Garry Pope - Too Late?

On stage you tower over a podium, addressing a packed room. Behind you, projecting on a massive screen is your name: Keith Clarkson, Senior Director of JobIt.com. Hundreds of eyes blaze up at you from their seats. They clap at the speech you just delivered. You slide a hand through your black hair, and picture the yellow spotlight dancing on the brilliant white flakes around your temples. You smile. They respect me, you believe. You bend your arms in your blue tailored suit, flexing your trained biceps. This is your signature joke. Your employees roar with laughter.

“Enough of me,” your voice booms around the room. “Now, it’s a free bar but that doesn’t mean drink yourself silly. Remember, I’m picking up the tab.”

A man yells from the darkness, “I’ll have a double then.”

Another wave of laughter rolls across the room. You shield your eyes from the light. “Who invited my wife?”

You bound off the podium and stride down the stairs, shaking hands with strangers, ignoring their praise. You head to the table where the other directors have gathered, smoking cigars and drinking champagne. They congratulate you and you take a glass and talk facts and figures.

The night stretches into a haze of champagne and false smiles. You’re drunk. The lights are so low your employees don’t recognise you as you stagger towards the toilets. The drone of the music pushes you along. The room stinks of sweat, smoke, alcohol and pretentiousness. In the lobby you spot a fat woman from accounts, you cannot recall her name. She chats into a young woman’s ear. The young woman is dark skinned, a polished brown, with shoulder length brown hair and big brown wet eyes. She looks bored. You study her figure and notice her big, firm tits, the pinnacle of her hard tight body. You meet her eyes. She smiles a cute little smile which you return. You carry on to the toilets, thinking about her body.

Back at the bar you drink a few cocktails and scan the room. She struts off the dance floor, steps up beside you and tries to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She turns, lowers her eyes and places a finger on her full lips. “They’re free tonight.”

Her accent is London heavy, south or east you can never tell the difference, but so unlike your Oxford pronunciation.

“I know. I’m paying for them.” Her face crumples into a mask of confusion. You say, “Didn’t you hear my wonderful speech?”

“Oh, you’re…?”

“Don’t look like that; most people in the company don’t know my name. Please, have a drink with me?” You signal to the bartender who jumps at your command. “Two gin and tonics, large.” Returning to the beautiful young woman you ask, “What is your name?”

“Zoë.” She talks into her chest in a timid voice.

“Have you worked for my company long?”

“One month. I’m a temp. I’m leaving at the end of next week.”

“To do what?”

“Going to the London College of Fashion. I want to open a clothes shop one day.”

“You dress very nice,” you say as you hand her the full glass of gin. “I bet your boyfriend is very proud of you.”

She sips her drink, eyeing you over the glass. “I don’t have one.”

“Now come on, you’re fooling with me.”

“Honest, I’m free and single…and fun.”

The electricity crackles between you. The tension turns like a screw. She wants you.

The music has finished, the lights half lit. Your employees dribble out the main doors. A few puddles of colleagues huddle around, hanging on for support, talking drunken nonsense. The bar staff collect dirty glasses and straighten chairs. Zoë laughs at your joke and you laugh too. You check your watch and stretch.

“I think it’s time I went home,” you say.

She touches your wrist, soft, delicate, sensuous, and reads your Rolex. “I’ve missed my last train.”

“I’ll call you a taxi.”

“I haven’t enough money. It’s well far.”

“My treat. Come on, I’ll call from outside.”

You slip on your coat and help her into a little white mackintosh.

“Thanks,” she slurs.

As you leave, you survey the room to see if anyone is spying. They’re not.

Cold London air slaps you in the face intoxicating your senses. Rain bullets down on you both as you trot to a bus shelter seeking cover. The neon lights of the West End dazzle on the soaking tarmac.

Zoë holds her small sparkling handbag over her head as the rain pelts her from all sides. “My hair’s ruined.”

“You look perfect.”

