The Astonishing Life

THE REMARKABLE LIFE

At Emilys wedding, we celebrated for two days straightboisterously, heartily, and joyfully. Her groom, Michael, had the air of a young Jude Lawastonishingly handsome but surprisingly modest, considering his alluring appearance. All us guests secretly eyed Michael: eyes the colour of the summer sky, lashes so thick and long they seemed wasted on a man (honestly, why do men get all the best features?), a strong chin, a classic Roman nose, and flawless skin with just a hint of tan. Two metres tall and broad-shouldered, he was a sight to behold. If we didnt adore Emily, we might have fought each other right at that wedding table for this marvellous specimen.

“Emily, how did you manage to snag such a stunner?” we grilled her, each of us attempting to appear as forlorn and unlucky as possible in case Michael had equally attractive, single relatives.

“Ladies, honestly! I fell for Michael because hes so genuine. Hes a country man, raised by his gran, keeps a tidy little farm, and is incredibly handy. We met when Mum and Dad bought a cottage in his village. Hes sensitive, kind, dependablea real man! And goodness, what a farm he ran. It took me ten nights of persuasion to drag him into the city,” Emily laughed.

Michael quickly thrivednot only in his work and with Emilys newly acquired relations but also in learning: within a couple of years, hed mastered the art of good alcohol, perfume, politics, art, travel, had learned about the FTSE index, and sport, and had erased traces of his rural accent. He got behind the wheel of the comfortable car kindly bestowed to the young couple by Emilys father, and landed a respectable position at the same firm. Who gifted them their flat, I wont sayguess for yourselves.

By the second year of marriage, Michael revealed a peculiar fondness for white socks. He wore blindingly white socks everywhereat home, visiting friends, even inside his Wellington boots, and would stand fearlessly socked on whatever mucky floor found. Emily never shared the love for these white items, but dutifully scrubbed the floors twice daily and stocked up on bleach. Thus, Michael earned the nickname Socks.

Emily discovered Michael had a mistress when she was eight months pregnant. As it turned out, the mistress was also eight months along. Socks was cast outdisgraced, fired, cursed, and cried over all within twenty-four hours. Then began the sticky, cheerless days of autumn. Emily lay sprawled on her now-terrifyingly vast bed, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling.

“Ill cry later,” she whispered, “for now, its bad for the baby.”

Emily lay silent, like a statue, while we, her closest friends, took turns keeping vigil by her side, supporting her with our quiet presence.

We wanted to cry desperately, to rip the pages from the book of fate and tear out the ones that betrayed her. But we simply had to wait, in silence.

On the day they left the hospital, we were uproariousballoons waving, and begging the nurses to join us in a toast and disappear with us into a sunset of wild dreams and gypsies, wishing health and happiness upon everyone. Emilys father shined brightest: having been moved deeply and promising to sort out the aftermath, he first drew, in chalk beneath Emilys window, a huge, wonky “Thank you for my grandson!” before trying to serenade, only to be gently stopped by security. The guard agreed to review the proud grandfathers repertoire in his office, with a glass of whisky, to keep the peace.

On release day, Emilys dad was sprightly, fresh, even glowing. He cried from joy and pride, freely and soulfully. We all cried. We laughed and kissed Emily, peeking shyly at tiny baby Oliver in the blue envelope. But we kept silent about the father’s Roman nose. Emily did not cry, not even in happiness.

“Later,” shed say. “Just in case, for the sake of the milk.”

Emily stayed silent for another two months, and then she decided, finally, to go and confront Michael. She didnt bring matches or vinegar, but carried a great urge to make a sceneaccuse, pound on the walls with her feeble fists, shame, expose, and try to rid herself of the pain that pinned her to the bed, unleashing it upon the traitor, the destroyer of her hopes and of their world with little Oliver. She had imagined herself knitting socks for her darling men on cosy evenings, Oliver laughing, holding hands with Michael on gentle walks, and Michaelso needed, so dear.

More than anything, Emily wanted to look into the eyes of the shameless woman whod slept with her man. Surely those eyes would be boldand probably very beautiful. Emily planned to spit in those lovely, brazen eyes. Decided. And if it needed doing, shed scratch them out.

Where to begin the scandal, she learned, by chance, from a group of kindly old ladies outside her block as she walked the baby. They stopped Emily, reminded her Michael was, frankly, a scoundrel, painted out the route to the lovers nest, and suggested possible revenge tactics. Emily felt frozen, wept inside, almost wanted to walk away without catching the house number, but for some reason, didnt.

And now she stood, Emily, outside the weathered entrance to a dreary council block, needing only to climb to the fifth floor and thereshe could spit, or yell.

On the first floor, Emily thought, with her current luck, there was no chance anyone would be home and perhaps she was wasting her time. On the second, she mused it wouldnt be so bad if no one was. On the third, she heard an anguished childs wail echoing from above.

A skinny, tearful girl opened the door, her image at odds with Emilys imagination of the seductress who lured her gentle husband. While Emily stared, stunned, at the sniffling, forty-kilo competition, the babys cries rang out from the flats depths.

“Hello, Emily. Michael isnt here. He left us two weeks ago. I have no idea where he is.” The girl fluttered and slumped onto the floor, weeping.

Emily suddenly had no desire to rage. She felt drawn to step inside and comfort the baby for this hapless mother. Then she wanted to stab her with the phrase, “You want the thrill, you take the burden, you cow!” Yes, shed say cow, for sure, with a look of utter disdain. She had that right, finally, as the wronged wife.

The baby was dryeyes swollen, a pulse visible on his brow, voice hoarse. Clearly, he was hungry. The boy screamed as if his tiny capability was spent, with his odd, irresponsible mother curled up and howling on the hallway floor.

As she watched the girl open empty kitchen cupboards and rummage through a bare fridge for formula, Emily remembered bits only later. She found a note on the kitchen table, unfinished and chilling: Please, in my sm

The girl sobbed, recounting to Emily, as though to an old friend, that she had nowhere to go; the lease was up in days, milk was gone, Michael was gone, money was never there. She was so sorry. Ashamed. Too late. She didnt know. Begged forgiveness. Emily could hit her if she likedperhaps she should. The boys name was Harry, she insisted Emily remember it, just in case. Harry was nine days older than Oliver.

Emily raced home without delayOliver would want his feed in twenty minutes. Running wasnt easy: two bulging bags belonging to the girl, Sarah, weighed down her arms, while Sarah herself tumbled alongside, clutching well-fed Harry. Emily ran, pondering where to fit two more beds.

Three years later, we celebrated Sarahs wedding, and four years after thatEmilys. Emilys husband despises white socks, believing life should be brighter. He adores Emily, their son, and two daughters. Sarah is the proud mother of four boys, and her husband still dreams of having a girl…