The Forever Home by Sue Watson
Chapter Four
The morning after the party, Mark turned up at the house. I’d been awake all night, didn’t even go to bed because I knew I wouldn’t sleep. After bidding goodbye to guests around 1 a.m. and packing the caterers off with many thanks, I found myself alone. I don’t know how I did it. I’d been operating on pure adrenaline or pain endorphins or something. I told anyone who asked that Mark was asleep upstairs, that these days he found parties too much, something I knew would upset him; he hated anyone to think of him as middle-aged. At forty-one, his ‘showbiz age’ was ten years younger than his real one.
And here he was now, the morning after the night before, on the doorstep of our home, looking at least 100 years old and asking to be let in.
I didn’t want to discuss this latest crisis on the doorstep, so grudgingly allowed him in, asking him to wipe his shoes, like he was a stranger.
He followed me into the house. ‘Do the kids know?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I told them.’
He looked away. ‘What did you say… what did they say?’
‘They were shocked, angry, upset. Phoebe cried. Jake did what he always does, pretended he was okay, when he really wasn’t.’ I’d told them over breakfast, before they headed off back to London and Exeter. They were both hurt and horrified at what he’d done, and concerned for me. But I pretended I was fine and would be happier on my own. I didn’t want them to worry about me, but I worried about them. To endure the humiliation of their father leaving for one of their contemporaries must have been very painful. I suspected it would be something that would take a while for them to accept – if they ever did.
‘Oh,’ was all he could say.
‘Why don’t you talk to them yourself? You have both of their phone numbers,’ I said challengingly.
‘No… I’ll leave it for now.’
Again, I saw his cowardice and remember thinking, how had that passed me by? God knows, he wasn’t perfect, far from it, and like most wives of twenty-five years, if you asked me what my husband’s faults were, the list would be long. But being a coward wasn’t something I’d considered – it was a new one for my growing list. He hadn’t argued too much about leaving the previous evening because he knew that in his absence I’d tell the children and clear up some of the mess he’d made. It was something I’d always done, not because I wanted to – but because he made a lot of mess, and he was incapable of cleaning it up.
He wanted to smoke, so we wandered through the sitting room and into the garden where less than twenty-four hours earlier I’d welcomed guests into our home to celebrate our marriage. Now that marriage had been packed away with all the glasses and crockery from the party, gone forever.
Once outside, I watched him spark a match against the bricks to light one of his filthy cigarettes. I won’t miss that, I thought, ashe leaned against the wall and sucked hard on the cigarette, looking at me like I was the problem. I stared back, imagining thick, toxic smoke, shrouding his lungs, choking the life from him, and tried not to smile at the image.
For a long time, we stood facing each other, gladiatorial in our stances, battle lines drawn.
‘So, you and Erin. Is it love or mid-life stupidity?’ I finally asked into the silence, punctuated only by the ripple of waves and the birds making their presence felt.
He looked down. ‘I didn’t expect this, not at my age. I didn’t think I could ever feel this way again,’ he said, slowly bringing his eyes up to meet mine.
‘Wow.’ I looked up into the sky. I couldn’t look at him just then. I sighed. ‘So you do think it’s love then, this fling with a twenty-four-year-old?’ I almost laughed out loud at the cliché.
‘I don’t think… I know it is.’ He at least had the sensitivity to say this like it was difficult to say to his wife. Or perhaps I was giving him far too much credit, and it wasn’t sensitivity, he just didn’t want to leave himself open to another insulting remark from me. Considering the humiliation I was about to endure when all this got out, I reckoned I had every right to make him feel embarrassed about this. ‘The thing is, being with you has emasculated me,’ was his next line, straight out of The Cheating Husband’s Handbook.
You really are a ridiculous and predictable man, I thought, mentally adding another two flaws to the list.
And as if on cue, he then added, ‘Carly, I work long hours, I’ve given everything for my career – I’ve kept this house going, looked after you and the kids. But I still have to ask permission if I want to buy something – like I’m a child. And you even tell me off for drinking… “slow down, Mark,” you say, if we’re at a party and I’m having a good time. It’s embarrassing.’
