AN EXTRAORDINARY LIFE
At my friend Emilys wedding, we celebrated for two daysboisterously, abundantly, and with plenty of laughter. The groom was as striking as Daniel Craig, but surprisingly modest despite his handsome looks. All the guests couldn’t help but secretly observe Andrewhis clear sky-blue eyes, absurdly thick and long black eyelashes (honestly, why do men get such treasures from nature?!), determined jawline, classic nose, and flawless olive-tinged skin. The final blowa towering height just shy of two metres and broad shoulders. If we hadn’t loved Emily so much, we would have squabbled right at the wedding table for a chance with this specimen. Andrew really was dazzling.
“How did you manage to catch a man like that!” we pounced on Emily. Each of us tried to wear the most forlorn and lonely expression possible, just in case Andrew had any equally beautiful single relatives.
“Girls, honestly, I loved Andrew for his simplicity,” Emily replied. “Andrews from a village, raised by his grandmother, manages the farm, and is very handy. We met by chance when my parents bought a cottage in his hometown. Hes gentle, kind, and reliable. His farm was spectacularmum couldnt believe it. A true man, girls! It took me ages to persuade him to move to the city, many nights spent negotiating,” she chuckled.
Andrew proved himself efficient both at work and with our newly acquired in-laws, as well as in learning: over a few years, he mastered fine spirits, perfumes, politics, art, travel, the Dow Jones index, sports, and managed to lose his colourful Norfolk accent. He slipped behind the wheel of a comfortable car, generously lent by his father-in-law, and took up a respectable job at the father-in-law’s company. Who gifted the young couple their flat, I won’t saywork it out yourself.
In the second year of married life, Andrew developed a peculiar passion for white socks. He wore only the brightest whitesat home, at friends’ places, never with slippers, even stuffing them into rubber boots, and boldly walking sock-footed over dirty floors. Emily did not share this devotion, but dutifully cleaned the floors twice daily and loaded up on bleach. So Andrew acquired the nickname “Sock.”
It was during Emilys eighth month of pregnancy that she discovered Andrew had a mistress. The mistress, it turned out, was also pregnant, the same due date.
Sock was thrown out, sacked, anathematised, and wept over within twenty-four hours. Then came the sticky, dreary days of a gloomy autumn. Emily lay constantly on what now seemed a monstrous bed, staring at the ceiling with dry eyes.
Ill cry later. Its not good for the baby now, shed murmur.
Like Lenin lying in silence, Emily remained on her stupid bed, while we friends took shifts by her side, keeping vigil, offering her our quiet support.
Everything in me wanted to sob, leaf through a book of fates and rip out those traitorous pages. But all we could do was stay silent and wait.
On the day of discharge from the hospital, we were noisy, shaking balloons, begging the nurses for a celebratory cuppa, and wishing everyone health and happiness. The new grandfather outdid us all: the night before, overcome with emotion, he promised the staff hed tidy up afterwards, chalked an enormous crooked Thank you for my grandson! under the ward window, tried to sing from the heart but was stopped by security. The guard kindly invited him to share his repertoire in the small office over a nip of brandywithout disturbing order.
On that day, the grandfather was still sprightly, glowingand, I remember, even shining with pride and joy. He cried, but just enough, and truly from the heart.
We all cried, laughed, hugged Emily, peered into the blue bundle, and remained studiously silent about the babys Greek nose that he shared with his father, little George. Only Emily, even with all the excitement, didnt shed a tear.
Later. What if it affects my milk? shed quip.
Emily stayed silent with us for another two months, then finally got up and set off to confront Andrew. Not with matches and acid, but with a deep desire to shatter and howl. To reproach, to pound her fists on the walls, to shame, to humiliate, and somehow rid herself of the pain binding her to the bedthrowing it all at the betrayer. The destroyer of her hopes and their world, the world with their tiny son where sheEmilyimagined herself knitting socks for her beloved men during cosy evenings, her laughing George holding hands with Andrew on walks, and Andrew himselfso needed by both mother and son.
Emily really wanted to look that brazen woman in the eyethe one sleeping with her husband. Surely those eyes would be bold and, probably, beautiful. Thats what Emily planned to spit on. Decided: shed spit right in those eyes. And if necessary, shed scratch them out.
She learned where to go to cause a scandal quite by accidentchatting with a group of kindly old ladies during a walk with her baby. They stopped her, reminded her that Andrew was, frankly, a fool, mapped out a detailed route to the love birds nest and suggested possible revenge strategies for the cheating man. Emily was stunned, sobbing inwardly, wanted to walk away without catching the addressbut for some reason, didnt.
Now she stood outside the required entrance of a shabby council block, only needing to climb to the fifth floorup there, she could shout, spit, whatever she liked.
On the first level, Emily thought that with her luck, no one would be home and she was wasting her time. On the second, she hoped, actually, it would be best if nobody was in. By the third, she heard a desperate child crying from the fifth floor.
A skinny, tearful girl opened the door, nothing like the femme fatale Emily imagined could seduce her gentle lamb of a husband. While Emily stared at fifty kilograms of competitionsniffling apologeticallya child continued to wail somewhere deep in the flat.
Hello, Emily. Andrew isnt here, he left us two weeks ago. And where he isI dont know, the girl whispered, sitting on the floor and weeping.
Emily lost all will to start a scandal. She wanted to go inside, calm the baby for this muddle-headed mother. Then maybe say something sharp: If youre going to ride the sled, youve got to drag it, you silly cow! Yes, she would definitely insert cow. And glare, terribly contemptuous, because she had a right. She was, after all, the deceived party.
The baby was clean but exhaustedhis eyelids swollen, a vein on his forehead bulging, voice hoarse. Clearly, he was hungry. The little boy screamed at the very edge of his small capabilities, while his strange, hopeless mother lay on the hallway floor and cried.
As the girl opened empty cupboards and searched the bare fridge for formula, Emily remembered the rest only vaguely. She found a note on the kitchen table, with a terrifying half-written phrase: Please in my smit was chilling.
The girl lay there, sobbing, telling Emily, as one would to a close friend, that she had nowhere to go when their lease ended in just a few days. Her milk had dried up, Andrew had vanished, and she never really had any money, truthfully. She was very sorry. And ashamed. And it was too late. But she hadnt known. She begged forgiveness. Emily could hit her, maybe even should. And the boys namePaulEmily must remember for good measure. Paul was just nine days older than George.
Emily rushed home as fast as possiblewithin twenty minutes George would demand a feed. Escaping wasnt simple, either: two huge bags belonging to Amy weighed her arms down, Amy herself dashed beside her, holding a newly sated Paul. Emily ran, wondering where to fit two more beds.
Three years later we celebrated Amys wedding, four years after thatEmilys. Emilys husband abhors white socks, arguing life should be lived colourfully, and adores his wife, son, and two daughters. Amy is mum to four lively boys, her husband still hoping for a daughter.
Reflecting on all this, I learned that lifes messiest moments can open the door to new friendships and unexpected happiness. Sometimes, the people who come into your life when everything falls apart are the ones who help you rebuild it brighter than before.
