I would have stayed

Prologue

Up until two years ago, my life had been fairly calm, peaceful – mundane almost. Then an old lover of some twenty plus years earlier and who I’d never seen since, reappeared in my life, bringing about chaos and distress. I had to put my life on hold to figure out the best way forward. 

Jack Edwards

Part 1

If I hadn’t gone

1

Our first tiff started with a hand written letter. Lilly didn’t believe we’d had a tiff, just a misunderstanding. I disagreed, mystified by her fantasies and what had given rise to them. She’d invented a story about me, which was bunkum. Almost always rational, she’d accused me of behaviour I would never have contemplated, making me wonder if she was of sound mind. I feared for her. Later, when she’d apologised and said she’d been wrong, I wondered if her actions were the harbinger of what might come, heralding the end of us. That would be sad, and without any valid reason.

It wasn’t just an ordinary envelope. Clean, thick, crisp, cream-coloured, good quality, about six by nine inches, and propped up at the back of the wicker tray Lilly had left on the grass with my breakfast, next to my garden lounger. Like a magnet, it seemed to draw my hand toward it, intriguing and important-looking, the sort of envelope that contained invitations. 

But I’m not expecting any invitations, I’d thought, as I stared at my name and address written in handwriting I thought I’d recognised. 

 Jack Edwards

17, Broad Street

Chiswick, W14 4EU

I turned it over a few times, looking at the envelope’s quality and the handwriting before the intrigue and tension became too much. Who the hell is it from? I asked myself, as I started to tear it open. 

Earlier, I think our dog had woken me. He was licking my face with his long, slobbery tongue, covered with saliva, that hung down from his open mouth. ‘Oh Josh,’ I’d yelled at him, putting my hand out to pat his head. ‘I do love you, but that’s not an endearing way to wake someone.’ I looked at his pleading expression. ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you?’ He followed me to the kitchen with his wet, doggy grin. It was eight-thirty, Lilly had woken me at eight, saying she was going out for the day with our three kids and she’d get supper. I must have dozed off to be woken by my canine friend. I’d been working all night until six, finishing my latest novel. I typed the last line, reread my night’s work, and seeing the bright sun flooding through the window, headed straight for the garden, crashing out on the first chair I’d found. I was still wearing my PJs.

Cream coloured paper, crisp and good quality like the envelope, folded into four squares. My eyes flashed to the bottom to see who had sent it. I gulped. It was handwritten. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said out loud as a sort of anxious feeling brimmed up inside me.

Hi Jack

I’ve posted this, using old fashioned snail-mail as I figured e-mail would go straight to junk.

Are you going to the alumni reunion at Falmouth?

I thought our group - For Change - were such a dynamic, close, friendly group, and I don’t think any of us have seen each other for twenty odd years, that we must all go. We’ve a heck of a lot of catching up to do.

I’ve sent this to all the other members.

You must go. I know you will. We had a riot at uni. You were such fun. Let’s have a couple of days reliving our past.

E-mail me to let me know what time you’re arriving.

Until then, best wishes,

Julie XX

JulieB10@gmail.com

‘Oh my,’ I said out loud.

How does she know my address? Must’ve been about twenty plus years. We’ve moved a few times. She must’ve searched my website or something? Is it online stalking? Is this what happens? 

I stroked my chin a few times and thought about our past relationship. It was fiery, passionate and went on almost all the time at uni. We only broke up as we were going separate ways. Her to do an MA in America, me to work for the British Council and attempt to write my first novel. Within months of splitting, I met Lilly and have never looked back. 

I stared into space. After about thirty seconds I shook my head. 

For change was a spirited group of about six to eight like-minded fellow students who hung out together for most of the time. We were fun-lovers, partied and drank a lot and vowed to change the world for the better: a cause in which we’ve spectacularly failed and the reason I didn’t want to go to the reunion. I remembered I’d sent an e-mail to Brian Walters, the Alumni Society secretary, after I’d received the invite a couple of weeks back, telling him I wouldn’t be going. I tossed Julie’s letter onto the tray in an insouciant manner and looked around, listing in my mind tasks in the garden. 

