Seeing Other People (15 page)

No one spoke. Not even Van. Instead they all sat staring at their food as if waiting for me to continue, which I did.

‘I miss my kids like . . . like an amputee misses their limb. Nothing feels right without them. I don’t feel whole.’

Van leaned in next to me. ‘Mate,’ he said in a voice barely registering above a whisper, ‘whether you’re a man or a woman, whether you were the cause of the problem or just an innocent bystander, splitting up when you’ve got kids is always going to be a massive ball-ache.’ He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘You did the right thing meeting up with us. If anyone’s going to get you through this, we will.’

Up until this point in the evening I hadn’t quite been sure of what I’d hoped to gain from this encounter with the Divorced Dads’ Club. Van, when he settled down, was actually quite a funny guy who was forever coming up with ideas for things that might be a bit of a laugh and Stewart, if you gave him long enough and didn’t interrupt, had a good line in amusing painting and decorating anecdotes; and Paul – who could chat about the latest foreign language film releases and argue about which of the
Die Hard
films was his favourite with equal vigour – was the most normal of the bunch, and the one guy, if I was in the market for such, I could actually imagine becoming friends with outside of these current circumstances. But the thing that made me believe that I’d done the right thing in coming out with them was the way they talked about their kids like they were actually important parts of their lives. Stewart mentioned his kids continually, almost as if to keep the memory of them vivid in his head, and while Paul preferred to grumble about his two there was no mistaking how much he loved them. As for Van, he was the biggest surprise of all. He adored his little boys and never said a word about them that didn’t make it clear to the listener that they were his proudest achievements. And in a world where most of the guys I encountered barely even acknowledged their kids’ existence, let alone talked about how they were developing and changing, what they were into and what made them laugh, this was a rare thing indeed. Even though to the outside world these guys might have looked – Van notwithstanding – like the biggest bunch of beta males this side of a comic book store, to me at least it was clear they were the bravest bunch of guys I’d met in a long time. Most of all, however, they gave me hope for a life beyond the towering mess I’d made of it so far. Maybe I could do this after all.

My phone rang. It was Penny’s number. It was all I could do not to scream like a teenage girl. Making my excuses to the guys I left the table and took the call outside.

‘Joe, it’s me,’ said Penny. ‘Are you free to talk?’

‘Of course I am,’ I replied, willing it to be good news while almost certain that it would be bad.

‘I’ve told the kids you’ll be flying home tomorrow,’ she said, her carefully measured voice seemingly loaded with so many different levels of meaning that I couldn’t begin to decode any of them.

‘That’s brilliant news. What time do you want me home?’

‘Will eight o’clock do?’

‘That’s quite late. Can’t I come earlier?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘No, you can’t.’

‘Actually you’re right,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you at eight.’

I was going home.

After one of the weirdest episodes of my life and nearly a week out in the wilderness, I wouldn’t ever have to join the Divorced Dads’ Club because I was finally going home.

15

In all my life I’d never felt quite as nervous as I did as I walked up the front path to my own house the following evening. Although it had been less than a week since I’d left it had felt much longer and the fact that I had my suitcase with me and a carrier bag full of souvenirs I’d picked up in Chinatown all added to the impression that I was returning from an epic tour of Asia rather than a five-day sleepover at a B&B in South-East London.

‘Daddy, I’ve missed you millions!’ screamed Jack, running to me in his pyjamas. ‘Last night I thought I was going to faint if I didn’t see you soon.’

‘Dad, you have to promise not to go away for this long ever again, OK?’ said Rosie, who was also dressed for bed. ‘The house feels weird without you.’

It was good to be back, and even better knowing I’d been missed, but then Penny appeared from the kitchen still wearing her work clothes and the ground shifted beneath my feet. In an instant I went from knowing exactly where I was to being lost at sea. She briefly joined the kids in their embrace and said: ‘I’m glad you’re home.’

Her words were for the kids’ benefit, even I could see that, and yet they gave me hope. Yes, I’d done wrong, and yes, we were still a long way from being right with each other, but with me home now we were on the road to recovery. At least we could come up with a plan to work things out.

Rosie spied the carrier bag, and smiled mischievously as she whispered in Jack’s ear what she thought it might be. The excitement was too much for him and he practically exploded. ‘You’ve got us presents, Dad, thank you!’

I doled out the kids’ gifts first. Jack tore into the wrapping surrounding his in a matter of milliseconds. He stared in awe at the pointy-headed futuristic-looking superhero in the brightly coloured box in his hands. I’d come across it while peering through the window of a shop that specialised in Chinese toys on Shaftesbury Avenue.

‘Who’s this?’

‘He’s called Ultraman, and he’s the coolest superhero in China. His eyes glow and I’m pretty sure he can talk too.’

Jack ripped open the box and with my help managed to free Ultraman from his cardboard prison. Victorious, Jack held him aloft. ‘Dad, he’s awesome! Taking her turn, Rosie, squeezed the package in her hands. ‘What is it? It’s some kind of clothes isn’t it?’ She tore open the paper to reveal a shiny black and gold dress. She held it up against herself and stroked the material. ‘It’s gorgeous, Dad. It feels really smooth. Is it made of silk?’

‘It’s called a
qipao
. Traditionally Chinese women used to wear them when . . .’ I stopped myself. Maybe every moment in life didn’t need to be turned into a learning opportunity after all, especially when her special Chinese dress was from the owner of a Chinatown market stall. ‘All you need to know is you’ll look great in it.’

Rosie grinned. ‘Carly is going to be seriously jealous when she sees this, especially when she finds out that it’s all the way from China. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got for Mum.’

I reached into the bag and took out the final package, a long, velvet jewellery box, and handed it to Penny. ‘It’s not much but I hope you like it.’