You search the street; not a black cab in sight. You think things over. You turn and look at her thin, brown legs, curving out the bottom of her coat. She knows you are looking at her. Her eyes fall in a coy way. A taxi lurches around the corner, its orange sign glowing with availability. You stand at the side of the road and flag it down. It skids to a halt beside the curb and rumbles.

“Where to Guv?”

Zoë calls over your shoulder, “Tooting Broadway.”

“Sorry love, don’t go that side after dark.”

You look at Zoë and picture her naked in a squeaky double bed. “The nearest Hilton hotel.”

“I can’t afford that,” she says.

“You don’t have to, I’ll pay.”

You open the door for her and she climbs in, buckling her seat belt. She is so young. The rain powers on your head, soaking you. It drums on the roof of the cab.

“Jump in,” barks the taxi driver, “I haven’t got all night.”

Zoë waits in the grand lobby which is a mass of white marble, gold trimmings, soft red armchairs, and hanging landscapes of London. You pay for the room at the desk with cash and sign in as Michael Mouse. You signal to Zoë with one finger and scoot off to the toilets. You peel open your mobile telephone and call home.

It rings twice. “Hello?”

“Miranda, it’s me.”

“Where are you?” she’s struggling to wake up.

“I’m staying in a hotel. I’ve missed my last train.”

Your wife asks, “Are you drunk?”

“Sloshed.”

“Then eat something before you go to bed. Make sure you’re home early tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you want to know why?” Miranda enquires.

“Sure.”

“Well, you’ll have to wait… Oh, by the way, Callum wants a motorbike.”

“Great.”

“Great? He’ll kill himself. I want you to speak to him tomorrow. He’s not having one.”

“Sure, no problem. Listen, I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Don’t be late.”

“Bye.” You hang up and feel grateful that you are so drunk. The guilt is deep down in your stomach and drowned by gin.

You step into the lobby, your Italian shoes tip-tap on the gleaming floor. Zoë perches on the edge of a chair, checking her make-up in a hand mirror. She looks so different from your wife.

“Ready?” you ask.

The morning sun cuts into the hotel room, slicing across the four poster bed. The white walls reflect every ray making it impossible to sleep any longer. You wake with a rancid taste in your mouth. Last night rushes back to you as you roll over and see Zoë’s sleeping face on the white pillow. You sneak out of bed, dress in silence and leave.

You locate a coffee shop, buy a coffee, sit at a table with a rocky leg and sip the boiling drink. The clock on the wall reads, eight forty; there is a meeting at nine. You finish the coffee but nothing will rip the taste of Zoë from your mouth. Leaving, you move in auto pilot. Your head fuzzes. A bank window catches your reflection; terrible. Your face is dark with stubble, yesterday’s hair is a bird’s nest, clothes wrinkled and covered in fluff. You close in on the window, finger combing your hair. Trained muscles tense underneath your suit. You could do with a sauna and a rub down. With your nose pressed on the glass a cloud of moisture forms a circle on the pane. Peeling your collar back, you see a faint red mark on the side of your neck. You button your collar, concealing it, and pull a navy blue tie from your suit pocket, like a magician. Fear grips as you remember fingernails down your back. How will you check your back? You worry about your arms and legs and arse, they too may have lacerations. What were you thinking? You’re forty five years old.

At work nobody mentions your appearance, they wouldn’t dare. The meeting starts but you are too hung over to care. You pour glass after glass of cool water, trying to hydrate your parched tongue. Nothing removes the foul flavour festering in your throat. The meeting concludes with a nod of your head and you’re first out the door, scurrying up to your office on the tenth floor.

Laura, your personal assistant, greets you as you barge through the door. She fires appointment times, lunch meeting, afternoon golf, missed telephone calls that need returning, all in a single breath.

Over your shoulder you say, “Cancel everything.”

“Mr Clarkson, your wife called,” Laura says from behind her bombsite desk.

You stop. “What did she want?”

“She wants you to ring her as soon as you can. She said if you are unable to call before eleven she will be at-”

“The gym.”

“Yes.”

