She wanted to stab her in the face. She wanted to take that smug blonde look and scratch its eyes out. That fucking dress with the shoulder off, that voice as if she was Audrey Hepburn on a pub crawl, and who the fuck said it was okay to kiss a ghost. Tessa hadn’t meant to squeal, it had come out, a noise like a pig stuck under a gate, like Ethel used to make in Mercury Ward when someone asked for sugar. She’d sat at the back, well out of sight, but she was still sure Ros had seen her. The curtain hadn’t been dropped for five minutes before Scott came shooting out of his dressing room and scooped her up, the theatre still emptying when he pushed her into the Land Rover, and clicked the door shut. She wasn’t an imbecile. She could manage. But they rowed on the way home.
“I told you it was too early.”
“Are you having an affair.”
“You should have stayed at home.”
“If you’re leaving me for her I’m taking Freddy.”
He almost drove into a ditch, taking the lanes too fast, another car head on, horn blaring, a screech to a stop nose to nose.
“You need to get some sleep.”
“Was it her who turned the jars around?”
She practically fell out when he stopped outside their house. She thought he was dropping her off, that he was going to screech away to the pub as soon as she slammed the door, but he sat there for ages, engine idling while she fiddled with her keys, tried the lock, was met by Molly already with her coat on, Nancy behind her. Of course. The babysitters. Molly, so like her mother only not a bitch. He rattled off with them both squashed up in the front, and she heard him moving about downstairs no more than half an hour later, not enough time to have gone anywhere but Clare’s house. And when he crawled in beside her he didn’t stink of anything but whisky and regret, that scent of a marriage like smoke under the door, a smouldering degree shift taken some forgotten year ago when it hadn’t seemed important; how a decade later they were miles off course.
“It’s not my fault.” She meant her illness. “Scott?” The rough mound of him immediately still. “I didn’t ask to be ill.” An owl outside the window, the bark of a muntjac in the woods. “You’re not so fucking perfect yourself, you know.” His snore, fake, or real, she couldn’t tell.
The week passed in a haze. She hardly saw anyone as night after night, the Midhurst Amateur Dramatics Society took the stage. Brian found excuses to touch Clare, Clare couldn’t keep her eyes off Ros, and Ros lived for the moment when Scott took her in his arms. None of them wanted the show to end except Tessa who night after night suffered Scott coming home drunk, stinking of the stage, the pub, that fucking woman who used to be her friend. They hadn’t spoken since the awkward call, not a text, nothing, it was as if Tessa had ceased to exist.
On Sunday, Clare came round and was weird, she sat in the kitchen talking about anything but Ros. After she left, Diane called to see if she was okay. Did all of them know? Was it all over the Midhurst Gazette? Sexy Irish Fuckhead Goes Off With Woman Pretending To Be An Actress. She could write the copy herself.
Ros wasn’t the first. Women were always falling over themselves for Scott, incredulous that mad, fat Tessa could have landed a husband like him, all but asking how did you do it? She knew they assumed it was the sex, and it used to be wild, but that wasn’t it. You understand me Tess, that’s what he used to say, and cosy beneath blankets they’d laugh at the social climbing, red trouser wearing, dinner party throwing Home Counties set, they’d say thank fuck for you and hold each other tighter. But her illness had stolen everything, his desire, her faith, her agency to ask anything of him like not to drink so much, like to look at her once in a while, like to say anything other than a perfunctory hi and occasional see you later. That degree shift many moons ago when they’d first met, a pregnancy and an illness, their wedding bands already at the bottom of the Orinoco River, a honeymoon of reveal that they’d both washed over, imagined it was the stress of the wedding, her mother telling her she should walk down the aisle backwards, her dress looked so much prettier from the rear. How he’d persuaded her to laugh it off, how he’d charmed her mother, how her mother had tried to dissuade him, caught between her desire to have her daughter off her hands and her need to make her fail, how he’d said I’m no angel either, and in the front seat of the Land Rover, driving away from lunch, they’d decided the only thing for it was to run away together. They should have, they should have got out of West Sussex and the ghosts that lurked at every corner for Tessa, there the terrace where the marquee had stood, a celebration of her 21stbirthday that she’d spent in The Priory while her friends carried on without her, her father had said there was no point in wasting good champagne. There the tree stump where she’d sat hour after hour rather than go back inside to the tinkling, sparkling kitchen, her mother chopping carrots, the dog’s nails click-clacking on the scrubbed kitchen floor. There, the cupboard, the scratch of the brick while her father in sunshine turned pages of the racing paper, and her sister’s played skip-rope on the lawn.
On Monday she failed to hear the man from Ocado, and he left, leaving them bereft of milk, fish fingers and butter. On Tuesday a branch crashed onto the fence, narrowly missing Scott’s car. On Wednesday Clare came over again and instead of slagging Ros off when Tessa said it’s not the fucking West End, she defended her. On Thursday Tessa burnt the soup and on Friday she stayed in bed all day, unable to get up even when Freddy came in from school with a clay dinosaur he’d made her. On Saturday Scott came home at lunchtime to give Freddy his tea, she heard them making lasagna together while she dragged herself from bed, down the waterfall of stairs, and lay in the sitting room staring at the blank TV screen. She heard the ping of the timer, the clank of the Aga door, Scott taking over despite Freddy saying he could do it. She heard Scott say, run in and get your mother.