‘Oh no,’ I roared. ‘You’ve been gone a matter of hours, and you will not rewrite history. Yes, I manage the money in our accounts, pay all the bills, and work out your expenses, but that’s because you can’t be trusted not to piss it away on a new jacket, a few shirts from Savile Row, or go on a bender for twenty-four hours and pay everyone’s drinks bill!’ I paused, taking a breath, then ploughed on. ‘And you may have conveniently forgotten, but my mother left this house to me when we married, and on our first wedding anniversary I gave you half. Everything after that was – and I say this generously – a joint effort. I took care of the house, the kids—’
‘But I’m the one who earns the money. I went out there and worked,’ he whined.
‘And I put you out there. Mark, I started your TV career, and I’ve maintained it. Jesus, I even wrote your scripts – I still do.’
‘Yeah okay, but I’m the success here. I should be driving a decent car, but when I tried to, you put your foot down…’
‘That car… that car you’d planned to buy was a £100,000 midlife crisis on wheels.’ I could hear my voice rising to screaming pitch. ‘You haven’t a clue, you’ve earned a fortune over the years and pissed it away on drinking, golf club memberships, that flat in London, designer suits – all way beyond your means.’
‘It comes with the territory. I have to look good, I’m selling a dream…’
‘Now you sound like Estelle. For God’s sake, Mark, you’re a DIY man with a bit of pizzazz who earns decent money on TV, not some million-dollar film star. You don’t need suits that cost thousands – who do you think you are?’
‘Those suits are what got me the American deal – along with bloody hard work and my talent.’
That shocked me. The US deal was something we’d both dreamed about together, we’d made all kinds of plans, and now the kids were off our hands, I’d been keen to spend time out there. He’d agreed, even joked about me living in my LA pad with pool boys and cocktails. Obviously now we’d parted, the plan would change, and it would be eight-stone Erin lying by the pool in her tiny bikini instead. After everything I’d done for him, and his career, the minute he hit the big time, I wasn’t just being dropped like a hot coal, I was also being written out of everything I’d worked for with him. But even if he’d chosen a new model more fitting to his new lifestyle in LA, surely I should have some credit?
‘I know our marriage has been a compromise, but that was your choice,’ I said. ‘I would have carried on, we had a partnership of sorts. We could have continued, you didn’t have to run off with some young—’
‘Our life, what we had… it wasn’t enough for me, Carly.’
We stood in silence as I digested this. ‘It wasn’t enough for me either,’ I finally responded. ‘Who wants to live like we did? It wasn’t a marriage, but I was happy to keep the wheels on, get the kids safely into adulthood. I did the hard yards, the hungry years, we shared the work, I supported you as much as I could. I was there for the good times, and turned a blind eye when things weren’t so good, and now, just when things are about to change and you’re off to start a new, exciting life, built on our dreams, you dump me for a… a little girl?’
He sighed, finishing his cigarette, and dropped it on the ground, screwing his heel into it. ‘She isn’t a little girl, she’s a woman, and mature for her age.’
That made me bristle. ‘I really don’t understand what’s so special about her that you’d give up everything. Admit it, Mark, this is just a one-night stand that you can’t shake off.’
‘No, I…’ He was uncertain, but he went ahead anyway. ‘Erin isn’t a one-night stand.’
‘You disgust me,’ I volleyed back, anger taking over again. My emotions roller-coastered between hurt and fury and I wanted to lash out. So I hit him where it hurt. ‘The Sun called me this morning asking why you’d left your own party in a hurry.’
His face turned white. ‘What? What the hell… How do they know? You haven’t said anything, have you?’
‘I was too upset last night to know what I said to whom,’ I replied calmly, enjoying the horror on his face. ‘But I doubt it. As you know, I’m very discreet.’
‘So how the hell…?’
‘There was Charlotte the journalist with the lovely red hair. She might have called them? I couldn’t understand why you invited her, I thought she’d be too young even for you, but now I’m not so sure; she’s older than Erin after all. And there were a couple of photographers hanging around the bottom of the road taking shots of the gaggle of loud Z-listers you also invited…’ I offered, before adding, ‘I think you call them “friends”. Perhaps one of them is on speed dial to the press?’
