Lessons for a Sunday Father (32 page)

Dr Whatsit from the surgery was at the party and he sang a song and clapped his hands and stamped his feet and made everyone else clap as well. It was a nice tune and I clapped, but it wasn’t in English, so I don’t know what any of it meant. I think he likes my mum because he kept looking at her all the time and my dad didn’t like it one bit.

Nat was really cross about Dad being there and he kept trying to spoil it, so Mum sent him to bed and I got to stay up later than him for the first time ever. It was brilliant.

7:42.
Red numbers on the clock. The clock on my side of the bed.
Our
clock.
Our
bed. I think about last night, my hands slip-sliding over Gail’s dress, her front, the feel of her through the slippery material. Stroking her neck, fingers hooking under the straps of her dress, nudging them off her shoulders, the dress catching for a second on her breasts, her hips, then falling to the floor in a silvery pool. Gail standing there just in her knickers and sandals, suddenly embarrassed, awkward, laughing—and me edging her closer to the bed, kissing her, stroking her warm back, squeezing her bum, the two of us flopping onto the bed—"Wait, wait,” she says, sitting up again, fumbling with the straps on her sandals then kicking them off. I reach for her, pulling her closer, my hand in the dip of her waist, cupping her breasts, her tummy, tracing the scar of her Caesarean, her rosy scar, we call it though it was only pink at the beginning, Rosie scar—my fingers moving down, along the edge of her knickers, teasing her, walking over the soft cotton, a path over her thigh, rubbing her through the cotton now, feeling her press against me, hard, unexpectedly urgent, her hand pushing against the swell in my trousers—tugging at my belt, trying to undo the sodding buckle, both of us clumsy in our haste—me saying, “Christ, oh Christ,” yanking off my trousers, pulling off my shirt—one instant, hovering on the brink—Gail beneath me, her legs parted, open to me, her face tilted to mine looking up at me—and then—God, the relief of it—sliding into her—sinking—being enveloped, lost, nothing else. Moving now, familiar yet strange after all this time, mouth on mouth, hips colliding—her skin sticking to mine—God, that’s good—getting faster—o-o-o-o-h yes, yes indeedy, here we go, o-o-o-o-o-o-hhhh—and Gail’s saying “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” and I reach down with my hand, feeling her juices and mine all over me, and I rub her gently, then faster, working her up, watching her face, until I feel her shudder beneth me, her soft grunt, eyes closed. She murmurs into my shoulder, I kiss her hair and we slip into a hot and tangled sleep.

This morning, now, waking up, I catch sight of the clock, then turn to see Gail, her head on the pillow next to mine where it should be. The last few months feel like no more than a horrible nightmare. Perhaps I did dream it. We can pick up exactly where we left off. A family again. Cover over the cracks so you’d never even know they’d been there.

I lie on my back looking up at the ceiling and start telling myself how it’s going to be. I’ll fix the front gate for a start. Get window locks on that conservatory window at the back—I’m not having every sodding Tom, Dick and Harry come hopping in here any time they feel like it. We’ll go out as a couple more—snazzy restaurants, dancing, shows. And as a family. On the bikes. To the coast. Holidays. Cornwall. Greece. Swimming in clear seas. Windsurfing maybe. I’ve always fancied a go at that.

All I need now is a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich and I’d be in Heaven. Nope. Now that I plan to be a grade A husband, I will get the tea. I carefully slide out of bed so as not to wake Gail, put on my pants and tiptoe downstairs, quiet as a thief. Whistle chirpily as I wait for the kettle to boil. This is going to be so great. I sashay about the kitchen, singing to myself, and sliding the drawers out and bumping them shut with my bum. I even remember to wipe the tea rings off the worktop with a cloth. I’ve turned over a new leaf. Everything’s going to be fine. Everything’s hunky-dory.

I hear sounds of activity downstairs. The unfamiliar sounds of someone else up before me, the splashing of water in the sink, the banging of the fridge door, the clang of the breadbin lid. Maybe Nat’s sorry for being so foul last night, maybe he’s been transformed butterflylike into a wonderful adult human being? Maybe Rosie’s got up to get herself a glass of milk. I turn to look at the clock—7:51 a.m. I close my eyes again and tell myself I have had a peculiar dream. I drank too much last night, way too much, and that has given me strange dreams. Strange,
rude
dreams. There is an unmistakable stickiness between my thighs. Maybe I got lucky and seduced Dr Wojczek? Dear God, please tell me it was Dr Wojczek, I think, knowing it wasn’t, remembering him sweetly kissing my cheek as he left last night, squeezing my hand. I turn onto my side. There is a definite dent in the pillow next to mine. A Scott-shaped dent. Oh shit.

