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Where do I begin, to tell the story of how we told everyone? To tell the story of how I now feel quite numb? Perhaps it would have been nice not to have been dumb? Especially judging by the face on Paula's Mum.......
Andy Williams. One of Paula's mum's heroes, along with Showaddywaddy, Abba and those crap seventies disco bands who wore flared jump suits and danced like their crotch was smoking. I only found this out when I went round there with P last weekend. Ostensibly to announce that we were an 'item'. The celebration was more Disco Duck than Inferno, judging by the smacked arse look on her mother's face. Still, more later.
The morning walk has become a bit of a bulwark against the mounting tide; a chance for a bit of peace and reflection. I watched two pheasants square up in a field one morning, feathers glinting like bubbles in the sun, beady eyes gimlet at each other, ignoring the human danger stood idling against a tree, like some crooked bookie watching a bare-knuckle brawl. Had one of them called the other a cow-son, it would scarcely have surprised me less. Nothing surprises me any more. In these days when the secret is out, I should feel ebullient. But there's this far-off, tiny voice somewhere which cautions and deals in blistering frankness. It sounds like Tel. No, it sounds like a mix of my Dad and Tel. Like the Jonny Williams song, it comes and goes.
The sex has flattened out. Knowing each other like knives became less appealing the more we worked, the tiredness and the disinclination for constant horizontal jiggling has now become a more mature, thoughtful, loving response from both. We still manage a good session, but these days it's the intimacy that doesn't require the gritting of teeth or that odd feeling of eyes at bursting point. Paula's boobs still fascinate me; the pear-drop shaped beauty with the nipples like church hat-pegs. She'll keep our babies fat. Speaking of which, we've had two mild 'scares' already. One a slightly late monthly, when she brooded and sounded hopeful, another involving an ominous testing kit which appeared after a few days of abstinence ended with the sort of 'reunion' that meant I washed the sheets twice. Neither produced the clear blue line it advertised. I was vaguely pleased. I didn't show it. There was a dangerous lilt of chagrin in her voice as she said "Oh well".
She's still married, even despite everything. The Decree Absolute is due next month. She has contacted Blake to see if his solicitor needs anything else, trying to hurry the process into finality. I have proposed, sort of. She hasn't said yes, sort of. It's all a bit trying to be honest.
Blake, well. To be fair, he was missing from the great 'announcement' list we drew up a few weeks ago. His brother rang Paula at work last week to say how sorry he was and all that, repeating the same old platitudes and burning the same old bridges. Apparently, he and his new fiancee (we never knew that either) have gone snowboarding somewhere cheap and chilly in Eastern Europe for three weeks. They are 'very much in love' said Blake's brother. His intervention was welcomed by her and by me. He seemed a decent bloke at their wedding. It must be difficult to deal with someone else's guilt by proxy. But this is the end. Beautiful friend.
We told Terry and Mrs Tel, finally, last Friday night. Tel had a weekend off and contacted me via mis-spelt text to arrange 'a drinnk & someit to ate" so we hijacked it and I suggested a night round his for a Chinese. He rang me back minutes after the text pinged off. "Yer sure? Rand 'ere? Wiv the missis n'all?" Yes I said. I muttered something about news for them both. "Yer leavin' innit? Sed as much ter the wife, ah sed "'e's orf. Sell tha' bleedin' big 'ouse and gedda bungalow somewhere else, prob'ly Brum, start agen". I hastened to say no. He then sounded suspicious. "It aint anyfing ter do wiv sex change ops is it? Only..." (a quick break-off to mutter something to Mrs Tel) "...yer'd look stoopid in a skirt an' a pair of court shoes. Still..." No. "Oh right, oh well, yeah, got me finkin' aint'cher? We'll bofe see yer Friday then".
Friday dawned. I woke Paula with a kiss and she smiled and then rolled over to me and kissed me properly, the giggle as she reached beneath the duvet and the shock as her cold little hand found my parts. I did a proper job that morning. Sod the endless A14 and the soulless suburbs of Kettering and Northampton. The routine of shower, sh*t, shave and suit, familiar as my life in the days before we met, now has companionship, intimacy and at least one extra S in it. This was two extra S's to be exact.
It was the rush of both dressing, the finding of underwear, the donning of unfurled tights, the erotic mixed with the necessary as she 'flashed' me several times sat on the edge of the bed to don her cotton draws. The colour in the cheeks was flushed and the final kiss goodbye was tender and heartfelt and fuzzy-making. "Don't forget to get back for six" she reminded me as she found her car keys in her handbag and put her coat on, both at the same time. Her lipstick and mascara were flawless. I suddenly felt I'd been happily married for a century. Then she was gone.
