The Bright Side (9 page)

the
glass.
It
occurred
to
me then
that
it
was
high
time
I
stopped
roaring
and
got
in
there, so
I
stepped
back
from
the
window
and
across
to
the
front door.
I
was
still
fumbling
for
my
key
when
Lisa
came
tearing out
and
brushed
straight
past
me.
My
instinct
was
to
run
after her
and
make
my
first
ever
attempt
at
a
rugby
tackle,
but
she was
halfway
down
the
street
before
I’d
even
drawn
breath.
I stared
at
her
back,
unable
to
think
of
anything
sufficiently
awful
to
scream,
until
she
disappeared
round
the
corner. Then
I
went
into
the
house
to
have
a
word
with
Gerry
.

He wasn’t in the front room, which surprised me; wherever he’d gone, he’d gone there very quickly. I stomped through to the kitchen, feeling like a stranger in my own house – a stranger on my own planet – and found it just as empty. Then I heard a noise coming from above. When I was halfway up the stairs, I realised that it was Gerry puking his guts up in the bathroom. He sounded like one of those new- style heavy-metal singers that Robert and I used to row about: “Rorrrrrr … huhhh … rorrrrrr!”. I paused, mid-step, then hurried on to the landing, just in time to catch him moving on to the dry heaves. Without planning to do so, I found myself lashing out and kicking the bathroom door. The shock caused Gerry, by the sound of it at least, to choke on a gawk. For a moment I thought I’d killed him. Then I heard movement and skipped on into our bedroom. I sat on the end of the bed and rubbed my hands over my face, trying to make myself feel something (apart from the nails in my head). The toilet flushed. Gerry appeared in the doorway a few seconds later
.

“Jackie,” he said. His voice was hoarse and broken. I kept on rubbing my face
.

“Jackie,” he said again
.

I managed a reply. “What?
”

As dialogue went, it wasn’t great
.

Here
it
was,
the
most
dramatic
moment
of
our
marriage and
all
we
could
manage
was
Jackie?/What?
,
as
if
we
were parked
on
the
sofa
watching
the
telly.
He
stepped
into
the
room and
I
shot him
a
look
through my
fingers.
He stopped dead
.

“Jackie, we have to talk about this.
”

I dropped my hands from my face and snorted. “What are you going to say? It wasn’t what it looked like?
”

“No. I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say … I don’t know what I was going to say.” His chin dropped and his shoulders heaved. Gerry didn’t cry when his beloved dog Buddy died. He didn’t cry when his mother had her stroke and went into the home. He didn’t cry when the home burned to the ground with her in it. He
did
cry when the twins were born, but I took the mickey about it so much afterwards that he practically stopped talking to me. So that made this only the second occasion on which I got to see my husband’s tears. There wasn’t much of a comfort to be had in that fact
.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “It was just this once,
once
, I swear to God. It will never happen again. I don’t even like her.
”

It took a moment, but I found my voice. “You cheated on me … with someone you don’t even fucking
like
?
”

“Yes. I mean, no, I –
”

“You looked pretty fond of her from where I was standing.
”

“Jackie, please, don’t … don’t …
”

“Don’t what? Give you a hard time about banging one of the neighbours?
”

He
broke
down
completely
then,
fell
to
his
knees,
the works.
I
watched
him
rocking
back
and
forth
for
a
while
and then
I
got
to
my
feet.
Slowly
and
deliberately,
I
went
to
the
wardrobe
and
hauled
down
the
suitcase
that
had
been perched
on
top
of
it
since
the
previous
summer
.

“What are you doing?” Gerry croaked
.

“I’m packing,” I said. “What does it look like I’m doing?” “Where are you going?
”

I gave it some thought. It was a good question. “I’m going away,” I said
.

There was a rhythm to all this that made me think his next question would be “Can I come?” But he didn’t have a next question. He watched in silence (bar the odd sniff) as I got my stuff together, marched down the stairs and out the front door. If he’d looked out of the bedroom window, he would have seen me realising that I didn’t have my car before sneaking back in to the hall table to nick the keys to his. Headache be damned, I was getting out of there as quickly as possible
.

I didn’t drive very far. Half a mile outside town I pulled in at a petrol station and yanked the handbrake so hard it made an alarming
twang
. As I sucked in some deep breaths, or tried to at least, I realised that I had no memories of the journey – none. The last thing I remembered was swiping Gerry’s keys, and even that seemed distant and hazy, like a dream I’d had weeks ago
.

I
got
out
of
the
car
and
walked
around
the
forecourt
in
a tight
circle.
All
of
a
sudden
I
felt
an
overwhelming
urge
to smoke
a
cigarette.
I
hadn’t
had
one
for
almost
a
decade
(and it
had
been
hell
to
quit),
but
I
didn’t
even
argue
with
myself. I
turned
and
marched
into
the
shop
where
I
bought
ten
Silk Cut
Blue
and
a
lighter
from
a
sour-faced
teenager
who
barely
looked
up
from
his
magazine
as
he
completed
the
transaction.
As
soon
as
I
was
outside
again,
I
tore
open
the packet
and
planted
a
fag
between
my
lips.
It
felt
like
such
an odd
thing
to
do
–
but
it
felt
good
too.
I
lit
the
end
and
sucked hard.
For
two,
maybe
three
seconds,
all
of
my
troubles receded;
even
my
headache
seemed
to
turn
down
a
notch.
I thought,
I
can’t
believe
I
gave
this
up
,
and
meant
it
.

“Idiot,” someone said
.

I looked to my right. A fifty-something man with an extravagant beard was staring right through me as he filled his car with petrol. He looked like one of those Open University professors from seventies TV
.

“Sorry?” I squeaked
.

He shook his head as if he was genuinely saddened to see that people like me were walking about in broad daylight. “It’s not a very good idea to smoke cigarettes at a petrol station, is it?” he said. He was having to speak quite loudly to make himself heard over the din of the pump
.

I looked down at my smouldering ciggie. It looked back at me accusingly
.

“You can read, can’t you?” the man said, tossing his head around. “There are signs all over the place, especially for idiots like you.
”

This was an exaggeration, but I didn’t feel like pointing that out. It was only about twenty minutes since I’d looked in through the front-room window. My brain was still bouncing around in my skull
.

The
bearded
man
stared
at
me
for
another
few
seconds and
then
muttered
something
under
his
breath.
Next
thing
I
knew,
I
was
moving
towards
him.
His
eyes
widened
and
he stepped
from
foot
to
foot,
gearing
up
for
whatever
was coming
next
.

“What
did
you
say?”
I
asked
when
I
was
still
ten
feet
away. The
man
stuck
his
chin
in
the
air.
He
was
trying
to
hang on
to
the
role
of
sensible
citizen,
but
I
could
tell
that
his
confidence
was
heading
south
.