Love Me Or Leave Me (7 page)

However, if you haven’t cleared out the last of your stuff from my flat by the time I get back from London, then please understand; I’m hiring a skip and you can fish your entire vinyl collection, your collection of David Mamet plays (none of which you ever actually appeared in), your raggy, knackery underpants and those vile leather jackets that make you look like a pimp, from the bottom of said skip.

Please Dave, this is the probably the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.

Jo.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 8.44 a.m.

Dearest wife of mine,

A delight, as always, to be on the receiving end of one of your early morning emails. My, my, what a wondrous mood we’re in today!

What is it with you anyway; do you wake up in bad form, then wonder who you can possibly take it out on? And seeing as how you can’t exactly heap verbal abuse on all your minions in Digitech, because they’d rightly haul your arse through the courts for bullying in the workplace, you think, ah ha! My worthless husband can get a tongue lashing from me and that’ll set me up for the whole morning!

Because it’s always just all about you, isn’t it? Let’s never forget, we’re all just extras in the Jo Hargreaves show, designed purely to snap to your beat.

Your ever-loving hubbie,

Dave.

PS. Lucky guess. Yes, I am staying at Mama’s. Purely because, fond as I am of Bash, his idea of a nutritious meal is a) one that can be shoved into a microwave for three minutes or under and b) comes in a container that is reusable as an ashtray.

PPS. As for clearing out the last of my things, I’ll do it when it bloody well suits me. Which as it happens, is this weekend, when you’re back home.

PPPS. Because we have to talk, Jo. Be reasonable. You must, somewhere deep down beneath that thorny bracken that surrounds your heart these days, be aware of this.

PPPPS. See you when you’re back.

Safe trip. Thinking of you. And in spite of what you may think, sending you love.

Jo was power walking through the airport when that particular email pinged through and after she read it, had to take several deep breaths to try and get her blood pressure back to normal.
In for two, out for three
, she told herself,
in for two and out for three.

But it wasn’t working. Christ, how did Dave always manage to have this effect on her? And did he think insulting her was going to make this any easier?

Don’t answer it
, she told herself.
Rise above it. Be the bigger person here
. But it was no use, two seconds later, her fingers were busily tap tapping away on her iPhone.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 8.56 a.m.

Oh feck off with yourself, Dave. What gives you the right to start having a go at me?

Please understand that I really do mean it. If I come home to my flat (which I own, which is in my name and mine only, may I remind you), with your shite still littering the place, then I’m changing the locks and flinging the last of your junk out the window. The way I feel right now, I can’t tell you the pleasure it’ll give me. Plus it’ll certainly give the neighbours a right good laugh to get a look at your last anniversary present to me. Because FYI, a print of a red Ferrari is my idea of cheap, tasteless tat.

(Look it up in the dictionary. You’ll find it right there, under, ‘Dave Evans: arsehole’.)

About to board my flight.

Don’t bother contacting me again till you’ve done exactly as I ask. And can you please stop leaving voice messages on my phone the length of a radio play? I get the message. But you know what?

Sometimes being sorry for everything just won’t cut it.

Jo.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.15 a.m.

Christ Jo, you really should take a moment to read back on some of your more stinging emails. Just take note though, this is the result of what we’re going through and how it’s affecting you. Even though I’m the only one brave/foolhardy enough to say it to your face.

Ever stumbled across the phrase, ‘misdirected anger’?

Suggest you look it up in the dictionary. You’ll find it right there, under, ‘Jo Hargreaves: nut job.’

See you this weekend.

In spite of what you think, I’m still prepared to work things out.

Yours,

Dave.

(Your husband, just in case that minor little factoid had slipped your mind, my pet.)

PS. Will now spend the rest of the day wondering what in the name of all ye Gods happened to that gorgeous, loving girl I married.

Just so you know.

Jo had just boarded her flight when that particular gem pinged through and was about to switch off her phone and let it go, when a sudden hot flush of anger swept right over her.

‘Misdirected anger’? Did Dave really say that? And had she been seeing things or had he actually used the phrase, ‘still prepared to work this out’ after everything that had happened?

She checked the phone again, but there it was, in black and white. Then just as an air hostess made an announcement asking that all portable electronic devices be switched off, she went back to typing furiously, phone hidden under her coat, so no one would see.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.22 a.m.

