Simon's Choice Read online

  You know when you are the designated driver at a party? You hate that moment, don’t you, Simon, when everyone has just started to get drunk. You always get grumpy and want to leave. You say it is like we are at different parties – the jokes aren’t funny to you and the conversation doesn’t flow naturally. That’s what living with you is like for me at the moment. Even if you are not unconscious with booze, you are not all there ... It’s like I’m living on my own anyway. You’re either tipsy or hung over and I don’t know where I fit in. I don’t think it would even matter if you weren’t drinking, to be honest. I just don’t know what you are thinking anymore.

  I don’t want Sarah to know anything about any of this. We can still go to the hospice together and we must put on a show. Frankly, I think it’s been a show for a long time, hasn’t it, Simon? We’ll keep going until the end. After that, I’d like us to move forward with a divorce. A new start might help you. I know it will help me.

  I’ve left Porridge there. I haven’t decided what I think should be done about him. I felt that you would probably appreciate the company tonight. I hope you got back before he had an accident. If he did, there’s some special spray under the sink.

  I’m sorry to do this, Simon. I just think that we have come to a fork in our lives and that you have chosen a different path to the one that I am on. Perhaps we will remain friends. I’d like that.

  I hope your mum and dad don’t hate me.

  Still yours, though as a friend,

  Mel xxx

  The thing that irritated Simon the most, he thought miserably, were the kisses at the end. Why did women do that? And what did three mean? Simon looked down at Porridge, who gazed up at him, totally unaware of the fissure in his life that widened by the minute. His Labrador eyes were watery and loving and at the side of his mouth his black lips curled into a totally unknowing smile.

  “Come on, Porridge. Let’s go to the pub.”

  * * *

  The Whippet and Wastrel, Simon’s local pub, was relatively busy. Relative that is, to the other three pubs in the village, all of which had shut or were on the verge of shutting, following the smoking ban. Thankfully, The Whippet accepted dogs, providing bowls of water and a dog-loving clientèle who were more than happy to share their pork scratchings. As a consequence, Porridge was a big fan of the pub.

  Strains of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘Survivor’ blasted out as Simon opened the pub door. The complete destruction of the vocal part indicated that Saturday’s karaoke was in full swing. Simon smiled, receiving a warm reception from the motley group of drinkers at one end of the bar. They comprised the usual assortment of pub regulars: the men with large noses and larger guts, accompanied by women clutching half pints of lager. Porridge got the louder welcome, the younger girls coming over to pat the genial Labrador and the pub’s other canine residents padding over for a little friendly bottom sniffing.

  “’Usual, Simon?” The wiry landlord gestured with a pint glass.

  “Please, Steve.”

  Simon fielded a number of generic ‘how are you’s and ‘what you been up to’s, paid for his pint and made his usual feeble request that Porridge should not be fed, knowing full well that he would be roundly ignored.

  The Gloria Gaynor attempt came to a finish, the applause scant, and the karaoke master called up another name to the stage. The lilting opening chords of Roger Miller’s ‘King of the Road’ made the crowd cheer.

  The evening sped by in a blur of ‘just one more pints’, dreadful singing and worse jokes. Porridge lay underneath a table, satiated and flatulent. His owner sat on a bar stool nearby, tipsy but compos mentis.

  “Fancy a whisky, Simon?” Steve, the landlord took a bottle of expensive scotch down from a private, high shelf behind the bar. The pub had emptied, all but for a group of lads playing pool and a couple having a whispered argument at one of the tables. “My treat. It’s good stuff this. Brought it back from the Isle of Arran.”

  Simon nodded. “And then I’d better let you lock up. Do you want a hand with anything?”

  “No, don’t be daft. I’ll do the glasses in the morning. Get some of that down you.” Steve poured a generous measure of whisky into a tumbler. “How’s your little girl doing, Simon?”

