I hadn’t expected to see Jake’s car in the drive. He hadn’t said he would be coming home for lunch. Perhaps he’d forgotten something and nipped home to fetch it. I was pleased. I needed to talk about what had happened; needed a sympathetic ear. We needed to discuss the financial implications. Geoff had said it could be a few weeks before we got any money from the government. Even if he couldn’t stay long, if he had to get back to work, just telling him would make a difference. I was about to call out to him when I heard voices.
The actual words were muffled, but there were definitely two voices. And one of them was female. There was also a lot of giggling. For a while I stood rooted to the spot in the doorway. There was no doubt where the voices were coming from – our bedroom. Neither of them was aware of my presence. My mind went numb. I didn’t feel anything. I had suffered enough already that day. I couldn’t take any more. But the lack of feeling lasted no more than a few moments. I tried to imagine a scenario that did not include Jake being unfaithful, but couldn’t. I felt angry and betrayed. I closed the door quietly and climbed the stairs. Just before the top I stopped. I could make out the words now and I knew what was happening. What was worse was I recognised the female voice. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar and I could now see them. My best friend was naked and sitting astride, and on top of, Jake.
“You disgusting, despicable pair,” I screamed as I flung open the door. “Get out of my house. Get out, both of you.” Neeta seemed embarrassed by her nakedness and position. She grabbed a pillow and held it in front of her as she gathered up her clothes. “Don’t bother getting dressed in my house,” I spat at her, “get dressed in the gutter. That’s where you belong.” As she ran past me, I could see she was frightened. She had every right to be. I felt like murdering the pair of them.
So far Jake hadn’t said anything. “Get out, you bastard, before I do something you’ll regret” I hissed. He looked at me as if I was mad. I was!
“It was all her fault,” he protested. “She’s been after me for weeks. She knows when you’re out and she’s been coming round. She says you’ve been telling her I was great in bed, and she wanted me to prove it. You’ve got to believe me.” Part of what he said was true. Neeta always discussed her current partners’ prowess in the bedroom, and she’d asked me a while ago whether Jake was any good. I laughed and told her I didn’t have as many men to compare him with, but that he was great. And she did know when I was going to be out, mostly. We were always texting each other, telling each other how our days were going and what our plans were. My immediate anger had degenerated into a numbing tiredness. The shock of losing my job had made me unable to maintain the anger I knew I felt.
“I don’t care whose fault it is,” I said wearily, “I want you out of my house, and out of my life, for good.” He laughed spitefully that it was as much his house as mine. But it wasn’t, I replied. I’d owned the house before I met him. There had been no mortgage, so he hadn’t contributed to its purchase and in the time we’d been together we’d had no maintenance done. Even the decorating I’d done and paid for myself. He whined that he had nowhere to go. “Why don’t you go to Neeta’s?” I sneered. “I’m sure her bed is as good as ours.” Strangely, I believed him when he said he didn’t want to be with Neeta. He wanted to be with me. He begged for another chance. He swore it was a one-off and it wouldn’t happen again. I could feel myself weakening. I was so tired. I told him he’d hurt me badly and I needed time on my own. He would have to find somewhere else for a few days. Maybe then I’d reconsider things. He stopped protesting then.
It took him a couple of hours to pack sufficient clothes for the rest of the week and to make arrangements to stay at a friend’s house. But it could only be for a few days. His friend’s girlfriend was away on a course at present but she’d be back on Friday night. I agreed we’d talk again on the Friday night.
As soon as he left, the dam burst and the tears I’d held back gushed forth. It had been the most miserable day of my life. Normally, if I’d been upset, I’d have phoned Neeta to come round and, well, just be there for me. She’d have hugged me, told me I didn’t deserve this to happen. She’d have told me I was wonderful, boosted my confidence. But I didn’t have that comfort. Not anymore. “Neeta, how could you do this to me?” I screamed out loud. Nobody answered. I opened a bottle of wine and drank it alone. I couldn’t sleep in my bed that night, not after what I’d seen. I’d have to wash the bedclothes before I could even think of sleeping there again. The bed in the spare room wasn’t made up. I’d washed the clothes after my parent’s visit almost two months ago and they were still waiting to be ironed. In the end, I slept downstairs on the sofa, with the spare quilt wrapped around me.
I ached when I woke from a restless sleep. It was still dark. The clock on the DVD recorder glowed. It was two minutes to five. My head maintained a steady bass drum beat. For a few moments I wondered what I was doing downstairs. Then I remembered. And I cried again.
Twenty four hours ago I was a happily married woman with a job that I enjoyed but wasn’t too demanding. I had a small circle of friends and colleagues, and an extra special friend with whom I shared many of my innermost secrets. Had I missed some signs that all was not well? Shouldn’t I have realised at work that there were financial problems? I’d been delaying payments past their due dates for so long, it seemed like normal practice. Suppliers had been demanding payments and I prioritised them based on who shouted loudest or most often. I could see those signs now. Why hadn’t I seen them earlier? What if I had? Would I have looked for another job, got out before the ship sank? Probably not.
The phone rang several times in the next few days. I didn’t answer it. Eventually I listened to the messages. Both Neeta and Jake rang several times, begging for forgiveness; pleading for another chance. They left me depressed rather than angry. Depression feeds off itself. In my case, it was having a feast. It was a glutton. I felt worthless. I began to feel it was somehow my fault all this had happened. There was a little part of me though that every now and then would rebel against these thoughts; would give me a little hope. But the depression was slowly winning.
The other calls were from my mother. She seems to have some sixth sense when things aren’t going well. “Is everything all right?” was her first message, followed by instructions to call her. Subsequent messages from her were more insistent that I should call her. I didn’t. The thought of admitting what had happened was unbearable. Telling her my marriage was over was unthinkable. It wasn’t that she would be appalled or critical in anyway, it was admitting I had failed. Failed her, who’s own marriage seemed to be unmitigated happiness, and failed myself. Listening to her calls just added to my depression.
I hardly ate or drank anything apart from bottles of wine. They dulled my feelings for a while but the depression always returned, seemingly invigorated by the alcoholic intake.
I didn't undress or change my clothes for several days and I didn't wash or shower. Even to my own senses, I was beginning to smell but I couldn't care. I wasn't thinking about anything except the hurt I felt at what I had seen. The only respite I had was when I eventually fell asleep. It was a relief - until I woke up again.