To Someone, You Matter
Monday.
“Oh, my dear, really, meat patties? I haven’t the time! I’ve snuck away from work only for an hour, don’t you see? Later, love! Later…” Michael Robinson hungrily eyed Nina as she obediently put everything she’d prepared back into the fridgelast night’s pie, roast chicken, the apple crumble she hoped would make Michael smile.
Every Monday, Nina waited for him. Morning, afternoon, eveningeven at midnight, it made no difference. He’d arrive without a word, let himself in with his own key, kiss her on the lips, and then everything would blur into a suffocating, sweet haze.
Thank goodness Ninas son, Henry, was gone all day at college on Mondays. No one to interrupt.
He knew, or at least suspected, his mother was seeing someone, but he didn’t ask. Why bother? Better not to know. Still… once Henry caught sight of the manstepping into his posh saloon with all the air of an oversized, blocky banker. Unpleasant fellow. But if it made his mother happy, let it be. She always glowed after Michael had been.
Michael never brought Nina flowers. Didnt want to tip off his driver, for one thing. No silly tales about lost aunts or dotty mothershis were all living down in Brighton.
Nina understood. Why bother with flowers? Unnecessary. The main thingMichael was hers, if only for a little while. Hers alone, not his wifes or his childrens or his works.
Nina had no right to jealousy. She knew she was the other woman, the one tearing at the fabric of family, slipping in where she shouldnt. So what space did she have for envy? Be grateful for what you get.
And she was grateful. And as for Michael, the words to express his relief and delight would not have been enough.
Hed married young, in haste, never sowing a wild oat, never tasting the honey of romantic adventure. Two children with Gillian, and now Michael Robinson was responsible for them: providing and parenting and seeing them throughno more, no less. He hadn’t loved Gill for years, and neither did she seem to burn for him. They coexisted, like neighbourssharing the breakfast table, but little else.
“…My darling, dont look so glum!” Michael would whisper, standing by the hall, coat in hand. “It was lovely, wasnt it? Alls well. Ill be here next Monday, I promise. Then youll feed me your feast, tuck me up, and”
Nina, biting her lip, nodded. No expectations, no burdens. She was happyshe told herself.
“Bye now,” she whispered in his ear.
Michael kissed her, paused a second, then jerked open the door and vanished. Long goodbyes inevitably turned to tears, and hed be late at the office againand tonight his younger daughter, Julia, had her gymnastics competition; he’d promised to come.
“Michael! Your briefcase!” Nina remembered suddenly. Shed tucked it away on purpose, hoping hed forget and returna minute longer with her would be enough.
“Ah, what a scatterbrain I am! Thank you. Rightbyee!” He hurried out.
Nina watched him go, waving from the window, although he never looked up. He was always rushing.
She put on her spectacles and settled at her little desk. She was an editor for a small publishing house and worked from home. She often dreamt that one day Michael would come to her for good and eat her cooking every day…
Tuesday.
That day, Michael left the office early, zipped across London in his “tin can”a foreign Mercedesdown to the head office, handed off documents (could have sent a courier, but preferred it this way), then waved his driver offsometimes slipping him a crisp note, feeling magnanimousthen hailed a Hackney carriage straight to Fitzrovia. In a grand Victorian building adorned with wrought iron and a doorman, Sasha waitedMiss Alexandra Turner, ex-ballerina, now teaching at a private ballet school, still as graceful as shed ever been. Tuesdays, she took off. She waited.
He didn’t bring her flowers, eitheralways worried what the doorman or the watchful neighbours might gossip. Sasha adored flowersroses and lilies had accompanied her whole life on stage.
“You see, Sasha,” Michael would say, stroking her fine, honey-coloured hair, “Id love to bring you a bouquet, but your lot downstairsthe bulldogswould see it at once: ‘Aha, hes here for a rendezvous!’ Cant have that. No flowers, just a man passing through…”
“Im not afraid of gossip, Michael. Ive missed you. I teach, yet my mind drifts to you. I remember your arms, your shoulders, your lips…” Sasha could speak with fire, passionately, making Michaels heart skip and twist. “But you, youre never there. Leave Gillian! You two dont even love each other! Shall I ring her now, tell the truth?”