  “Not well.” Simon suddenly found it easier to discuss, now his tongue had been lubricated by an evening's drinking. “To be honest with you, Steve, she’s nearing the end. Probably only weeks now. It’s funny. You'd think the fear of them dying would be the worst part, but after a while it hurts even more to see them in pain. I can’t bear to see her live and I can’t bear to let her go.” He stared at his glass but saw nothing. “There’s no respite and I can’t ever see any in the future. I shall always be broken.”

  “My God. I’m so sorry, mate. I had no idea it had got so bad.”

  Simon shrugged. “Melissa left me.”

  “What? Jesus. When? That’s bad timing isn’t it?”

  “Today. This evening. Before I came in. Left a note. Twelve years of marriage, apparently disposable by note. Or is it a notelet? Melissa is forever sending people ‘notelets’. Haven’t the foggiest what one is. Perhaps I have been dispatched by notelet. Good whisky, Steve. Any chance of a lager – fancy one? I’m buying.”

  “Of course, Mate. I’ll get ‘em though. No. Put your money away. So what are you going to do?”

  Simon looked over at Porridge who gave a little groan in his sleep. “Don’t know. She says she wants me ‘out of the house’. By Tuesday. Don’t know anyone with a spare flat do you? Thanks.”

  Steve took a deep swig of his own beer. “As a matter of fact, I do. You’re standing underneath it. I’ve got a manager’s flat upstairs, below my own. Had that ditzy barmaid and her boyfriend staying up there, but they’ve moved in with her mum to save on rent. You’re more than welcome to have it. Lord knows, I can’t think of a better tenant, but I don’t think you’ll like it. Bloody dump to be honest. It’s clean, but you know what young bar-staff are like. It’s been painted every colour from tangerine to dark purple. And it’s noisy. You can hear everything from downstairs.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred and seventy a month. Three hundred bond. Gas and ‘lecky all in.”

  Simon ran his finger round the top of his beer glass. “I might be interested. Would Porridge be okay?”

  Both men looked at Porridge, who, as if on cue, farted loudly. Steve grinned. “Normally, I’d say no. But I know you’re going to be clean and, as long as you don’t have an aversion to vacuum cleaners, the smelly old mutt can stay. But you’ll have to make sure his business is picked up in the beer garden, and I don’t want him barking. You want it then?”

  Simon took a deep breath, then exhaled, feeling completely empty. “Why not?”

  Chapter 19

  Melissa sliced through the water, as sleek and streamlined as a barracuda. She kept her face in the water, her eyes wide open, watching guidelines that marked the tiles beneath her.

  She performed a neat tumble-turn in the deep end and began a return lap, noting in slight irritation that a number of rubber-capped old ladies had gathered for a natter at the shallow end. The pool, a facility of the expensive private members gym, of which she was a member, was always quiet. In the afternoon, though, the elderly clientèle swam slowly, blocking the lanes and standing against the pool walls. It meant that Melissa was unable to swim with the speed and aggression with which she preferred.

  Melissa loved the water. All her energy, all her anger, could be channeled into the physical act of swimming. She loved the way she could contort her face as she pushed herself to her physical limit, but nobody could see her pain. Loved the way her heart raced and her muscles ached, yet there was no sweat, no puffy red face, no damp patches, no jiggly bits, no embarrassment. Her exertion was clean, controllable, and most of all, private.

  Today the chlorinated water was particularly welcome, cleansing her not only of her excess energy and anger, but also of the feeling that somet
hing about her was dirty. Now, as she executed a perfect front crawl, she began to feel a little more like herself. Cleaner. More in control.

  Melissa hadn't felt much in control recently. Sarah’s rapid decline had forced them to make decisions for which she hadn't been prepared. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

  She’d planned to be ready, to have conditioned herself to a point when she was prepared to accept Sarah’s final days. But the prognosis had changed so quickly, the disease had taken hold again so unexpectedly, so viciously, that Melissa was left floundering, unable to cope with being flung back into the whirlwind of medical decisions, practical decisions, emotional decisions ….

