M. Colette - Tell Me

The answer, always: ‘Well, you know how it is, Jane. She’s not the easiest woman in the world to live with. She goes through her episodes. But I love her. And always will.’

No answer at all. And yet answer enough that I am always afraid to ask.

Dad is looking at his hands, his terrible steak sandwich. I wait for ‘You know how it is’. Instead:

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats quietly. ‘I know…I saw you. Noticing. Reacting. On Monday.’

I nod. My belly clenches.

‘It won’t happen again,’ he says. ‘If I can help it.’

And again. No answer at all. And yet answer enough that I wish I hadn’t asked.

We finish lunch in silence. He holds me a little longer and tighter than usual when I kiss him goodbye.

My phone buzzes as I get in the car. Text from Mom. ‘How was your lunch with Dad?’ ‘Great,’ I lie and type. And lean against the driver’s-seat headrest, my eyes closed. I need to go pick up my kids. Make supper. No text from Alex alerting me to clients sabotaging the evening tonight. No emails from my clients upsetting my schedule. No message from Matt.

And that’s good.

I need…equilibrium. I need…I need to spend a night enveloped in the cocoon of my family, my husband, my children, my real life. I need to anchor. I need…

…I need to not wish that there was a message. I need to get a fucking brain.

I’ve been here before. And I’ve stopped it. And I will stop it again. I have so much to lose. Everything. A family with four children. What does he have? Joy. I pause. I have always been unfair to Joy. Superior, mildly contemptuous – either for her blindness and oblivion or her willingness to endure a series of betrayals so she could wear the crown of Matt’s girlfriend, then Matt’s wife. Jesus. Is that what he thinks about Alex? Superior, mildly contemptuous? Dismissive?

I don’t want to think about any of this. Any of it. Ever.

I push the thoughts away. Hard.

Alex and I are fucking awesome parents. I chant this to myself silently as I make dinner. As we don’t yell at the children, much, while they show off for Daddy at the dinner table. As he cajoles the boys into clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. As he reads Captain Underpants to the boys. As he says, ‘I’ve missed too many bedtimes in the last little while’ to me while I mop up the flood that is our bathroom after four children bathe in it. I read Winnie the Pooh to Annie. Cassandra, too grown up at this moment for my comfort, is curled up in her bed reading Anne of Green Gables to herself.

We are fucking awesome parents. No longer chanting. Knowing. Believing. I slip into bed, not tranquil, no, definitely not tranquil, but…certain of this, at least. We are really great parents, Alex and I. And the children are all asleep, and he is going to come into the bedroom, and I will…

‘Jane?’ He pokes his head into the bedroom. ‘Boys are asleep. I’m going to pop down into the office for a bit before bed. Review the latest drafts of the documents so I’ve got a head start for tomorrow.’

‘Of course,’ I say.

And he’s barely gone when I pull out the laptop. And check Facebook.

Busy day?

—No.

—I’ve been…avoiding being available.

Ah. And why?

—Because. I am struggling, finally, suddenly, with reconciling this, what you do to me, with my real life. And my real obligations. Which I want and need to preserve. Do you understand? A husband. Four children. A really fucking great life.

Yes. I understand.

Jane.

Do you remember – the last time we saw each other. It was the only time you were ever in my condo in Montreal. On the balcony. Everyone else was in the kitchen.

—I remember. The last time.

I had you alone for only a few moments. I looked at your legs and asked if you were wearing stockings.

—You put your hands under my skirt.

You gave me the most withering, pitying look. Pulled away. Do you remember what you said?

—‘Get your fucking hands off me.’

Yes.

—I was pregnant with Cassandra.

I figured it out – a few months later. At the time, it was such a slap – your first real rejection of me. You would not look at me the rest of the night. And I never wanted you more. Of course. Perversely. I wanted you then. I wanted you always. I want you always. But I always want you…tied to someone else.

—Ah.

I believe this is what you want as well. It used to be. Is it still?

—I am struggling. See, I remember that moment, so very well. I remember how you looked at me. I remember how I felt with your hands on me. And I remember…I remember realising that if I was going to do this properly – if I was going to be Alex’s wife, and the mother of his children – I had to stay the fuck away from you.

—And this bothers me, this: you and Joy, you still have no children?

No. We’ve been trying to conceive, half-heartedly, the last year or so.

—Half-heartedly?

Utilitarian, reproductive sex is boring. You know I’d think that. But, Jane, and this is what you are asking: I am not looking for an out of my marriage. I am not looking to destroy yours. I am looking to fuck you senseless when I come. Use you. And leave.

Is that blunt and honest enough for you, my forever lover?

—Tell me you’re not having a mid-life crisis, are not frustrated with your marriage, aren’t…oh, fuck, I don’t even know what. What do I want you to tell me?

This: this is about us. Always. An opportunity. A gift. A chance to come together again.

And you want it as much as I do.

—You are always corrupting me.

We were always corrupting each other. I think, deep down, you’re more a harlot than even I.

—Bastard.

At least, that’s my fantasy.

—I want to run. That’s what I do with you, what I’ve always done with you. Enjoy a little, suffer a little, then leave. That’s my MO.

Yes. The running. Your MO, as you put it. Well. Have you enjoyed enough? Tell me to fuck off and go away. Maybe I will.

—Maybe?

No. Probably not. You’ve admitted already it’s too late for you to start playing coy.

—I am promised to you.

I don’t chase. It’s undignified. You are promised to me.

—And if it’s everything we’ve been imagining, we will repeat it in another 10 years.

With great pleasure.

Now quickly.

Tell me what you’ll be doing in eight days, my lover.

—I will be your fuckslave.

Again.

—I will be your fuckslave…

—my lover

Your master

—Presumptuous.

You will be on your fucking knees before me, my whore. Say it.

—Yes.

Good.

8. xo

—8. xx

I’m so fucked.

Friday, December 7

Four days ago, I was sane.

Today I am mad. This is how my day starts. Wanton as soon as I am awake, wanting, aching. No longer pretending. I turn on my laptop and email and Facebook only for one thing. Work? What work? Calgary is asleep, but Montréal is stirring. And, oh, my lover. Yes. There he is. And here we go. The countdown. And fuck. A client pings me on Google chat at the same time. Lovely.

7

—7

Instantly hard

—Fire in my belly

get my email?

—checking

—fuck

This was me. This morning, thinking of you.

—oh yes

—…

—I am distracted