State We're In (8 page)

‘I never said.' I wait expectantly for Jeff to fill in the blank now. He stands up and then picks my dress up off the floor. He tosses it at me, but before it even lands I somehow sense the next sentence. ‘It always seems a bit weird talking about my home and stuff. A bit disloyal to my wife. Now, come on and get dressed. Like I said, there's nothing to eat here and I really need some carbs after last night's performance. I wish there was a café around here. I could kill a fry-up.'

‘Wife?'

Jeff glances at his watch, then shrugs apologetically. I have a terrible feeling that he is apologising for the lack of a café rather than the presence of a wife.

I can't remember him mentioning a wife yesterday. I know I would have remembered that, no matter how many shots we'd downed. I am always particularly careful to listen out for talk about long-term girl- (or boy-) friends, fiancées and wives. Especially wives. It isn't something I could overlook. No, he certainly did not mention a wife.
Wife
is a stop word for me. Unequivocally. No matter how much I want a husband, I don't want someone else's. I would never, ever have let it get this far if I'd known he was married.

There's only one explanation: clearly he didn't mention his wife last night because she isn't a wife in the true and absolute sense. They are separated. Divorcing. I'm not too squeamish about that. I've long since reconciled myself to the thought that I am most likely going to be someone's second wife. It's just a numbers game. Thirty-five-plus still hunting equals divorcé. An ex-wife isn't a problem. A man that looks a bit like Ryan Reynolds is bound to have an ex-wife. He's too handsome not to have been nabbed in his twenties.

‘So when did you and your wife split up? Was it recently?' I ask.

‘What?'

‘You
are
separated.' But my confidence in my assertion is already beginning to dwindle and fade. There's something about Jeff's rather arrogant and bemused face that tells me he certainly is not separated.

I pull the duvet cover a fraction higher up my body.

‘Awkward,' he sings sotto voce. ‘I thought you knew I was married.'

‘How would I know that unless you told me? You didn't tell me. You're not wearing a ring,' I point out. But as I look at his tanned hand now, I can just about make out that whilst he isn't wearing a wedding band, there's a ring of paler skin that shows that generally he does.

‘Wow, thanks for reminding me.' He fishes about in his trouser pockets, retrieves a platinum ring and slips it on to his finger. I suddenly feel extremely tired. Weary. ‘So do you want something to eat or not? There is a corner shop, at least, and they sell veggie samosas.'

‘Do you do this sort of thing often?'

‘Eat breakfast?'

‘Have sex with women other than your wife.'

Jeff looks unabashed, a bit bored. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do, when I can, you know …'

‘Know what?'

I don't know anything. I feel sick. I have never, ever come across such casual cruelty. I have been ditched many, many times; I've even done some ditching of my own, I've snuck away in the early morning before the guy has woken up, but this!
This
is a new all-time low. The young, hard face in front of me (how did I fail to notice its sharpness last night?) is unapologetic, unrepentant. Unavailable.

‘You said I was just the sort of girl you should marry,' I protest.

‘Did I? Are you sure? I think I might have said you're just the sort of girl I should've married. It was a joke. I was joking about what a fun slut you are. I'd never really marry someone like you.'

‘Like me.' I don't mean it to be a question, but Jeff interprets it as such and chooses to be explicit.

‘Well, older and so available.' I leap out of bed and start to struggle into my dress. At the same time I hold up my hand, trying to stop him from saying anything more. I do not want to hear what else he has to say. It's all too much already. Too painful. But Jeff isn't looking at me. He's staring at his reflection, running his fingers through his hair, and so he carries on. ‘I mean, you came on to me pretty strong last night. I didn't do the chasing. You practically threw your sister in a cab. She wanted you to go home with her but you said you'd make your own way back. I distinctly remember you saying you were a big girl and you could look after yourself.'

‘I lied,' I say with a sigh.

‘What?'

‘I don't think I can look after myself. I lied,' I admit a little louder. He has no idea how momentous this confession is; how sickening this thought.

