The Way We Thunk
By Keith A Pearson
For more information about the author and to receive updates on his new releases, visit: www.keithapearson.co.uk
Copyright © 2023 by Keith A Pearson. All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express, written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Author’s Note
The Way We Thunk is based upon the 2018 novel, Meeting MungoThunk. Both are standalone stories and can therefore be read in any order. However, if you’d like to understand Mungo Thunk’s back story, you might prefer to read MeetingMungoThunkfirst. It’s available from Amazon in ebook, paperback, and audiobook format.
They say that the customer is always right. I beg to differ.
The customer always thinks they’re right, but in my limited retail experience, they seldom are.
I’ve already clarified my position, but the sour-faced man on the opposite side of the counter isn’t giving up without a fight. I’m ninety-nine per cent certain I know what he’ll say next.
“I want to see your supervisor.”
So predictable.
“Sir, he’ll only repeat what I’ve already told you.”
“Are you going to fetch a supervisor, or do I have to ring your head office and make a formal complaint about the service in this store?”
I’m about to suggest he calls head office when the customer service supervisor, Troy, appears.
“Is there a problem here, Jake?” he asks.
I don’t like Troy. I’d even go as far as to say I regularly fantasise about punching Troy in the face. It’s not that I’m a violent man, but my supervisor brings out the worst in me, in everyone.
“No, there’s not a problem,” I reply. “I was …”
“Are you a supervisor?” the customer asks, staring at Troy.
“Yes, Sir. I am.”
“Good, because your colleague here refuses to help me. I’m close to making a formal complaint.”
Troy shoots a disapproving look in my direction before addressing the customer.
“I’m sure I can help you, Sir. What’s the problem?”
The customer taps the box on the counter. “I purchased this pair of headphones last week, but now they’re on offer for fifty per cent less. I want a refund.”
“Okay, do you have your receipt?”
“Not on me, no.”
“By rights,” Troy replies. “We do require proof of purchase.”
“They’re still in the box, unused. Are you going to be as unhelpful as your colleague?”
Always keen to grasp an opportunity to undermine me, Troy flashes a sickly smile at the customer.
“I apologise that my colleague was less than helpful. It’s a little convoluted but I can refund the headphones at the original price, and then you can buy the same pair at the discounted price.”
“At last,” the customer puffs. “Someone who knows what they’re doing. Thank you.”
Troy turns to face me. “Jake, process this gentleman’s refund.”
“But, you do …”
“Now, Jake,” he interrupts.
“I don’t think …”
“I said, now!”
I shrug my shoulders and begin processing the refund. Troy watches my every keystroke until he’s ready to claim the final glory.
“There we are, Sir,” he says, handing over the headphones and a new receipt. “My apologies for the misunderstanding.”
“No problem.”
No longer sour-faced, the customer departs. Troy turns to me.
“It’s a good job I stepped in when I did. You need to make far more effort when assisting customers, Jake.”
“What exactly did I do wrong?”
“You could have easily refunded that gentleman without all that fuss.”
“I wouldn’t give him a refund for good reason.”
“Just because he didn’t have a receipt, there was no need to be difficult.”
“I wasn’t being difficult. He didn’t buy those headphones from us.”
My supervisor’s mouth bobs open. “I beg your pardon?”
“He bought them from Amazon last week and then noticed we’re selling them for half the price. I told him he’d have to get his refund from Amazon, and that’s when he started getting shirty.”
“For Pete’s sake,” Troy snaps, his cheeks reddening. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I tried.”
“Well, you didn’t try hard enough, did you? I’ve got a good mind to talk to Barry about this.”
Even if our store manager cared about the tiny dent in TechWorld’s profits, which he probably doesn’t because he’s counting down the days till retirement, Barry Clark can’t stand Troy any more than the rest of us.
“Would you like me to come with you?” I reply with a wry smile. “So that Barry hears the full facts about what happened.”
“No, I would not.”
Troy shakes his head before storming off towards the stock room. I might have won the battle, but the war will continue because Troy sees me as a threat to his career advancement in the branch. I don’t know why because I’ve zero interest in pursuing a career in retail, and I thought I’d made my lack of ambition clear in the three bloody months I’ve worked here.
Not clear enough, it seems.
“Must try harder, Jake,” I mutter under my breath.
Such is the state of British retail these days, recruiting staff seems to be an ongoing challenge, which is why TechWorld ended up hiring me, I suspect. After my interview with Barry, he knew I didn’t really want the job, and that was before he confirmed the abysmal pay. However, he also knew I had no choice because very few employers offer staff the flexibility to work around school hours and off-term holidays.
Five months ago, I would have laughed if someone had suggested I’d end up working as a customer service assistant in an electrical store by the autumn. And yet, here I am, and I’m sure as hell not laughing.
It’s not just that I hate the crappy pay, the belligerent customers, and Troy, obviously — it’s everything this job represents. It’s a daily reminder of how far I’ve fallen in a relatively short period.
For nine years, I worked for a global IT company; the last three as a customer support manager. I can’t say I loved the job, but the pay was great, and I could run the department with my eyes shut. Then, out of the blue, the company decided to relocate its entire support department to New Delhi. Whatever faceless committee of suits
made that decision, they’re responsible for the shitshow my life has since become. Okay, maybe they’re not entirely responsible, but they were certainly the catalyst.
