The Aftermath by Gail Schimmel (books to read in a lifetime txt) 📗

ate like a proper person and suddenly I was noticing her low-cut top and really generous boobs. Claire’s boobs are like the rest of her: text book. They are not too small and they are perky and they sit where they are meant to sit. Julia’s boobs look altogether less disciplined, and deep in my wine and my stress and my misery, I had an epiphany: less disciplined was the way forward for boobs.

To avoid telling Julia about this epiphany, because I sensed it might be inappropriate, I started telling her how humourless Claire had been about me phoning from the car. Of course, looking back on it sober and knowing what I know now, it really was the same topic – Julia’s undisciplined boobs and Claire’s failure to talk to me.

But when I told her about the car and Claire saying that she didn’t need to be a widow, Julia suddenly went pale and her eyes filled with tears. I reached across and took her hand.

‘What have I said?’ I asked.

That was when she told me the story of her childhood and The Accident that changed everything. While she was talking, she started crying, and she kept brushing away her tears, and saying she was sorry, she never cries about it. When the crying turned to sobbing, I got up from the table and led her to the sofa and I put my arms around her – I could feel her boobs pressing against my side – and I stroked her back and held her and told her that everything was okay now.

As I was stroking her back, I kept thinking that I’d never seen Claire like that. I’ve never seen Claire out of control with misery – and I’ve been with her through the deaths of family and friends. But Claire’s grief is neat and internal – she doesn’t need me. And Julia, Julia needed me so badly that night.

I looked down at her tear-stained face just as she pulled back and looked up at me. I reached my thumb to her cheek to wipe away her tears and suddenly we were kissing and it was like we were both drowning people clinging to life, the way we clung together. And then, because I’d been thinking about them already, my hands were on her boobs and I was pulling at her clothes, and it felt just as good as I’d imagined and I couldn’t or wouldn’t stop, and neither did she.

Julia

I tell my mother as much as I can. There are parts I can’t tell her – parts I can barely admit to myself. Like I knew full well Claire would be out that first time when I turned up for a dinner party on the wrong night. It’s probably the most calculated thing I’ve ever done. The worst thing I’ve ever done, if I’m honest with myself. The worst thing, but also the best thing.

When I tell my mother that part, I gloss over what exactly happened. I don’t know if it’s because I’m feeling guilty, but I think her eyebrows raise ever so slightly, which for my mother is a major emotional reaction. But I could be wrong; maybe she was just trying to stay awake. She’s always said that nothing’s as boring as other people’s dreams and other people’s affairs. But when I stop, mid-story, and ask if I’m boring her, she says, ‘No, no, carry on,’ and it’s almost as if she’s interested.

The part that came after that first night also doesn’t reflect well on me. The next day, Daniel came to see me at work.

‘That shouldn’t have happened,’ he said, and I could see he’d barely slept. ‘That’s not the sort of man I am. That’s not the sort of man Claire deserves. Or you deserve.’ His eyes were filled with tears, and I reached out to him.

‘You’re the best sort of man,’ I whispered. ‘You make me feel so . . . safe.’ I manufactured a little sob. Yes, I manufactured it. I might be an accountant, but you don’t have as much therapy as I’ve had without learning a thing or two about psychology, and the thing I’ve learnt about Daniel is that his drug of choice is need. He needs to be needed, and Claire doesn’t need him. I saw that chink in the armour of their marriage and God help me, I took it. Every single time he looked like he was about to back away, I played the needy card. And it lured him back to my bed again and again, until in the end he fell in love with me.

‘And what about Claire?’ my mother asks as I’m explaining Daniel’s deep and genuine feelings for me. ‘She was your friend.’ For a moment it feels like my mother is judging me after all, but then she says wistfully, ‘It must have been hard for you to lose her. A friend.’

‘It was,’ I say. ‘But it was worth it. Now I have Daniel and we’re going to have our own baby.’

My mother barely reacts to this; maybe just another raising of her eyebrows, but it’s hard to tell.

‘When you meet him, you’ll see,’ I tell her, suddenly desperate for her approval, her understanding.

‘I’d love to meet him. I’m sure he’s wonderful,’ she says in her calm way. She shifts slightly in her chair. ‘Have you told him?’

She doesn’t have to say more – we both know what she’s talking about. Which isn’t strange, because it has defined our lives, but it also is strange. Because we don’t talk about it, she and I. We almost never mention the giant elephant in our psyches.

She must have told me something when it first happened – when I was two and left with my grandparents, and when she came back everything had changed. But of course I don’t remember that – I don’t remember a time before it was like this. Although Alice believes I do. Alice believes that