‘Bloody journalists make me sick.’
I laughed, bitterly. ‘You people make me sick, calling up the media when you want publicity, posing for any photographs to make you look good, visiting a children’s hospital and begging the tabloids to turn up. But it works both ways, as you know, and those same tabloids, quite rightly, will turn up for the other stuff too; you don’t get to choose. And you can visit a million sick children now for your photo opportunities, but you won’t hide the fact you left your faithful wife for a twenty-something you used to babysit for.’
He began pacing around a small patch of garden, completely lost in panic, as I watched on, wearing a smug smile of mere bravado to cover all the hurt and anger I was feeling.
He was now biting his lip, clearly trying to clamp down his rage. Things usually went Mark’s way in life, he made sure of it, he always managed to charm people into doing what he wanted, but this was different.
‘Promise me you won’t talk to the press…’ he said, still pacing, looking at the ground, trying to come up with a deal, a plan, a way out of this. And it struck me he seemed more engaged, more passionately invested in this, than when he was trying to convince me of his feelings for Erin.
‘Are you upset… do you feel jealous – about Erin?’ he suddenly asked, looking up, emerging from his panic for a moment to have his ego stroked.
‘Jealous? No,’ I said quickly. In truth, I didn’t know how I felt; it was too early to gauge my emotions. I just knew I was horrified that it was Erin, and having only been made aware of this a matter of hours before, I was still processing it. After the shocking revelation, my first instinct had been to make sure the children knew, and that I relayed the information to them as gently and as painlessly as I possibly could. After that, my second instinct was to keep my home and my heart intact. Analysing my finer feelings going forward, like pain and jealousy, was a luxury I hadn’t yet had.
Mark was now on his phone. ‘Estelle, I have to talk to you… There may be a problem with the press…’ he started, and marched up the garden. He didn’t want me to hear. I wasn’t in his camp any more, and overnight had gone from most trusted aide to as big a threat as the tabloids. I was now a danger to him. I might give interviews, and might even tell the truth for once. He was nodding, animated, and I watched him desperately trying to save himself as he stood at the bottom of the garden, at the edge of the cliff drop. A storm was coming in, and the sea was swirling beneath him.
I moved inside as the skies turned black.
When he eventually got off the phone, the storm had moved closer, and lightning ripped through the sky as he pulled open the bifold doors and stomped inside.
‘Carly, look, Estelle wants to set up a strategy,’ he announced excitedly, his adrenaline clearly high after talking to Estelle.
‘A strategy? Does she?’
‘Yes, she should have thought this through before now, should have realised that given Erin’s age, once I told you, the press…’
‘I’m sorry I’m giving you and Estelle such a difficult day,’ I sighed, stretching out on the sofa like a cat. I pretended not to care, but was surprised at the sting – even his agent knew about Erin and the end of my marriage before me.
‘Your sarcasm isn’t helping.’
‘Neither is your infidelity,’ I countered.
‘Thing is,’ he said, ignoring my comment, gazing out of the window, his back to me, running stressed fingers through his thick, silver hair, ‘we need a narrative for this.’
‘Oh wait, I have one.’ I sat up, my hand in the air like a kid at school. ‘You’ve been having sex with someone almost thirty years your junior, who you’ve known since she was born. And… you decided to break it to your wife during her silver wedding party…’ I stopped for a moment and thought about this, then suddenly, overwhelmed with sadness, I asked, ‘Mark, why did you do that?’
‘What?’ He turned to me; he looked defensive. There was something else, something he hadn’t told me.
‘Tell me at our anniversary party?’ I pressed.
‘Well, Erin told Lara about us yesterday afternoon and Lara went mad, said I had to tell you.’
‘Yeah, but Lara’s my friend, she wouldn’t have insisted you tell me on my silver wedding anniversary, especially not at the party. Why was she so insistent you did it last night?’
He couldn’t meet my eyes. And I knew, in that instant I knew why Erin wasn’t a one-night stand. And I knew why Lara hadn’t been able to sit on this to spare my feelings, even though she knew how hurt I would be. This must have been unbearable for her, torn between the feelings of her daughter and her closest friend.
‘Erin’s pregnant, isn’t she?’