‘Yes, she is, isn’t she? Good job some people keep hope, Gregg,’ Sue added, smiling at me.
You tapped on my leg as you smiled back at her. Sending me a message. Making me squirm at your touch. Please, God. I sat, silently fuming, feeling as small as any adult possibly could. How come no one ever saw through your performances? So cringeworthy and insincere. Was it a case of them not wanting to see? Ignoring all the signs, because it was easier to do so. Wasn’t this human nature? To avoid unnecessary hardship and confrontation, especially if they had nothing to gain by it. Or was I becoming increasingly cynical of the world and its people?
After a couple of hours and plenty of traffic, we eventually arrived. Only ever having seen Wimbledon on the TV screen before, I couldn’t help but feel a slight stir of disappointment. In my mind’s eye, I’d imagined it somewhere much grander. I hadn’t realised we were approaching the entrance on just another suburban residential street. Pleasant, but fit for any ordinary sports club. Within the grounds, and the streams of people, it vaguely reminded me of a lavish village fete; just busier. How the imagination is so proficient in plugging the cavities with what it desires or needs to see. We were immediately guided by David to the marquee-adjoined restaurant, where we would mingle and be served lunch, ahead of the Centre Court excitement.
I sneaked off to call home and check on Jack, before rejoining the swarm for polite conversation. I hovered from foot to foot, aware of an edgy feeling, my confidence threatening to bail. I didn’t recognise myself any more. What had I possibly to talk about? Eventually, we were shown to a white-tableclothed circular tables adorned with unnaturally fixed arrangements of white lilies. I hoped this wasn’t a bad omen. The embarrassing decision of who should sit where, while you scanned the room for the most influential dinner-party partner, was thankfully addressed: set named places awaited us. The only downside being I’d been dumped next to you. The alcohol would be flowing in abundance. We had a chauffeur; you would be under the influence, amplifying the volume levels before long. At least I wouldn’t be travelling back with you alone, in your inebriated body and mindless state.
I was starving and keen to satisfy the low-sugar shaky feeling, so consumed the minuscule smoked salmon starter with speed. Reaching for the basket of bread as you scowled briefly, inconspicuously. I made polite conversation with my left-side companion as my second course arrived. You leant over me, continuing conversation across the table, then glanced up to the hovering waiter holding a bottle of ruby wine. ‘No more here. Not for my wife, thank you,’ you added, covering my wine glass just in time to prevent it from being topped up. The waiter seemed slightly taken aback, as I probably did too. He glanced nervously between us.
‘Oh, so sorry. Would she prefer white instead? I’ll fetch another glass?’ he asked you, obviously thinking I didn’t have a tongue, or a mind. Strangely, I too found myself looking at you to hear your response.
‘No. No, I mean, no more wine. Of either kind. Thank you.’ You turned away from the poor lad, who offered me a consoling half-smile. You continued conversation with your pompous-seeming neighbour. An influential figure, I was later informed.
I was aware of my rising heart rate. ‘What did you do that for, Gregg?’ You completely ignored me. I tapped your arm. You turned to me as if to an annoying child.
‘What?’ you said under your breath.
‘Why did you say I didn’t want any more wine? Speak for me?’
You smiled at me, then at the prim-looking lady across from us. ‘Because you’ve had enough.’ You attempted to turn your back on me, so I pulled at your arm. My head told me to back off, my heart urged me otherwise. I was pushing my luck. But sometimes it was so unbelievably testing to follow your path.
‘One glass, that’s all I’ve had. I’m not driving, so why not?’
You regarded me as if I were a simple-minded idiot, and you needed to spell meaning out to me. ‘For Christ’s sake, Eve. Stop drawing attention to yourself…’ you slunk closer to me, lowering your voice ‘… making a fool of me. Keep your voice down. You have Jack to look after later. Remember Jack, your son? The child you left at home?’ You tapped my arm gently, as if consoling me. ‘Stop creating a scene. You’re downright embarrassing,’ you whispered.
Causing a scene to embarrass you was exactly what I felt like doing, self-important idiot. I pushed back my chair, placing my napkin on the table, avoiding eye contact with my fellow diners. Counting in my mind, zigzagging my hurried way through the room towards the ladies. Passing the raucous laughter, drunken slurring and people generally enjoying themselves. A glass screen between them and me. Self-loathing swatting at me all the way. Did I imagine the look from the other diners as I left?
Poor Gregg, his wife really is a handful. He’s so lovely too. Shame. Did you see how she reacted, all over a glass of wine. Maybe she has issues. Maybe she has a drink problem? I do feel sorry for him – she’s clearly out of control. That poor baby they have. How can she possibly be capable of looking after him? Poor Gregg.
I freshened myself in the ladies. Why was I bothering? I was merely a decoration in the guise of a wife, a disliked one at that.
I returned in time for dessert, which I pushed around the plate. Strawberries felt so incongruent to my mood. A flashback, of a time strawberry-picking and abundant eating with Sam, reminded me of how far removed I was from me. Later that night we’d made summer cocktails with frozen strawberries for a pop-up barbecue with friends. The laughter and carrying-on. I sipped at my tepid water. Sober, and sad. You, on the other hand, downed liquor and became merry and merrier. I wished I could up and leave. To add insult to injury, the balls of my feet were pulsating – one thing to wear uncomfortable heels when having an amazing time, another altogether when your experience was soul-destroying.
Eventually, you were beckoned over to another table. I recognised one of the men; he’d visited our house in one of the several after-work congregations. I’m sure he introduced himself as a bank manager, or did he work with you? I decided I didn’t care. He clearly worshipped you, whoever he was. I reached for my bag, took my chance and absconded. Funny, I thought, I’d believed we were at Wimbledon to enjoy the tennis, but no one else seemed to be budging. Intent on mingling and consuming as much free alcohol as possible. Anyway, polite small talk was very overrated.
I perched on the edge of my Centre Court seat, with dejected empty seats to my left and right. Another waste. You and your cronies stayed in the marquee, by then probably downing whisky shots. The atmosphere on Centre Court was thankfully as I’d imagined. Exhilarating and upbeat. It crossed my mind, if I could, by observing the ball pace left to right, de-traumatise myself with a little EMDR therapy. Or maybe hypnotise myself into believing I was happy, having a great time. I remained until the very end, half watching, half dreaming of what ifs, should haves and wish I hads. Still empty seats surrounded me.