talking about?
ME
They don’t have a place for him yet.
BOOFHEAD
Sorry, can’t help you.
He’s talking to me like some bloody stranger who’s asking for a donation to Surf Life Saving.
ME
You have to.
BOOFHEAD
No I don’t.
ME
He’s your son. You’ve . . .
I stop short of telling him he’s abandoned us and instead try a more diplomatic strategy. I refine my script.
ME
You’ve moved out of the house, but you haven’t moved out of his life. This is the reality of where we’re at.
Quite a clumsy way of putting it, Persephone, but I think he’ll get the point.
BOOFHEAD
Just as you can’t take him to your job, I can’t take him to mine.
Hang in there Pers, you can do it.
ME
My job is freelance. I work with these people once in a blue moon and they pay me very well. Your job is full-time and you work with people you’ve known for years. They’ll be more understanding. I’ll drop him at the theatre’s office in about an hour and you can just take your lunch early and take him to the park. I’ll only be gone an hour.
I hang up before he has right of reply. I’m tempted to switch my phone off so I’ll be unavailable for any return calls. I leave it on and look at it, breathing deeply for what feels like an eternity, but is actually about twenty seconds. No call. I think I have successfully asserted myself with Boofhead. I mean Tom.
He’s standing out the front of the theatre when I pull up. He’s frowning. I choose to keep it bright and breezy.
ME
Dadda’s here, Jacko.
Jack
Daddy!
Handing Jack over, I feel like I’m in a scene from Kramer Versus Kramer , only I’m more like Dustin Hoffman than Meryl Streep.
ME
I’ve already put sunscreen on him and his hat’s in the bag. I’ll be back in an hour. Have fun! Love you, Jacko.
JACK
Come on, Daddy. Let’s go to the park!
BOOFHEAD
Tell your mum you love her, Jack.
Why bother? He’ll probably just end up abandoning me in ten years’ time anyway, following diligently in the footsteps of his narcissistic father.
I can’t believe I just thought that. I hope to God I didn’t say it out loud.
ME
It’s okay. I know he loves me.
I call into a shopping centre on the way to the studio and buy flowers, biscuits, a box of Cadbury Roses and then swing by a bottle shop and grab a bottle of champagne for good measure. I have to make it up to this man. I ruined his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I don’t want my bad marriage luck rubbing off on others.
I arrive early, but not too early. Just enough time to reiterate my humble apology and share a cup of tea with an aged metabolic caretaker. He looks decidedly more dishevelled since I saw him yesterday. I’m guessing the dinner was a disaster and the weekend getaway isn’t happening.
ME
Again, I am so sorry. I can’t tell you enough how absolutely dreadful I feel about putting my foot in it. I just genuinely thought you’d given her the earrings . . .
CARETAKER
Turns out she hates earrings. Not your fault.
ME
How can you hate earrings?
CARETAKER
Apparently, I’ve given her them for our last three anniversaries. How am I supposed to remember what I’ve bought her?
I’d like to tell him that perhaps that’s part of the problem. Perhaps he could be a bit more mindful and present in their marriage, but I think better of it.
CARETAKER
I’ve got something else I’d like to show you, today. No more bloody earrings.
He’s bought her a replacement gift, I think. What a nice idea. That’s a pro-active husband. He probably looks dishevelled because he was up all night having make-up sex with her.
He stands up and goes to the broom cupboard behind me and retrieves something. I can’t see what it is. It’s eerily quiet here today. The client hasn’t turned up yet and it looks like the Gen Y’er sound engineer is late.
I hear him behind me as I take a sip of tea.
CARETAKER
The apple of my eye.
It’s a computer. An Apple Mac. He’s bought her a computer and he’s
ME
They don’t have a place for him yet.
BOOFHEAD
Sorry, can’t help you.
He’s talking to me like some bloody stranger who’s asking for a donation to Surf Life Saving.
ME
You have to.
BOOFHEAD
No I don’t.
ME
He’s your son. You’ve . . .
I stop short of telling him he’s abandoned us and instead try a more diplomatic strategy. I refine my script.
ME
You’ve moved out of the house, but you haven’t moved out of his life. This is the reality of where we’re at.
Quite a clumsy way of putting it, Persephone, but I think he’ll get the point.
BOOFHEAD
Just as you can’t take him to your job, I can’t take him to mine.
Hang in there Pers, you can do it.
ME
My job is freelance. I work with these people once in a blue moon and they pay me very well. Your job is full-time and you work with people you’ve known for years. They’ll be more understanding. I’ll drop him at the theatre’s office in about an hour and you can just take your lunch early and take him to the park. I’ll only be gone an hour.
I hang up before he has right of reply. I’m tempted to switch my phone off so I’ll be unavailable for any return calls. I leave it on and look at it, breathing deeply for what feels like an eternity, but is actually about twenty seconds. No call. I think I have successfully asserted myself with Boofhead. I mean Tom.
He’s standing out the front of the theatre when I pull up. He’s frowning. I choose to keep it bright and breezy.
ME
Dadda’s here, Jacko.
Jack
Daddy!
Handing Jack over, I feel like I’m in a scene from Kramer Versus Kramer , only I’m more like Dustin Hoffman than Meryl Streep.
ME
I’ve already put sunscreen on him and his hat’s in the bag. I’ll be back in an hour. Have fun! Love you, Jacko.
JACK
Come on, Daddy. Let’s go to the park!
BOOFHEAD
Tell your mum you love her, Jack.
Why bother? He’ll probably just end up abandoning me in ten years’ time anyway, following diligently in the footsteps of his narcissistic father.
I can’t believe I just thought that. I hope to God I didn’t say it out loud.
ME
It’s okay. I know he loves me.
I call into a shopping centre on the way to the studio and buy flowers, biscuits, a box of Cadbury Roses and then swing by a bottle shop and grab a bottle of champagne for good measure. I have to make it up to this man. I ruined his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I don’t want my bad marriage luck rubbing off on others.
I arrive early, but not too early. Just enough time to reiterate my humble apology and share a cup of tea with an aged metabolic caretaker. He looks decidedly more dishevelled since I saw him yesterday. I’m guessing the dinner was a disaster and the weekend getaway isn’t happening.
ME
Again, I am so sorry. I can’t tell you enough how absolutely dreadful I feel about putting my foot in it. I just genuinely thought you’d given her the earrings . . .
CARETAKER
Turns out she hates earrings. Not your fault.
ME
How can you hate earrings?
CARETAKER
Apparently, I’ve given her them for our last three anniversaries. How am I supposed to remember what I’ve bought her?
I’d like to tell him that perhaps that’s part of the problem. Perhaps he could be a bit more mindful and present in their marriage, but I think better of it.
CARETAKER
I’ve got something else I’d like to show you, today. No more bloody earrings.
He’s bought her a replacement gift, I think. What a nice idea. That’s a pro-active husband. He probably looks dishevelled because he was up all night having make-up sex with her.
He stands up and goes to the broom cupboard behind me and retrieves something. I can’t see what it is. It’s eerily quiet here today. The client hasn’t turned up yet and it looks like the Gen Y’er sound engineer is late.
I hear him behind me as I take a sip of tea.
CARETAKER
The apple of my eye.
It’s a computer. An Apple Mac. He’s bought her a computer and he’s
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