‘When did you get home?’ I demand.
‘Too late. I didn’t want to wake you,’ he mutters. ‘I slept on the couch, which is bloody uncomfortable and oh hell, have we got any of the strong ibuprofen because my head is splitting?’
In hishalf-dressed state, smelling of alcohol and looking unshaven, he looks precisely like he slept on the couch.
‘I’m really sorry, Marin,’ he said. ‘I just got pissed and when I got home, I made it into the kitchen and some bit of brain came alive. I couldn’t crawl into bed with you like that...’
And he falls into my arms and somehow my arms go around him.
‘You weren’t with anyone,’ I say, my voice shrill.
‘Jesus, don’t shout so close to my head,’ he says. ‘You know, Marin, stop imagining shit. I went out, I got pissed, and I am a moron. At least I didn’t wake you at whenever time it was when I got here.’
‘I didn’t think you’d come home,’ I said and I don’t know how, but normality is restored. And I’m not thinking he’s cheating or that he’s cheated. He couldn’t come in and be like this, be normal. Nobody can lie like this, surely? No, I’m imagining it.
‘Get upstairs and have a shower and get into bed,’ I say, ‘and just try to do dry spring. There’s far too much drinking in your job.’
‘I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘I don’t think you’re an alcoholic, I think you’re a moron,’ I say.
‘Why are you up so early anyway?’ he says, his eyes bleary.
‘I woke up and you weren’t here and I was worried.’
‘Oh baby, you thought I was in hospital or somewhere, I’m so sorry.’
He hugs me. I don’t smell anything on him, I don’t smell any perfume or any woman or anything, it’s just unshaven man. His teeth aren’t brushed, surely if he was sleeping with someone else he’d have made a bit of a better effort?
‘Go to bed,’ I say.
It’s like a weight has been lifted. How could I think the worse of him. Sure, he’s a selfish bastard sometimes but I don’t get him doing enough around the house and with the kids. That’s my fault for needing to do everything. Things are going to change around here. First, I’m going to cut up all my credit cards. That would be a wonderful start. Yes, that’s it. That’s a big part of the problem.
35
Bea
How do you measure the worst week of your life?
On Monday I can’t go into work.
‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ says Luke.
‘Just feel sick,’ I say, ‘I don’t know what it is, it’s a bug.’
It’s not a bug, but I am sick, I literally haven’t been able to keep any food in my stomach since I got Nate out of the house and I feel so weak. I’m drinking those replacement salts because I’m afraid I will actually get sick. But all I can think of is, what have I done, what have I done? Just for a moment of not thinking. And I’ve hurt Luke, because he’s so precious and to think that I’m his mother and I’ve done something like this. And Marin, and I love Marin...
How I’ve betrayed her. I think of the time she came to me when Luke was a newborn and she was so heavily pregnant with Joey and she waddled in the door with another gift, with some food, with something,anythingto help me.
‘What’s up with you?’ says Shazz when she comes to pick up Luke to bring him to school.
‘Just feel like shit,’ I say.
‘You look like shit,’ she says.
‘I must have some sort of bug or something, I can’t eat.’
‘But Luke’s OK?’