By six in the evening, when the heat from the sun had lessened, its glowing red ball hidden behind the garden wall, the temperature a few degrees lower and long shadows stretching out on the lawn, I thought it time I made some contribution to the supper we were all having later. Laughter and animated conversation spilled out from the house and I knew our thirteen-year-old daughter and her eleven-year-old sister were helping their mother with the preparations. We were eating outside, and I took it upon myself to lay up the old wrought-iron, slate-topped garden table. Wil, our fifteen-year-old son, who’d been watching TV came to help me. When the table was set up, I started to fire up the BBQ, thinking what a good lad he’d turned out to be, as had the girls. Lilly and I were lucky with the kids, but then I was lucky with Lilly as my wife, and perhaps our happiness must have rubbed off on our offspring. We’re all such good friends, I thought, and turned to see Flick holding a dish of marinated spicy prawns for me to cook. 

All the prawns were eaten, as was the squid, the scallops, the three different salads, the delicious sweet potato wedges Lilly makes, various cheeses, and the homemade bread. Our plates and dishes were empty, left looking like a swarm of locusts had descended on them. I looked at the fairy lights, intertwined with the clematis and honeysuckle that hung from the three flint walls, twinkling in the fading light, making the glasses and cutlery glisten. In the middle of the table Lilly had placed a large vase of flowers from the garden. An enchanting setting, an intoxicating atmosphere. 

Not wanting the evening to end, Wil took to enacting his lifelike impersonations of politicians, sending us into spontaneous laughter. He didn’t try to mimic their looks, but his tone of voice and facial expressions were to be believed. Flick and Jo, not to be outdone by their older brother, followed him with their favourite karaoke act: a funny and well-sung rendition of many of Taylor Swift’s songs. ‘Your turn, dad,’ they both said, turning to me when they’d come to the end. ‘Do The Lobster Story,’ Flick said, referring to a true story they’d heard many times. Some years earlier on a family holiday, I’d fallen into the sea, drunk, trying to pull a full lobster pot onto a small boat only to slip and let the lobsters – seeing their chance to escape as I’d by mistake flicked the top off the pot – swim fast to safety. It seemed to get many laughs whenever I’d told it in the past and that night was no exception. But I noticed Lilly didn’t laugh. She had her head down, looking at the ground. Perhaps she was bored with the story, I’d thought, and looked at her across the table. She seemed subdued, almost in a world of her own, and wouldn’t look at me, turning her head to strike up a conversation with Wil, who sat next to her. 

Lilly and I have been married for twenty years and seem as happy now as we were all those years back: well, that’s what we tell each other, and I have no reason to think otherwise. She’s fun, outward, engaging, kind and attractive; with short dark hair, brown eyes set in an unusual face; slim and medium height. She’s forty-two, three years younger than me. Wil was born first, Fick’s thirteen, Jo’s eleven. For most of the time they get along well together and are protective and supportive of each other. As a family, we communicate, problem solve and behave as a cohesive unit. In modern speak, I believe we’re called a functioning family.

We’ve been lucky in our careers. I’m a writer of fifteen books, most best sellers, and Lilly’s a successful TV actor. Home is a comfortable family house in Chiswick, West London. Life wasn’t always easy. We struggled at first: Lilly doing TV commercials to boost her meagre earnings and me working for the British Council while writing my earlier novels: the first two rejected. We had to scrape around to get by and put off having children for five years.

Lilly didn’t talk to me while we all cleared up. There’s something up, I thought as I turned on the dishwasher. She passed behind me and headed out of the room and toward the stairs. I caught her arm and said, ‘Hey, what’s up. You look upset.’ I’m sure I saw a tear in one of her eyes. She stared at me for a few seconds, considering her reply. Her expression unfamiliar: worried, concerned, maybe a little hostile. Unusual, I thought. She’s troubled about something. I don’t know what.   

‘We need to talk?’ she said with a tremble in her voice. ‘Outside; the kids’re watching TV.’

‘Sure,’ I replied, pouring us both a glass of wine while Lilly made for the garden table in silence. I was anxious. Her behaviour uncharacteristic. Maybe it’s bad news. A sick friend or relative, or worse, I thought as I carried the two glasses of wine.