“You okay, Jake?” Ash asks, breaking my thoughts. “You’re miles away.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, although I think I’ve upset Troy.”
“Troy is always upset about something. I wouldn’t worry.”
Ash flashes his trademark smile. I wouldn’t go as far as to say we’re friends, but my fellow customer service assistant is at least tolerable. Saying that, his relentlessly cheerful attitude does grate.
“On an unrelated note,” he continues. “I’m setting up a lottery syndicate if you’re interested? We’re all putting a tenner a month into a pot, and we’ll share any prizes.”
“How many have signed up?”
“Seven, plus me. That increases our odds of winning eightfold. Nine, if you join.”
“No thanks,” I huff. “The lottery is a mug’s game.”
“Granted, the odds are long, but you never know, Jake. Are you sure you don’t want to join?”
“Positive. Besides, you wouldn’t want me to join, not with the luck I’ve had this year.”
“Good luck always follows bad.”
I’m about to contest Ash’s statement when I notice a pension-age couple heading in our direction. They approach the counter.
“Our daughter has suggested we get one of those new-fangled mobile telephones,” the husband states. “Could you gentlemen help us choose one?”
I’m all for the older generation embracing technology, but I have neither the time nor the patience to help this particular couple.
“Sure,” I reply. “Can you give us a second, please?”
I pull Ash to one side.
“Listen, mate,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I need to be away at three on the dot. Can you deal with them?”
“No problem,” he beams.
With all the enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever, Ash invites the couple to follow him over to our modest display of mobile phones.
I'll be amazed if he returns before his twenty-sixth birthday in December.
I stand and watch my colleague for a few minutes. Ash is only seven years younger than me, but the difference in our respective attitudes is almost a generation apart. He still retains the optimism and enthusiasm for life I’ve somehow lost. At thirty-two, I no longer consider myself young, and with a marriage, mortgage, and parenthood checked on the life goal list, the spectre of middle age is now beckoning. Perhaps I peaked too soon, and everything from this point onwards is a slow descent to a shitty end. Most days, it feels that way.
I spot Troy heading in my general direction. Without a doubt, he’ll try and hold me up by insisting I complete some needless task. Before he spots me, I make a beeline for the toilets, where I can see out the last five minutes of my shift.
There is no more depressing way to spend five minutes than sitting in a cold, stinking toilet cubicle, counting the minutes until you can leave a job you hate to hurry to a meeting you could do without, relating to a problem you never wanted.
To quote Aristotle, or perhaps it was Confucius: fuckmylife.
At one minute to three, I hurry out of the toilets and escape TechWorld for the day. I’m usually relieved to leave, but today, the six-hour shift is only a precursor to a more troubling issue blighting my life — that pertaining to our four-year-old son, Finn.
I hop in the car and complete the dash across town to Belle Vue Infant School. Knowing there will be nowhere to park on Belle Vue Road itself, I abandon my car in a neighbouring street and jog the remaining few hundred yards. Finally, it’s a dash across the playground to Finn’s classroom, where a group of parents are congregated at the door, waiting for their offspring. Half-smiles and nods are exchanged with people whose names I don’t know. We’re five weeks into the kid’s first term, and I still haven’t progressed beyond the basic label of Finn’s Dad, probably because I’ve too much to worry about beyond making friends with a random group of strangers I see twice a day for two minutes.
The door opens, and Finn’s teacher, Miss Kimble, begins the tedious task of nudging her pupils out the door one by one, but only after checking a parent is waiting. I’m the last man standing.
“Hi there, Mr Mason,” Miss Kimble says, her voice carrying a sympathetic lilt.
She then places a hand on my son’s head and guides him forward. He approaches me dead-eyed and sullen.
“How’s he been today?” I ask, taking Finn’s hand.
“He’s said a few words to his … his special friend, but not much. He’s still quite withdrawn.”
I squat down so I’m at Finn’s level.
“Hey, little guy. Did you remember we’re going to see the nice lady in town this afternoon?”
He nods.
“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s only a nice chat, and Mummy and Daddy will be right there with you, okay?”
He nods again. I look up to Miss Kimble and she responds with a strained smile.
“Are you going to say goodbye to Miss Kimble?” I ask.
He turns around and waves half-heartedly.
“Bye, Finn. See you tomorrow.”
My son’s teacher then mouths the words good luck at me and disappears back inside the classroom. She knows about our appointment with a therapist because it was the school’s own special educational needs coordinator, Mrs Carter, who first put a name to the worrying change in Finn’s behaviour: selective mutism. That was three weeks ago, and although he’ll occasionally chatter away to an imaginary friend or mumble the odd word, it’s been almost six weeks since Finn engaged any adult in conversation.
We’re at our wit’s end and even though no parent wants to involve a therapist in their child’s life, we’re desperate for answers, for a solution. Chloe and I have struggled to find much we agree on of late, but there is one point on which we’re in complete agreement we want our bright, chirpy little boy back.
This therapy plan has to work because our family is at a crisis point, and we can’t take much more. I can’t take much more.
2
I pull into the hospital car park ten minutes before we’re due to meet with Dr Claire Goodwin. Scanning the bays, I can’t see Chloe’s car but knowing how busy she is at work at the moment, I suspect she’ll arrive barely a minute before our appointment.
“Right,” I say breezily, unclipping Finn’s seatbelt. “Shall we go and meet the nice lady?”
