Greater Expectations (9 page)

In the meantime, I shall listen to your tales and enjoy them from afar. If you don’t mind of course? I would perfectly understand if your discomfort prohibits my wish.”

It seemed, for the most part, she had been talking to me as the title rather than the person. I paused to consider the magnitude of what she had just said, albeit in such a factual manner. Never had I before considered how fortunate I was to enjoy such anonymity in my own personal pursuit of happiness. How could I deny her the opportunity to share in my experiences? I actually found myself feeling sorry for her. “I certainly have no issue whatsoever in regaling you with my exploits. However, there are two conditions.”

“Ah, yes, the conditions. There are always conditions. It is plain to see that you may be a friend but the lawyer is always there, lurking under the surface.” She was teasing but she was also correct.

“I suppose that is true. Anyway, the first condition is that you are equally honest with me. As you have just described me as a “friend”, this should be of no issue to you. Secondly, everything that we discuss remains private at all times. These are conversations between you and I alone. Agreed?” This came out way sterner than I expected.

“Definitely. In actual fact, I was going to suggest the very same two conditions to you.” She said with a chuckle.

“Anyway, I have to go.” I had unintentionally parked in the very same spot that Sian had used the previous evening and, as the realisation hit me, I felt the same deep discomfort all over again. All I really wanted to do now was empty the car and take my new mattress and bedding into my house. Maybe move the car into another spot while I’m at it. “Feel free to give me a call if ever you are bored or else you can wait until after my next experience as a reluctant sex object. Although that could be a while!” I said this in fun but I was already looking forward to hearing from her again.

“Ha! Okay, I daren’t risk it. We shall talk again sooner than that, I’m sure. I really have enjoyed our chat and you certainly have cheered me up. Let me know if you hear from Sian again. Or Gemma. Either or would be equally interesting. It is a tangled web you weave Mr MacLeod. Goodbye for now.” I could still her chuckling as the line went dead.

It was only as I exited the car that I realised that she still hadn’t arranged for my T-shirt to be sent to me.

13

Black Friday

Friday 13th February

In law, often the most untrustworthy evidence is that of the eyewitness. Statistics have proven that the human recollection to eyewitness events is only 62% accurate. Unsurprisingly, this figure drops significantly when there are multiple eyewitnesses. The reason for this is that people see things in a uniquely biased perspective and, as such, the same situation shall be recounted differently in accordance wi
th the individual’s perception.

A police friend of mine gave me the perfect example of this. She had been called to the scene of a particularly horrific road traffic accident where the male driver had been decapitated. Whilst his body was still strapped into the car, his head had been catapulted through the windscreen and came to rest further on down the road. The family had heard the news and raced to the scene. They were fully informed that the accident had resulted in decapitation but they still demanded the right to identify their relative immediately. In
accordance with their wishes–and in the interests of sensitivity, and full knowledge that there was no doubt of identity–my friend placed the severed head on a towel and as deferentially as possible, raised it to show the family.

“No, that isn’t him” said the man’s mother. The rest of the relatives seemed subdued and so only added to my police friend’s confusion. There she was, standing with the dead man’s head atop a towel in her upturned hand, looking repeat
edly between it and the family.

“Are you sure? Please understand, we have every reason to believe that this is your son and so need you to be quite certain.” My friend asked this as sensitively as the situation allowed. She knew that there was no doubt of the identity but such was the mother’s insistence that it wasn’t her son, it caused my friend to question how the mother could be so definite.

“I am positive that is not my son. The reason is quite simple.” She had stated defiantly. Clinging to her last shred of hope, she declared: “He was taller than that.”

Proof positive that tragedy oft
en invokes the greatest comedy.

However, life is not a court of law and there is not the same requirement of proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Far less so in fact. Actually if, indeed, at all. Yet there are some circumstances that are irrefutable, no matter who has witnessed them. Gemma’s email was one such instance that I had read and witnessed for myself. It had been over six weeks since we had last spoke and here, the day before St. Valentines Day, she had sent me an email that had me now questioning my own recollection of those events that led to our separation. Worse still, she had me doubting my
self and what I knew to be true

Dear Z,

I have tried to be respectful and give you the time and the space that you obviously need to calm down and see reason. Why have you not contacted me? I am prepared to sit down and address all the problems in our marriage and work everything out. You obviously need a greater challenge than truck driving and I am prepared, as I always have been, to support you in this.

