Lessons for a Sunday Father by Claire Calman Page B

have
always
provided for my family—I’ve
always
worked— you and the kids have never gone short—
never
—Jeez, you make me sound like some fucking sponger. How
can
you say that?”
    I felt a bit bad, really I did. I hadn’t meant it. I’d just wanted to hurt him, I suppose, make him feel useless and humiliated—the way he’d made me feel. And now it looked like I had World War Three on my hands.
    “I’m sorry, Scott. I really am. I only said it because I feel so hurt and angry.”
    “Hurt and angry?
You
—hurt and angry! I’m the one living like a fucking gypsy out of a fucking carrier bag! How
dare
you make yourself into such a martyr—here you are in
our
nice warm house with
our
comfy settee and
our
proper kitchen and
our
big bed and
our
—repeat,
our
—children while I’m having to accept charity and live like a sodding student and be woken up by crap rock music at seven o’clock in the fucking morning. For fuck’s sake—HURT and ANGRY? You haven’t got a fucking clue.”
    Then he got up and stomped out and down the front path. I thought of going after him, to try to get him to calm down, but my legs were shaking and I couldn’t move. I’ve never, ever seen him like that. Not about unjust parking tickets or the car being stolen or being gazumped over our first house. Never.
Scott
    OK, I’ll come clean—it
was
twice. With Angela, I mean. But you really can’t count the first time. And the second time was only to make up for the first time being so godawful and anyway, I was already guilty by then, so it wasn’t as if it was making anything worse. It’s all water under the bridge now in any case, so what difference does it make? Still, there’s no point in telling Gail it was twice, right?
    The second time. I was driving practically past Angela’s house. Well, near enough. So I thought I’d just call by, say hello, take a look at her doors and that.
    “Oh hello.” Angela opened the door a little way, with just her head in the gap. “Nice of you to keep in touch.”
    “Now don’t be like that. I did call but I got your machine and I didn’t know what to say.”
    “How about: ‘Hello, it’s Scott, are you available for shagging purposes?'”
    I’m on the verge of blushing now. Still, she seems to be smiling, so I take advantage and edge a bit closer.
    “You can’t just turn up whenever you feel like it, you know. What if I’d had someone here?”
    “You could say I’d come to check your garden door and other see-through items. It’s only that I was in the area and—”
    “Yes, I see. Come in anyway now that you’re here. Coffee?”
    “Cheers.” I shuck off my jacket, casual, as if I’m a bit hot. Angela’s wearing one of those wrap-round skirts. The sort where you undo one button and yee-har it’s on the floor. The kind of women’s clothing a man likes. I think about putting my hand on her thigh, sliding up under the material, but she’s standing the wrong side of the jutting-out counter. Hang on a minute, matey. Don’t rush.
    “Sugar?” She busies herself making the coffee, fiddling with jars and teaspoons.
    “One-and-a-bit. So, how’ve you been?” Slowly, I edge around the worktop.
    “Oh, you know, moping by the phone waiting to hear from you.” She looks at me then. “Not really, you idiot. I’ve hardly been here, actually. Got so much work on. I’m fine.” She sighs. “Scott, I do know you’re married. I’m not looking to get into some seedy affair or lure you away from your wife, you know. I had a good time,” she laughs, hitching herself onto a stool at the counter. “Well, all right, I’ve had better but it was fine, and if we ever get it together again, that’ll be fine too. But I’m not becoming the Other Woman. I’m not looking to be somebody’s stepping-stone out of a hopeless marriage.”
    “But I haven’t got a hopeless marriage. I love Gail to bits …”
    “Yeah.” She looks me straight in the eye. “You probably do, but