Greater Expectations (2 page)

Taylor brought me crashing back to reality as he quickly changed the topic. “So what’s new with you son? Did you have a good break? Give the wife a good seeing to I hope. Your sack must have been heavier than fucking Santa’s!”

The implication was both crude and accurate and it forced me into a smile. It was impossible to take offence with Mike as I know that is never his intention. He is just full of life and fun. I also knew that I was in need of a friend just now, one that was completely biased in my favour and who would see everything my way. I didn’t need someone telling me it would “work itself out” or “every relationship has its ups and downs”.

I didn’t
need Taylor the work colleague.

What I needed was my friend Mike.

I also realised that I hadn’t actually spoken to anyone about the break up. I guess I had just needed the time to let it sink in and get used to the idea of being single again. Now I yearned to talk but not here.

Not now.

This wasn’t a conversation to be had at work. “I’m fine. Here, are you around later tonight for a drink? I could use a chat. I just need someone to listen.”

I couldn’t disguise the plea in my voice.

I was the one now staring straight ahead out of the cab window. I couldn’t look at him for fear he would see right through me. I couldn’t handle that look. That look of pity. I didn’t want pity. I just wanted that reassurance that I hadn’t been overly rash and that affirmation that he would have done the exact same thing. Confirmation that my decision had been an enforced one. That there had been no alternative, no choice for me. I needed to find my dignity.
Fast.
Facing Taylor at that moment would have submitted any dignity I had left as I knew I was crumbling internally and barely holding it together externally. I could feel his stare. He was trying to read my expressions, trying to understand the situation.

“Is everything okay son?” The question was out before he realised that it obviously wasn’t. To his credit, he quickly let it go and moved on. “Sure, I’ll be around for a drink and a chat. Say 8? It’s a great excuse for a pint without the wife.” He smiled like an errant child. “I best get off and get some work done for a change. I’m not like you, I can’t sit around all day doing nothing. See you later son!”

I watched as he opened the door and jumped out the cab, closing the door in one fluid motion. He must have perfected this from his “alone time” with Tam.

2

The Algorithm Of My Heart

Wednesday 7th January

As a subscriber to the notion of fate, I am obligated to believe that the concept of
falling in love
is somewhat preconceived and so all that is demanded is patience on the individual’s part. My general understanding being that love will find you if you cannot find it. However, like most men, patience is not a virtue that I seem most blessed with. This is especially true at this particular point of my existence where I am feeling completely stagnant in practically every aspect, and so it would seem that life is simply passing me by.

Existing is definitely not as much fun as
living
.

Yet, as a man, I am not supposed to be looking for love. That’s not what us men do. We are supposed to be aloof and indifferent to the very notion of love. Love means committing yourself to one person, mentally and physically. But we are men. As such, we are there to play the field and have a woman in every town. The only thing that supposedly scares us is the fear of such a commitment.

So all men are bastards. At least, in my experience, that is the generally accepted maxim within the female sphere. Yet all women love a bastard. This is the generally accepted maxim within the male sphere. Admittedly, I have been a bastard–it would seem all men have at some point–but only in as much as it was measured by those individual females who branded me so. Yet it is never acknowledged that men love the female bastards just as much as they love us.

It has certainly been true in my case.

It’s the intrigue of it all and that complete disassociation, that complete lack of control, that we actually enjoy. At least, I enjoyed it anyway. Us men love being in control and when there is a strong willed, free spirited or, worse, a completely indifferent woman who ostensibly agrees to a date with the utmost reluctance, we relinquish that control–however temporarily –and it is
intoxicating
. In my experience, women love to be pursued and wooed almost as much as men enjoy the pursuit and wooing.
Strong women
is the generic umbrella title conferred upon such ladies, branded almost. However inappropriate that may be is open to question.

When first I met my now estranged wife during our Master’s year at university, I was seeing someone else too. In the main, this defines me as a “bastard”, although I preferred to think of myself as a “player”. Indeed I would argue that it falls under the guise of “sowing wild oats”. That’s the phrase that makes the practice somehow acceptable, and mothers the world over tell their sons that this is what they need to do before they settle down. The rite of passage into manhood as it were. At least, it’s what my mother told m
e. Women may argue this point–sorry, women
will
argue this point–but then they become mothers.

