Dont bother unpacking your suitcase youre leaving
Whats happened? demanded Helen, her voice sharp as ever, as she caught sight of me sprawled on the sofa and not bothering to get up when she came in.
Well, whats happened, darling, is that youre leaving me. So dont bother unpacking your suitcase: were getting a divorce and youre moving out tonight! I said, keeping my tone as even as possible.
Helen nearly looked as if she hadnt heard me right. Darling?
She once teased me about being a bunny said I had that kind of face, though Im nearly six foot four. I batted the nickname away, joking about being the worlds largest bunny. It had once come up when my old friend Sophie sharp as ever had suggested I dress as the Easter Bunny for her nieces birthday, and wed had a right laugh about whether they could find a costume big enough. The banter with Sophie had always been easy: she worked for an event-planning agency and could always use a hand when someone called in sick, like the poor chap down with flu at Christmas.
Youd think it was always just Father Christmas and his helper in this country, but Sophies boss was a real one-off, always looking for fresh energy and something new and exciting. Maybe he never got to play the bunny as a kid himself. So now, his event teams trotted around, three strong: Father Christmas, the Snow Maiden (with Sophie dazzling as ever), and a bunny with a lopsided felt carrot sticking out of a rucksack. I once ended up playing Father Christmas myself when the real one couldnt make it, and to my surprise, it turned out to be easy and fun. We visited families, watched the kids recite poems, and gathered around the tree, bunny bouncing about. For the last booking on New Years Eve, we even had a glass of port in the car before heading off.
But let me back up.
The Christmas and New Years just gone were a right mess. My wife Helen had shot off again to hers something about her mums health which, the past few months, had become a regular refrain. You understand, sweetheart, I cant leave Mum alone, she said gently, eyes all wide as she packed a suitcase for the third visit in as many months.
Shall I come with you? You shouldnt be alone at New Years, I said.
Oh no you mustnt spoil your holiday! Its bad enough Ill have a miserable one!
But I thought we promised, for better or worse?
Youll call me, wont you? Just hearing your voice will be enough for me! Go out with your friends, love Ill cope.
In theory, I could have crashed someones party but social circles had firmed up by then and, honestly, I just wasnt in the mood. The flat felt colder and darker, like something out of a Harold Pinter play.
That was when Sophie rang. She always came through for me. Wed remained mates since school, a fact that Helen never quite trusted. Sophie was even banned from our wedding though she was married herself and wouldve come with her husband but I tried to keep the peace rather than protest. Sophies brilliant: didnt take it personally.
So, in the middle of my New Years blues, Sophie had a proposition: the agency needed a stand-in Father Christmas. Decent pay, but more importantly, something to do.
I didnt need the money I made plenty as a senior analyst, which let Helen focus on her family commitments. But I said yes anyway, mostly just to get out the flat.
Father Christmass coat fit, so did the boots. They glued on the beard, clipped on the moustache, and off we went to spread some festive cheer. The last house was booked for 10pm on New Years Eve. After that, we could finally be free. Sophie, sweet as she always was, invited me for a proper dinner with her family: no kids in their house yet, so it would just be her, her husband, and her mum, who liked me well enough from school.
At a few minutes before quarter to ten, I phoned Helen from the car.
Hows your mum? I asked softly.
Holding up, darling, she replied. Happy New Year! Im watching TV and thinking of you.
Give your mum my love, I said.
Shes just dozed off dont want to disturb her. Ill talk to you at midnight, promise! Love you.
Love you too, sweetheart, I replied.
When we arrived at the last booking, the door swung open and I nearly lost my footing. There stood Helen, who as far as I was concerned was in Shrewsbury with her mother. Id booked her a taxi myself! And Id just spoken to her on the phone.
She was in her party dress and heels.
When? How? Id watched her pack earlier that week. She must have slipped the dress in after I left for work. Or maybeno, it really was Helen: the little beauty mark above her eyebrow proved it.
