by Sue Watson
What a fucking tosser you are, I thought coldly, vigorously rolling out pastry as he appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing a white beard and a red hat. I ignored him and carried on rolling, with some fierceness now as he stood in the middle of the kitchen.
“Gracie! Santa’s here with the turkey!” he shouted cheerfully. I glanced over at him in the daft hat and the ridiculous white beard waiting for accolades and high-fives from Grace and I thought How could you? Our lives are hanging in the balance and you’re standing in the kitchen dressed as fucking Father Christmas.
Apparently very pleased with himself, he proudly offered me the plastic turkey-filled bag. “There you go, Stella. Ho ho ho!”
And to be honest, I’m not sure quite what happened next. All I remember, through a mist of searing mincemeat, brandy and rage is that I couldn’t keep it down any longer. I don’t know where it came from, but I suddenly grabbed at the bird bag, putting all my weight and resentment behind it and swung six kilos of juicy Christmas bird high in the air. I needed to take the fucking smile off Tom’s smug, white-bearded face. Even through the mist I could see a half smile of incredulousness under the cotton-wool beard; he was probably under the impression this was some new festive tribal greeting I’d perhaps picked up from Mum. Even mid-swing I could see a sort of bemused grimace forming just before he ducked but as six kilos of prime turkey meat whipped past his face and came crashing down on his head, I think he realised: I knew.
“Christ Stella!” he said, a trickle of blood running down the side of his face. “I’m…I’m sorry.”
“You should probably go to A&E,” I said flatly.
“Can we talk first?”
“Just get out!” I spat.
He staggered out to the car, holding a Christmas napkin to his head.
Fortunately, Grace had gone upstairs, so had missed the spectacle of ‘Mummy wrapping the Christmas bird round Daddy’s head’.
“Where’s Dad?” She asked as she came back into the kitchen.
“Daddy has fallen over, darling, and he’s gone to see the doctor,” I sniffed, still reeling from the shock of it all. She nodded, satisfied with the explanation – not that she needed one. With her promised gift of ‘Tokyo a Go-Go Bratz Sushi Lounge with Karaoke and Moving Parts’ on the horizon, Grace clearly had more important stuff on her mind.
Whilst Tom was in casualty, I cried and cried and baked more and more mince tarts. “Is mincemeat like onions Mum?” Grace asked as she wandered into the kitchen and saw my tear-stained face. I grabbed some kitchen towel and dabbed at my swollen, red eyes.
“Yes, a bit sweetie. Mincemeat always makes my eyes sting.” Grace nodded and picked up a tart from the still-warm pastry mountain then went into the lounge to watch TV.
Now Tom knew that I knew, something had to happen. We couldn’t go on pretending everything was fine and Grace and I had to face an uncertain future during panto season at the hands of Prince Cheating-Tosser and Bitch Rachel the Wicked soon-to-be-Stepmother.
As the mountain of crumbly sweet pastries continued to rise, my rage slowly turned to despair. If he left us then Christmases, holidays, school fêtes and Sports Days would all be fatherless for Grace. Nocturnal visits from moths and daddy-long-legs, heavy lifting and tuning in the TV would all be husbandless for me. Who was going to unblock drains, put the bins out, push the car and bury dead goldfish?
I wept as I thought about him with her, kissing her like he used to kiss me, telling her his jokes, his hopes and his darkest fears. Worse still, telling her about me, about us. His version. Mind you, on the bright side, this would also be peppered with his hour-long theories on why Test-Cricket is better than One Day and how football’s all about money and not about the game anymore. I thought about all these Tom-things and cried into luxury, brandy-soaked mincemeat. When I finally stopped baking, I started eating. Well, I had a mountain to move.
At about eight o’clock on Christmas Eve, after a seven-hour stint in A&E, Tom came home. This time a rather subdued figure walked through the kitchen door. Wisely, he was without white beard and Santa hat but with bandaged head and mild concussion. He didn’t say ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ this time. Inexplicably, I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him, standing in the kitchen bandaged amid the Christmas clutter and mince tarts. I walked on wobbly legs towards him and put my arms round his waist. He felt strange, like a new person I hadn’t touched before, suddenly not mine anymore. His outdoor clothes felt chilled in the warm kitchen and I pressed my face against the cool prickly cloth of his coat. I eventually let go and stepped back to look up at him.