He looks up at me, his large, conker-brown eyes unwilling to betray the lack of a verbal response.
“It’ll be fine, mate. I promise.”
My attempt to reassure Finn is met with a slight nod. What I wouldn’t give just to see him smile again, to hear a giggle, or better still, for my son to speak to me. This — whatever it is — breaks my fucking heart, but I cannot let him know that.
With Finn’s hand in mine, we make our way to the main reception. The moment we step through the doors, my phone rings. I pull it from my pocket and inwardly seethe when I see Chloe’s name on the screen. She should be here by now.
I answer her call.
“Jake, I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I’m running late.”
“How late?”
“Fifteen minutes, maybe.”
There are many ways I’d like to respond, most involving the liberal use of industrial language but as I’m standing in a public space with my son at my side, I have little choice but to bite my tongue.
“We can’t ask her to wait because you’re running late,” I say flatly.
“I know. Start the session, and I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”
I don’t want to trigger an argument, but Chloe needs to know I’m not happy about her missing fifteen minutes of our son’s first therapy session.
“I suppose we’ll see you when we see you,” I hiss, making no attempt to mask my annoyance.
I terminate the call, knowing full well that Chloe will be seething on the other end of the line. It’s a hollow victory but a victory, nonetheless. It’s also a tragic barometer of how our marriage has disintegrated since thatday, seven weeks ago.
With Finn now gripping my hand tightly, I adopt another reassuring smile as we head to the main reception desk. From there, we follow directions to the paediatric department and another reception area, albeit with far cheerier décor than the first.
After an invitation to take a seat in the waiting area, my full focus should be on Finn and our meeting with Dr Goodwin, but I can’t quell the ire simmering away in the pit of my stomach. If I were thinking rationally, I’d tell myself there’s no sense in getting upset about a situation I can’t control — Chloe is running late and there’s nothing I can do about it. However, I have enough self-awareness to realise that I’ve overreacted to almost every inconsequential mistake Chloe has made over the last seven weeks: ordering the wrong kind of rice from the takeaway, forgetting to buy bin liners, and leaving the kitchen light on all night. My petty, resentful attitude has nothing to do with rice or bin liners or even our electricity bill but a lot to do with another mistake my wife made — one I’d place in the category of unforgivable.
I’m torn from my negative thoughts when a woman approaches. Tall, and dressed in a dark two-piece suit, she smiles down at me.
“Mr Mason?”
I get to my feet. “Err, yes. Hi.”
“Claire Goodwin. It’s nice to meet you.”
She thrusts out a hand which I tentatively shake. Then, the doctor sits on the vacant seat next to Finn. He doesn’t seem to notice and continues staring at the book on his lap.
“And, you must be Finn, right?”
It’s a mark of how differently adults and children see the world that Finn appears to react positively to the doctor’s question. He nods and, to my surprise, replies to the doctor’s smile with one of his own, albeit lukewarm. In his shoes, I doubt I’d muster a wider smile.
Although Finn might be the one receiving treatment, he’s not the real reason we’ve ended up here. If he’s broken, it’s because we did something wrong, and I’ve carried more than my fair share of guilt since we first made this appointment. Now, I fear Dr Goodwin is about to judge us as much as she’ll be treating Finn.
“Shall we take a seat somewhere more comfortable?”
“Sure.”
Without being asked, Finn jumps down from his chair and stands beside me. Dr Goodwin then beckons us towards a corridor, and the door to her office.
“Is your wife not joining us?” the doctor asks, opening the door and inviting us to enter.
“Chloe’s running a bit late, but hopefully, she’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”
“That’s fine.”
I had wondered what a therapist’s office might look like, particularly an office belonging to a therapist treating children, but Dr Goodwin’s office isn’t the explosion of bright colours I half expected. There are splashes of yellow ochre and olive green in the soft furnishings, but the subtle styling is similar to that you’d find in a show home on a new housing development.
Dr Goodwin invites us to take a seat on a large sofa. Her desk is near the window and, at the far end of the room, there’s a child’s table and chairs, a bookcase, and a stack of large plastic tubs that likely contain colouring materials or modelling plasticine, I’d imagine.
“Would you like a glass of juice or milk, Finn?” the doctor asks.
He shakes his head.
“What about you, Mr Mason? Would you like a tea or coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks, and call me Jake.”
“Of course.”
The doctor then places a chair in front of the sofa and sits down, facing us.
“Firstly,” she begins, “Thank you for completing the online diary. It’s a useful tool when it comes to helping me understand what we’re dealing with.”
In the weeks leading up to this appointment, we’ve submitted daily records of Finn’s behaviour, and filled in countless forms and questionnaires.
“Now, as your wife is running late, perhaps this might be a good opportunity for Finn and I to have a little time together if that’s okay with you, Jake?”
“Of course.”
Doctor Goodwin turns to Finn and asks if he’d like to read a book with her. He nods, and then the doctor turns back to me.
“If you’d like to wait outside, Jake, I’ll call you in when I’m ready.”
“Oh, right … okay.”
I hate the idea of leaving Finn alone with a stranger, but this is all part of the process, I suppose.
“Finn, I’m just popping next door to, err, read a magazine.”
My son barely pays any attention as I stand and step towards the door. He does, however, positively respond when Dr Goodwin asks him to join her at the bookcase. It’s a stab in the heart that he wants to engage with a stranger more than he wants to engage with his own parents.