Dave,

Out of idle curiosity, you’re prepared to work out what exactly? How you can inveigle your way back into living with me? It’s clearly not because you actually want to be with me, so dare I suggest, because it’s nice and handy for your dole office? So you can continue to sponge off me and live the life of an eternal student, while calling yourself an out-of-work actor?

As for all this utter crap about my ‘misdirecting anger’, frankly, you can take a running jump with yourself. My anger is pretty direct and well aimed, as it happens.

You know what you sound like? A child who thinks every problem in their little life is everyone else’s fault bar theirs. You may have played the part of a head shrink in a show once, but that certainly doesn’t make you one. If you really want to psychoanalyse someone, suggest you start a little closer to home. Oooh, off the top of my head, say for instance, a thirty-eight-year-old man in long-term unemployment, who’s back living with his mother?

Now piss off and leave me alone. Some of us have real work to do.

Jo.

PS. As for ‘this is the result of what we’re going through and how it’s affecting you’? Cop yourself on, Dave. You’re not ‘going through’ anything that I can see. Other than six cans of Bulmers a night, that is.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.35 a.m.

Dear Queen narky moody-pants,

You know why you’re acting like this and saying these things. Because this isn’t you, at least, not the real you. You’re just acting out and looking for a convenient punchbag. So enter Dave, long-suffering husband, stage left.

That is, at least, I fecking hope it’s not the real you. Otherwise never mind about your threats of wanting a divorce.
I
bloody want one first. So there. So how do you like it, when it’s thrown back into your pretty and freakishly unlined face?

In spite of what you may think, dearest insane one, I still wish you love and luck on your trip and look forward to seeing you on your return.

Because I’m here for you. And the day may yet come when you’ll need to remember that.

Dxxx

PS. You told me you liked the red Ferrari print. Shattered that you lied. Oh, the deceit of womanhood, etc.

PPS. As for your vitriolic comment re: my employment status, you know I could be in a job right now if I wanted to be. I’ll have you know, dearest one, that I was offered a telly commercial only last week, playing the part of a speaking Sky Plus box, but chose to take the principled stand of telling the casting director where he could go and shove it. Because in spite of your oft-repeated ‘career advice’ to me, I refuse to compromise my art for mere lucre.

PPPS. I don’t really want a divorce. I don’t want one at all. In fact, I want to stay married to you forever and ever, if only to annoy you. I want us to grow old and grey together, then be the one who wheels you around the nursing home, when you’re stroke-ridden and need someone to wipe your arse. That’s a measure of how much I’m staying married to you, sweet spouse of mine.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.42 a.m.

Dave,

As it happens, I think you’d have made a fantastic speaking Sky Plus box. Shame you weren’t offered something made of wood though, then you really could have had a chance to show off your range.

Have to go, flight taxiing now.

Am greatly looking forward to coming home to a lovely, empty flat, free of any and all reminders of you.

Jo.

PS. Please don’t tell me the subliminal reasons behind my behaviour. I know there’s nothing easier for you in the world than to conveniently blame what I’ve been dealing with personally for the breakdown of our relationship.

But trust me, it’s broken and unfixable. It’s over.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 11.10 a.m.

Sweet-natured angel of mine,

Has your flight landed yet? Because I’ve a few further points I’d like to make and given the humour you’re in these days, it’ll be more than my life’s worth to say to your face.

Firstly, may I remind you that I’ve done absolutely everything you ever asked of me? You were the one who wanted to get married in the first place, when we’d only been seeing each other for about a year. And I use the term, ‘seeing each other’ loosely, given that you were off on business trips more often than not. So I did what you wanted and proposed.

Then you were the one who bloody well insisted on a three-ring circus of a wedding, which was basically anathema to me, but I kept my mouth shut, just so you could have your dream day. Even though the sight of myself in the wedding photos, beaten into that poncey-looking morning suit still makes me want to vomit.

Thirdly, you were the one who made the decision that if you were ever going to have a child, then now was your chance. Again, I had virtually feck all say in the matter, but still went along with it. I actually wanted us to have a family of our own, and for the record sweetheart, I thought we’d have made grade A parents. You’ve have instilled discipline in our kid, whereas I’d have taught them when and where it was okay to wave two fingers at anything remotely resembling authority.