chapter 1
My husbands at work, my husband is always at work. For the last three months he has spent more and more time working. Overtime, weekend shifts, business trips!? Why would a local office manager even need to take business trips?
To begin with it was nice, a relief even. We were getting on top of each other the smallest thing turned into a ridiculous argument and money was tight just to make things worse. Then he started doing extra hours here and there, staying late on occasion. The space did us good and the thought of the extra money just had a relaxing effect on most of the little mole hills that would normally turn into mountains.
But slowly it has started to increase and it’s becoming more suspicious; the extra money has not materialised and I just cannot fathom a reason he would suddenly be going on weekend business trips when in 10years at the same job he has never once been on one before.
Of course at times I have tentatively questioned these anomalies, but there is always a reasonable explanation, even if it is delivered in an unnecessarily defensive manner.
I hate to think about myself as the suspicious nagging wife, who inadvertently drives her husband to have an affair, but all the signs are there. I’ve spoken in depth with Cassie my closest friend. She has known me only for 5years more than she has known me with Jake, so if anyone has insight it would be her, plus her husband, Phillip, is quite chummy with Jake so I was hoping he might have confided in him, if there was something going on.
As it turned out, he hadn’t, but then as Cassie rightly pointed out over steaming cups of tea and chocolate biscuits, if he was doing anything untoward would he really be stupid enough to broadcast it to my best friends husband?
Ever the optimist is Cassie.
Nevertheless, she makes a good point and she agrees with me, that something is up. Her marriage is far from perfect, but it works, they both work hard at it and the majority of the time they come together as a team rather than rival gangs like me and Jake inevitably are.
So here I am stewing over paranoid thoughts as my ever absent Husband “works”, well works at getting some blonde bimbo into bed I bet!
I need a distraction, if I’m going to make this marriage work I need to trust him.
Here he is working every hour god sends to scrape together enough money to provide a better life for us, to try and improve this rut we have fallen into, and here I am doubting his efforts and destroying anything good that might have come from it.
Right, shaking the dark mist from my head I stand impulsively. There has to be an immediate task waiting for my attention. Granted I feel a little woozy from the second large glass of wine I have glugged down tonight. Drinking on your own of an evening, even with your meal is still a bit sad; But once a bottle of red has been opened it always seems a waste to leave it half full, so it has become a bit of a ritual for me to polish it off while watching bad T.V snuggled under a blanket in our once homely sitting room, that now, without my husband, always feels somewhat cold.
Anyway enough digressing, the wine must be depressing me more than I thought. Washing! There is always a mountain of that to get through, and as far as house chores go that is probably the safest to do when tipsy.
Padding through to the bathroom first, I grab some discarded socks and pants and two damp towels, tucking them under my arm I cant resist running into the hall so I skid across the hard wood floors stopping in perfect form outside the bedroom door. This practice is reserved solely for when I’m home alone; As much as I firmly believe no adult ever grows out of wearing fluffy socks to slide around shiny floors, they tend to resist the urge when in public and so, I too adhere to this unspoken rule.
Just the sight of the washing basket puts me off this idea, it’s packed down tightly and still full to the brim, but I’ve started now, so I’ve at least got to do one load before I relent to the calling sofa.
Dumping the towels to one side I start routing through pulling out anything without a colour run risk and adding it to the pile. Jeans, mine or his, I don’t stop to distinguish the difference, a few t-shirts and some more random underwear bits to fill out the load.
Scooping it all up, bending to repeatedly pick up escaping socks its back downstairs checking back occasionally for any socks on a mission to avoid the wash. And finally stuff it all into the drum. I’m hovering with my finger above the start button with one of those burning senses that you’re forgetting something, but what? Powders in the draw, I re-check the cycle I’ve chosen and it’s adequate, I give the door another push to make sure it’s closed properly, yep. But still this feeling, what? What is it?
“Oh” I mumble out loud, forgot the pocket check. Once, just once, a couple of months back, I didn’t check the pockets of my jeans before I washed them and ended up washing a £20 note to within an inch of its life, Jake went mad, “Why are you so stupid? How hard can it be just to check the pockets? For god’s sake Kaitlin, sometimes I swear you do this just to irritate me!” I mean Jesus, come off it, it was a simple over site, how about calm the hell down!
