The Seven Year Itch

by Emlyn Rees

  Shocked, I lift up Jack’s hand and look at my fingers wrapped around his. My wedding ring glints in the sun.

  ‘Forget it,’ I tell him. ‘Look, there’s a sign for Grand Central Station. Let’s check it out.’

  Tourists

  Even before we’ve reached the station, Jack’s on a roll, naming all the films he’s seen the grand hall featured in, but when we get inside, the only bit I recognise is from the kids’ cartoon Madagascar.

  Jack makes me stand by the staircase so that we can take a photo for Ben. Then he comes in closer and tells me to sit on the steps. He takes a close-up of me, but as usual, he takes ages about it.

  ‘Amy, don’t do that, OK?’ he says, looking at the screen on the back of the camera.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pull your photo face.’

  ‘I’ve got a photo face?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack says, ‘and it really annoys me. Every time I take a picture of you, you do this staged smile.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes, you do. Now look normal.’

  I try to look neutral, but I can’t help feeling the moment is ruined. I don’t feel like smiling now anyway. People walk past me, down the steps, and I feel crowded in and annoyed.

  ‘There,’ says Jack, looking at the image of me on the digital camera. ‘Got you.’

  ‘Let me see,’ I say, reaching out. He shows it to me.

  ‘That’s horrible!’ I protest. ‘I look awful.’ And I do. Like a cardboard cut-out, with no emotion on my face.

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘Delete it,’ I insist, but Jack snatches the camera away from me.

  ‘You worry too much about the way you look,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You’re so hard on yourself. You’re always starting these unrealistic diets and complaining all the time about your flabby tummy and your wrinkles. I mean, where’s the magic for me?’

  I fold my arms. I feel like he’s telling me off.

  Jack unfolds my arms. ‘Don’t get defensive. I’m just being honest.’

  ‘But you’re having a go at me.’

  Jack sighs. ‘OK. Then tell me what annoys you about me. That’s fair.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why? There must be things that I do that wind you up?’ He sits down next to me. He puts out his hands. ‘I’m serious. Let’s hear it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  Jack laughs nervously. ‘OK. Well, we’ve got all day. We’re in as good a place as any. Shoot.’

  I look at him, and then I look down into the vast, cavernous space and the thousands of strangers with places to go, and up to the stars painted on the ceiling. And he’s right. We’re in a great place to do this. The petty things that annoy me at home seem insignificant in a space this size.

  ‘OK, and this is in no particular order. First off, you always expect me to find things for you. That annoys me,’ I tell him.

  ‘But you’re better at finding things. You’re one of life’s great finders. And besides, you’ve always moved the things I’m trying to find –’

  ‘Jack. You’re not supposed to get defensive. I’m just telling you.’

  ‘OK,’ he relents.

  ‘And you never tell me what’s going on at work.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm?’

  ‘Camilla said she saw you driving around with some woman in a sports car,’ I say, without thinking.

  All this time I’ve wanted to ask him and now I’ve brought it up as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. It feels like such a relief. ‘And I didn’t know who it was,’ I continue. ‘I mean, I presume it was one of your clients, but you didn’t tell me, and that hurts because I end up assuming the worst . . .’

  Jack looks at me blankly, like I just asked him to tell me pi to the fiftieth decimal place. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Camilla swore it was you. In a Lexus convertible, apparently.’

  ‘Well, Camilla should keep her silly posh nose out of other people’s business, and I shall tell her as much, the next time I see her. That interfering cow.’

  I’m surprised at the vitriol with which he says it.

  ‘Please don’t. Forget it. She just made a mistake.’

  ‘Yeah, one which left you “assuming the worst”. And what worst is that, Amy? That I’m having an affair?’

  I can feel my heart hammering, because I did think that. Or at least I suspected him of something – I’m not sure what. Now that he’s so adamant about his innocence, I feel even more guilty for doubting him, and when I look at him again, all I can think is that he’s the strong one and I’m pathetic in contrast. I remember H’s warning and vow to myself that Jack must never, ever know about Tom.

