You, Me and Other People

by Fionnuala Kearney

  Seb, as his badge reveals he’s been named, looks at Sylvia like she’s a lunatic. ‘You need a supermarket for multi-bags,’ he says, already bored.

  ‘Well, just fill a plastic bag with as many little bags as you can.’ She rolls her eyes at me.

  I’m not even sure I want crisps any more. I shiver, pray I’m not coming down with something.

  ‘Have you noticed?’ Sylvia asks.

  ‘What?’ I remove my purse from my pocket, get it ready for Seb as he’s done exactly what Sylvia asked.

  She tugs on my cotton jacket. ‘It’s mid-October. The trees will soon be bare. Evenings will be dark, the sun shielded by dense layers of cloud, not to be seen again until springtime. It’s cold out there.’ She speaks as if she’s in a Shakespearean play; makes the word ‘cold’ sound very long and very loud.

  I shudder on cue and nod. ‘Note to self. Summer jackets to be put away.’

  ‘Warm jackets to be worn on late-afternoon jaunts for crisps …’

  Walking back, she makes me laugh with stories of the kids and Nigel; when we stop outside the house, Ted does an enormous circular crap right in the centre of my driveway. Sylvia scoops it up into a plastic bag and asks me if I want her to let it harden a little and send it to Adam. ‘Shit for a shit.’ She shrugs. ‘Seems reasonable …’

  I don’t disagree. After hugging her goodbye, I’m soon back in the kitchen, tearing open a bag of crisps. And there, on my own, the dark night drawing in, I turn the thermostat up, throw a cardigan from a pile of washing around me. I flick the tiny kitchen television into life with the remote and scroll through channels until I find a rerun of Game of Thrones. Leaning on the worktop, I lick my salty fingertips, as Catelyn Stark tells me, her face grave, that ‘Winter is Coming.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Why are you still wearing your ring?’

  I stop twirling it around my finger and look at Matt. ‘I’m a married man until Beth tells me otherwise,’ I say.

  ‘Do you think she will?’ Matt keeps glancing at the clock on the meeting room wall. I’m sure he’s trying diversionary tactics, rather than discussing the more immediate elephant in the room.

  ‘Forget my wedding ring, Matt. We need to figure out our response. They’ll be here in forty minutes.’

  He’s nodding, biting his bottom lip, and I can tell he’s worried. Matt and I go way back to university days and I first saw him chew his lip when Shelly Lewis dumped him. I stare at him, can practically hear his brain whirring, and Shelly Lewis pales into insignificance as the reality of the Granger brothers, our largest single family account, potentially sacking us, dawns.

  ‘Look,’ he offers, ‘we directly advised them, yes. They’ve lost a shitload of money, yes. Of course they’re not happy. Shit, I’m not happy.’ He runs a hand over his head of thinning hair. ‘We did our due diligence. The fund seemed right. But, there is something else.’ Matt is now standing and staring out of my office window.

  I hear laughter in the corridor outside but, for some reason, I can feel my stomach sink.

  He turns slowly. ‘I need you here for the meeting today, obviously, we’ve got to face them together about this latest dip, but they’ve asked for you to be removed from the account. There, I’ve said it – there’s no easy way.’

  I know my face is scrunching as I process what he’s just said. The Granger brothers want me off the account. That can’t be right. I brought the Granger brothers to the firm. I discovered the family business, nurtured them and have looked after them for the last God-knows-how-many years. ‘I don’t understand—’

  He interrupts. ‘Yes, you do. You’ve had your eye off the ball for months now. I’ve made allowances, everyone has, but this – ’ he raises his hands to the heavens – ‘this midlife crisis, or whatever it is, has made you lose your edge. You just don’t seem to care?’

  ‘I care.’ I feel my neck redden under my shirt collar and loosen my tie automatically. ‘Of course I care. I can’t believe you’re saying this and saying it now.’ I jab a finger at my watch, indicating we have even less time to figure out what to do about the Grangers. I ignore what he’s said for a minute. ‘Will they sack us?’ I ask.

  ‘I think so, I don’t know …’

  I’m baffled. ‘They’re almost thirty per cent of our business.’ My voice is almost a whisper.