That was one of our best pointless arguments; It ended in me taking the offending £20 to the shops exchanging it for two bottles of red wine, I think it was the look on my face that stopped the boy behind the counter questioning its disheveled appearance, then hunkering down at Cassie’s for the night getting hideously drunk and thoroughly airing our (mostly my) dirty laundry.
So back to the task in hand, pulling out the jeans I dutifully start checking pockets, the third and final pair of black trousers are Jake's, nothing in the front, nothing in the ba……hold on, I’ve hit the jackpot, if its more than £5 I’m going down to the late night corner shop and treating myself to some high quality ice cream.
Pulling out the folded paper I can see it’s just that, folded white paper, no money, frowning I carefully unfold it. Slumping back against the washing machine I can feel the colour draining from my face,“My darling, I wish I could be with you always, until next time….all my love Stacy x x x x x x” Her writing is curly and seductive, my mind starts racing trying to piece together an imaginary image of this husband stealing vixen, wait a minute Stacy? Stacy! His secretary?? Oh no, no this is too much of a cliché, is he serious? He’s having an affair with his secretary? Ha! A vicious scoff escapes my lips, next thing you know he’ll arrive home in a sports car, really hammering home the early mid-life crisis.
I’m numb, if it wasn’t so ludicrous I might be angry, upset even, but come on Jake, I would have given you more credit than that, if your going to destroy both our lives you could try to be a little bit more imaginative surely?
Maybe that’s half the problem, I give him too much credit, I expect too much from him, I thought he was better than this. Maybe it’s put too much pressure on him, me thinking he’s perfect when he’s far from it, he is only human after all.
Whoa! Hold on, what am I saying? How can I be so quick to defend him? Even now I am painting him as the injured party. This is not my fault, I have been in this same marriage, dealing with the same arguments and I haven’t had an affair! I need to speak to Cassie, this is too much to process. Glancing to the wall, the clock mocks me, its twenty past eleven, it’s too late to call now, her kids will be asleep. So what now? The wine! I still have a small glass left, I’ll start there, staggering to my feet I feel hollow, like someone has knocked the wind out of me. I’ve been dreading this moment for months now, but yet somehow in my mind I always played it out more dramatically. I’ve imagined myself walking in on him and some model-esk beauty, screaming obscenities at them, reading Jake the riot act while he begs for forgiveness and finally throwing him out, naked, into the street followed by his most precious belongings, via the upstairs window. The reality however, is a real anticlimax.
Standing up I move to the full length mirror in the hall, dressed in old baggy jeans and a faded polo shirt, with a frumpy fleece over the top, I can’t really blame him, this is my standard wardrobe and the sight of it even disgusts me.
My light brown hair has always been thick and difficult to manage, but over the last few years I’ve really let it go; it looks lank, dull, hanging down over my shoulders and the ends are split, all tangled and askew, I can’t remember the last time I actually styled it.
Pulling off my fleece I observe my body, at 5’ 6” I’m not over weight for my height, but I have a little paunch over the top of my waist band and the old bra I’m sporting (it used to be white, but after too many coloured washes its now grey and loosing its elastic) does nothing to support my chest. My breasts used to be my prized possession, but without the right bra they are sadly lacking. I try standing up straighter, pushing my shoulders back and pulling my stomach in, but even a supermodel couldn’t pull off these drab clothes.
Taking a closer look at my face, it looks pale and blotchy, but that’s probably down to this evenings’ events, but I can’t deny the oily sheen to my forehead and dark circles under my eyes, they once sparkled with ambition and an excitement for life; they now look about as exciting as mud and with the crows feet framing them, I look old beyond my 32years.
This is too depressing, so I return to curl up on the sofa hugging the last of my wine. The TV’s on mute wordless images flashing in front of my eyes but not registering, my mind a million miles away. What do I do now? I could ring him, but from past experience I know he won’t answer, I guess now I know why.
Where is he? With her no doubt, but where do they go? Her house, I don’t even know where she lives, I guess somewhere locally, as they work together. Doesn’t she have a kid? I wonder if he’s met the kid, do they play happy families together, forgetting that he already has a wife, maybe that’s why he is always so adamant we don’t have a baby of our own? We’ve been married 5years now, but he’s always put it off…automatically iv opened another bottle of wine, the small glass I had left did nothing to warm the numbness now completely enveloping me.
