The Birthday That Changed Everything: Perfect summer holiday reading!. Debbie Johnson
she goes back to college!’
‘In Latvia? Back to college? Please tell me you mean as a mature student…how old is she?’
A beat of silence. He didn’t want to tell me. This was going to be bad – very bad.
‘HOW OLD IS SHE?’ I yelled in his face.
‘Nineteen,’ he mumbled, jerking his head back in shock, ‘she’s nineteen, all right? But that means nothing. Where she’s come from, that’s mature. She’s been through more than most people have already. It’s not easy growing up in Latvia, you know. There wasn’t much money, no jobs, no way out. She needed—’
‘She needed a really stupid man, Simon, that’s what she needed. A really stupid man with a bit of money and his brains in his balls. And it looks like she got exactly that. It’s pathetic…Ollie and Lucy are losing their father because you can’t keep it in your pants? Have you any idea how much this is going to hurt them?’
‘But it won’t,’ he replied, edging away from my anger. ‘They’ll understand, even if you don’t. They’re older now – we’ve done a good job raising them. They’ve had a solid start in life, and they don’t need us to be together for their sakes any more. They’ll know I deserve a chance to be happy and in love – and so do you. And there’s no problem with the house – obviously you’ll keep that for as long as you all need it – or with money. I’ll make sure you’re all provided for…’
I was momentarily struck dumb by his use of the phrase ‘together for their sakes’. Was that how he’d been feeling? Is that what our marriage had been? Had I been so stupid I hadn’t noticed – or was Simon rewriting our history to justify current actions he must be ashamed of, deep down?
It was as though I was talking to a stranger – and one who certainly didn’t understand at least one of his children.
‘If you think for a minute that Lucy is going to accept this in any way,’ I said, ‘you’re even dumber than you look in those sprayed-on jeans. She’ll hate you for it. And I don’t blame her.’
I don’t know how he’d expected this conversation to go, but I was clearly not reacting the way he’d expected. He looked almost afraid as my voice rose. He stood up, retreating by several steps and taking refuge by the bay window – presumably so he’d have witnesses if I whacked him round the head with a paperweight.
‘Don’t worry, Simon, you’re not worth it. If I’m not what you want any more, that’s your choice. Before you came here today I was really hoping we could patch things up. That we could put things right – that I could try and be more like you want me to be. But without the aid of a time machine, that’s obviously not going to happen. I can’t believe you’re leaving me for someone who’s not much older than your own daughter. We’ve gone through all these years together and you throw it away like it means nothing…’
My quieter tone calmed him, and he took a step forward, holding out his hands in supplication. How could somebody so familiar, so beloved, suddenly be a complete alien? I suppose we’d taken each other so much for granted over the years that it seemed unbelievable that anything could change. Now here he was in front of me, as a totally different person. Amazing what the love of a bad woman can do for a man.
I wanted to kill him, and spit on his bleeding corpse. And I wanted him to take me in his arms and tell me he’d stay, that everything was going to be all right. I wanted the whole damn mess to just go away. I wanted my husband back. I wanted to sleep for ever. The shock of it all was starting to really kick in, and I didn’t know where to put myself. The anger of my words was real – but the changing landscape of my future life was now becoming a hideous reality, a poisonous shift that I could do nothing to control or avoid.
‘I’m sorry, Sal,’ he said, sounding genuinely regretful. ‘If there was anything I could do to make you feel better, I would…but I belong with Monika now. If I don’t try and make a go of this, I’ll never forgive myself – and I won’t be much use here with you, either.’
I gulped back the sobs I could feel coming. I needed to weep and wail and beg God to help me, but that was between me and the Almighty. I’d never forgive myself if I broke down in front of Simon.
‘You’d better go then,’ I said, waving him towards the door. ‘Leave the keys behind. Call to arrange a time to see the kids. Your bag’s in the hall. And yes, I did pack your five freshly ironed work shirts.’
With five freshly burned holes through the backs, I silently added. But he didn’t need to discover that until Monday morning, did he?
Oxford is a beautiful city. Full of beautiful people, leading beautiful lives. On a good day it’s an inspiring place to be; surrounded by ancient, ivy-clad colleges, woodland walks, quaint bookshops and the sense of being somewhere truly special.
This, however, was not one of those good days. I’d driven into town with Lucy, planning to do some shopping, but we’d almost come to blows within minutes of arriving at the Covered Market. She wanted her nose pierced. I said no. She said I was a boring bitch. I said thank you very much Lucy and headed for the Ben’s Cookies stall. She stomped along behind me, knocking dangling pigeons out of the way as we passed the butchers’ stands, sizzling with fury.
Erring on the side of caution, I went for the ten-cookie box – you can never have too much chocolate chip in a time of crisis. I passed one to Lucy, hoping it might shut her up for a minute, and wandered over to a stall that was selling fresh lardy cake and tiffin as well.
‘For God’s sake, you’re disgusting,’ she said, attractively spitting out tiny chunks of chocolate as she hissed at me. ‘All you do these days is eat. So he’s gone – so fucking what? Did it ever occur to you that eating yourself to death might not be the answer? It’s all your fault anyway…’
This was a rehashed version of one of her very favourite theme tunes of the last few weeks – a catchy ditty known as ‘You Drove Him Away (You Stupid Selfish Cow)’. She launched loudly into an extended remix, and I noticed small crowds of backpacked tourists edging around her nervously, as though she was a terrorist attack in Emo form – a weapon of mass destruction who could go off at any minute, taking all our eardrums with her.
‘And anyway,’ she screeched, crumpling up her cookie wrapper and throwing it on the floor, ‘it’s all so fucking embarrassing! Why did he have to bugger off with some teeny trollopy Iron Curtain whore, for fuck’s sake? My mates will piss themselves laughing when they hear about it! Why couldn’t he just shag his secretary like any other self-respecting middle-aged fuck-up?’
I often wonder why my kids are so foul-mouthed. I’m not. Very. But Lucy is in the Premier League when it comes to swearing. We were called into school when she was six because she called the dinner lady a ‘bastarding shit’ for giving her beans instead of spaghetti hoops. When she was forced to apologise she said, ‘I’m fucking sorry’, kicked me in the shin, and ran away laughing. Simon always blamed the Liverpool side of my family, and he may be right. I suspect those Scouse Irish genes definitely play a part in it.
She was still going great guns, lecturing me on how I was a bloated pig, a nightmare to live with, and completely bereft of any redeeming qualities. For her finishing touch she told me, and the other few hundred people in the market that Saturday afternoon, that a blow-up doll had more personality than I did and was probably better in bed, too. Nice. I can’t say it didn’t hurt, but I understand the way Lucy ticks – loudly, and like a bomb about to blow.
She was missing her dad and hurting like hell and, short of kicking the dog, which would contravene her moral code, Ollie and I were the only victims in sight. Ollie didn’t listen, and occasionally punched her in the kidneys anyway, so she was wary of him. I did listen, and as a responsible adult tried to avoid the kidney-punching thing, so I made a much better target.
I