Saturdays at Noon

by Marks, Rachel

  ‘I just can’t believe they’re expecting her to learn her letters alongside all the other children. I mean, she’s been reading for over a year. It’s preposterous. And they sent us that homework, what was it? Ordering numbers to twenty. I wrote some three-digit additions at the bottom for her to solve and sent those back.’

  ‘I know. It’s very basic, isn’t it?’ Daisy this time. Mum to pristine blonde Amelie, unnaturally polite and exceptionally pink. ‘Can you believe it, they put a photograph of Amelie on Tapestry writing the word “cat” on a whiteboard, as if that was some kind of great new achievement. I marched straight into Mr Frampton’s office and complained.’

  The other mum in the group smiles, but the look on her face makes me suspect her child isn’t reaching quite such heady academic heights and I wish I could reach out to her and say, ‘Hey, don’t worry about it. Mine neither.’ But she’d never admit to it in public. No one ever does. It’s all ‘best face forward’ in the playground.

  During this time, the children chase around, alternating between running races and tag, but Alfie always skirts around them, close enough to look like he’s joining in, but really he’s on the periphery, wearing a strange glazed expression like he’s not entirely sure what’s going on. I wonder if he knows he’s not really part of the game. He doesn’t seem to. I guess it’s better that way, not being aware you’re the outsider, but, at the same time, it makes me sad that he’s not striving to get in.

  It’s a relief when his teacher appears. She’s probably only in her early twenties, but she’s one of those people who seem old before their time, wearing a high-necked cashmere sweater, a beige knee-length skirt with thick black tights and pumps my nan might have worn if she were still alive. She seems nice though, smiling warmly at the children and ruffling their hair as they walk past her. I give Alfie his book bag and kiss him on the forehead, but he barely acknowledges me, lost in some faraway land that I have no map for. Like a machine in a production line, he hooks his book bag over his head and trails into the classroom. And as soon as he’s gone, I experience the same feelings I always do: regret, sadness, and the desire for one morning with no arguments, no screaming. Just one morning when I can walk away from school feeling anything but this.

  * * *

  Despite Jemma leaving the house before us as usual, her car is there when I pull into the drive. I go straight up to the bedroom, where I can hear her bashing around, and open the door.

  When she sees me, she looks flustered and stops what she’s doing. There’s a half-packed suitcase on the bed and she’s been filling it with clothes from the wardrobe.

  ‘How come you’re back? I thought you’d left for work. Are you going away again?’

  Jemma sits on the bed and pats the quilt beside her.

  I join her, but I feel unnerved. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘This isn’t working, is it?’ She looks me straight in the eyes and I feel a sudden sense of panic about where this conversation is about to go.

  ‘This meaning us?’

  ‘Jake, you know what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Please elaborate. What exactly about me doing everything to support you, your career and look after our son isn’t working for you?’

  Jemma gives me an I-don’t-know-why-I’m-bothering expression, stands up and pulls more of her clothes off the hangers in the wardrobe, stuffing them into the case with less precision than before. ‘I should’ve guessed we couldn’t do this reasonably.’

  ‘Reasonably?’

  ‘I need some time away from all this.’ Jemma gestures around the room, as if our bedroom contains everything that is wrong with the world.

  ‘And Alfie?’

  ‘He can come and visit. I’ll Skype him all the time.’

  ‘Skype him? You’re going to parent him via Skype? Are you serious?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Better off, probably.’ Jemma looks like she’s on the run, frantically squashing more and more clothes into the case – there’s no way it’s going to close. ‘Look, I don’t have all the answers, Jake. I just need to get away. I can’t explain it any better than that.’

  ‘And where exactly are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to stay with Laura. Work have agreed to give me a six-month sabbatical.’

  ‘Laura? Please don’t tell me you mean your sister Laura?’

  Not looking at me, she nods.

  ‘You’re going to Paris?’ I find myself laughing. ‘How the hell is Alfie supposed to visit you in Paris? When did you agree this with work? How long have you been planning all this?’

