Chapter 19

Back at home, in high spirits and with some energy beginning to pulse despite the lack of sleep, I manage to churn out a handful of invoices and field a few business calls before being suddenly, inexplicably taken with the urge to make the house, my house, nice again. Having decided for a while this was the last place on earth I wanted to be, that I was trapped, an emotional prisoner suffering regular episodes of torture for who-knows-what-purpose, I find the feeling has evaporated in the wake of my visit to Kirsty Gordon, like mist off a bathroom window. My home is about me. My life is about me. It’s time I liked being here again.

     The kitchen table receives a coat of beeswax, the entire ground floor gets hoovered, kitchen floor mopped, windowsills get coated with multi-surface cleaner and well buffed. This all happens to a Muse soundtrack, The Girls (Joss, Natasha and Anastasia) have been retired in favour of something more appropriate – we’re now singing for absolution.

    Eventually it begins to get dark, so I rev up the woodburner, stare briefly outside into the winter gloom and decide to send Youngest back out into the cold for logs when he gets home from school. Nearly three. Kitchen’s as glossy as my newly varnished hair, office is scarily tidy, both fires, at opposite ends of the house, are roaring away.

    I brought the post back through with me when I went to light the living room stove. A Screwfix catalogue, two invoices from the Machinery Centre, a Bank statement for Eldest and then the cream envelope with the I’m-so-bored-with-my-life-I-think-I’ll-wreck-someone-else’s-just-for-fun scrawl.

     This time it’s addressed to me. Only to be expected, I guess. Take a deep breath Lizzie Burns, open the envelope and digest the contents as quickly as her barely decipherable handwriting will allow, then burn it.

     A good part of page one seems to be an attempt to analyse my ‘failed’ relationship with Kev. But she has, of course, little confidence in any of her uninformed observations. The outpouring degenerates into a spiteful rejection of my sympathy – I don’t need to feel sorry for her, this wasn’t a mistake, it was all wonderful (especially the sex). They (she and Kev) have both tried their hardest to end it but neither of them can do it, she claims. My short, pithy note is returned, annotated. Beside my description of her as ‘arrogant, self-absorbed and foolish’ she scrawls ‘I was being diplomatic!’ and in reply to my demand that she stop trying to approach my partner via my household she writes, ‘It’s Kevin’s house also!’ Evidently she has no idea how much capital I put into it.

     At the very bottom of my note, in the thick, heavy pen strokes of a woman incensed she writes ‘boys will be boys!’ and then, as though she realizes the phrase may amount to an admission that Kev’s been behaving like an immature pea-brain, she adds ‘AND MEN WILL BE MEN!’

     My stomach writhes with revulsion. Whatever Kev has done, whatever they have done, I was never a party to it and I resent being used as a punch-bag. I truly wish I didn’t care for the man, this needy, forty-ing yet childlike, sniffling, wavering man whose thinning hair resembles a mangy pelt! I wish I hadn’t spent ten deeply committed years building him up after his first marriage failure, supporting his transition from under-educated tradesman to something solid and reputable, giving him a loving home and a trusting family while his curls dried up and fell out. If I hadn’t done those things and put my heart and soul into doing them, she couldn’t hurt me! I would just laugh, push him in her direction, wait till she grew tired of him (three weeks tops), demand every penny of what was mine and then, while he languished in some grubby-carpeted B and B with yellowing walls and a non-functional, wall-mounted convection heater, tell him to forget he had a son with me because we’d be leaving for South America by the end of the month.

     But bollocks. I have meant everything I’ve ever done with or for him, and I believed he was worth loving. What a stupid arse I am!

     What happens next is very odd and totally unexpected. When I look up from the page with wet eyes, Kirsty Gordon is balancing on my newly-waxed table top wearing a fetching candy-pink leotard, one leg stuck out, toes pointed. She’s staring at me and her expression says: ‘Lizzie Burns – take your own advice, defend yourself why don’t you?’

     It takes one brief, stunned, why-didn’t-I-think-of-this-earlier moment, then I spring into action. Running through to the office, I flick on the electric heater, push the chair back from the desk and stick my feet up in front of the computer. The idea rushed into my head like a breath-taking hurricane gust in the wake of Kirsty’s table top manifestation and, the more I think about it, the more sensible it seems. I am co-director of this company, a fifty percent shareholder, and I’ve checked the records – she most definitely hasn’t paid. Is there any particular etiquette, I wonder, attached to the billing of your lover’s ex bit-on-the-side? Should I fold the invoice inside a Deepest Sympathy card? Or a Thank You card? Or Good Luck in Your New Home? If I do, am I a bad person? If I don’t, am I a bad businesswoman as well as a doormat? Go for it Lizzie.

     It comes to £100 plus vat. £117.50. Not to be sneezed at. There’s a long-line velvet jacket in Country Casuals only a few quid more than that. Between them, she and Kev could treat me. God knows they owe me.

     The usual headed notepaper then, my name alongside his, completely businesslike. I resist the temptation to add personal touches. A cheap envelope, second class stamp and out into the easterly wind flattening the daffs beside the churchyard to get it in the post before I change my mind.

