by Jane Moore
“Oh, I dunno. Less sex, wanting to go out on her own a lot more, that kind of thing. Anyway, I confronted her and she admitted there was someone else. When I pushed her on the subject, she confessed it was one of my colleagues. We’d even been out for dinner with him and his girlfriend a couple of times, and I couldn’t bear the thought he was probably sitting there laughing at me and thinking, ‘I’m screwing your girlfriend.’ So I kicked her out immediately and quit my job the next week. I never gave him the satisfaction of punching him.”
Puffing on the last centimeter of his cigarette, Conor ground it into the ashtray with a finality that suggested the subject of his relationship was spent too.
“Wow. I admire your strength of will,” said Jo. “Although I suppose it’s easier to block someone out of your life if you don’t have children with them.”
“True. I look back on it as a valuable lesson now, because I know I would never allow myself to cheat on anyone. I wouldn’t want them to feel the pain and humiliation I went through.”
Draining the last dregs of her tea and placing the cup in the sink, Jo smiled to herself as she remembered having to grip the edge of her chair to stop herself lunging across the table and enveloping Conor in a bear hug.
The unmistakable creak of the spare bedroom door wiped the smile from her face.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered, scurrying toward the downstairs loo. She ran inside and closed the door, as Conor’s footsteps came down the stairs.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m just in the loo,” she squeaked through the lockless door. “Won’t be a moment.”
Turning on the tap for no apparent reason other than something to do, she peered into the minuscule fish-shaped mirror hanging over the sink. Her carefully applied eyeshadow from last night had gone blotchy and her mouth was encircled only in the remnants of a particularly long-lasting lip liner, giving her the Gothic look of someone who had died in the night. Using damp toilet paper, she dabbed at her face in an attempt to clean it. She could have kicked herself for wasting time daydreaming when she could have been repairing her makeup. Though she was adamant she’d done the right thing by stopping their liaison last night, she was vain enough to want to look her best in front of him. But, lacking the tools and the time, it wasn’t possible. He would just have to be treated to the real “natural look” as opposed to the one that took at least an hour to perfect.
Flushing the loo, she dragged her fingers through her hair in a last-minute mirror check, then opened the door and walked through into the kitchen.
Conor was leaning nonchalantly against the draining board dressed only in his boxer shorts, looking utterly edible.
“Good morning. How’s your head?” he asked.
“I was just about to call the restaurant. I think I lost it there last night.” She pulled her dressing gown tighter to her body.
“I see. Is that a joke, or a rather loaded statement suggesting you regret what happened between us?” he said quietly.
Jo froze. She wasn’t used to a man who was so direct about everything. Usually, they danced around an issue, desperate to avoid any confrontation. She was hoping Conor would act as if nothing had happened, then leave and carry on as usual. But he stayed firmly rooted to the draining board.
“Well?” He looked directly at her.
“Look, I really don’t want to talk about it right now. I’ve got an appalling hangover and I’d rather just go back to bed, on my own, and sleep it off.” She didn’t mean her voice to come out sounding so shrill.
He stared at her for a moment, his eyebrows raised. “In that case, I’ll go. And by the way, the ‘on my own’ bit was unnecessary. I would never get into your bed without an invitation.”
As he walked out of the kitchen, Jo slumped onto a chair and let out a sigh. God, what a bloody mess, she thought.
He came down five minutes later, fully dressed with his jacket thrown over his arm. Standing in the kitchen doorway, he looked at her for a few seconds before speaking.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it now, but I know after I walk out of that front door I may not get the chance to be alone with you again, so I just want to say something. If you can remember anything of last night, I told you I had always wanted you, and that’s true. But you were with Jeff so there was nothing I could do. Now you’re not with him, and I would never have forgiven myself if I had let the opportunity pass to tell you what I feel.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I really like you, Jo, and I would like us to go out on a couple of proper dates to try and get over this brother’s friend obsession you seem to have. Have a think about it. I’ll leave the ball in your court as to whether you want to do anything about it.”