  Emotional decisions! Hah! Simon had taken that one from her. They hadn’t even planned how they were going to tell Sarah that she was going to die. She’d tried to, but nothing seemed good enough. It was never the right time. She tried speaking to Simon, but he just wouldn’t talk about it. She tried desperately to get him to talk, both to hear how he was feeling and to use him as a sounding board. She needed more than anything to open up and tell the only other person in the world who could completely understand how she felt. But he wouldn’t talk. He’d walk off, turn the telly up or rattle his newspaper in irritation. More recently, he’d slope off to the sitting room, bottle and tumbler in hand.

  Then she had learned that he, that Simon, Simon who refused to discuss the situation, who blocked her every attempt to bring the subject up, had leaped in and told their daughter that she was dying. That changed everything. She had been trying to contain a dangerously simmering rage for a long time. His callous act brought it to a boil, so that it erupted over the surface of her usually staid demeanor.

  Melissa came to the end of another length and noted with further exasperation that the pool was filling with slow swimmers. She climbed out, took her towel and made her way to the steam room. A blast of eucalyptus scented steam hit her as she opened the door and she settled into a corner of the room, pleased that she had it to herself.

  Simon would hate the steam room, she thought, and then frowned, irritated with herself. She had told Simon she wanted a divorce. Now she had to stop this habit of thinking of him all the time.

  Except she couldn’t help it. He had been the most important person in her life for so long. The old cliché that he was part of her felt entirely apt. Wherever she was, the supermarket, the library, a sodding steam room, her thoughts always settled onto what Simon would think, what Simon was doing, how Simon would react.

  But he never, it would appear, thought of her. Oh sure, he used to. He used to bring little treats home for her, used to ring her during the day with funny little stories or just to see how she was. Many was the time he’d called her at the florists at 7 a.m. in the morning when she’d gone in early to prepare for a wedding, just to check that she was okay. Just to say hello.

  But all that changed when Sarah got ill.

  It wasn’t that Melissa didn’t understand. She of all people could comprehend the all-consuming terror that filled Simon’s every waking moment. The immeasurable stress caused by having to continue to live whilst their daughter’s life came to an end. But for Melissa, Sarah had not been the only person in her life. It was always Simon, Sarah, and her. They had been a team. A trio. She divided her love equally between her daughter and her husband.

  The past few months had shown her something truly painful. He did not feel the same way as she did. He did not distribute his love between ‘his girls’ equally. It hurt terribly. She was angry.

  She wondered if she should call him. The note had been childish. Overly dramatic. She couldn’t quite say why she had done it. Leaving it in the fridge was snide and silly. It's just that she wanted him to know how hurt she was. She wanted him to hurt too.

  Clearly he hadn’t been hurt. She’d tried to call but there had been no answer. In the pub, no doubt. Just another aspect of Simon’s life which didn't include her. She’d tried to accompany him to their local, but her cut glass accent had stood out. She felt uncomfortable and alien amongst the regulars.

  Melissa dabbed at her sweating nose with the towel, glad that there was nobody present to witness this melting of her normally perfect façade. The truth was, Melissa thought miserably, she had lost Simon a long time ago. Perhaps the moment Sarah was born. Because there was no doubt in Melissa’s mind, that the problem was Simon's. He simply didn’t have the room or capability to love both of them. And so he had chosen Sarah.

  She took a deep breath, feeling the eucalyptus cleanse her lungs. Perhaps she should call Simon. See if he was alright. They could go for a Chinese – that one on the high street he liked and she didn’t. She imagined them sitting at the table, him ordering duck and her trying to remember the name of the chewy pork thing she liked. Just thinking about seeing him smile across the table at her felt right. Yes, perhaps she should call and make it up. She stood up and let herself out of the steam room, just as a pair of laughing women around her age came in. Giving them a strained smile, she made her way back to her locker, weaving past a number of naked elderly bottoms, pockmarked with cellulite.

  Melissa took a warm dry towel from the pile by the door and peeled off her swimming suit, then stood frozen, suddenly filled with self-loathing. Was she jealous of her own child? She supposed she must be, a little. What a dreadful person that must make her. To be envious of a dying child. She felt nothing but love and protective instinct towards Sarah, but her husband’s heart lay with his daughter and not with her. She was jealous.