He’s due back tomorrow, Sunday, should I be here when he gets back, or should I pack a bag and hide out at Cassies? No, this is my house, anger starts to rise deep within me, I can feel my heart rate quickening. Why should I hide? I’ll pack him a bag now and he can go running back to her, that’s if she’ll take him! What am I saying, judging from her note she would be more than happy to. Right I’m doing it, I’m chucking him out; stumbling towards the bedroom, my head spinning, now I’m moving I can feel the effects of the wine, but my anger drives me on. Grabbing his hold-all from the wardrobe I throw in a random mismatch of clothes and underwear, I don’t care what, then charging into the bathroom his toothbrush follows, that’ll do. No wait, I’ll put the note in, that will show the sleazy bastard. Walking back down the stairs, bag in hand, the phone catches my eye. It’s 1am now, but I’m seething, the wine has positively sparked my anger. Snatching the phone out of its cradle I dial his mobile with shaking hands. Unsurprisingly within 3rings it goes to voicemail, I wait patiently for his smug voice to stop then start my onslaught “You are despicable scum” I half slur and half hiss “I know what you’ve been doing, you make me sick. It’s over, I’m getting a divorce and in the mean time I want you out of my house you slimy git!” Slamming down the phone I feel better, my heart is still racing, but I’ve told him where to go, that’ll ruin his perfect weekend away.
On the way past I dump his bag outside the front door then put the chain across so he won’t be able to get in, if he even bothers to show his face again. Triumphantly I return to the dregs of bottle number two.
The April sun streaming through the sitting room window rudely awakes me. The big windows filling the room with early morning light are what first attracted me to this house, but today it is most unwelcome. As soon as I open my eyes I’m hit with a wave of nausea, first from the aftereffects of wine, then strengthened by the memory of last nights events. I am positive that if I move even an inch I will vomit, slowly I let my eyes roam the room for the nearest vomit depositing vessel, even moving my eyes sets the room spinning around me. No time left to think, I jump up and in a leap of faith land just in the nick of time with my head over the waste paper bin in the corner. I hate being sick, but now that its over (I hope) I do feel marginally better.
Its 8am, way too early to be awake with a hangover. Pulling the quilt off the floor and wrapping it around me I’m momentarily comforted. I need a coffee, and a bath, but first I need Cassie. Jake will be coming back, in theory anyway, guessing at the actions of this ‘new Jake’ I have discovered, he may just keep his distance, but just in case he doesn’t I’m feeling way too fragile right now to cope, at least if Cassie is here she can deflect for me.
Gingerly picking up the phone I speed dial her, she answers in two rings “Hi there, bit early for you isn’t it?” she chirps, her usual cheerful self.
“Are you busy Caz?” trying and failing to hide the crack in my voice.
“Hey what’s happened?” the sudden alarm in her voice breaks me, I’m always emotional on a hangover at the best of times, “Its Jake….he’s…..he’s….” I don’t manage much through the sobs now wracking my aching body; she has always had a knack for reducing me to tears without saying a word.
“Hey, it’s alright, I just need to drop the kids off then I’ll be there, about an hour OK?” she soothes, probably guessing what has happened.
“OK…thanks” I sniff. Mumbling goodbyes I head up to the bathroom and run the hot tap into the tub full blast, I feel atrocious. Before I know what’s happening I’m folded over the toilet bowl retching my guts up again.
The vomiting finally subsides just as the bath is ready, I feel weak and shaky, but as I peel my clothes off and sink into the hot water, I’m instantly revived. The heat soothes every ache and relaxes every muscle, for now at least, as my body eases my mind lets go and I allow myself to cry, great having sobs, into the bubbles.
I give myself 40minutes, topping up the hot water twice in that time, then reluctantly leave my soapy cocoon. Roughly towelling the worst of the moisture off, I tramp into the bedroom, somehow I don’t feel like sliding across the floor boards today. Pulling on my house clothes, an old oversized tracksuit with fleece lining, proper comfort clothing. Then topping it off with a thick dressing gown and fluffy slippers; I’m just scrunching my damp hair into a messy bun when I hear the doorbell. Freezing in my tracks the racing heart and nausea return instantly….Jake!
