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“Yeah, I was getting to that. Although there's only twenty, they're also spread across North America, so we're going to need to stay there for the whole three months.”
I try not to let my smile falter, but the combination of no sleep and Alex's casually dropped bombshell doesn't make it easy. “Three months?”
“Yeah. I know it's a long time, but the pay is good, in fact it’s so good we might be able to save some cash. Like Stuart said, it's our first big break, we'd be crazy to turn it down.”
“That's fantastic.” Tina walks over and hugs him. “I'm so proud of you.” The expression on her face is one of pure delight as she says all the words that are frozen on my tongue. By some force of nature, I keep the smile plastered to my face, but it's a lie. Because that little voice who notices everything pipes up in my brain, pointing out what I already know.
He didn't even ask me what I think about him leaving.
10
By the time we get home that evening we’ve barely said two words to each other. Every time I look at Alex a cocktail of anger and fear squeezes me from the inside out.
Alex carries the buggy up while I hold a sleepy Max in my arms. His breathing is still laboured and harsh, each feeble exhale punctuated by a liquid wheeze. His nose is raw from the way I have to keep wiping it and his lips are dry from his constant attempts to breathe. Even asleep, his eyes are still red-rimmed from his tears.
It hurts to look at him. To know he’s suffering. But more than anything, it’s breaking my heart to know his daddy doesn’t even seem to care.
How can he? If Alex loved him, he wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t leave me, either. And he is leaving, I know that much. The way he announced it, using his family as some kind of buffer, tells me how serious he is. If he’d mentioned it to me first, given us time to talk it over, perhaps the outcome would have been different. But he’s put it out there for everybody to hear. If I try to stop him, I’m going to look like the bad wife.
A fierce sense of protectiveness takes hold of me. Because as much as I love Alex, I love this tiny, defenceless little boy, too. I carry Max into our bedroom and lay him down in his cot, leaving the covers hanging loosely around him. His mild fever makes him kick the blankets away, tiny legs scrabbling until they’re a rumpled pile at the bottom of the cot. He moans, his hands curling into tight fists.
When I walk back into the living room Alex is sitting next to the window, his guitar resting on his knee. He plucks at a few chords, the sound melancholic as it echoes against the glass. He’s hunched over, his head lowered over his chest so all I can see is the top of his head. His expression is completely obscured.
“It’s Sunday.” My voice sounds thick and congested. Maybe I’m catching Max’s cold.
Alex looks up, his face blank. “What?” A moment later his brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes in an attempt to calm myself. “I mean it’s a non-working day. Not the sort of day that a tour manager would be making calls. It seems weird that today’s the first time you’ve heard about the tour.”
Alex stops strumming. There’s a faint thud of wood against plaster as he props his guitar against the wall. “What are you trying to say?” His tone is sharp; like a needle, it pierces. “What are you accusing me of this time?”
Though my eyes are still closed, I hear his approach. His bare feet pad across the polished floor boards, each one bringing him closer. Then he’s so near I can feel the warmth of him, smell his aftershave. His breaths are hard and heavy, overwhelming my senses. When I open my eyes the tears stream out.
“Is today the first time you’ve known about the tour?” My words come out as a sob. I’ve lost it again. But this time it’s not anger that’s burning me from the inside out. It’s hurt and desperation.
“Does it matter? You’ve made it perfectly fucking clear what you think of it.” He’s still bitter, still angry. “Whatever I say, you’ve made up your mind I’m the bad guy. And for the record, yes, I’ve known it’s a possibility. We discussed it last weekend at the festival, but I didn’t want to upset you. You were in a bad enough state already.”
He takes another deep breath, this time stepping back. The distance between us grows. “Everything’s about you, isn’t it, babe? Most girls would be delighted for their husbands, but you have to be so fucking melodramatic about it all.”
I make his point for him by sobbing louder. Lifting my hand, I angrily wipe the tears away, wishing I didn’t look so bloody weak. I’m not that girl who manipulates with tears, who bends and breaks every time she comes up against an obstacle. I’m a fighter, I don’t back down. If it wasn’t for all these hormones taking over my emotions, holding them hostage, I’d be giving as good as I’m getting.
“You think I’m being unsupportive?” I ask, horrified. “I’ve done nothing except support you. I’ve come to all your concerts, always cheered you on. God knows how many times I’ve slept alone because you’ve been at the recording studio. And what about paying the fucking rent so you could give up a steady wage and put everything into the band?” The angrier I get, the harder it is to get the words out. I almost spit them.
“Oh, I knew you’d throw that one back in my face. We both know I was made redundant, and we both agreed I’d spend more time on music.” He takes a step closer, face red, eyes narrowed. “Who do you think has been paying the rent so you could stay at home for six fucking months and look after Max? Do you really think I enjoyed going to a building site every day, breaking my fucking back so you could take extra maternity leave? Well, I didn’t. But I did it because I love you and I want you to be happy.” He laughs harshly. “Fat lot of good that did.”
“I had maternity pay.”
“It didn’t even cover the rent. But I knew how important being with Max was to you.”
I open my mouth to breathe, but my chest constricts painfully. It hurts to speak. “To us.” I correct. “Max is important to us.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No you didn’t. You just compared your bloody band to our son. You think I should understand how important music is to you because you understand how important Max is to me. But that’s bollocks, because Max should be important to you, too. And if he was, there’s no way you’d want to leave him to go running off with the band for months.”
The silence that follows is thick, taking on a life of its own, loaded with anger and accusation. It stretches between us, waiting for somebody to break it. I look at Alex and it’s as if I don’t know him anymore. A stranger with my husband’s face. There’s no love or desire or understanding in his expression.
He looks as though he hates me.