I come down this morning to get myself some juice and I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear singing coming from the kitchen. A
man
singing. And not just some man. My
dad.
He can’t sing to save his life, so there’s no way it could be anyone else. So I creep down the last few stairs and take a sneaky look round the doorway. It
is
him. What on earth’s he doing here? Oh no. I don’t believe this. I do not believe it. One minute Mum’s chucking all his stuff into bin bags and won’t even say his name, the next she’s letting him back and—you know. I’m not staying if he’s moving back in. How can she after what he did to us and everything?

He’s dancing round the kitchen in his pants, making tea and singing. He should hush up. Rosie might hear. Actually, he looks kind of funny, he keeps opening the drawers then knocking them shut with his bum. I’d like a go.

But he’s not supposed to be here. When he walked out on us, it was a bit crap at the beginning, OK? It was hard. Look, he’d been around my whole life then suddenly I wake up one morning and he’s gone. Then Mum starts giving us all this “Your dad and I need some time apart” stuff. Don’t know why she was covering up for him when he was the one who walked out. He could have told us first. He could have come and said what was going on. I’d have listened. I’m not too young. But he didn’t even try. He just went, then left it to Mum to make something up.

But now—now we’ve got sort of used to it, him not being here. And we’re doing just fine without him. We don’t need him any more. Only now he reckons he can just come strolling back in like he only went out for some milk and it took him a bit longer than he expected.

No way, José. Sorry, but no dice. I’m not just going to sit back while those two arse about going backwards and forwards, and him moving in and out whenever they feel like it. If Mum wants to make a complete prat of herself, that’s her lookout. That’s parents for you. And Rosie will be jumping up and down with excite-ment—"Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” ‘Scuse me while I take a puke.

I’m going to count up my savings, see how much I’ve got now, how far I can go. Then maybe I’ll go round Steve’s, see if he’s up for going away. Joanne wouldn’t come. I know what she’d say—"Talk to your mum about it.” It’s all right for her, she’s got normal parents, not loony tunes like mine. Or I could talk to Jason. He’s had all this parents being crap and driving him up the wall. He might know what to do.

Scott thinks that the fact that we—well, that we ended up in bed together, means that everything is OK between us again. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do. I can’t believe I was so stupid. What on earth did I think I was up to? I can’t blame Scott, much though I’d like to, because we all know that he has no self-control. I admit that it was actually very nice. Nicer than normal—I mean than what used to be normal, for us. I haven’t been so turned on for ages. But it was a mistake. A huge mistake. I’d had too much to drink, certainly that was partly to blame. And I was feeling … what? Sort of frisky, I suppose. Yes, frisky and flirty and—old. Oh God, please don’t tell me I did it because I was grateful that someone could still find me attractive at forty? That is just too pathetic for words. No, I don’t think it was just that. Maybe I wanted to try and salvage—what? I don’t know. Just
something,
something good from what we had, what we once had. This morning was awful, Scott was strutting about like a randy cockerel; I only managed to get rid of him by saying I didn’t want the kids to get a shock and that my parents had said they’d pop round and I wasn’t sure when they’d get here. I promised to phone him later. He tried to kiss me on the doorstep, but I just gave him a quick peck and told him to get a move on.

I’m too embarrassed to call Mari or Lynn, specially after letting them both go on about how they were sure I’d done the right thing in separating from Scott. Mari’s never been a huge fan of his, but then she is a bit of a snob, though Lynn used to like Scott but she’s become something of a men-basher the last couple of years. Scott used to say it was because she was in need of a good shagging, but that’s the kind of thing you’d expect Scott to come out with and I told him it was a dreadful, sexist, awful thing to say and he shouldn’t say things like that. It was true though.

So I call Cassie and confess all to her.

“I thought you two were looking a bit flirty-smiley at the party. It’s nice to know you’re not without your old-slapper moments like the rest of us.”

“Well, technically, we are still married of course.”

“Oh, lighten up. It’s good for you to let your halo slip a bit once in a while.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You make me sound like such a prig.”

