AN EXTRAORDINARY LIFE
At my friend Emilys wedding, we celebrated for two days: eating, drinking, and laughing heartily throughout. Her groom was a picture of modesty for his stunning looksthink a British Alain Delon, but with an understated charm. All of us guests secretly observed Thomas: his bright cornflower-blue eyes, lashes so thick and long that it seemed unfair for a man to possess such riches (honestly, why do men get these luxuries?). He had a strong chin, a classic nose, and flawless olive-toned skin. The clincher? Nearly two metres tall, broad-shouldered and commanding. If we hadnt loved Emily so much, we might have fought right there at the reception for this dazzling specimen. Thomas really was something special.
Emily, how did you manage to bag such a heartthrob? we teased. Each of us did our best to appear as forlorn and single as possible, in case Thomas happened to have equally handsome and unattached relatives.
Oh girls, dont be silly! Emily laughed. I fell in love with Thomas for his simplicity. Hes from a village, raised by his gran, runs a farm, and is clever with his hands. We met when my parents bought a country house in his villagehes sensitive, kind and reliable. You should have seen the state he kept his place. Proper man, girls! It took me ages to persuade him to move to London. I must have spent ten nights arguing with him, honestly.
Thomas fit seamlessly into city lifecharming both the newly acquired family and excelling professionally: in just a couple of years, he became versed in fine wine, fragrances, politics, art, travel, the FTSE 100, and sport, and lost all traces of his countryside accent. He began driving a comfortable car kindly lent to the young couple by his father-in-law, and secured a respectable position at his father-in-laws firm. As for who gifted them their flat, well, you can guess for yourself.
By the second year of marriage, Thomas developed a peculiar love for white socks. He wore them everywherenot just at home or visiting, always skipping slippers, even donning white socks inside his wellington boots, standing boldly in them on dirty kitchen floors. Emily didnt share this enthusiasm for the snowy socks, but dutifully cleaned the floors twice a day and kept the cupboards stocked with bleach and stain remover. Thus, Thomas acquired the nicknameSock.
Emily learnt about Thomass affair in the eighth month of her pregnancy. As it turned out, the mistress was expecting, too, and due around the same time. Sock was expelled from the house within a day: fired, cursed and wept over. Then came the slow, sticky days of gloomy autumn. Emily spent every day lying on what felt now like an impossibly vast bed, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling.
Ill cry later. Its not good for the baby now, shed say.
Like Lenin in silence, Emily lay there, while we, her friends, took turns keeping vigil, offering quiet support.
It was tempting to weep loudly, to tear out pages from the book of fate, to rage. But we had to stay silent and wait.
On the day of discharge, we made noise, shook balloons, begged the staff for a sip of tea and to join us in our celebrationswishing health and happiness to all. The freshly crowned grandfather outdid us: the night before, feeling moved and promising to tidy up afterwards, he chalked a huge, wobbly message under Emilys ward window: Thank you for my grandson! He even attempted to serenade, but security quickly intervened. The guard kindly allowed the joyous granddad to share his repertoire privately, over brandy, without causing a public scene.
The morning of the discharge, granddad was sharp, fresh, and as I rememberalmost shining. He wept tears of joy and pride, utterly sincere. We all cried, laughed, hugged Emily, peered cautiously into the blue bundle, and made a point not to mention little Henrys Greek nose from Dad. Only Emily herself didnt shed a tear even in the delight:
Later. What if it affects the milk?
Emily stayed wrapped in silent company for two more months. And then she went to see Thomas herself. No matches or acid, just a huge urge to rage and sob. To reproach, to hammer on the walls with her thin fists, shame and humiliate, hoping to rid herself of the pain that held her captive to her bedready to drop her unwanted pain onto the betrayer, the destroyer of her hopes and their little world with Henry, in whom she had imagined cozy evenings knitting socks for her beloved men, hearing Henrys laughter, walking hand-in-hand with Thomas, and Thomas himselfso needed by her, and their son.
Emily was also determined to look into the eyes of the brazen woman who had stolen her husband. Those eyes would surely be bold, and probably gorgeous. Emily was resolved: shed spit right in those eyes. And if necessary, scratch them out.
She found the address purely by accident, thanks to the busybody grandmas near her flat while she was out with Henry. The kindly old ladies stopped Emily, reminded her that Thomas was, well, a right fool, and enthusiastically outlined the route to the lovers nest and suggested ways to get revenge. Emily was stunned, on the verge of tears, almost left without catching the house numberbut for some reason, she didnt leave.
So there Emily was, standing before the right entrance of a shabby council block, needing only to go up to the fifth floor, where she could spit, yell, whatever.
On the first floor, she thought with her luck, thered surely be no one home and she was wasting her time. By the second, she began to hope no one would be init might even be a relief. On the third, Emily heard desperate baby cries coming from the fifth floor.
A thin, tear-stained girl answered the door. Nothing about her matched Emilys mental picture of someone heartless enough to lure away a gentle husband.
As Emily stood frozen, sizing up the trembling forty-kilo rival, the baby screamed on from deep inside the flat.
Hello, Emily. Thomas isnt here, he left us two weeks ago. And honestly, I dont know where he is, the girl whispered, sinking to the floor in tears.
Emily instantly lost all urge to argue. She wanted to walk in and soothe the baby for this lost young woman. And then maybe say, If you like the ride, just remember to pull the sled too, love! Yes, she would definitely slip in a love, and throw in a look of utter contemptshe had every right, after all, as the wronged party.
The baby was dry, eyelids swollen, a vein pulsing on his forehead, voice hoarse. Clearly, he was crying out of hunger. He screamed his tiny lungs out, while his strange, irresponsible mum wept on the hallway floor.
As the girl rifled hopelessly through empty kitchen cupboards for formula and groped in the bare fridge, Emily remembered little afterwards.
She found a note on the kitchen table with a chilling, half-finished message: Please in my sm… terrifying.
The girl sobbed, spilling her woes to Emily as if to a close friend: she had nowhere to go, her tenancy was up in a few days, her milk was gone, Thomas had vanished, and there was no money. She felt sorry, ashamed, and too late. Shed had no idea. She pleaded for forgiveness, even encouraged Emily to strike hersaid she deserved it. The baby boy was named PeterEmily should remember, just in case. Peter was only nine days older than Henry.
Emily rushed home, as Henry would need feeding in twenty minutes. It wasnt easy: two huge bags belonging to Abigail weighed down Emilys arms, Abigail herself hustled along beside her, holding Peter, now content. Emily ran, thinking about where in the flat theyd squeeze two more beds.
Three years later, we were dancing at Abigails wedding. In four, Emilys. Emilys husband dislikes white socks, says life should be brighter, adores his wife, son, and two daughters. Abigail is mum to four little boys, and her husband still holds out hope for a daughter.
