I spend the first part of the day really getting stuck into the job search. After the usual run through the local newspaper classifieds and applying for a few suitable positions, I go through the phone book and call just about every employment agency in it. After weeding out the vast bulk of them who only deal in temps and administrative staff, I find a good dozen who deal in professional placements. I get on board with them by e-mailing my resume so that they can set me up with a potential job match. It takes about five hours, but I feel good. I feel productive. I feel like I’ve baited a lot of hooks now. Fingers crossed I get a bite or two.
I speak to Helen during the day. She’s okay on the phone, no real tension in the conversation. Buoyed by last night’s unexpected closeness, I suggest we watch a DVD she bought a few weeks ago but hasn’t gotten around to watching tonight. She agrees. I’m happy. I imagine us snuggling up on the couch together as we watch it. That would be so nice.
I spend the rest of the afternoon getting the house immaculate. At least while I’m still performing the household chores in lieu of the kind of employment I must find, I can do it well and hope Helen appreciates it to some degree. The place looks great. Our daughter had been invited to spend the night at a friend’s, so I make dinner for my son and myself. Helen had said during our phone conversation that she had had a big lunch and wouldn’t need dinner, so I eat with my son. I actually manage to get through a whole chicken pot pie – the first substantial meal I’ve had since all this happened. It sits uneasily in my stomach the rest of the night though.
Helen gets home at around 7:00pm. We arrange to watch the movie at 9:30pm and I go downstairs to the basement to be with my son while she settles down on the couch for a nap. My son watches cartoons while I sit there ruminating, as has now become my custom.
At the appointed hour, I go upstairs to wake Helen and watch the DVD. I get everything set up while she goes to the bathroom. I recline on the couch and upon her return, beckon her to join me. She sits down but doesn’t take the hint to lie next to me.
“Don’t you want to cuddle while we watch the movie?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “No,” she replies. My hopes for the pleasant evening I imagined are dashed. I feel like a fool, and the anxiety returns to grip my stomach with a vengeance. I’ve made things awkward. We watch the DVD mostly in uneasy silence. The film is rubbish, but the whole point is to spend some time with Helen, which I have bungled with my clumsy invitation to cuddle. So I suffer through the tedious film in a high state of anxiety instead. A pretty graphic sex scene doesn’t help matters. I can’t help glancing in Helen's direction to gauge her reaction. No outward sign, but I know instinctively what – and who – she’s thinking about.
The film ends close to midnight. We exchange a few perfunctory comments, then I say goodnight and head downstairs to bed.
Excerpted from Diary Of A Divorce, by Richard Pearce, available for £8.99 from www.amazon.co.uk or for $14.75 from www.lulu.com
