my God. Dan says he meant what he said the other night. He really did. Twenty-seven years of marriage down the drain, just like that.
He comes home just as I’m waking from my nap, but doesn’t say a word until Joel goes out to meet his girlfriend. Then he takes a deep breath and hits me with it. (Not the breath, obviously.)
“So,” he says, turning off Netflix and putting the remote control out of reach. “I guess we should talk about what we’re going to do. I’m assuming you haven’t told Joel yet?”
“Told him what?” I say, annoyed at missing the last five minutes of Breaking Bad.
“That we’re splitting up,” says Dan, as if it should be obvious. “I haven’t said anything about it so far, as I didn’t see the point in stressing him out until we’d got it organised.”
Oh, brilliant. Dan’s worried about stressing Joel out – Joel, who’s oblivious to almost everything once he’s smoked a joint to celebrate finishing work for the day. And what about my stress levels? I could have a heart attack at any second, at my age.
I think I might be, actually. Having a heart attack, I mean. My breathing’s gone all funny and now I feel genuinely sick. I’ve got pins and needles in both my arms as well, though I suppose that could be because my fists have suddenly clenched so tight.
Dan doesn’t seem to notice there’s something wrong with me. He’s too busy looking down at his hands, which he’s fiddling with in his lap.
“If we’re getting on each other’s nerves so much,” he says, inspecting his fingers as if his life depends on it, “then it seems the only sensible thing to do. Doesn’t it?”
Well, if that’s how he feels, it obviously does.
“Yes,” I say.
Then I run upstairs to the bathroom, and am sick. I never believed it when people in films threw up after they’d had a shock. Now I know it happens in real life too.
When I finally come back downstairs, still shaking and clammy, Dan glances up at me, then says,
“You okay? You don’t look good.”
I forgot that was the explanation, or rather, I must have blanked it out. Dan said he doesn’t fancy me any more the other night, didn’t he? And you can’t make someone fancy you again, once they’ve stopped. At least, I don’t think you can … and what’s the point in being married to someone who doesn’t want to be married to you, anyway?
I reach for the remote, and turn the TV back on.
“I’m fine,” I say, staring back at Dan without blinking, so he’ll believe I’m telling the truth.
I’m not going to cry. I am not. Not when the only thing left to salvage is my dignity.
* * *
Well, my no-crying resolution didn’t last long. I’m standing by the coffee machine this morning, when the Fembot starts holding forth about her date last night.
“I don’t usually fancy older men,” she says, “but I think I’ve been missing out on something. They really know what they’re doing in bed, and they appreciate younger women, too. Probably because the ones their own age are so bloody hideous. They give up bothering about how they look, once they’ve been married for a while.”
She means women like me, doesn’t she? And men like Dan. I hadn’t thought of that. Now Dan’s probably going to start dating a hot-panted child, while I’ll be stuck on my own, consigned to the scrapheap just in time for my fiftieth birthday.
“I think your coffee’s ready,” says someone behind me, so I make a grab for the cup, catch it against the top of the machine, and then drop the damn thing on the floor, narrowly missing the Fembot’s feet – which is a tragedy when she’s wearing her favourite pair of Louboutins.
My legs are covered in hot coffee, though I’m not too worried about that. I’m more concerned about the funny noise that’s just started escaping from my chest. It sounds like the beginning of what could easily end up being a full-blown sob, if I don’t choke it off. I bite my tongue, hard, which seems to do the trick, though the Fembot’s already noticed that something’s up.
“All except you, Hannah,” she says, looking a bit shocked. “I didn’t mean you, even though you are a lot more mature than the rest of us. Like Taste the Difference cheddar, you know.”
Cheddar? Now I’m like cheese? I can’t speak, in case another one of those funny noises makes its presence felt. Luckily, I don’t have to: the person behind me intercedes on my behalf.
“Hannah’s fine,” she says. “Though she may have scalded her legs a bit. I’ll go with her while she puts cold water on them.”
Then she takes me firmly by the arm and shepherds me out of the office.
“Thanks, er … um,” I say, as we make our way along the corridor towards the ladies’ loos. Who is this Good Samaritan?
“Esther,” she says. “We met when I came for my interview, a couple of weeks ago.”
I must have been on another planet at the time as I don’t recall ever meeting this girl before, even though I can see her more clearly now my eyes have finally stopped being so inexplicably watery. Girl is a bit of a misnomer, actually, as Esther is definitely a lot older than the Fembot, at first glance. On second thoughts, though, maybe she isn’t. I think it’s just her clothes and hair which give that impression: she’s probably only about thirty-five.
“Nice to meet you, Esther,” I say, shaking her hand. “And thanks for coming to the rescue, too. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Listening to your boss, I should think,” says Esther, pretty much hitting the nail on the head. “All the other staff seem nice, but does she really despise anyone older than her as much as she just sounded as if she did?”
“Not everyone,” I say, as I finish taking off my tights, then stick one foot into the sink and turn the cold tap on. “Only older women, as far as I can tell. Older men seem to be in a different category: the lust-worthy one. Oh, sod it all to hell and back.”
I’ve turned the tap on too far and now there’s water all over my dress, as well as on my leg. The Fembot will probably assume I’m incontinent, and order a Tena Lady dispensing machine for the loo, clearly marked for my use only. Then she’ll ask Dan out on a date … or someone even younger will.
“A-a-arrhhh,” I say. Out loud, despite biting my tongue again, which just makes the sob more hiccupy. Then, before I know it, I’ve taken my foot out of the sink and am sliding down the wall onto the cold tiled floor, where I sit wailing like a baby. In front of a brand new member of staff. I think I’d better ask for permission to go home. Again.
* * *
That’s better. I’ve got a grip now, thanks to back-to-back episodes of Friends on Comedy Central, though I’ll probably get fired if I take any more time off work. The Fembot made that pretty clear before she told me I could go home early “yet again”.
It was worth