Naturally, they just don’t want those “wild oats” sown with their own daughters.

However, it is a fallacy to think that we men are completely heartless. I realised that I actually liked the girl that I eventually married so quickly ended all contact with the third party. In actual fact, she was a girl that I had been seeing first but only by a matter of a few weeks. I got the usual tirade of “bastard” texts, emails, and drunken voicemails. “I thought you were different” being the obligatory phrase that she just had to use during every one of these “opportunities”. In one particular instance, during which she also branded me a “coward”, I foolishly responded. I explained to her that I was merely being cruel to be kind as it was blatantly obvious to me that there we had no future together. Furthermore, after everything that had been said and done–more on her part now than mine–she would surely realise and accept that there was no going back as any trust and respect that had been built was now completely shattered.

I got the following reply:

“See, I knew you were different. That was lovely, you thinking of me and my feelings and us and our future. Why can’t we make this work? We can, you just have to trust yourself to trust me. Call me.”

It took another six weeks of ignoring and blocking her before she finally gave up. We had only been dating, if it could ever have been called that, for three weeks.

It takes true courage and bravery to finish any relationship. As my marital separation was only a week old, I understood that there may be some element of hope that we could fix it and move on. Yet I knew there was no way I could, or would, allow myself to stoop to such a level of indignity. My sense of pride has taken a pounding and is undoubtedly battered and bruised, but it is still there, standing tall and intact, however weakly. It is also getting stronger with every passing day.

All thanks to “Hope”.

“Hope” is a very strange feeling that displaces others such as “confidence”, “faith”, and “trust” and one that I have naturally gravitated towards my entire life. We are old friends, hope and I. Never have I dared to have “confidence” in my academic or sporting abilities, rather I always “hoped” that I would perform at my best as necessitated in any particular circumstance. When things had gone better than I had even dared “hope”, then I defaulted to the notion that is was merely my “good luck”, and vice versa. “Luck” has always provided me an excuse for all of life’s highs and lows and everything in between. Now I wanted to change all that. Now I wanted to control my existence.

Now I wanted to stir the stagnant pool that is my life proactively to feel like I am
living
again.

So that may well explain why I am now sat in only my boxer shorts in front of my computer, as the rain batters the window behind my curtains, and trying to focus on completing an online dating profile that includes a “personal statement” section. Apparently, its purpose is to allow me to describe myself in as broadly generic terms as possible in order t
o seem “normal” and “average”–and so maximising my appeal–whilst also trying to ensure that I am unique enough as to stand out. The logic of the concept is irrefutable and yet fantastically ridiculous.

It is also proving so challenging to the point of being quite impossible.

As a truck driver, I work most weekends and so this job commitment removes the more conventional ways of meeting women. Using a dating site makes far more sense in this new age of technology as it allows for an immediate connection without the need to wait for the weekend, or the demand of a decent chat up line. It cuts to the chase, so to speak. The site has posted a statistic that states over 28% of couples now “meet” online, so I am still happily in the minority. However, it is utterly galling to me that I should ever try to be “normal” or “average” to anyone as I have never considered myself as such.

It seems to me to be morally fraudulent.

Online dating. It really is quite an absurd concept yet totally in concert with the modern era where people are too busy with work and life to take the time and make the effort for actually dating. Yet where is the romance of it? You will never hear a love song that refers to such sites. Can you imagine Rod Stewart singing “The Algorithm of my Heart”, or some such like?

No? Me neither.

There is also the embarrassment factor. There is that very genuine fear of being recognised and so ridiculed for using the site in the first place. It matters not how, why, or who recognises you, the very fact that they do gives them the upper hand in the ridiculing stakes.

Furthermore, the “Personal Description” does nobody any favours in this regard as it is exactly what it says,
very
personal. How can you possibly describe yourself positively without sounding vain or conceited? That conjures up the dangerous question–what do I think of myself? I know it is a question that I am not really prepared to consider, far less answer. Worse still, how do I complete it without the fear of those very same words coming back to haunt me? 

