So the only place he could have gone, I thought, was back to Claire and Mackenzie.
But then after about two hours he came home and he smelt of alcohol, and I was so relieved because it meant he’d just gone to a bar. And as soon as he walked in, we were all over each other and ended up having sex up against the wall in the passage, and he yelled, ‘I love you’ again and again. Which was very reassuring, and I’m trying very hard to ignore that I found it a bit of a turn-off, because that is just perverse of me – all I’ve wanted for so long is for Daniel to love me. And now I have that.
And then it was late, but I still couldn’t sleep because Daniel had his arms and legs wrapped around me and he smelt of whiskey and was snoring, but every time I pushed him off, he found me again and clung on tighter. Eventually I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off I felt like I was climbing out of a deep hole, but I had to get up and go to work. Daniel just went on sleeping and barely even moved when I kissed him goodbye and whispered, ‘Love ya.’ He’s the boss and is in advertising, so getting to work on time isn’t a big deal for him.
And then work today is crazy, with Gerald having various technical breakdowns trying to submit online tax returns and blaming all of us for it, so I eventually told him just to give me all his files and I would do it. Which he’s done. And there are hundreds of them – great bundles of paper in no particular order and I want to cry.
In the middle of all this, Daniel messages me.
Please can you fetch my suits from the dry-cleaners near my office? Thanks, babes. Xx
I glance around like maybe someone is playing a joke on me. I message back: I’m at work. Sorry. Xxx
I put my phone down and it beeps almost immediately.
I asked Claire and she was really very rude about it. Please, babes. X
I type before I can think: You asked CLAIRE to pick up your dry-cleaning? I mean, what the actual . . . ? On what planet does a person ask his estranged wife to collect his dry-cleaning? My phone beeps.
She always does it. She’s never been funny about it before. And someone needs to.
I can’t even believe we are having this conversation.
She did it before because you were married. You can’t ask her to do things for you any more.
I send the message and then wait. I take a deep breath because I know I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to. I messed up yesterday with the school, is it really so hard for me to pick up the bloody suits?
Fine, I text. I’ll get them. But I’ll be a bit late home then. Xxx
I expect a response, a thank you, but I get nothing. And suddenly I want to phone Claire so badly. ‘Can you believe the cheek of him?’ I want to say to her. And we’d have a good bitch, and we’d laugh and I’d feel better. But that’s not an option any more. I put down my phone and start inputting online tax returns, trying to ignore the headache building behind my eyes.
Daniel
I get home late because Julia said she would be late, and she’s furious because she’s cooked a special meal for me and now it’s cold.
For a start, calling Julia’s place ‘home’ doesn’t feel natural. It’s not a bad place, as flats go. It has the decent proportions of older flats, and the building is attractive and well maintained. I like the parquet floors and the high ceilings. And it’s close enough to my old house for me to fetch Mackenzie when it’s my weekend, because Claire is very odd about driving Mackenzie here. And there’s a good shopping centre nearby, which is nice when I need Julia to pop out for something, or when I want to have a quiet coffee or browse the bookshop. But even though there are two bedrooms, it’s definitely not big enough for two of us. I have to keep my stuff in the spare room. And the few times Mackenzie has stayed overnight, it’s a squash.
When I first moved in, I told Julia we should get a bigger place and she looked really excited and started talking about good areas and swimming pools and how she’d love a garden. But she’s done nothing about it and it’s been almost a month, so I guess she’s gone off the idea.
While she’s slamming plates around in the small kitchen, I try to reassure her that the microwave also works, but she doesn’t like that and starts saying things like ‘I don’t know why I bothered’. I should point out that it’s her fault because she specifically told me she would be late.
Then I stumble over the box of my books that Julia still hasn’t unpacked, and go into our bedroom, which I always think of as Julia’s bedroom, and I see she’s flung my clean suits across the bed so they’ll be all creased and unwearable. She’s going to have to get them dry-cleaned again. I don’t understand it – Claire always used to put them away in my cupboard with no fuss. And Claire used to calmly reheat my food if I was later than I said I would be. It was never a big deal. It’s hard to believe Julia loves me as much as she says she does, but then I go back to the kitchen and see that she’s crying. She’s really upset so she must love me, and she clings to me and it’s nice because Claire never needed me like this. This is what it’s all about.
I put my arms around