  I’ve got so many questions; I don’t know which one to start with. I know our relationship’s not great right now. The last conversation we had that lasted over two minutes and wasn’t an argument was about what we needed to put on the online Waitrose order, and even then we couldn’t agree on whether to get frozen fruit or fresh, chopped tomatoes or plum. But this? I would never leave Jemma, even if at times I’ve wondered whether I’d be happier if I did.

  ‘But we had sex last week,’ I continue, my voice coming out as a squeak. ‘You initiated it. You never do that.’

  ‘I was trying to …’ Jemma stops.

  Suddenly the penny drops and, with it, my heart. ‘To make yourself love me again?’

  Jemma pauses, long enough for me to know that yes, that was exactly what she’d been trying to do. ‘No. Let’s not make this any harder than it already is. I just can’t live here any more.’

  Jemma fiddles with the clasp on the suitcase. When it won’t close, she starts rummaging through her clothes, pulling items out and throwing them on the bed.

  ‘And you think I don’t feel like that? You think I don’t want to run away?’

  It’s the truth, I do. Even though I hate myself for it.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? That’s it? So are we getting a divorce or do you expect me to wait for you? You go off and refresh yourself in Paris, then come back and we act as if you never left?’

  Jemma shakes her head, as if trying to explain something incredibly simple to someone incredibly stupid. ‘No. I don’t expect anything from you. We don’t need to think about divorce yet. I just need out. I’m so miserable, Jake.’

  I swallow down the hurt and try not to focus on her use of the word ‘yet’. ‘And what exactly are we going to do about money? We have a mortgage to pay, bills, our child needs to eat. Have you thought about any of that?’

  There’s a sudden shift in Jemma’s mood. The untrained eye might have missed it, but it’s very clear to me.

  ‘Have you? Have you thought about any of that? I’ve all but supported you for the past six years. Perhaps it’s time you put the food on the table and kept the roof over your own head.’

  ‘Are you serious? I’ve been looking after your son. God knows, you certainly had no intention of doing it.’

  From the look on Jemma’s face, I think that if she wasn’t leaving me there’s a high chance I’d be found in a few months’ time buried under the decking. ‘Why does it always come back to this, Jake? You think you’re a better parent, no, a better person, because you stayed home with Alfie. You’re right. I wouldn’t give up my career. I would’ve been one of those parents you despise and put him into nursery. And who knows? Perhaps then he wouldn’t be such a fucking mess.’

  I can tell that Jemma knows she has overstepped the mark because she leaves the room. I know that she will come back in a bit and apologize. But I also know that deep down in her heart, she does think that. Because I think it too.

  I sit on the bed, trying to take in what’s happening. After a few minutes, Jemma comes back in, rushes over to me and gives me a hug. I breathe in the familiar smell of her shampoo and it almost makes me cry. After a while, we both pull away.

  ‘I’m just going to finish off packing and then I’m going to go. I don’t want to drag this out for any longer than we have to.’

  ‘What about Alfie? Won’t you stay unti
l he’s home and say goodbye?’

  ‘I can’t. My flight’s at two.’

  I can’t believe she has a flight booked. Up until this moment, it’s felt like just another fight where threats are made and not followed through. But now it’s hitting me that my wife is actually leaving me.

  ‘But what about the anger management? I’m doing that for you. Aren’t you even going to give me a chance to change?’

  I hate how desperate I sound. Like it’s all my fault. But I just don’t want her to go.

  Jemma shakes her head. ‘It’s so much more than that, Jake. I thought that might make a difference, but it’s not just you. It’s me. It’s Alfie. It’s everything. I feel like I’m slowly dying here.’

  I chew my bottom lip, trying to stop the tears in my throat from reaching my eyes. ‘So how exactly do I explain this to Alfie, Jem?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I know you’ll find a way. Whatever I’ve said in the past, we both know you’re much better with him than I am.’

