Lessons for a Sunday Father
Page 8
Scott
OK, what’s the worst-case scenario, I said to myself. Gail’s always saying I’m too much of an optimist and that’s why I keep being disappointed. But what’s the point of carrying on at all if you think everything’s going to turn out badly the whole time? Gail says it’s best to prepare yourself for the worst then if things are only a bit crap you feel like you’re ahead of the game. My words, not hers, but you get the gist.
I was still pretty sure she would come round and everything would be all right. I figured I’d be on the wrong end of some heavy-duty sulking and sarky remarks for a while and I’d get not enough nookie to keep a nun happy, but that I’d live through it. It’s not like I’m not used to it or anything. If I was really unlucky, I reckoned she might make me go to one of those marriage guidance people. I’ve seen them on telly—d’you remember that series, with all the couples? Half of them you couldn’t see why they’d ever got hitched in the first place, they never said more than “Pass the sugar.” Hopeless. Yeah, like I can afford to be smug. Anyway, the marriage guidance bods, they’re always like these really creepy blokes who sit there stroking their beards while looking at your wife’s tits and asking nosy questions about how often you have sex. And the women counsellors are just as bad, all smiling and nodding and homely looking then—pow!—just when you’re thinking maybe this isn’t so bad, they stick the knife in and jiggle it around: “So it’s been a long time since your husband’s given you any pleasure in bed?”
Gail knows I can’t stand all that stuff—like those couples that go on chat shows and talk about, well, everything: “Yes, I did find it difficult to maintain my erection, but Sue was very loving and we were able to laugh about it together …” Hilarious. What a giggle. Would you go on telly and tell millions of people you couldn’t get a stiffy? Why not send cards round to all your mates while you’re at it? Take out an ad in the paper. No need for an ad round here. They’re so desperate for news, it’d probably make front page:
MAN AT NO. 36CAN’T GET IT UP
Wife says council should support him
Anyway. That’s another thing I do that drives Gail crazy—keep going off the point. How do I know it drives her crazy? You’re thinking I must be some kind of expert on the subtle signals women are supposed to give out, right? Clearly, Gail never heard all that stuff about women being subtle. When I annoy her, which is like about fifty times a day, she starts gnashing her teeth and lunging at me with the potato peeler. “Is this all part of your feminine mystique?” I say, dodging out the way and flicking at her with the tea-towel. “I have an inkling you’re a little bit upset about something. Tell me if I’m getting warm.” Colin says when Yvonne’s pissed off (when isn’t she pissed off? I want to ask, but I’m too much of a gent), she goes into a sulk. Her mouth goes all pursed like a cat’s bum and if he goes “What’s up?” she says, “Nothing” which of course means “Everything, and you better start being sorry even if you don’t know what it is.” And it’s always something minuscule like he forgot her mum’s birthday or she’s got on a new lipstick and Colin didn’t notice.
Oh. Worst-case scenario. I remember. Well, I reckon the absolute worst, worst, worst-case scenario is if Gail doesn’t let me come back for, say—well, ever. She couldn’t stop me seeing the kids ‘cause I’ve never been cruel or violent or whatever. So, absolute worst is—no Gail to cuddle up to at night ever again.
And I’d have to find a new place to live and support me and them for a lot more than I do now.
And I’d not get to hang out with Natty and mess around with the computer or go roller-blading or swimming or fishing whenever we want.
Or tell Rosie a bedtime story and kiss her good night.
So that’d be the worst.
Fuck.
* * *
Still, that’s really, really unlikely. I mean, it was only a sodding fling, right? She’d have to have a screw loose to hold it against me for ever. It happens all the time. I read it somewhere: 50 to 75 per cent of men have at least one affair after they’re married. So, looking at it logically, I’d be downright abnormal if I hadn’t slept with someone else. It’s obviously completely natural. Look at lions, for instance—you get one male with loads of females, don’t you? I should find that article and send it to her. You know, to prove it. Then she’d see I wasn’t so bad. We could start over, a clean slate, and I wouldn’t go off the rails again. I mean, statistics might be on my side, but you don’t want to push your luck, right?
I’d like to say I’m getting used to being on my own, that I’m enjoying this unexpected return to a bachelor lifestyle. I’d like to say that living at Jeff’s house is a non-stop riot and that we have a load of girls over for drunken orgies every night. Ha! I wish. The joke is, I’ve turned into Mr House-Husband, spending half my evenings elbow-deep in suds or hoovering like a dynamo and tutting at Jeff when he leaves his cups and plates all over the house the way Nat does. With Gail, it was always moan, moan, moan that I didn’t pull my weight round the house—if only she could see me now. Maybe then she’d stop looking at me like I was some slime creature who’d crawled out from under a rock.
At first, every time I attempted to have a sensible conversation with her about the Subject, she’d go into snide overdrive and things would spiral out of control and I’d end up wishing I’d never brought it up. But eventually, she agreed to have a talk, a proper sit-down talk as opposed to her slagging me off on the front step.
“Not because I think you’ve got anything to say that’s worth listening to,” she said. “But at least once I’ve heard you out you can stop going on about it.”