  ‘No, Jack, no. I’d never think that, because I know you never would.’

  The blood fades a little from his face.

  ‘Well, OK, then,’ he says. He forces a smile. ‘So I’ll try and be more communicative – but you know, sometimes it’s the way you ask . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sometimes when I’m tired, you ask me loads of questions. You make it like an interrogation.’

  I take this in. He’s right. I do badger him.

  This feels liberating. It feels like we’re really communicating for the first time in ages – and now I know that all that stuff I thought in London about Jack and the woman in the car was rubbish, I feel more determined to put all that behind us.

  As we sit on the stairs, we cover all sorts of topics, from the fact I’m too obsessed with ironing, to the fact he gives Ben too many treats.

  Then we discuss our car arguments and the fact that he always shouts at me for directions and then ignores what I tell him to do. We agree that when we can afford it, we’ll get an in-car navigation system.

  ‘Let’s go and eat oysters and drink champagne to celebrate,’ Jack says eventually.

  ‘Celebrate what?’

  ‘The fact I annoy you that much and you’re still with me.’

  We both stare at each other for a second. Then laugh. Then he kisses me.

  King Kong

  After that, everything is perfect, and the kisses and laughter keep on coming. Somehow we slip into an easy togetherness which reminds me of how we were when we first got together. We have a long lazy lunch and then brave Macy’s, until I can tell that Jack is bored. So we hail a cab and explore the Meatpacking District, stopping for a few pints in The Spotted Pig.

  Time drifts by in a haze. In the evening, we shower together in the hotel, and talk about the first shower we had together in a B&B in Brighton and how we flooded the place. Reminiscing about our early days makes us both laugh and, in a buoyant mood, we head out to a comedy show. Later on, we have a midnight feast, like little kids – sitting cross-legged on the bed and sharing peanut butter sandwiches and pretzels. It feels like I’m on the best adventure of my life.

  The next morning, we brunch in Greenwich Village. We scoff pancakes and maple syrup, sausages and bacon, and talk to the all-American waitress, who plies us with black coffee. When she mentions that she has a little boy, it occurs to me that I haven’t even thought about Ben all morning, and whilst I feel a moment of total guilt, at the same time I feel as if some part of myself has been restored and redefined.

  After brunch, Jack wins the flip of a dime and decides on the Empire State Building as our next stop.

  ‘But what about Bloomingdale’s?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ve got to do the Empire State,’ he says. ‘It would be a sin not to.’

  I’m too happy to argue.

  Inside, there’s a huge snaking queue and we both fall silent, people-watching. I can’t help feeling that none of these people can possibly feel as content as I do.

  Last night, on our stroll from the comedy club, Jack suggested that we list things we like about each other – the stuff that makes us happy. At first, it was embarrassing and awkward, and it felt too mu
ch like therapy, but by the end I felt wonderful. It was such an obvious thing to do and, as I contemplate all the people around us, it occurs to me that I might never have told Jack that he makes the best chilli in the world, or that it makes my heart melt when he sings to Ben in the night, or that I love the doodles he does when he’s on the phone.

  In return, Jack told me that he loves listening to me and Ben playing, and that his favourite smell is me after a bath and that he always kisses me on my eyelids if he leaves for work before I’m awake.

  They’re only little things, but telling them to each other has made me feel like there’s still so much to know about him, and it makes me feel like he still notices me.

  I squeeze Jack’s hand and sigh to myself. Being together like this is sheer bliss.

  And then, in the Empire State lift, I see him.

  For a second, I really think it’s him and my stomach feels like it’s plummeted all one hundred and two floors down the lift shaft, but when the man turns round, it’s not Tom. Just someone who looks like him. And there it is again, the feeling that Tom’s just under the surface, lurking in the shadows.

  I want him gone. I want him out of my head.

