by James Lear
‘Do you happen to know where?’
Alex glanced up at me, trying to figure out if this was a trick question. Was I testing him? Did I know what was going on or not? My face didn’t give the answer he was looking for, so he shrugged again and fiddled with his fingers.
‘Has she told you anything?’
‘Like what?’ He sounded angry now, on the verge of an explosion. When you’ve raised someone from babyhood, you can read their moods very well.
‘Oh, you know,’ I said, sounding falsely light and bright, ‘like maybe she’s having an affair with someone.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Officially Alex is not supposed to swear in the house, a rule that seems more hypocritical than ever, considering what I’d been doing a few minutes before he got home.
‘Why are you asking me? Why not ask Mum?’
‘Because she just walked out on me this evening. With a suitcase.’
That got his attention. ‘For real?’
‘Yes, for real. She didn’t tell me where she was going, but she told me there’s someone else. Another man. Look, Alex, this isn’t easy for me either. It’s not one of the things they tell you about in the parenting manuals. How to ask your son if he knows anything about his mother’s extramarital affairs.’
Alex sniggered.
‘But as you’ve been with her for the last week or so, I thought maybe . . . ’
‘It’s a bloke called Daniel. Dan. I don’t know.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘Of course I’ve met him. I’ve known him for ages.’
‘Have I met him?’ I was racking my brains for a Dan or Daniel. Someone else’s husband? One of Angie’s co-workers? A yoga instructor? A hairdresser?
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Well, as you and your mother seem to be best friends with him . . . ’
‘Look, he’s a bloke. I don’t know how she knows him. She says he’s a friend. I’ve met him a few times over the last year or so.’
‘A year?’
‘And I didn’t think anything about it, because he’s kind of boring, but then when we went down to Dorset, he was around, and he kept coming out with us and then . . . well . . . ’
‘What? He stayed the night?’
‘Yes.’
I was furious, but I couldn’t let Alex see that. His mother has been carrying on with this guy for a year, she’s involved my children, and she’s rubbed her infidelity in their faces. At least I tidied up afterward.
‘Right.’ I had to swallow a mouthful of saliva. ‘I think I need a drink.’ I’d already consumed half a bottle of wine; might as well finish it off. ‘Do you want one?’
‘For real?’ This seems to be Alex’s stock response to everything.
‘Well, I can get you some Ribena or a glass of milk if you prefer.’
‘No, go on then. I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
I split the rest of the wine between two glasses. We clinked, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to say ‘cheers.’ This ought to be a happy occasion—father and son bonding over a slightly naughty glass of wine, chatting about bloke stuff while Mum’s away. Perhaps I could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. We could form a little gang together, show Angie that we didn’t need her, Dan’s welcome to her. And if I hadn’t been getting face-fucked by a tattooed delivery man less than an hour ago, I might have had the confidence to do that. But this was another one they don’t cover in the parenting manuals: how to take the moral high ground when you are a secret cocksucker.
We drank in silence for a while. Where do I begin? My life’s a mess, but Alex is only just eighteen, his exams start in a few days, his parents are splitting up, he’s supposed to leave home in October, I have no idea whether he has a girlfriend or a boyfriend for that matter, and he’s never discussed that sort of thing with me and certainly never brought anyone home. He has ‘mates,’ a scruffy bunch who listen to music and play computer games. Perhaps they have intense conversations about love and sex, but I doubt it. At their age, I was interested in football, music, and birds. If I had an inner life, I kept it very quiet.
‘When do your exams begin then?’ Not the greatest conversational gambit, but anything was better than the toxic silence that was mounting.
‘First one’s Thursday. Maths.’ He made a face.
‘Do you feel ready for it?’
‘No.’
‘Do you need any help?’
‘What?’
‘I just wondered . . . ’
‘It’s fine, Dad.’ He looked furious again and took a drink. I felt helpless, unable to reach him, like when he was a toddler, lost in a tantrum and possessed by rage. But then he said, ‘Thanks for asking, though.’
‘Look, Alex, I know this situation isn’t exactly ideal.’
‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’
‘I should have seen it coming.’
‘Oh right. And when would you have done that, exactly? You haven’t been around.’
‘Is that what your mother says?’
‘Yes. I mean, you’re not.’
‘Not what?’
‘Here. You go to work, you go to the gym, you do your own thing, you and Mum don’t even share a bedroom any more, we don’t know what you’re up to half the time.’
Ah. Busted.
‘I didn’t realise. It’s work.’ No, Joe, that’s not good enough. ‘I took my eye off the ball. I’m sorry. I’m here now.’
‘Bit late for that, Dad.’
‘I know.’
‘But I suppose we’ll manage. Thanks for the drink.’ He polished off his wine. ‘I better go and do a bit more revision.’
‘Where were you this evening, by the way?’
‘Tom’s house.’
Tom. Tom. I struggled to remember which one Tom was.
‘You know, my best friend? The one I’ve been friends with since year seven?’
‘Of course I know.’ Was he the short black one or the goofy white one with glasses? ‘And what were you doing there?’
‘What do you think we were doing? Revising for bloody maths, of course.’