  And she felt so alone. So alone. Here she was, attempting to deal with the worst thing that could ever happen, and her husband refused to talk to her. If he was there, he was drunk, or hung-over and monosyllabic. He wouldn’t talk about the future, wouldn’t acknowledge the present. Somehow she had to present a solid, responsible image to the world. Be a mother, be a grown up. She couldn’t care less that their friends didn’t talk to them anymore. She didn’t need them. She needed her husband. And she had lost him.

  It was as if Simon had nothing left to say. It was as if, as his daughter died, a part of Simon died with her.

  Melissa patted herself dry and hopped on one leg as she pulled Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms on, wondering, not for the first time, why chlorinated water seemed stickier than normal water. Before the leukemia, Simon always took talcum powder when they went swimming, and Sarah loved to puff the clouds of talc onto her body, giggling as her father patted it down, soaking up the moisture and making dressing easier. Even then, she mused, she had been separate from them. Always on the outside looking in. The whispered jokes, the father-daughter trips to the park, the bedtime story that she particularly wanted her daddy to read. Never mummy. Always daddy.

  And now, whilst pulling away from Melissa, whilst refusing to discuss how they would handle the hardest conversation that they would ever have in their life, he’d gone ahead and told Sarah she was dying. Not just that. He’d decided to tell her that he would ‘go with her to heaven’. My God. That had been a shock. Her parents had been disappointed in him, angry at his immaturity and lack of judgment, but they didn’t share the horror that Melissa felt. Because Melissa realized that Simon could do it. Why not? Because what else did Simon have if he didn’t have Sarah?

  She slammed her locker door harder than she had meant to, drawing enquiring looks from the other members in their various states of undress. One woman, obese and completely naked, stood calmly in the centre of the locker room, filing her nails. How could people do that, wondered Melissa? How could they display themselves like that? Looking away from the woman, Melissa tied her damp hair back into a tight little bun and smudged a little clear gloss onto her lips.

  “Go with her to heaven”. What the hell had he meant? Did he mean that he’d die with her? Or that he’d ensure they died together? Melissa frowned as she dabbed mascara onto her eyelashes. Surely he wouldn’t hurt her, but Melissa knew how much he loved his daughter. Enough to end her suffering? Melissa narrowed a ne
wly painted eye. Was Simon a risk to Sarah?

  Melissa shrugged her swimming bag over her shoulder and pushed her way out of the locker room, dumping her towels in the laundry bin on her way out. No. Not a Chinese. Maybe she should go over and find him at the pub … no.

  She threw her bag onto the back seat of her Range Rover and slid into the driver's seat. Resting her head on the leather steering wheel, she shut her eyes, willing herself not to cry. Dinner with Simon was just a daydream, an indulgent fantasy of what could never be. The truth was Simon had made his choice clear over the past few months. There was only room for one of ‘his girls’ in his life – and that girl wasn’t Melissa.

  Chapter 20

  Simon flicked a lump of dog turd into the wheelie bin and returned the shovel to the garden shed, resolving to take Porridge for a good long walk after he had seen his parents that afternoon.

  Back in the house, he scooped instant coffee into a mug and settled himself at the pine table with the weekend newspapers. He supposed he had better call Melissa. There had been four missed calls on his mobile when he checked it that morning. He had already spoken to Madron House and Sarah was comfortable and well – or as well as she could be - so Melissa’s call could not be urgent. Perhaps she’d left something out of her notelet, thought Simon grimly. He picked up the phone and punched in the familiar number.

  She answered on the third ring. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Oh God, Melissa. Is this really how it’s going to be from now on? You end our marriage by leaving a note in the fridge. Apparently you want us to stay ‘friends’, but you answer your phone like that. Could we just grow up and be sensible about all of this for a minute please?”

  “I was perfectly ready to be sensible last night, when I phoned you to check that you were okay. Oh, and when I rang again at 9 p.m. and then 10 p.m. and again at 11 p.m.. I suppose you were propping up the bar in The Whippet, were you?”