  I didn’t kiss him, I reason with myself, trying to dispel my panic. I sort of did, but I stopped. I didn’t go all the way. I didn’t really snog him. I have nothing to feel guilty about.

  Go away, I tell Tom, mentally. Stop bugging me. Fuck off.

  We head out on to the viewing platform. Jack stands behind me to protect me from the crowd and we stare down at Manhattan. It’s awesome.

  ‘It’s funny to be here. I always imagined it to be a bit like in King Kong,’ he says.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to lift me up to the very top,’ I tell him, ‘and beat your chest.’

  He smiles and then is silent. ‘Why not? It’s a great place for a love scene, don’t you think? It’s so epic.’

  ‘Even with all the crowds?’

  ‘The crowds don’t matter.’ He puts his arms around me and nuzzles into my neck.

  I cross my arms over his in front of me and we stare in silence for ages at the view.

  So, here we are. On our own, with no place to be, other than on top of the world. I’m so aware that this should be an amazing experience – a top-five moment for the memory banks.

  The problem is that suddenly I don’t feel on top of the world. Instead I’ve hit rock bottom. I thought I’d be able to dismiss the whole thing with Tom, ‘chalk it up to experience’, as H said I should. I really hoped that I’d be able to make myself forget, and I’ve been trying . . . really trying. But I’ve failed.

  Because now I’ve remembered and rekindled all the good things about my marriage, I feel racked with horror and guilt, and standing here with Jack, my heart beats faster, because, no matter how much I try and tell myself otherwise, retrospectively my liaison with Tom feels so much more than a tiny, fleeting infidelity. It feels a betrayal. Not just of Jack, but of me. Of us. Of everything that we are.

  ‘I love you, Amy,’ Jack whispers, squeezing me tighter. ‘I really, really love you.’

  I close my eyes.

  I can’t speak.

  Milords And Milady’s

  It’s late by the time we’ve finished at the Empire State Building and we head to the Guggenheim, but neither of us can face the queue, so we end up strolling through Central Park.

  It’s odd being in a park without a buggy. We walk for ages, stopping to listen to some jazz buskers and to watch the roller disco. Eventually, we find a spot by the lake and, in the late afternoon sun, I lie with my head on Jack’s lap, looking up at the sky. I feel tiredness pinching my eyes.

  I gently run my hand over Jack’s.

  ‘Tell me one of your happiest memories?’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just wondered what they are, that’s all.’

  ‘When Ben first said “Dadda”. That was a biggie for me. And . . . I don’t know . . . I’m pretty happy right now.’

  ‘Do you remember that first holiday we had in Greece?’ I ask him. I haven’t been planning on asking him at all, it’s just popped out of my mouth.

  Immediately I know I’m on dodgy ground. It’s rather a taboo subject with us, since the holiday ended so badly, after Jack crashed our moped and confessed to spending the night with Sally McCullen. I’m not sure why I’ve brought it up.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I remember looking at the sky on that beach and feeling this happy,’ I tell him, trying to make light of it, as if it’s now OK to talk about it. But I’m not quite sure that it is OK.

  Jack reaches inside the top of my dress. ‘I remember that beach,’ he whispers.

  I giggle. ‘Jack, stop it! Somebody will see.’

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel.’

  But by the time we get back to the hotel, I feel hungover and woozy. The jet lag has really kicked in.

  I run a bath with the erotic bath bomb and try to get all sexy with Jack, but we end up having a perfunctory, familiar shag, and I can’t say that it’s satisfying for either of us.

  Afterwards, we both fall into a fitful sleep. I have a headache when we wake and I’m shattered still, but I force myself to get up.

  ‘Come on,’ I tell Jack. ‘Let’s get going. Why don’t we try that restaurant you chose in the guidebook? Balthazar, isn’t it? That French brasserie?’

  Despite my best efforts to chivvy things along, Jack seems to have slumped into one of his brooding moods. We go to the restaurant, but somehow we don’t gel and Jack spends most of his time talking to the waiter about English bands, whilst I drink most of the wine.