You slam the door and collapse in the leather executive chair behind the solid oak desk. Your body shakes with hangover vibrations. You sweat gin. You turn on your computer and stare, waiting for it to start up. Holiday-snaps of your children scream at you from dark wooden frames on the desk, an emblem of your marriage vows. The screen saver flickers on the monitor; it’s a picture of a young Miranda, nineteen years old, modelling a revealing bikini on jagged rocks as a sky blue ocean leaps in the background. Her blonde hair draws the sun’s rays, ricocheting the golden light into the camera's eye. Her creamy, faultless complexion, like milk, which she possesses twenty three years later, exemplifies her purity to you. What have you done? You open your email, wiping the image of Miranda’s accusing eyes from your screen and in the process you turn the photograph frames away from your eye line. You click on the company address book and type in Zoë. You never caught her last name, maybe you never asked for it. Thirty seven women named Zoë work for the company, sixteen work in the United Kingdom. You search through the names in the London office, watching as the ID pictures appear in a drop down box. After finding five other Zoë’s that you would like to sleep with, you realise that Zoë from last night is not connected to email. You recall something about her being a temp and leaving soon. Relief explodes inside; you may get away with this.

You go to the toilets on the eighth floor; your own private toilet has a plumber in there unblocking the pipes. You check the bite on your neck; it’s bad. You unbutton your shirt and roll it down, turning your back to the mirror. There are tiny streaks of red flesh across your shoulders. You crawl into a cubicle and hold your head. You could stay there forever. You think about Miranda and the way she idolises your children. She values their lives more than her own. How noble of her. You think how lucky you are to have such a wife. The guilt curls in your stomach. You remember the first time you saw her, at a mutual friend’s party. You couldn’t keep your eyes from her. You can still hear her asking what you did for a living, then once you told her, she asked if you earned a lot of money. Her confidence amazed you. It would be a week before you realised her father didn’t own the biggest accountancy firm in West London, as your father does, but instead worked as a road sweeper. You marvelled at her humble roots, showing her your Porsche, your Chelsea apartment, your power. But Miranda impressed you, she took it all for granted, she stepped into your world of money without skipping a heartbeat. When she knew you loved her she demanded the best: clothing, holidays, food, drink, furniture, cars, and every other expensive luxury her father couldn’t provide. You felt like the biggest man in London. And so you should.

The doors of the toilet swing open. Two sets of feet enter.

“I don’t know how I dragged myself in today,” a deep voice gruffs.

“You had a lot,” says the second.

“I didn’t see you turning the drinks down.” You hear them unzip. “What time did you leave?”

“Eleven. You?”

“Last man standing. Well I’m not paying for it, Keith Clarkson is.”

They laugh. “Did you get a load of his speech? At one point I thought he would turn water into wine.”

“Smug bastard. He thinks a lot of himself that one. Know what I think of him?” He farts. They laugh again

You hear them urinate.

“Hey, have you seen that sexy temp from accounts today?” the other asks.

“Zoë?”

You listen with every part of your body.

“Yeah. She’s wearing the same stuff as last night.”

Deep voice says, “Dirty cow. I know why. I saw her leave with the big cheese.”

“Keith Clarkson?”

“Yep.”

“But he’s older than her dad.”

They zip up and wash their hands.

“He’s married.”

“Have you seen his wife?”

“I would.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

The electric hand dryer roars, you strain to hear them. The dryer stops. Their footsteps echo towards the door.

“So you reckon he did?”

“Of course. Rumour has it he’s knobbed everyone here.”

“He won’t be doing much after he’s been with that temp. Ron went with her and caught a dose of crabs.”

Their laughter whirls around the empty toilet. You sit on the bowl, your trousers around your ankles and look down. You need to scratch.

