Writing for Fun
January 2016
I Never Thought I'd See Him Again - Pete Norman
Everybody argues . . . or disagrees, or rows, or fights . . . in the end it is much the same thing, it is all just a matter of degree.
Everybody argues – it is just that very few people actually talk about it; in most circles the subject seems to be taboo. Even Miranda's closest group of girl friends would couch any such references in terms so vague that it was almost impossible to differentiate between the truth and the humorous repartee.
They would say things like, 'He didn't like it, but he sure as hell won't dare ask again!' or, 'Green wallpaper? No way. Honestly, men have absolutely no idea about colour schemes.'
Nobody ever seems to cut through the banter to admit to the sordid truth of it all.
Miranda had always believed that most people argued, but that they were able to keep things from escalating into something far worse. She and Colin had certainly been able to do that in the early years – the honeymoon period her friends had called it – when both parties always went out of their way to please the other. But their honeymoon was over long ago and life had become unbearable.
It had all started so innocuously: a gruff reply here, a little snap there, the fact that he had never really been keen on any of her music, that he didn't want to watch all of that mush she seemed to be so obsessed with on TV. And then it was the way she styled her hair, the way she dressed and even, would you believe, the way she cooked.
In the beginning she had meekly accepted this attrition as an integral part of married life – the flip side of the coin to 'marital bliss'. Of course, she now realised that this passive acceptance had been naïve in the extreme, but at the time she had known of no other way to deal with the outbursts. Besides, they always seemed to stop quite quickly and things always seemed to return to normal soon afterwards – usually after she had given in, that is. He would often apologise, although the apology was always made in such a way that she was made to feel that it had all really been her fault in the first place.
Colin was a barrister, a high flyer, and he moved in the very best of circles. He had taken her hand and guided her through some of the most lavish dinner parties and social gatherings, but she now knew that she had never been anything more than an attractive appendage to his over-inflated ego.
He had been trained in verbal confrontation – it went with the turf and she knew that she could never hope to compete with him – but she had always hoped that just for once he might leave his adversarial skills at work and not bring them back home to inflict upon her.
The escalation had been quite gradual, but over the years the disagreements had turned into arguments and the arguments had turned into rows: the slamming of the doors, the veiled and the not so veiled threats, the slow and inevitable degradation of everything in her life of which she had been proud. The turmoil and the mental anguish had steadily worn her down, it had softened her up to such an extent that she no longer retaliated; she just meekly accepted whatever he decided to throw at her.
It was all too difficult to deal with, because on the good days she somehow managed to dredge up just a smidgeon of hope that maybe things were going to get better, but on the bad days she just wanted to curl up into a ball and make the world go away.
She was now painfully aware that her life had been degenerating inexorably for years and she was being degraded to such a point that if she did not get out of this unequal relationship soon there would be nothing of the real Miranda left worth saving.
Until Friday night she had no idea how long things might have stayed that way, but Friday night had been the tipping point. Colin had been to some celebration do with his work colleagues. It might have been a leaving do, someone's birthday or the successful conclusion of a case, she had long since forgotten and she no longer cared, but she did care that he had come home the worst for wear with drink and had demanded his dinner 'Immediately if not sooner!'
She had been trying to keep the meal warm for hours, as he had promised to be home much earlier than this, and even she had to admit that it did look a bit of a congealed mess, but when he picked up the plate and hurled it at her, it was only her quick reactions that saved her face. The plate hit the mirror on the far wall – the mirror that her mother had given to them on their wedding day. The plate and the mirror exploded, scattering shards of glass, pieces of porcelain and a thick organic mess across the entire wall.
She had screamed out her indignation, but in daring to defy his outburst she had overstepped his mark and she had the red finger marks on her cheek and the swelling around her left eye as a salutary lesson for the future.
But there never would be a future . . . not with him . . . not now, not ever.
Miranda had dutifully cleaned up the mess and carried the broken mirror out to stand beside the dustbin while Colin ordered a takeaway curry. She had tried to wipe the food stains from the wall, although nothing but a complete paint job would ever put it right again. She had sat in silence while he snored through the last hour of television and then sought refuge at the very extremity of their Queen sized bed.
Through years of bitter experience she had learned not to expect any kind of sympathy or apology the morning after, but his cold suggestion that she might 'put something on that before someone sees it' exceeded even her expectations.
She watched the BMW pass around the corner and out of the close and then went upstairs with more purpose than she had felt for more years than she cared to admit.
If she ever saw his face again it would be too soon.