“Kate, it’s me” Cassie’s voice thank god. I take the stairs as fast as my sore head will let me, opening the door I’m practically knocked over by Cassie’s all too enthusiastic bear hug. When she pulls away concern is etched all over her face, her eyes wordlessly asking if I’m OK.
“I’m feeling much better” I say weakly, desperate not to crack again, “I had a bath” I offer my lame reasoning.
A sympathetic smile plays on her lips, her eyes still sad for me as she holds up a carrier bag “haagen-dazs for breakfast?” breaking into a grin.
“I’ll get the chocolate sauce” I smile fondly back at her, she sure knows how to pick a girl up.
We eat for a while in silence straight out the tub, chocolate sauce oozing over the sides onto the table as we dig our spoons in greedily. Ice cream breakfast is definitely a wondrous hangover cure. About halfway down Cassie clears her throat, she doesn’t look up at me, or say anything, but in her own way she is gently prompting me for an explanation as to why we are here overdosing on calories at 9.30 on a Sunday morning.
Silently I go to the front door, watched by a puzzled Caz, opening it I retrieve the note from Jake’s hold-all, replacing the bag outside before shutting the door and pulling the chain back across. Silently I push the crumpled note across the table to her. She briefly skims over it “have you spoken to him” she finally speaks, I shake my head “I think I left him an answer phone message” I mumble.
“You think?” she questions her eyebrow rising skeptically; I wave my hand towards the two empty bottles of red next to the sink. “Ah” she nods knowingly, “so what are you going to do?”
I shrug deflated, “what can I do?” I retort, knowing there is nothing she can say “I guess I’ll leave him” I can hear my voice wavering, but I manage to hold it together.
“Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry” she whispers. Before I can respond the door catches on the chain followed by Jake muttering “shit”, Caz’s wide eyes mirror my own expression.
“Do you want me to…” she offers quietly, nodding towards the door “yes” I breathe.
She stands immediately and strides out, closing the kitchen door behind her. Straining to hear I can only catch the occasional word uttered in hushed tones, evidently Caz is telling him in no uncertain terms, to go to hell.
She returns shortly slipping back into her seat opposite me “I sent him away, I hope that’s alright?” she asks searching my face for approval, “yes, thank you, I don’t know what I could say to him right now” the tears silently streaming down my face. In a flash she is beside me encircling her arms around me protectively, “it’s going to be OK you know” she soothes. All I can do is nod as the flood gates of my grief open up once again.
The next two weeks go by in a blur of numbness, anger and inconsolable sadness. I manage to hold it together at work, throwing myself into mindless tasks is a welcome break from thinking about my shattered life. My boss, Mick, has been hovering around me constantly, asking too many times if I’m sure I’m OK, chipping away and threatening to break through my protective wall. I can’t blame him for being concerned, his wife left him last year and he was a wreck for at least 6months. I think he is baffled by the relentless hard work façade I’m sporting, if only he could see me every night at home when I can’t hold it in any longer.
Caz wanted me to stay with her, but I assured her I would be fine at home, I didn’t want to say, but coming back to her and Phil’s happy home on a daily basis was likely to make the pain all that much greater, and anyway, I prefer to cry alone.
Most nights she comes over for an hour or so, bringing casseroles and badgering me to eat while she tidies up here and there. I make out like its unnecessary but in reality she is my rock, my lifeline.
My parents have also been down at the weekend, fussing about and dragging me out for fresh air, complaining of how pale and gaunt I’ve become. Mum is beside herself with worry, ringing me daily and then ringing Caz to confirm what I have told her is correct, if I amreallyOK and have I actually been eating. Dad was bitterly angry at first but is starting to thaw now, rolling his eyes at mums incessant badgering.
I still haven’t spoken to Jake. Phil came round on the Monday and apologetically collected more of his stuff from a list Jake had given him. I don’t know where he is staying and Caz has been insistent in not mentioning him, so I’m figuring he’s withher.
By the forth week I’m exhausted. Putting on a front at work, to Caz and everyone else all day, then crying or being plagued by insomnia all night is really taking its toll. I’ve lost a stone in weight despite Caz’s best efforts to tempt my diet back. I feel like a zombie just getting through every day on automatic pilot.
