been dreaming of it for months. Every now and then, in that house, she had imagined what it would be like to just take off to the local budget hotel, on her own, for a night of solitude. For a single night away from it all. She’d had that GetAway room in her mind’s eye like a beacon in the dark. She’d craved it. She could see it. She could almost smell it. Clean, sterile. A navy blue headboard and a single, solitary scatter cushion. An inexplicable strip of shiny material running near the bottom of the bed. A dark brown wooden unit housing a television. A black and silver kettle. A small wicker basket containing packets of not-very-nice biscuits and diddy milk cartons and sachets of sugar and sweeteners: these meagre offerings would have to be supplemented with a carrier bag of chocolate and treats from the nearby service station.
There would be a bathroom that smelt of bleach and had three toilet rolls, one on the holder and a tower of two on the floor, on a silver stick thing. A single wardrobe with hangers that couldn’t be wrenched from the rail. A rough, thin dark blue carpet.
She would add magazines, a book and silence. Bliss. Peace and quiet. No one to talk to. No one to talk to her. No one to bother her. More than just ‘me’ time. Way more. Time to save herself.
Yesterday, she’d finally gone. She’d fled to The GetAway Lodge on reaching the end of an extremely frayed tether that had been fraying for years.
It had been just after three on Saturday afternoon and Frankie had been upstairs considering whether to tidy the children’s bedrooms or not. They were all absolute tips and if she tidied they would only be absolute tips again in a couple of days. What was the point? She’d decided not to bother. On her way down she’d noticed an open screwdriver set on the hall floor and was coming to tell her husband, Rob, off about it. She found her family in the sitting room and had stood in the doorway, surveying the scene.
The carpet had been used as a litter bin. All her carefully (long ago, when she thought it had remotely mattered) chosen sofa cushions had been thrown all over the place; one was even balancing on top of the television, which was blaring way too loudly. Children were draped on the sofas and the floor, all eating something they shouldn’t. One was meandering around with a piece of French bread in her hand, dropping crumbs on the carpet like an errant Gretel from Hansel and Gretel. There was lots of annoying larking about. Noise. Mess. Chaos. Downright disregard.
The meandering child kicked a small yellow football (long since banned) against the radiator. It made a jarring, reverberating thwack and a wedding photo in a silver frame, sitting on a small shelf above, wobbled then fell with a heavy plonk face down on the carpet. It was a wonder it hadn’t smashed. Nobody moved to pick it up. The kids carried on screeching and larking about. Rob lay on the sofa watching Deadly Sixty and let a second Mars Bar wrapper fall from his outstretched arm onto the carpet.
It was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a scene that was pretty commonplace in that household. But Frankie had suddenly pictured herself standing in exactly the same spot five years from then. Ten years from then. Standing in the doorway, with everyone bigger (including Rob, probably, if he carried on eating all that chocolate) but absolutely nothing changed. Chaos, disorder, disregard. Nothing would ever change, would it?
‘Would anyone notice or care if I just left you all to it?’ she’d said.
There was silence.
‘If I just walked out and didn’t come back?’
Still silence.
Something crunched within Frankie. A switch that had been threatening to be pressed clunked down with a thump. She’d had enough. She turned and slowly walked back upstairs, like a robot.
It had all ground to a halt. Her enthusiasm for family life. Her energy for any of it. Her cooking mojo had been worn down to a nub. It had disappeared on a wave of non-appreciation and apathy. She didn’t want to iron another work shirt. She didn’t want to pick up another cowpat of compressed jeans and pants that Rob simply stepped out of before getting into bed. She didn’t want to look for another missing item whilst a shouting man stomped round the house. She didn’t want to load or unload another dishwasher. Or put anything else in the bin. Or answer any more questions. She loved them all so much – well, Rob, not so much, let’s be honest here – but they were driving her mad.
If she ever got time to do a full day of housework and get the house pristine, there were five brilliantly effective saboteurs who could trash all her good work in seconds. There really was no point. And she had a few stock laments that she trotted out almost daily to completely deaf ears: ‘Why is there cheese all over the floor?’, ‘Why does no one, no one, hang up the bath mat but me!’ and, ‘For the love of God, can’t you, just once, put things away!’
No one had explained it properly. No one had spelled it out to her. She’d had this ridiculous, fuzzy vision of marriage and babies when she was younger: a sweet-smelling, talcum-powder-dusted oasis of flowers and baby bubble bath and sunny days and holding hands with her husband while her beautiful children ran fresh-cheeked through a meadow. No one had spelled it out to her that marriage and babies actually meant years and years of drudgery.
And, most devastatingly, giving up any semblance of your life. The life you had before.
She was done.
Except she could never be done. This was not a job she could resign from. She had to stay here for ever. In that house. With that husband. With those children…
She had to get out.
Now.
Or she would go stark, staring insane.
Frankie went into her bedroom, silently packed a small overnight bag, and walked out of the house. She was shaking but determined. She was going.
The GetAway Lodge was five miles away. As she’d driven there, ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ had come on the radio and tears had clichéd down her cheeks. She was a lost and lonely wife. Well, not lonely. The opposite of lonely. She was surrounded by loads of the buggers. But lost, for sure. Self-preservation. That’s what needed to go on today. GetAway Lodge, GetAway Lodge, GetAway Lodge. She was coming. It had been a bright light, an oasis, a little piece of heaven in the distance.
She’d gone, breathless, to reception and asked for a room for the night. The girl there had looked at her in a funny way. Was it because Frankie’s surname was Smith? Frankie had almost laughed. Was this young girl – clearly hung-over and looking like she had hastily slapped Saturday’s make-up on top of Friday night’s – expecting some swarthy fella to suddenly appear from behind the potted plant, in a jaunty necktie? With a lascivious look. And dubious shoes.
‘Just you?’ the girl had said, her over-drawn eyebrows twitching and vodka breath distilling over in Frankie’s direction.
‘Yes, it’s just me.’
After checking in, Frankie had walked to the neighbouring petrol station and bought four magazines, three bags of Minstrels, a Galaxy, a Boost and a large bag of salt and vinegar Kettle Chips. Then she’d returned to her lovely room, and ate and watched telly until midnight. Unhindered. Uninterrupted. Unbothered. She’d replied, I’m fine, to each and every one of several texts from Rob, once she’d told him where she was. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d threatened it often enough. His texts had started off angry, then worried, then resigned. He obviously thought she was just having an episode. She could visualise him, on the sofa at home, trying and failing to work out when she’d had her last period, before returning to his television and snacks.
I’ll