‘Well,
I
didn't lie to
you
,' he adds self-righteously. ‘You never asked if I was married. I sort of thought you must have known but just didn't care. You kind of had a predatory look about you.'

I am tangled in my dress. It is tight-fitting and I fight to find the sleeves. I ought to have stepped into it, but in my haste I yanked it over my head. Angrily I turn to face Jeff, but I can't see him because my head has not yet emerged through the neck hole, and as the dress has stuck on my hips, my muff is exposed. Even though I'm fastidious about waxing, this is undoubtedly a humiliating stance.

‘Predatory, as in cougar?' I demand as I finally pull the dress down over my thighs and pop my head out of the neck hole.

‘I didn't say that, it's not a nice word.'

I wonder whether he thinks ‘fun slut' is a compliment, but I am sick of being on the back foot. I decide to go in for the attack. ‘I can think of a few other ugly words that might apply to our situation. Adulterer, fornicator, bastard.'

‘Hey, there is no need for that. I'm not going to fight with you. I don't even know you. We had a great time, Jill, but—'

‘Jo.'

‘Sorry?'

‘My name is … Oh, never mind.' The fight in me vanishes. There's no point. No point at all. I begin to collect up my belongings – tights, panties, handbag and jacket – strewn like scars on the show home's bedroom carpet. I want to get out of here. I want to get as far away as possible from the scene of the crime, before we are caught and further exposed. This is humiliating enough; it doesn't need to be heartbreaking too.

‘I pity your wife,' I mutter, as I stand in the doorway.

‘My wife has nothing to do with you. She would not want your pity,' replies Jeff. He's ironing the duvet, as I have refused to help.

‘Maybe not, but she has it anyhow.'

I
open my eyes. I'm not dead yet, then. Strangely, I feel a bit disappointed that this is the case and am shocked by my own disappointment. I don't long for death or anything oddly morbid like that, but I can't be arsed to fight it either. This indifference is depressing. Indifference to my own death is the most clear and compelling evidence, if more evidence were needed, as to how completely and utterly I've screwed up my life.

It isn't so much that I am despairing – nothing so dramatic; I am, frankly, bored. Bored of being sick. Bored of the pain, the discomfort, the long days. And before the cancer? Well, I was bored then too, for quite some time. Getting older hasn't suited me. I was good at being young. I had a penchant for irresponsibility, wildness and a predilection for living in the moment, carefree and careless. It's tempting to imagine it would be better just getting it over with now.

But then what? Recently, I've started to think about churches. Church and God and the afterlife. I'm trying to work out what to expect next. I can't remember when I was last inside a church. It was probably someone's wedding. Thirty, maybe more years ago? It might even have been my own wedding. I've never given religion much thought, beyond that it's a convenient excuse for lots of wars and lots of hate, but since I've had to organise my own funeral, I've started to give the whole idea a bit more consideration.

I don't believe in the type of afterlife I was taught about in primary school. I cannot accept a heaven, located in the clouds, where a bearded guy with a halo mans the pearly gates, much like a bouncer at a nightclub. I can't imagine St Peter stood with a list of the names of those who have earned access to heaven, shaking his head (with a mixture of smug arrogance and fake regret) at those who had sinned and are going to have to wander along to hell to spend eternity there instead. It doesn't make sense. There are practical considerations, such as how do the rejects get from the cloud to hell once they are denied access? Is there some sort of invisible fireman's pole that they have to slide down, or a rubbish chute that they are shoved down? Why wouldn't the evil guys just storm the gates of heaven and demand entrance? Bad guys aren't normally known for accepting rules and limits; isn't that the point? What could one old bloke do (saint or not) against a crowd of murderers, thieves, paedophiles, warmongers and mercenaries? They'd have him. And at the opposite extreme, why would the Devil be up for torturing the villains when they go to hell? Aren't those guys the ones who have been out doing his work, in which case wouldn't he welcome them with open arms?
Come on in, Idi Amin, take a seat right there between Stalin and Hitler. No, not that one, we're keeping that for Kony.
Why would he burn them in eternal fires? Unless I've got that wrong. Maybe I wasn't listening properly at school. Maybe God is in charge of hell too, but if that's the case, how come the Devil pops up to earth so frequently? Is there an open-door policy for him? Why doesn't God just keep him locked up?