“How long have you been seeing her?” I asked, and even in that moment I surprised myself at the clichéd script. How else can you say it? Stupidly, a part of me was hoping he’d come up with a look of surprise, followed by some complicated-yet-plausible, innocent explanation for the phone calls and the texts. I was willing him to say, ‘Don’t be stupid. You’ve got it all wrong, she’s just someone I work with,’ but he didn’t. Like a stinging smack in the face I saw it all in his eyes. It was true.
“I’ve known her for some time, Stella,” he started. “We were friends, just work mates,” he said without emotion. “Then things…developed about six months ago. It was something that happened. Stella I’m so sorry. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. We just couldn’t help it.”
I couldn’t cry. I was numb. Their feelings for each other were so strong they just couldn’t help it.
“Is it too late?” he asked, his voice breaking.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Too late for what? Tom and I? Tom and her? Was he telling me there was a possibility that he would still choose us over her? If so, could we be together now, for Christmas? It could almost be wonderful – couldn’t it? Then I thought beyond the next few days; once the fairy lights were down and the Christmas tree back in the loft I’d wonder if he was seeing her, imagining her, texting her. I’d be filled with insecurities, worrying he was comparing her to me every time I put on lipstick, read a book, drank coffee or made love. Would he always be looking at me and wishing it was her?
I couldn’t live with him – and this. It was too big for me. I’m just not a grown-up enough, strong enough person to forgive him, so despite the safety of his arms and sixteen years, I pulled away.
“Yes, it’s too late. Things have developed. You need to go.”
He was visibly shocked. Maybe he’d hoped he could hedge his bets and keep us both on a string until he’d decided, eeny-meeny-style. It was very hard for me to do that, to say goodbye to my husband, to Grace’s dad, to the man I still loved – but it would be much harder in the long run for him to stay.
“Can I stick around at least until Boxing Day? Let me spend Christmas with you and Grace, please?” he asked, his voice cracking.
I knew how much Grace meant to him and how upset she’d be without her dad at Christmas but – selfishly – I couldn’t go through that. I shook my head, unable to answer through my wet, runny nose and cheeks stinging with tears. The CD was now playing I’m Walking Backwards for Christmas which – even in the middle of all this – I noted added a surreal quality to the proceedings. My marriage was ending and Spike Milligan and The Goons were providing the musical backcloth. I think that said it all.
“No way are you staying for Christmas,” I said shakily. “If you go, you go now. I’m not spending the next two days counting down to when you walk out of the door. I’m not going through Christmas thinking this is the last time he’ll sleep in this bed, sit in that chair, eat from these plates.”
“You can’t deny me Christmas with Grace,” he said, his voice raised in panic. He could see I wasn’t budging on this and his tone was pleading, “She’ll be heartbroken if I’m not here for Christmas. She’d want me here.”
“What she would want is for you to be here forever,” I said, “but you’re not doing ‘forever’ are you? You’re just doing for Christmas.”
Tom looked down at his feet, “You can’t do this, St
ella.”
In a way I was glad he’d said that because it felt like a cold shower and turned any sadness I felt into brittle anger. I was blinded by rage and couldn’t believe the sheer hypocrisy, the injustice of all this. He was bloody lucky there were no more dead turkeys around.
“How dare you say that I can’t do this?” I hissed, hating him all over again. “You’re the one who did this, the moment you fell into bed with her. You’re the one who’s leaving us, but then, you left months ago. Every time you phoned her, every time you went near her, every time you got into her bed, you took another step further away from us. So don’t ever say this is down to me Tom. Don’t ever forget it was you,” I spat, “because I won’t.”
I turned away and looked through the kitchen window. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I never wanted to see him again.