His little face so blonde and sweet, those green eyes like his dad, a soft roundness that would surely fade and the thought of it made her cry inside, while outside she wondered how she’d find the strength to get up out of the deep feather cushions and follow him to the table. She wasn’t hungry. She’d have to pretend to be, like she had to pretend everything else.
“Look at this.” She sat down in the chair Freddy pulled out for her.
“I did all the chopping,” Freddy sat beside her.
“And you grated the cheese,” Scott cut slices. He eased one out with a spatula, tomato sauce and béchamel dripping, a courgette escaped back into the dish.
“It looks delicious,” said Tessa, feeling nauseous. “We can play scrabble later.” He’d asked her every day after school, and every day she’d said tomorrow.
“Fred’s coming to the show.” Scott finished serving, took off the oven gloves and took his place opposite her. He picked up his fork.
Tessa was still in her pyjamas. She looked at the clock. “I need a shower.”
“You’re not coming.”
“I want to come.”
“You’ve seen it already.”
“Then who’ll sit with Freddy?”
“Molly and Nancy,” said Freddy, separating his vegetables from the collapsing layers, the beef getting mixed with white sauce.
“Why didn’t you tell me.” It was like a whole world was going on without her.
“I am telling you.” Scott blew on a forkful of mince.
“And what about coming home?”
“I’m not going to leave him there, am I now,” he touched his son’s cheek.
“But the after party.” There was always an after party at the pub.
“It’s tomorrow. Diane’s throwing it at her house.”
“Tomorrow?” Tessa had been planning on staying in bed.
“Yes, Tess, tomorrow. Is there a problem with that?” he said it sweetly, but he didn’t mean it like that. He meant what of it.
“And who’s going to babysit tomorrow, then?”
“He can come,” said Scott. “It’s not like the world and his wife won’t be there, now is it. Eat up Fred.” He’d already cleaned his plate, a lasagna shovelled down, one eye on the clock.
“You’re not leaving me at home for that,” Tessa had hardly touched hers. The layers were congealing.
“What are you, five years’ old? You can do what you like.”
“Then I want to come tonight.”
But he was already on his feet. He was already shoving Freddy into his warm coat and holding out his boots for him to put on, he was already checking his pockets for his keys, and the door slammed before she had time to stand up. She wasn’t sure if they’d even make it to tomorrow.
Scott and Tessa weren’t the only ones feeling upset.
Ros crashed plates into the dishwasher. The euphoria of opening night had worn off. What the fuck was he thinking, asking Molly to look after Fred again? She wasn’t a fucking monster. Once was enough, twice was totally inappropriate. It put her in a totally fucking shitty position. It was as if she was rubbing it in Tessa’s face. They could at least have a semblance of decorum. But Scott was barrelling on as if no one’s feelings meant anything to the greater scheme of his easy passage through life. Had he even spoken to Tessa? Had he said anything at all? And what the fuck was she supposed to do, meanwhile? Just sit around and wait? Everyone would just fall into line, would they? Tessa would say you knew, and you still let Molly sit with him, and Ros would feel ashamed. If, when, it all came out she at least wanted to feel like she’d done nothing wrong. And Peter and Diane weren’t talking to her either.
Clare tripped over a bucket and caught her finger in the hinge of a stable door which slammed open in the wind. It was obvious what was going on, and Tessa was her friend. She wished she could have nothing to do with Scott at all, and she wished that just once in her life she could have the balls to go after what she wanted, to admit it, to be honest about her heart. Watching Ros field the passes of Scott’s casual seduction only made her love her more. Fucking men. Ros felt even further away, not closer but taken by the attention of that man who should know better, who never tired of pulling the same trick, poor handsome Irish, psycho-picked Scott, worn down husband who everyone said he’s so loyal, I don’t know how he does it. Clare knew how, it was like a single dad walking into a playground of mothers, it was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. No one could tell her that he didn’t like the pay off. So what if he was good on stage. She couldn’t look at him at all. She was too angry.
Brian was furious with the lights which had burnt out three gels that week, and with Ros who was needlessly out-acting everyone, and with Scott who seemed to have upset Clare and not noticed. He watched them in the pub, Scott buying drinks and Clare saying I’ll get my own, thanks. If something had happened between them, he’d fucking kill him. Scott already had a wife, and he had Ros rubbing herself all over him. He couldn’t have all three. Clare, if she ever realized it, belonged to him.
Meanwhile in bed, last night, Diane and Peter had agreed that it was the last straw.
Even the weather found something to complain about; the wind whined through the trees, clouds crowded the sky in ominous iron grey and the sun fought back in fits and starts, sending rays of bright winter across trees stripped of leaves. It couldn’t decide whether to rain or snow or brighten everyone’s day with unexpected bursts of light. Everything felt like it was breaking.
Oh Em. Thank you. I wait impatiently for every chapter but then take my time to the right moment to read it. Loving your work
Everything IS breaking! 🙃