I don't question why God might torture the evil. That bit I get.

But I'm not dead yet. I know as much because I can see the other patients lying in the beds opposite and next to me. There's the bulky, hard-faced nurse who has let herself go, slouched by the doorway, and there is my bedside table. Unlike all the other bedside tables, it's not cluttered with get-well-soon cards and flowers; all that my table accommodates is a plastic jug of water and a plastic beaker. I am still inside my life, such as it is. Besides, I know I'm alive because of the pain. The excruciating pain that has soused my body for months now pounds with an angrier intensity. My throat is so sore and dry that it feels as though someone has ripped out my tongue. But no, it's still there. I edge it carefully on to my lips in a doomed attempt to moisten them. It feels like sandpaper ripping against wood.

Someone is sitting next to my bed. The man stands up and reaches over me; he picks up the plastic beaker and brings it to my lips. I take a sip and then ask, ‘Who the hell are you?'

The man doesn't answer. I eye him suspiciously. Is he a doctor? He isn't wearing a white coat, but then some of the senior consultants don't. He needs to shave, which suggests he might be a doctor shoved up at the coal-face end, too busy for personal grooming, but this man does not seem to be in a hurry. The air surrounding him is still.

‘I'm …' The man hesitates.

Pain has eroded away what little patience I ever possessed. ‘Don't you know who you are?' I demand crossly.

‘Don't you?'

I pause. I look carefully at the man's face, his hair and eyes, the arc of the eyebrows, the width of his nose, and I recognise every feature.

‘Hello, son. Thanks for coming.'

I
smell. I smell and I ache. I reek of sweat, alcohol and disappointment. My thighs throb with exertion and my eyes sting with exhaustion. I pinch the top of my nose, but however hard I squeeze, I can't squeeze out the thought of what I've done in the past twelve hours.

I know that I should probably find my way back to Lisa's, shower and change before I head into work; my colleagues are the type to notice if someone is wearing the same outfit two days in a row. In most offices you might expect walks of shame to be a legitimate source of gossip and teasing, but in the
Loving Bride!
office (a shrine to the happily-ever-after), they're actively condemned. It's a little like it was in the 1950s: unplanned sleepovers are only considered acceptable if the perpetrator ends up marrying the man in question. Obviously there's no chance of that with Jeff. I sigh as on some subconscious level I acknowledge that there wasn't a chance with Mick (my fling from three weeks ago) or Darren (a guy I had a brief thing with a few months before that) either. My walks of shame happen with reasonable regularity, and I'm concerned that, while congregated around the water cooler, people might have started to comment that at best I show a lack of judgement and discernment; at worst I'm a ridiculous, desperate slag.

If I go to Lisa's to shower and change, I'll avoid being subjected to more knowing looks from the scandalmongers. However, I run the risk of bumping into my family. I can imagine that encounter with awful clarity. As I sneak in the back door, I'll find the children buzzing around the kitchen (which will, as usual, be full of delicious smells like buttered toast and fresh coffee), and if I manage to make it upstairs, then I'll no doubt meet Lisa or Henry on the landing (which will ooze the scent of Lisa's shower gel) and they'll throw me that look, the one that is a mix of disappointment and concern; it's the concern that embarrasses me the most. I can't imagine my strained and stinky body in amongst their warm, domestic, sweet-smelling environment. No one would actually say anything too cutting, of course, but arms would be folded across chests in a way that would be clearly condemning. The thought makes me freeze.

I pause for a moment and consider which is the lesser of the two evils: being exposed in front of my colleagues or my family? It's a bleak choice. I'd care less if I could brag that Jeff and I had enjoyed a croissant breakfast together and that we'd made plans to meet up and catch a film this evening, but as the situation stands, it is pitiless and brutal. I could lie – simply tell everyone I've had a night of unprecedented romance and it's the start of something special – but I'm not quite that pathetic. Not yet.