The Last Year Of Being Married. Sarah Tucker

got to try to save the marriage, Kim. Even if it’s just for Ben’s sake.’

      Kim—‘You should only try for your sake, so at least you can look back and say you did try and won’t always wonder if perhaps, maybe, it could have worked. Ultimately, you must make your own decisions and your own mistakes. That’s the way everyone learns in life. Not through other people’s mistakes. But take it from me, as a friend who knows and loves you for all your faults, you married a man who doesn’t know and love you for all your faults, Sarah. And he isn’t your friend anymore.’

      We don’t talk through dessert. I sit and think. Kim lets me while she eats both apple pies and then complains of indigestion.

      Duncan walks over to our table with the bill. Kim grabs it.

      Kim—‘I think I should pay for this one. I’ve eaten most of it.’

      Sarah—‘Thank you, Kim. I’m very lucky to have you as a friend.’

      Kim—‘Bollocks. We’re lucky to have each other as friends. You’ve helped me through shit in the past. Perhaps this is my time to pay back. I’ve seen this coming for a long time. It’s what you need.’

      Sarah—‘I haven’t asked a thing about you. How is Jamie?’

      Kim—‘Oh, Jamie is fine. He’s working on a merger. He’s floating the company and it’s taking up all his energy and time, and I wish he could spend more time with me. But he can’t. You know. The usual.’

      Sarah—‘He’s lucky to have you. You’re wonderful and special.’

      Kim—‘I know. I tell him that all the time—usually just before I go down on him. He always agrees. Usually because I threaten to bite if he doesn’t.’

      Sarah—‘I haven’t gone down on Paul for years. Forgotten what it looks like. Well, erect anyway.’

      Kim—‘Probably small. He has a big house, big car, oversized ego and bank account. Say no more.’

      Sarah—‘It always was small. But having a child doesn’t help. I’m not as, well, tight as I used to be. I’ve been doing those exercises. The ones with the pencil. But I don’t want to get lead poisoning.’

      Kim laughs.

      Kim—‘His penis is about the size of a pencil, is it? Oh, well. You’re missing nothing, then.’

      We get up. Duncan comes over to say goodbye and gives me a hug, whispering.

      Duncan—‘You look thin, Sarah. Hope everything is okay. Your friend is a pig.’

      And smiles.

      Duncan—‘Thank you. Lovely to see you.’

      Kim—‘I don’t think your waiter friend likes me.’

      Sarah—‘He likes your appreciation of his food. And your curly pink tail.’

      Kim—‘Hug, then.’

      We stand outside Circle and hug for five seconds. I start to sob again, very quietly, so my body shakes and aches. I have this feeling of dread, of something being just round the corner, that makes me feel faint and ill. And I can’t fast-forward this bit of my life. I’ve got to live through it and learn from it and grow. And standing there, with my friend, I feel terrified. And alone.

      Kim—‘I’m here for you, Sarah. Your friends are here for you. And the one good thing about this whole mess is that you’ll find out who your friends are. And that’s worth a lot. Some people go through life and never find out. And another thing. If you don’t listen to anything else I’ve said today, listen to this. Don’t leave the house, and if you find out he has got someone else call me. Any time. Day or night. E-mail, if you like. Text. Anything. Paul sounds like he’s being a mean bugger. He’s arrogant, so will be self-righteous in anything he does—even when it is suggesting his wife and child leave the house. He’ll validate his behaviour somehow, so you’ll look bad and he won’t. Because that’s the way his mind works. He’s always been a good liar. He’s manipulative, mean, insensitive and self-obsessed. You just wait. You’ll see him for what he is soon enough. He’ll make himself out to be the injured party. Don’t let the bastard get you down any more than he already has.’

      Sarah—‘I love you, Kim. Why can’t men be more like women?’

      Kim—‘Because they have willies, darling. Because they have willies. And that’s where they keep their ego and their brains. Give Ben a big kiss from me. And call me. Now, I’ve got to get this twat’s article done.’

      Journey back to Chelmsford takes an hour, but somehow it seems shorter this time. My mind is not on the journey, but buzzing with everything Kim’s said to me. Her insight into the situation, which I can’t see because I’m living it.

      I collect Ben from nursery. His little face when he sees me and calls out ‘Mummy’ moves me to tears. He sings the Teletubbies theme tune in the back seat. I’ve got to try to make it work for his sake. I’ve got to try. But I’m tired emotionally. I’m tired of living in a house I hate, in a relationship I hate, with a man I think I’m growing to hate. And I think I hate myself. Kim’s right. I’ve got to deal with this head-on. But Paul and I have never been able to talk about the big issues—and it’s even worse now. So what can I do?

      Back at the house, I let Ben play in the garden with his new bike, then give him tea—salmon in white wine and garlic. It’s really for his daddy, but somehow I don’t think Paul will turn up tonight. Ben is eating more than I do at the moment. I bathe him and read him a bedtime story. The one about the witch—Room on the Broom. He likes that one.

      Ben—‘I lub you, Mummy.’

      Sarah—‘I lub you too, Ben.’

      Ben—‘Are you okay, Mummy?’

      Sarah—‘Yes, I’m okay, Ben.’

      Perhaps he senses something is wrong. They say children can sense things clearly at this age. They’re like animals; they know when something is wrong. No hiding anything from them. I feel very protective towards this little boy.

      I work on the She feature, but don’t feel in the mood to write about romantic breaks, somehow. I switch off the computer. Perhaps Paul will make it home tonight. Perhaps not. So I wait in the sitting room and watch reality TV, which has absolutely nothing to do with anything real at all. Sets are fake. Situations are fake. People are fake.

      The front door opens. The alien returns. It’s nearly eleven.

      I get up and walk over to greet him. He looks morose and drunk.

      Sarah—‘Hi, would you like something to eat?’

      Paul—‘No, thanks. Had something on the train. Think I’ll just go to bed.’

      Sarah—‘Okay. You do that. Say night-night to Ben.’

      Paul—‘Will do.’

      I hear Ben’s bedroom door open and a faint, ‘How’s my best boy, then?’ And a kiss. And a quiet ‘I lub you, Daddy.’ And, ‘Can I have a dog?’

      Then I hear him go into our bedroom and close the door. I stay downstairs for ten more minutes. Watching blankly as a couple tear each other apart emotionally on Temptation Island.

      I check on Ben, who is snoring happily in his mini-bed which has just been converted from his mini-cot. Our son is now a fully-fledged little boy, with Buzz Lightyear duvet and pillows. His room is the nicest in the house. Bright yellow walls, now almost covered with his drawings and paintings, and scribblings of his name and what he did for the holiday and what he likes to eat and what his favourite television programme is. Carpet deep blue, hiding all the baby sick and mess that comes as part of the package with children, especially boys. Because I’m told little girls are so much tidier and more mature.