YOU CANT STEP IN THE SAME RIVER TWICE
Hello, darling! said Arthur, planting a wet kiss on my cheek as though nothing unusual had happened.
I recoiled, repelled by the bouquet of yesterdays adventures wafting off my husband.
So, where have you been hiding for the past week, you old lush? I demanded, once again embarking on the never-ending quest to sort out our relationship.
Round at my mates, giving him a shoulder to cry on. His missus left him, Arthur fibbed, improvising his latest tall tale as sobriety slowly crept back in.
Oh really? Arent you even worried your own wife might be contemplating legging it while youre busy comforting your drinking buddies? My patience wore thin in half a second.
Not a chance. My wife loves meI know that for certain. Come on, Susan, feed your poor husband, will you? The only thing my mate had to offer was a plate of plums from his garden, he replied, earning brownie points for peacekeeping.
…Arthur and I are both graduates of marriage number two. Our union was love at first sightmad, unhinged, exasperating love.
We were just over thirty at the time.
Arthurs first wife, suspecting her husbands secret affair (with yours truly), used to pop into my office to regale me with every juicy detail of their nightly escapades:
Arthur outdid himself last nightkissed me, hugged me, absolutely wild!
Id reply calmly, Splendid! Glad for you. Keep up the good work!
But deep down, I knew: Arthur was mine and only mine. I felt sorry for his exshed given him two sons and adored him. Yet, unwittingly, I nicked him.
…Our wild romance dragged on for three years. Neither of us had any plans to abandon our families. But the cord tightened every day; things slid downhill, unstoppable. Exiting such sticky entanglements was impossible. Arthur brought me armfuls of flowers, escorted me round cafés and restaurants. Wed sit for hours, holding hands, gazing into each others eyes. We got together, split up, got together againaware our families suffered, but how do you halt an avalanche?
…My first husband, having suffered enough from my waywardness, wished me well in my new marriage. I get it. Everyone craves peace, comfort, love. Who wants a gallivanting wife?
He didnt even attempt to talk sense into me. In fact, he sincerely wished me happiness, blaming himself for how things turned out.
Shame I couldnt keep you, he said.
Not long after, our daughter broke the news:
Dads marrying someone else. Theyre in love, apparently. Weddings soon. Hes divorcing you, Mum.
Arthur’s first wife, on learning her husband was leaving her, tore his passport to shreds. As if that would change anything.
But heres what I didnt know: Arthur was a seasoned alcoholic. His mum (never one for subtlety) called me aside for a conspiratorial whisper.
Susan, if you mean to stick with my boy, dont ever trust him with money. Give him enough for fags and buses each day. Not a penny more. Don’t let him touch the family financesor theyll be gone before you can blink.
At the time, I brushed it offfoolishly.
After we finally tied the knot, pushing past every hurdle, the penny began to drop.
Now, I can give you the full rundown of what living with an alcoholic means.
Initially, I was convinced my all-consuming love would reform Arthur. Of course hed give up drinking and dodgy mates for me! My faith dissolved faster than a biscuit in builders tea. Before long, my wish had shrunk: if only Arthur could walk home under his own steam, not stagger in on all fours.
Arthur could drink for weeks on end. Hed nick money from me regularlyalways on the sly. In my first marriage, cash was left lying about. With Arthur, I hid it, he found it. He pawned all my gold jewellerygifts from husband number one, naturally. Couldnt buy them back, either, since he never held down a proper job.
Oh, I paid the full price for that stolen love… with interest.
Arthur was perpetually skint when it came to buying booze. Turned out he knew every secret hiding spot Id ever devised. I hid; Arthur followed and pilfered. Lying became his go-to lifestylenothing clever, simply stitched together with very visible threads. One minute, he swore undying loyalty; the next, you needed eyes in the back of your head.
Id dash about checking on Arthurs mates, hunting down my missing husband, dragging him home, wheedling, threatening… all wasted effort.
The stress nearly did me inI loathed myself, since husband number one was practically teetotal. What on earth had I needed? Allergies kicked in (hello, NHS), heart bothering me, headaches all day. I started falling apart like a supermarket trolley.
Meanwhile, Arthur carried on with his carefree, relentless drinking.
…Ten years passed in this nerve-shredding circus. Then, after binging on self-help books, I finally chilled out and gave Arthur an ultimatum:
Pick: me or the boozy mates. Im done with this merry-go-round.
Arthur took his sweet time answeringmustve been an agonising choice. I didnt rush him. Frankly, Id stopped caring and being hurt. Passion had faded like an old pair of jeans. In my deepest, darkest moments, I even wished Arthur would cheat so Id have cause to chuck him. But he remained stubbornly loyal.
Susan, a drinking man doesnt fancy other women! hed declare.
Sad but true…
When Arthur hit forty, we marched into the Anglican church. He was baptiseda step he wanted, having realised he was sliding right off the edge. Something had to give.
After baptism, Arthur began to change. His so-called mates vanishedsome drank themselves into the next life, others faded away. The whole social circle was replaced.
Now, we mix with nice, respectable couples. Maybe its age, maybe the Lord did a bit of rewiringbut Arthur drinks moderately these days. Whenever he starts going on about his undying love, I say:
Better zip it, Arthur. Im not sixteenIm not falling for sweet talk. Actions speak louder than words.
…Inside, all my emotions have cooled, burned out, and settled.
How many rows have we had! Arthur would fling his keys, slam the door, storm out forever. I never chased after him. If youre leavingleave. Sometimes, hed have one pint and spout a whole barrel of nonsense. Yet every time, Arthur crawled back, begged forgiveness, swore hed change, kissed my hands.
Alcohol and wits dont walk together; booze bellows, brains are silent.
Once, Arthur brought home a bunch of dried flowers.
Saw an old womanshe wouldnt take no for an answer, insisted I buy this for you! he explained when I gawked at the shriveled bouquet.
Spot on, that old lady, I replied. Look at our lovedried out, for all to see! My irony always lands, especially when hes in the doghouse.
At least it lasts forever, Arthur grumbled, wounded.
In the end, I forgive Arthur everythingI pity him. No use harbouring bitterness; costs you more than its worth.
Still, I reckon you can go back to the start, but you cant revive whats gone.
Were still together… for now.
