The woman with him is not his wife

SIGNING ON:Our columnist is sick of all the lies – affairs and marital break-ups cause shivers of anxiety, fear, but he knows what it's like to feel powerless

N THE CITY for an interview (chancing his arm, pretending he had years of sales experience – they sussed it in minutes) when he spies a college friend. He was particularly fond of the man, though through emigration (his), and relocation (the friend’s), a genuine bond was allowed to dissipate; the unemployed man is not good at e-mail/Skype relationships. He taps the friend on the shoulder, playfully. When the man turns around there is palpable embarrassment; the young woman with him is not his wife.

Foreign, young, beautiful. Her skin warm as she shakes hands.

The friend covers up, badly. They swap numbers. Late that night he receives a phone call. Listens, tries not be judgmental. The friend was recalled from overseas, fired, given minimum statutory redundancy. Felt useless. Was prescribed medication but felt “cut off’’. Started swimming as remedy. Met the young woman in the pool, and, well, “one thing led to another” (what “one thing”?). No mention of wife, only cursory mention of his young family. The friend then asks a very pointed question: “Surely you, of all people, can understand?”

The unemployed man pauses.

“Someone young and beautiful seeing you for what you might be, not for what you used to be?”

Yeah, I understand.

***

Middle-class gossips he hasn’t heard from in years ring up, feigning concern. Shameless schadenfreude in voices. He has witnessed this before – affairs and marital break-ups cause shivers of anxiety, fear, but also serve to bind smug couples tighter.

His friend was never shy about advertising his fierce intelligence or athletic prowess; some people practically gloat. None of the callers have any idea how losing your job promotes feelings of utter powerlessness. How it affects self worth, confidence. Relationships. Love-life.

(Of course he understands.)

***

Knee-jerk opinion pieces in the Sunday newspapers about how governments are not responsible for creating jobs, how it is the role of the “entrepreneur” (how he hates that word, someone decides to sell handmade chocolate and suddenly they are a luminary). Sorry, but the Government is responsible, if only because they got into power based on a clear-cut pledge. It’s not about roles of government/business – it is about truth.

Christ, some days he is so sick of the lies.

***

Accentuate the positive. His wife has an appointment scheduled in mid-July to see a female endocrinologist. He has always felt it would be a woman who would take the necessary time and care to get to the root of the illness.

His eldest has, for the first time in her life, friends calling, a gang of mates on scooters with whom she can fly up and down the pathways of the estate. The little one has taken to the new au pair.

He found a pair of barely worn tyres for the car for €50, changed the pads himself (after a lot of effin’ and blindin’) and, when the ABS warning light stayed on, sourced an electrical engineer who cancelled the light for €30 quid – the main dealer was quoting €80 per hour, and would not say how many hours might be involved.

His head is clear, the library has become his friend, and, bar the cheap eastern European cigarettes he devours, he has been taking good care of himself. And of his family.

Could be a lot worse.

***

His brother – very gainfully employed, if short on time to enjoy life – takes him and his father for afternoon tea on Father’s Day – €35 for a tiny plate of sandwiches and (and an admittedly impressive selection of lovely little cakes). His brother says it is his treat, so happy days. But do people still live like this?

(Yes. The place is heaving.)

Afterwards, his brother gets his parking ticket validated at reception. No charge since he paid for the meal. The unemployed man’s parking bill, however, is €12. He doesn’t have it. So he sits his car on the bumper of his brother’s BMW and exits the barrier, swiftly. The security guard approaches.

“You can’t do that, sir.”

“I just did.”

The guard walks away, embarrassed.

(Twelve euro is half his daughter’s weekly creche fee. For that he’d had driven the ancient car through the hotel’s manicured hedgerows, bounced it onto the footpaths of leafy D4. And laughed. All the way home.)

The writer of this column wishes to remain anonymous. His identity is known to the editor