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With his hat on and sunscreen liberally applied, we make our way across the fields, carried along with the stream of people all heading in the same destination. Unsurprisingly, there aren't many children here, but the few I do spot seem to be having a great time, running around on the grass, kicking footballs and throwing Frisbees. In the past few years festivals have become more family friendly, as the twenty-somethings who are the main clientele have started to settle down and have kids of their own. But that doesn't stop the family field from seeming a little ghettoized, the sole escape from the sex, drugs and rock and roll spread throughout the rest of the site.
“Have you told Alex we're here?” Andrea asks, and I realise that in the rush of our arrival I completely forgot. I pull my phone from the bag she's holding and try to send him a text.
It gets pinged back immediately.
“No signal.” The curse of the English countryside. It may be beautiful, but the lack of coverage is a big problem. “He said they'll be near the backstage area. We should probably go and look there.” I feel a bit stupid; I've dragged them all the way over here, and can't even manage to find my own husband.
It takes us half an hour to locate the backstage area. After a long detour which takes us past the food stands, we show our passes to the security team who stand aside and let us through.
The atmosphere is different in this part of the festival; charged and edgy. It may have something to do with the booze that seems to be flowing freely, or the rush of adrenaline that comes from performing live. Though there are no huge bands playing—no superstar headliners—I recognize a lot of the faces as we push our way through the crowd. There are musicians and girlfriends, kids and groupies, all mixing in the same area.
I spot Stuart first. He's about twenty feet away, a beer in one hand as he gesticulates wildly, telling some story which is making him grin. A circle of people surround him, mostly guys, all drinking and rocking on their feet in the way that men do. I've noticed before that when a group of men congregate to drink, standing still rarely seems to be an option.
“Is that Alex?” Andrea asks, pointing to the left of Stuart. I follow her gaze and I see him.
A moment later I wish I hadn’t looked.
He's standing outside of the circle, not listening to Stuart. Instead he's in deep conversation with some blonde girl who has a joint between her fingers and the biggest smile on her face. And I watch, as if in slow motion, as she slowly raises it to Alex's lips. His mouth closes around the end and he shuts his eyes as he inhales, his fingers wrapping around her forearm as if to keep it steady. When he exhales, she lifts the joint to her own mouth, and takes a deep mouthful inside, before slowly, languorously, letting the smoke escape.
And she’s wearing a crop top.
Suddenly, I'm furious. Not because I think he's cheating; no matter how bloody firm that girl's stomach is, I know Alex well enough to accept he isn't the cheating kind. Neither of us are; we've always sworn we would walk away first. But what's making me so angry is he promised he wouldn't take any more drugs, and he knew I was coming here today with Max. Yet still he thought it would be a good idea to share a smoke with some blonde in the middle of a field.
It’s so unthoughtful, as if he's lied to me only to shut me up, while carrying on in exactly the way he wants to. It’s not only me, there's Max to think about now; a little boy who will be growing up, and possibly thinking that drugs must be okay if Daddy does them.
It hits me then, that as much as I've changed since we had Max, Alex hasn't adapted in the same way. Maybe he hasn't had to. But the thought makes me sad and angry at the same time.
“Are you okay?” David asks quietly. He must have sensed my posture stiffening, my hands balling into fists next to my sides.
“I'm fine.” I sound terse, but I can't say any more, I'm holding things together by a fragile hair. This isn't the time or the place for confrontations. Not only because we are surrounded by people, although a public row would be embarrassing enough, but because this is the band's big break and a huge argument will ruin it for them.
Before I can calm myself down, Alex looks up and spots us. He says something to the blonde and she gives him a quick wave, before he slowly ambles over towards us.
I'm still surrounded by angry, red mist when he arrives. As a counsellor I've gone through anger-management strategies with clients so many times. Deep breaths through the nose, silent counting. Closing eyes and picturing a happy place. But following my own advice is harder, especially when we've been through all this before.
Alex presses his mouth to my cheek first, then ruffles Max's hair, leaning down to kiss him.
I bristle. “Don't breathe on him.” Okay, so maybe I'm not in control of this at all. I remind myself where we are.
His head shoots straight up. When he looks at me, there's the merest hint of redness to the whites of his eyes, as if he's suffering from mild hay fever. “What?”
“Don't breathe your druggy breath on him,” I spit through gritted teeth.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Alex grabs hold of my upper arm and the next minute is a whirlwind. Somehow, David manages to scoop Max out of the baby sling and away from the two of us, and I'm suddenly feeling light-headed and unbalanced.
“I saw you smoking over there with that blonde. And I'd rather you didn't exhale your cannabis all over my son and give him a contact high.”
“Your son?” Alex repeats. In spite of the intoxication, his voice takes on a dangerous edge. It holds more than a hint of maliciousness.
I'm not proud of myself right now. I said it to get a rise out of him and it worked. But it's backfired spectacularly, making me feel like shit and giving him the moral high ground.
“Our son.” I correct myself. “Stop giving our son a contact high.”
He shakes his head and lets out a bitter laugh. “You're a real fucking killjoy, you know that? We’re in an open field, surrounded by fresh air. The possibility of Max getting a contact high are approximately zero. I wanted to say hello to my son and my beautiful wife who I've been talking about non-stop for the past few hours. Then you walk in here and start acting like a bitch.”
“You promised me you wouldn't smoke.”
“Yeah, well you promised me having a kid together wouldn't change you, I guess we're both liars now.”
