Henry looked down at Jim’s tatty jeans and his scuffed trainers and felt sick. This was not the kind of man his wife should be having an affair with.
‘Give us a kiss on your birthday then,’ laughed Jim.
‘You get out of my house you no good bastard,’ said Henry, who rarely swore.
Henry believed bad language was unnecessary. It showed lack of education when people couldn’t express themselves without swearing. Jim, he felt sure had not had an education. The only education Jim had received was from the University of Hard Knocks.
Imogen turned back to the yellow and white bowl of seasoned flour. A fine white dust fell through her fingers.
‘I’ve got to finish this,’ she said, and Henry saw her eyes were bright and her cheeks pink.
‘Forget that,’ laughed Jim, encircling her waist with his arms.
Henry felt an ache in his chest and an urgent need to be alone. This had been going on under his nose for months. He wanted to close off the sordid thoughts that entered his mind. Humiliation washed over him and he found himself wishing to be really dead, so the emotional pain would stop ripping his insides out. He watched, his eyes hot with tears as Imogen reached up on tiptoe, her hands resting on Jim’s broad shoulders. Laughingly, Jim pulled her into a passionate embrace. Henry shook with a rage he didn’t know he could possess. He wasn’t sure who he was angry with the most, Jim or Imogen. It wasn’t just anger he felt but an indescribable pain; the pain of abandonment and betrayal. The knife of lies and deceit cut through him like he was the sponge cake. Blood the colour of strawberry jam dripping down his shirt, the blood of betrayal.
‘You can finish that later,’ said Jim huskily. ‘Old Henry won’t mind if his dinner’s late on your birthday. He should be taking you out, anyway.’
‘How dare you,’ bellowed Henry, lifting his fist. He had offered to take Imogen out. She’d refused, claiming she preferred to make them a nice dinner.
‘I can’t,’ protested Imogen, pretending to pull out of his arms. ‘My mum’s coming to take me out for lunch.’
‘Lucky mum,’ said smarmy Jim.
‘I hope you crash your stupid van,’ cried Henry childishly.
He looked for the wardrobe door and saw it now standing next to the fridge as though it had come to Henry’s aid when he needed it the most. Without a second glance, Henry angrily strode through it. This is a nightmare of sorts, thought Henry, more vicious than most, more lucid. Henry saw a chink of light and made toward it. His heart was pounding fit to burst, and his fists were clenched. He punched at the walls of the wardrobe wanting his hand to hurt but his hand went straight through the wood as though it were paper. This reality isn’t real, he told himself. He walked into his bedroom, down the stairs and straight through the front door.
Ah, that’s how you do it, he thought proudly.
A dark cloud of misery hung over him. His reality was no longer a certainty. The perfect life he’d led with such precision was flawed beyond recognition. Everything he’d known to be true had been a lie. The woman he hoped could save him was now beyond his reach.
A car pulled into the driveway and Henry saw it was Imogen’s parents. Henry’s curiosity led him back into the house.
Journal entry
Imogen
It had started innocently enough one Tuesday morning. I’d been cleaning the house, not that it needed cleaning in the slightest. The two days I wasn’t at the grocer’s I’d clean the house thoroughly. I’ve got nothing else to do. Henry doesn’t like me to fiddle in the garden. I’d been hanging out washing when Lilian Ambrose from next door had appeared at the garden wall.
She wanted to show off her newly knitted cardigan which, quite frankly, was ghastly, far too many colours. I told her it was lovely. She offered to make me one.
She was proud as a peacock and quite honestly, in that hideous cardigan she could easily have been one. Henry and I once had a discussion as to how old we thought Lilian Ambrose was. Henry thought about fifty, but I’d said no way. That boat had sailed a long time ago. She was nearer sixty. Henry could never guess ages. She must think I’m always washing. Henry doesn’t like dirty clothes ‘stewing’ as he put it, in the wash basket. Of course, if I worked full-time it would have to stew and that’s that. Other people’s washing must stew. It would have been nice to work full-time, to have had a position of responsibility instead of just being a shop assistant. It sounded much better to say, ‘I’m the manager.’
She’d lit up a Bensons and Hedges and it had been all I could do not to rush to the back door and close it. Smoke drifts in quickly and Henry hates that. After several coughing fits she asked if I was still looking for a roofer. She had a guy named Jim doing some work for her.
‘He’s got references and everything,’ she said. ‘Likes cash in hand if that’s alright.’
I keep telling myself it happened because I was lonely. I’d lost my way. Lost my identity somewhere between my wedding and the greengrocer’s. I should have talked to Henry but there was never a slot in his routine. I did try.
That afternoon I sat with a cup of tea and daydreamed about our son. He would have been about sixteen. It had been a boy; I’d been sure of that. In my dreams he was perfection. His hair and eyes were the colour of dark coffee beans, but his skin was all latte. He had that shy look about him that teens often get when they've grown too much too fast, like they aren't really sure about being a man just yet. He would have been the joy of my soul.
Jim was full of jokes and had a throaty laugh and I suddenly felt alive again. Nothing would happen but it’ll be nice having him around the house, laughing and whistling. It always felt so dead in the house.
He’s so different to Henry. Not sweet smelling and crisp but earthy and rough around the edges. Not perfect and that really makes a change in this house.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘It’s not the thing these days,’ said Cynthia placing our white bone-china teapot onto the table. Cynthia doesn’t believe in teabags in a mug. ‘People don’t feel the need. It won’t help you. Henry wouldn’t expect it, you know.’