Shed reach for the phone, but Michael would gently take her slender, pale hand, cool and delicate, and kiss it instead.
“Just wait, Sasha, please. Wait, my dearest, my beautiful. When the children are older, Ill goI swear it. But now, lets drink champagnelets get giddy and happy in the moment as it is. Dance for me, Sasha!”
Shed always danced for someonefirst for her grandmother, her parents, then for faceless audiences, for juries and directors. Now, for Michael.
She loved applause, and Michael obliged. Perhaps not dazzling, but what he lacked in spark he made up in devotion. Afterwards, they sipped coffee in her kitchenstrong and dark. Theyd gaze out at the city, laugh, knowing as soon as the second cup was drained, Michael would dress and go. Sasha saw him to the lift, tousled, in her robe, and the neighboursall of whom she knewwould whisper and judge. But Sasha was used to it. After all, gossiping about a dancer is just a kind of applause
Wednesday.
This was simplest of all. Michael visited Lydia in her country cottage; she was always waiting, in a dressing gown with fresh linens on the bed. Shed open the door, haul him inside by the lapel, and pounce as hungry as a starved wolf over a fence for a chunk of meat.
They’d met at some party when Lydia was tipsy and wonderfully inviting; Michael had dropped by to see a colleague, and that was thathed drowned in Lydia’s eyes.
He was still drowning. She had no intention of saving him.
Lydia never asked for flowers, never tried to feed Michael. Usually, she didnt even get up when he left.
“Bye, mouse!” hed call, kissing her chubby hand sticking from under the duvet.
She barely stirred, mumbled, and fell asleep again. Lydia was, in fact, the simplestnever asked for anything, never clung or cried. Michael visited, that was that.
But Lydia wasnt as shallow or dull as the wardrobe she inherited from her mother. She was shrewd with sharp instincts. If Lydia wanted something, shed claw and gnaw and trample whoever was in the way.
Michael feared, sometimes, she might try to prise him away from Gillian. Why? The children, the drama, letters about maintenance payments at work…
He shivered at the thought, but Lydia laughed it off dozens of times.
“Youre not a horse or a lamb,” shed giggle, nipping his ear and tickling his neck, “no ones leading you away. I like my freedom, old boy. Come by as a guest, but dont overstep your welcome.”
No, Michael was no lamb. Or perhaps, just a bit… Secretly, sometimes he worried Gillian might do the same to him. Now, wouldnt that be a turn?
Thursday.
Fish day. Michael started at the office as usual, then drove to Theresas. She was a wizard at seafoodshed grown up by the sea in Devon, could conjure any dish from the water. She even, Michael swore, smelled faintly of iodine and seaweedor maybe it was his imagination, but it was pleasant, reminding him of childhood holidays in Brighton.
Michael adored white fish, fillets done on the grill. Theresa bought only the best from trusted fishermen, laid the table as if for a fête, brought out white wine, folded napkins, lit candlesshe loved anything “bohemian”.
Michael ate. Hed eat nowhere else, but at Theresas was non-negotiable. He loved fish; end of discussion. Gillian was allergicwouldnt even let the stuff cross the threshold.
But on Thursdays, Gillian stayed at her mothers in Bromley, so Michael could indulge. Afterwards, he helped clear up, washed, changedTheresa believed in strict order. Michael always arrived fresh, pressed, and sweet-smelling.
Theresa was queen of her house and didnt let Michael forget it.
Sometimes, shed bring up them living together.
“I adore children, Michel,” shed say in a teasing accent. “It would be no burden. Over holidays, wed bring them to Cornwall to see my family. I know it would work nicely.”
She suggested rather than pleaded, and shrugged with dignity when Michael came up with new reasons against it.
“As you wish,” she’d say, topping up the glasses.
Theresa was the oldest of Michaels lovers; her body not so tight, her energy not what it once wasbut that was a benefit. Michael himself tired more easily these days. The years, no doubt.
