and a little croak came out. I was breaking her heart and all I could offer her were frog noises.
“ God! This, this is why you were looking at that stupid price book isn’t it,” she blazed. “That night? Seeing if you could bail yourself out. Isn’t it? With Dad’s present. Sell it. Isn’t it? Tell me. Tell me! ” Jane shrieked, eyes glistening. The plush, embroidered, imported rug I had built her life upon had been tugged, with one sharp yank and her life was falling about around her.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I lied, moving gingerly forward.
“ It’s not all right! ”
I tried to hold them, but she turned her shoulder, writhing with rage. I stepped back, arms loose and shruggy, able only to watch as Jane strode out of the kitchen. I stood breathing deep, kicked in the gut, alone in the kitchen among the £ 2 car-boot kettle and the £ 25 ‘o.n.o.’ washing machine. I could hear Jane putting Lana to bed in the nursery next door, cheap blinds clattering , drawers slamming.
Deep breath. I moved out into the hall where I met Jane emerging, eyes red and raw.
“It’s all right,” I said. All I could say.
“How?” she said. Quietly, steadying herself on the banister. “How is it all right?”
“They’re old letters. I’ve sorted it out. Please, trust me. Let me explain , it’s okay shhhhhh, it’s okay …” and I folded myself around her shaking body. “It’s all going to be okay …”
Lies.
Of course lies.
But she was crying. Crying . I’ve never learned what to do with tears. I didn’t have teenage summers full of making-out and breaking up. I had teenage summers full of visiting my dad and watching Batman, Backdraft and Beetlejuice. I can’t deal with tears. Shouting and fighting I can cope with. I had a million comic-book pages full of instructions. But tears? There’s no response. What do you do with tears but hug and lie? Whatever words will stem the flow. Verbal duck-tape – easy, it’s okay, don’t worry, trust me.
They say you should never trust a man who says trust me, I know. But what else could I give her?
The truth? Ha.
Jane didn’t want the truth. I mean, people don’t, do they? Ohthey think they do. They tell themselves they do. But they don’t. Jane didn’t. She wanted to hear that everything was going to be all right. That her husband hadn’t lied when he had promised to take care of her. That her father had been wrong when he’d said I was a scruffy waster. That I’d spoken to the insurance people.
That they would cover the damage. Valued customer, twenty-eight-day-flood cover, emergency call-out, blah-blah-blah. That was my role for the next few hours. To be the man she thought she’d married. The man I’d promised to be. Strong and soothing, using lies like Bonjela, cooling the ulcer of her anxiety. There there, easy now, don’t worry.
I guess Jane must have bought it. It calmed her down, anyway.
I made tea. Cleared up the paperwork. Rubbed her feet, made soothy noises. While all the time of course, through all the lies, I was –
Well. Shitting my pants, obviously.
“You … you should write to them.”
“Write … ?”
“To everyone,” Jane sniffed, looking for a dry corner of her kitchen towel. “The solicitors, the bank, the skip-people. Let them know the situation’s taken care of. That they’ll get their money. Five working days, is it, this emergency cover?”
“Hn? Oh. Oh yes. Yes. I-I will,” I said, absently enough so I could claim to not remember.
Jane was curled in the chair, cushion hugged tight on her lap, feet tucked beneath her. The television (one owner, £ 25 o.n.o.) burbled the Channel 4 news. I was at the mantelpiece, surveying the damage. Lex Luthor had a little paint missing from his elbow and there was a white crease running across Joe Shuster’s shoe, but it didn’t seem to have worried him. He still stood, hands on hips, feet apart. Proud, strong, invincible. Pretty damned confident
“ God! This, this is why you were looking at that stupid price book isn’t it,” she blazed. “That night? Seeing if you could bail yourself out. Isn’t it? With Dad’s present. Sell it. Isn’t it? Tell me. Tell me! ” Jane shrieked, eyes glistening. The plush, embroidered, imported rug I had built her life upon had been tugged, with one sharp yank and her life was falling about around her.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I lied, moving gingerly forward.
“ It’s not all right! ”
I tried to hold them, but she turned her shoulder, writhing with rage. I stepped back, arms loose and shruggy, able only to watch as Jane strode out of the kitchen. I stood breathing deep, kicked in the gut, alone in the kitchen among the £ 2 car-boot kettle and the £ 25 ‘o.n.o.’ washing machine. I could hear Jane putting Lana to bed in the nursery next door, cheap blinds clattering , drawers slamming.
Deep breath. I moved out into the hall where I met Jane emerging, eyes red and raw.
“It’s all right,” I said. All I could say.
“How?” she said. Quietly, steadying herself on the banister. “How is it all right?”
“They’re old letters. I’ve sorted it out. Please, trust me. Let me explain , it’s okay shhhhhh, it’s okay …” and I folded myself around her shaking body. “It’s all going to be okay …”
Lies.
Of course lies.
But she was crying. Crying . I’ve never learned what to do with tears. I didn’t have teenage summers full of making-out and breaking up. I had teenage summers full of visiting my dad and watching Batman, Backdraft and Beetlejuice. I can’t deal with tears. Shouting and fighting I can cope with. I had a million comic-book pages full of instructions. But tears? There’s no response. What do you do with tears but hug and lie? Whatever words will stem the flow. Verbal duck-tape – easy, it’s okay, don’t worry, trust me.
They say you should never trust a man who says trust me, I know. But what else could I give her?
The truth? Ha.
Jane didn’t want the truth. I mean, people don’t, do they? Ohthey think they do. They tell themselves they do. But they don’t. Jane didn’t. She wanted to hear that everything was going to be all right. That her husband hadn’t lied when he had promised to take care of her. That her father had been wrong when he’d said I was a scruffy waster. That I’d spoken to the insurance people.
That they would cover the damage. Valued customer, twenty-eight-day-flood cover, emergency call-out, blah-blah-blah. That was my role for the next few hours. To be the man she thought she’d married. The man I’d promised to be. Strong and soothing, using lies like Bonjela, cooling the ulcer of her anxiety. There there, easy now, don’t worry.
I guess Jane must have bought it. It calmed her down, anyway.
I made tea. Cleared up the paperwork. Rubbed her feet, made soothy noises. While all the time of course, through all the lies, I was –
Well. Shitting my pants, obviously.
“You … you should write to them.”
“Write … ?”
“To everyone,” Jane sniffed, looking for a dry corner of her kitchen towel. “The solicitors, the bank, the skip-people. Let them know the situation’s taken care of. That they’ll get their money. Five working days, is it, this emergency cover?”
“Hn? Oh. Oh yes. Yes. I-I will,” I said, absently enough so I could claim to not remember.
Jane was curled in the chair, cushion hugged tight on her lap, feet tucked beneath her. The television (one owner, £ 25 o.n.o.) burbled the Channel 4 news. I was at the mantelpiece, surveying the damage. Lex Luthor had a little paint missing from his elbow and there was a white crease running across Joe Shuster’s shoe, but it didn’t seem to have worried him. He still stood, hands on hips, feet apart. Proud, strong, invincible. Pretty damned confident
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