The Date

by Louise Jensen

  Our marriage was slowly unravelling but still I tried to bind it back together with threads of patience, love and home-cooked meals. One Friday Jules and her husband, Craig, had come to dinner, as they often did. Before they arrived Matt had let slip that Craig was having an affair.

  ‘You’re not seeing anyone, are you?’ That was my instant thought and, as uncomfortable as it was, it would explain a lot.

  ‘No.’ One lonely, exposed word I wanted wrapped in ‘of course I wouldn’t’ or ‘there’ll never be anyone else for me but you’.

  ‘How long have you known about Craig?’

  He shrugged. ‘A few months.’

  ‘You’ve been lying to me?’ It rocked me to my core. It was as if I didn’t know him anymore. Couldn’t trust him.

  ‘I’ve got to tell her,’ I said. ‘She’s my best friend.’

  ‘Your loyalty should be with me,’ Matt said. ‘What about the business?’ Craig was his biggest client. Before I could answer the doorbell chimed.

  The whites of Jules’s eyes were streaked pink, and she sniffed as she trailed me into the kitchen. ‘I found condoms in Craig’s coat pocket when I was looking for some change. I haven’t confronted him yet. I wanted to talk to you first. Do you think he’s having an affair?’ I’d hovered on the crossroads of truth and lies but my hesitation told her all she needed to know. She dissolved into tears and I led her to a chair and held her as her body shook, while the Beef Wellington charred in the oven. Sitting at the kitchen table, she’d drained a large glass of wine, while I falteringly told her what I knew, and shortly after she’d snapped at Craig that they were leaving. The front door slammed a whirlwind of fury; Jules’s scorching anger as black as the pastry I’d lovingly rolled out.

  ‘How could you?’ Matt rounded on me. ‘You’d better not have lost me my biggest client.’

  ‘If you’re more worried about your business than you are my oldest friend, you’re not the man I married,’ I shouted back.

  ‘Perhaps I don’t want to be,’ he yelled.

  ‘What? That man or married?’ I stood, hands on hips, smoke still pluming from the oven.

  ‘Both.’

  The fabric of our relationship hung looser after that night. Gaping holes where loyalty and respect should be. Jules discovered Craig’s affair had been going on for almost a year, and she moved in with James, who uncomplainingly packed away his Star Wars paraphernalia and moved into the smaller bedroom, leaving Jules with the master. She filed for divorce; Craig, furious with me, withdrew his business and wouldn’t take Matt’s calls. Matt barely spoke to me. It was hard to bite my tongue when he barked another one-word answer to a perfectly reasonable question; yet, incessantly, I soothed, supported, did everything a good wife should, but there was an impenetrable barrier between us. I became more and more miserable, until Chrissy suggested some space would do us both good and offered me her spare room.

  ‘I’m moving out for a while,’ I said as I stared intently at Matt, wanting him to read my thoughts, know it was the last thing I wanted, but I’d been at a loss to know what else to do.

  ‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ he said, not meeting my eye.

  Hearing this made my throat close to a pinprick and I had to force out: ‘I’ll go and pack’ but even to me it had been apparent that my resolve was weak and ready to crumble if only he’d asked me stay, but he hadn’t. Silently, I had clung on to my pride, slippery in my palm, and trudged upstairs to gather my things.

  It’s been four months now. We’ve settled into a fragile status quo, still sharing Branwell, sharing the mortgage, but never sharing our thoughts. Our feelings. I don’t know if it’s too late to fix us. I don’t know where to even begin.

  Branwell’s paws click-click-click against the laminate floor as I follow Matt into the kitchen. I lean against the worktop I once chopped vegetables on for dinner.

  ‘Are you okay?’ He may not look like Matt anymore, but his voice, with the gravelly edge, still makes my stomach flip. Concern bubbles under every word.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, but what I really mean is no, and he knows me well enough to understand this. He takes a step forward, but hesitates, his arms hanging helplessly by his sides.

