Page 55 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

We’d married too young and without knowing each other as well as we should’ve before agreeing to a ’til-death-do-us-part deal. With each year that passes I think more and more that people should be actively dissuaded from getting married in their twenties. Who the hell knows anything about life in their twenties? We all think we do, of course. But we don’t. Then again… I’m not sure I know anything about life even now.

But when Simon and I were dating, we had such a naïve, shortsighted approach to life. We’d fitted into each other’s lives and social circles so perfectly, that initially it had been easy to ignore the niggling doubts and red flags. We were both on our best trying-to-impress-each-other behaviour then too. We allowed ourselves to be malleable. We made the sort of compromises that only really happen at the start of relationships when you do all you can to make yourself a desirable prospect.

The harsh reality is we all pretend, in a benign way, to be much more perfect for each other than we really are. Sooner or later the truth slips out. For some people there are annoying, but surmountable, little foibles. For others, those foibles become like a dripping tap. The more they happen, the longer they go on, the louder they get, until it’s just about all you can hear or think about.

For Simon and me, it was only after we were locked in to life together that the dripping tap got louder.

We found we didn’t have as much to talk about as we once did. We didn’t like watching the same programmes on TV. We didn’t have the same ideas of what made for a good holiday. Simon was not a man who took life particularly seriously – which was refreshing to begin with. I had loved how he made me laugh.

But a few years and twin boys in, I needed him to wise up and take on more responsibility. I needed him to be a parent and a partner and a functioning human being. He just didn’t see the appeal of being organised and structured about life, or in disciplining the children or helping with the housework. ‘The boys are just being boys,’ he’d say, or, ‘You’re so fussy. A house should look lived in.’

And yes, a house should look lived in, but it also needed to meet certain basic levels of cleanliness, for the love of God. I felt like I had three boys to mind and I resented him for it.

I’m sure his version of events won’t paint me in the best light either. I was, according to his angrier days, a nag and a ‘craic vacuum’. He reacted to my criticisms by doubling down on being the fun parent, which left me to be play the bad cop role in our dynamic.

Unsurprisingly, resentment started to fester. Fester is not a good word, people. Festering is not pleasant. It doesn’t have positive connotations or outcomes. It’s rot. And our marriage was rotting.

We tried to fix it. There were many long nights and big talks – at least in the earlier years – where we promised to compromise and listen and try.

The new order would last a while then the tap would start dripping again. After a few years, we just sort of slipped into apathy for a while. We knew the tap was dripping, we just didn’t try to fix it. Maybe we realised that it couldn’t be fixed but we just weren’t ready to admit it yet.

Then he left. It came out of the blue. There were no big arguments. No tortured discussions. He just packed his bags and said we both deserved to be happier than we were. It was fairly straightforward and matter of fact and it was the calmness of it that made it sting so sharply. I knew, instantly, that there was no point in trying to fight it. He was right. He had hit the nail on the head. The me who had felt the disconnect between us for a long time knew that instantly.

But the me who was going to be left with two nine-year-old boys who had to watch their fun parent pack up and go, leaving them with Mama Bad Cop, was hurt, and scared. I’d felt overwhelmed with responsibility even when I had another parent in the house helping me. I was terrified that without him – even though things had been far from perfect – I would fall to pieces.

And yes, I was angry. He was swanning off into the sunset – with his reduced responsibilities and I was not. If I’m honest with myself, I was a little jealous. Who wouldn’t want a chance for a do-over? A chance to wipe the slate the clean and start again, with extra fun?

When he told me, just before he left, that he had been seeing someone, the bitterness kicked in too. My ego wasn’t just bruised. It was pulverised. My feelings about the break-up had been manageable when I could put it down to us just not working. But to know he had already moved on before he had moved out, that stung. I’d sat on our sofa in what had been our joint home and listened to him tell me that he was sorry. He wanted to tell me in case the news reached me via Facebook or Instagram, or the good old Derry grapevine. I don’t know if he expected me to be grateful on that score, but I wasn’t.