  Afterwards, we stroll back to the hotel and stop in a bar called Milady’s for a nightcap. Jack orders a Dark and Stormy – very appropriate, given his mood.

  I’m not even sure how the row starts. Maybe it’s because we’re both dog-tired and a bit drunk, but I don’t stop myself from complaining that he spent more time talking to the waiter than to me, even though I know that it’ll annoy him.

  ‘Well, if you took an interest in popular culture,’ he says, ‘then perhaps you’d have been able to join in.’

  How dare he be so pompous? I read Grazia, every week. I know more about popular culture than he does. Would he be able to name all the winners of Big Brother? No, I don’t think so. So he can spare me the lecture.

  ‘All I’m saying, is that I didn’t come all this way to spend the evening talking to someone we’re never going to see again.’

  ‘Why not? Why are you so judgemental? You’re saying he can’t have decent opinions because he’s a waiter?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not saying that.’

  ‘Maybe you think the same about gardeners . . .’

  ‘No, Jack, no.’

  ‘At least he has a job.’

  I can feel my hackles rising. It was a jibe at me, and we both know it.

  ‘He was just after extra tips.’

  ‘So what? I don’t mind tipping someone who interests me, who takes an interest in what I’m interested in.’

  ‘And I don’t interest you. Is that what you’re saying?’

  I’ve raised my voice, and there’s a palpable lull in the murmur of voices around us. My cheeks begin to burn.

  Jack sighs. Then he rubs his face.

  ‘Enough,’ he says. His voice sounds loaded with weariness.

  I’m silent. We look at one another.

  ‘All we ever do is row,’ he states, ‘and I’ve had enough of it. We said we’d try to make things better, but they’re not better. They’re worse.’

  I wish he’d take it back. I feel like he’s broken something. Some sort of pact.

  ‘How can you say that? Things are better. They’ve been great. We’ve had so much fun today and yesterday.’

  ‘So how come we’re rowing now?’

  I’m stumped, because he’s right. We are, and it was so easy. Too easy.

  �
��And anyway,’ he goes on, ‘I’m not talking about today and yesterday, or being here in New York. Anyone can have fun on holiday. I’m talking about our real life, not a fantasy life won from the back of a packet. I mean next week, next month, in ten years’ time.’

  He pauses. I can’t look at him. Then he sighs heavily.

  ‘Things have got to change, Amy.’

  The way he says it scares me. I look up at him. ‘How?’

  I’m frightened of where he’s taking this. If only we could have had this conversation two weeks ago, a month ago. Not now.

  Looking at Jack, I feel stalled. How can we start talking about how to improve our relationship, when Jack doesn’t even realise the state of it? When he doesn’t know what’s been happening. When he doesn’t know – and can never know – about Tom?

  ‘I want to get back to us. The old us, that used to hang out all the time like we have been here in New York. The old us that used to love spending time together, and having fun. The old us that used to always tell the truth.’

  He glares into my eyes. ‘I mean, are you really honest with me about what goes on in your head? What you really think about?’

  ‘What?’ I ask. My heart is going crazy. I can’t breathe. Is it really that obvious? Has he sussed about Tom? Has he suspected all along?

  ‘Because I’m not honest with you,’ he continues.

  ‘You’re not?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘No.’ His voice cracks.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Well . . . there’s something you should know . . . about Jessie and me.’

  14

  Jack

  There’s Something You Should Know . . . About Jessie And Me

  The moment this self-betraying serpent of a sentence slithers past my lips, I know there’ll be no turning back. I feel breathless and light-headed, as if I’m being strangled by my own words. Then like a soldier stopping for a pee in the heat of battle, I instantly find myself oscillating wildly between dread and relief.

  My relief springs from the fact that I’ve begun my confession. Which means I’ll soon have exorcised this horrible guilty secret that’s been festering inside me all weekend.