Two Hours Later - “You’ve done what?” He’s rinsing out his thermos at the sink.

     “I sent her an invoice for the survey you did on her trees.”

    “Yes. It’s gone. Went today, about four o’clock. It’s in the box up near the churchyard and you can’t get it out. Should I really not have done it?”

      He hesitates before replying. What can he say? “Well, I guess it’s fair enough,” he muses thoughtfully. “It was work after all.”

     “Too right!” I tell him. “I thought about it for quite a while Kev, and I decided that if I’d invited the central heating engineer in for extras I would still have paid his bill – all getting a bit payment-in-kindish otherwise, isn’t it?”

     “I suppose so, and it wasn’t that. It was never about that.”

     I want to scoff at this hollow assertion. Instead I fiercely crush a garlic clove and say “Ok.”

     He’s so lost in thought he’s finished rinsing his thermos, squirted washing up liquid into it again and is distractedly repeating the process.

     “You realize it might stir her up?” he asks slowly.

     “Can’t see why it should. Seems fair enough to me…”  but of course I can see why it would, and I don’t care.

     As I stand crushing too many garlic cloves and Kev has a third go at the thermos, we are interrupted by the appearance of the boys wanting to fill us (but mainly me) in concerning their activities during the day.

      Youngest has apparently been kept in at break time for singing a song with the word ‘willie’ in it and Eldest has alienated one of his friends by (argumentatively) refusing to acknowledge the existence of God. A believer since his P1 teacher spooked him silly telling him God was always by his side, Youngest has lately been an enthusiastic reader of his Children’s Bible. On hearing Eldest’s story, he rushes to the defence of the Christian faith with “You better start believing in God or you won’t get a second life!” In so doing however, he recklessly leaves his choc chip cookie and milk undefended for Eldest to snatch and pretend to consume. Snatching of a choc-chip is worse than blasphemy.

     I hunt for a disposable dishcloth among the mouse droppings under the sink while Eldest’s glasses are forcibly dislodged and milk flies all over his best hoodie. Kev decides this is a good point at which to abandon the thermos scrubbing and disappear out into the yard to unload 7 tons of Beech from the back of the lorry. Next year’s firewood sales I guess.

     Order has been restored and they are eating hot dogs in front of the fire in the living room when he comes back in. I wait until he’s washed his hands and sighed a lot trying to find a towel, then I pour him a glass of Merlot. “I’ve got something to read to you,” I say. He says ‘Fuck’ and loosens off his trousers so breathing will be easier. He looks like a depressed bloodhound and there’s a dent in his head where a branch hit him.

    “So, is it true? Can you not end it with her?” I ask, when it’s been read aloud and we’ve both had time to stop feeling hideously embarrassed.

    We’re eyeball to eyeball, intent as chess opponents across the table

   “God, I don’t… can’t be easy for her to accept, any of it.”

   “Kev, did you tell her she didn’t need to respect me? No! Wait a minute, did you say you were unhappy and it was all my fault? Did you do that thing all cheating husbands do on the telly and blame your duty to your hapless wife and children for your breaking it off with her? Because you know I don’t want you back for any other reason except that you’ve decided you want me.”

   He says the ‘some’ as though he believes he told only an acceptable amount. “And I did suggest to her that we had some problems…”

   I take a large swig of Merlot. “Oh yeah,” I cough, as it carves its way down. “You mentioned some of those at counselling.”

   “I’m sorry Lizzie,” he whinges. “I really am. I should have talked to you, I realize that now. Ever since we started talking the ‘problems’ have disintegrated like I never thought they could.”

   Perhaps this ought to sound like good news, but I have a horrible feeling I’m getting dumped on again – things are getting better but only because I’ve improved his lot for him. The phrase ‘Boys will be Boys’ echoes through my head and initiates a deeply irritated outburst. “Were you not listened-to when you were growing up?” I challenge him. “Did no-one pay any attention to your needs so that you thought speaking up was a waste of time or everybody else’s feelings should be ignored just the way yours were? It’s not a solution you know, to go looking for ‘free’ sex rather than look after things at home. You can’t blame everything on me and tell yourself it’s ok to run away. You just end up looking well, like a non-coper!”

   “I think that’s what I am…” he shrugs, and I detest this defeatism used as self-defence.

   “No!” I find myself slapping the polished surface of the table as I say it. “No! It’s just not good enough! I love you…”

 “Well then can’t you just love me the way I am?”

   “No! No, I can’t! Because you’ve been behaving like a shit! Because I want you to be the best person you can be and this…” (waving her letter) “..this is not it! I’m wasting my time if what I feel for you can’t make you stronger than this! Can you not get her to stop Kev? She can be angry with you if she wants but she has no right to try and make me feel even worse than I already do.”

