That’s what terrifies me, Adrian. That you feel you have to put a bet on because its fate, or whatever, and then we’re back again. Your gambling is a problem. You can’t go back to it occasionally. It doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘I’ll go back to my meetings if that’s what you need.’

  ‘It’s not what I need, Adrian, it’s what you need. The gambling becomes my problem, but it’s not—it’s yours.’

  ‘I’ll go back. It was just the one bet, I promise, but I’ll go to the meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘The room, Adrian. It was a lovely idea, but I don’t envisage living here for much longer.’

  ‘What? But we’re talking—’

  ‘This house has too many bad memories. If we do decide to move forward together, I need a fresh start. I can’t continue here.’

  ‘But our daughter lived here.’

  ‘Yes, lived. But she’s not here now.’

  ‘I’ve changed the bloody room and it’s not enough, is it? You keep moving the goalposts.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘There’s no goal, Adrian. There’s no game. This is my life. Your life. We’re in our forties. It’s not the time for shilly-shallying around. It’s time to decide what we want from life.’

  ‘So that’s it, this is some sort of a midlife crisis.’ His jaw clenches.

  ‘Oh, my God, no. Maybe. Yes, yes it is,’ I yell. ‘I’ve grown up and realise that you can’t control me anymore. My parents did it, Steve’s done it, you have, and I understand why with my breakdown, I really, really do, but enough now. There are things I want to do.’

  ‘You almost died, Karen. I thought I’d lost you.’

  ‘But you lost me anyway—the Karen I was. You kept a prisoner, a shadow. I wasn’t there.’ I lower my voice. ‘The fact is I haven’t been there for a long time.’

  ‘What things do you want to do?’

  ‘More travel. Perhaps some photography. I’ve not given much thought to what else I might want to do. I’m just letting myself believe I can do more.’

  ‘We can have holidays.’

  ‘No, I don’t want a simple holiday. I want to see the world. Be present for more than a fortnight.’

  ‘How does that tie in with photography?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve not looked into it yet.’

  ‘You see, Karen, all this stuff, it just reminds me of how it started before, all those wild ideas with no plan behind them. Wanting to book holidays and getting excited. I can’t help worrying that you’re having another episode.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Do you see where I’m coming from, though? You just… take off. Go away, come back with radical ideas. You’re telling me you’re fine but you told me that before—when you tried to die.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ I bellow and throw my mug at the floor. Remnants of coffee splash and stain the carpet. ‘Listen to me. I’m not manic. I’m not mad. There’s no pressure of speech. I have the money worked out, they’re ideas. Ideas do not make me manically ill.’

  ‘But I thought you were okay before and then—’

  ‘This is part of the problem. You can never assume one hundred percent that I am okay. I could walk out of the door and be hit by a bus. I could have another manic episode, I could kill myself, but you would not be responsible. That’s what you need to understand. I need to live my life and you need to back the hell off and let me go.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll just forget about you. Stop giving a shit. Bye, Karen, I hope you’re enjoying a nice long break and not maxing out the credit card and taking an overdose of pills.’

  I rebound in shock as my hand reverberates from his cheek. ‘Oh, my God. I am so sorry.’

  ‘Right now I need to get back to my mother, Karen. I have nothing more to say. Stay in the house, or don’t. Whatever you want to do.’

  ‘But when are you coming back?’

  ‘That depends on how mum is. I’m not sure it really matters to you anyway.’

  I hold onto his arm, my voice cracks as I try to tell him how I feel. ‘It does matter. That’s why I came home. I’m aware it’d take work. Maybe we’d need counselling or something, but I don’t want us to have been for nothing.’

  ‘You’re telling me you want to be free.’

  ‘I’m telling you I don’t want to live in a gilded cage.’

  ‘You can’t trust me.’

  ‘Counselling would help us, I’m sure.’

  ‘I can’t do this today Karen. My mother needs me. I can’t be here for you right now. I have to go.’

  ‘Will you try to think about what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’ll try. But you leaving me changed something. You’re saying you’re a different person and you want different things, but I’m not sure I’m the person you left ten days ago. I need to ponder what I want.’

  ‘You mean you might not want me back?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t, and if you feel anything for me, you’ll not hassle me about it, not when I’ve got all this other stress on. It’s just too much.’

  He gets up to walk out of the room and turns to me. ‘You need to get that coffee up before it stains. I’ve always treated you like some kind of Pampered Princess. You want to be independent? Start now and clean up after yourself.’

  My jaw drops.

  ‘Oh… one more thing. I left your washing in a box in the utility room. I can’t believe you dumped your dirty laundry on me and then left again.’ His lip curls in a snarl. ‘Never have I felt more like a pet dog. I’m your husband, Karen.’ He huffs. ‘Well, I was.’