  ‘I know that.’ Matt removes his glasses, rubs both his eyes with a forefinger and thumb.

  ‘And what? You blame me? They blame me? The markets aren’t my fault.’

  ‘I know that too.’ He raises a calming hand. ‘They know that, but they also know you’ve been away with the fairies during meetings, and now with this … They need a scapegoat.’

  ‘And I’m it. Adam and his midlife crisis, eh? How convenient.’ I stand up and take my jacket from the back of my chair.

  ‘Where are you going?’ His voice raises a notch when he sees me head for the door.

  ‘You don’t need me. They want me off the account. I’m sure you’ll handle it from here.’

  ‘Do not walk out, Adam.’

  I slam the door for added effect and Jen, who’s sitting in reception, averts her eyes. I ignore Matt calling my name and press the button for the lift. Taking deep breaths, I process the facts. We’ve probably lost thirty per cent of our business. I’ve played a part in that. I lean a hand on the mirrored wall of the lift, breathe slowly, in and out. Everything is falling apart. Exiting the lift, I do what any man in that position would. I call Emma.

  As I drive to Weybridge for what will probably be the second row of the day, I’m calm. After a steak sandwich in the White House, followed by a soothing massage to ‘release the stress knots’ in my shoulders, followed by sex – yes, I’m calm. The wrestling session has left me exhausted but I’m calm. And shallow. Shallow enough to need sexual release when everything is going to rat-shit. Shallow enough to keep going back to Emma since she’s the only one who seems to think I’m incredible.

  My phone pings a text from Matt. ‘Call me. Urgent.’

  I dial the number via the Bluetooth connection.

  ‘About time,’ he says almost instantly. ‘Where have you been?’

  I decline to answer on the grounds that I would definitely incriminate myself.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘I need to bring you up to speed. Adam?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Well, they didn’t fire us.’ He sighs. ‘But it was a tough meeting. As suspected, you’re off the account.’

  I remain silent.

  ‘Where are you? Can we meet?’

  ‘No. I’m a few minutes from Weybridge. Meeting Beth tonight to see what happens from here. I won’t get back until late.’

  ‘Early breakfast meeting? Starbucks? We need to talk.’

  ‘I think you’ve probably said enough.’

  ‘Adam, not everything is about you? We need to discuss this mess we’ve been left with and you need to get your arse in gear, get your finger back on the pulse.’

  I can’t even speak. Matt telling me off like a child makes my blood boil, even if he’s right – probably because he’s right.

  ‘Starbucks at seven thirty,’ he continues. ‘Oh, and by the way – it’s not me, it’s you.’

  I hear the phone disconnect and can’t help a short-lived smile at his attempt at break-up humour. Moments later, the smile fades as I steer into the driveway of what was my beautiful home and now appears to be Beth’s beautiful home.

  She answers the door so quickly, I don’t really have time to gather my thoughts.

  ‘Hi.’ She stands back and ushers me in. She looks well. She’s wearing a little makeup, eyeliner, lip gloss, blusher. She has on what I know to be jeans from her ‘skinny’ clothes, kept on the left-hand side of the walk-in wardrobe we shared. The blouse, too, I recognize from the same rack of clothes that Beth now fits easily.

  ‘I never knew,’ I say, as she takes my jacket.

  ‘Knew what?’

 
‘That you don’t like horseradish.’ My head nudges to the wall art and she shrugs.

  ‘I guess you know now,’ she replies. We head to the kitchen. ‘Wine?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll just have a coffee.’ I pass a photo of Beth and me taken years ago on a ski trip. We’re smiling and there is such love in our eyes that it rattles me. She flicks the kettle on, takes out two cups and the scene seems so normal. I realize I miss this. This afternoon’s sex, the last few months, all seem to disappear when I see a photo of Beth and me the way we were and she’s making me a cup of coffee in our kitchen.

  ‘How’ve you been?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m okay. A tough day at the coalface … You?’

  She shrugs, doesn’t reply. She hands me my mug, takes her cup of green tea and sits opposite me at the island in the kitchen. I try to catch her eye. ‘Beth, I …’ I reach across and touch her free hand. She snatches it away.

