Today, it appears, is different.
I see her as the door opens, easing aside for the boys as they come charging out. I register the difference in a heartbeat, the change in her willowy curves, the Empire line dress. The way she’s standing, one hand idly on her belly, rocking back on her heels as though she’s a few months further along than she really is.
I’d say three months tops.
I get out of the car just in time for the boys to slam right into me, warm arms squeezing me tight as Brutus barks his greeting at them from the passenger seat.
Dad! Dad! I came top in the History test, Dad! Terry took us bowling, Dad, and I won a trophy, Dad! We both did!
Their happy voices are one of my most favourite sounds on earth.
My other favourite sounds aren’t suitable for polite conversation.
Terry wraps an arm around my ex-wife’s shoulders, making a right old fucking show of it. It all seems a bit primitive to me – his male-ego need to paw at something in order to demonstrate ownership.
I don’t need to drape myself over a woman to show she belongs to me. It’s all in the eyes. In hers, in mine. If a woman truly belongs to you it’s written all over her. She smells of it. It’s in her smile. In the flutter of her lashes. In the way her body pulls towards yours, like a magnet. A charge.
Claire was like that with me once upon a time.
Now she’s gripped awkwardly under Terry’s arm while he shows off like a cockerel in a coop.
The boys stay attached to me as I head towards the woman who used to wear my ring on her finger. My hand is already extended, and Terry takes it, squeezes overly hard, and I wonder again just what he’s lacking down below to require such a macho shake.
Claire doesn’t take my hand.
“We need to talk,” she tells me. “Later.”
I don’t hide the glance at her belly. “News, I gather. I don’t need it spelling out.”
She shifts her weight onto her hip. “Not that, Alexander. About the boys. It’s important.”
I ruffle their hair and resist the urge to flip her the finger. Her prickly tone infuriates me, trying to stab little holes in the few measly hours I get with them every weekend.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Later.” I smile my fake professional smile. “Terry.”
He nods. “Alexander.”
I step away before they take up any more of my precious fucking time.I take the boys for dinner at a tasteless burger joint just off the A3 they’ve insisted on frequenting every Sunday these past few months. The coffee is bitter and thoroughly disgusting, and the burgers taste too cheap to be edible, but the boys love it here.
Terry takes them, apparently.
Good for fucking Terry.
I wrap my godawful excuse for a meal in a napkin when they aren’t looking. Brutus will get considerably more enjoyment from it than I will.
I wait until the boys have wolfed down their fries and shakes before I pull the tickets from my jacket pocket.
I’ve been waiting all week for this, for the sweet wash of happiness I’ll feel when their eyes light up in recognition. I have the seats marked out on a map of the stadium on my phone, a 360 degree view of the ground so they’ll know exactly what we’re heading for.
I slap the tickets down in front of them with a flourish, and my heart is thumping.
Joy.
It feels quite alien these days.
“I’ve booked us the very best seats,” I tell them. “Right at the front. We’ll see everything, and after the game I’ve got us backstage passes. We’ll meet the players, get you some photos.” I’m smiling, and they’re staring, and I’m waiting for the moment, the moment when their faces light up.
But it doesn’t come.
Their smiles are weak and fucking awkward, and it stabs at me, right in the fucking gut.
“What?” I ask, and there’s a brutality to my tone that I didn’t intend. I take a breath.
It’s Thomas who spits it out. “It’s the twenty-second…”
“Yes. Four weeks today.”
“But we’re…” He looks down at the table. “We’re going to the football… with Terry… we were going to tell you today… Terry said to wait, until he definitely had tickets, said maybe you could come on Saturday instead, or–”
“Or what?”
He doesn’t want to say it, and I feel like an asshole for pushing when I know what’s coming.
“Or what, Thomas? What did Terry say?”
It’s Matthew that answers, his eyes so big and innocent. “He said maybe you could miss a week, for the football. He said maybe you wouldn’t mind.”
Cunt.
Terry is a fucking cunt.
“I didn’t realise you boys liked football. Rugby’s your game, no?”
Thomas doesn’t answer, but Matthew shakes his head. “We like football now, Dad. Thomas says football’s better. Cooler, isn’t it, Thomas?”