Six Months to Get a Life
Page 8
Sunday 25th May
This is the first weekend I haven’t seen my boys at all since the divorce. They have gone to Exeter with the ex. We used to go and visit her family a couple of times a year. Jack and Sean have never been particularly close to that set of grandparents but they trudged along compliantly with us. When I talked to them on the phone before they went, I got the impression that they were looking forward to this trip even less than usual.
‘Granddad spends half his time moaning about you and the other half moaning at us,’ Jack mumbled when I asked him why the extra reluctance to go. ‘Just ignore him, he’s a dickhead,’ I told my son. No I didn’t but I wanted to.
I am getting a real sense that the boys are beginning to find their feet again after a tricky time when their mum and I split up. Sean in particular seems to be coming out of his shell. I sensed on our recent camping trip that he seemed more upbeat, more relaxed. He told me to stop worrying about him when I asked him how he was. His exact words were, ‘Stop worrying about me and start sorting your life out.’ Cheeky git.
Like Sean, I am feeling a bit less insecure now than I was a couple of months ago. This isn’t quite the same as saying I am ‘a bit more secure’ but it is a start at least.
Despite me not seeing the boys this weekend, I haven’t spent the whole time moping about. I haven’t been too downhearted. The boys and I continue to get on well. They seem to respect me and listen to me despite me not being there all the time and they do genuinely want to see me. Both boys periodically drop in at my parents’ because they fancy a chat. They both want me to come to their various sports matches. They are both interested and engaged in my flat-finding endeavour too. If they had missed a whole weekend’s visit a couple of months ago I would literally have spent the whole weekend worrying about what they were up to, but this weekend I managed to function without them.
Of course, my different mindset has nothing to do with my Tuesday evening dog walks.
I actually took a couple more tentative steps towards achieving some of my goals this weekend. I went on a long bike ride and I made a concerted effort to sort my living arrangements out.
I spent most of Saturday in the company of estate agents but other than that I didn’t have a bad day. I may have found a flat with some prospects. It is off Martin Way in Morden. It is only a ten minute walk from school and on the way to my ex’s, which means the kids could drop in when passing. It is also only five minutes from my parents’ so I could go round there for dinner every so often, which might not be a bad thing because I may have forgotten how to cook since not owning my own kitchen. I will take the kids to view the flat sometime next week.
I thought a fair bit about my job too this weekend. It may be under threat but I am determined not to think of myself as a victim. I must not wallow. I must not wallow. I must not wallow. You see, who needs a stupid self-help book?
I do try to adhere to the philosophy that shit happens to those who let shit happen (not sure whether that one was Rousseau, Plato or Marx?). In other words, I am doing a boring job at the moment and some jerk in a suit may decide I’m surplus to requirements. I could sit there and passively let Daniel not Dan kick me out. Or I could take control of the situation and find myself a better job. I got online and started working on a few application forms.
On Saturday night I stayed in and dog-sat as my parents went out for dinner with friends. The thought of my nigh-on 70-year-old parents going out on a Saturday night and me staying in on my own would normally bring on a bout of depression, but instead I just enjoyed having the house to myself and being in control of the sound system. The Buddy Holly CD was firmly ejected from my parents’ CD player in favour of a bit of Dire Straits.
Tuesday 27th May
When I drove through Raynes Park and up towards the Common this evening, I had little optimism that dog walking woman would show up. The weather was utterly awful. Albus and I got soaked just getting into the car. What self-respecting goddess would walk their dog in such shitty weather?
At this point I feel the need to make a confession. I have been looking forward to tonight since the moment I waved goodbye to dog-walking woman last week. And not just a little bit either. I have spent many a minute fantasising about us as a couple, eating dinner together, chatting over a drink and, yes, doing other things too. I haven’t admitted it before now because it would have sounded a bit over the top, even a bit creepy. We have probably only exchanged about a hundred words with each other. I don’t even know her name unless by some miraculous trick of fate her parents christened her dog-walking woman.
As I drove into the Windmill car park, my worst fears were confirmed. The car park was totally deserted. I was gutted. I sat in the car for a few minutes, firstly cursing the British weather and then beginning to wonder whether she would have shown up even if the sun had been out. She probably just decided I wasn’t the stimulating, attractive, intelligent hunk I wanted her to think I was.
Eventually, Albus became impatient being stuck in the car with the windows steaming up, so, feeling disconsolate, I did my coat up and braved the rain.
This is where things get a bit messy. Albus plodded over towards the café and decided that the path outside the café was the best place on the whole Common to do his business. Like any responsible dog owner I carried what are colloquially known as ‘poo bags’ with me. I was in the process of picking up the biggest turd in history with a bag that wasn’t man enough for the job when the shih poo and her lovely owner walked round the corner. This wasn’t how I’d imagined our next encounter to start.
But start it had. ‘Good to see you aren’t frightened of getting your hands dirty,’ dog-walking woman, who subsequently became known as Amy, said with a smile on her face that literally altered the rhythm of my heart.
