out who your friends are. And that’s worth a lot. Some people go through life and never find out. And another thing. If you don’t listen to anything else I’ve said today, listen to this. Don’t leave the house, and if you find out he has got someone else call me. Any time. Day or night. E-mail, if you like. Text. Anything. Paul sounds like he’s being a mean bugger. He’s arrogant, so will be self-righteous in anything he does—even when it is suggesting his wife and child leave the house. He’ll validate his behaviour somehow, so you’ll look bad and he won’t. Because that’s the way his mind works. He’s always been a good liar. He’s manipulative, mean, insensitive and self-obsessed. You just wait. You’ll see him for what he is soon enough. He’ll make himself out to be the injured party. Don’t let the bastard get you down any more than he already has.’
Sarah—‘I love you, Kim. Why can’t men be more like women?’
Kim—‘Because they have willies, darling. Because they have willies. And that’s where they keep their ego and their brains. Give Ben a big kiss from me. And call me. Now, I’ve got to get this twat’s article done.’
Journey back to Chelmsford takes an hour, but somehow it seems shorter this time. My mind is not on the journey, but buzzing with everything Kim’s said to me. Her insight into the situation, which I can’t see because I’m living it.
I collect Ben from nursery. His little face when he sees me and calls out ‘Mummy’ moves me to tears. He sings the Teletubbies theme tune in the back seat. I’ve got to try to make it work for his sake. I’ve got to try. But I’m tired emotionally. I’m tired of living in a house I hate, in a relationship I hate, with a man I think I’m growing to hate. And I think I hate myself. Kim’s right. I’ve got to deal with this head-on. But Paul and I have never been able to talk about the big issues—and it’s even worse now. So what can I do?
Back at the house, I let Ben play in the garden with his new bike, then give him tea—salmon in white wine and garlic. It’s really for his daddy, but somehow I don’t think Paul will turn up tonight. Ben is eating more than I do at the moment. I bathe him and read him a bedtime story. The one about the witch—Room on the Broom. He likes that one.
Ben—‘I lub you, Mummy.’
Sarah—‘I lub you too, Ben.’
Ben—‘Are you okay, Mummy?’
Sarah—‘Yes, I’m okay, Ben.’
Perhaps he senses something is wrong. They say children can sense things clearly at this age. They’re like animals; they know when something is wrong. No hiding anything from them. I feel very protective towards this little boy.
I work on the She feature, but don’t feel in the mood to write about romantic breaks, somehow. I switch off the computer. Perhaps Paul will make it home tonight. Perhaps not. So I wait in the sitting room and watch reality TV, which has absolutely nothing to do with anything real at all. Sets are fake. Situations are fake. People are fake.
The front door opens. The alien returns. It’s nearly eleven.
I get up and walk over to greet him. He looks morose and drunk.
Sarah—‘Hi, would you like something to eat?’
Paul—‘No, thanks. Had something on the train. Think I’ll just go to bed.’
Sarah—‘Okay. You do that. Say night-night to Ben.’
Paul—‘Will do.’
I hear Ben’s bedroom door open and a faint, ‘How’s my best boy, then?’ And a kiss. And a quiet ‘I lub you, Daddy.’ And, ‘Can I have a dog?’
Then I hear him go into our bedroom and close the door. I stay downstairs for ten more minutes. Watching blankly as a couple tear each other apart emotionally on Temptation Island.
I check on Ben, who is snoring happily in his mini-bed which has just been converted from his mini-cot. Our son is now a fully-fledged little boy, with Buzz Lightyear duvet and pillows. His room is the nicest in the house. Bright yellow walls, now almost covered with his drawings and paintings, and scribblings of his name and what he did for the holiday and what he likes to eat and what his favourite television programme is. Carpet deep blue, hiding all the baby sick and mess that comes as part of the package with children, especially boys. Because I’m told little girls are so much tidier and more mature.
But I’m so very pleased I had Ben—that I had a little boy. I remember clearly how I felt when I was in the labour ward and this little red and puffy bundle squished out and looked around as if to say, ‘Where am I now, then?’ And Paul was there to see his son come into the world, and he beamed with pride and love that day. And I remember the midwife took Ben away and quickly cleaned him. I said I wanted Ben straight on the breast, and he immediately hooked onto my left nipple and never liked the right as much. And he travelled with me wherever I went, and awoke every two hours for the first three months, and I didn’t mind one bit. I knew then he had a lovely nature. A gentle and kind nature. My sunshine.
Just a pity my dad never saw him. I was five months pregnant at his funeral. Hope he’s looking down now and smiling on us both. He would have loved this little bundle of joy. Ben’s a cuddler, and the best thing in the world is when he wraps his little arms around me and looks me in the eyes and says, ‘You’re very beautiful, Mummy.’ Because for that brief moment I feel I am.
Paul is fast asleep. Snoring loudly. Farting silently. Must open windows. Last time I didn’t, and almost threw up when I woke up. Don’t want to be gassed in my sleep.
Paul still an alien in the morning. Perhaps he thinks I’m one, too.
Paul—‘God, it’s bloody freezing in here. Why are all the windows open?’
Sarah—‘Thought we could do with some fresh air.’
Paul—‘I’m going to be late tonight. Work to do. Don’t wait up.’
Sarah—‘Okay. Is everything okay?’
Paul—‘Yes. Have you thought about what I said? About moving out?’
Sarah—‘No. Don’t think it’s a good idea. I work from here, and this is Ben’s home. It’s easier for you to move into London and get yourself a flat if you need the space.’
Paul—‘Told you how I feel about that.’
Sarah—‘Told you how I feel about that.’
Paul—‘We’ll talk tonight.’
Sarah—‘We won’t, because you won’t be back till late.’
Paul—‘The night after that, then. But we need to talk. I need space.’
Sarah—‘I know you do.’
Paul—‘I don’t like it when I’m around you.’
Sarah—‘I know. At the moment I don’t like it when you are around me either.’
Paul—‘Look, why don’t I give you an allowance of, say, thirty thousand a year, and you can look after Ben and yourself. I’ll even find you a house.’
Sarah—‘This
