Business Trip

Business Trip:
Friday:
I pretended to sleep as you slipped out from under the quilt. You spent
a long time in the shower, and then dressed quickly, spicing the
bedroom with your aftershave. I opened one eye to watch you gather your
things hurriedly; plenty of clothes, the novel you've been reading, the
picture of your parents that usually sits on your nightstand.
It would have been a lot easier if you'd packed last night, like I
told you to. Instead you had to tip-toe round the bedroom, chaotically
stuffing the large hold-all with random items. Still I pretended to
sleep, to avoid the misfortune of having to say goodbye. I knew you'd
be cross if I got upset.
Once you'd pressed the door closed I rolled over and went back to
sleep. I followed you down my dreams - on a fast road choked with cars,
with me driving like a maniac, trying to catch up with you.
And so our first separation in ten years begins. It seems surprisingly
easy.
I roll into work for the afternoon. Carla says how relaxed I
look.
This lasts until 3pm. Then my jaw begins to ache in the gap where my
rotten tooth was. At home I take aspirin and wine to dull the pain,
whilst stretched out on the sofa, watching TV. What rubbish we've
missed! It's almost compulsive.
I cradle the phone in my lap until bedtime. Lying down, I tell myself
there's nothing wrong, but I'm annoyed I forgot to give you some loose
change.
Still, you'll call tomorrow, I'm sure.

Saturday:
A big fat weekend of nothing in particular planned. I'm grateful to get
out of bed. It's expanded in the night, without you. Better to be up,
in the kitchen filling the mini-cafetiere, finally getting the main
section of the Guardian to read first, running a bath I intend to
linger in for an hour, without you banging on the door in the middle of
it.
Helen comes to my rescue at eleven o'clock. We arrange to meet in a
caf? on the Quayside. Unsurprisingly it's extremely busy. We wait
twenty minutes for someone to take our order, filling our time catching
up on news.
'How's Mark? Enjoying the conference?'
'Hm. Sort of. You know how these things are. Work, work, work.'
She laughs loudly and tells me how Barry spends so much of his time
away drinking that he's ill for a week afterwards. This puts me off my
prawn baguette. I don't want you to be ill. And you forgot to take your
probiotic drinks.
Window-shopping is great fun. I try on a dress - scarlet chiffon with
a scalloped hem just above the knee and a daring neckline. Gypsy style,
so the woman in the shop says. Helen thinks it's lovely, but I'd look
better if I'd shaved my legs. I'll do them on Wednesday night, in time
for you coming home.
We part at the Metro station and I return home with credit card
intact, content to have spent time with my girlfriend. I wonder why I
don't see her more often.
The answer machine blinks at me in the hall. I replay the tape waiting
to hear your apology. Instead someone wants to sell me half-price
double-glazing. Typical.
The evening passes slowly. I retire to bed at 9pm, with a book,
convincing myself I'm grateful for this rare opportunity.

Sunday:
It takes more effort to get out of bed this morning. My eyes are shot,
my hair a bird's nest. All night spent in terrible dreams. The sorts of
dreams that you'd laugh at then call me a 'fusspot'.
Sunday lunchtime can't be busy. You're bound to call. I wait in the
kitchen, eating beans on toast instead of Sunday roast. The silence is
unbearable.
So I wash my dishes, change into my tracksuit and go for a run.
Through the park, past the white goblet-shaped blooms of the magnolia
trees and the early summer bluebells. Wild garlic perfumes the
air.
I'm not making too much effort, coasting down hill. Everywhere
everyone is in couples, or families. Even fellow joggers! I cut my run
short and return to the confines of the house.
After an hour of discomfort, where I weigh up possible scenarios, I
risk calling your mobile.
'The number you are trying to connect to is temporarily unavailable.
Please try again later.'
God, I hate recorded messages. I phone Mum.
'How's Mark getting on, love?'
'Oh he's fine. Missing me like crazy.'
'I bet he is. Anyway, I got my outfit for your anniversary party
yesterday. Winnie helped me pick it. '
'Excellent. Look Mum,I have to go now. Mark said he'd phone in about
ten minutes time.'
'See you next week, love.'
I hang up and bit my lip. It's a long time until morning.