He often left late, showered and rested. No wife and no children at homethey were with Gillians mother. Gillian rarely even phoned. And that suited him; he could lie in bed, lamplight on, dreaming of wild, passionate thingsof Theresa. With Gillian, she always drew the curtains tight at night; it felt like living at the bottom of a well: dark and cold. With Gill, unbearably cold. Or was that a draft? Didnt matter…
Friday.
Fridays were rather dull. Michael took the children to his mothers. His turn to entertain themGillian never came, always “working late”.
At his mothers, Michael wandered the flat while the children played cards with Gran Maude, then sat down to eat.
“And what of Gill this time? Busy again?” Maude always asked, grinning slyly as if to say, “You drew the short straw with that one, didnt you?”
Each time, Michael explained that Gill was off at field seminars.
“How interesting. Our Gillian always at seminarsmust be a professor by now. Well…” Maude would drum the table, then call, “Anna, Danieldont forget the cake!”
All would run for the cake and cups, bustling and chatting. Only Michael sat motionlesshe was tired. At forty-seven, it was no easy feat to be both a ladies man and a bosslet alone both at once.
Especially when your lovers included a dancer, a businesswoman, and a seafood queen…
“Truth be told, Mr Robinson, all women want the same thing!” Michael’s driver, Stephen, once said.
“And whats that, Stephen?” Michael laughed, rubbing his chin. Stubble… Nina preferred him clean-shaven
“Money, sir! If youve got money, youre in; if not, off you go. Its the way of things. My wife never respected me till I started earning morenow she cant do enough for me. All about the money, sir. You know it…”
Michael glared; Stephen shrank, pretending to concentrate on traffic, muttering at another driver.
“No, youre wrong, mate,” Michael thought grimly. “Mine are not like that. Well, perhaps just my wife Gill certainly counts the bills. When did that start?” Michael scratched at a coffee stain on his trousers. “I dont know. Slowly, maybe. We cooled, wore each other out. We live in comfort, after all.” And emotions? His feelings belonged to someone elsegentleness, care, the whispered longing, the anticipation of an embrace. None of that with Gill. And so be it, he supposed. Still, he owed hershed introduced him to the people who helped him up the career ladder. Gill had a head for numbers, for profitbut that was all.”
“Come on, dont doze off,” he snapped at Stephen. “Were late!”
They sped through crowded London streets, zigzagging among other “rushing tin cans,” as Michael called it, stopping by Ninas blockexplaining to his driver that his private physiotherapist worked from home here.
Stephen asked no questions. Why bother? Osteopath, dentist, manicuristit made no odds. Michael paid well. That was enough.
…On the MondayNinas dayGillian announced her departure.
“What do you mean, youre leaving?” Michael sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Well, on foot, of course.” Gillian laughed, patting her thighs. “Ill file for divorce myself, Ill take the children, but theres a lot to sort… some paperwork”
She sat calmly at her dressing table, curling her hair as if describing a dull colleagues classroom blunder.
“I dont get itwhere are you going, why?” Michaels feet achedbunions, just like his mothers. Trouble…
“Really, Michael? Im leaving you. The rests not your business. I never ask where you spend each eveningso dont ask about me. Ill take the children, later. Bertram and I… well, weve papers to do, a flat to settle into…” She put down her curler, catching sight of Michaels hunched, scowling figure behind her.
“What? Upset? Oh, come now! Dont pout. You wont be alone, dont worry! Only, Stephenyour driverhes with me now. These things happen. Bertram and I, weve got a deal runningso Stephen comes to us. But youll keep your girls. Do the maintenance payments right, though, wont you? I know all your little income streamsno use pretending. And do freshen up, youre smelling a bit strong!”
Her hair and make-up done, she slipped into another smart dress; Michael reflexively zipped her up, wanted to ask something morebut Gillian was gone.
“Ill take the kids to school. Dont mope!” And she slammed the door behind her…
At first, Michael wandered the silent flat, smirking. Well done, Gillianshed bested him.