Once I’m on the opposite side of a closed door, I flop down on the nearest chair and pull out my phone. As a distraction, I tap through to the Aldervale United fans’ forum, where there will no doubt be scores of posts relating to the team’s woeful performance on Saturday. Eleven games into the new season and we’ve lost eight, drawn two, and tasted victory only once. As expected, the first few posts all relate to our manager and question why the board of directors still haven’t sacked him. Some contributors strongly suggest that the chairman also needs to go. Personally, I think half the squad should be sacked too.
A familiar voice breaks my focus, and I glance towards the reception desk. Chloe has finally arrived. My wife shoots an apologetic smile in my direction before hurrying over.
“God, I’m so sorry,” she says before sitting in the chair next to mine. Then, the obvious question. “Where’s Finn?”
“I sent him off to get me a coffee,” I reply, sarcastically. “Where do you think he is?”
I nod towards Dr Goodwin’s office door.
“He’s in there on his own?” Chloe replies.
“Yes, because you’re late, and Dr Goodwin wanted to make use of the time. If you’d read the information pack, you’d know that the therapy includes one-to-one sessions without us.”
“Alright,” she replies, huffily. “Drop the attitude, eh.”
“There wouldn’t be any attitude if you’d arrived on time.”
“I couldn’t help it. I said I’m sorry.”
“Your apologies are wearing thin, Chloe. How about you stop fucking up, and then there won’t be any need to keep saying sorry, will there?”
She glares back at me and then puffs a tired sigh.
“We said we wouldn’t do this. Not here, not now.”
We’ve struggled so hard to find even the smallest patch of common ground of late, but Chloe is right — we did promise that we’d put our problems to one side and focus on Finn.
“Why are you late?” I ask, impassively.
“Do you really want to know, or are you looking for another stick to beat me with?”
“I was curious what took precedence over our son, that’s all?”
“Nothing takes precedence over Finn, and you know that. I was late because I couldn’t find my car keys. It’s as simple as that.”
“Right.”
A tiny part of me is disappointed by Chloe’s excuse. I so wanted her to blame a work-related issue — any ammunition to bolster my attack. Chloe’s job is the real reason we’re here today, and never a day goes by when I don’t resent her employment at Loxford Commercial Furniture. It was never meant to be like this.
Almost a year ago, Chloe began looking for a part-time job. Having put her career on pause to focus on her role as a mother, I think she missed having her own life. However, finding a suitable position wasn’t as easy as Chloe anticipated.
Then, by pure chance, an opportunity arose from an unlikely source.
I popped into The White Horse after watching Aldervale United play out a drab 0–0 draw against Wealdstone. Our fan base isn’t
huge so most of the die-hards know one another well enough that we can congregate in the pub after a game and drown our collective sorrows. On the evening in question, I found myself at the bar next to Rick Bingley, one-time Chairman of the supporters club. While waiting to be served, we discussed the game and our respective views on yet another awful season. Rick then invited me to join him and a couple of other fans, and continue our conversation.
After sinking my pint and venting about the lack of quality in the Aldervale midfield, one of the other fans asked if I wanted another beer. I made some throwaway remark that I shouldn’t because my wife was already in a bad mood after three unsuccessful job applications in as many days. Rick then piped up and asked what kind of job Chloe was hoping to find. Apparently, the company he worked for, Loxford Commercial Furniture, desperately needed to recruit a payroll clerk. As luck would have it, Chloe had experience in a similar role, and the head of the finance department happened to be an old schoolmate of Rick’s.
Four days and one interview later, Chloe accepted the job of parttime payroll clerk at Loxford Commercial Furniture. She was so chuffed, and so was I. Indeed, I bought Rick a bottle of whisky as a thank you for making the introduction to Chloe’s new boss, Danny. At the time, it seemed like there was some truth in the old saying that it’s not what you know but who you know.
As the months rolled by, life was pretty good. Chloe relished her new responsibility and sense of purpose, and enjoyed being someone other than Finn’s mummy for a few hours a day. The extra money also meant we could spoil ourselves a bit. We took Finn to Lapland at Christmas, and in March of this year, Chloe’s parents looked after Finn while we enjoyed a romantic weekend in Paris. As we strolled hand-in-hand along the Champs-Élysées, taking in the early spring sunshine, I was blissfully unaware what fate had in store for me. It was probably the last time I was truly happy and worryfree.
Sitting here now, next to a woman I no longer recognise as the woman I married, while our son undergoes therapy for a problem we likely caused, I wonder if I’ll ever be that happy again.
The optimist might argue I’ve reached rock bottom and there’s only one way left to go. I’m no optimist, though, and I fear rock bottom might be a destination rather than a stop-off point.
With Finn watching a cartoon on my phone, I lean over and double-check his seatbelt.
“I’m just going to have a quick word with Mummy, and then we’ll head home, okay?”
His eyes don’t leave the screen.
I shut the car door and turn to Chloe. Not wanting to start another argument in front of our son, I’ve kept my mouth shut since we left Dr Goodwin’s office.
“I can’t believe you’re not coming home,” I snap. “What’s the point of returning to the office for barely an hour?”
“I’ve got stuff to do, Jake.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I thought we could sit down and discuss Finn’s first session.”
“We will as soon as I get home. I won’t be long.”
“As always, the job comes before your husband and son.”
“That’s unfair, and you know it. It’s my job that’s currently paying the mortgage and all our other bills.”