It certainly presents me with a moral dilemma. I know that my haste to be dating again is a rebound reaction that would allow me to draw a line under my marriage. However, it is a completely selfish action. It would be completely unfair on anyone I were to meet, as it would be done under the false pretence of a potential relationship. I’m not prepared to be a bastard again.

Not just yet anyway.

Methinks it best to give this some serious thought and return to it later. This technological portal to your soul has actually caused me more confusion through the cunning simplicity of its questions. Who ever knew that online dating sites could be so personally intrusive? I happily close the laptop to the online dating realm that has left me more questions than answers to go and get myself ready to meet Mike.

“The Algorithm of my Heart…”
Great, now I have that bloody Rod Stewart song playing away in my head.

3

A “Chat” Becomes “The Talk”

Wednesday 7th January

One of the many delights of staying around Hatfield in north London is that there are quaint little pubs that seem to have originated from the dawn of time. They have the open fires and solid timber beams that span their ceilings. I would say what kind of wood but I am completely ignorant of such matters. I am certain that such ignorance is not mine alone but people rarely admit when they know nothing about something. They are beautiful ceilings nonetheless and so often invoke conversation. In such circumstances, I tend to go quiet and follow the lead of the conversational instigator, nodding and agreeing as appropriate whilst simultaneously endeavouring to change the topic as quickly as possible. If this is unsuccessful, I revert to my default position and head for the bat
hroom whether I need to or not.

It is jus
t such a pub that is our local.

Thankfully Mike was already there when I arrived and we exchanged the usual pleasantries and briefly engaged in the obligatory insults as Scots do. It settled me and I appreciated it. You see, Scotsmen cannot just be “nice” to each other. We are raised to be combative, especially in conversation. Verbal joust
ing as it were.

Actually,
Scots women are much the same.

I remember once being on a night out with a few of the lads back home and one of them was taking abuse from a one night stand that he had wanted to keep quiet. She wasn’t so keen on his strategy and was rather upset that he hadn’t called. In the throes of her verbal assault, she simply could not resist playing the trump card for
all women in these situations.

“Well I’m glad anyway because it was so
small I could hardly feel it.”

This is both hurtful and embarrassing to any man. However, it is somewhat understandable that she adopted this stance in order to protect her own honour. In such a situation, if the guy has any sense, he will ignore the slur in the knowledge that no good can come from engaging with the antagonist. My friend exercised just such sound judgment.

However, I could not.

Such was his embarrassment that I felt obligated to defend my him. As she was sat smugly with her mates I said, loud enough for all to hear.
“It seems that what he said about you was true. If you can regard him as ‘small’, then you obviously do need tie backs for your beef curtains.”
You have to be able to take it if you dish it out. Thankfully, they drank up and left immediately thereafter without any further fuss.

Her friends being equally benevolent and exercising a similar obligation.

Rather than taking our usual spots at the bar, Mike and I ordered our drinks and found a quiet corner where he got straight to the point–as usual. “So what happened son? You seemed really excited about going to her folks place for Christmas.”

Mike is a great guy and exactly the kind of friend you need when going through a break up. A straight-talking Scot from the Western Isles whose eyes have seen over twenty years more than mine. He has travelled the world over and his face honestly and openly displays all the scars of having done so. His hair is cropped so short that he could so easily be mistaken for a skinhead yet completes such a wonderful look of malevolence. However, he is the exact opposite. Warm and kind with an incredible ability to find the humour in even the most innocuous of situations.

He had left his wife at home so we could have our chat but we both knew she would be regaled with the entire details later. I would have done the exact same and his doing so really meant nothing to me just now. Not now. Now I just needed a friend and here he was.

My friend.

Mike knew the background to my situation. He knew I had only seen Gemma twice in the five-month duration of her EU internship in Brussels. I usually called her “Gem” but reverted back to her full moniker as it seemed to make things that much more impersonal. This afforded me some distance from her, both emotionally as well as physically. I had always thought it perfect calling her “Gem” because that was exactly what she was to me.