Penny smiled and kissed my cheek, and while I knew it was yet another show for the kids I couldn’t help but think that at least some small part of her meant it. ‘That’s really sweet of you, you shouldn’t have.’ She opened the box and showed the jade butterfly pendant to the kids. ‘It’s lovely, Joe, thank you.’

At Rosie’s insistence Penny put on the necklace and admired it in the hallway mirror. It was identical to the one I’d bought for her twentieth birthday back when we were students. She’d worn it all the time until it got lost somehow in the move from Sheffield to London. If she recognised it, she didn’t say, but it was good to see that the gifts from my fake work trip seemed to have hit the spot for everybody else. Grateful to have done something right for a change I began collecting up the wrapping paper and boxes and as I did so a tiny slip of paper fell from inside the jewellery box the necklace had come in and fluttered to the floor. Rosie picked it up, read it and her expression changed so much that for a moment I was convinced she’d found a receipt and that I was about to get caught out. But it was worse. Much worse.

She read aloud from the paper in her hands. ‘It’s like an information thing to tell you what the necklace means. “The butterfly represents fidelity between lovers, an undying bond of true love.”  ’

Rosie laughed and Jack – who hated anything remotely to do with boys loving girls – pulled a face but it was the look of desolation in Penny’s eyes that really did me in. Was there nothing I could do that didn’t seem like yet another twist of the knife?

I helped put the kids to bed and kissed them both goodnight before going downstairs to talk to Penny. I didn’t have to wait long. As I was making a coffee she came into the kitchen carrying a duvet, pillow and a set of covers, which she placed on the counter.

‘The weather reports are saying it’s going to be cold tonight,’ she said. ‘Just make sure you’re up before the kids and that this is all packed away out of sight by the time they come downstairs.’

‘You want me to sleep on the sofa?’

‘Would you rather it was the other way around?’

‘No of course not, it’s just that—’

‘What? You thought that after a week away I’d calm down? I’m not anywhere near calm, Joe. No, you’re back for the kids’ sake, not mine. You’ll sleep here, I’ll cook your meals and wash your clothes as usual but that’s it. And come the weekend we’ll alternate. I’ve booked this weekend away to be with some old uni friends so you need to make sure you’re away next weekend, OK?’

‘You’ve thought all this through haven’t you?’

‘I’m just doing what I think is best.’

‘How can this be for the best? Don’t you even want to try and work this out? Look, I’ll do whatever it takes – therapists, counselling, the whole thing.’ I took her hand. ‘Come on Pen, I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be but please, let’s at least try and talk this out.’

‘I can’t,’ said Penny. ‘I just can’t.’ Then she left the room, leaving me staring at the duvet and bedclothes absorbing everything they represented: the beginning of the great deception. From this moment onwards the only thing keeping our marriage alive would be the lengths we would be prepared to go in order to keep up appearances for the sake of the two people who mattered to us most.

For the next month the sofa was my home. I’d get up early and pack away the duvet and pillows and then join the family for breakfast before heading to work and then in the evening once the kids were in bed Penny would go upstairs to our room to read while I’d stay in the living room watching TV and arranging my bed for the night. At the weekends, just as she requested, we alternated looking after the kids using a whole variety of excuses to justify the need to go away. One week Penny was visiting her friend Annabel in Ipswich whose cat had died; the following week I was in Bristol helping my brother board out his loft; the week after Penny was helping her cousin buy a new car; then finally I went to Swindon – allegedly to help my mum clear out her garage. As plans went, it obviously wasn’t the greatest, and even Jack was asking almost daily if we were ever going to have a weekend under the same roof again; but I couldn’t see any other way around it, at least not while Penny refused to talk.

On the final night of my stay at my mum’s she went to bed early with a headache leaving me in the armchair dressed only in a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms working through some of the programmes she’d recorded on her satellite box. So far I’d watched ten minutes of an episode of
Murder, She Wrote
, the first half-hour of
Cat Ballou
and was about to see how much of an episode of
Escape to the Country
I could stomach before giving up and going to bed myself when suddenly I smelled the now familiar waft of Dior’s Poison and I turned to see Fiona sprawled along the full length of the sofa.

My hallucination was back.

Given that I hadn’t seen anything of Fiona since my temporary residence at the B&B I’d hoped that I’d somehow cured myself. After my conversation with Dr Frank, I’d concluded that my hallucination of Fiona was down to the extreme stress I’d been under with everything falling apart at home. I’d thought that if I tried to relax and calm down then that would be an end to it. But now here she was again. However this time, although things with Penny were still awful, I’d been doing nothing more stressful than watching retired couples mooching around their dream houses. Why then was I seeing visions of Fiona again?

‘You should have stuck with
Murder, She Wrote
,’ she said with a nod towards the TV.

I stared hard at her. She seemed so real that I was sure I could have reached out and touched her. What was happening to me? How was it possible to be so ill that I was experiencing talking hallucinations and yet be completely normal in every other way? Was my mind really this broken? I had to stay calm if I had any hope of stopping this from happening again. I closed my eyes and thought back to my conversation with Dr Frank about how stress played a key role in these episodes. If Fiona was here again then perhaps I wasn’t quite as relaxed as I thought I was. Without opening my eyes I crossed my legs and tried my best to recall the breathing exercises Penny had taught me during her brief flirtation with yoga about five years ago.

Keeping my eyes firmly shut I inhaled deeply through my nostrils and exhaled through my mouth, repeating the exercise over and over again until I heard Fiona’s unmistakable cackle right in my ear.

‘Are you seriously trying to yoga me out of your life?’

I carried on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

‘Have you any idea how ridiculous a notion this is? I’m a ghost, Joe, a ghost whose job it is to save your marriage; a bit of deep breathing’s not going to get rid of me, you daft git.’