MARCUS
Picking the girls up from school is an experience. Speeding into the car park, I narrowly avoid crashing into a ten-year-old Nissan. The blonde driving attempts to swing into the same parking space as me, but from the opposite side. We both slam on our breaks simultaneously. I raise my hands up in an apology and motion for her to take the space, then reverse into the next available one which feels like miles away.
There’s only seconds to spare before the school gates open. Jogging towards them, I glance backwards, point my key over my shoulder and lock the Audi. Because I’m not looking where I’m going, I literally run straight into the same woman I nearly crashed into only a minute earlier. She’s tall, five foot ten at least, with an athletic frame.
‘Shit! I’m so sorry. Are you okay?’ Halting in my tracks, my eyes roam over her in a quick assessment of the damage I might have caused, before darting back to the school where children are swarming excitedly from the building.
The blonde laughs and dusts some imaginary fluff from her Lycra running top. ‘Did I piss you off in another life? You’d give a woman a complex, you know.’ Her accent is a long, low, American drawl.
‘I’m so sorry. I was late and rushing. I really didn’t mean to almost run into you – twice.’
‘Daddy! Daddy!’ Erin and Emily emerge just seconds apart and I shoot the blonde an apologetic smile and lead the girls by the hand back to the Jeep.
They’re hangry and I didn’t think to bring snacks with me. We’re supposed to head straight to Erin’s ballet class on the other side of the city.
‘Mam always brings us a second lunch box for the car,’ Emily wails.
‘Did you bring my tutu, Dad?’ Erin checks, more concerned with her outfit than her stomach.
‘Yes, I brought your tutu. It’s in the boot. I’ll pull in at the garage and we can grab something to eat.’ Not for the first time, I miss my old life on the training pitch. At least there I knew what I was doing.
The garage is a nightmare. Naturally they want chocolate instead of the protein packed sandwich I’d hoped to get into them. Every single task is a battle. Shelly makes it all look so easy.
I never truly appreciated all she did with the girls until now. By the time we get through the city traffic, Erin’s ten minutes late for her lesson and Emily’s complaining of stomach cramps.
As the little swans proudly practice their pirouettes I check my phone for the hundredth time. There’s still no word from Shelly. Nerves hustle their way back into my stomach for the millionth time. Is she having a happy reunion with Ben Battle? Is he impressing her with his posh-boy languid charm and entrepreneurial success? Once again, I push the thoughts away, pulling a bored looking Emily into my chest for a hug, unsure if it’s for her benefit or mine. We sit in each other’s arms until the class finishes.
When I eventually get them home, my shoulders sag with relief at the sight of the Porsche parked in the driveway. As we traipse through the front door, the scent of home cooking wafts deliciously through the air. The girls run to Shelly’s outstretched arms as if she’s been gone years instead of a day. A more effusive welcome than they’d ever extended to me, even when I returned from a world tour.
‘How was your day?’ Shelly asks as they cling to her legs, wrapping their arms around her waist in the same manner I’d love to. Her hair is piled high on the top of her head, elongating her neck in the way I love. Oddly enough, her neck was one of the first things I noticed about her all those years ago. She used to stand at the bus stop, her head held high, supporting that exact hair do, despite the tatty school uniform she wore. A proud fierceness shone from her even back then, even when she had nothing. She radiates star-like quality. I could see it back then, and so could Ben apparently.
‘Dad forgot the snacks and we were late to ballet.’ Erin grasses me up.
‘I’m still learning the routines.’ I shrug and Shelly smiles.
‘There’s a new girl in my class,’ Erin announces. ‘She’s American.’ The way she enunciates the word is like she’s become American herself all of a sudden.
‘Cool.’ Shelly makes a show of looking suitably impressed. ‘I made lasagne.’ She leads them through to our spacious kitchen and nudges them towards the sink to wash their hands before they sit at the stools tucked under the island.
I kiss the cheek she offers me as she dishes up steaming layers of basil-infused pasta bolognese.
‘How did you get on today?’ I ask, though I’m not even sure I want to know.
‘It was grand. Just a meet and greet with the other contestants. The producers basically ran through a list of do’s and don’ts before bringing us for a lunch that was more liquid than anything else.’ She places the plates in front of the girls before returning to the oven to remove a garlic baguette. ‘I didn’t drink, obviously.’ She glances out the kitchen window at the graphite grey Cayenne.
Swallowing my pride and attempting to sound nonchalant, I have to ask, ‘Who did you get paired up with?’
‘No one yet. That comes later apparently, when we start the dance lessons.’
The agony continues. If I just knew who would be cosying up to my wife for the next ten weeks, I might be able to deal with it better. Not knowing is definitely worse. I send up a hundred silent prayers she gets paired with the gay guy from the home television show that airs on Wednesday nights. I’d never be that lucky, would I?
‘Did you see Ben?’ My arms automatically fold across my chest as his name exits my mouth. She flinches and something that looks like guilt flicks in her oval eyes. Before I can examine it too closely, she turns her back, fussing over the girls. She pulls a spare hairband from her wrist and uses it to tie Erin’s hair from her dinner. Only when it’s securely tied back from Erin’s mouth does she answer.
‘I saw him, yes. He smiled at me from across the room.’
Huh, I bet he did, the smarmy bastard. Still, at least he didn’t make a lunge for her. I’ve been with my wife long enough to know she’s telling the truth. But why did she look so guilty when I mentioned his name?
Fuck it, I can’t keep torturing myself like this or the next few weeks will be unbearable. I refuse to waste my night thinking about Ben Battle.