At first.

At first she had been dazzling, hypnotising, brilliant, precious, sparkling and wondrous, everything you would find in any valuable gem, and I just had to have her. Not now, not anymore. Now she was “Gemma”. Mind you, that was only when I could bear to say her name at all. Even if it was only in my head, saying or hearing her name felt like an ice cold dagger through my heart. As if the mere acknowledgement of her name somehow allocated some of the responsibility of our separation to me.

I could not accept that.

I would not accept that.

I could never accept that.

Now I far preferred to think of her as simply “her”. In so doing, it ensured another small victory for me. Small victories were hugely important to me just now and I needed them all, every last one of them.

As you would expect, her plans had been great at the beginning.
“I can catch the Eurostar and see you every other weekend, we could have fun exploring the bright lights and full delights of London together”
, but then it seemed that she had somewhat miscalculated what was expected from the position. She had certainly grossly miscalculated the cost of living, judging by the credit and debit card statements that were coming my way. I was barely able to keep us financially afloat.

“Are you okay son?” It was strange to be asked the question without a punch line, yet Mike was perfectly serious and looking straight at me. The longer he looked, the larger the lump in my throat seemed to grow and I could feel my eyes welling up. Catching gulps of air with as much dignity as I could muster, I simultaneously scanned the room through blurred vision to ensure that no one could see my face. My predicament. My emotion. I was fighting hard against it all. Trying to be a “man” about it all. Actually, trying to be a “real man” because, as the world knows, “real men” don’t cry. We don’t have these emotions. These emotions make us weak. Vulnerable. No, we “real men” toughen up at times like these. This is the perfect opportunity to demonstrate my mettle, to simply dust myself off and move on to the next damsel in distress.

I doubt I shall ever be a “real man”.

“It’s okay son.” Mike could see the welling in my eyes, and I could see the confusion in his; “don’t worry, just let it all go. No one can see us here and fuck them if they can.” He whispered this in my ear as he draped his arm protectively around my shoulder. His head was practically touching mine yet his eyes were now darting around, searching for the slightest glimmer of judgment from those other patrons in the bar. His free hand clenched and ready to defend me from anyone brave enough to ridicule my predicament.

“Maybe a good fight is what you need” he said, only half joking.

A tear slid from the side of my right eye as I started to laugh, feeling foolish but comforted, all at the same time. God, I hated feeling so fucking vulnerable. I took a deep breath and let it all out. It seemed that Mike was with me on every twist and turn and up and down of my emotional rollercoaster. He responded with exactly what I wanted to hear at the times I wanted to hear them. Just as I knew he would. It was cheap therapy and almost enjoyable.

“I know it was wrong Mike, I know I shouldn’t have read her email but it had been left open. I am now wondering if it was deliberate, given what I read. I mean, here am I putting any idea of a career for myself on hold to drive trucks in and around London, away from home, just to be within commuting distance for her. I relocated for her. I thought this was for
us
. These sacrifices were for
us
.”

Quickly wiping the tears away that were now flowing all too freely, and finally surrendering any semblance of dignity, I continued.

“She had described the internship to me as an
investment in our future
. How it would look great on her CV and that could only mean more opportunities for future employment. When that happened for her, then we could concentrate on me. Hers was an opportunity that was here and now. I just couldn’t say no to her, what husband could? Everything she had said made absolute sense. It was a reasoned and logical argument. How could I possibly say no?”

Mike knew that all my questions had already been answered by the mere virtue of my being there, both in London and in the pub. Wisely, he also knew that I now needed a moment to get myself together and so excused himself to get in another round of drinks.

Alone with my thoughts, it was the violent snap and crackle of the real fire that drew my attention to the hearth. I watched intently as the flames seemed to be individually dancing, although all together taunting me in wild celebration at my coronation as the “King of self-pity”. I loathed these feelings that were tormenting me. It was then that I realised the dangerous similarities and kindred spirit shared between fire and the female of the species. Nurtured and cared for, they both can provide warmth, comfort, romance, and enlightenment. Untended and ignored, they can be enraged and cause destruction and mayhem with great pain through utter unpredictability.

