Page 111 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
‘Home Again’ – Michael Kiwanuka (2012)
Christmas Day. I’ve been up since 2.23 a.m. I’d like to say it was because I heard Santa coming down our chimney and we had a drink and some festive chat but no, it was all Joe. He didn’t even cry. He was doing his usual thing of just lying there gabbling at me, wanting a snackette of milk. I am now sitting in the living room and in the twilight, I pull up Will’s letter on my phone. I do this a lot; I mull over its contents and then I stare at my phone, wondering whether to message him or not.I love you too, Will. I didn’t know how to do this either. I’m sorry.But I don’t message him. I just look at those words and think about what they mean.
I think about the mornings we used to have when we’d come back from a night out, collapse on each other, end up kissing, undress each other and have slow morning sex, with all the bloody time in the world. God, I miss him. I put my fingers over the elastic in my knickers. Now? Well, it is Christmas. I try to remember what it used to feel like, all of it. Claim ownership, remember what those bits were once used for. I slip a finger over myself thinking about all the things we were good at. He was good at waking me up by spooning me and whispering things into my ear and then using his hands to feel my breasts, to kiss the back of my neck. It’s still there. I have a feeling it’s still working. I think. A warm fuzzy feeling overwhelms me.
But then I hear a gurgle. Saved or denied, I can’t quite work it out. I get up off the sofa in my hoodie and pyjamas and find Joe in our bedroom, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling.Hey there, little guy. Merry Christmas.I was unsure how to celebrate the season for him. Do I put a stocking up? I bought a fake tree but because the flat was so small, I put it flush against the wall with half the branches missing. I decorated it with tacky coloured fairy lights that hypnotise his little baby eyes. What I really want to give him is a father. I had secretly hoped that Will would be wrapped complete with a bow under my crappy tree, delivered via some Christmas miracle by Santa himself. But nothing. Just piles of gifts I mostly wrapped myself. Pyjamas, books, garish musical toy, hat, selection pack of chocolate for me. Random gifts from Paddy next door and others who’ve posted things on.
Am I allowed to feel angry? It’s Christmas, right? He should be here despite everything. Even though the concept of days means nothing to me anymore, this one is special. This state of limbo is just heartbreaking; for me, for Joe. He sits here in my arms looking up at me in his sleepsuit with snowflakes. I’m not completely beyond getting into the spirit. But I am deeply sorry that I can’t give him more.
I sit down on the floor with him and teach him how to rip paper.You only rip this sort of paper though. Not other paper. Like I’ll come home in a few weeks with coursework, definitely don’t rip that.I get to Paddy’s present and open it to find a T-shirt that saysMy Mummy Is The Best. You bloody old charmer, you. There’s also a pack of custard creams and a teapot with a note sayingTea’s Up!It makes a tear run down my face. I open up an unlabelled package too and find some books, both from Kimmie. She must have got mine then. I smile to see one dedicated to one of the coolest mums she knows. She’s also given Joe a little stuffed lion toy. I log on to social media to see people from different time zones already bestowing their greetings upon the world. An old uni mate who is now living in Sydney is living the shrimp-on-the-barbie dream and another who’s in Singapore seems to be seeing in the season with an all-you-can-eat buffet. I scroll through people’s memes and musings and wonder whether to add in a selfie. Except Will won’t be in it and I’ll have to admit to the virtual world that I’ve failed and am alone this Christmas. Instead, I take a picture of Joe, illuminated by coloured lights and my mixed box of bargain baubles, and I post it on Instagram.
What A Cracker #JoesFirstChristmas
I kiss the top of his head gently. I then have a scroll checking my notifications:
@TheMrsBanstead started following you.
Banstead. That’s Harry’s wife. I click on her most recent post, which is a photo of her and her kids in front of an impressive Christmas tree, decorations all matchy-matchy to the outfits. I read the comment:
♥ 871 likes
Good news to report on no other day than Christmas Day. I’ve thrown @TheMrBanstead out. This is his Christmas present: this post and a nice new suitcase to put his belongings in. I hope wherever he is, he’s choking on his sprouts. You see, Harry got another woman pregnant. I’ve known this for a while because he used to book their hotel dates on my company credit card but I was just waiting for the perfect moment to tell the world. He’s a cheat but he’s also a stupid cheat. I won’t mention the other woman here because I am pretty sure he’s lied to you too and I feel for you deeply. I could be dignified about this all but this is also the most fun I’ll have all year so au revoir, Harry Banstead. Though that technically means ‘until we meet again’ so I guess what I really mean is ‘until I see you again in my lawyer’s office making sure you get none of my money’. P.S. Changing my username in a few hours #HarryChristmas #twat
I sit there slightly slack-jawed, watching the like count get higher and higher. She knew. I knew she knew. But she knows everything. From Yasmin to pregnancy to Harry being a complete and utter shit. I sit up in awe at her bravado to not speak in shame about anything; this was not her doing, this was Harry and she has destroyed him on her chosen platform. I go to Yasmin’s Instagram page, where she’s still doing her yoga and sharing recipes involving chicory which, I will admit, I always thought was something you added to coffee. Maybe she’s not seen it yet. It is early. I hope she’s alright. My phone suddenly rings.
‘Shiiiiit. Did you see what the wife put on Instagram?’ says Grace when I answer.
‘Merry Christmas to you too.’
‘Yeah, that too.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Hun, the moment you told us sisters and after what happened at that grotto, we’ve all been following that drama, I think mostly out of guilt. Nothing better than a real-life soap opera. What do you think Harry’s going to do?’
I put her on speaker and then go to his Instagram page. There is nothing there but squares and squares of selfies of himself, his kids and the occasional well-made salad.
‘It’s a pretty searing damnation. I’d drink, a lot. Hang my head in shame over a tin of Celebrations.’
‘She’s sassy. She will not let him win this fight.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I’ve done my research on her. I’ve been at home with the girls. I’ve been bored.’
‘How are they? Are they enjoying their first Christmas?’
‘Mum’s spoiling them rotten downstairs while I get changed. They’ve been up since five.’
She doesn’t sound tired though; she sounds like this might be the first time she gets to enjoy Christmas in the last couple of years. And I’ll be there soon and we’ll get to play Battleship and we can drink sherry on the big sofa until one of us passes out. That might be something to look forward to.
‘You’re changing the subject though. Do you think Yasmin and Harry will end up together?’ Grace says.
‘No, no… he was vile to her…’
‘Get some gossip, that can be your present to me.’
‘I got you soap.’
