The Rebuilding of Tom Cooper Read online

She looks at me resentfully. ‘I turned down going to a party so I could do this. So no, it’s not all right.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ I toy with the idea of paying her and telling her to leave, but I can’t face just chucking money down the drain. ‘I guess I should probably just… leave my flat then.’

  ‘Guess you should.’

  We stand there for a few moments looking at each other. And there I was thinking I might have regained some agency over my life… I grab my coat and head out.

  Standing in the cold about three metres away from my front door, I try to work out what the hell I’m going to do. Maybe I could go and see a movie. I used to see movies on my own when I was younger. There’s nothing wrong with it. Something arty. Yeah, that’d be good. Seeing a film in French is basically like learning a language – I’m improving myself. True, there is a slightly greater chance of seeing boobs, but that’s by the by. This is adult education. A movie for sophisticated adults. An adult movie. Hmm. I’m doing it – there’s no reason a single life shouldn’t be a rich life.

  Ten minutes later and I’m in the pub. Everyone around me is having fun, while I’m there nursing a pint, pretending like I’m waiting for someone.

  Maybe it’s good to have some time on my own. Time to digest what happened. To think about why she left. I can’t help but feel it’s all my fault. Maybe she didn’t find me interesting any more. She always seemed to switch off when I’d try to tell her something, her eyes drifting towards the ceiling.

  But it’s not like we were that different. Sure, she’d choose cream rather than custard with a crumble, but it was only ever the small things… And I’ve been pretty stable. It’s fucking hard when you have kids, but I’ve kept it together.

  Maybe she didn’t want that. Maybe she wanted the drama. A life of fights and arguments and Mediterranean-style passion. That’s how it used to be before we got married. I thought she just felt secure so didn’t feel the need anymore. Maybe she was just bored.

  Three pints in and my mind’s even less clear. I’ve started a list of things I did wrong. From pants on the floor, to missed bin days, to pushing Carrie off a swing (if you want to go that high, hold on tight, you bloody idiot). I’m constantly checking my phone to see what time it is: I can’t go back till ten – that’ll be three hours, Lacey doesn’t do less than three hours. Still one and a half to go…

  It strikes me I could go and see Mark and Karen. Mark and Karen are my best friends from university, plus they only live round the corner. If one of them is in, they might be up for a chat. I haven’t told them about Sally yet. If they’re out, well… maybe they’ve got a slightly less unpleasant babysitter than me. I could talk to her while I wait to go back. It’s weird staying in with your own babysitter, but someone else’s… that doesn’t seem like freakish behaviour at all.

  A few minutes later, I’m standing outside their door. I see the silhouette of someone approaching through the glass panels. It’s Mark.

  ‘Hey!’ I say.

  ‘Hey. What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming round.’

  ‘Sally left me.’

  His face drops. All irritation towards my unscheduled appearance is gone. He seems genuinely surprised. Well, at least I know he’s not fucking her.

  ‘Oh God, Tom. I’m so sorry.’

  He ushers me into their hallway. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Three nights ago. She just walked out – said “I’m leaving you” and went.’

  ‘Did she tell you why?’

  ‘No. But according to Arthur and Carrie she’s sleeping with about four other guys.’

  ‘Four?!? Oh my God,’ says Mark. ‘Although, you’ve got to admit it’s logistically impressive.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Karen pokes her head out of the kitchen door.

  ‘Sally’s left Tom.’

  ‘Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry, Tom. We’re just having dinner – do you want to come through for a bit?’

  ‘Sure, thanks.’ Karen leads us through into the kitchen.

  ‘She’s sleeping with four guys,’ Mark fills her in.

  ‘Four?!’

  ‘Maybe,’ I tell her. ‘That’s just second-hand from the kids. Although if Arthur’s right – one of them is Gary. I mean – who’d want to fuck Gary? It’d be like banging a Muppet going through puberty.’

  Karen stops in her tracks a few steps into the kitchen.