One o’clock, an expensive restaurant, a plate of watery lettuce and thin strips of chicken sits in front of you. Your mind is a rolodex of previous affairs. Have you had that many? The first happened after the arrival of your first born, Callum. You remember Miranda then, tired but full of love for her baby boy. You read the book Miranda brought you, Now Your Bride is a Mother, or something boring like that, and skimmed the chapter on sex after giving birth. It said woman could have sex within days if they cared for it, but it took some women up to six months to feel confident about their body again. Two weeks after Callum arrived Miranda’s body returned to its hard, elegant, smooth form. But the sex never came. You waited and waited, you know you did, but the animal sex life took a year to restore. And in that year you found solace with one of her old modelling friends. The affair didn’t last two months, when your wife’s libido ignited, stronger than before, you returned to her, the friend never uttered a word.

As the years passed and the children appeared, the affairs became regular, either a one night stand or a month of clandestine meetings in deluxe hotel rooms. These affairs brought the release of sexual frustration and the feeling of being wanted that you longed for, but also the bitterness of disgrace.

You fork food into your mouth. The lunch hour has flowed into the afternoon. The waiter, a skinny boy, not much older than Zoë, hovers around the table adding red wine to the never empty glass, and at last the shame is drunk away. It is not your fault it is Miranda’s. If only she cared for you the way she did the children. If only she wanted you like Zoë had wanted you, then all would be forever perfect.

Your pocket vibrates and you heave out your mobile telephone. Now you are drunk, everything is a chore.

“Hello,” you bark.

“Why haven’t you called me back?” hisses Miranda.

You hear traffic down the wires. She is driving. She must be using the car headset.

“I’ve been busy.”

“I called your office three times today, haven’t you received the messages?”

“I told you, I’ve been busy.”

“You’re the director of the company, what work do you have to do?” The sound of the horn drones. “Idiot! By the way Callum is adamant about this motorbike.”

“What motorbike?”

“I told you last night.”

You push the plate away, uneaten. “Right.”

“Are you coming home soon?”

“Probably about six.” You have plenty of drinking to do before you can face her. Just listening to her voice knots your neck. Acid shoots up into your mouth. You swig the wine and it’s refilled by the smiling waiter.

“Six! You promised you would be home early. I can’t rely on you for anything anymore.”

The waiter hears your wife blast down the telephone; you raise your eyebrows to him as if sharing a secret.

“Get here by five,” Miranda says. “What?” She is speaking to someone in the car. “Tori wants to speak to you.”

You imagine Tori yanking the headset off Miranda’s head. There is a pause and an attack of static, then the sound clarifies and your youngest speaks. “Hello Daddy, I’ve been swimming.”

Your lips curl over your teeth, tight, red, sore. You run your hands through your messy hair. You imagine a heart attack would feel the way your heart throbs now. Dear Tori, a miniature of her mother, with her mother’s Swedish looks, the white blonde hair, sea blue eyes, china skin. Her mother’s daughter. Your daughter.

“Mummy, Daddy isn’t there?”

“Is not, Tori, is not.”

“Mummy, Daddy is not there.”

“Tori,” you choke.

“Daddy?”

“How’s my special girl?”

“I went swimming, in the deep end, and I swam across the whole pool without armbands, and Mummy said I will be a swimmer in the Opicks-”

“Olympics,” your wife corrects.

“O-lym-pics,” Tori says. “Will you come and watch me, Daddy?”

“At the Olympics?”

“No, silly. At the swimming pool.”

“Of course.”

“Tell Daddy you have to go Tori, we are home now.”

“We are home now, Daddy, I’m going to get ready.”

“Say bye, Tori.”

“Bye Tori,” Tori repeats and giggles. Your wife giggles in the same way.

The telephone dies.

You leave the restaurant, tipping the young boy an extravagant amount, the type of tip your wife leaves, then swagger to the train station and leap through the closing doors of the departing train and take up a seat, gazing with a drunk’s eyes at the passing countryside. The train bops along, breaking, speeding, breaking until it stops.

“This is your driver speaking. I do apologise ladies and gentlemen, but this train will be grounded here for approximately fifteen minutes as there is a broken down train ahead of us.”

Passengers unite in a deep groan.

“Excuse me,” a voice pipes as you draw your gaze from the window. “Keith? It is you. I thought I knew that handsome face.”

You look at the woman diagonal to you. Victoria…something.