“I’m only joking. Anyway, tell all. Was it good? Was it worth it? Is the old magic still there? Has he lost his touch?”

“Nosy! Actually, it was good, better than I remembered. Maybe it’s just because I’ve been going without.” “True. Nothing like ravenous hunger to make you appreciate a crust of stale bread.”

“Oi! Do you mind? I said he was good.”

“A-ha! You leapt to his defence. So, you’ve still got feelings for him then?”

Well, of course I’ve still got
some
feelings. Mostly, they’re irritation and frustration. I can’t imagine ever feeling completely neutral about Scott. I’m not sure you ever can once you’ve been married to someone.

I sighed.

“No, Cassie. Not those kind of feelings. Really I haven’t. It’s all over. I don’t know what I was up to, sleeping with him. I didn’t mean to, it was just a crazy mistake. But I think Scott’s got it into his head that we’re heading for a second honeymoon. I keep expecting him to turn up any second with all his belongings in tow.”

“Oh, Gail. What are you going to do?”

“Er, hello? What do you think I’m ringing you for? Best friend—that’s your job. Start doling out the sensible advice.”

“Okey-doke. Right, you ready?”

“Pen poised. Fire away.”

“Do it quickly and do it now.”

“What? Is that it? Do what?”

“Tell him, you fool. If you really are 100 per cent sure you don’t want to give it another go, then you mustn’t string him along. Get on with it and deliver the good news before he starts packing.”

“Maybe I could send him a note?”

“No. Do it in person. I’ll come and take the kids out if you want. I’m free all afternoon. Then I can call in later to see how it went.”

“To check up on me, you mean.”

“As you like. Hop to it, girlie.”

Oh, please don’t make me do this. Please can someone else do it. I don’t feel well. I need to go and lie down. OK, I’m calm. I’m taking deep breaths and I’m very, very calm. I will call Scott and say I need to see him and have a talk. My voice will be calm and civil but not too warm. I will say I’ve made a mistake, that I’m very sorry if I’ve misled him and that certainly wasn’t my intention. I’ll say thank you, thank you for having me like I tell Rosie to say after she’s stayed at a friend’s house. No, I won’t say that. I’ll say I had a nice time, thank you, but that it hasn’t changed anything. It’ll be fine. It won’t be as bad as it is in my head, it’s never as bad as you imagine, like going to the dentist’s. Oh God, I wish I could make it yesterday and I wouldn’t touch a drop of wine, I wouldn’t even have asked him to the party. Or I wish it was tomorrow and I’d already told him. Maybe he’ll be fine with it. He’s probably regretting it, too. Regretting it and wondering how to tell me. This is going to be fine.

“Scott,” Gail says, calling me on my mobile. “Sorry to disturb you, but I think we need to have a chat. A talk, I mean.”

She is being very polite. Serious and polite. This is not a good sign.

She doesn’t say: “Darling! Last night was wonderful!” She doesn’t say: “It’s made me realize just how much I’ve missed you.” She doesn’t say: “Move back in tonight. I’ve cleared half the wardrobe for you.”

She says she wants to see me for a talk. But, I have to say, so far talking doesn’t seem to have done me a whole lot of good, you know? Every time I open my mouth I only end up making things worse. So when Gail says she wants to talk, you’ll understand if I don’t immediately start leaping up and down for joy. No. What I do, weirdly, is I remain calm, which is a bit of a novelty in itself. Actually, I really do feel calm and I can’t understand it, it’s not like me to be so calm.

“Yes,” I say to Gail. “A talk. Good idea. Shall I pop round tonight?”

“It’s probably better when the kids aren’t around. Cassie’s taking them swimming this afternoon. How about twoish? Half-two?”

I’m still at work but we only do a half-day on Saturdays, so I’ll be clear by then and it’s quiet as the grave today in any case. Harry is out the back checking we’ve got all the pieces he needs for someone’s conservatory he’s starting on Monday. Lee and Martin aren’t in and Gary is supposed to be tidying up the workroom, but doing it like he does everything, like he’s on the moon and moving v-e-r-y s-l-o-o-o-w-l-y. I take Harry out a mug of tea and a packet of bourbons.

“Cheers, Scotty mate.” He ducks his head to blow on his tea. “What you got planned for tomorrow then? How’s my little angel?” Harry’s dead fond of Rosie. And Nat. Always asks after them. He and Maureen think of them as their grandkids really, not surprising as their own are umpteen thousand miles away.