  I follow her through. And the situation becomes clear.

  They’re mid-dinner party. And everyone has heard every word I’ve said.

  ‘Oh, God. I’m sorry – I didn’t realise you had people round. I’ll get going. You don’t look like you have space for me anyway.’ I start to turn round.

  ‘We were just leaving.’

  A woman stands up. I think I recognize her. What’s her name? My mind starts working in slow motion. Harriet? Shona? Samantha? Yeah. Samantha… Samantha: Gary’s wife.

  There’s a man sitting next to her. From his diminutive stature and the fact that he has his head in his hands, I’m pretty sure it’s Gary.

  ‘No offence to you, Sam. Some people have a thing for Muppets.’ She doesn’t look impressed. ‘I always kind of fancied Miss Piggy.’

  Slightly Later

  The one plus point of the whole Gary situation is they’ve now got a couple of spare puddings. Mark is a great cook, but Karen usually does the desserts and she is PHENOMENAL. Tonight it’s homemade crema catalana which is like a crème caramel but with orange and more independence.

  The other guests are really sympathetic. Well, once they’ve confirmed none of their names came up.

  ‘You need to get straight back on the market. Find some hot woman and shag it out of your system,’ Mark advises.

  ‘It’s only been a couple of days,’ I say.

  ‘All the more motivation. Take the opportunity. I mean, what if she comes back?’ Karen gives him a look of horror, but Mark is mid-flow: ‘You’ll be kicking yourself if you miss the opportunity for a legal shag.’

  ‘Is that what you’d do?’ Karen interrupts.

  Mark smiles. ‘You’d never leave me, darling.’

  ‘I’m thinking of it now.’

  One of their friends, Rachel, joins in. ‘I’ve got a mate who’s getting divorced – I could set you up if you wanted.’

  This is ridiculous. It’s been three days. Of course I don’t want to be set up. What is wrong with these people? Just give me some time to get my head together. But Mark’s on a roll.

  ‘Is she pretty?’ he asks.

  ‘She’s a very nice person; she’s very pretty.’

  ‘She’s not pretty,’ (her husband, Jeremy.) ‘Women always say other women are pretty when they’re not.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Oh – is that right?’ continues Jeremy. How are they not divorced? ‘Let me ask you a question. Your friend, Rosslyn; is she pretty?’

  ‘Of course she’s pretty.’

  He turns to me, victorious. ‘Back end of a bus.’

  ‘That is so sexist,’ Rachel says, ‘you’d never say that about a man.’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t say a man was attractive. If someone asked me, I’d say, “I don’t know”.’

  ‘In case you accidentally fucked him?’ says Louise, another of Karen’s friends. She’s annoyingly right-on, but Jeremy does need to be taken down. He seems to have mistaken this situation for a gathering of men.

  ‘OK, then,’ says Rachel, turning to me. ‘Tom. Is he attractive?’

  No. Please don’t involve me in this – Jeremy’s not even my friend.

  Jeremy looks me up and down, defiant. ‘Let’s see. OK – here’s my answer: I don’t know.’

  ‘But if you had to say one way or the other. Is he handsome or not?’ pushes Rachel.

  ‘Can we not do this?’ I protest. ‘I’ve just had my wife leave me – and “back end of a bus” is the only answer that won’t make him sound like a misogynist.’

  Jeremy takes affront to this. ‘So you’re on their side now?’

  ‘Um…’ I’m arguing with bloody Jeremy. This is not what I came here for. I need to de-escalate the situation, but Jeremy is having none of it.

  ‘OK,’ Jeremy retorts. ‘No. He’s not handsome. He’s not “back end of a bus” level, but he’s not handsome.’

  This is why you have friends, so they can boost your confidence before you go out into the world.

  ‘Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out,’ I say, ‘thanks for the info.’

  ‘It’s not info,’ says Rachel, ‘because actually – you are quite handsome.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’ Back in the game.

