You, Me and Other People. Fionnuala Kearney
at me, wagging his finger. ‘Only not that, obviously. We have to be different. And better,’ he adds, handing me a red folder. ‘The script. Page 312 is where the song appears. Make it work?’
I ignore the slight pleading inflection. ‘Right. Love song. Wedding. Make it work.’
He scratches his head. ‘Read the script. It’s not a wedding. It’s a love song. It’s a sort of “I’ve loved you forever, will always love you” love song. But the storyline is a couple who split up, get back together and er …’ He eyeballs me. ‘Well, they get back together and—’
‘Live happily ever after?’ I snort loudly, then sip my cooling coffee. ‘Movies,’ I say. ‘Only in the movies.’
‘Write the song.’ He’s back opposite me, wide-eyed. ‘Please?’
‘I’ll write the song.’
‘Beth, have you talked to Adam yet?’ He refills his own mug from a shiny red machine in the corner.
I don’t look at him. Instead I think about his American accent and the way he says Beth. Coming from Nashville, he’s the only living person I know who can add a twang to a one-syllable word.
‘Beth?’ He’s suddenly standing beside me.
There it is again. I look up. ‘Josh, I really have nothing to say to Adam.’
‘You never did tell me exactly what happened. I mean, how did you know? I mean, I know he had an affair and left and that it’s not the first time, but what actually happened?’
He says all of this without taking a breath. And I realize I’m holding mine as the memory of the night plays in sepia in my head:
‘Where have you been till now, Adam?’
‘Matt and I worked late on a new pitch, then went for a curry.’
‘You didn’t think to call?’
‘I just didn’t notice the time, Beth, sorry.’
He then undresses in the bathroom. And scrubs his teeth. Not brushes them, scrubs them. Then, he takes a shower.
‘You tired?’ I ask when he gets into bed.
‘Mmmm. Beat.’ He plants a brief kiss on my cheek then turns over. I get up and go to the bathroom. He has pushed his clothes into the end of the linen basket, covered them with other items. I sit on the loo and pull it towards me. His shirt is in my hands. I smell it. Lemons. Citrus perfume. From the doorway, I rub my right hand slowly left to right over the place I know my heart lies beneath my skin. It’s like I’m massaging it, willing it to keep beating. I look at his body, already curled away from my side of the bed.
‘Adam. Who is she?’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing much “happened”. I smelt perfume on his clothes, tackled him, he folded and I asked him to leave. End of story.’ I give a gentle shrug.
Josh reaches over, takes my hand, and stares for a long time at my ring-less finger. ‘You’re a songwriter,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘That is never the end of the story.’
Home by three, I check the answerphone to find a message from my mother. Hearing her voice makes me sigh. Hearing what she says makes me scrunch my face painfully. ‘Elizabeth! If you do not call me back, I shall be forced to get in my car and drive to see you. I’d prefer not to have to get in my car to drive to see you, but I will.’
I call her back, knowing that if I think about it too much, I’ll never call her. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I do know it will be laced with lies. I cannot tell her that Adam left me. As it happens, I only have to lie to her answerphone. Giddy fibs trip easily from my tongue as I tell her machine that I’m sorry for not being in touch, that I’ve been busy with an amazing project. I guess I have, really. I’ve been surviving. Ending it with a ‘Let’s meet for lunch?’ comment seems like a good idea.
I put a recorded episode of CSI on the telly and start surfing the net on my iPad. I Google everything that has anything to do with infidelity. I find all sorts of stories and heart-wrenching tales that make me feel quite lucky. At least my dastardly husband is a crap liar. At least the smug bastard confessed when confronted. According to the Internet, I’m lucky that he hasn’t been running three wives at a time and that he doesn’t wear my knickers while shagging them. I’ve found a website full of questionnaires that are supposed to tell you how you’re dealing with betrayal and I’m completing my third one. I think that it’s helping:
Question One: Did you know something was wrong before you found out?
Answer: No. (There is only a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ response box. There is none that says ‘well, maybe, maybe just a little’.)
Question Two: Has your partner ever been unfaithful before in your or in previous relationships?
Answer: Yes. (The bastard.)
Question Three: Do you find yourself consumed with the physical betrayal?
Answer: Yes. (I can’t stop thinking about Adam being inside another woman.)
Question Four: Are you finding it difficult to cope with your anger?
Answer: Yes.
Question Five: Do you believe your marriage can be saved?
Shit … I surf again and find lots and lots of positive mantras, the sort that Caroline wants me to embrace. I send them to my printer upstairs. Tomorrow, I will place them randomly all over the house, making sure to use Sellotape rather than Blu-tack, just because I can and because I know it would piss him off. I then discover an Internet forum site that has live web-chats for women who have been cheated on.
Amy from Hull is online.
‘Sometimes I just want to call him up and say, “Okay, point proved. Come on home now.” Then, other times I want to smash his face in,’ she says.
Patsy from Seattle replies.
‘Oh, I get that one! My best friend was so angry with her ex that she posted frozen prawns to him every day for a week when she knew he was away. Even though my ex is awful, I don’t think I’d have the nerve.’
I laugh out loud. ‘Hi,’ I type. ‘My name is Beth and I’m almost an alcoholic.’ I hope they get the irony and don’t really think I’m an alcoholic. I touch my wine glass, which is almost empty, and put it to one side. In reality, I think I am drinking too much, beginning to rely on that glass of wine, self-medicating.
‘Hi Beth, LOL and welcome! What’s your story?’ Sally from Manchester … Shit. Where do I begin?
‘My husband cheated on me with a younger woman. He is immature and selfish and I am so angry with him that although I don’t want to smash his face in, I think I quite like the prawn idea.’ I hit the return button.
‘Is she beautiful?’ Sally asks. ‘My husband is currently shagging an ex-Miss Great Britain,’ she says. ‘As I’m twenty pounds overweight from giving birth to his one son-and-heir six months ago, I find this fact harder to take than the fact that he has cheated. He cheated on me with a younger, solvent, skinny woman with a flat, scar-free stomach and pert tits.’
‘Chin up Sally.’ Briana from Queens … ‘Mine left me for a man. Sorry for appearing to downgrade your pain, but I think I’d prefer an ex-beauty queen to another man.’
Christ. It’s overwhelming. I take a break and make a cup of tea before resuming my position on the sofa, where I read a few more tales of woe before finally deciding to be more proactive. Having spent an entire episode of CSI on the worldwide web of betrayal, I am armed and dangerous. I email Adam.
-----Original Message-----
From: [email protected]
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