Kerry Fisher - The Island Escape

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘He’s in bed.’

‘Is he ill?’

‘I don’t think so, just said he was really tired and needed a lie-down.’

I’d give him a lie-down. As usual, Jonathan would rock up to Christmas without writing a single Christmas card or chasing the end of the Sellotape, let alone coming into contact with a supermarket trolley or a vegetable peeler. He’d then dice with death on Christmas Eve by saying, ‘Did we send a card to the boss and his wife?’

I slammed the boot shut, shoved a couple of carrier bags at Charlie and stomped up the stairs. I burst into our bedroom to find Jonathan in his Y-fronts, face down on the bed, shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of deep sleep. I shook him.

‘Jonathan. Jonathan. Do you think you could give me a hand to bring the shopping in?’

He gurgled and snuffled his way back into consciousness.

‘What are you doing in bed? I need help with the bags. Now would be good.’

Jonathan rolled over and groaned. ‘Can you get Charlie to do it?’

‘I can, but given that you’ve got the afternoon off, perhaps you might like to move your lard and lend a hand rather than tipping up on Christmas Day wondering how the fairies did such a marvellous job. I’ve had a gutful of the girls going at each other, so feel free to chip in.’

He pulled himself into a sitting position and ran his hands over his face. ‘I haven’t got the afternoon off.’

‘What’s the matter with you then? Are you ill?’

‘No.’ He hugged his knees into his chest. ‘I’ve been made redundant.’

All my aggression seeped away. Guilt rushed into the space left behind. I hadn’t seen that coming. I didn’t know what to say. I sat down on the bed and reached for his hand. ‘Bloody hell. When did they spring that one on you?’

‘As soon as we got in this morning. Called in five of us, one after the other.’ Jonathan’s voice was flat, monotone. His face was pale and blotchy. I hoped he hadn’t been crying. One of the things I loved most about Jonathan was that he was solid. Resilient. Which was just as well because my wifely qualities were a bit sparse in the knee-patting category.

‘Why you? They were telling you how crucial you were to their management strategy in your last review.’

‘Cost-cutting. We need to be able to compete with the Asian market and there are plenty of bright young things coming in from university who can do what I do, maybe not better, but certainly cheaper. Seems that experience in computing isn’t as important as I thought. So “Cheers, mate, thanks for all your hard work, of course there’ll be a period of ‘consultation’ but don’t forget your jacket on the way out.”’

‘Wankers. They’ve always been out with the old and in with the new. Think of all those bloody Bank Holidays you’ve worked because there was no one else they could trust to keep the systems running.’ I could understand how people stormed back into their former workplaces and smashed everything up. I needed to step away from the mallet myself.

I snuggled up to him. ‘Poor you.’ I couldn’t imagine Jonathan without a job. That’s what he did. Got up and went to work every day. He took a boffin-like pleasure in being ‘in computers’, a geeky delight in the ‘sounds very clever’ comments from people who didn’t want him to elaborate further in case they had no idea what he was on about. Shock was giving way to practicalities. How would I cope with him in the house every day while I rushed three children out to school and went to work myself?

The volcano effect was my forte – the most pressing thing came to the priority surface. Jonathan, on the other hand, spent any time when he wasn’t being a workaholic tutting over milk cartons opened in non-date order, spoons in the fork section of the cutlery drawer and tea towels gaily discarded on the back of chairs. Disorder caused him pain, whereas the kids and I didn’t even notice.

When I’d unexpectedly found myself with the proverbial bun in the oven, aged twenty-two, I’d been grateful for Jonathan’s practical approach to life. Over the years, though, the über-organisation Jonathan required became a barrier to having fun. God forbid a trace of paint, glitter or glue should sully our kitchen table after a craft session with the kids. His latest obsession – putting the honey on a little square of kitchen roll in case it left a sticky ring on the shelf – made me want to drizzle it around the skirting boards and stick Stan’s dog hairs in it. The idea of Jonathan lying in wait when I trollied in after work, leaving a trail of shoes, coats and bags, didn’t spell harmony for us.

It seemed the wrong time to mention the little matter of money, but I’d never been good at picking my moment. We couldn’t survive on my wage as a nursery manager.

‘Did they give any indication of your package?’

‘Statutory pay.’ He looked down at his hands.

I didn’t want to turn the knife by asking for an exact figure – though my mind was working out a savings versus mortgage payment ratio – but anything statutory didn’t sound good. It was too late to do any Christmas cost-cutting. I was regretting the XBox splurge, cross with myself for letting Charlie suck me in with his ‘everyone’s got one’.

I found a smile. ‘Never mind, love. On the upside, you won’t be called in on New Year’s Day and you can have a proper holiday, a real rest. There’ll be something out there for you, something better. In the meantime, it’ll be great to have you at home.’

I turned to hug him. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

I kissed the top of his head and went downstairs to heave in the shopping.

And yes, I had sent a bloody Christmas card to the boss and his wife.

‘Happy Christmas, beautiful. Thought we’d get the day off to a good start.’

Seasonal goodwill to irrational men and jailbait wives was shining all around, from Scott’s perspective at least. I was still sleeping in the guest suite. When Adele had arrived in her usual whirlwind of news from Down Under a couple of days before, Scott and I had embraced an entente cordiale worthy of the Middle East, all ‘Coffee, darling? Sauv Blanc or Chablis? Soup or salad?’ As soon as Adele and Alicia were in bed, I’d retreat up to the second floor, with barely a hiss goodnight.

Now here he was, holding out a glass of pink champagne, like every other Christmas.

I took it, resting the delicate stem on my stomach, trapped between so much and so little to say. Scott took a large swig from his glass, then sat on the edge of the bed.

I knew that look.

He pulled back the edge of the duvet, looking playful and cheeky, the same sun-kissed maverick I’d met in Italy where I’d been studying art history a lifetime ago. He was nothing like the boys I’d known before who twiddled away at me as though they were trying to tune into Capital Radio, downing pints and not thinking beyond their summer bar jobs. I’d spent three days resisting having sex with him before he headed off on his bus tour, promising to write. Octavia – as usual – had teased me something rotten. ‘Australian sex-god meets Britain’s answer to Mother Teresa. You won’t hear from him again.’ She was wrong. At twenty-two, Scott knew what he wanted from the world – money, property, status – and me.

‘You’ve got a gorgeous body,’ he said, leaning over to kiss my neck. I turned my head away.

‘Come on. We always have sex on Christmas Day.’

‘This isn’t like any other Christmas Day though, is it?’ I said.

‘It could be.’

‘How can it be? Really, Scott, how can it? Do you understand this goes beyond one of our normal rows? That you have actually overstepped a line?’ I slammed my glass down on the nightstand.