The taxi pulled up outside the house and she took one last look around what had been her home for nearly ten years. It was full of ten years of accumulating things, things he had wanted, things he could easily afford – things she hated – and as she shut the door behind her she knew she wanted none of it . . . she never had.
When the taxi driver saw her struggling out of the door with two large suitcases he called out, 'Goin' on your holidays, love?' and followed his chirpy comment with a winsome taxi driver grin, but as he prised the cases from her trembling fingers he caught sight of the bruises and the tears she had been trying so desperately to hold back. 'Bastard!' he mumbled under his breath.
Once she was seated in the relative safety of the cab he asked, 'Where do you want to go, love? Do you want to start at the Police Station?'
She knew that the man was absolutely right, but she also knew that there was no future in ever challenging Colin legally – he was far too smart to let her get away with that – no, she just wanted to draw a big heavy line under all of this. In a small voice she said, 'Can you take me to 14 Medway Crescent, please.'
Miranda's mum thought the sun shone out of the rearmost orifice of her abusive husband. To her he was the epitome of charm, respect and generosity, because Miranda had always kept her problems to herself – she had always been far too embarrassed to admit to anyone that her marriage was a failure. What would she think? What would she say when her daughter turned up on her doorstep she could not imagine, and she was nervous of the reception she would receive. However, her fears proved groundless because at the sight of her daughter's face her mother's comments went far beyond those of the mild mannered taxi driver.
In the weeks that followed she saw a strength in her parents which she had never experienced before; her father had given it to Colin straight when he had turned up on their doorstep. He had remained perfectly calm, but the expression on his face had revealed that all of that could change should it become necessary.
However, socially the next few weeks did not progress in quite the way she had anticipated. She wanted to keep up the coffee mornings with the girls, and the occasional night out at the wine bar, but, despite their protestations of support, the atmosphere quickly began to cool – from the girls themselves, that is. From the husbands, when they came to pick up their wives, she began to notice more than the odd interested glance and she soon came to realise that none of her so called friends were prepared to risk a loose, and very good-looking, cannon anywhere near their own husbands.
She found herself settling into a dull and solitary routine – more and more nights in, reading a book in the solitude of her own room. She knew that she deserved more than that, she had to get herself out of the house and into some kind of social life. She applied for a bar job at the local Wetherspoons and within days she was out amongst the lively buzz of people again. The clientele were friendly and some were very persistent, but she quickly developed the friendly put-downs which smoothed the way and she began to settle comfortably into her new life.
Then one night a face appeared at the bar, a familiar face but in unfamiliar surroundings, and it took a few minutes for her to make the connection. She never thought she would ever see him again.
It took Richard a few minutes to recognise her, but when he did he abandoned her male colleague and pushed his way along the bar towards her. It had been many years since they had sat together in the same College classroom and both had changed somewhat in those years, but the chemistry they had shared then was still bubbling under the surface. She managed to get off early, they shared a drink and a takeaway meal and she found herself in his apartment throwing herself into a new relationship with her arms open but her eyes closed.
Richard was a sales rep and his job took him all over the South East. He worked very long hours and quite a few of the jobs resulted in an overnight stay. As the weeks went by those particular phone calls became more and more regular: sorry, stuck in Ipswich/Tunbridge/Peterborough, just got to have a few drinks with the client to seal the deal and won't be able to drive back.
The old Miranda might well have accepted all of this blindly, but the new Miranda was more switched on; she soon became more and more suspicious. One afternoon he phoned to say that he was at Taylors in Huntingdon and had to see the client again the next day, so he might as well stay over. The moment he put the phone down she rang the company and, after a heart to heart chat – woman to woman – with the receptionist she had her answer: Richard had been there that afternoon but only for a couple of hours and they were not expecting him back again tomorrow.
A cursory search of his other work suit in his wardrobe revealed a lingering hint of perfume on the collar and a condom in the top pocket.
The note she left for him on the kitchen table was clear, concise and unambiguous, it pulled no punches, and within half an hour she was waiting on the doorstep with her bag beside her.
The taxi driver looked familiar, but it was only when he said, 'Goin' on your holidays, love?' that she made the connection.
'I never thought I'd see you again.'
The taxi driver gave her his very best winsome taxi driver grin. 'You know what, I nearly didn't recognise you either.' He studied her face and frowned. 'You in trouble again? Where is it to this time – the Police Station or your mum's?' Then he looked at his watch. 'Tell you what, I'm just about at the end of my shift – do you fancy a drink?'
Miranda smiled – at this precise moment she would like nothing more.