  He leaves the room. The sound of keys being picked up comes from the hallway, followed by a click as the front door is closed. I curl up on the settee in a ball and try to stop myself from shaking.

  I lay on the sofa for hours. The television murmurs in the background, but I couldn’t tell what was on. I don’t know what I thought Adrian would say to me but I didn’t expect this. Not after begging me to stay. Not after following me to France.

  I guess Arjan really has left—again.

  I go to our room to lie down on our bed. My l
imbs heavy as if made of stone. I feel I need to punish myself. Yet again I’m thinking of myself. Have I taken Adrian for granted? Do I need to take in how he feels? Does my behaviour punish him or reward myself? Getting a chair to climb, I drag the box off the top of the wardrobe and empty my old journals over our bed. I do remember the happy times. I do. So where did it start to go so very wrong?

  ***

  Journal extract - January 2002

  Gosh, I’ve not journaled in ages! Arjan and I have kept in touch all this time, photos, postcards, phone calls. Trips when I can afford it to Amsterdam. Trips when he can afford it to England. The biggest surprise of all? He’s from England. His mother is Dutch, his father’s from Rotherham. I discovered his name isn’t really Arjan, it’s Dutch for Adrian. His name’s flipping Adrian. What a charmer. Oh well, it worked on me.

  He’s coming to live here. We’ve looked at houses and found a lovely little terrace. He was going to save and study Architecture but he says he loves me more than he ever loved that dream. I’ve got my job working for the Car Company. It doesn’t pay a heap, but it's steady work.

  My parents love him. At first, they thought it was a holiday romance and weren’t keen, but then he asked my Dad for my hand in marriage, stated his intentions. Mum’s thrilled, she’s already doing my head in with ideas for the wedding and telling me who to invite. I don’t care. I just want to be Mrs Adrian Owen as soon as I can.

  Jo can’t believe that it was her hen do that found me my husband-to-be. She says she needs to be chief bridesmaid.

  Journal extract - June 2003.

  We did it! It got too much for us, so we took my parents to the Town Hall and they witnessed our wedding, just the four of us. Now Adrian and I can settle down to married life. How exciting.

  Journal extract - June 2006

  We’ve been trying for a baby now for three years. It’s just not happening. I thought by now we’d be having a second. We’ve been for tests but they can’t find any reason why it’s not happening. They’ve told me to relax. How can I? I’m a failure. My husband will be expecting me to produce a child. He says he doesn’t care, that he wants me. He says children would be the cherry on top of a well prepared Appelltaart. I don’t believe that. He’s just saying it to placate me, I’m sure. He called himself Arjan the other day. Spoke about himself in the third person. It seemed so long ago. I told him he sounded silly now, calling himself that. He’s Adrian. He seemed shocked, but agreed. That was back then when we were younger and dafter. We’re grown-ups now.

  ***

  I’ve read enough. We spent our marriage starving each other of oxygen instead of encouraging each other to breathe. I know we’ve done it out of love, but it’s turned into resentment and loathing. I need to talk to someone, ask their advice, and I know who—Jo. She’s been a part of things all along, and yet I’ve kept her at a distance; an acquaintance, never a friend. Tomorrow I will apologise and then I’m going to ask her what she would do if she were me. She was intrinsic in starting my relationship, and now she may now be orchestral in ending it.

  Chapter 22

  Amber

  I’ve got exactly forty-five minutes before Mirelle turns up. We need to get her stuff in the house and head off to Jo’s at lightning speed. I stand in front of my wardrobe contemplating what I’m going to wear. How on earth did Mirelle and I not manage to have this conversation today? What do you wear to a colleague’s dinner party if you’re ninety-five percent sure that your date isn’t turning up?

  I settle on a short red dress with sequins around the hem, to which I attach a flashing Christmas tree brooch. I grab a silky black pashmina to wrap around my shoulders. We are getting a taxi there and back so I don’t need a heavy coat.

  The doorbell goes and I rush to open it while trying to put on a shoe. ‘I won’t be a minute, bring your stuff in.’

  ‘Err, what stuff?’ says a male voice.

  I peer up. ‘Shaun. Oh sorry, I never got back to you about what time I needed Kevin to get here.’

  ‘Well Kevin couldn’t make it, so I’ve… err… come here myself.’

  I picture Mirelle and Shaun. Oh, bloody hell.

  I move to let him in. ‘If anyone asks you’re my plus one.’

  He smiles. ‘I’m a lucky guy.’

  ‘Don’t get any ideas, but thanks for coming anyway, though I don’t believe Mirelle would have accepted you as her plus one.’

  ‘Yeah, I agree. I’m trying it on to be honest. Figured the worst you could do was tell me to go home and the best thing was the free food and booze.’

  ‘Well as long as you understand that I have no romantic interest in you, so keep away from any mistletoe.’

