Lessons in Love. Belinda Missen
‘I don’t know, what am I thinking?’ I asked.
‘I said I should come down for the weekend, while your father is still on his trip.’
Ctrl Alt Delete. ‘Sorry, say again?’
‘I could come down, spend the weekend,’ she suggested. ‘Go shopping, have lunch.’
‘Mum, we haven’t seen each other in almost eighteen months,’ I said. ‘And, can I just remind you that was because I came to you. The last time you were supposed to visit, you forgot and never showed. The last three times, in fact.’
My mother had this habit, and I wondered if it wasn’t just a game she quite enjoyed, where she would make plans to visit, and never show up. Her disappearance was always followed up by a quick, apologetic phone call that left me little room to move.
‘Oh, honey, I’m sorry,’ she cooed. ‘Won’t happen again, I promise.’
Just like it wasn’t going to happen last time, or the time before that. Really, my afternoon would have been easier had I just ignored my phone. Voicemail was the great technological filter. Even another round with Marcus was preferable to this.
‘You’re going to have to stay in a hotel. We don’t have room in the apartment,’ I said.
‘You know, I haven’t been back to that blasted town since you were a baby?’ she scoffed as if I was about to jump in and support her.
‘What a surprise.’ I smiled sarcastically.
Yesterday’s lunch box was languishing in the back of the communal fridge, which was kind of an office etiquette red card misdemeanour. Sidelined with side-eye. With nobody looking, I shoved it into my handbag and hoped it hadn’t been noticed. I closed the refrigerator door, screwed the lid on my travel cup, and turned to leave. The sound of laughter echoed up the corridor. As I yanked on the door, someone pushed against it, and I ambled straight into a wall of suit.
Everything slowed. The shuffle, the sidestep, the miss, the clash, and the crescendo of realisation. Caught between the two of us, an innocent coffee cup. Only ten seconds earlier, and it would have been full to the brim. Not so much now though.
‘Okay, Mum.’ I waited for her to take a breath between her words. ‘Mum, I have to go, I’ve just … I need to go. Now. Need to go now. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll call soon.’
Stabbing on the red button, I missed the tinny ends of her one-sided conversation. I held my phone out to my side, as if that would keep it safe from any further harm and peered down at my front.
I. Was. Sopping. There was so much liquid that it was dripping from the hem of my shirt and pooling around my feet. A milky brown bloom climbed up across my chest and over the toes of my shoes and, wouldn’t you know, there was my five-dollar Target bra making an appearance. At least it was white and fit relatively properly because, right now, I looked like I was starting a one-woman wet T-shirt contest.
‘Fuck.’ It was all I could muster. I pinched at my shirt and peeled it away from my skin.
‘Oh … shit.’ Marcus snorted, failing miserably at not laughing.
On what planet was this funny? My shirt was verging on translucent, at least everywhere south of my bra straps. To make matters worse, he’d managed to escape completely, except for a splash on his shoes. When I could focus briefly, it was definitely only on his shoes. I was incandescent with rage, from the acidic pit in my stomach to the bright lights sitting behind my eyes.
‘Is this funny to you?’ I shrieked. ‘Really? You … I have no words for you.’
My words were a starting gun, and he began faffing about, hands searching, darting across the bench to a roll of kitchen towel when it had been discovered that, for once, the cleaners were early and had made off with the dishcloths. He thrust a fistful of paper towards me, his arms bobbing about in suggestion that, just maybe, he’d like to be the one to blot me.
‘Don’t you touch me.’ I held an arm out to stop him moving closer. He placed the towel gingerly in my hand. ‘Or I swear to God, you’ll never ever have children.’
‘Well, that’s kind of important to me, so I’ll just throw paper at you from here,’ he teased. I watched in shock as he began folding a square into a paper plane. Was he serious?
‘Why don’t you just go away?’ I spat. ‘Flutter off into a cloud of mothers somewhere. I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.’
‘You really are an angry little onion, aren’t you?’ Marcus turned on his heel and left me, sopping wet in the middle of the staffroom.
Grappling for the kitchen towel as it rolled away, I unravelled another length and began dabbing it against my front. People came and went, curious onlookers joked about there being better ways to score a caffeine hit and, no, I didn’t really need any help. Thank you all the same. While it felt like I was there forever, the eyes of the world watching my embarrassing spectacle, it had only been ten minutes or so when the door swung open. Penny stood there looking both confused and worried.
‘Ellie?’
I looked up from my shirt, which I’d pulled away from me to better survey the damage. ‘Yeah?’
‘There’s someone here to see you.’ The waiver in her voice was not indicative of someone excited for the pub in about seventy-six minutes’ time. I, on the other hand, was already doing the mental maths of just how much I could afford to drink.
I groaned. Now what?
* * *
‘Eleanor Manning?’
Each step towards the office felt wobblier than the last and, by the time I pushed through the door, I’d imagined every single irrational thing that it could be. My brain was trying to juggle with the idea that my car had be stolen, or Dad having had an accident overseas. I’d have to roll up to a consulate somewhere and bail him out. Or, worse, Mum really wasn’t joking about visiting and had been sitting out in reception the entire time. Maybe my grandparents had risen from the dead and were about to serenade me with some ‘Thriller’ moves of their own. The last thing I had expected was a divorce lawyer.
Stupid, I know.
Looking every bit his serious self, dressed in an overpriced but under-tailored suit, was Bill Napier. He’d been by Dean’s side every time there was a deal to be done, hovering downstage with his billowing sleeves and sweat patches. Today was no different.
‘Is this a joke?’ I snorted. ‘Bill, you know who I am.’
He pulled a yellow envelope from his breast pocket. He wore enough rings you’d be mistaken for thinking they were knuckle-dusters. Then again … ‘Your ex-partner is applying for divorce—’
‘Hang on, hang on.’ I held up a hand to stop him. ‘Is this the done thing? We’ve only been separated nine months. Is this correct?’
‘Are you refusing to accept the paperwork?’
‘What? No, I’m simply asking a question.’ My breathing became shallow, more pointed with their anger. Was this guy serious? I’d done the Googling; twelve months apart and then you could apply for a divorce.
Bill placed the envelope on the bench beside me and repeated, ‘Eleanor Manning, your ex-partner is applying for divorce, and I am serving you with the divorce application. Your court date is listed for Friday, 9 November 2018.’
Apparently, he was very serious. Like another man I’d recently dealt with, he turned on his heel and walked away.
‘Here, close your eyes. Let me do your eyeliner.’ Penny leaned in, the heel of her hand pressed into my cheek.