It’s been a while – sorry – now where were we?
Oh yes -
I retrieved my phone and sent Mr Jones a text – “Mr M knows!”I have no idea what Mr Jones thought when he read this text and I can’t actually remember what he replied. No doubt it was a suitable mix of panic, terror and guilt. The next few days are a bit of a blur. I had to contend with living it what felt like the world’s smallest house with an understandably surly Mr M and endure hundreds and hundreds of conversations in which we discussed why I’d “run off”, “cheated”, “lied”.......
One day he asked me just what it was about Mr Jones that had made me choose him. Hundreds of reasons sprung up in my mind – he makes me laugh, he understands sarcasm, he lets me out on a Friday night, he’s handsome, he has charisma, he doesn’t make me cringe when he speaks, he loves a damn good argument and is more than happy to tell me to take a running jump if he doesn’t agree with me, he’s unpredictable and he doesn’t follow me around like a lost lamb. But I didn’t think it was wise to bring up any of these things. So I just said – “He has dark hair.” Mr M was blonde.
I’ve always had a thing about dark hair. For years and years the man of my dreams was strictly based on Gilbert Blythe from
Anne of Green Gables. I was completely obsessed with Jonathan Crombie who played him in the screen version. Whenever I imagined getting married the groom was always dark haired and handsome. I dreamt of him taking me in a passionate embrace and promising me the world – while knowing exactly how to calm my red headed temper and impetuousness. Had I thought about it my relationship with Mr M was doomed from the outset – fickle as it sounds there was no way I’d have settled for a blonde.
Mr M had no answer for “He has dark hair” and I congratulated myself on the swift curtailing of yet another lengthy discussion about our relationship and its evident failings.
Two days later I was sat in an umcomfortable wooden chair at our dining room table working on an essay in my pyjamas. Mr M came home and sat for a few minutes in silence staring at me while I ignored him, hoping that he might just disappear. “I went to the hairdressers today,” he said.
“Oh right”
“I asked the girl in there if I could dye my hair brown and she said it was entirely possible.”
I looked up at him to see if this was some kind of joke. But he looked deadly serious. “You’re joking right?” I asked wondering whether I could get away with laughing.
“No, I just thought that if the only reason you’re going out with Mr Jones is because he has dark hair….” he trailed off – perhaps realising just how ridiculous he sounded. I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand I wanted to laugh, but on the other I just felt pity. After everything that had happened he still wanted me back – and was willing to dye his hair to get me.
“It’s not the only reason,” I said. “I’m sorry but our relationship is over and dying your hair won’t make any difference.”
While all this was going on Mr Jones and I were having a great time both together and apart. Released from the clutches of Miss B, Mr Jones no longer had to go home every weekend and I could finally go out with my girlfriends guilt free.
When Mr Jones and I appeared in public together there were a lot of whispers. Friends took sides and I was seen as the most immoral of all of us. But I didn’t really care – I completely understood that Mr M’s closest friends would consider me a cheating harridan and would turn against me. Happily I had plenty of friends of my own and I had Mr Jones and he made me happy.
While in public Mr M maintained an appearance of complete dignity. Something which I have always been incredibly grateful for. There were no public scenes or hideous arguments. He just played the part of the cuckold with great aplomb which just made people feel more sorry for him.
Behind the doors of our house however it was a different story. He eavesdropped on my conversations, went through my things, tampered with my course work and generally made me feel watched.
Every Wednesday night he would go out to the Tower nightclub with is friends, giving me a welcome night of peace. Some days Mr Jones would come round to see me and we’d live dangerously, wrapped in each others arms, half fearing that Mr M would come back.
Other nights I’d stay at home reading novels for my course in bed. On one such night Mr M came home drunk at about 9.30pm. He came thundering up the stairs and into my bedroom. “I think I’ve let you get away with too much, I think I should have been more forceful in our relationship, perhaps then you’d still be going out with me,” he said.
“Oh right,” – I was stumped and couldn’t quite see where this conversation was going.
He started moving towards the bed and it suddenly occurred to me what he had in mind. I asked him what he thought he was doing and told him to get out of my room. He refused.
I heard someone clear their throat downstairs and realised that he’d left his mates in the lounge. I clutched my pencil in my fist and waved it in his face – “Come any closer and I’ll scream and stab this pencil in your eye,” I said.
His drunken bravado seemed to leave him and he sunk back to sit on the bed. He looked sad, but I was in no mood for soothing his ego. “Get out,” I spat. My temper was unleashed and I slung a string of names and expletives in his direction. He beat a hasty retreat to the door. A moment later they all left. I sat there shaking wishing my bedroom door had a lock on it.
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