So when Laura and Aidan had still put Simon up in their spare room – taking pity on the poor single man who had won his get-out-of-jail card, I had – to put it mildly – lost my shit.

And that was unfair of me, I realise. I think, truth be told, I realised it a long time ago, but I just couldn’t admit it to myself.

But now, as the rain has turned to sleet and the neighbouring houses are illuminated with Christmas lights, I’m looking up at Kitty’s house, which was once the brightest and most colourful on the street, and I know it’s time for me to not only admit all this to myself, but to Laura as well.

For ten minutes I sit in the rain trying to think of the right thing to say. Everything sounds trite or like I’m trying too hard. I feel as if I’m sixteen again and practising a monologue for drama class and every which way I put the words together in my head I sound like some sort of wanky after-school special. All that’s missing is Tiny Tim jumping up from the back seat and declaring, ‘And God bless us, everyone,’ in a cockney accent.

Fuck it, I think eventually when the cold from outside starts to seep into my bones. I’m just going to have to wing it.

That doesn’t stop my hand from shaking as I reach out to press the doorbell, or my legs from shaking when the hall light switches on and I can hear approaching footsteps.

I’m even more flustered when the door opens and once again, it’s not Laura standing in the hallway but Conal. I don’t know why but seeing him and seeing that his expression is one of concern and not anger at me breaks something deep inside me.

I want to handle this like the mature, capable woman that I am but seeing him look at me with such warmth and care makes it impossible for me not to break down. It’s a mixture of shame and grief, embarrassment and yet hope that makes me crumple like a soggy rag on the doorstep of his dead mother.

Before I know it, he is guiding me inside and I feel the warmth of his hand on mine, and then the warmth of his body against me as he pulls me into a hug while I sob like a fucking eejit and mutter that I’m sorry and I need to talk to Laura, and that I had felt so lonely and I still feel lonely, and I was a bitch walking out on Laura yesterday while she’s grieving and… and… and…

He just holds me and I feel his hand stroke my hair as he comforts me and tells me it’s okay and we’re all just very stressed and tired and emotional, and sure, it’s Christmas and everyone loses their shit at Christmas. ‘Even if Mum hadn’t just died, and you guys hadn’t just tried to build bridges, there would still be something that would reduce us all to a wreck. I had a good old sob at Strictly on Saturday night,’ he says and I laugh. It would be cute, and maybe even a bit flirty if my laugh didn’t also launch a snot bubble all over his jumper. He has the manners not to comment on it, and instead just continues gently rocking me while I work my way through that weird stage at the end of a crying fit where the tears come in occasional bursts and hiccups and sighs.

I swear I feel his lips gently brush the top of my head, but I’m willing to concede that could be wishful thinking and he might just be wiping his nose on my hair in an act of revenge. The Conal of 1994 would have totally done that.

‘Jeez, not my friend, Conal!’ I hear Laura call from the top of the stairs, but her voice isn’t angry. It’s a little shaky, but it’s clear she’s trying to be light-hearted. Blinking, I pull back, somewhat reluctantly, from Conal’s embrace and look up at her. Her expression says it all. At once she looks scared, but hopeful. She looks open to seeing me and talking with me and she referred to me as her friend. It’s as much as I could hope for.

As soon as she sees me she must notice that I’ve been crying. I dread to think what state I’m in. Half my make-up is now streaked across Conal’s jumper. I imagine the other half of it is sliding down my face. I probably look like a sad, middle-aged version of the lead singer from Kiss, all panda eyes and pale face.

She pads down the stairs and without speaking pulls me into a hug that is genuine. I mutter that I’m sorry, that I know I should not have walked out yesterday. That I should not have walked away ten years ago. That the things I’d said to her were cruel and from a place of anger and I’m just so sorry.

‘I’m sorry too,’ she says. ‘For how I reacted. For the things I said.’

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