He walked away and didn’t say another word, though I think deep down I kind of hoped he would. I thought he might plead a bit more after all these years, I thought I might be worth a bit of begging, but then Tom knew me well enough to realise he’d hurt me so much there was no turnaround for me. I heard him moving about upstairs, probably packing. I can change this, I thought to myself. I can go up there now, ask him to stay and make this a good Christmas for Grace. I can stop her heart from breaking. It’s within my power to make things right again, at least for the next two days. In my heart I knew that things hadn’t been right for a long time. If I was completely honest my rational-self knew, even in the middle of all this, that Bitch Rachel wasn’t the cause; she was merely a symptom.
Tom’s voice came from the hall, “I’m so sorry Stella. I’ll speak to Grace. Shall I call her tomorrow?” I didn’t answer. “I’ll call her then. Perhaps we can talk next week when things are…well, bye.”
Brimming with agony, you would think I couldn’t have squeezed in any more pain but I felt a fresh stab when he didn’t come into the kitchen to say goodbye face to face and a new wave of tears enveloped me as I heard the door slam. And after sixteen years of black and white films, dark chocolate and a beautiful baby, he left.
17 - Pinot and Pole Dancing
Christmas was a muted affair for me and Grace. I was still reeling from the shock of it all, though I did go through the motions. I cooked the turkey (I believe it’s called ‘eating the evidence’), we pulled crackers and opened presents. Al came round for a few hours in the afternoon and tried to engage Grace in Monopoly whilst offering me silent sympathy. But it wasn’t the same without Tom, and Grace hardly said a word all day. I was relieved when bedtime approached and I turned on the television so I didn’t have to think anymore. I opened several boxes of chocolates and mindlessly pushed them into my mouth allowing the Eastenders Christmas special to wash over me. Here was a whole community in crisis and it was a comfort to know that there were people more miserable than us on Christmas Day, even if they were just acting.
Tom called on both Christmas Day and Boxing Day and tried to speak to Grace, with little success. She refused to take the phone from me when I said ‘it’s Dad’ and although I knew she was angry that Tom had ruined Christmas, we were both worried that she was in denial. As painful as it was, we needed to help Grace come to terms with it eventually, so Tom and I agreed that he should speak with her face to face and attempt to explain things.
“I’m happy for you to see Grace, as long as you don’t bring that bitch anywhere near her,” I said, sounding immature and I think, justifiably bitter.
“I won’t bring anyone,” he agreed. “Grace and I need to spend some time alone together as father and daughter. I’m not a fool Stella, I can see how important that is.”
He came over the day after Boxing Day. As Grace put on her coat to go for a walk with him he turned to me and said sheepishly; “If I can just talk with her, I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“Mmm. I’m sure she will,” I muttered, with a theatrical snigger.
Snow had started to fall in soft, white flakes, the blanket of silence muffling Grace’s squeals of delight at the promise of enough for snowballs later. Grace seemed happy enough to see her dad and as Tom walked and Grace danced in the falling snow, I sat in silence watching them, wondering what secrets they would now have without me. This was a fractured part of my family I didn’t belong to anymore and all I could do was wait, until my daughter was returned to me.
After their walk, Tom left and Grace was quiet but I think she was OK. “Did you have a nice time with Daddy?” I asked.
“Yes, it was fine Mum.”
“Well what did you talk about?”
“Just stuff,” and she turned on the TV and zoned out.
Grace went back to school after the Christmas holidays and the house suddenly seemed really quiet and empty. After a couple of weeks of crying into a mixing bowl, I decided that some retail therapy was just what I needed. But when I checked my bank balance outside Tesco I nearly had a heart attack. There was minus nothing in there. Tom and I had yet to sit down and sort out all our finances so he’d agreed to cover the basic bills until we could work everything out. But I knew I needed to go back to work and my life plan to spend time with Grace, get to know her and grow with her for a little while was out of the window again. Ironically, this was a time when I needed to help our daughter feel more secure, but in order to survive, I had to disappear into that big work cloud again. We’d once more be swallowed up by child-carers, After School Club, before-school clubs and kind neighbours.
I realised that all the lecturing from Tom about our finances had been his way of preparing me for this. He knew, he bloody knew he wouldn’t be around for much longer. I climbed back into the car and as I pulled out of the car park noticed that, to my consternation, the needle on the petrol gauge was hovering dangerously close to empty.
