David Atkinson - The Second Life of Nathan Jones

‘A thing going?’

‘Well, yeah, it’s one of those big American models and she stood for half an hour opening and closing the door.’

‘Why?’

‘She wanted to make sure the light went out when she closed the door.’

‘But you—’

‘I know.’

‘That’s—’

‘I know.’

‘What did your dad say?’

‘He took the bulb out.’

‘That’ll work.’

‘Smart man, my dad, but it doesn’t work in other people’s houses.’

‘No, it wouldn’t.’

‘They don’t visit much just now.’

‘No, I don’t suppose they do.’

‘That’s why my dad spends much more time in his sheds, looking at sheds online or even better if he can sit in a shed talking online to other people about their sheds. He’s going to enter “Shed of the Year” this year. Actually, that’s not true. He’s entering two of his sheds for the “Shed of the Year”.’

Sid shook his head and gave me the same look he always did when we talked about my parents, the one that said, ‘How the hell did you make it out of childhood with only a Goth persona and confidence issues?’

The worry is that one day I’ll end up like my mum. True, I don’t have to go back home three times every day to make sure I’ve switched off the cooker and unplugged the kettle or check seven times that I’ve locked the door before getting in my car and I don’t always need to count to twenty-five when ordering a coffee from Costa or to eighty-one in Starbucks. I know that sounds kind of random, but my mum needs to multiply the number of letters in the coffee shop’s name by itself (Costa – five letters times five letters equals twenty-five). If she ever visits a café in that weird Welsh village with the ridiculous name, I might never see her again.

Although I’ve not reached that level I have enough issues to know I might get worse and become un-dateable – perhaps I already have.

The plane sat at the top of the runway awaiting clearance from air traffic control. Permission granted, it thundered down the runway and into the air. After watching Edinburgh shrink to ‘Toytown’ proportions then disappear into the distance from her window seat, Laura sat back and felt guilty. She knew she’d be back in a week or two but the pain she suddenly felt at leaving her daughters behind hit her like an unexpected punch in the gut. She stifled a sob, glad she had a row of seats to herself. A few minutes later Lilly, one of two BA cabin crew on the one-hour-thirty-minute flight to Heathrow, poured her a large glass of white wine, which helped numb the pain somewhat.

Her guilt extended to Nathan as well. Deep down she knew he’d be fine. He had the girls to keep him busy and eventually he’d come to realise it would be the best solution for everyone. He’d pleaded with her not to leave with tears in his eyes and she’d almost caved, before remembering that in the whole of her adult life she’d never had the chance to be by herself.

Getting pregnant at nineteen had robbed her of the years her friends had enjoyed partying, experimenting, travelling and learning who they were. She’d never figured out how to be comfortable in her own skin or to set her own life expectations. Nathan had denied her all of this and she’d always be bitter and resentful about that, even though deep down she knew she’d been partly responsible. She felt justified in shifting most of the blame onto him as he’d been the older out of the two of them when they’d met and should have known better, even though over the years she’d come to realise that Nathan had never really grown up – perhaps men in general never did, never had to.

She sipped her drink and tried to put the negative thoughts to the back of her mind. She settled back into her seat, loosened the seat belt and tried to relax, telling herself that for the first time in years she’d broken free from the shackles of motherhood, free from Nathan and free from the fractious nature of their relationship. The problem seemed to be, though, as soon as she reminded herself about her husband it inevitably brought the girls back into focus and she ended up trying to analyse it again. Yes, she’d loved Nathan once – back in the days when he’d had fire in his belly and ambition in his heart.

When the girls had been born, though, it felt as if each one of them had robbed him of a little bit of that fire. After Daisy had appeared it had all gone – no ambition and no get up and go. It appeared as if his mission in life had been fulfilled with the birth of his daughters and now he channelled all his efforts into them. Helping Millie with her school project work, dancing competitions and drama, spending countless hours with Chloe to make sure her reading and writing were perfect and even devoting time to Daisy’s scribbled drawings and silly songs.

In Laura’s mind it wasn’t normal for a father to do all that. Maybe she had old-fashioned views, but she expected her husband to be a provider, a hunter who went out into the world and made a niche for himself that allowed him to bring home money, so she could kick back and take it a little easier, possibly do some of the things that Nathan took it upon himself to do. To be the care-giver, the mother, the educator, even though she much preferred being at work verbally jousting with adults across a boardroom table to arguing over who had the pink pram first and whose turn it was to choose which DVD to watch.

Now that she’d broken free, at least for a week or two, she could make some decisions. Belatedly decide where she wanted her life to lead, where she would live and maybe one day who she would live it with. Turning her musings to her new life cheered her up. It would be exciting and scary. She’d rented a small flat in Putney, south of the river and only a short journey from her new office in Fulham. Even though it had only one bedroom the rent came to nearly £1200 a month. The flat would be cramped whenever the girls came to stay but they’d manage. It would be like camping, at least that’s how she’d try and sell it to them. She’d arranged everything online and hadn’t yet, set foot in the apartment. That afternoon she’d pick up the keys at the letting agency and sign the last of the paperwork.

The expectations of her bosses would be higher too, now that she’d relocated to the head office, but she looked forward to having that pressure. It would mean long hours and hard work but all of it had to be easier than being a mum.

The plane bumped down onto the tarmac at Heathrow and she noticed with dismay the rain lashing against the windows and the strong wind making the water ripple across the ground. Great, she thought.

She spent an hour and a half travelling across London, dragging two suitcases and a laptop bag. Thankfully the evening rush hour hadn’t started yet, which made the Underground bearable. She emerged from Putney Bridge Tube station and discovered the rain still hammering down with very little shelter nearby. Even though the letting agent’s office could only be a five-minute walk, she hailed a taxi. She had too much baggage, both physically and metaphorically at that point, to travel any distance on foot in this weather. Even the short time it took to clamber into a taxi left her soaked. As the water dripped down her face it hid the tears that she tried to stop spilling from her eyes as they made their way along Fulham High Street onto Fulham Palace Road, where the taxi sloshed to a stop outside the pokey letting agent’s office.

She pulled herself together, paid the driver and entered the agency. Inside an older man with Greek or Turkish heritage greeted her. He reeked of stale cigarettes and stared at her cleavage the whole uncomfortable ten minutes it took to complete the last of the paperwork.