He waited for Jo’s response. There wasn’t one.
“Right,” he said, with false brightness. “I’m off then. I’ll see you soon—I hope.”
Jo cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. Thanks for dinner.”
She knew she should stand up and see him out, but she couldn’t face the prospect of an awkward encounter in the hallway, so she remained seated. As she heard the familiar click of the front door closing, she let out a long, slow breath and felt all the tension rushing out of her shoulders.
“Thank God for that,” she said aloud, although she felt curiously deflated. The simple fact was she would have liked nothing more than an evening of uncomplicated sex. But there was no such thing with your brother’s friend. There was also no such thing when you were recovering from a marriage breakup and had two children by another man. She felt that life would never be simple again, and it depressed the hell out of her.
Still, she thought, at least I have the whole day to myself to do absolutely nothing. What bliss! Will it be a bath then back to bed? Or back to bed for a while and then a bath?
“Decisions, decisions,” she said to the cat, who had wandered in.
The phone rang.
6
nervous, fearful it was Conor calling from his cell just two minutes down the road.
“Hi, it’s Jeff. Listen, Sophie has got really bad tummy pains and wants to come home. I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but she just keeps crying and saying she wants Mummy.”
Bed then bath? Or bath then bed? Bloody neither, thought Jo, as she saw her child-free weekend vanish into thin air. She immediately felt guilty for such selfish thoughts.
“Poor little thing. How long has she been like that?”
“Since about ten last night. I tried calling you but there was no answer and you hadn’t put the machine on. She eventually drifted off to sleep at about midnight, so I thought I’d leave it until this morning. So . . . did you have a good night?” Jeff paused before casually throwing the question at her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Jo, feeling a warm flush creeping up the back of her neck.
“Er, exactly what it says, Jo. I was merely asking if you’d had a nice evening, as you were clearly out somewhere.”
“Yes, fine thanks,” replied Jo, hastily gathering herself. “Bring her home now. I’ll be here.”
Half an hour later he arrived at the door with a tearful Sophie, looking very sorry for herself and clutching a Paddington Bear hot water bottle to her stomach.
“Where’s Thomas?” said Jo, looking over Jeff’s shoulder as she gathered her listless daughter into her arms.
“He’s playing with my next door neighbor’s son in their house. I said I’d only be half an hour and I didn’t see any point in dragging him along.” Jeff closed the door behind him.
“He’d better not be with her,” muttered Jo, careful to keep her voice low so Sophie wouldn’t hear.
Jeff raised his eyes heavenward. “He’s not. I’d hardly risk your wrath, knowing how unreasonable you are about the children seeing Candy. When you meet someone new all the rules will be different no doubt.”
Jo shot him a deadly look and carried Sophie upstairs.
“I want to sleep in your bed, Mummy,” she m
urmured, nuzzling into Jo’s neck.
“Alright sweetie, of course you can.”
Turning back the duvet with one hand, she laid Sophie on the bed and tucked her in. She heard a creak at the top of the stairs and peered around the door just in time to see Jeff disappearing into the spare room. She followed.
He had often frequented it in the latter months of their marriage, after arriving home late and, the next day, saying, “I didn’t want to disturb you.” Now she knew he’d slept there for selfish reasons after no doubt exhausting himself with rampant young Candy.
“I see all traces of me have been removed,” he said, his eyes scanning the room, absorbing every little detail. He walked toward the bed. “Ah, but traces of others remain.” He gave a triumphant smile and stared pointedly at the pillow. The two dark brown hairs on it may as well have been highlighted with a large neon sign flashing, “Gotcha.”
“What are you jabbering on about?” snapped Jo. “They’re probably yours.”
“Darling, I think even you might have changed the bedding after three months,” said Jeff sarcastically, lowering his face to the pillow and making an elaborate sniffing noise. “I also don’t remember wearing this particular brand of aftershave.”
