AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is a bit of an odd one, folks. A little left field. All I ask is that you persevere when you get to the yuck scene.
Van1 shook his head at me when he proofread for me. He called me a sick puppy and has been looking at me a bit strangely ever since. Lucky he loves me!
Happy Reading!
*****
I LOOKED AROUND, HALF expecting someone to jump out from behind the couch and laughingly tell me I was on Candid Camera. I'd have said Jerry Springer, except in his case I'd have been lured to his studio under a false pretense.
It had to be a joke. It was too surreal, too bizarre, too warped to be true. I longed for it to all be one huge joke, bad taste and ill-conceived, but a joke nonetheless.
But it wasn't.
It wasn't because there was Marcie, following me around, babbling on with every sentence containing the word, 'sorry.'
What was Marcie sorry for? It will probably take me a lifetime to decipher it all but the gist of it all I will try to share as best I can.
Marcie and I - I being Daniel Goodwin - weren't babes in the woods when we met. We weren't childhood sweethearts. Hell, we weren't even young, up-and-coming twenty-something-year-olds. We were comfortable-in-our-skin thirty-somethings. So, I guess, no naivety excuse for me.
We were, however, both first-timers. Neither of us had been married before. I had come close once back in the days when I was young and innocent and ruled by my small head and Marcie had once been in a short-lived de-facto relationship back in college.
We met through our respective careers. Me, as the manager of a small but lucrative mine, and she, as the consultant engaged to conduct personality tests on our workforce.
Perhaps her expertise in reading people is what made her think she could get away with what she did. More on that later.
I can still picture her as she sat opposite me in my office, explaining how she intended to conduct the testing. I'd found it hard to concentrate on her words. It was totally unprofessional of me but there was something about her that took my breath away, took my common sense away. Took all sense away.
It wasn't that she was Helen of Troy incarnate. One might say she was too tall. Too slender. Many a man would have said her nose was a tad too long, her mouth a touch too wide. The same could be said of Julia Roberts and she was considered one of the world's most beautiful women. Too this or too that didn't matter. For me, Marcie was all too perfect.
As it happened the attraction was mutual, something up until a short while ago I'd always been grateful for. I was (am) under no false illusions as to my rating on the handsome scale. My mother, God love her, had always said I have an interesting rather than a purely handsome face, and, according to her, interesting was better. So, I wasn't a George Clooney, more a David Strathairn. What I did have, however, was a keen intellect and a good sense of humour, though I wasn't laughing much of late.
Throughout the testing period, Marcie flirted, and I responded but I waited, not so patiently, until her contract was complete before calling her and asking her out on a date. I put some thought into that date. A lot of thought. In the end, I took her on a picnic by a pebbled stream and after imbibing pâté and brie with sliced apple, grapes, and cherries I taught her how to pan for sapphires. She "found" the one I planted in her pan, and I can still recall the look of wonder and excitement on her face. She trusted me with her gem, and I got it cut and set for her in a pendant. A pendant she still wore right up until the day she ripped my heart out.
Dating rapidly became betrothed. Betrothed. Such an old-fashioned word. Pity it didn't come with old-fashioned values. Our engagement was equally short. Within twelve months of meeting, we were married.
The bliss of those early years has only served to deepen the pain of recent times. How could we, and I sincerely believed it was a 'we', have been so happy only to end up here? How could it all have gone so pear-shaped?
How did excitedly house-hunting, laughing and loving as we painted and renovated and made it our dream home turn into my current nightmare? How?
The beginning of the end began innocently enough with a knock at the door. Marcie returned to the kitchen where we'd been sitting at the table, sharing our traditional Sunday coffee and paper. How I enjoyed that simple ritual.
She was pale. Shaken.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" I asked, fearing one of our parents had been involved in a fatal accident. Why else would she be so upset by a knock at the door?
"Daniel... Daniel. Julian. Julian has found me."