  ‘Do I look? Do you?…’ His voice rises, and I know he’s putting himself in my shoes. Trying to imagine how he’d feel if I was the one who looked like a stranger. I shake my head.

  ‘But…’ He trails off, but I know he wanted to say ‘it’s me’ and the undertone is there. How can you not recognise me? Frustrated, he rubs his fingers over his chin in that Matt gesture I know so well, although it’s been years since he had a beard. Familiar. He’s still familiar to me. And this is the first positive thing I’ve felt for days. The urge rises to bury my face in his neck. He’d still smell of spice. Not everything is lost.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I touch the lump on my head. ‘I think I fell.’ I tell him what he wants to hear, what I want to believe, because the alternative is too much for either of us to bear. Another man might have put his hands on me. Another man who I shouldn’t have been out with in the first place.

  ‘I wanted to visit. Ben said you weren’t up to seeing anyone?’

  ‘No. I was worn out. Still am. I’ve been signed off work for two weeks but the doctor said he might extend it after that. It depends what the specialist says, I think.’ The yawn I’d been stifling breaks free.

  ‘Sorry. You look shattered. I’ll load up your car. Let you get off home.’ The word home spears me and I clutch at my stomach as though I’ve been impaled. This is home. I want to say. Here. With you. But the words are as dry as dust on my tongue and I face the sink and splash water into a glass, and when I turn around again he has gone.

  I allow myself a few more moments of self-pity before following him. Standing on the step, I flick through the pile of mail Matt had pushed into my hand before he headed outside to set up the dog crate in my boot. Mr Henderson is resting his forearms on his wheelie bin as he watches, and I know at least one person will miss me. Matt squeezes past me to collect Branwell’s toys and there’s a moment where our bodies touch. Matt pauses, just for a second, and that pause tells me the emotions that zing between us are not mine to bear alone. I’m suspended in the hoping, the wanting, the bird in the cage of my chest fluttering to be free, but, instead of speaking, Matt gathers Branwell’s things and heads out to the car once more, and I am left standing in the hallway of this place I once called home.

  The slam of the boot tells me it’s time to leave but I take my time climbing into the car, locating my keys, snapping my seatbelt closed. When there’s nothing left to fiddle with I start the engine, and Matt says, ‘Take care of yourself, Ali,’ as he taps my boot.

  Disappointed, I pull away.

  * * *

  As the distance between us grows and grows, it’s as though the elastic binding us is tightening around my neck, and rather than drawing us closer I know it will stretch and stretch until one day it will snap. Really, I don’t know what I’d expected when I came here today, bruised and frightened and desperate for comfort, but I’d hoped for compassion and understanding. And love. I’d hoped for love. Tears spill and I stretch and pull open my glovebox for a tissue, and it’s there. A Terry’s Chocolate Orange: ‘Just because I love you, Ali.’ I tell myself not to read too much into it. The gesture could have been born out of pity, from a place of friendship. It shouldn’t feel like a beacon of hope. But somehow it does.

  The journey passes in a flash, and I’m almost home when I hear it, the alert tone on my phone, and it’s a relief – I must have dropped it in the car – I no longer have to replace it. That’s one less thing I have to do today.

  Eager to catch up with my messages, my foot squeezes the accelerator, colours blur as cars rush by, until, at last, I screech into my driveway, the car at an odd angle, but I cut the engine anyway. My hand stretches under the seat, fumbling around for my phone, and I find my clutch bag that I
had on Saturday night.

  The screen lights up as I press the home button on my mobile. There’s only six per cent of battery left. There’s a string of notifications but it’s the last one that catches my eye and, as I read it, I feel a sharp stab of fear. It’s from Instagram. A comment on one of my photos, although I know I haven’t uploaded one for ages.

  WTF have you been up to, Ali??