“Don’t I know it,” I snort. “You remind me every bloody day.”
Chloe rolls her eyes. “Don’t start again.”
“Me? You’re the one pissing off to work while I’m trying to fix our problems.”
“No, you’re not trying to fix anything. You want to prolong the agony and wallow in your victimhood.”
“It might have escaped your attention, but I am the victim, as is Finn. We never asked for any of this. You caused it!”
Like so many arguments of late, we’re back at the beginning the very definition of a vicious, sometimes spiteful, circle.
“I’ll see you later, Jake.”
Without another word, Chloe turns on her heels and strides away.
Seething, I get in the car and try to put on a happy face for Finn. He’s still watching his cartoon, oblivious to the toxic exchange that just took place between his parents.
“What do you fancy for dinner, mate?” I ask, more in hope than expectation. Nothing.
“I fancy fish fingers and spaghetti hoops. Sound good to you?”
He nods.
I start the car and set off on the journey home. The ten-minute drive is a good opportunity to work through the latest argument with my wife and pick at the same scabs I can’t seem to leave alone the rawest of those being Chloe’s job.
Barely a month after we returned from our Paris trip, I received a telephone call from my line manager at work. He gravely confirmed that the company had decided to move our department overseas, and all the UK staff were being made redundant. The severance package wasn’t bad, and I thought that I’d be able to secure a similar job within a few weeks. I even hoped we could spend a chunk of my windfall on a family holiday or maybe upgrade the car. After a month of job hunting, it became clear that there were very few opportunities in my sector, and the available jobs offered a significantly lower salary than the one I’d lost.
Then, fate intervened again, and Chloe’s boss quit. They offered Chloe the payroll manager’s job, but there was a significant catch — she’d have to work full-time. The company car and sizeable wage rise softened the blow and with no luck in my job search, we agreed to switch roles temporarily. Chloe would become the primary wage earner while I continued to look for a position similar to the one I’d lost. In the meantime, I had to make up the shortfall in our household income by taking any job available, as long as it allowed me to work around Finn’s impending first term at school. Only one job opportunity came close to meeting that requirement, which is why I’m now stuck at TechWorld.
What I hadn’t factored in when I agreed to the switch in roles was how quickly I’d lose all sense of self-respect. Without ever realising it, it’s so easy to become the job you do — it becomes your identity. I was Jake Mason: team leader, IT expert, breadwinner, and role model. Now, I don’t know who I am, but I don’t much like this version of me. Nor do I like what my wife has become since she
returned her focus to a career. That in itself was never the crux of our problem, though. No, her job only created the circumstances for the real problem in our marriage.
I pull into the driveway beside our house. Finn is still staring at the phone screen.
“Home, sweet home, mate. You can finish your cartoon later.”
He taps the screen and passes the phone over. I then grab his school bag from the back seat, and we head inside number fourteen, Norton Rise. It really isn’t as sweet a home as it was when we bought it eighteen months ago; not by some margin. We deliberately searched for a three-bedroom house so we could eventually add a fourth member to our family, but that dream has now fallen by the wayside.
“Take your bag up to your room, mate, and then get changed, please.”
Finn does as he’s told without comment. I’d be delighted if he’d complained; I really would. I loiter in the hallway until I hear his bedroom door close. Then, straining to hear what he’s actually saying, I listen in as my son chatters away to his imaginary friend. We were told that it’s perfectly normal for kids with selective mutism to hold conversations in private, with a figment of their own imagination, but I don’t think I’ll ever feel as comfortable with it as Finn now seems to be.
Unable to make much sense of my son’s words, I traipse through to the kitchen and switch the oven on. Most days, Chloe returns home before six o’clock so we eat at the kitchen table together, but there’s no way she’ll be home before six today. I’m not prepared to postpone our dinner for the sake of my wife’s bloody-mindedness.
Almost two hours later, with Finn fed, bathed, and tucked up on the sofa watching TV, his mother arrives home. She steps into the lounge, kisses Finn on the head and apologises for being later than she anticipated. I don’t say a word when she offers to take our son up to bed and read him a story. In an almost robotic fashion, Finn stands in front of me so I can administer a goodnight kiss.
“Night, buddy. Sleep tight.”
Finn then follows Chloe into the hallway and up the stairs. I sit and listen to the one-way conversation until it peters out. My wife is a creature of habit, so once she’s finished her parental duties, she’ll grab a five-minute shower before coming down to eat. The kitchen, being the furthest room from Finn’s bedroom, is now our de facto battleground. It’s also the only place in the house with a ready supply of alcohol, and I need a beer.
With a can of Stella in hand, I make myself comfortable at the kitchen table and wait for Chloe. The can is almost empty by the time she saunters in, her coppery hair still damp from the shower.
“Is there any point in saying sorry for being late?” she asks while opening the fridge.
“Not really.”
She pulls out a ready meal, stabs the cellophane cover with a fork, and throws it in the microwave. My wife then sits at the table opposite me.
“Okay. Can we have a civilised conversation about our son, please?” she asks, wearily.
“I wanted a civilised conversation two hours ago, but you fucked off back to work, remember?”
“What do you want me to do, Jake? Shall I tell my boss I can’t do the job anymore because my husband thinks it’s the reason our marriage is falling apart?”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“You know it’s not. We were fine before … the job isn’t the issue, and unless we can get past the real problem, I can’t see how this ends well for either of us.”