‘OK.’ I had no right to ask these questions. At best, I was impersonating a caring and authoritative father. I’ve been sleepwalking through my family life. I’m not even sure who my son’s best friend is. Wake up, Joe Heath, before it’s too late.
Perhaps it is too late. I should just leave. Let Daniel take my place. He probably knows more about Alex than I do. I can just imagine him asking all the right questions, encouraging him, drawing him out of himself, helping with his studies. Fucking bastard. I don’t know who he is, but he’s a fucking bastard.
‘Well, don’t stay up too late.’
‘Goodnight, Dad.’
‘Goodnight, Alex.’
I wanted to hug him, but he’d already slipped away.
And sitting there, my legs still hurting from the awkward stretch they’d had in the bathroom, my throat sore from getting fucked by a huge hard cock, I made a resolution. I would do nothing until Alex’s exams were over. I would go to work, go to the gym if there was time, but my priority would be getting him through the next few weeks. Maybe during that time I’d be able to talk to Angie; she couldn’t possibly have left for more than a couple of days. We could sort something out. If there was to be a future, it needed a firm foundation.
Another resolution to be broken, you’re saying. Post-coital remorse. Guilt, alcohol, we recognize the pattern. Come tomorrow, when his dick is hard, he’ll be scouring Craigslist again, or hanging around changing rooms, or just picking up blokes on the street.
You may be right. You probably are. We’ll see.
8
AND THEN I GOT SICK.
I woke up in the night with a splitting headache and a sore throat. Too much booze? Stress catching up with me? I got up, took two paracetamols, drank a glass of water, and went back to bed. But it didn’t work. At four in the morning afte
r a fitful doze, I woke up shivering and sweating.
Obviously, I jumped to the conclusion that I had contracted a life-threatening disease from my sexual encounter with the delivery man, and in my semi-delirious state, I sketched out the awful consequences, made a mental note to contact my lawyer in the morning to revise my will, the money would go directly to the children (he money would go directly to the children, bypassing Angie, why should she have it?). And I’d have to talk to the doctor, make sure nobody found out the nature of my illness; we’d pass it off as cancer or something. Maybe I’d take matters into my own hands and preempt the inevitable, but how? An overdose? A gun?
When the alarm went off at 6:30, it felt much more like a bad cold or the beginning of flu, rather than the onslaught of a fatal STI, and after a shower, I began to entertain the possibility that I might actually survive. I went through my morning routine like a robot, ate breakfast, drank coffee, ironed a shirt, packed my gym bag, and got dressed before deciding that I was way too ill to go to work. My neck was so stiff I couldn’t turn my head. My shoulders, hips, and back ached as if I’d just done a three-hour workout. Every sip of coffee was like swallowing razorblades. I half-crawled upstairs and managed to croak out ‘Time to get up, Alex,’ before taking another dose of painkillers and emailing my boss.
I managed to get Alex off to school—even he noticed I was looking ill and said, ‘You OK Dad?’—before collapsing back into bed with a hot-water bottle. And there I stayed for the next three days, done in by the worst flu I’ve ever had. I went to the GP, described my symptoms, quizzed her repeatedly about STIs until she told me that if I was really worried, I needed to get some blood tests done. There was nothing to suggest this was anything other than flu, she said, with a look on her face that said, ‘Why are you wasting valuable NHS time with your guilt and paranoia?’ I might have reminded her that my taxes pay her wages, but I had no energy for a fight. I came home, drank water, took more painkillers, and tried to sleep.
So, in effect, I had three days in which to contemplate my bleak personal situation. My wife has left me and shows no sign of returning. My son comes and goes with barely a word, apparently feeding himself and getting through his exams. Nobody is there to help me, to put a cool hand on my forehead, to change the stale bed sheets or shop for me. This is what freedom means, Joe. The freedom to be absolutely alone and friendless.
I felt wretched, but at peace. It had happened—whatever ‘it’ was, the crisis that I’d been anticipating for the last few months, and when it finally came it was not my doing but Angie’s. Her hand knocked down the house of cards. I was absolved of all guilt and responsibility. It was a very restful feeling.
It was the middle of the following week before I felt well enough to return to work. I woke up and there I was, better. My gym bag was still packed. I almost ran to the station. I’m alive! I’m not going to die! There’s something to be said for assuming the worst; it makes everything seem so great afterward. I felt like I’d been given another chance.
Time to sort a few things out. Before I got to my desk, I rang Angie. She picked up immediately.
‘Are you ever coming home?’
‘Yes. At some point.’
‘I take it you’re with Daniel.’
‘Oh. You know.’ She sounded surprised.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That bloke who lives in my house told me. Who is he? Oh, that’s right. Our son Alex. Remember him?’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘Isn’t there? I thought it was quite appropriate.’ I felt elated. I was in the right, after all. Angie was the guilty party, not me.
‘Look, Joe, we need to talk.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘If you’re going to be like that . . . ’
‘Oh I am sorry, Angie. I tell you what. Shall I just move out? I can leave a couple of hundred grand in an envelope on your dressing table. Will that do? I’m sure Daniel will help you spend it.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Joe.’ I could hear tears in her voice. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘Right-oh.’ I knew my cheerful tone was winding her up, and it felt good.
