She doesn’t seem to notice my indiscretion, her body continuing to heave against mine. Her sobs increase. I reach in my pocket for my handkerchief and hand it to her.
After what seems like an hour, but may only be ten or twenty minutes – I don’t know because my arms are holding her so tight I can’t see my watch – Jenni’s sobs eventually begin to quieten and she pulls away from me.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘Come in.’
I follow her through the rest of her tiny hallway, through the dining area of her open plan living room, into the seating area where she collapses into a small floral sofa. Feeling guilty about our physical contact which I fear Carly would not understand, I clear a few toys off the sofa opposite and sit down, as far away from her as possible. The room is in disarray; littered with Duplo and jigsaw pieces, soft toys and scattered dressing-up clothes. The glass coffee tables (not sensible with toddlers) are covered in crumbs and finger marks, empty plastic beakers and coffee cups. The curtains are unopened. I spring up and open them. Jenni blinks her red-rimmed doe eyes as the sunlight hits them.
When I am sitting down again, arms and legs crossed to signal my formality, Jenni sniffs and then says, ‘Rob, why are you here again?’
Almost a reprimand. But not, because of those soft brown chocolate-drop eyes. Fudge brownie, mixed with vanilla.
I uncross my legs, lean forward and say, ‘Craig asked me to come. He wanted me to tell you, on his behalf, just how sorry he is, how much he loves you, and that he will never ever do it again.’ I pause. ‘He wanted me to ask you to give him a break.’
I sit at the front of the Eucharist service, with my father who is staying with me, praying for the strength to forgive Craig. My father has advised me that I need to move past this, because life is short and we must appreciate people while we have them. Bereft of my mother, he would say that. But what would he have said if she had been unfaithful? Mother or Father, unfaithful? That wouldn’t have happened, would it? If only my mother were here, so that I could talk to her. Why do you have to take people away so completely, Lord? Why can’t they at least just talk to us from Heaven, even if we can’t see them and hold them any more?
I have taken to having imaginary conversations with my mother as I go about my chores; as I clean the bathroom or drive to the supermarket. And every morning, lunchtime and bedtime I pray to you, Lord. But so far the peace of forgiveness has not settled on me. Memories of happier times dance on the periphery of my mind. Craig and I bringing our first child home, swathed in the shawl my mother had knitted for him. Wrapped together in love, slow dancing at a Christmas party. Walking in the park; feet crunching across burnished leaves. But Carly is walking across my memories, destroying them. I am trying to stop her but I cannot. I must pray harder. I know, Lord, that you reward those whose prayers are genuine. I must make my prayers work. Carly and Craig. I picture them lying together, dying together, slowly, in pain.
Retribution, not forgiveness. Oh how my prayers have failed, Lord.
I miss Jenni so much. The warmth of her body beside me at night. The steady rise and fall of her breath. Her slim frame curved around mine. I miss the quirky things she used to tell me about her day, about the children. Without her I can’t even concentrate on my favourite TV programme. I save up things to tell her, like I used to, until I remember she does not want to listen any more.
And the children. I cannot bear to think about the children. Seeing them every other weekend is difficult. They treat me with distant politeness, as though I am a stranger.
So this week on Tuesday morning, when Jenni interrupted my breakfast by texting me about Relate, it was a no-brainer. And now on Friday evening, an hour before I need to leave for our first appointment, I am ready to go, wearing my interview suit, grey silk tie and a pink shirt, shoes so highly polished I can see my reflection in them. Mum said I had put too much aftershave on so I have doused it off with a sponge, and now I am pacing about my childhood bedroom. The bedroom in which so much has happened. I had my first girl in here, one heady weekend of my youth when my parents were away. It was where I used to sing, too. Sixteen years old with a second-hand karaoke machine, singing my heart out, psyching myself up for band auditions that never happened. I used to really care about it. These days, I don’t feel like singing any more.
I look at my watch. Fifty-nine minutes before I need to leave. I might as well go and sit in the lounge and watch TV with my parents. That seems to be all my elderly parents do these days. Prepare meals and tidy up, drink tea and fall asleep in front of the TV. I have so little to do at the moment; half the time when I’m not on shift, I join them. Today, as usual, I find them semi-comatose in front of the early evening news. The lounge is too hot; stifling, and as soon I am sitting down with them, I join them in sleep. When my iPhone alarm goes off I pull myself into wakefulness. At last it is time to leave.
Jenni is waiting for me outside a primary school, in the centre of town. A primary school between the police station and the post office, the place Relate use for their evening sessions. Jenni, mouth in a line. Jenni, wearing her best suede boots and the coat I bought her last Christmas.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she says, without curving her lips.
‘That’s OK,’ I say.
We walk in silence, side by side, into the red brick Victorian building, which needs a lick of paint. This red brick building is impersonal, uncomfortable, draughty and cold. Everywhere we walk our footsteps echo. Not quite sure where to go, we hover in the entrance hall. I pass time by reading the notice board. I try to admire the children’s paintings Blu-tacked to the walls. But surrounded by clumsy brush strokes, the cardboard smell of poster paint, and the endlessly wounded look on Jenni’s face, I am not appreciating them very much. Eventually, when we’re wondering whether to give up and go back to our respective homes, a woman puts her head round a door at the end of the entrance hall and calls us into her office. She is about fifty with a cosy, ‘come and sit with me in the front parlour’ sort of smile. We follow her into her office and close the door behind us.
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