  12

  After Branwell has been outside for a wee, he reacquaints himself with the lounge, nose twitching into every nook and cranny. I plug my phone into its charger and open my Instagram account once more, ignoring the messages asking what I’ve been up to, and study the strange photo uploaded instead. It was posted on my account in the early hours of Sunday morning, presumably by me. It’s dark and grainy, a complete contrast to the Saturday sunshine brunches and shades of autumn dog-walking pictures I used to post, Matt and I crammed into the corner of the shot, grinning at the phone held in his outstretched arm. Scrolling through my account I can’t see anything else I don’t recognise among the endless photos of the chameleon sea; grey and angry, mutinous clouds bunched overhead; blue and sparkling under a clear blue sky. My favourite photo is perhaps the message Matt carved into the damp sand with a stick Branwell had found:

  I Love Ali

  I’d had to step backwards to see it clearly, crunching blackened seaweed underfoot, the wind whipping my hair. Saltwater stinging my eyes. Branwell yapping at the roaring waves, paws damp as he darted forwards and backwards. Matt’s arms around my waist, my head resting back on his shoulder. Feeling utterly loved. Utterly content. The perfect day. I can’t quite bring myself to delete my account but it’s too painful to look at, and that’s why I find it hard to believe I have posted this photo. I double tap it, frowning as it fills my screen.

  There’s not much to see. There are shades of grey at the front of the photo that fade to a choking blackness. There’s a rectangle to the right of the screen that’s a different contrast to the rest of the shot. Something looming ominously towards me. I draw the phone closer to my eyes. I think it’s a building. What could be inside? Or who? Fear prickles in my stomach along with something else, a hint of recognition. Did I take this photo, and why did I post it with such a cryptic caption?

  dark things happen on dark nights

  No wonder people are curious. Desperate for answers I call Chrissy. ‘Sorry, too busy being fabulous. You know what to do.’ But when I try and leave a voicemail a mechanical tone tells me her inbox is full. I rattle off a text instead.

  I’ve found my phone! Are you having a good time? Where are you?

  Frustrated, I open Facebook and, ignoring my notifications, search Chrissy’s name to see if she’s posted anything that might lead me to her. As her page loads I notice she’s changed her header photo. Previously, it was us at Jules’s birthday barbecue, James flipping burgers in the background, wearing an apron designed to make him look like a woman in suspenders and stockings. Her new image has ‘choose love not hate’ in swirling pink letters. And I roll my eyes, wondering who she’s choosing to love this week but then I see it and there’s a sharp ping in my gut.

  Add friend

  We’re already friends, aren’t we? Except, according to Facebook, we’re not. I scroll. Most of her posts are set to private, but the latest one, the only one I can see, was posted around the same time as my Instagram photo. It’s an image of a dark and choppy sea with the quote:

  There comes a time when you have to stop crossing oceans for someone who wouldn’t even jump in puddles for you

  Feeling winded I sit back as though I have been pushed. Why has she unfriended me? Or had I unfriended her? What happened that night? My questions cause a memory to materialise. Shouting, crying. But I can’t tell whether I’m the one shouting or whether I’m being shouted at. As quickly as it appears, it’s gone and I’m left staring once more at the ‘Add Friend’ icon. I press it with my thumb, watching as it turns to ‘request pending’, and I hurriedly shut the app. ‘A watched pot never boils’, Mum used to say.

  Instead, I double tap Inside, Out, the dating app I’d used. I open my private messages.

  Ewan.

  At the sight of his name, a memory. Sipping drinks. Loud music. Overpowering aftershave stinging my throat. He’s leaning in. Green tweed jacket. Thighs touching. Lights flash-flash-flashing. Rising to my feet. I’m not ready for this. An uncomfortable knot in my stomach. The room spinning red, yellow, green. Blurring until it’s gone and I’m back in my lounge, clutching the sofa as though I’d float away if I loosened my grip.