‘Good to see you aren’t the sort of woman to let a little rain put you off a walk,’ I replied. Not a bad opener.
Somehow, Amy managed to look stunning even though she was soaked to the skin and covered head to toe in expensive rain clothes that would probably have passed muster in the Amazon rainforest. My cheap ‘waterproof’ wouldn’t have kept me dry in the Rainforest Café. She became known as Amy at about the point that I had dropped the foul smelling deposit off in the nearest dog bin.
We chatted away in the rain as we strolled across the Common. Amy lives off the Ridgway in Wimbledon Village. She is divorced and has one child, Lucy. Lucy is fourteen, the same age as Jack. She was with her dad this evening in Earlsfield. I am divorced, have two children, am in the process of sorting my living accommodation out et cetera, et cetera… Amy wants to be a travel writer when she grows up. I have tried growing up and it is thoroughly over-rated.
We might have talked about where we are going in life, but we didn’t discuss where we were going on our walk. We just kept walking in the rain and increasing darkness. We ended up walking past Cannizaro House and found ourselves outside the Crooked Billet pub. And then inside, with our soaking wet, tired dogs at our feet and Amy nursing a steaming hot cup of coffee and me a pint.
Once we had stripped our clothes off in a frantic manner (OK, only our waterproofs), I got a better look at Amy. She happens to be the opposite of my ex in a lot of ways – redhead with long wavy (slightly bedraggled tonight) hair versus dyed blonde bob; striking emerald green eyes versus nondescript brown; tall and leggy versus short and anything but; and with an electric smile that she isn’t afraid to use rather than a permanent miserable frown. That just turned into an excuse for a rant but I am sure you get the picture.
I don’t know why but the nerves that have characterised my interactions with women over the last few months weren’t present tonight. Andy’s advice to me on the golf course was just to be myself and I would be alright. I didn’t try to come across as some sort of smartarse. I talked to Amy about relationships, about divorce and its impact upon us and the children. I held my end up in the conversation. I did OK.
There was no physical contact toni
ght. Was this because I still lack the killer instinct? Possibly. I said I wasn’t nervous but that isn’t the same as saying I am super cool, confident and cocksure. When all’s said and done, that will never be me. I didn’t even get her phone number but we did agree the standard ‘same time next week’ arrangement before we both got taxis home. My car is spending a solitary night in the Windmill car park which will mean another trip to the Common tomorrow night for me.
Wednesday 28th May
The consultation on the strategic review is still rumbling on. Daniel asked me about my domestic situation today and told me he hopes it isn’t affecting my work. I wonder who told him about it. Probably the same person I saw going out to lunch with him. Short skirt Sarah.
Not unrelated to the above, I thought a bit more about my future career prospects. What sort of jobs should I be applying for? What would I like to do? I am an educated man. I would quite like a new challenge. As I have mentioned before, something like journalism appeals, particularly sports journalism. But realistically I am probably twenty years too old to start along that path. I would also love to work with animals, but other than liking animals and thinking that animals generally like me, I have no particular qualification that would make me appointable by zoos or vets. I also have a desire to work outdoors but I can’t stand gardening, I am crap at putting a shelf up so I guess I wouldn’t make a great builder and I don’t even paint my own house so I don’t think there is a career there either. I reckon after spending most of the last month with estate agents, I could probably do a better job than half of them. I am sure I could sell more properties simply by cutting out the bullshit and being honest.
What I would like to do and what I can realistically afford to do are two different things. I can’t afford to take a pay cut, which stops me from starting a new career as the wet-behind-the-ears new boy. So I dusted off my CV today and started looking at jobs that are vaguely related to my project management experience, problem-solving skills and organisational abilities. ‘Organisational abilities’ – what a load of nonsense. I am the sort of person who forgets appointments, rarely remembers birthdays, never has any food in the fridge (when I used to have my own fridge) and books holiday villas but forgets to book the flights. But apparently I have ‘well-developed organisational abilities’ according to my CV.
Friday 30th May
I took the kids to see the flat this evening.
‘It’s a bit small, dad,’ was Sean’s reaction. Get used to it, son. Neither of the boys were exactly jumping up and down with excitement but they do understand that I am working to a budget. They were content with the location so I think it’s a go. It is hardly a detached house in Surrey but it will have to do for the next year or so at least.
I haven’t quite signed the paperwork yet as I wanted to come home and work out my finances just to be sure I can afford it. Having done the maths for about the tenth time, I am still not sure. I might have to reassess the amount I am paying to my ex. Strictly speaking I am paying her slightly more than I am obliged to by the proper authorities. If I reduce my payments to her, it won’t go down well. I have got a tricky balance to strike there because if I reduce it by too much, she won’t be able to afford to keep the house. And then the kids will suffer. If it wasn’t for that little nuance, I would have been paying her less from the start.
Our trip to the flat was followed by a trip to the curry house. I love a good curry and decided today that it is about time I started educating my kids on the intricacies of Indian restaurant menus. My ex wouldn’t have covered this vital life skill as she doesn’t possess it herself.