“Maybe I’m not ready to get past it.”
“Fine, but you heard what Dr Goodwin said — the toxicity of our relationship is almost certainly the reason why our son hasn’t spoken a bloody word to us in weeks.”
“So, it’s my fault because I’m still angry? Don’t you think I’m entitled to be angry still?”
“Of course you are, and I no doubt deserve it, but Finn doesn’t. He’s the one we’re hurting, Jake.”
I know she’s right, but I’m in such a dark place I can’t bring myself to say as much. Chloe takes my silence as a cue to continue.
“Have you thought any more about Dr Goodwin’s suggestion?”
“That we see a relationship counsellor?”
“Yes.”
“It’d be a waste of time.”
“How can you say that?”
“Listen, we both know why we were sitting in front of a therapist this afternoon, and we both know why our marriage is in crisis. I don’t need some overpaid shrink telling me what the problem is — I already know.”
“Jesus wept,” Chloe groans. “Their job is to fix problems. Do you know how to fix ours?”
The microwave beeps three times. Chloe gets to her feet, her question unanswered.
I’d never tell my wife, but I honestly don’t know how to fix our marriage or even if it can be fixed. They say time is a healer but surely it requires a willing patient, and I don’t know if I want to be healed yet. In my head, I’ve connected my suffering to Chloe’s feelings of guilt, and seven weeks isn’t adequate penance for what she did. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it.
My wife returns to the table, placing the plastic tray on a mat.
“What did you and Finn have?” she asks.
“Fish fingers and spaghetti hoops.”
She takes a mouthful of food and grimaces. Based on the scent alone, I’d guess it’s beef casserole.
“I’ll speak to Danny,” she then says without looking up. “See if there’s any way I can cut back my hours a bit or at least get some extra help so I can work the hours I’m contracted to work.”
Danny is a director at Loxford’s and Chloe’s boss.
“What good will that do?”
“It means I’ll be home a bit more than I am now. If we’ve any hope of getting our lives back on track, we need to spend more time together.”
“Funny, because I thought we might benefit from some time apart.”
Chloe’s head snaps up.
“What do you mean?”
It’s an empty threat, but it allows me to wrestle back some control — a minor repair to my shattered dignity. If I genuinely wanted to leave, I’d have gone weeks ago.
“Nothing,” I mumble. “Ignore me.”
“No, come on. What did you mean?”
I get up and fetch another beer. I can tell by the look in Chloe’s eye that she still wants an answer.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say. “I’m tired.”
“You can’t say something like that and then shut me out. That’s not fair.”
“Oh, so it’s okay for you to shut me out, yet every time I ask you what happened that night, you refuse to talk about it.”
“Please, let’s not go there again.”
“See,” I snort.
“For the thousandth time, Jake, I don’t want to talk about it. It won’t do either of us any good.”
“You don’t know that. It might help me understand.”
“It won’t. Trust me.”
I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve had this same conversation. It always starts the same way and inevitably ends the same way — voices raised, hurtful words exchanged, and one of us completely loses our temper, usually me.
All I want to know is the truth, the exact details of the event that set us on this path.
SEVENWEEKSAGO…
Ten minutes after emptying my bladder, I’m close to falling asleep again. That is until Finn charges into our bedroom and jumps on the bed.
“Daddy! Wake up!”
I blink at my watch: 7.38 am.
“Mate, it’s … way too early to be up on a Saturday.”
“I’m hungry. Is it breakfast time?”
With his hair sticking out in every direction and a mischievous glint in his eye, it’s impossible to be annoyed with my son, despite him gate-crashing my lie-in.
“Can I have a good morning hug first?” I rasp, sitting up against the headboard.
He grins and then wraps his arms around my neck.
“Thank you. What would you like for breakfast?”
“Um … toasty soldiers?”
“Come on then.”
I lift him off the bed, and he darts away while I’m still struggling to get into my dressing gown. Maybe I missed the chapter in the parenting handbook warning of kids’ energy levels at such an ungodly hour.
Finn is already at the table by the time I trudge into the kitchen, the TV on.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
“BubbleGuppies.”
“Oh.”
I’ve no idea.
My son might be hungry, but his father has priorities of his own. I switch the kettle on and spoon coffee granules into a mug before prepping Finn’s breakfast.
“When is Mummy coming home?” he asks.
“Soon, hopefully.”
“Where is she?”
“I told you. She went to a conference last night and stayed in a hotel.”
He ponders my reply for a moment. “What’s a con-fence, Daddy?”
“It’s when a group of grown-ups get together to talk about very boring work stuff.”
“Where is Mummy’s con-fence?”
“A place called Southampton.”
“Is it very far away?”
Whatever his pre-school nursery teachers taught Finn, I doubt they covered UK geography or logistics. I answer accordingly.
“It’s not too far away, no.”
Since Chloe took on the payroll manager’s role at Loxford’s, there’s been a noticeable shift in her employer’s demands. As a part-time clerk, she turned up in the morning, did what was asked of her, and left three hours later. The six-monthly conference is just one of the new commitments Chloe is expected to make. It wasn’t that long ago that my diary was littered with career commitments. Now, I’m at home making toasty soldiers.
“Can we go to the park when Mummy gets home?”
“If you’re a good boy, and Mummy isn’t too hungover.”
“What’s hungover?”
