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Today is the day my marriage ends. So far, I’m the only one who knows. I’m surprisingly calm about it as I eat my toast and sip on my orange juice. I thought I’d feel…I don’t know, queasier.
“Shall I take some of this up to Mum before I leave?” Lucy asks, waving over the leftover breakfast food.
“I’ll do it,” I say, smiling at my daughter. I probably stare for a little too long, take in her face, her eyes that look so much like mine. I don’t know when I’ll see them again.
I’m so sorry.
“What kind of hotel you staying in then?” Ben asks Lucy. “A posh one, or one of them old lady ones like on Blackpool front?”
“Piss off, Ben. Tiger said it’s a surprise, but Brighton’s way nicer than Blackpool.”
“Nowt wrong with Blackpool,” I cut in. “We had many a fun weekend there when you were kids. Don’t you remember?”
I remember. I remember the excitement on their little faces when a cheap plastic keyring fell from a slot machine, the way the illuminations made their tiny jaws drop open in amazement, the tears Lucy shed when a seagull shat on her candyfloss and the rare act of compassion Ben showed her by sharing his. I pray they cling onto memories like those when they find out how badly I’ve betrayed them.
“I remember it being cold and I remember Ben vomming all over my favourite trainers because he tried to be a Billy Big Bollocks and go on The Big One at the Pleasure Beach even though he used to cry on the bloody teacups.”
“I was ill,” Ben protests. “Food poisoning. Tell her, Dad.”
I surrender my hands. “I’m staying out of it.” And that’s when it hits me. The nausea. The guilt. Because soon, I will be out of it. I’ll have lost this. The bickering around the breakfast table. Mediating between my crazy, amazing children. Even the cat who, as usual, is perched at the edge of the table, watching our every mouthful, waiting for our backs to turn so she can attempt to lick the plates.
“Right, well I’m heading over to Tiger’s,” Lucy announces. “Try not to be too miserable without me, losers.”
I stand up to say goodbye to my daughter. “Have a great time,” I tell her as I bring her in for a hug. I hold her tight, kissing the top of her head. She and her brother are the best things I’ve ever achieved. “I love you, Luce.”
“Erm…okay. Sure, Dad. Love you, too,” she says, her expression awkward as she pulls away. “You know I’m coming back, right? Like, don’t be renting out my room or anything. Or giving it to him.” She flashes evils at her brother.
I force a smile, pat her shoulder. “Go on. Get outta here. And be safe.”
When she’s gone, I get Ben to help me clear the plates from the table. Conveniently for him, he can’t stay longer than a couple of minutes because he has to leave for work. Apparently, it’s going well at the garage with Rick. I made sure to take time last night to ask him about it and enjoyed listening to him talk for over an hour, telling me what his days involve, who he’s got to know so far, whether he thinks his future lies there or in the courses he’s studying at college. He’s undecided.
“Remember I’m staying at Jordan’s tonight. Going straight from work, so you won’t see me till tomorrow.”
“I remember.” It’s the sole reason why I chose today, knowing Becca and I were alone. I’ve planned this, you see. The ending of my marriage. My wife is in bed under the illusion that everything is rosy, that we’re on our way to another twenty years, while I have been actively planning the most suitable time to take a hammer to everything she believes in. I’ve even got my speech ready for her friend Gill, who I plan to call later. Becca will need the emotional and physical support when I, no doubt, will not be here.
The only flaw in my plan is how to begin. What to say. What words do I use to break my wife’s heart? Once Ben has left, with a hug just like his sister’s, I start rehearsing conversations as I load the dishwasher.
Rebecca, I love you so much, as I stack the mugs.
Becca, I’m so sorry, as I lower the plates.
I don’t know how to tell you this…
Please know I’ve never wanted to hurt you…
“Shit.” The word slips out as I put some bread in the toaster, food for my wife that I’m not sure she’ll get the chance to eat. Still, I butter it when it pops up. Add some jam. Pour her a glass of orange juice.
Then I head for the stairs.
Unsurprisingly, Becca is sat up against the headboard, laptop open on her knees when I reach the bedroom. “I’ll be one second,” she says, typing away. The clicking and clacking of keys continues for almost a minute before she closes the lid and slides the laptop onto the bedside table.