  ‘He’s not the worst,’ says Karen smiling. ‘Just a shame he’s got such a terrible personality.’

  I smile back. It’s nice to have friends. Even if you have crashed their dinner party and split up one of the couples they invited. It’s good to have some people who actually care about you.

  ‘You should get back out there, but only when you feel ready,’ says Karen. ‘There are a lot of women who’d be lucky to have you.’

  ‘And let me know if you want me to fix you up,’ says Rachel.

  ‘I know someone too, if you want?’ Louise joins in. ‘Although, she is a bit “right-on”.’ Jesus – if you think she’s right-on she probably no-platforms vegan Gender Studies lecturers for being too right-wing.

  ‘See: plenty of women you’ve never met are out there waiting for a bit of the old Tom magic,’ Mark joins in. ‘Plus, there’s a good chance Gary’s wife will be back on the market from tomorrow if you’re interested.’

  Saturday

  The kids are starting to freak out.

  It’s understandabl
e. Their mum’s just gone. Disappeared. The world’s shittiest magic trick. She hasn’t even called since Tuesday. It doesn’t make any sense. Then again, Louise from last night was telling me when she was eight her mum just suddenly up and left. She still saw her occasionally but she said it was like she’d become a stranger. One minute she was Mum. And then she wasn’t.

  But Sally’s not like that. She’s a great mum. I don’t know why she’d do this. Fair enough; she doesn’t want to be talking to me, but she should at least be talking to the kids. When it comes down to it, that’s what I’m really annoyed about.

  At noon, my mobile starts vibrating. It’s Sally trying to FaceTime. That’s got to be a good sign – people don’t FaceTime unless they want a proper conversation. I hand-brush my hair quickly in front of the mirror and pick up.

  ‘Sally… hi.’

  ‘Can you pass me over to the kids?’

  I pause for a second. ‘Can we maybe talk for a bit first?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I just want to talk to the kids.’

  Hmm. Turns out Sally not calling the kids wasn’t what I was annoyed about.

  I sit there on the other sofa – watching the back of an iPhone while my kids chat to their mother. I can hear her voice, but all I can see is a sideways apple with a little bite taken out of it. It looks a bit like a weird cartoon Japanese kitten from this angle. This is what our family looks like now. Two separate groups with a phone between us. Like being stuck behind someone filming at a school play.

  And then it hits me. It’s not just our relationship that’s over. It’s our family.

  The realisation totally blindsides me – like we’re in the middle of a game of Mallet’s Mallet and someone secretly substituted a sledgehammer. Word association game – mustn’t pause, mustn’t hesitate… the one with the most bruises loses. ‘Love’ … ‘distance’… ‘separation’… ‘divorce’… ‘custody’…‘Tom?’ ‘… er…’ Bang… and he’s unconscious on the floor.

  Life as I knew it is over.

  And I have no idea what’s going to happen next.

  September/A Bit of October (Kind of Lose Track…)

  The next month or so is a blur. I sink into a deep depression. I’m not sure if anyone around me can tell. I just keep going through the motions of my life, like one of those memory foam mattress that keeps its shape even though no one’s lying on it anymore.

  But inside I’m dead. An empty space playing a loop of self-recrimination. Trying to work out what I did to make her leave. What made her so unhappy she was willing to destroy our family.

  I’m lumped with all the childcare as Sally needs to ‘sort out her living situation’. Maybe it’s good. Time to think isn’t what I need right now. Sally takes the kids for the day most weekends. Every changeover is like a Cold War prisoner exchange. Even in person she doesn’t want to talk to me, refusing to make eye contact, to acknowledge my presence. Maybe she feels guilty, bad for what she’s done. I can’t but help feel it’s more likely she just hates me.

  And I thought we didn’t agree on anything anymore.

  Monday

  Four weeks later, and it’s half term. I decide to take a few days off to go to my parents’. I don’t think I can cope with the holidays on my own, and I need to start thinking about getting my life back together. About returning to the world.