Furious, Jo turned on her heel and left the bedroom. If Jeff hadn’t become a solicitor, he’d have made a top-rate detective. He was one of those men who was like a dog with a bone if he thought he’d unearthed something suspicious. He also reveled in the discomfort of others. It didn’t take Hercule Poirot to know an almighty row was on the way.
“So who is he?” He had followed her into the kitchen.
She knew she should ignore the remark and ask him to leave, but after all these years he knew exactly which buttons to push to infuriate her.
“Look, I’ve really got no idea what you’re talking about. And quite frankly, if I wanted to shag every man within a four-mile radius it would be absolutely no fucking business of yours, alright?” She hated herself for taking the bait.
“Now, now, temper, temper. I was merely asking, and I see you have answered my question by your use of the word ‘shag,’ ” said Jeff pompously. “If someone brings up a subject unprompted in court, it always proves it’s on their mind.”
Whirr. His verbal fishing line shot across the room and hooked itself straight into the corner of her mouth. He was the prosecuting solicitor. She was the defendant. And he was winning the psychological game.
“It wasn’t unprompted. You pointed out what you thought to be evidence of me sleeping with someone, and I have denied it. Now let’s drop the bloody subject,” she snapped. But he ploughed on as if he hadn’t heard her, taking two steps away then swiveling on his heel as if addressing a witness.
“Quite frankly, I’d be thrilled if you were seeing someone because it might make you a little more understanding of my situation.”
Jo gave an exasperated gasp that came out like a repressed snort. “Your situation? And what might that be? Now let me see. Ah yes, you walked out on your wife and children to shack up with some twelve-year-old and now you want some understanding, do you? Well, you can just fuck off!” She folded her arms with as much fury as she could muster.
“Oh, very adult. I thought after three months you might have calmed down about all this, but I can see I was expecting too much of you.”
They sat in stony silence for a few moments, Jo staring out of the French doors, Jeff looking at the ceiling. The next time he spoke, his voice was more conciliatory.
“Look, all I’m saying is that surely it’s better for the kids if we can establish some kind of routine when they come to stay with me. It’s awkward that Candy has to go and stay with friends simply because you don’t want her to meet the children.”
Jo shot him a glance to see whether he was joking, but his expression was deadly serious.
“Frankly Jeff, I don’t give a fuck if Candy has to sleep in a cardboard box on the Embankment. She’s not my concern and never will be. What I don’t want is for the children to meet a succession of ‘aunties’ in your life.” She was fighting hard to keep her voice calm, because she knew it would have more impact.
Jeff let out one of those how-can-you-reason-with-women sighs and stood up. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Heck, I might even get a T-shirt with it printed on the front just to hammer home the message once and for all. Candy is not a fling. She’s a permanent fixture in my life and you’d better get used to it.”
Jo rubbed her face with the palm of her hand. Suddenly, she felt exceptionally weary and wanted him out. “Yes, you left your last lot of permanent fixtures behind with this house when you left, didn’t you, Jeff? Which reminds me, you don’t live here anymore, so would you please leave.”
Here was her husband standing in what was once their family kitchen, defending his mistress to her. It shocked and depressed her to the core.
Jeff started walking down the hallway. “Fine. I’ll bring Thomas home at tea-time tomorrow. I’ll let myself out.”
After the familiar click—the second man that day to let himself out of her house—Jo stayed rooted to the spot. She felt overwhelmed with sadness. What on earth was happening to her? One minute she had been a happy-ish married woman with two children, the next she was a single mom who needed only a couple of glasses of wine to make her behave with wanton abandon with the first slightly interested man that came along.
The empty day ahead that had seemed so attractive an hour ago now felt like an abyss of loneliness in which she would spend her time clock-watching and trying to find something—anything—to fill one hour, never mind several. Jeff was the villain of the piece, and yet he was the one enjoying the best of both worlds. He had the thrill of a new relationship unhindered by the twenty-four-hour responsibility of their children, and could play the doting daddy on days when it fitted into his golf or football-watching schedule.