   He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes for just a moment, then sits bolt upright again to look me in the eyes. “It’s because you’re getting on with your life and she can’t,” he says. “She’s stuck and she can’t get out. Look, I don’t like what she’s trying to do anymore than you do but you know, in a way, it’s more my problem than it is yours. You can choose to ignore her – and I think you should. It’s me she’s trying to get at. She likes to be in charge of everything, you know, to have the upper hand. Because of what I’ve done she wants to destroy what’s important to me. Don’t you think it makes me angry too? Listen – I haven’t dared say anything because you said if I carried on communicating with her you’d chuck me out, but I have spoken to her and I’ve told her I don’t like the way she’s behaving towards you. I have told her to stop Lizzie – for you.”

     I let this sink in for a moment, this piece of intelligence supposed to reassure me. How did my life degenerate into a situation where I’m supposed to try and be strong while my partner’s very-recently-ex-shag-on-the-side attempts to drive a gratuitous wedge of mistrust between us? Am I supposed to be pleased that, in the midst of it all, said partner has at last found the wherewithal to tell said very-recently-ex-shag-on-the-side to back off? Mistrust and Merlot make my stomach rumble.

     He shrugs, helplessly. His face is raw from the weather outside and now his stomach mewls a reply to mine. Don’t really want to stop the conversation here but I do have baked potatoes. With a grimace and a defeated moan, I suspend the questioning to serve up ratatouille (over-garlicked), tuna and crispy-skinned spuds.

     “Does a heart attack start in your right shoulder,” he asks, flexing and wincing over his plate.

    “But it feels like it’s making my heart sore.”

    “Stress. I had a panic attack once – it started with a sore heart.”

   “Er, let’s see? Well, if I had to guess, I’d say it comes from hurting people. I’d broken up with a boyfriend after he’d sent me postcards every day from his trip to Italy with the Explorer’s Club. That was when my heart ached.”

    I raise my eyebrows at him. “Just depends how angry the people you hurt get, Kev,” I say.

That night. I am lying awake in the dark trying to turn the bad way she makes me feel into some kind of forward motion. On Saturday, I will order up a new bed, King-size, so we don’t have to squeeze close to one another if we don’t want to, and I can toss and turn on my side without disturbing him. I don’t care if it costs a grand, it’ll mean I can move this one into Eldest’s room and – and what? Burn the one in there? Certain of my friends would strongly  recommend this. Sometimes I recommend it to myself. But then I picture black smoke, a broken bed frame in flames and me standing on the soil heap at the back of the shed with a look of manic delight on my face. No, it really isn’t me. Manic delight doesn’t go with the hair. I will buy lovely boots instead. Expensive ones. Along with the fabulous new bed and fabulous new bedding. The hideously defiled Furniture of Betrayal will move up into the dairy loft – where the mice will eat the mattress and shit on the rest.

     Sorted.   

Three days later – There was bound to be a comeback, wasn’t there? It arrived this morning, addressed to him, so I kept it, unopened.

     The smirk’s gone. This time he looks scared.

    “You said we should burn them without opening them in future,” I remind him, thinking that, if he’s scared and I’m scared that might be the most sensible thing to do.

    “I know. But what if it says something we should know – like she’s going to hire a hit man to rub us out or something?”

   “A hit man to rub you out, you mean! Why the heck would she want to rub me out?”

   “Okay! Well open it then! I just hope there’s a cheque in there…”

   He disappears upstairs because Youngest’s flopping around sighing about terminal boredom, and it’s Youngest’s theatrically expressed boredom that forces me to interrupt Kev’s bedroom-based assimilation of his extra-marital correspondence after only three minutes to pull the batteries from the vibrator and put them back in the remote-controlled quad. Throwing together a few empty cereal box stunt jumps in the living room, I instruct Youngest to hone his quad-biking skills in there while I talk to daddy.

     Kev has already returned to the kitchen by the time I wander back in there, non-functional vibrator in one hand, empty Weetabix box in the other. He looks traumatized. I stand, frozen, beside the dishwasher. “What is it Kev?”

   “So what’s it say?” I ask, because he seems to want me to ask that.

   “You know, you already opened it and read it!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I haven’t read it, I don’t want to read it! I’m afraid of it – that’s why I kept it for you!”

    “Well how come the seal’s been tampered with?”

    “How on earth do I know? Maybe she decided to add something after she’d sealed it! Maybe she stuck a cheque in afterwards – did she? Did she send a cheque?”

    His eyes are glittering somewhat unusually. I have only ever seen this happen when the Revenue send a tax assessment claiming we owe them far more than originally thought.

   “No! She didn’t send a cheque,” he says, in a dry voice. “She sent a bill. A bill for her sexual services. Eighteen hundred quid. I feel sick. You should never have sent her an invoice, it was only going to stir her up!”

    “I don’t remember you telling me not to send the invoice! In fact, as I recall, you said it was fair enough.”

   “You did. It’s not my fault if you were using the woman like a prostitute! Nor is it my fault she’s angry enough to bill you - though I have to say, I can’t ever imagine actually wanting people to think of me that way. Do you think we’ll get paid Kev?”

   “Do you want me to wait a while and then send a reminder..?”

Is there anything Kev can do to turn the situation around? Does he even know which way he wants to be facing? Will they get paid - or just pay-back? More to come in Chapter 20...