Low

My husband thinks he’s making an effort. He brings over a whisky and soda, placing the tumbler on a coaster on the coffee table.

I kick off my flats and he kneels to massage my feet. They’re sore after a ten-hour shift waiting tables in the restaurant.

“The car’s making that noise,” I say, feeling his fingers push into the arch of my foot. I notice a packet of empty crisps by the armchair where he’s sat and watched sport. I know from his eyes he’s been drinking by himself long before I returned home from work.  

He rubs the calf of my leg. “How does that feel?”

I lean for the tumbler and tinkle the cubes of ice, wondering about his search for a job.  

He adjusts himself on the floor, sitting cross-legged, and moves to my other foot.

“What did you do this evening?” I ask.

“This and that.”

“Any news?”

He tightens. Who wants to hire a local news journalist on the wrong side of middle age? He lowered his lofty expectations and applied for positions he’d generally looked down on, such as copywriting roles in public relations and marketing. It turns out those companies didn’t want him either.

“Have you tried Tesco yet?”

My friend at work, Janice, said the bloke she’s seeing would put a word in for a job in the warehouse, but he has to apply first.

The strength in his fingers and thumbs weaken against my sweaty foot. His massages used to be the best. I would tell him how relaxing I found them and that he could be a professional masseuse. There was intimacy too. Back then, he would’ve asked me to take a shower. Lit scented candles in the bedroom. Rubbed oil into my skin.  

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Except he won’t. He doesn’t want to work for a supermarket because it’s beneath him. I imagine what he really thinks about me—a lowly waitress. Unlike him, I never went to university.  

I draw my foot away.

“You need to ask about benefits.”

He doesn’t want to hear it. Thinks I’m picking on him. Maybe I am.

He downs his whisky and goes to the drinks cabinet we bought in a second-hand shop in the countryside ten-months ago. The owner who sold it to us wore corduroy trousers, a cable-knit jumper and a padded gilet. They explained the cabinet was in the Art Nouveau style, convincing us it was a period piece. We found the Made in China sticker on the back after it’d been delivered.

Two nights in a limestone cottage surrounded by fields sounds romantic. Shame there was no romance. Certainly not after he dropped the bombshell he was being made redundant.

He tops himself up and gestures to me with the bottle. I give the tumbler a shake. He ignores my comment about benefits and says, “How was work?”

I watch him fill my glass. He replaces the bottle in the cabinet and sits in his armchair.

“Something did happen today.”

“Chef burnt the chips?” He laughs.

“Don’t take the piss.”

“Just a joke.”

We sip our drinks at different speeds.

“I waited on a young couple.”

“How young?”

“Early twenties.”

“How can they afford to eat in a place like that?”

“Perhaps they won the lottery.”

“Guess someone has to.”

“They weren’t posh. They were sweethearts, holding hands as they were taken to their table in my section. It was the girl’s birthday. I went over and could see they were nervous. I explained the set menu. The tasting menu. The specials, which flew straight over their heads. The girl said she’s not a fan of fishy fish.”

“But it’s a seafood restaurant?”

“The boy’s face was a picture.”

“What did she order?”

“We do a minute steak… but it was funny or, I don’t know, strange to see them together.”

“In what sense?”

I’m confused by his question.

“What are you saying?” he asks.  

“They were in love.”

He looks at me.

“That excitement at being together… of first love.”

“It’s shagging at their age.”

“Sex matters, but it was more than that. Much more.”

He raises the glass to his mouth and says, “Love’s young dream.”  

“You’re not hearing me.” I can feel my voice grow louder. “They had intimacy.”

He sniffs and swallows the last of his whisky. “Love,” he says. “I get it.”

I feel the rapid beating of my heart. I’m trying to hide how fast I’m breathing.

He raises himself from the armchair, wearing his joggers and bobbled t-shirt. “I’m off to bed. You coming?”

“Think I’ll sit for a while. It was a busy shift.”

He kisses me on the head, says ‘Goodnight’ and leaves the room, remembering to take his glass and crisp packet.

I pour myself another drink and switch off the lamp, sitting in darkness. Twenty minutes go by. I place a handwritten letter on the coffee table, put on my flats and grab the small bag I’ve packed with make-up, toiletries and a few clothes. Quietly closing the front door, I step out into the chilly night air and walk fast to the car. I hope he hasn’t heard me leave and keep checking over my shoulder. The engine rattles noisily as I pull off and I pray the car doesn’t break down on the drive to Janice’s place.

It was Janice who found me sobbing in the alleyway behind the restaurant after the young lovers left. I blurted out what was inside of me. Feelings I did and didn’t know I possessed. She gave me a hug. Told me I can stay in her spare room. Said I need time to think.

Promised the pain would pass.