We went to my old haunt, the Motspur Park Tandoori. Had we been there a couple of hours later we would have been joined by groups of inebriated revellers as they left the Earl Beatty pub next door, but with the sun still being high in the sky when we arrived, ours and another family were the only two groups in the restaurant.
‘Whoever can eat the hottest curry can have an ice-cream for dessert,’ I challenged them.
Ever the competitor, Jack took me up on the challenge and ordered a madras. Sean decided he didn’t want to play and went for a korma. I couldn’t let my eldest beat me so I asked the grinning waiter for a vindaloo. The curries arrived. Sean didn’t care that he wouldn’t win the contest and concentrated on enjoying his curry. Jack endured his curry. He wasn’t bothered about the prize either but he did want to get one over on me. My curry was the hottest thing I have ever tasted despite me telling the chef whilst on my way to the toilet to go easy on the chillies. I failed woefully.
Of course we all ended up having ice cream. We had a great night. On the way home Jack and Sean told me that when I was in the toilet they had asked the waiter to add extra spice to my vindaloo.
Sunday 1st June
So yesterday I saw my ex out socially for the first time since she became my ex. Obviously she wasn’t out socially with me but we were out socially at the same place, the Morden Brook.
The lads had arranged to meet up to give Andy a bit of a send-off before he moves to Canada next week. We had all bought him little mementos of our time together, mostly stupid stuff like an encyclopaedia of British beers, a poster of Greg Rusedski with ‘he’s British now’ scrawled all over it and a Bear Grylls book about surviving in the wild. We were intending on having a good night.
And then my ex walked in. It pains me to admit it but she looked pretty good, in a new outfit of pillar-box red jeans and a leather jacket. She looked like she had lost a few pounds too.
I watched her walk up to the bar with her group of revellers. She hadn’t noticed me at this point. I recognised a few of her crowd. Sarah and Debbie and a couple more mother’s-union types and their respective husbands. But there were a few I didn’t recognise, including the man who put his hand on my wife’s left buttock as he was ordering the drinks.
All of a sudden I had gone from thinking I was having a good time with my mates to being completely conscious of my single status. I thought I was making progress in my life but there I was, single, in the pub with my single mates, about to go back to my parents’ and sleep on a mattress on the floor. My ex, who still hadn’t noticed me, was with her group of married friends, with her new man and probably about to go back to my marital home with him and make noises that only I have heard her make for the past fifteen years. Actually someone had heard her at our golfing weekend in Sussex and banged on the hotel wall, but we will ignore that for now.
Was I jealous? Yes. And some.
She was flagrantly taking advantage of me having the kids for the night. I had spent the day with the boys and the dog in Bournemouth and dropped them off with my mum on my way round to the pub. I was tempted to get on the phone to my parents and tell them to send the kids home.
The married group didn’t notice us single guys for quite a while. We had got there early and had occupied our favourite table in the back of the pub. I was the only one of our group to notice them too as my mates were all engrossed in pointing out things Andy won’t miss on his trip to Canada (David Cameron, Strictly Come Dancing, the Tory party, come to think of it all British politicians, and the Northern Line). For some reason I felt the need to laugh loudly at all our jokes, as if to show my ex that I was having a better time than her. I got a few odd looks from Dave, Ray and Andy before Dave eventually cottoned on to the reason for my antics.
‘Your ex scrubs up nicely,’ he rather unhelpfully observed.
Eventually they saw us too and my ex waved to me. I watched as she whispered something to her new lover and he smiled knowingly. Why hadn’t the kids mentioned this wanker to me? I took some small consolation from the fact that he was rather plain-looking, with a belly that definitely put him into the clinically obese category and hair that had seen better days.
‘It’s your round Graham.’ Oh god, so I had to go up to the bar. I composed myself, mentally armed myself with all the witty put-downs I could think of and flexed my muscles in case things turned nasty.
‘Is that a large wine you’ve got? I obviously pay you too much maintenance,’ I said in response. My inner self was screaming at me not to show weakness. Or maybe it was the lads sitting at our table watching the encounter. Or just the beer talking.
My ex put on her best condescending look and was about to respond when her knight in shining armour entered the fray on her behalf. ‘You must be Graham. I’m Mark.’ He held his orange juice out as if he wanted me to clink glasses.
‘Nice comb-over mate. If you ever so much as say a word to my children I swear I’ll ruin your life,’ I said, clashing my virtually empty pint glass into his high-class, up-your-own-pretentious-backside J2O with enough force to spill half his drink on his expensive-looking brogues.
‘Oh grow up, Graham,’ my ex said. I actually stuck my tongue out at them as they turned and re-joined their group of happy couples. I then stood feeling like Billy no mates at the bar waiting to be served for what seemed like an eternity.
Now, with the benefit of a night’s sleep between me and last night’s encounter, I can see that my antics weren’t particularly sensible or mature. In an effort to show strength I showed weakness. My ex will get the impression that what she does still matters to me. She will take some satisfaction from sorting her life out quicker than me.