“Don’t say you don’t remember me, you hound you?”

“Vicky.”

“Yes.” She squeals with delight, clapping her hands. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in, what, five years?”

“I’m fine. You look marvellous.”

She gives you an, oh stop it, gesture with her hand and smiles.

“Did you ever marry that banker?”

She shakes her head. “No. You know me. I can’t commit to only one guy.” She sits opposite. Her flesh coloured tights rub against you knee. “You know that better than anyone.”

Sometimes, you think, just sometimes, these affairs are not your doing. You are a handsome, rich, powerful man; these women hurl themselves at you, wanting it all.

“What have you been up to lately?”

“This and that,” you reply.

“Are you still working at…?”

“Yes.”

“Still getting up to no good?” Her hand falls on your knee.

For the first time today you feel good about yourself. This old flame is not demanding you home to deal with you eldest son. This woman doesn’t want you as a husband or as a father figure to her children, she wants only you. Your hand glides over hers. You both smile.

“Do you always get this line?”

“Yes, I live in Longfield.”

“Very nice. I’m Swanley. I have a three bedroom flat there.”

“Nice place?”

She nods. “Expensive, but stylish. It mirrors my personality.” She laughs. You laugh. “It’s too big for me.”

“All those bedrooms.”

“And nobody to share them with.”

This is the start. This will lead somewhere if you want it to, back to one of those bedrooms. You look at each other. You remember the wild times you had back then. The train fizzles and hisses breaking your thought and off you both speed.

Forty minutes later and the driver announces, “This is Swanley. Swanley is the next stop.”

Vicky is beside you. Her hand on the border of your thigh and groin. She laughs at everything you say.

“Well this is me,” says Vicky reaching up for her bag, showing you her compact arse.

She holds her bag and leans forward, grabbing your tie. “Come on, Mister.”

You rise and follow, leaving the compartment and head to the doors. She steps out but you stop.

She turns, “Forgotten something?”

Why do you want to go with this woman? Would Miranda carry on like this? What are you getting from these affairs? Do you want this for the rest of your life?

”I’m married.”

Vicky chokes with laughter. “That’s a good one.”

All the women you’ve slept with, your friends, your employees, they find you sad, pathetic, lonely. You are a joke to everyone.

“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself say. “I’m married and I love my wife. I’m going home to her now.”

The doors beep and shut. You see her pretty face through the grimy window. Now you wonder if she did the things you remember. She probably did but you don’t want that anymore. You want Miranda. You are forty five, a married father of four wonderful, intelligent, beautiful children. You have more money than your wife can spend. You have a comfortable house in the country. You answer to no one. Your wife is by far the prettiest woman you have ever had the pleasure to look at. She loves the children, and is devoted to you. These women you chase are nothing but an ego trip, they don’t really want you. Your wife does. You are the luckiest man alive. You watch Vicky’s shocked face as the train chugs away.

You are reborn. You are a responsible father who takes care of his children and is an honest and loving husband. You are so mature that you take a taxi from the station as you now realise you don’t want to smash a Ferrari around a lamppost, or kill a child. The taxi drops you at the gate of your six bedroom mansion. You walk up the crunching driveway, and the steps leading to the house. You open the front door. You call out. The dogs should be running to greet you, the children should follow but they don’t. All the lights are off. Something is wrong. You panic, and remember a story about a colleague whose family had been tied up as burglars ransacked his house, him finding his wife and children hours later, petrified. You call out again, walk through the grand foyer and turn into the dining room.

“Surprise!” A hundred voices shout. The lights ping on. A crowd of family and friends are squashed together, dressed in their finest clothes. Someone pops a streamer, it’s coloured ribbon curls into the air and arcs down, landing on you shoulder. Tori runs to you and you pick her up.

“Happy Birthday, Daddy,” she says.

“Is it my birthday?”

“She’s just fooling with you, Dad,” says your eldest daughter Elle.

“What’s this all about?”