  Of course, I tried to get my parents to come down to me, but as Mum explained:

  ‘Dad’s got a car show, there’s a tennis committee meeting, I’ve prepaid for three Zumba classes, and let’s not forget my hair appointment. If I start cancelling Tiff on a regular basis, I’ll lose my Friday morning slot, and then where would I be at the weekend?’ Ostracized from the local community because of your offensively natural-looking hair, that’s where.

  Anyway, what it comes down to is this: if I want some free childcare and a chance to get my head together, I have to travel. So I’m heading up the M40 to the sunny climes of commuter belt Birmingham, to spend a few days in the village I grew up in.

  We arrive at ‘Glebelands’ a.k.a. Versailles at about two. My parents have recently installed a fountain on their driveway. It wasn’t a good choice. Whereas fountains are perfectly fine in front of a chateau, in the context of a 1970s suburban house, even Louis XIV may have found them a little ‘ostentatious’. The driveway around it is still being built. They’ve managed to take away the previous owners’ beautiful front garden and replace it with enough concrete to lay the foundation for a shopping mall. Forget the rainforests, we could have a significant drop in global warming if we stopped the remodelling habits of provincial septuagenarians. Coupled with a thermostat that doesn’t see the irony in Spinal Tap’s ‘turned up to eleven’, they could be the biggest threat to the environment since the Trump administration.

  ‘Tom! Park on the road – you can’t go on the driveway,’ Dad calls, running out of the house in slippers like he’s stopping a national emergency. I park up and the kids go in with him, leaving me to carry the bags and talk to my parents’ racist builder. He’s heard I’m from London.

  ‘Used to live in London, you know,’ he announces as I try to walk past.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Born and bred there. But I moved up here. Best decision I ever made. Love London but it’s not the same anymore, is it? It’s different. You know what I mean.’

  I want to pretend I don’t. He’s said no words that say what he means. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure exactly what he means.

  ‘Not quite sure what you mean.’

  ‘You know. London. It’s not for Londoners anymore, is it?’ Yep, I was right. OK, parry. Go for the joke.

  ‘Well, I’m as responsible for that as anyone. I’m from here.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ he says, his face instantly deadpan. I know it’s not what you mean, idiot.Have you not noticed from my reactions I probably don’t want to join the alt-right?

  ‘What I mean is—’

  ‘Uuuuuuhhhh.’ I do a massive stretch, and make this weird noise. Any blind person in the near vicinity would think I’d just come. Is this how I stop someone from saying what they actually mean? What kind of hide-your-head-in-the-sand kind of anti-racist manoeuvre was that? I’ve just ostriched my way out of a confrontation.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better go in. Can’t let Mum look after the kids on her own.’ Yeah, right. That’s the only reason I’m here. ‘Besides, she’s probably toasted me a bun.’

  ‘Don’t want it getting cold,’ replies the builder. No, that’s probably how they eat them in Istanbul.

  I pick up my bags and head inside. I’m ashamed of myself. But what’s the point of arguing? He’s not going to change. He’s just a broken record that has foolishly been given the right to vote.

  I chuck the bags into the double-glazed porch, only to find they’ve locked the front door. How fucking secure do these people need to be? I knock and wait.

  Through the window of the porch, I look at the builder. He doesn’t know any better. He was just born before me. Didn’t have any education. Didn’t read any books… It makes me wonder. Could I have been like that? If I hadn’t done all right at school, hadn’t gone to university, would I be spouting the same ignorant opinions I’d picked up from a tabloid? It scares me to think about it. About how fragile it is – not being a dick.

  I stand there, trapped in my own thoughts in a purgatory made of PVC. It’s the same with everything. Maybe we never make any real choices – we’re just a product of our particular cocktail of genes bounced around life by circumstances beyond our control. We could end up a racist, an annoying co-worker, or just someone who marries the wrong woman. Maybe it’s no one’s fault – maybe these things just… happen.