With her eyes screwed up, her face tense, a worried expression the likes of which I’d never seen before, looking more concerned than when I almost cut off my finger doing some work in the garden and she’d rushed me to A&E, more fraught than when Jo fell out of a tree at the age of six, she stared into my eyes and said, ‘How long have you been having an affair with Julie?’ 

To say I was gobsmacked does not describe my utter astonishment. No word that I know could do that. Crazy, I thought, looking at Lilly, wondering if she was experiencing a mental issue, like a breakdown or similar. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Julie? Julie who?’

Her expression turned to astonishment. She gaped. ‘Don’t try to blag your way out of this,’ she snapped in a raised tone. ‘You know who I mean. The Julie who sent you a letter this morning…’ She scowled at me. ‘You left it on the worktop for everyone to see. The Julie who asked you to relive old times. The same Julie you told me you had a long, passionate relationship with at uni. You know exactly who I mean. How long…?’

‘Oh, come on,’ I retorted, raising my voice and shaking my head, ‘This is ridiculous. You’re making a drama over nothing. I haven’t…

‘You come on,’ Lilly said, raising her voice again. ‘You get a letter from an old lover who had she not gone off to America after uni, you could be married to her now instead of me, asking you to go for a weekend with her, “reliving our past,” in her words, and you think I’m making a fuss. Why?’ she almost shouted. ‘Why’ve you done this to me?’ Lilly stared into my eyes. She shook her head. ‘I thought we’re solid, but I obviously got it wrong.’ She burst into floods of tears.

‘Lilly,’ I said, reaching across the table to take her hands. She withdrew them and raised her head and looked at me through her tear-stained eyes. ‘Why, Jack? Why’ve you done this?’

‘I haven’t seen Julie since I left uni,’ I said in a strident manner, staring into Lilly’s eyes. ‘I’ve no idea where she lives or what she does. I haven’t had any contact with her and don’t wish to. How she found out my address.’ I shook my head, ‘I’ve no idea. I’m not going to the reunion, have no wish to go, and have already, last week, told Brian, the secretary of the Alumni Society, exactly that.’ Lilly looked confused; her eyes screwed up again. ‘And I’ve no intention of replying to her.’

I turned my head a touch to ensure I had Lilly’s intention. ‘I’ve no idea why you thought what you did and why you came to such false conclusions, but I don’t know what else to say. Err, apart from…’ I smiled a little. ‘I love you as much as always.’

Lilly looked away and stood up, asking me in a cordial manner if I minded finishing off the clearing up as she wanted to go to bed – ‘a headache,’ she said, standing up, pulling her shawl over her shoulders, and walking away toward the door into the house. I watched her go. While I was damping down the BBQ and locking up, I wondered what had set Lilly off. I even retrieved Julie’s letter from the bin and reread it.

Hi Jack

I’ve posted this, using old fashioned snail-mail as I figured e-mail would go straight to junk.

Are you going to the alumni reunion at Falmouth?

I thought our group - For Change - were such a dynamic, close, friendly group, and I don’t think any of us have seen each other for twenty odd years, that we must all go. We’ve a heck of a lot of catching up to do.

I’ve sent this to all the other members.

You must go. I know you will. We had a riot at uni. You were such fun. Let’s have a couple of days reliving our past.

E-mail me to let me know what time you’re arriving.

Until then, best wishes

Julie

JulieB10@gmail.com

The warmth of the first slug of my ten-year-old Ardbeg malt whisky trickled down my throat. I sat in the old leather chair we had in the living room with a sweater draped around my shoulders and tried to figure out what had come over Lilly. She’d misconstrued Julie’s letter, but irrational as I thought she was, once I’d told her I’d hadn’t seen or heard from Julie since uni, her expression had changed and she’d seemed as though she just wanted to slink off to bed. I’d thought it best to leave her. But what was behind her fantasy, her make believe? I had no idea. I’d never slept with anyone else during our marriage and never given her cause to think otherwise. Maybe she’ll be more rational and talk more in the morning, I thought, draining my glass before making for our bedroom. 

She was asleep. I slipped in next to her, but my concern over her mental health kept sleep at bay for some time.