When I got home, I put the kettle on and logged on to the computer. I thought I would scan the Heat website to cheer myself up, and just as I was zooming in on Jen’s latest squeeze, an email pinged through from Lizzie:
Now then Darling,
Put down your whip, tear the mantilla from your tresses and get that rippling male model off your ruby-red lips. Al the diva and moi have decided that tomorrow evening is perfect for one of our chaste little soirées at yours. I shall be bringing a new liqueur I have discovered on my travels and I am sure we can count on you to provide something suitably virginal – even if it’s six foot and aged nineteen! Hope to Gahd that you can make it. Much to catch up on and Al will be bringing a little surprise..!
Will be at yours by 7.
L x
That cheered me up. I hadn’t spoken to Lizzie for ages, save a few brief telephone chats and emails. She’d been busy travelling the country transforming homes and lives and would no doubt have lots of stories to tell. I desperately needed to share the unplugged version of my own Christmas pantomime with her – I knew she’d love the bit where I slapped Tom over the head with the turkey.
Al arrived first, loaded with pressies, flowers and his surprise: a new boyfriend. I was amazed to see them both, standing on the step with arms full of gifts and flowers; I had no idea.
“Stel, this is Sebastian,” said Al, beaming. I was actually a little taken aback as I’d hoped to talk freely about Tom with my two best friends. But after one look at Al’s face and how happy he was holding on to Sebastian’s arm, I put those thoughts aside. Al gave Grace a massive hug and a teddy dressed in a tutu. She grabbed Al’s hand and led them both into the living room while I opened the wine.
“Sebastian, would you like red or white?” I shouted from the kitchen.
“Could I just have a glass of mineral water please? I’m driving,” he replied.
Then Lizzie arrived and I rushed to open the door.” Al’s here and he’s brought Sebastian.” I said, with a raised eyebrow.
“Ooh he said he had a surprise!” Lizzie squealed and rushed in. “Hello Sebastian! SO lovely to meet you,” she embraced him with a big kiss on both cheeks, which made him blush.
“W
ell, tell all?” she said, looking from Al to Sebastian, who was now seated primly in the corner.
“Seb and I met at the swimming club,” said Al with a huge smile. “He’s a brilliant swimmer, he’s won awards.”
“You’re a good swimmer too,” Sebastian countered. This gave me the excuse to look at him properly and I could see what Al had fallen for. Tall with black hair and a boyish, Brideshead Revisited look about him, Sebastian was quite a heartbreaker.
“Oh Seb, I’m not a great swimmer, I only use the cocktail lane,” Al giggled, flirting and batting his eyes at his new beau.
Lizzie saw a gap in the conversation and produced a bottle of Champagne. She popped it open, screaming “Glasses, Stella!” Champagne dripping, she followed me into the kitchen. I passed her some glasses, watching as she lifted the bottle aloft allowing foaming champagne to douse the prawn pasta with delicate lemon and dill sauce that I’d slaved over for supper. “Lizzie. You’re making the sauce runny, take that bottle away,” I said, holding out the flutes for her to fill.
“What do you think about Sebastian?” I whispered.
“He seems nice – but we’ll see,” she said, raising both eyebrows.
Lizzie went back into the living room and from the raucous laughter I guessed she was regaling everyone (including my nine-year old daughter) with a tawdry tale from her travels. I took a big gulp of Champagne and made a mental note that when she asked later I’d tell Grace that an orgasm was a drink made from coconuts.
Lizzie took Grace up to bed as I spooned out the pasta and opened more Pinot. Then everyone came into the kitchen to sit around the table. As Sebastian smiled and ate and politely drank his mineral water the three of us consumed all of the Champagne then started on the red wine. It wasn’t long before Lizzie was demanding to know all about the current situation with Tom.
“Tell us all about that Bitch Rachel,” she said with venom. Al and Lizzie listened intently and said all the right things in all the right places. Al, as usual, had been asking around Media World and had some interesting gossip to share.
