Page 5 of How Much Wine Will Fix My Broken Heart?
I befriended Sam after the divorce, at the Christmas Fayre that raised £3546.52 when we both ended up pulling a shift on the sweets stall. He’s a lovely bloke, warm, extremely tall, questionable taste in music (country leanings), but he’s in IT so has sorted my Windows for me. He brings the boys around for chicken nuggets. We chat. He rings me up in panic when he forgets Roald Dahl Day. Orlagh remains fresh in his mind so the whole experience is still very wounding. Even the mention of her name now renders an expression on his face like he’s trying to pass a kidney stone.
‘We have to do parents’ evening next week and I don’t know what to do,’ he mumbles.
‘Be civil? Clench and grin?’
‘Perhaps.’
I am reminded of an assembly one month ago when Orlagh showed up with Jordan in tow and Sam went cranberry-coloured at the gate. He told me he then ran back to his car and sat there quietly for fifteen minutes, sobbing. Now, he stares out of my kitchen window into the darkness.
‘How were the girls?’ I ask, trying to change the subject.
‘Not a peep. Do you drug them?’
‘They swim on Thursdays. Tires them out. Thank you for looking after them. My usual sitter’s not well.’
‘You know me, nothing else to do. It was this or get a chip supper and stalk Orlagh on social media.’
‘I hope you do that in your pants, in a low-lit room.’
‘In front of a poster of her and then I cry on my own and rock on the spot.’
I take a big sip of wine. We can laugh about his breakdown now but, when he first separated from Orlagh, there were tears. Big tears. He cried them in my front room once over tea and I hugged him, not knowing what else to do but feed him entire packs of chocolate chip cookies. He misses her, like I miss Tom. We are both grieving something and I’m the first person to tell you there’s no right way to grieve.
In fact, confessing the super sad details of my life to Carrie and a crowded room tonight has brought all that grief fizzing to the surface. Tom would have been a great rabbit. He wouldn’t have let kids beat him up. He’d have started some dance-off with them to use up all that sugar-hyped energy. Hip-hop. Look, it’s the hip-hop bunny dad. He’d have been at that meeting tonight and charmed everyone with his stories and made a comment to Carrie about the Harry Potter theme that would have been jovial without being offensive. I still insert him into every situation, imagining him there, because Tom made things better. And these feelings are still there. They’re always there to be honest; it’s often just a case of how well I can keep them submerged and out of my regular consciousness. Sam takes long noisy sips from his mug. It’s not the best wine. I think it’s been in the fridge for five days but, hey, alcohol. We’re both firm believers in its magical healing powers. There’s something else that works too.
‘Do you want to stay tonight? I could do with the company,’ I tell Sam.
‘But… the girls…’
‘You’ll have to be quiet?’
He takes off his hoodie in one swift motion. I’ll take that as a yes then.
The thing is, next to sorting my Windows, Sam is also more than a new friend. He is sorting much more. After our shift on the sweet stall, we met for coffee and both of us realised we were both consumed by solitude, hidden sadness and busy family lives. I wasn’t looking for a new husband. He’d just had his heart ripped out of his arse in quite a public and humiliating way. But we both needed more beyond that. So we offered each other a warm body to lie next to: sex, comfort, company. It passes the time; it’s a way to be connected to another human being. Is he good at the sex? He’s not awful. He lacks stamina and sweats a lot. He’s also fond of calling me ‘baby’, which I just think sounds wrong. But there is something to be said about having his weight on top of mine. He’s also helped considerably with my insomnia. It’s a mutual agreement of sorts. It saves us having to go out into the world and experiment with people who’d want more and misunderstand the emotional impact of everything, and it means we aren’t masturbating into the night on our own.
‘Here?’ he asks. He puts his hands to my kitchen table to see if it’d take our weight.
‘Christ no, it’s cold in here. Too much tiling. I have throws in the living room… I could start a fire?’
‘That’s borderline romantic.’
‘Don’t read into it. I’ll put the telly on. We can watchNewsnightat the same time. Do you have a condom?’
‘I do. Was that presumptuous of me?’
‘It means your mind is on safety and I find that erotic.’
‘Oh, OK then.’
I walk over to him and give him a kiss on the lips. He can at least kiss. The stubble is an irritant, but I like how he appreciates good dental hygiene.
‘Shall we?’
We laugh and I lead him to the living room where I close the door softly, putting my finger to my lips to remind him we will have to stay quiet. My girls would sleep through asteroids coming through the roof anyway but discretion is key here. I kiss him, gently backing him into some wall space. He’s a bit quick off the mark tonight and has already undone his belt but, hell, that just makes my life easier. I reach down into his underwear and move my hand over him. He moans softly.
‘Yes… yes, Orlagh.’
We both pause for a moment.