I went through the whole thing again, and told her how much I love her and miss her, but nothing seemed to make any difference. I was being completely reasonable, I swear, and I pointed out that we’d been having our ups and downs and it wasn’t all down to me—but she just went right off the bloody deep end.
“It’s not that I’m trying to make light of it,” I tell Gail, “but it really didn’t mean anything, I swear.” I am trying to make light of it, of course, but so far honesty seems to have been not the best policy for the King of Fuck-Ups. “I do realize how serious this is. I’m just saying that it’s very, very common and we shouldn’t let it get all out of proportion. This happens to lots of couples, but they manage to work things out.”
“This as you so carefully put it, does not happen to lots of couples, Scott. Infidelity isn’t an earthquake or a bolt of lightning and we just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time—it wasn’t me, Miss, I was just lying there and this woman threw herself on top of my willy. It’s pathetic. Take some responsibility for once in your life. Now that you’re a big lad of forty you might try acting like a grown-up. Who knows? You might even get to like it. Many of us act like grown-ups every single day and come to no major harm.”
“Cheers. I do take responsibility. All I’m saying is plenty of blokes—and women as well for that matter—”
“But not me.”
“No, not you. I’m not saying that, course not. Where was I?” She always does that, throws you off so you lose your thread.
“Hunting for some sort of easy way out? Up shit creek without a paddle?”
She never used to talk like that. I don’t know what’s happened to her lately.
“My point is, Gail, lots of people have meaningless affairs—”
“So it was an affair? You’ve given up pretending it was a one-off mistake then? It’s a good idea to stick to the same story once you’ve started lying, Scott. Do try to keep track. Perhaps you should keep a small notebook. So, are we getting some truth out of you at last?”
“No. Yes. No. I mean, I am telling the truth. No, it wasn’t an affair, I told you. Look …” I rub my fingertips hard against my forehead; my brain is beginning to throb. “Can I just say what I’m trying to say for a sec?” She shrugs, then folds her arms, her expression a perfect cross between smug superiority and complete boredom.
She interrupts me. This is her idea of letting me finish. I just want you to know it’s not all one way, that’s all. She may make out she’s the poor little victim but Gail can give as good as she gets. Better, even. I might as well have laid down on the floor, waved a white flag, and let her march straight over me on her way to conquer the rest of the planet.
“Scott,” she says, spitting out my name like it’s an insult. “You only ‘really, really regret’ what happened because you got caught. Otherwise you’d have been swaggering around thinking how clever you’d been. And your story still keeps changing. Was it once or was it twice? Surely even you must have noticed?—though I dare say she may not have. And if you don’t call betraying your wife’s trust and breaking your marriage vows and lying and cheating and letting down your children the be-all and end-all, then I’m afraid all I can do is feel sorry for you. You don’t have the slightest idea of what it means to be a husband and a father, do you? I think you barely understand even how to be a passable adult. You’re just a silly overgrown kid. Honestly, I might as well be a single parent half the time—I ought to have received extra child benefit for having you in the house.”
I’m stood there, words lodged in my throat, trying to swallow, feeling my sodding eyes start to water. Bugger this, I am not going to cry, I’m just not. Nobody, but nobody, makes me cry. Not any more. But I’m not having her call me a sponger. No way. So I lost my rag completely at this point, but who wouldn’t have? I meant to stay calm, I really did, but she shoved me over the edge because she gets off on being the mature, sensible one and making me look like the toddler having a temper tantrum. Well, good bloody luck to her. At least I don’t go round looking like I’ve got a poker up my arse the whole time.
Gail
It was pathetic, of course, Scott insisted on having a talk, then all he did was trot out the same old excuses—how it was just sex and didn’t mean anything, how lots of couples go through this and it didn’t have to be a big deal. He even told me it wasn’t very good and that she was a bit fat—as if that meant it shouldn’t count. And men are always claiming that we’re the ones who are illogical.
The worst thing was when he said, “It’s made me realize just how much I really love you.” Oh, well, that’s fine then. Why not do it every week just to make sure? I came this close to hitting him, I really did. I wish I had done, I wish I’d really let rip and screamed at him, but I didn’t. I was using all my energy to hold myself together, my voice getting more and more calm and controlled, every bit of my body tight and stiff. I had to. I thought that if I let go for even a split second, then I’d sort of explode inside-out and become this horrible screaming, crying heap. And then there’d be no Gail any more, just a raw red blob shuddering with rage and fear in the corner.
I pressed my toes down hard against the floor and pinched the skin on my arms.
“Honestly, Scott, you’ve had enough time to think about this. Is that really the best you can manage?”
And, get this, he even had the cheek to say, “But we were getting on so badly—” Well, there was no way I was letting him shift all the blame onto me. Typical Scott. He’s worse than a toddler. If he breaks something, he never says sorry, it’s always, “I don’t know how that happened, it jumped off the shelf. I was nowhere near it.”
“And sleeping with another woman was your idea of a miracle cure for our problems, was it?”