We got a taxi to Tel's. I told him not to worry about collecting me, lest we have a scene on the drive when he saw Paula's car. It felt like the French Revolutionaries must have when the cart rolled them to the guillotine. I paid the cabbie off. Didn't recognise him, thank heavens, so we were spared the usual bluster and bullsh*t about familial ills and woes. He stopped three doors away from Tel's bungalow. We got out, smoothed down clothing and breathed in sharply. Then, hand-in-hand, she suddenly deciding as we got level with Tel's neighbour to put my arm round her, me patting her pert bum and she laughing at my pat "Was that meant to be my bum? Only you've just patted my hip", we walked to the front door. The ring of the bell. The light came on in the porch and then there was Mrs Tel, clad in Pretenders T-Shirt and black jeans, her hair a vague cherry black, glossy and tipped with pearl-coloured ends. "Trick or Treat" I said. She smiled at us both. "I reckon it's treat" she said, warmly. We were in.
"Ullo Paula, wot'choo doin' 'ere?" said Tel as he emerged from the living room. "Long time nah see love". He greeted me with a handshake that became a hug. Then he said "Is this yer noos then?" and I smiled and looked coyly at P and she grinned and nodded and then promptly cried, and was then laughing as Tel said "Blimey. Still yer could'a done worse". And to me, he smiled and said "Bout time. Ah'm 'appy for ya. Yer bofe don't know this......" here, he paused to go to the kitchen for something, but came back clutching a bottle of Moet, "...but I knoo she always 'ad a fing fer ya, and I 'oped and prayed it'd come to something more". So you knew? I asked them both. "Yeh, well, aint blind are we? You was 'appier than I'd sin yer fer ages, an' I met up wiv 'er a few weeks ago an' she was bleedin' bloomin', so we put two and two togevver an' 'oped we adn't made five".
The discussions after, all the times I'd rehearsed it in my ageing head, all the misgivings and the detriment and the accusations, they all melted away. We talked about marriage and Paula flushed and Tel teased us both and Mrs Tel just kept hugging us both and we went outside in their garden for a ciggie together and she cried and said how pleased she was. "Finally seen sense" she said to me, and then to Paula "It's been a rough one wiv a few mistakes along the road, but you've dunnit love. Yer there!".
And we both got drunk that night, and the bloke delivering the Chinese looked bemused to be greeted by four beaming, drink-flushed faces as ghoulish as anything he'd see that Sunday when Hallow'een kicked off and all the locals carved leering pumpkins and dressed their kids like something out of a Breughels painting. The cab home was a passion play, drunken snogs and the cabbie laughing at our relief. And we got back to mine and the key fumbled in the lock as we embraced, and I was all for one last snifter, but she shushed me and led me upstairs, not even bothering to switch the lights on as we went. And it was an all-nighter, interspersed with the sort of talks two inebriated people indulge in. And she asked if I was serious about marriage and I did my best deadpan and said 'Yes" and she smiled, and she said "I love you" like she meant the very essence of it. And then she said something about Mrs Tel's argument with Terry about how many sweet and sour pork balls he'd scoffed and we laughed.
And we beat Wycombe away and drew 1-1 with Oldham, and it suddenly all seemed frivolous, even though we both think the Town are going up. Like Paula and I, it's the thought of it which is scarier than then actuality. And even though her mum doesn't really approve ("'Ow Old are ya? Forty seven. Bleedin' ell. Only nine years younger'n me") and I don't think we'll ever be close (She liked Blake, and I think still held out hope they'd be together again, despite everything), I really don't mind. But it's the overthinking that plagues me. If only it'd cease.
Tel's already talking about a 'big Chrismuss, all of us round ours 'aving a larff an' a few drinks, like, be brilliant, yer'll bofe come won'tcher?" and we said yes. Who knows. She might be saying yes to something else by then?
The Warky Report: Oldham tight and hope (FAC1 H) on 17:34 - Nov 7 by Fixed_It
So tempted to write tl;dr. But of course that would not be true!
Warkymy son, your prose is never too long to read. I Imagine that there are a significant number of twtders willing you and Paula to true happiness. It would have been something of a surprise to me at least if Tel, and Mrs Tel had not been positive about your relationship. Fixed it, that’s not a dig,as you said it would not be true
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The Warky Report: Oldham tight and hope (FAC1 H) on 18:08 - Nov 7 with 1240 views
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