  ‘Please, I need to explain.’

  ‘I forgot you take sugar,’ she says, heading back to the larder, removing the bowl and handing it to me with a teaspoon. ‘Have you heard from Meg this week?’

  ‘No. I … Look, there’s not much point in saying it just happened, but it did, really. She came on to me. No, I didn’t stop her. I should have stopped her. I wish I’d stopped her, I wish I’d stopped myself. I wish none of it had happened and I was home here with you.’ I banish any thoughts of this afternoon’s antics from my mind. I am here to talk to Beth. I’m here to try and get her to listen. I’m not even sure what I want to say, but I do know that here and now, in this moment, I’ll tell any lie necessary, because I’m not ready for my marriage to end.

  Beth is staring downwards at the oak flooring. ‘Meg’s got her exams soon, don’t forget.’

  ‘Beth? It’s sex, just sex. You and I, we …’

  Beth, her head still pointed downwards, looks as though she’s trying to swallow a golf ball. I shrug, helpless. ‘Sex, that’s all … You stopped wanting me.’ I bite my tongue; the last thing I want to do is make her feel like I’m blaming her.

  She looks up. ‘We need to sort out the details. What happens, how we actually separate … I don’t want to lose the house.’

  Jesus Christ. I sip my coffee. ‘Is that the only reason I’m here, Beth? My wallet, the house?’

  ‘You left to shack up with your whore,’ she murmurs.

  ‘I’m not shacked up with her. I’m living in Ben’s place. And you threw me out.’ I don’t bother defending Emma’s honour.

  ‘I don’t want to do this.’ She’s standing suddenly, one hand on her hip.

  I don’t move. ‘What, you don’t want to do it now? Or never? We have to do this. We can’t pretend nothing happened and just talk money!’

  ‘Why not?’ She finally looks at me.

  Suddenly, I’m weary. ‘Don’t you want to talk? We’re broken, Beth. I know it’s all my fault, but please—’

  ‘Adam, are you still with that woman?’ Both hands are now on her hips and she seems to be saying that as long as Emma is in the picture, conversation is pointless.

  I think of this afternoon, debate lying, and decide against it. ‘It depends on what you mean, but I guess the answer is yes, I’m still seeing Emma.’

  Beth’s beautiful head shakes in slow motion.

  ‘Seeing her … How quaint. Don’t you mean: shagging her and letting her give you the rampant blow jobs that you think you never got at home? Maybe in some of the underwear you bought for her?’

  For the second time today, I feel colour course through my neck and land firmly on my cheeks.

  ‘Transparent, that’s what you are. What could you possibly have to say? To “talk” about?’ She turns back towards the sink, tosses her green tea into it and heads to the fridge. There, she takes out a wine bottle and pours herself a glass. She takes a large gulp from it and speaks with her back still to me. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? Back then, way back whenever, that’s when we should have talked. You could have and should have talked to me then.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I tell her spine. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She stares into the kitchen window. With her back still to me, she asks my reflection. ‘When did it start?’

  ‘Beth—’

  ‘I need to know, Adam.’ She turns around. ‘How long have you been lying to me?’

  I sit very still. That is a very difficult question, and has so many potential answers that I quickly reason she must only mean Emma.

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘How long exactly?’

  Though I know the answer to be about five months, I hear my considered reply. ‘Three months.’

  She focuses on my eyes, blinks twice and then looks away. I know she’s trying hard not to cry. I watch her take a wedge of paper from one of the kitchen drawers. Taking another mouthful of wine, she waves them at me. ‘Bank account stuff,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to get up to speed with who pays what every month before we talked tonight.’

  I feel a deep-rooted pulse develop behind my eyes.

  ‘There’s over five months’ worth here,’ she continues. ‘I’m not even going to ask you when the last time you took me to Langham’s was, or the last time you bought me something in Agent Provocateur. But, here’s the thing: every lie you tell makes me care less and less.’

  My heart hurts looking at her. The pulse is now throbbing behind my eyeballs and I wonder briefly if guilt can present as pure pain.