Now is the time for you to move on and forge a career and so you should pursue your PhD. You have enough intelligence and ability for this. It would provide a proper career with job security that would ensure a sound financial future for our children.

I return to Scotland next week to resume my own PhD so shall be back home then. I look forward seeing you there where we can discuss our marriage rationally as adults.

Love

Your Wife x

My instinctive reaction was to immediately respond and unleash the fury that had manifestly grown in concert with the reading of every single word of her email. No mention at all of her infidelity, no mention at all of our argument, no mention at all of any of the major issues that needed talking about. On the contrary, she takes this opportunity to highlight how it’s
my
fault for not contacting
her
and the usual, and entirely predictable, demeaning of my profession. A profession that she has never had any issue with spending the earnings that it has generated. Spending, as I discovered, that included meals with
him
.

Yet this was all
my
fault?

Even now, rather than being in any way contrite, she thinks it best to be pushy, cajoling, and manipulative. “Encouraging” me down the path of further study and qualifications in the pursuit of a career that she wants for me rather than the one that I might want for myself. This was an all too perfect example of attack being the best form of defence.

Yet, bizarrely, it is her lack of grammatical errors that are driving me crazy. Everything just had to be perfect, as usual. I used to love that about her, that she was as fastidious as me. She has just succeeded in irritating me further by having me now wondering if I am bi-polar or, at the very least, OCD.

Now I am completely unsure if my anger is aimed at her or myself. One thing is for certain, I am angry. My fingers are poised over the keyboard and words and sentences spinning and tumbling around in my head. I want to respond but know that now is not the right time. Anything I write would be venomous and vitriolic and, whilst undoubtedly satisfying, could bite me on the ass l
ater.

Yet I need to vent.

I need a friend.

I need Penny.

It had been over two weeks since we had spoke and, try as I might, I could find no reason to call in the interim. Evidently, neither could she. I felt a tingle of excitement as I heard her phone ring.

“Hello Z, well you certainly know how to keep a lady in suspense” she said with a chuckle, obviously happy to hear from me. It seemed to me that she emphasised the word “lady” but I could be mistaken. More likely paranoia on my part. Her tone really was most disarming and I felt myself relax even as I told her of Gemma’s email. Surprisingly, she insisted upon hearing it verbatim. “So what are you going to do? She is, after all, your wife and you are still officially married. Is it not worth fighting for?” Her questions seemed to lack any real sincerity.

“Penny” I said her name with an authoritative emphasis to ensure she knew quite how serious I was, “my marriage is
over
. I can never forget and so how could I forgive? We have no children and so nobody shall be hurt, other than us two–and I have done my hurting.” I said this but knew that my hurt was more of a “work in progress” than completely finished, but at least the majority of it was complete. Well, I hoped so anyway. My pause had been just a shade too long so I quickly continued “Anyway, maybe we would have had a chance if we were just living together, but not after being married.”

“What a curious thing to say. Why would it have been different had you been living together rather than the more altogether serious commitment of being married?” She was genuinely perplexed and seeking some sort of clarity.

Time for me to impart one of my pearls of wisdom. After all, it would be selfish to keep it to myself. “I have lived with someone before and there is a completely different psyche and attitude in that relationship when compared to being married to someone. In my experience, all people, like it or not, have a preconceived idea of what they will and wont accept from their respective husband or wife.

This is altogether differe
nt from simply living together.

Somehow, everything becomes more serious when you are married. When I lived with someone before and, say, went for a drink with friends after work, this was entirely acceptable because what else could be said? We were friends as well as lovers and my partner accepted that she was neither my mother nor my wife. Similarly, if she had chosen to do the same, then wha
t right did I have to complain?

However, when I did this as a husband, suddenly my wife believed that marriage afforded her some sort of preconceived right of control. ‘No
husband of mine
shall be staying out with his friends and drinking
our
money.’

Do you see what I’m saying? Does this make sense?”

“Hmmm, I think so. It’s certainly an interesting analogy. So, why does this apply with you and Gemma?” It struck me as odd that she said “Gemma” rather than “wife”, although I have no idea why.