Jake has called a couple of times, leaving short unfeeling messages. I haven’t bothered returning his calls, what can we possibly say to each other? He did what he did, I’m heart broken, but there is no excuse and I cannot take him back, not to mention the fact that he has made no attempt to get me back, so I’m guessing now he has been caught out that he has no intention of reconciling. So what’s the point in talking about it, it’s only me that stands to get hurt by that and I just can’t take any more misery right now.
It’s Saturday morning, Caz informed me last night that she would be over around midday, no doubt to try and force feed me. I’ve taken to cleaning up before she arrives continuing the pretence that I’m doing better. I’ve just packed the hoover away when she knocks on the door. Opening it wide it’s not just Caz but my parents too, all gazing at me with that pitying look I’ve come to know oh so well.
Dad is the first to speak “this is an intervention love” he states in his usual frankness. Mum and Caz immediately shoot him frosty glares, “what?” he shrugs “it is!” he seems exasperated by the two of them; Stepping in, he gives me a brief hug before making his way to the sitting room. Moving to one side I signal for mum and Caz to follow.
Sitting in the living room around the coffee table Mum begins “love, we are worried about you” I open my mouth to protest but she raises her hand to silence me, “we know you’re not coping, look at you, you look ill sweetheart.” Giving me those pitiful eyes again “now we know this is hard, and no one expects you to bounce right back, you and….” I can see she is afraid to even speak his name in front of me “well you were together for a long time, it’s going to be hard, but what with living here with all those memories and how hard you’ve been working recently, it’s just….it’s not healthy.” She looks tortured and it makes me realise suddenly what I must have been putting her through this last 4weeks. She has always worried about me, even when I’m doing a sterling job of putting on a brave face. But now as much as I’m trying my body is letting me down, showing the effects of my stress right there for all to see. “oh mum, I’m sorry” I sincerely apologise.
“No, no sweetheart. None of this is your fault, we just hate seeing you this way” as she takes my hand silent tears start to well up, threatening to spill over at a moment’s notice.
Now Caz chips in “Have you thought about maybe putting this place on the market? I’ve looked into it and you’d be at least doubling what you paid for it?” she suggests gently.
I hadn’t even thought about it. I had come into some money when my grandparents died in my teens and ever the sensible one, I invested in this house. All through school and university I had rented it out, but once I married we moved in and have been here ever since. It’s true the only memories I have of this house are with Jake.
“It’s an idea, I’m just not sure I can take on all that comes with selling a house and finding somewhere else and moving…” I finish dejectedly.
“Well that’s where we come in” Caz starts more determined now, “I can do everything to sell this place, you just give a brief to your parents of what you want in another place and they can do that side. There are firms you can hire to do the whole move for you?” Caz has always been organised; I’m almost surprised that she hasn’t gone ahead and done it all already.
Finally dad re-joins the conversation “Caz is right love, your mum and me, we’ve been looking for a project and nothing would make us happier than to do something to help you back on your feet” I glance at him lovingly, they really are the best parents anyone could ask for. “Now there is just one more thing, and it’s all arranged so I don’t want any arguments OK?” his tone has gone stern so I know he is serious “you’re going to Mexico.”
“Err…what?” what’s that supposed to mean? Noting my alarm Caz jumps back in “next month, it’s all paid for, 3weeks in an all-inclusive resort; you need to get away, clear your head, plus it will give us some time to get the house sorted” she states as a matter of fact.
“But…” I start my protest.
“No love you’re going, it’s booked and Caz cleared it with your work, you need some space” Dad still has his stern voice on.
“Are we all going” I ask.
Caz takes this one “No, just you. I would have loved to come, but with the kids…and anyway we think some time on your own will really help...you know, strengthen you.”
I’ve got nothing to say. Holiday on my own? I’ve never been anywhere on my own, the house I can get on board with, but leaving the country, alone!? No I’m not sure that’s their best idea yet.
Fishing in her bag mum pulls out a brochure, “here” she says passing it to me. In fairness it does look amazing, crystal clear waters, blue skies and palm trees. On top of that there are numerous restaurants all offering mouth watering dishes from across the globe and different activities that could keep you busy for 3years let alone 3weeks!
It really is a dream holiday, it must have cost them a fortune, they really must be desperate to get rid of me! Or at least be desperate to get rid of sad-sack me.
Looking up at there expectant faces, I take a deep steadying breath. “OK”