Page 79 of Strap In
Through the gaps in her fingers Jean watches as Henry darts past her, slides the ‘Meeting in Progress’ sign back in place, and closes the door. Then it’s Jean’s turn to be astonished as he wraps both arms around her. She’s too stunned to do anything but cry while Henry strokes her back. Jean sobs until there’s nothing left. Afterwards, though the pressure behind her eyes warns of a headache, she feels better for it. Henry passes her the handkerchief from his breast pocket, and Jean dabs at her face – her make-up is beyond saving now – and blows her nose.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jean says, thickly. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’
Henry shrugs. ‘Maybe you weren’t thinking. Maybe you needed to feel something. Either way, don’t be sorry.’
For all she’d hated Henry’s psychoanalysis during their marriage, the words wrap around her like a thick down quilt. ‘Thank you.’
‘And I’m sorry, by the way. That comment wasn’t my finest moment.’
Jean shrugs away his remorse. ‘Even so, there might have been some truth in it. God, did I make a mess of things.’
‘Well…’ Henry puts his hands in his pockets. ‘No problem ever seems quite so bad after a square meal. How about we get some lunch and talk properly?’
They go to a steak joint Henry favours, where the waiters greet him by name and guide the pair of them to a comfortable leather booth. Over the bread basket Jean asks about his life, genuinely curious. Imogen’s given her updates over the years about Henry’s engagement, his wedding, the pregnancies and births. And Jean felt relief at escaping that tightening domestic noose even as she’d missed Henry’s companionship from the early days, a friend that fully supported her ambitions. The two warring emotions had almost cancelled one another out, leaving Jean strangely numb as she’d listened. But now Henry opens up to her, cautiously at first, then easing into stories about his life as Jean continues to ask about it.
Henry clears his throat. ‘Having kids myself made me realise something about our marriage. I love all my children dearly, but it’s incredibly hard work. Being a parent. It changes everything. And nobody should have to do it if they’re not completely certain.’
Jean can only stare. This quiet, careful conversation is a world apart from their worst arguments, when Henry – a vein popping in his forehead – had called her unfeeling, unnatural.
When she doesn’t speak, Henry continues. ‘I’ve wanted to apologise, over the years. About the guilt and the pressure. I wasn’t fair to you.’
‘No. You weren’t.’ Jean sips her martini, and it takes everything to keep her hand from shaking as she sets it down. ‘I told you from the beginning that I never wanted kids. And you said that was fine. But then you spent our marriage punishing me for it. Why?’
‘Because I loved you. And I could feel you slipping away from me every day. I thought a child would bring us closer.’ Henry’s smile is sad. ‘And I know now it was a terrible idea. That you’d have resented me, and rightly so. I didn’t have healthy reasons for wanting to start a family – not back then.’
‘What changed?’
‘I did a lot of soul-searching. After the divorce. And therapy.’
Jean’s still puzzling that one out when the waiter sets their plates down. Sizzling steaks, fresh salad and steaming hot chips – food had been the last thing on her mind. And yet it smells so delicious that she can’t resist tucking in. The steak is done to medium-rare perfection, practically melting against her tongue. Henry too carves into his steak, the food creating a natural armistice.
‘What about you?’ Henry asks between bites. ‘What’s new in your life? How have you been?’
‘I’ve been thinking a lot. About what you said just before the divorce; that we both deserved more.’ Jean pauses until Henry nods. ‘And you seem to have found it, but I – Henry, what did you mean?’
‘Jean…’ He reaches across the table, attempting to cover her hand. But she pulls away.
‘No, tell me.Please.’ Jean despises her own voice, tight with desperation. ‘You were enough for me. Why wasn’t I enough for you?’
Henry’s expression grows pained. He’s silent for a long moment, sprinkling salt on his chips. Until, at last, he says: ‘I wanted to be more thanenough. You were so much more than enough to me. I was mad for you, Jean. And I wanted you so much that at first it didn’t matter if I loved you more than you loved me. But you were alive at work in a way you never were with me. As time went on, it felt like you were going through the motions.’
‘In what way?’ Jean has her suspicions, but she needs to hear him say it.
‘Do you remember we went almost a year without having sex? I stopped initiating, because I realised it was always me. And I waited.’ Henry looks down, fidgeting with the strap of his watch. ‘But you didn’t seem to notice anything was missing from our marriage. Then when I suggested couple’s therapy, you took me to bed. And I was thrilled until I realised.’
‘What?’
‘It was always Wednesdays in the morning or Fridays in the evening. You’d planned it.’
Jean sits up straighter, martini forgotten. ‘And that’s a bad thing?’
Henry takes a deep breath, and Jean can see him reaching for calm. ‘I didn’t want to be a task slotted in your diary. I wanted the kind of passion that defies a schedule; for you to crave me the way I needed you.’
‘You complained that I didn’t have sex with you, then you complained when I made time for it. What else did you want?’ But even as the words leave her mouth, Jean understands. Her need for Ava had defied all reason or planning, a tsunami that washed away every boundary Jean had erected to protect her heart. She’d fallen for Ava, craving her body and spirit. Though Jean had loved Henry dearly as a friend, considered him family well before swapping rings, she’d never felt any kind of sweeping passion for him. Nor any passion at all.
Henry sees the realisation dawn. Gives Jean a little time to mull it over. Then, ever so gently, says: ‘Did you ever find it with anyone else? I hoped that you would.’
‘I did,’ Jean breathes, barely audible over the restaurant’s hum of chatter. ‘But I screwed it up and it’s over now.’