  During other fights, this kind of platitude would’ve calmed me. It wouldn’t have meant that the argument was over, but it would’ve been a turning point towards resolution. Jemma is well aware of this. She thinks she’s being clever, but it’s not going to work today.

  ‘Don’t try and get out of it like that, Jem. It’s your job to tell your son you’re abandoning him. Not mine.’

  I expect her to tell me to fuck off, that she’s not abandoning him, that I’m being a prick. But she doesn’t. She collapses on the bed, puts her head in her hands and sobs. Embarrassingly loud sobs that make her body convulse.

  ‘I’ve thought about it over and over, Jake,’ she says through the tears. ‘I’d never do anything to hurt him. But I’ve got to leave. I’m no good to Alfie like this. That’s why I think it’s better that he just comes home and I’m not here. I don’t want a painful goodbye. I’m not sure I’d be able to leave if he was here. And I need to, Jake. I’m so sorry, but I need to.’

  I put my arm around her and she rests her head on my chest as her sobs gradually turn into sniffs. There was a time, when Jemma first started working late every night and in the study all weekend, that I wondered if she even loved Alfie. But then I’d catch her at night, sitting at the end of his bed just staring at him. Sometimes she’d be crying, other times smiling. And I knew that she adored him. Just like now I know she really believes it’s best for her to sneak away.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell him.’

  Jemma looks up at me in surprise. ‘Thank you so much.’ She tries to hug me tightly, but I sit there, my body frozen.

  Then I suddenly stand up, because if I don’t, I might fall to my knees and beg her to stay. ‘I’ll leave you to finish packing.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Our actual goodbye is less than dramatic. She brings her case down into the hallway. I potter in from the kitchen. She gives me a kiss on the cheek and I offer her a half-hearted smile. I don’t say all the things I want to say. She picks up her case and walks out.

  Later, when she’s been gone about half an hour, it hits me. I collect up the clothes she’s left on the bed and throw them across the room. I run my arm across shelves – books, candles and her stupid bowls of pot pourri spilling on to the floor. I take our wedding photo off the wall and smash it against the top of the cabinet, the glass only splintering feebly, remaining mostly intact. I search the house for something, anything, that she cares about. The vase sits on the dining-room table. It was a gift from her parents and I always hated it – the intricate flowers and butterflies adorning the ceramic. Jemma knew I hated it, that I thought it was too showy, but she still insisted we used it as a centrepiece so I had to look at it every time I sat down for a meal. As I launch it at the wall, it shatters into pieces, shards scattering far and wide across the floor. For a very long time, I sit amongst the chaos with my head in my hands, feeling as broken as the ceramic that surrounds me.

  Then I spend the rest of the day tidying so that Alfie won’t wonder what’s happened, and trying to mend things that can’t be fixed.

  * * *

  ‘Can we send Emily a message? Can she come now?’

  ‘Alfie, I don’t think you are really listening to what I’m saying.’

  ‘Please, Daddy.’ Alfie waves his arms around manically, the napkin with Emily’s number on it gripped firmly in his hand.

  I bend down so that I’m at his eye-level and hold his arms still by his side. ‘Alfie, I said that Mummy has gone to live with Aunty Laura in France for a while. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  ‘Yes.’ A short pause. ‘Now can we call Emily?’

  This isn’t the reaction I was expecting. I’ve been avoiding telling Alfie that Jemma’s not coming home for several days. I even bought him a Lego set to calm the inevitable meltdown. But he seems less bothered than if I’d told him I’d forgotten to record the latest episode of Gigglebiz.

  ‘Alfie, I don’t think you’re getting it. Mummy isn’t going to be living with us for a while.’

  ‘I know. Like when she’s away for work and we see her on the computer and she brings me home the shampoo bottles from the hotel.’

  ‘Not quite like that, little man. It’ll be longer than normal. But, yeah, we will still talk to her on the computer.’

  ‘And will she bring me the little bottles?’

  ‘Well, no, she’s not staying in a hotel.’

  ‘But I want the little bottles.’

  ‘I’m sure we can get you some of those from the shop.’