“Nothing you need to worry about for a while,” I chuckle. “But it’s like a special headache grown-ups get when they drink too much grape juice.”
Satisfied with my answer, Finn returns his attention to Bubble Guppies. I’m glad I don’t have a special headache this morning kids’ TV shows are so bloody loud.
An hour later, we’re sitting in the lounge, trying to turn a pile of Lego bricks into something resembling the image on the box. It’s not going well, but Finn seems content creating his own version of a helicopter. I leave him to it and wander back to the kitchen in need of another coffee.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I check my phone. There’s a message from Chloe that simply reads: Leaving soon. Be back beforeelevenxx.
I thought Chloe would be back early so we could take Finn to the park, as we do most Saturday mornings. Not only did we lose a Friday evening as a family, but now we can kiss goodbye to half the day today. More annoyed than I should be, I stare out of the window at our small garden.
“Bloody typical,” I mumble.
Even though we’re in August, there’s no blue sky or sunshine. Pale-grey clouds have coalesced to produce a dull outlook, both in terms of view and weather. Judging by the gloomy vista, I suspect we’re in for drizzle sooner rather than later.
I return to the lounge with a mug of coffee and inspect Finn’s handiwork.
“Looking good, mate.”
“It’s a toppy chopper,” he announces, proudly.
“I like it. It’s cool.”
It looks nothing like the helicopter on the box, but Finn seems pleased with it. However, I can probably strike aviation engineer from his list of potential careers.
With nothing else better to do, and stuck in limbo until Chloe returns, I switch the TV on and ask Finn what film he fancies.
“SpongeBob Movie,” he squeals, clapping his hands together.
“Again? How many times have you watched it?”
“A squillion billion.”
“Well, I guess one more won’t hurt, just while we’re waiting for Mummy.”
I slide the well-worn DVD into the player, and we settle back on the sofa. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy SpongeBob’s antics the first time around, but I reckon I know every line in the film now. Still, with Finn engrossed, I can check the Aldervale United fans’ forum to see if there’s any last-minute transfer news ahead of this afternoon’s first match of the new season.
As is often the case, I become embroiled in a heated thread regarding one of our worst players from last season and the news that he’s signed a new two-year contract. I’m so engrossed in the debate, I don’t notice the time until the front door slams shut. Chloe then appears in the doorway.
“Mummy!” Finn yells while clambering off the sofa. I check the time. It’s just gone eleven.
“Can we go to the park now, Mummy?”
Chloe looks exhausted, but she finds a smile. “Sure. Go get your trainers on.”
As Finn zips away, I stand up and greet my wife with a hug.
“You okay?” I ask. “You look knackered.”
“I’m fine. Maybe I had one glass of Prosecco too many last night.”
“Suffering a bit, are we?”
“I’ll live, but I didn’t want to risk driving at half-seven this morning. Sorry.”
“No harm done, and if it’s any consolation, I don’t think we’ll be at the park long. Looks like it might piss down any minute.”
“We’d better get going, then.”
Chloe deposits her night bag in the hallway, and Finn reappears with his trainers on, untied.
“I can’t do my laces, Daddy,” he complains. “They’re too lacey.”
“We’ll have another practise later. Pop yourself down on the stair.”
Once I’ve tied Finn’s laces, we depart.
One of the attractions of our house is the proximity to Greendale Park, only a two-minute walk away. It’s not huge, but there’s a duck pond, a grassy area dotted with mature trees, plus a fenced play park with slides, swings, a large climbing frame, and a timber-built fort. Finn loves it, but I’ve spent way too many hours sitting on a bench while he has fun. Again, the parenting handbook failed to warn me about the sheer number of hours I’d lose to boredom as my offspring plays. At least there are two of us today, so we can chat while our son burns off some energy.
As soon as we pass through the main gates, Finn dashes towards the gate of the play park. If he’s disappointed there are only a handful of other kids to play with, it doesn’t show. I open the gate, and he runs off while we take a seat on a vacant bench.
Back in the days when we had a social life, whenever we met strangers at a party, Chloe was always the chatty one. She can talk about absolutely anything with anyone. I, on the other hand, struggle to make small talk unless there’s a common subject I can
complain about, like the weather, the economy, or the latest reality show on TV. This morning, Chloe is far from her usual chatty self.
“Are you sure you’re okay, babe? You’ve barely said a word since we left the house.”
“I didn’t sleep well. You know what it’s like in a strange bed, and the alcohol didn’t help.”
“Why don’t you go home and grab a nap, then?”
She shuffles along the bench and leans up against my shoulder. “No, I’d rather be here with you and Finn.”
“Okay. We won’t stay for long.”
“It’s fine, honestly. Maybe the fresh air will help.”
I can only guess, but I reckon Chloe had more than one too many, and very little sleep at all. Being her first conference with a new company, I suppose she was keen to impress otherwise she’d have snuck off to bed straight after dinner. I’ve been there myself, although I don’t remember my wife lavishing me with sympathy.
We settle into a comfortable silence, punctuated every few minutes as Finn requests we watch him perform some new manoeuvre on the climbing frame. We take turns to offer praise, albeit muted on Chloe’s part.
After a while, boredom sets in. I’m tempted to pull out my phone when Chloe’s rings. She pulls it from her pocket and checks the screen.
“It’s my boss,” she says, wearily. “I’d better answer it.”