  ‘Do you know,’ she turns to face me, her eyes pools of tears, ‘there’s hardly a day goes by where I don’t cry. Sometimes, I’m angry, so angry, that I hate you, and other days I’m just sad.’ She seems to linger over the word ‘sad’.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ I hear the resignation in my own voice.

  ‘Stop lying for a start.’

  I sigh, a weary, heavy sound.

  ‘Do I need to get myself checked out?’ Her voice sounds remote, distant.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve always used something.’

  ‘Maybe I should anyway. I’ve been sort of ignoring it.’ She seems to be talking to no one in particular.

  ‘You don’t need to worry, Beth.’

  ‘I need not to worry about money.’ Her wet eyes refuse mine. ‘I need not to have to worry about losing my home because of your dick. I need time to think about my life without you in it and I need you to think about my needs for once.’

  I find myself nodding because she’s right. I can’t think right now about me and where I’ll live when Ben gets back and if I can actually afford to run two homes. A brief image of me living in the White House with Emma and Harold clouds my thoughts and I shudder. I imagine my straightjacket would be crispy white.

  As I excuse myself to go to the loo, I hear myself reassure Beth that I will continue to take care of things. I sit on the seat in the downstairs cloakroom, wondering what that means. I’m not sure, but Beth needs to hear what I’m telling her right now and it’s what I want her to believe. So I sit for a while, with my head in my hands, ignoring the red flag waving in it telling me that I don’t really believe it – which can only mean that it’s more lies.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Adam told me I stopped wanting him. It was there in the middle of some long spiel of his, like a barbed accusation.’

  ‘And did you? Stop wanting him?’

  I’ve been asking myself the same question since. Carefully, I clean underneath my left thumbnail with my right one. ‘It’s just not that simple. We’ve been married a long time. It was one of those phases where I only wanted to sleep. I don’t think I stopped wanting him as much as stopped having sex for a while.’

  ‘Did you talk about it?’

  I shake my head. ‘I know now that I wanted him to. I wanted him to notice and talk to me, ask me how I felt. Rather than the other way around. It’s always me who does the talking. It’s exhausting.’ I look up. ‘It didn’t last long, maybe a couple of months. We had sex again as soon as I gave in and made th
e first move.’ I sigh. ‘Of course, I’d lost him by then …’

  ‘Do you remember a few weeks ago we spoke about your fears?’ Caroline blows her coffee as she changes the subject.

  I can only nod.

  ‘You say things are clearer, so tell me what your greatest fear is, right now, in this space in time?’

  I close my eyes and immediately wonder if I can live without Adam, if I actually want to, or is forgiving him again and trying to reboot our marriage an option? The clenching behind my ribs assures me that this is indeed a fear rather than a solution.

  ‘Taking Adam back, nothing really changing, me just carrying on with my head hovered above the sand.’ There, I’ve said it out loud.

  ‘Anything else?’ she prods.

  ‘Leading half a life …’

  She raises a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘What if I can’t move from this small world I’ve created for myself? What if I don’t allow another man near me and, worse, if I did, what if I discovered I had “Go ahead – cheat on me” stamped on my forehead?’

  She smiles. ‘You have nothing stamped on your forehead,’ she reassures me, ‘just on your brain.’

  I lean forward, pick up the Russian doll she used weeks ago with me and I slowly open the five parts. I caress the tiniest figure, and the fear floodgates are well and truly opened.

  ‘Personal failure,’ I hear myself say. ‘I know I’m good; my agent tells me just to get on with it – success will come if I work hard. It’s just that inner saboteur constantly waiting to leap.’

  ‘You’re going to have to find a way to gag her.’ Caroline shrugs. ‘I find that imagery actually helps. Maybe name her too? If you feel negativity creep up on you, visualize her, how she looks, what she’s wearing and then gag her with a cloth – really tightly.’

  I’m fascinated. ‘You have an inner saboteur too?’

  ‘A lot of people do.’ She grins, as if it’s just the most normal thing in the world to be gagging an imaginary part of your head with a cloth – really tightly.

  ‘So, she’s gagged, you’re successful in your own right, maybe you’re even happy living alone. What do you think you have to put in place to get there?’