  Alfie ponders this for a minute. ‘OK. Can we send Emily a message now? It’s been ages and you promised she could see the Lego.’

  ‘Look, we’re not texting Emily, Alfie. She doesn’t want to see your Lego. She was just being nice.’

  At this, huge waves of tears ensue – just as one set dies down, another rolls in. ‘You’re being so mean, Daddy. Why are you being so mean?’

  Alfie starts pulling the cushions off the sofa and throwing them around the room, then he looks around to see what else he can propel and decides on the magazines neatly positioned in a wicker basket. In mid-tantrum, Alfie still looks like a toddler. Sometimes, when he’s answering me back and arguing with every word I say, it’s easy to forget he’s still so young.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I pick him up and hold him on my lap, my arms encapsulating his so he can’t lash out. ‘I’m so sorry for all this, Alfie.’

  ‘Please can we invite Emily over to see my Lego?’

  I’ve just told my son his mum’s left him so I know that I’ve got to say yes. I take the napkin from Alfie. He somehow still manages to have Emily’s number firmly clasped in his hand, even after throwing around most of the contents of the lounge.

  ‘OK. I’ll send her a message. But she might not be able to come, OK? And it won’t be today.’

  ‘Oh, I want to see her today. Please.’ He elongates the ‘ee’ sound and opens his eyes as wide as they’ll go.

  ‘It’ll be bedtime in a couple of hours. She’s probably busy. Look, I’ll try. I’ll text her now.’ I hold out my phone as evidence.

  ‘Make sure you put pretty, pretty please.’

  I laugh. ‘Of course.’

  Alfie appears satisfied that this’ll do the job and that Emily will be turning up shortly. Unbelievably, within ten minutes she texts me to say that she will be.

  I have a quick straighten up, gathering up all the crap – the empty beer bottles on every surface, the dirty bowl from last night’s impromptu midnight pie, five or six of Alfie’s socks (all odd), his school trousers and pants on the bathroom floor where he’s taken them off and left them – then I run the Hoover round and lightly wipe the surfaces. I don’t want it to look like I’ve tidied for her arrival, so I leave out a few bits, choosing the ones that paint me as a good father – the book I read to Alfie at bedtime, one of his completed puzzles on the lounge floor, the home-made hovercraft from the one time we did a science experiment out of the book we bought him for C
hristmas. I take the last painting he did at school out of the recycling bag and Blu-Tack it to the dining-room wall.

  When Emily arrives, I welcome her into the hallway and quickly kick the dirty socks I missed under the shoe rack.

  ‘Come on in. Do you want me to take your coat?’

  I don’t think I’ve ever offered to take anyone’s coat before.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She takes off her leather jacket and I hang it on the coat rack. She’s wearing a long-sleeved top that hangs off one shoulder and, seeing her exposed shoulder blade, it’s noticeable how painfully thin she is. For a second, it makes me feel strangely protective.

  We walk into the dining room and she pulls the cuff of her top over her hand. ‘Is your wife here?’

  ‘No, she’s … just had to pop to Paris on business. She’s a highly successful marketing executive so she spends a lot of time travelling. Look, there’s a photo of her on our wedding day.’ I point to the now slightly cracked picture of us on our photo wall – the frames organized in a purportedly random configuration that actually took hours and a lot of swear words to put up.

  Emily glances up at the photo and nods.

  ‘I know, I’m punching. Everyone always says it.’

  Why am I saying all this?

  If Jemma were here, she’d glare at me and slyly dig me in the ribs. When we first met, Jemma found my tendency to over-explain endearing. I’d take a shirt back to the shop for a refund and regale the shop assistant with a fabricated tale of why I once thought it suitable but how unfortunately it no longer was and Jemma would lean in, kiss me on the cheek and whisper, ‘You’re bumbling again,’ like I was some kind of adorable Hugh Grant figure in Four Weddings and a Funeral. But over time, the novelty wore off and her affectionate reaction gradually turned into an embarrassed, ‘Jake, just shut up, will you?’