Jo, on the other hand, had the twenty-four-hour responsibility of the children with no thrill to look forward to. Just a mundane round of making packed lunches, washing and ironing. Her encounter with Conor no longer felt illicit and exciting. It felt cheap, sordid and meaningless. Now here she was, a thirty-three-year-old mother of two, blowing all her hard earned self-esteem in one rash evening. The hopelessness of her situation engulfed her, and a small tear ran down her cheek.
“Jo Miles, pull yourself together,” she muttered to herself, but it was no good. She walked across to the kitchen table, sat down, and had a damn good self-pitying weep.
When the phone rang five minutes later, she was already feeling better from the release of her pent-up emotion.
“Hello?” she said tentatively.
“Hi, it’s me.” It was Rosie. “I’m just checking you went on your night out with the chaps and didn’t wimp out.”
“Um, yes, sort of.”
“Any good?”
Jo knew if she told Rosie the gory details now they would be on the phone for the next two hours. So she decided to wait.
“It was certainly interesting. Listen, I’ve got Sophie back with me because she’s got tummy ache, so why don’t you come round tonight and I’ll fill you in then?”
“Great. I’ll bring some wine.”
“Bring two bottles. We’ll need it.”
By the time Rosie arrived at 7:30, Jo was feeling philosophical about life again. That afternoon, she had crept into bed alongside Sophie and drifted off for a much-needed two-hour sleep. Sophie’s temperature had gone down, and she was now upstairs watching a video of Toy Story 2 for the squillionth time.
“Ta-dah!” Rosie held up the two bottles of wine as she walked through the door. “A full bottle in front of me leads to a full frontal lobotomy.”
“I feel like I’ve already had one,” laughed Jo, following her into the living room. She had laid out two glasses, corkscrew, bowl of tortilla chips and a selection of dips in preparation for their natter.
“I was going to put out some Kendal mint cake too, beca
use this is going to be a long one,” she said, while Rosie struggled with the cork, her Titian curls flopping into her eyes.
“Bloody hell, I didn’t think a night out with your brother and his friend would be that interesting,” said Rosie, as a satisfying “pop” indicated a drink was finally on its way.
“Ah, well that’s it you see.” Jo decided there was no point beating about the bush. “Tim didn’t show up, so I went out with Conor on my own and we ended up playing a rather exuberant game of tonsil tennis.”
It was unfortunate timing as Rosie had just taken a large slug of red wine. She began to make elaborate choking noises as a small trickle escaped from the side of her mouth and dribbled down her chin.
“Fucking hell, Jo.” She cupped her hand under her jaw to catch the drips. “There I was thinking you were enjoying a small sherry in the local wine bar, and all the time you were shagging your brother’s best friend.”
“No, no, it didn’t go that far. We did go for a drink and then dinner, and then it just sort of happened,” said Jo sheepishly.
“It just sort of happened,” repeated Rosie. “What, like rain ‘just sort of happens’ or accidents ‘just sort of happen’? Christ, I wish snogging a gorgeous bloke would ‘just sort of happen’ to me.”
Jo shrugged apologetically. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I genuinely didn’t mean it to happen. I think it was the combination of too much alcohol and a craving for affection.”
“It’s called lust,” said Rosie matter-of-factly, “and all I can say is, you sex kitten. He’s a real catch.”
“There’s no way it will happen again, it was a one-off,” said Jo. “I’ve only just started to adjust to Jeff walking out. No way do I want to start another relationship. You know what they say? There’s so little difference between husbands, you may as well keep the first.”
“You’d be mad to let that one get away. But never mind all that. Tell me what happened. I want to know every little detail.” Rosie plumped up a cushion behind her and tucked up her legs for maximum comfort.