I spilled my coffee. I knew who Julian was. He was her first flush of love confession. The love child conceived with her childhood sweetheart. Both being only seventeen, the families decided that the best option for all concerned was to put the baby up for adoption. Marcie named him and handed him over to the young childless couple. Every now and then, with one or two extra wines under her belt, she'd wonder where he was and what he was doing.
"What? How?"
"I don't know. I don't know. He's in the living room."
I rose and followed her. And there, seated on our lounge was a young man. All I could see was the back of his head. His hair was dark and kinked up at the ends. It would seem he'd inherited Marcie's waves.
Marcie clutched my hand, the squeeze on my knuckles was borderline painful. She led me around the lounge until we stood facing Julian who rose and extended his hand.
I tried to control my reaction, but I couldn't help the questioning glance I sent in Marcie's direction. She'd never mentioned that Jay, her childhood sweetheart, was Indian or Pakistani. It could explain why both sets of grandparents thought it best to have the baby put up for adoption.
"Hello, Mr. Goodwin. I apologise for just landing on your doorstep like this. I didn't know what else to do."
I nodded, extending my hand and gripping his firmly. "Hello, Julian. Please, call me Daniel."
Julian smiled. "Thank you. I have been searching for my mother for such a long time. I just arrived in town. I know I should have organised somewhere to stay and made contact in a less, ah, surprising way, but I've been dreaming of this moment for so long I couldn't wait another day."
Julian's English was excellent with what I was certain many a young lady found a pleasing sing-song accent. I studied him, searching for a glimpse of Marcie in his features. Other than his glossy dark hair there was none. His father must have been one good-looking guy. Julian reminded me of the guy who played the rival for the girl's affection in the second of the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel movies. He had movie star good looks.
Marcie squeezed my hand even tighter. "You can stay here." She turned to me. "Can't he, Daniel?"
What could I say? Not much without looking like an asshole.
By the end of the day, Julian was ensconced in our guest bedroom and Marcie was all aflutter. Never, not even in our early days, had I seen her so excited. She was visibly trembling.
To be honest, I wasn't keen to have Julian under our roof, but I wanted to support Marcie. I knew she had doubts and guilt over going along with her parent's decision of all those years ago. If having Julian here for a time helped her, I would swallow my reservations.
In subsequent months, I tried not to resent Julian's intrusion into our lives. The way our little rituals were changed or discarded to accommodate his presence.
No more sharing a glass of wine while we prepared dinner side by side. No more leisurely Sunday mornings spent in bed before sharing a coffee and a paper, doing the crossword together. No more Saturdays spent wandering the markets or browsing in antique shops. No more drives to the mountains to go for a hike. Even our weekday messaging dwindled off to almost nothing.
And then there were the new traditions.
Now it was Marcie and Julian cooking a meal together. Most of it curries. As much as I enjoyed all manner of Indian cuisine, having it almost every night wore thin. If I wanted something like a steak, I had to prearrange it with Marcie so she and Julian could go out for the evening as Julian was raised as a Hindu and my eating of beef was offensive to him.
It became the pair of them going on weekend outings. Though nothing outright was said, both made it clear that they preferred I didn't tag along. Apparently, I would find museums and galleries boring.
Evenings were spent watching them with their heads bent toward each other in conversation and shared jokes. Or witnessing their hugs which always seemed to go on a tad too long. Or listening to the irritating way he, as a grown man, called her 'Mummy' like a small boy.
I felt like the third wheel in my marriage. An intruder in my own home.
I tried to stem the flow. I asked her out on dates. Surprised her with flowers. The list goes on. Her lack of reciprocation hurt. I can't deny it.
Bit by bit my wife was slipping away from me, and all the while I felt like my hands were tied, my tongue sheathed. I couldn't say anything without sounding like an unsupportive, selfish, insecure, jealous prick.
I found Julian various jobs, none of which for one reason or another were suitable. I sent him and Marcie links to apartments to rent. I offered to pay his rent until he was settled. Again, nothing came of any of the leads, of my offer.