Your parents are there and your wife’s parents: aunts, uncles, distant relatives, the boys from the golf club, and other friends you haven’t seen for months. Someone taps you on the shoulder and you turn. She wears a subtle cream strapless dress, enhancing her figure. Her hair, a flow of snow rolls down her back. Her make up is light. She leans forward resting a hand on your face.

“Happy anniversary, honey.”

Everyone erupts with a cheer and a thunderous episode of clapping. You kiss your beautiful wife. The guilt must be written on your face.

“I thought you’d forgotten. He forgot everyone.”

The guests laugh. Your wife, so elegant, so confident, she has them mesmerised.

“This is my husband.” They laugh. “So, where’s my present?” They laugh again.

She turns like a wild cat, with grace and sex written all over her. The men in the room gaze at her figure, the women burn with jealousy. She takes Tori from you and plonks her down, organising your children to do some task for her. They jump at her command. Even her children are in love with her.

The night moves fast, drinks are drunk and food is scoffed, stories are told and jokes are laughed at. With every anecdote about your marriage that someone brings up you want to kick yourself at what a bastard you are. The guilt rises with every brandy you knock down. Miranda’s Swedish mother corners you and declares what a wonderful, faithful, providing husband you are to her baby girl. Vomit boils up in your mouth. You watch as Miranda boasts to her friends from the gym about the expensive furniture. She is so proud of your wealth. Your children say funny things, or recite something intelligent. Men leer at Miranda as they whisper what a lucky so-and-so you are. The love bite on your neck stings. Your pubic hair is on fire. You have to drink two martinis to refrain from yanking down your trousers and scratching yourself raw. All those women you think, as you continue boozing, all those women and they didn’t want you. Here in this house is where you are wanted. You are a new man.

You weigh up the cons of confessing right now: you will break her heart, she will see who you really are, your guilt will escalate, the following months will be hell, and you may lose her forever… You have two pros: one, everything is unravelling inside you, you need it to stop, and two, if you do it now she wouldn’t dare make a scene. This will allow her a couple of hours to calm down, making it easier on you.

The grandfather clock ticks ten. Miranda has hired a swing band; the living room is stripped of furniture and used as a dance floor. She is in the middle dancing with your youngest son, Tommy. She dances with rhythm, moving with the music. Every eye focuses on her. You have heard Elle say how cool Miranda is. Yes, she is. You march onto the dance floor, take Miranda by the hand and tow her into the hallway. Wolf whistles screech behind your back, sounding like fireworks. Her fingers grip around yours. She over takes you and lures you into the darkened hallway.

She presses herself up against the wall and pulls you close. “Keith, my mother might see.” She smiles. She has never looked so beautiful. “Wait until the children are asleep, I have another surprise for you in my wardrobe.”

“Miranda,” you start but have to swallow, and mop your brow. “Miranda, I love you.”

“Honey.”

“Hold on. I’ve only just realised it today. On our twentieth anniversary. I have something I need to tell you.”

“What is-”

“Please, listen. Do what I say, okay? I want us to start again.”

“Okay…”

“Something happened, it shouldn’t have, but it did. It won’t happen again. Forgive me and we can move on. We won’t ever need to speak of it. From today I will change. I will be everything you deserve. From now on it will be all about you.”

Her sea blue, angelic eyes never leave yours. She understands. She drops her hands from your shoulders. She waits a full minute then says, “You take care of your children with kindness and love. You brought us this wonderful home. We, as a family, will never want for anything. You have never hit me, been rude, or denied me anything. You are the perfect husband.”

She kisses you on the head and leads you by the hand back into the living area. There is a roar as you return. She turns, props against your shoulder as the hired photographer snaps a picture of you both. The loving couple, ready to forgive, forget and rekindle.

Miranda leans into you and whispers, “Do you see your beautiful children dancing over there?” The four of them have joined hands, spinning around, laughing. “One child is not yours.” She kisses you and slinks towards the dance floor. She touches friends’ shoulders and makes polite chitchat with the men who flock around her, flirting with them in a way she never has, or you have never seen.

The pain swallows the guilt.