‘And what about you?’ she screamed down the phone. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been up to something!’
She suspects, but she doesn’t know.
‘Perhaps you can tell me all about what I’ve been up to when we meet then,’ I said. ‘I look forward to that, it’ll be a nice surprise.’
She hung up.
It was a coward’s victory, but it still felt good. I bounced through the day’s work, knocked off at five o’clock, and went to the gym. A bit of exercise was just what I needed.
‘Hey, man. Where the hell have you been?’
Adrian was sitting at the reception desk, biceps bulging out of his polo shirt, blue eyes twinkling. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. I’d almost forgotten about him. Adrian, the one who started all this.
‘I had flu.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ He shook my hand across the desk. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yeah.’ I had an urge to flee. ‘Just need to get back into training.’
‘What you doing today?’
‘Just a bit of everything.’
‘OK. I finish in five minutes. I’ll come in and train with you.’
I couldn’t say no to that without being rude, so I muttered ‘sure, fine’ and went to get changed. Damn Adrian. Why does he bug me like this? Why am I so annoyed? He’s good looking, he’s friendly, he’s going to give me an hour of free personal training; there is nothing wrong with this picture, but for some reason, I’m pissed off and want to run away.
I changed quickly and hit the treadmill, which was like running away without actually moving. I saw Adrian in the mirror. Out of his uniform, in his regular gym gear—T-shirt, football shorts, flashy trainers with white socks—he looked different. Younger, maybe. A stranger.
‘Warmed up?’
I was sweating already; the flu virus had taken its toll. ‘Yeah. Not quite up to my usual standard.’
‘That’s OK. We’ll take it easy. Come on. Chest.’
He set up the weights while I settled myself on the bench. We took turns pressing the bar, counting reps, spotting for each other, three sets each. Our conversation was punctuated by grunts and groans, but after the first couple of sets I felt at ease, glad that he was training with me.
‘How’s the new flat?’ I heard myself asking.
‘It’s great. Thanks for asking.’
‘Enjoying the single life?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘What? I thought you were married.’
‘So did I.’ We reached the end of the chest sets, and I wiped myself down with a towel. Adrian was looking at me, frowning. ‘It’s OK. There’s no need to look so serious.’
‘Sorry. I always put my foot in my mouth.’ His command of English idiom, although good, was sometimes charmingly offbeat.
‘Don’t worry. I probably ought to talk about it to someone.’
‘Yeah, it helps.’
‘What’s next?’
‘Legs, of course.’ He was smiling now, his perfectly regular white teeth gleaming like a row of pearls.
‘Must we?’
‘Oh yes.’ He loaded up another bar. ‘Be my guest.’
I struggled and wobbled through the rest of the workout, carefully avoiding anything that sounded personal, but we both knew that someone had to ask the question before long. Adrian got there first.
‘So, you want to go for a drink sometime?’
Don’t sound too keen, Joe. ‘OK.’
‘I mean, I’m not doing anything this evening.’
I thought of about six excuses, all of them involving words like ‘home’ and ‘my son,’ but found myself saying, ‘Yeah, why not? We could have a quick one.’
Everyone knows that the English phrase ‘a quick one’ actually translates to ‘we’ll get completely
plastered, kicked out at closing time, find the nearest chippy, and then fall asleep on the train home.’ I wondered if Adrian was up for that.
We showered quickly, not looking at each other much; I glanced over a couple of times, enough to see the rear view, his broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist then curving out to a big round arse, water running down his legs, pushing the blonde hair into dark lines. Turn around! Turn around! But when he did, his towel was in place, and so was mine. We got dressed fast, keeping up the standard changing-room dialogue about weights and muscles and nutrition.
‘So where shall we go?’
‘Not too far from the station.’
‘There’s a pub down here.’ He led the way off the main road, into the side streets, and a little garden square tucked away behind the university. ‘We can sit outside.’
I got the drinks, and we found a table in a patch of evening sunshine. Spring was well and truly sprung. I felt good, expansive, confident.
‘Cheers.’
We both drank deep. It felt as if this moment had been a long time coming.
‘So yeah.’ I put my pint down, slapped my thighs, stretched, and wished that I smoked. ‘My wife left me.’
‘Oh shit.’ He blushed, I’m not sure why. ‘I’m sorry.’
I laughed. ‘That’s what I said when you told me you’d split up with someone. And you said, “Don’t be sorry”. So I guess that’s what I should say now.’
‘Are you OK then?’
I had to take a sip of my drink to think that one over. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest with you.’
‘You got family?’
‘Two kids. My daughter’s left home, she’s at university. My son’s taking his exams. He’ll be going in October.’
‘Wow.’
‘And my wife just informed me that she’s seeing another man. Actually, that’s not quite true. My son told me. My wife just disappeared.’
It was the first time I’d told anyone. It sounded brutal. And very final.
‘Did you expect it?’
‘No. To be honest, I thought I’d be the one who’d leave.’
‘So it’s been bad for a while?’
‘I suppose so.’ What could I tell him? ‘I’ve been . . . unfaithful.’
‘Ah.’