As he placed the drinks on the table, Mike asked “So what burst the bubble son? Is it really over, there is no going back?”

“No, there is no going back mate. It’s done. I read the email, I know that was probably wrong but…” I was still unsure if it was deliberate or not on her part, leaving her email open. However, the memory of it was still so fresh with every single word emblazoned into my memory. Try as I had on a few occasions already, it seems that no amount of alcohol would be enough for me to successfully purge it. The subject line was simply “
Your ASS…
” and it then flowed into the actual email:

“…was everything I knew it would be. So tight. I loved your cute little moans and wails as I entered and banged it. WHAT A FUCKING GREAT CHRISTMAS PRESENT! And he still has no clue?! What an asshole! And you thought he was clever? All your weekend ‘assignments’, he had no idea we were fucking for those whole weekends while he was working? I particularly enjoyed the meals we had that he paid for.

They were exceptionally DELICIOUS!!!

You take care and PLEASE keep in touch or, better still, come back for round 2. Fuck, I am sat here getting hard just remembering our last night and seeing myself over and over sliding in and out of your tight and cute little ass.

XOXOXO”

I had no idea how much I had actually said out loud. My focus was still upon my coronation celebrations in the hearth. I hadn’t realised that I had also finished talking although my tears still continued to flow all too easily and showed no signs of stopping. I had been unaware of this too until Mike silently handed me a napkin.

“So I confronted her about it and, predictably, it’s all
my
fault. She launched into a tirade that included reprimanding me for demonstrating no ambition, no drive, no future plans whilst her career taking off. She asks me what I expected? There she was in Brussels surrounded by powerful career driven men and I am a mere truck driver and that’s all I will ever be. Worst of all, she told me that she was embarrassed to have me by her side, to introduce me to her new colleagues, at her end of internship ball. She certainly wasn’t too fucking embarrassed when she was spending
my
earnings.”

I could feel the anger swell within me. I had been angry before but that had given way after a few days to self-pity. Now I was angry again. Verbalising everything, something so personal, feeling that need to have done so, angered me. No man should ever feel that need to explain that his wife had been having an affair and, worse still, having anal when our sex life had been so one dimensional. It was predictable and methodical. I had tried to invigorate it but she had made me feel like a pervert for even suggesting oral. So I had resigned myself to a life of boring sex.

How foolish did I feel now?

Mike took his cue. “What a
cunt!
” Ordinarily, I hate the use of the “C” word but, under the circumstances, I couldn't help but agree with him. He was winding himself up on my behalf and it was incredibly comforting. A true act of friendship. “You moved here from Scotland, bursting your hump driving trucks every weekend around London to support her and she’s fucking some other cunt?” I saw the reflection of my own anger in my friend. It provided solace and consolation through making me feel that my own feelings were
normal
. “So what are you going to do now son? Where do you go from here?” He intuitively knew to take the conversation forward, forcing me to look to the future.

“Well I’ve had sex twice in the last five months so I’m thinking that’s something of a priority.” My machismo pride limped forward and weakly stood up for itself. I explained that she hadn’t let me touch her when we had met again at Christmas and this was one of the reasons why I thought the email had been deliberately left open. “So, yes, my sack is heavier than Santa’s.” We both laughed. Longer and harder than the joke warranted but it broke the doom and gloom and I savoured every last second of it.

My trust in Mike is absolute and, as such, his opinion is important to me. So I thought that this was the ideal opportunity to broach his thoughts on internet dating, testing the waters as it were. “Actually, truth be told, I am half way through completing a personal profile on one of those websites.” It felt quite ludicrous saying it out loud. The very idea that I couldn’t manage to find a date by conventional means was quite a peculiar realisation. “Did you know that it accounts for around 28% of all relationships now, online dating?”
Why was I using a statistic to explain myself?
“It is the easiest way for busy professionals to meet and date without having to wait until the next weekend in the hope of that serendipitous ‘eyes across the room’ moment in your local pub.” Again, I am explaining myself with no idea why? Then it struck me, I wanted his approval.