“No, course not,” he said, looking all awkward, like a teenager. Like Nat, in fact. “It’s just—I didn’t know how to make it better.”
“It’s not exactly making an appointment with Relate, is it, Scott?”
“I’d have gone. You never said!”
Can you believe it? What is he, twelve years old?
“That’s you all over, isn’t it?” I practically screeched at him, while still trying to keep my voice down. “'You never said.’ Why the hell is it my job? I suppose it’s like the way it’s my job to be cook, cleaner and general household dogsbody. Why is everything up to me all the time? And anyway—anyway, you’re a pathetic liar. No way would you have gone for marriage guidance even if I had suggested it—and you know it.”
“I might have.”
I laughed then. I actually laughed. He seemed to be getting younger and younger. Before, he seemed about twelve. Now, he looked only about four years old, saying “I might have” trying to defy teacher with his bottom lip stuck out.
He sniffed.
“Well, you wouldn’t want some nosy do-gooder asking personal questions about our sex life either.”
“Why ever not? Unlike some people in this room, I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Then I just felt so sick of it all, of him sitting there trying to make out that he was this poor, sweet, innocent boy who just happened to have made this tiny little mistake that any other woman would have forgiven without a second thought. He acted as if I was being a loathsome bitch trying to victimize him and it wasn’t his fault that he’d cheated on me. He never takes responsibility, so he gets to be the one who’s spontaneous and larks about the whole time, while look who gets stuck with having to be the sensible grown-up. So I made some dig about him being like a child, it was a silly thing to say, but it just came out and suddenly I thought maybe I’d gone too far. His face darkened, his jaw thrust forward as if he really was a little boy doing his best not to cry.
“That is well out of order, Gail. You really have crossed the line now.” Then he started shouting: “I have always provided for my family—I’ve always worked— you and the kids have never gone short—never—Jeez, you make me sound like some fucking sponger. How can you say that?”
I felt a bit bad, really I did. I hadn’t meant it. I’d just wanted to hurt him, I suppose, make him feel useless and humiliated—the way he’d made me feel. And now it looked like I had World War Three on my hands.
“I’m sorry, Scott. I really am. I only said it because I feel so hurt and angry.”
“Hurt and angry? You—hurt and angry! I’m the one living like a fucking gypsy out of a fucking carrier bag! How dare you make yourself into such a martyr—here you are in our nice warm house with our comfy settee and our proper kitchen and our big bed and our—repeat, our—children while I’m having to accept charity and live like a sodding student and be woken up by crap rock music at seven o’clock in the fucking morning. For fuck’s sake—HURT and ANGRY? You haven’t got a fucking clue.”
Then he got up and stomped out and down the front path. I thought of going after him, to try to get him to calm down, but my legs were shaking and I couldn’t move. I’ve never, ever seen him like that. Not about unjust parking tickets or the car being stolen or being gazumped over our first house. Never.
Scott
OK, I’ll come clean—it was twice. With Angela, I mean. But you really can’t count the first time. And the second time was only to make up for the first time being so godawful and anyway, I was already guilty by then, so it wasn’t as if it was making anything worse. It’s all water under the bridge now in any case, so what difference does it make? Still, there’s no point in telling Gail it was twice, right?
The second time. I was driving practically past Angela’s house. Well, near enough. So I thought I’d just call by, say hello, take a look at her doors and that.
“Oh hello.” Angela opened the door a little way, with just her head in the gap. “Nice of you to keep in touch.”
“Now don’t be like that. I did call but I got your machine and I didn’t know what to say.”
“How about: ‘Hello, it’s Scott, are you available for shagging purposes?'”
I’m on the verge of blushing now. Still, she seems to be smiling, so I take advantage and edge a bit closer.
“You can’t just turn up whenever you feel
like it, you know. What if I’d had someone here?”
“You could say I’d come to check your garden door and other see-through items. It’s only that I was in the area and—”
“Yes, I see. Come in anyway now that you’re here. Coffee?”
“Cheers.” I shuck off my jacket, casual, as if I’m a bit hot. Angela’s wearing one of those wrap-round skirts. The sort where you undo one button and yee-har it’s on the floor. The kind of women’s clothing a man likes. I think about putting my hand on her thigh, sliding up under the material, but she’s standing the wrong side of the jutting-out counter. Hang on a minute, matey. Don’t rush.
“Sugar?” She busies herself making the coffee, fiddling with jars and teaspoons.
“One-and-a-bit. So, how’ve you been?” Slowly, I edge around the worktop.
“Oh, you know, moping by the phone waiting to hear from you.” She looks at me then. “Not really, you idiot. I’ve hardly been here, actually. Got so much work on. I’m fine.” She sighs. “Scott, I do know you’re married. I’m not looking to get into some seedy affair or lure you away from your wife, you know. I had a good time,” she laughs, hitching herself onto a stool at the counter. “Well, all right, I’ve had better but it was fine, and if we ever get it together again, that’ll be fine too. But I’m not becoming the Other Woman. I’m not looking to be somebody’s stepping-stone out of a hopeless marriage.”