  My eyes find one of the photos of Mum dotted around the room. She’s unaware of the camera, hunched over my birthday cake piping lilac icing. Twelve pink and white spiral candles rest on the work surface beside her. I think that was probably the last time she was truly happy, and it seems so precious now, those ordinary moments we take for granted at the time. That was the last birthday cake I ever had. I never could bear them after that day. Even the smell of a Victoria sponge rising in an oven brings it all back. The table upended. The silver ‘Happy Birthday’ topper snapped under trampling feet, the screaming, the shock. My life in shreds, like the violet voile that was covering the table until the men burst in and everything came crashing down.

  Scanning through my exchanges with Ewan, I can’t see anything that triggers alarm, even with hindsight.

  He seems normal. Ordinary.

  I don’t usually tell anyone I love fishing. They’d think I was really boring but it’s calming. Peaceful. Gives me space to breathe. To clear my head.

  The sensitive type! I’d replied.

  I could pretend to like rugby if that would help you agree to a date…

  And I had tucked my phone into my pocket like a secret, again avoiding his question. I didn’t want to date anyone, of that I was absolutely sure, but a small, stupid part of me was flattered by the attention. The next notification was as though Ewan was sensing my reluctance.

  If you want me to leave you alone I will but I like you Ali and I’d love to take you for a drink, as friends. No pressure. I promise I’m not an axe murderer or anything.

  Would you tell me if you were?

  But it hadn’t been fear of who he might be that had stopped me, it had been fear of who I am.

  I had spun the gold band on my wedding finger. Had Matt and I given up too easily? All at once I had felt lost. Hopelessly, irretrievably lost and longing for clarity. If there was a smidgen of a chance my marriage could have been salvaged, wasn’t it worth a shot?

  * * *

  Confused, I jumped into my car and drove slowly across town, wheels skidding on black ice. The house was in darkness. Frost patterning the path, snow dusting the fir trees. I rapped sharply on the front door, berating myself for not bringing my key, before crunching over the lawn to the back door. The kitchen was dim except for the red glow of the clock on the hob. I stamped my freezing feet as I called Matt’s mobile.

  ‘Hello.’ At least he doesn’t reject my call.

  ‘I need to talk,’ I blurted out, my breath steaming in the frigid air.

  ‘It’s not a good time, Ali. I’m just burning dinner.’

  ‘You’re cooking? At home?’

  ‘Microwaving,’ he said. Lying. He was still lying. ‘Is it important?’

  Yes, it’s important I wanted to say. I’m important but, instead, I said nothing. Not even goodbye.

  Back at my car Mr Henderson was tipping warm water over my windscreen.

  ‘It’s icing over already,’ he said. ‘Didn’t think you’d be long. Matt’s not home.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Mr Henderson hesitated, as though weighing up whether to speak again. ‘He’s out most nights.’

  It was like a punch to the gut. I had no idea where my husband was. Or who he was with. ‘Please don’t tell him I’ve been here.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Mr Henderson wiped his damp hand on his cords. ‘I can keep a se
cret.’

  I kissed him on the cheek before driving away, my house growing smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror, and only when it had been swallowed by the darkness, the tears came. Pulling over, I rested my forehead on my steering wheel, letting out my grief, my frustration and, once drained of emotion, I tugged off my wedding ring, the line from the poem I would never be able to forget, ‘The Owl and the Pussy-Cat’, circling:

  “Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”

  Had Matt traded me for something else? Someone else? Tugging open the glovebox I toss my ring inside, and, pulling out my phone, once more I typed one word.

  Pig.

  But before I could send it, I changed my mind and send something else entirely. To someone else.

  Yes

  And I did not know whether I had agreed to go out with Ewan out of anger at Matt, out of the loneliness that pulsed inside my heart, or if I genuinely liked him.

  Fabulous. He quickly replied.

  Did I sway you with my charm?

  Sniffing hard I joked: That and your promise not to be an axe murderer.