Chapter 39
To-do list
Arrange crisis meeting with Brendan
Torture self with articles about effects of alcohol abuse on teens
Ditto vaping
Install swear box
Buy bigger notebook for Phillipa Perry exercise: ‘write down all self-critical thoughts’
Reread We Need To Talk About Kevin as a reminder it could be worse
Find PTA member willing to store 71 pairs of socks at home until next year’s Bounce-a-thon
Complete Gaudi-style papier maché model at home to slot into school project
Speak to GP about increasing HRT to a point that makes me feel SANE
Living room panelling
Fix mortgage rate
Label Jacob swim cap
Label black trunks
Label verruca socks
Label towel
Label Johnson’s talcum powder
Buy socks (Leo)
Descale kettle
Brendan looks troubled as he sits on our sofa. As well he might. In the years since he left, I’ve kept most of the drama, chaos and mess in this household to myself, preferring to maintain the impression that we’re all getting on fine without him. Until recently, I feel as if we have been. But nobody could listen to this tale of woe and believe that we’re anything close to fine at the moment.
What makes it worse is how well Brendan looks. Slim and tanned. He’s just back from Ibiza with Melanie and, instead of the saggy brown chinos and dusty-looking shirts he wore throughout most of our marriage, he’s wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Amnesia’, has a beaded bracelet at his wrist and leather thongs on his feet. I think he might have had his toes waxed.
‘There must be so many hormones floating around this household,’ I complain, tearfully. ‘Leo’s fifteen. Peak teenager. The pits of an age, according to most of Mumsnet. And I’m . . . well, I’m perimenopausal, so frankly there are times – and this is one of them – when a person just can’t take any more .’
His frown deepens. I’m not sure whether this is due to the ‘perimenopause’ reference – which definitely made him wince – or something else.
‘Have you tried to speak to him?’ he asks.
‘Of course I have. It’s like negotiating with a terrorist.’
The look on his face suggests he thinks I’m exaggerating.
‘That was a joke,’ I add hastily, even though it wasn’t. ‘I told him to fuck off, Brendan,’ I confess, my bottom lip wobbling. ‘What sort of mother tells her son to fuck off?’
He exhales deeply, like he’s hit on a difficult crossword clue that completely eludes him. ‘What happened exactly when you tried to speak to him?’
‘He just wouldn’t engage. He still won’t, no matter how hard I try.’
‘But what did you say? ’
‘I apologised for swearing at him. I thought that would be a good way in, a sort of olive branch. I’d naively assumed he’d apologise back, that we’d make friends and that would open up a sensible conversation about the drinking so I could suggest we try to tackle the issue together. But when I said, “I’m sorry, Leo,” he grunted, “You should be,” and went off to play rugby.’
Part of me wants Brendan to say he deserved my F-bomb, that this isn’t my fault, just like Jacob did.
Instead, he says, with decisive authority: ‘Have you tried sending him to his room?’
I look up, wondering if I’ve heard him right. ‘What?’
‘You know . . . to think about his actions? That’s what my mother always did,’ he offers, with the same fist-thumping air of authority he had the year he chaired the Neighbourhood Watch.
‘It’s not 1962, Brendan,’ I point out. ‘Unless it’s for sport, he never leaves his room. No kids do these days.’
‘That can’t be true.’
‘It is. They don’t go round to each other’s houses to play their new LPs either . . .’
‘Then grounding him? Stopping his pocket money? Not allowing him to play rugby? Confiscating his phone?’
‘I’ve tried it all. It’s not as easy as you might think.’
This sounds pathetic. I clearly am pathetic. ‘I outright refused to take him to rugby at the weekend, but then had the coach on the phone complaining that they didn’t have a flanker. So I ended up saying he could go, albeit on the bus. The phone’s more complicated. All his homework is set on that.’
‘The homework he doesn’t do?’
‘Well, quite. But I don’t want to hand him any more excuses. I’ve stopped his pocket money, which he’s inordinately pissed off about.’
‘Good.’
‘But unfortunately, it all amounts to only one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That he’s still just as rude, entitled, arrogant and lazy – only now he hates me too.’
‘Oh dear,’ he says, sympathetically. ‘What does this friend of yours think? Philippa, is it?’
‘She’s not a friend ,’ I sigh, but haven’t got the energy to explain.
We sit in silence for a moment, listening as the clock ticks. Then he says the most astonishing thing.
‘I blame myself.’
‘ Do you? ’
He shrugs and looks down at his hands. ‘Maybe if we were still together, things would be different.’
I don’t quite know what to make of this statement. On the one hand I should be glad of the recognition that he ought to have put some work in to the marriage, like I’d wanted to. On the other, I am oddly irritated by the idea that he thinks if he’d hung around then Leo would’ve grown into a well-rounded, respectful human being. But then maybe that’s true. Who’s to say it isn’t? Certainly, it’s a subject most parents dwell on when they split up – including me.
Back when it happened to us, Jacob was too tiny to really register that it was a big deal. He breezed through it and these days doesn’t even remember Brendan living with us. Leo, though older, showed far less distress than I’d been ready for. But maybe, as time has passed, it was all a front and all kinds of long-buried feelings and resentments are only now coming to the fore.
‘Oh God, I’m going to have to go,’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘I’ve got a vet’s appointment.’
‘Oh dear. What’s wrong with Adrian?’ he asks.
‘ Alan . She’s got a cold. Apparently hamsters can catch them from humans and a Lemsip just won’t cut it.’
‘All right,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then.’
I nod and we head to the door. He turns to look at me, a peculiar look on his face.
‘I’m very sorry you’re going through this, Lisa,’ he says, softly.
I look up at him and something about the kindness in his expression makes me want to start crying again. I sniff, and nod.
Then something really weird happens. He reaches out and draws me into a hug. I’m taken aback at first, stiff with shock. But after a moment, I feel tension in my spine unfurl. The air trapped in my chest releases. My shoulders slump. My limbs loosen. I close my eyes and allow myself to sink briefly into that once-familiar nostalgic feeling I used to have simply by dint of being in a marriage. Being one half of a couple, having that safety blanket. I haven’t thought about this for years, but I am suddenly shrouded by an intense feeling of longing that I still had this. That I was still part of an us .
While these thoughts are running through my head, I become conscious of something else too. The tightness with which Brendan is holding me. The way he’s breathing in my hair. He feels it too, I know he does. I swallow and slowly pull back, unwrapping myself from his arms before this all gets too strange.
He clears his throat. ‘If there’s anything I can do again to take some pressure off you, Lisa, Just let me know. Anything at all. You know where I am.’
I bite my lip and look at my watch.
‘Well . . . now you mention it, that vet’s appointment is at 4.30,’ I say tentatively. ‘It would be a huge help if you were able to go for me.’
He clears his throat and frowns. ‘Oh. Hmm. Tonight’s tricky. Spin class.’
He shrugs apologetically and backs out of the door.
‘But another time, Lisa. You know you can always count on me.’