Suddenly another voice from inside a mans. Coming, darling! Then out shuffled a balding, stocky chap with a paunch.
Sophie piped up, Wheres the boy? Freddie?
Im Freddie! said the man, slapping his belly and grinning, Decided to treat myself this year.
My stomach turned. All at once, everything made sense: the gifts Helen claimed were from her ailing mother, the abrupt visits, the late-night calls. Instead of feeling angry, I felt oddly numb embarrassed in front of Sophie, most of all.
So I lowered my voice, adjusted it just in case Helen recognised Father Christmas, and muttered, Right, Freddie, have you got a poem for us?
He mumbled something. Helen didnt twig who I was: she and her Freddie were clearly half-cut, laughing and dancing like teenagers.
I found myself thinking, How on earth did Helen who always cared about appearances, who set such high standards wind up with this portly bloke? Was she really so bored at home?
Freddie, Helen, and even the bunny (who had nipped another tot of sherry) staggered around the lounge, singing and dancing. I got my phone out and filmed discreetly: Helens story about her poor mother unravelled with each drunken giggle.
All too soon, the host shooed us out. Right, thats enough. Youve done your bit. Off you go.
Back in the car, Sophie mused, Strange. Shes gorgeous! Why this slug? Hes definitely not her husband.
I am! I wanted to shout, but held my tongue.
Needless to say, I didnt go back to Sophies for midnight. I lied and said I was feeling a bit off flu maybe and headed home alone. I never called Helen at midnight or after; let her have her fun with her bunny.
Thats how I spent my New Years: just me, the quiet, and my thoughts. So be it.
I did love Helen. Odd, with everything that transpired, I felt less love than before. But forgiving the affair and all the elaborate lies? No chance. Divorce, and thats final. The flat was mine anyway.
When Helen finally noticed I hadnt called after ringing and texting her day after day for years thats when she started to panic. She rushed home, bags in tow, two days early, thinking her sudden return would fix things.
Getting back, she strode in with her usual authority. Whats happened? she quipped, probably hoping to scare me back into line.
I stayed where I was on the sofa and replied calmly, Whats happened is, youre leaving me, darling. Dont bother unpacking youre moving out today. Were divorcing.
She stared at me as though Id spoken in tongues. Darling? But how did I know about that nickname? Only Freddie called her that.
And pray tell, where am I supposed to go? she said, feisty as ever.
To your bunny, or back to Shrewsbury with your mum. Has her health improved, by the way? I asked, poker-faced.
Youve got it all wrong, Helen started softly, trying to suss out where shed slipped up. Had a neighbour seen them? Had she left some clue?
Alright, I said, Whats your story then? Was that hefty bloke a doctor for your mum? An alchemist, maybe, preparing a miracle cure? Or was he the nurse youve hired to care for her one Im, as always, footing the bill for? Or perhapsno, surely notthe undertaker? You can tell the truth, you know you showed no shame dancing round with both bunnies at the party.
And then I queued up the video for her to watch.
She had nothing to say. Really, what could she say? Shed had an affair for the thrill, for gifts not something she was ever going to confess. She insisted she loved me. Maybe she did, in her way or maybe she just liked the stability. Thats why she hid it, never wanting to lose her comfortable perch.
If shed admitted shed fallen for someone else, or said it was a one-off, I might have understood. I might even, being the soft-hearted fellow I am, have forgiven her.
But it was the deception the months of sneaking about, the stories about her mum that felt like an even worse betrayal. It was like a calculated crime, not a slip.
Helen cried, begged, pleaded, offered every promise she could muster. But I had made up my mind. Like Father Christmas himself, I stuck to what I said: youre out.
In the end, the divorce was swift. If I regret anything, its only that I didnt confront her that night at the party. Mightve cleared the air there and then.
Funny, really, how all those English manners all those stiff upper lips and polite hints only leave more room for mischief.
Still, perhaps its just as well. Life as it turns out is always a bit of mess, but sometimes, it pays to clean things up and draw a line.