“Well, how can I trust my
wife
to not cheat again? If we were just living together, we could each simply take our things and go. As we are married, it’s altogether more serious. As such, I cannot do that and just quickly move on.”

In explaining this to Penny, the seriousness of my situation hit me. I started to talk to myself as much as to her. “I mean, who would want to be entangled with me in this situation? A separated man is still a married man until divorced, irrespective of what the law or anyone else says. Time is what is needed for me to get through this and be ready to start a new relationship. When I can once again feel that I have something to offer. It is somewhat easier to move on given that we lived through the enforced separation for practically six months whilst she was in Brussels. Although, on reflection, it is painfully obvious that she saw this
more as a marital sabbatical.”

There was no doubt I was failing miserably to disguise
my disgust and disappointment.

“Yes, her actions certainly spoke volumes. So what will you do regarding her email?” Penny really has such a comforting way about her. Not at all mothering, but somehow just talking with her made me feel less alone with someone that actually cared. I understand not what her motivations are for such kindness and generosity, both of time and spirit. I only know that I am so thankful she is there for me. It’s both soothing and confusing as to why I instinctively feel I can trust her implicitly. Maybe it’s my stereotypical understanding of her class that they naturally know how to be discreet and keep secrets. Whatever the reason, I am just grateful.

I started to reply “I have no idea…” when my phone bleeped. “Sorry, give me a second, I’m getting a text.” I had started to read the text and was so immediately rapt in its contents that I inadvertently blurted out
“Well, fuck me…”

“I’m afraid that would be physically impossible given our respective locations.” Penny’s voice invaded my consciousness.

What did she just say…?

“I’m sorry?” between the text and Penny’s statement, I was momentarily stunned. My focus shifting from one to the other, unsuccessfully trying to ascertain what was actually going on.

“You said ‘fuck me’ and I merely pointed out the logistical difficulties in such a suggestion.” She was teasing me and I would have ordinarily enjoyed it and delighted in stewing on its implications, but the text had shocked me in the truest sense of the word.

“Actually, I really am sorry Penny. Please forgive my language.” I was about to continue but she interrupted me.

“Z, I have heard profanity before and it really doesn’t offend me in the least. Actually, for the most part, I find it quite amusing. It also makes you seem more natural to me given that you are constantly trying to be so careful in your word selection. This is part of the ‘being brutally honest with each other’ that we agreed to be, is it not?” She certainly made a point and, on any other day, I may have tried to argue but not today. Today had been crazy enough without trying to argue whether it was okay for me to curse. “So do you want to tell me about the text?”

“I am not entirely sure.” I meant it. I really wasn’t sure. “That said, we both know I would just tell you about it later anyway so may as well tell you now. This is very strange and most definitely odd.” I had just said the same thing in two different ways, this days cann
ot be over quickly enough.

“It’s from Sian.”

“Sian? Your rapist?” she blurted out through unsuppressed laughter. “What can she possibly want other than to abuse you more?”

“Please don’t call her my ‘rapist’. It really makes me feel emasculated, not to mention the fact that it is a most disturbing thought, however true it may be.” It really was. “It’s in textspeak which, as I am sure you know drives me crazy, but the basic gist is that she has a family wedding tomorrow and she has accepted with a partner but has no-one to take. As going alone would be embarrassing, she is asking if I would please go with her. Apparently there’s a free bar and an overnight stay in a country hotel and she is happy to drive. She needs my answer ASAP.” In the midst of my compounded dilemmas, a wry smile had formulated in response to my pleasant surprise that Sian had spelt “ASAP” correctly.

I really can be an asshole sometimes.

Given Penny’s initial reaction, her response really surprised me. “Do you have any other plans for tomorrow? It is St Valentine’s Day so the perfect day for a wedding. You should go. At least you know there will be sex for you. Certainly for her.” Penny seemed to be enjoying my discomfo
rt with Sian a little too much.

At least we had moved on from my situation with Gemma.

“I don’t have any plans. I was going to work but could change that easily enough. I would like the opportunity to show her the real me rather than the gibbering fool that I was last time.” This could be interesting and certainly more fun than working.

“Yeah right, you are just thinking of the sex.” Penny was teasing me but I couldn’t deny that was an appealing factor. On reflection, I had actually enjoyed being the subject of such wanton desire. It was certainly a new experience for me and at least I would have an idea of what to expect over the weekend.