I reply with a smile, knowing I can now temper my boredom with another check on the Aldervale United fans’ forum.
Chloe gets to her feet and opens the gate so she can take the call without the background noise of kids playing. With the phone to her ear, she comes to a stop by the edge of the duck pond, some thirty yards away. I unlock my phone and tap through to the forum.
I’m halfway through a post about team selection when Finn suddenly yells a pained cry. I look up to see him crossing the grass towards me; his little face racked with pain. I leap up from the bench.
“What’s the matter?” I blurt.
“I’ve … I’ve cut my hand,” he blubbers. “It stings.”
I glance across to the pond where Chloe now has her back to us. It looks like I’m on nurse duty.
“Come here,” I say, softly. “Let me have a look.”
I squat down and take Finn’s wrist. The cut is barely a graze, and I suspect the shock of falling over hurt more than the minor skin abrasion.
“It’s only a little graze, mate. Nothing to worry about.”
“I need a sticky plaster to make it better.”
“Okay, well, we’ll have to go home and get one.”
“Mummy has plasters in her bag,” he replies, pointing to the bench where Chloe’s bag is sitting, unguarded.
“Come on then. Let’s get you fixed.”
I sit Finn on the bench and then peer into my wife’s handbag. A cursory search reveals everything but a box of plasters.
“I don’t think there are any plasters in here,” I remark. “We’ll have to wait for Mummy to finish her phone call, and then we can ask her.”
“In the purse,” Finn suggests. “That’s where she keeps them.”
“Oh, okay.”
I pluck Chloe’s purse from the handbag and unfasten the clasp. Her bank and store cards are lined up on one side with a section for her driving licence on the other. Behind that, there’s a compartment for banknotes and the most likely place to find a plaster. I unzip it.
“Ah-ha. Got one.”
I pull out the one remaining plaster, but in my haste, a random store receipt comes with it. I’m about to tuck it back into the purse when I notice the logo printed at the top: HedgeEndPharmacy.
It’s not a pharmacy in Aldervale, and that almost insignificant fact is the only reason I don’t immediately put the receipt back in Chloe’s purse.
“Daddy. Hurry up, it stings.”
“Eh? Oh, sorry.”
I tuck the receipt in my pocket, so it doesn’t blow away and then apply the plaster to Finn’s palm. Seemingly happy with my triage skills, he races over to the climbing frame. I watch him for a few minutes, but my attention then drifts back to the receipt in my
pocket. What Chloe purchased from a pharmacy is none of my business, and most husbands wouldn’t dare to check their wife’s purchases, but I’m not most husbands.
When I was a teenager I went through a few years of suffering with acute hypochondria. During those years, I presumed the worst whenever I suffered a headache or trapped wind, and although I’m nowhere near as bad as I was back then, Finn’s birth seemed to reactivate my inner pessimist.
I could wait and ask Chloe what the problem is, but that same devilish voice that used to whisper in my ear is now asking what might be wrong with my wife.
Suddenly, I’m no longer sitting in a park, but standing next to a headstone etched with Chloe’s name, a tearful child clutching my hand and crying because no one took his mummy’s ailment seriously enough.
I don’t want to know what might be wrong with my wife, but I needto know.
After checking Chloe is still on the phone, I unfold the receipt and check the date and time she made the purchase: today, at 9.44 am. Below that, there are two items listed. The first is a bottle of mineral water, and the second is something called ellaOne. I’ve no idea what ellaOneis.
I open my phone and google the name. Within a split second, a page of results loads and in bold text at the top is the answer I sought — ellaOneisthemosteffectivemorning-afterpillavailable.
“Daddy!” Finn yells. “Look at me!”
I glance up. He’s hanging from the monkey bars, his legs dangling a foot from the ground. It’s all I can do to respond with a nod and a pained smile.
“Well done,” I mutter before returning my attention to the receipt. The facts remain unchanged — at 9.44 am this morning, while I was playing Lego with our son, Chloe visited a chemist to purchase the morning-after pill. That fact is compounded by several others. We haven’t had sex since the weekend before last, and as we’ve been trying for another baby for almost two years, my wife hasn’t used contraceptives of any kind. Even if she’d decided to go back on the
pill without telling me, why would she purchase the morning-after pill?
The obvious and damning answer is in the name. It’s called the morning-after pill because it’s usually taken the morning after sex.
My throat thickens, and the world around me blurs from focus. A dizzying wave of nausea then arrives. Placing my head in my hands, I pull sharp breaths to keep the worst at bay, but such is the gravity of my discovery, I’ve no hope of remaining calm.
“Jake? Are you alright?”
I’m so detached from reality I hadn’t noticed Chloe step through the gate. She’s now standing over me, her face racked with concern.
“No … I’m not.”
She sits down next to me.
“What’s the matter?”
I look up, into my wife’s eyes. We’ve been together for a decade, and I know every line on her face, every freckle.
“Why, Chloe?” I sniff, slapping the pharmacy receipt on the bench. “Why did you fuck another man last night?”
There’s nowhere for her to hide, no time to concoct a story. She knows her own expression has betrayed her.
Chloe slowly closes her eyes and mouths two words. “God, no.”
I wait for an answer, and despite the evidence and my wife’s reaction, I’d give anything for her to tell me it’s all one big misunderstanding.
She opens her eyes.
“I’m so, so sorry, Jake,” she says, tearfully. “It meant nothing.”