Monday:
Never have I been so glad to get to work! Never have I been so glad
that I've a day in the office ahead of me. No clients to interrupt or
harangue me. Just me, the VDU and mountains of records to update.
There must be something wrong with our phone. It can't be accepting
non-local calls. I decide to phone the operator tonight and get her to
check it.
Absorbed by my work, I manage to miss lunch. Tony stops by my desk at
2pm.
'Your mascara's run.'
'Has it?'
'You okay? You look a bit peaky. Didn't see you at lunch.'
'I forgot to go.'
'Take a break then, Jules. I'm knocking off early. I'll take a walk
with you, if you want.'
I nod readily and we leave together, under Carla's watchful eye.
Moist, cool air blows off the river and we walk in silence, a little
out of step with each other.
'It's hard when they go away, isn't it?' says Tony.
'Yes, I suppose it is. We're so used to being together you see.'
My sandwich has the texture of blotting paper; a few shrivelled prawns
and a scraping of mayonnaise concealed deep within. After three bites I
rip the rest of it apart and scatter it onto the dull, choppy water for
the seagulls to squabble over. Above is the dull thunder of the traffic
moving across the Tyne Bridge.
'You can get used to anything you know. Even separation.'
But I don't want to get used to it.

Tuesday:
The operator assured me that the line was in perfect working order.
This gave me some temporary hope.
Tony and I are out on client visits today. He drives and we take it in
turns to visit people from our separate caseloads. He makes no mention
of what we talked of yesterday. Which is good because, last night, I
bit the operator's head off. This morning, when I arrived at the
office, Carla got the brunt of my mood.
My period's come. Two weeks late. I thought?never mind what I thought.
Whatever I do, I mustn't get upset in front of Tony.
I wait in the car whilst he visits his first client. Then we drive to
see Mrs Houghton, who's one of mine. Her mobility is severely limited
and she spends all her days and nights in an armchair, by the front
window. Three of her grown-up children live close by, but she spends
most of her time alone.
'They's embarrassed see, by me weight. Worried they'll go same way.
It's why me hubby left, you know, Mrs Morren. So I watches the world
from here and wonder.'
We're trying to get her extra support, but no home help can lift her
out of that chair because of government restrictions. So her world is
eighteen inches wide and twice a day her neighbour pops in to help her
use a potty.
Back in the car I burst into tears. How could they abandon that poor
woman like that? Tony puts his arm round me and it's a relief to be
held again. At the end of the day he invites me for a drink but I
decline. It doesn't feel right.
I try your mobile again. Pointlessly.

Wednesday:
Why did I book a day off this week? I ring work and tell them I'm
coming in. Carla laughs and tells me not to be silly. She says she'd
kill for a day off, despite her weekend away. I offer to swap her but
she laughs even louder.
I fire up our laptop and search for the numbers of hotels in Carlisle.
There are a few, but I can't remember which chain yours belongs to. I
go upstairs and into your wardrobe, to see if I can find the details.
You'll have left them somewhere.
You've taken all your suits. And your shirts. The only thing still
hanging in your wardrobe is that linen jacket I bought you for our
holidays last summer. I search the pockets but discover only your
mobile.
So I go through your nightstand. And there, hidden under a dog-eared
copy of Playboy, is a book of matches. With what I assume is your
hotel's address and telephone number on. I race down the stairs, pick
up the phone and dial the number before I can re-think my
actions.
It connects after three rings. An automatic switchboard. I press '3'
for reservation enquiries and speak to a polite, timid girl who assures
me gently that there has been no conference at the hotel this
weekend.
'So have you had a Mark Morren staying with you?'
'One moment please.'
I tap my foot, counting out the seconds impatiently.
'Hello. Yes, Mr and Mrs Morren were booked in from Friday night until
Sunday morning. Are you a friend of theirs?'
I hang up, unable to answer.

Thursday:
After two bottles of wine it's impossible not to sleep. Trouble is that
it doesn't last all night. By four I'm awake, watching shadows glide
across the cool white walls of our room.
I decide that the house needs some flowers, to mark your return. The
shop does not open until nine, so I bide my time in the bath, shaving
my legs carefully, cleansing, toning and moisturising my face.
On the stroke of 8:30 I phone the office. Carla answers breezily, is
keen to make me feel better about my absence. For once I use my period
as an excuse. She sounds almost sympathetic.
'I'd been looking forward to having lunch with you today as well,
Jules.'
'Yes. I'd hoped you'd tell me all about your weekend, with your
mystery man.'
She laughs, less certain of herself than usual. 'You know me Jules.
Always discrete about my little liaisons.'
'Hm. Can I ask you a question, Carla?'
'Certainly.'
'Tell me what your favourite flowers are?'
'Roses, definitely. Red roses. Why?'
'And the ones you hate? Which ones do you absolutely detest?'
'White Madonna lilies, of course. I've always thought of them as
funeral flowers.'
I tell her I'll be in work tomorrow, probably, and then I hang
up.
At the florists, Barbara greets me warmly.
'What will it be today, Julia?'
'I need a dozen of your best red roses, please, Barbara. And a big
bunch of Madonna lilies.'
'I thought you couldn't bear lilies, Julia?'
'Oh, they're not for me Barbara. They're for a dear friend.'
'And the card?'
'To Mark and Carla. Call me when you've made it to ten years. Love,
Jules.'