you could explain why you’re playing hunt the sausage with some blonde waitress?’
‘She’s not a waitress,’ I begin, ‘she part-owns the restaurant.’ I’ve recently learned this fact and feel eager to share it with Karen.
‘Bully for her. Explain then why you’re playing hunt the sausage with a blonde part-restaurant owner. Again …’
She spits the last word out. For a moment I’m confused. Then I realize. This is Karen; Beth tells her everything. Of course she would know about the last time, but that was different. And it was such a long time ago.
‘That was a long time ago,’ I whisper.
‘What? I can’t hear you,’ she says, raising a palm to her ear. ‘I’m assuming it was an apology for breaking Beth’s heart. Again.’
I almost snatch the G&T from the waiter’s tray as he walks by.
‘I am sorry. Of course, I’m sorry. Every day I’m sorry—’
‘Words, Adam, just words … Thank you for the cheque.’ She stands up, straightens out her tailored trousers and eyeballs me. ‘I do hope that we can continue a working relationship, but when it comes to your behaviour and Beth, don’t ever expect me to take your side.’
‘I don’t, Karen.’ I reach out and grab her arm. ‘Look, I only want to talk to her. Just talk to her, try and explain.’
‘Don’t you get it?’ She pulls away. ‘You’ve hurt her too badly this time. There is no explanation you could possibly offer.’
‘But we’ve been married for—’
Karen tuts loudly, shakes me off her and walks away. Men stare in her wake, then look back at me. It looks like a lovers’ tiff and I’m the baddie. Well. They’re half right.
‘Twenty years,’ I finish my sentence, addressing my G&T. I swallow back the remains of the drink in one gulp, realizing for the first time that this is it, the possible end of my marriage, and I wonder how the hell I ended up being so arrogant. What had I thought? That she’d just take me back again. Yes. That’s exactly what I’d thought. That I could have a bit of fun, admit my mistake and that Beth would take me back. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. The words roll around my head and I hear myself speaking just like her. I’m trying ‘Beth-speak’, potty-mouth stuff. I leave the restaurant, thinking I’m due at Emma’s in five hours for dinner. Fuck. Double plus fuck.
I’m a little drunk. Home-cooked, slow-braised lamb shank is staring up at me from a white plate – on a white table. I’m sitting on a white chair on a white rug. I have a white linen napkin on my lap. I’m in the White House.
‘You’re not perfect, you know.’ I point a fork at the figure sitting opposite me. ‘Not all that …’ I look at my surroundings, searching for the right word. ‘White,’ I add.
‘More wine?’ she offers.
‘You’re not innocent. No way, not at all. You knew I was married. Yes, you knew.’
She sips her wine. ‘I did,’ she agrees.
‘All this white.’ I wave my cutlery around the room, splashing gravy on the white rug below. ‘Oops,’ I place a slightly drunken hand to my mouth, ‘a stain. Emma, you have a stain.’
She stands up, walks to the kitchen and returns with a spray cleaner and a cloth. She lowers herself and tries to rub the blemish away.
‘I have a stain too – on my soul,’ I whisper. ‘No, two actually … two big ugly black marks on my soul.’
She looks up at me, nods and returns to the rug below.
‘But hey, while you’re down there,’ I say, and laugh out loud. I’m fucking hilarious, I am.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she says. I’d been talking about my work. How I feel that I’m not good enough, that I may never be ‘successful’.
‘What would it be like if you achieved everything you wanted, rather than feeling you have to sabotage it?’ Caroline asks.
I am momentarily horrified. ‘Sabotage?’ I exhale loudly. Is that what I do? I let her question linger and my shoulders unlock and lift.
‘I’ve been listening to you.’ She leans forward. ‘And you’re really hard on yourself. If anyone else treated you like that, you could sue for harassment.’
I scan the copy of the crumpled timeline in my hand for a hint. What went wrong? I want to scream out loud and blame Adam, but I can’t. I suspect I also played a part in getting to this place today.
‘He did it once before you know.’ I begin to cry. ‘Years ago … but I forgave him.’
She makes a face, an acknowledging grimace. ‘What happened?’
‘Some client …’ I rub some white lint from my navy blazer. ‘A woman he was working on some deal with. I never found out who. Meg was only nine at the time. I didn’t want to know, I just wanted it fixed – so we worked on it.’ The lint is gone but I’m still rubbing my arm. ‘Though what really happened is: I worked on it and he just nodded, played along.’ I shake my head. ‘To hell with him. Let’s concentrate on me …’
‘Okay. Some homework.’ Caroline claps her hands lightly. ‘I want you to try and reinstate upbeat thoughts into your life. Try reciting some positive affirmations, almost mantra-like.’
I can do that. I offer a rare smile. No problem.
‘Try to be spontaneous. Imagine what it might be like to do something unplanned.’
My immediate instinct is to tell her not to be stupid. I don’t do unplanned, and I invented control-freakery. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say.
‘What is it you’re afraid of?’ she challenges.
Everything, I realize, I am afraid of everything.
When I arrive home, there’s a familiar car in the driveway and Karen is sitting on my doorstep with a large bunch of yolk-yellow gerbera daisies, my favourite flowers, and a bottle of orange label bubbles. Her face is raised to the morning sun.
I hug her. ‘It’s ten a.m. Why aren’t you in work?’
‘I work for myself; took a few hours off, figured you might need this?’ She waves the bottle as I unlock the front door.
‘It’s ten a.m.,’ I repeat, smiling.
‘So what? It’s a half-bottle and I brought orange juice too if you want to spoil the taste.’ Her nose wrinkles, a pout that says she couldn’t imagine anything worse. I reach out and hug her again, whisper a quiet ‘thank you’ into her ear. In that moment, I’m so grateful to have her. Her antennae twitch whenever I need her. As if to prove the point, when we reach
