Truly Madly Guilty(120)
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. He couldn’t even remember eating it.
‘That’s not fair!’ Holly’s enraged face was illuminated by the light from the screen.
‘Shh,’ he said helplessly. His throat felt scratchy. There were tiny flakes of corn kernel stuck between his teeth.
‘But I hardly got any!’ Her voice rose to an unacceptable level. Someone muttered disapprovingly in the row behind.
‘If you can’t be quiet we’re going,’ said Sam in a low, shaky voice.
‘Greedy Daddy!’ she shouted, and she snatched the container and threw it on the aisle floor next to her. It was calculated, wilful naughtiness. It couldn’t be ignored.
Bloody hell. He picked up the soggy umbrella at his feet, lifted the dead weight of Ruby over one shoulder, stood, and grabbed Holly by the wrist. Something twinged painfully in his lower back.
Holly screamed blue murder as he dragged her out of her seat and into the aisle.
Consequences. He and Clementine made fun of that sort of parenting jargon but Holly and Ruby had to learn what it had taken Sam all these years to discover: Life was all about consequences.
chapter seventy-four
Oliver decided to go for a run in the rain.
He risked injury on the slippery footpaths, and also a relapse of his chest cold, but right now he really needed to clear his head because his wife was a common thief and as a result he would never be a father.
He was incorrectly assigning causality but he was very upset. Angry. Shocked.
He double-knotted his shoelaces, stood up, did a few stretches, opened the front door and nearly closed it again because it was raining so hard, but he couldn’t bear to roam around his house while his thoughts scuttled like trapped mice.
Running would give him clarity. His nervous system would release a protein that stimulated regions of his brain related to decision-making.
He took a deep breath and headed out. Vid and Tiffany were obviously entertaining. There were cars lined up in their driveway and around the cul-de-sac. They were extremely sociable people.
As Oliver ran out of the cul-de-sac he considered his own, significantly smaller social circle. It might be helpful if he could talk this through with someone, but there was no one.
He did not have the sort of friend he could call up for a ‘quiet beer’. He was not the sort of person who said ‘quiet beer’. He didn’t actually drink beer. He had the sort of friends who drank protein shakes at the local health-food café after a thirty-k morning bike ride, while they discussed training schedules for the upcoming half marathon. He liked his friends, but he had no interest in hearing their personal problems and he therefore couldn’t share his own. He couldn’t lean over his protein shake and say, ‘My wife has been stealing memorabilia from her best friend since she was a kid. What do you reckon? Should I be worried?’
He would never betray Erika to another man like that anyway.
A confidential discussion with a woman might be better. Maybe if he had a sister, or a mother. Technically he did have a mother. Just not the right sort of mother. She would find Erika’s stealing screamingly funny or tragically sad, depending on where the pendulum of her mood currently sat.
A car drove by and tooted at him in either a supportive or derisive way: hard to interpret.
If Erika had started hoarding, he could have handled that. He’d even mentally prepared himself for that remote possibility, in spite of her constant, obsessive decluttering. He’d prepared himself for depression (common while undergoing IVF), for breast cancer, for a brain tumour, for accidental death and even an office romance (he trusted her, but her managing partner was apparently a ‘ladies’ man’), but never for this. Never for petty thievery. They were straight-down-the-line people. Their financial affairs were in scrupulous order. He and Erika would welcome a tax audit. Bring it on, they’d say to the tax office. Bring it on.
His glasses needed windscreen wipers. He kept running while he took them off and tried to dry them with the edge of his T-shirt. Useless.
She had taken Clementine’s stuff, like a Dickensian pickpocket. It was unfathomable. She said she was going to stop and that she would give back what she could over a period of time, but in Oliver’s world, people never stopped. His parents had said they’d stop drinking. Erika’s mother had said she’d stop hoarding. They truly believed it at the time. He got that. But they couldn’t stop. It was like asking them to hold their breath. They could do it for only so long before they had to gasp for air.
Another car swept by, and a teenage boy stretched almost half his body out the window in order to yell, ‘Loser!’
Really dangerous activity there, sport. You could get sideswiped by another car. Also bad-mannered.
He took the corner at Livingston. Twinge in that left knee again.
Right now Erika was over at Clementine’s telling her that they wouldn’t need her as an egg donor after all. They had discussed it and agreed it would be polite to tell her in person. She’d invested her time doing blood tests and filling in paperwork. They didn’t like to waste someone’s time.
It was Oliver’s decision. There were Clementine’s unkind comments that Erika had overheard. Repulsed by the idea. Bitch, he thought as his foot hit a puddle and water sprayed. Clementine wasn’t a bitch. He was fond of Clementine, but the things she’d said had been so unkind and unnecessary.