  Shaun pulls on the neck of his sweater. ‘God, Amber, that’s a bit crushing, woman. I was hoping I might grow on you.’

  ‘Sorry. I'm a bitch. It’s not you. My soon to be ex-husband and a new boyfriend are giving me the runaround. It’s put me off men.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I give him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, I could grow to like being your friend.’

  ‘Sit on the sofa. I’m waiting for Mirelle to show up.’

  ‘Hey,’ he looks around. ‘No murdered sofa. Oh, you’ve moved the tree. That’s an improvement on the view over there.’

  ‘Do you like my tree?’ I admire all seven foot of spruced up wonder. It heaves with glittery baubles and twinkling lights.

  ‘Well, it’s very, ahem, majestic.’

  ‘It rocks and you know it.’

  ‘Do you not think it’s a little on the large size?’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to have one…’

  ‘Is that why I’m not suitable boyfriend material, cos I iz petite?’ He pouts.

  ‘Ha ha.’

  He takes a cracker from the tree. ‘Go on, you know you want to?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I leave them for Christmas Day.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s twice in one night you’ve turned down a cracker.’

  ‘Why, when was the other time?’ Mirelle is here, standing with her hands folded across the chest of her silver bandage dress, looking at Shaun like he’s a fermenting vegetable.

  ‘Oh, hi, Mirelle,’ he says, hand outstretched. ‘Lovely to meet you again.’

  ‘Sorry we’re on our way out,’ she says, touching the end of his fingers so fast you’d have thought he’d caused her an electric shock.

  ‘I know. I’m Amber’s plus one.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyebrow arches.

  ‘Yes, Kevin was coming, but he couldn’t make it,’ he adds.

  ‘Is that so? Why, Amber, you are full of surprises this evening, aren’t you?’

  There’s a honk from outside.

  ‘Gosh, in all this excitement, I forgot the taxi was out there waiting for us. Let’s get off to the Christmas party of the Century shall we?’

  Everyone walks outside and I lock the front door.

  ‘Shotgun,’ shouts Shaun.

  Mirelle fixes me with a withering stare. ‘Dear God, Amber, I don’t understand how you get yourself into these situations, but I tell you,’ she pauses to slide into her seat gracefully, ‘You need a New Year’s resolution to stop acting impulsively because it’s having repercussions on my social life.’ She tilts her head to the front, where Shaun is making conversation with the cab driver. ‘Now, thanks to you, I’m spending my evening with a colleague and a Troll.’

  ‘Ssh,’ I warn her. Then I tell the cab driver Jo’s address.

  I decide to hold off on telling Mirelle her ex-lover will be there too.

  Jo lives in a detached four-bedroom house in Altrincham. We pull up on the tree-lined street. Lots of the houses in the area have outdoor Christmas lights, but here its understated elegance with sparkle added to trees, rather than inflatable snowmen.

  The three of us are greeted at the door by Jo’s husband, who ushers us in and points to a small table holding Champagne and Mulled wine.

  ‘Help yoursel
f to whichever you like,’ he says. ‘If you don’t drink, there’s water in the tap, hey?’ He walks off laughing.

  ‘Looks like this party started without us,’ says Mirelle, picking up a glass of champers. ‘Come on you two,’ she says, pointing at the glasses. ‘If we’re going to survive this thing we’ll need lots of alcohol.’

  We walk into the large lounge area where people are milling around. There’s the odd familiar face from work and many more people who I don’t know. Mirelle freezes at the side of me.

  ‘I need to leave, now.’

  I grab her arm and follow the direction of her stare. Sure enough, it’s our boss, Smithy.

  ‘Not a chance. You look knockout tonight, Mirelle, and you will show him what he’s missing. I have to say, though, I don’t know what you saw in him.’

  ‘I don’t want to bump into his wife, though. What if she knows about me and attacks me with the Turkey knife or something?’

  ‘Mir, Smithy must have known you were coming. I’m sure he wouldn’t have risked bringing his wife if he thought she might end up in a standoff with his ex-lover. Anyway, let’s perch on those seats at the end of the dining table, my feet are killing me and next to you I seem like one of the Seven Dwarves.’

  ‘Me too. We only need another five and we can have our own Xmas Panto,’ adds Shaun.

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten you were here,’ says Mirelle before she stomps off to the table.

  ‘Ignore her, she’s hurting. She’s been dumped by that idiot over there,’ I mumble at Shaun.

  ‘Crikey, she went out with him?’

  ‘I know, I don’t get it either, but she says she loves him or loved him, I don’t know which. I was too busy being gobsmacked at the time.’

  ‘So has she come to try to win him back? To get him to compare her to his wife? Cos I can tell you now that wife has got her man by the balls. See that body language.’ I peek and Smithy is indeed glued to his wife, looking like every word she utters drops golden eggs from her mouth.