Then a wave of fury swept himhe wanted to hurl the mug with “Home, Family, Duty…” on it at the wall and crush the fragments underfoot till he howled from pain.
He realized why he struggled so muchshed blindsided him. Quietly, patiently, Jill had built something else, all while plotting with that ferret, Bertram! Disgusting!
Gillian was his, and no one elses. Hed seen her in so many lightsradiant, sad, wistful, loving, cold. It was he, not Bertram, who had carried her through the snow to hospital, their car stuck, when she went into labour. Only he knew that during Gillians migraines, it was liqueur coffee that banished themworks for no one else. Only he knew why she insisted on curtains at bedtime, though they lived on the twenty-seventh floor overlooking the park, out of sight of prying eyes. Gillian was simply afraid. Shed been lost in the woods as a child, feverish, haunted by visions of cloaked phantoms. Shed told no one but her husband. But now what? Would Bertram laugh at her fears?
Outside, not a trace of Stephen and the car; Michael summoned a black cab.
At work, he shouted at staff, scattered papers, unable to find anythingnever happened before.
And all the while: “Gills gone. Gill is gone!”
Then, after a few empty days, came the clinic call…
“No need to worry, Mr Robinson!” The doctor perused the gleaming medical file. “You ought to come in for tests. A weeks stayrest, vitamins, massage, and then results. So, should we hospitalise you?”
Straining for a peek at his results, Michael felt a trickle of cold sweat.
Hospital? No! Theyd medicate him to death, bleed him for money, bury him.
“Nonsense. I havent got time!” He sprang up, towering over the doctor, tapping the desk. “And stop with the threats! Want an extra fee, is that it? Not happening!”
He waved his fist.
“Money? My dear sir, you need the hospitaldelay is dangerous. Here, take your results, see any independent expert you wish. As for fees, Mr Robinson,” the doctor buttoned his coat, “perhaps scold your wife instead. I have my mortgage, but I didnt come here to fleece you. Appointment over!”
Michael slammed the doorthe paint flaked, a crack appearing on the wall.
“Youll fix itmoneys no issue for you lot!” he barked at the startled nurse.
Why did everything come back to money? He didnt know. And now, there were other things to worry about…
He went to Nina. Mondayher daysurely shed be waiting.
Nina was, but not as usual.
Tearful, defeated, she didnt rush into his arms or offer food. She hadnt even brushed her hair.
“Michael… Michael, darling!” she wailed, clutching his hand. “Henrys left. He rangsaid hes moving in with his granny; says he doesnt want to be in our way anymore.”
“With us?” Michael rasped.
“Yes. He said some Gillian rang him, said you were divorcing, that now you’d move in with me. How could you, Michael? All behind my back!” Nina sobbed, wringing her hands.
“I neverGill told me about the divorce this morning!” Michael brushed Nina off, like a troublesome fly.
“Liar! Oh, I dont care when she told you. I dont want to live with you! Bring Henry back! Do you hear me? Bring him back!” She beat the air with her fists.
“Why is it my fault? Call him, have him come home. I never meantnever”
“What? You never meant to? And youre a beast! I hate you, you hear? Hate you!” She threw him out and slammed the door.
He hadnt even managed to say he was dying. But Nina didnt care.
When Henry was around, there was reason to care for Michaelnow there was not.
Michael wandered the familiar, yet suddenly foreign, boulevard. They were tearing down the little old newspaper kiosk for new pavement.
“Without that, itll feel empty and cold,” Michael thought, feeling ancient. “So it is with me and Nina. When things were familiar, even if imperfect, all seemed all right. Gillian was my anchorconsistencyand now thats gone, the universe has spun out, in fragments.”
Nina had Henry. Her meetings with Michael made sensethe roles assigned. But now? Whod excuse her? Or would she have to admit she was never beloved, only a lover? Not on, thank you. Bring back the old world; it was easier…
He sat on a bench, looked at his test papers, tried to make sense but couldnt. Phoned Alexandra, but she was at rehearsalaccordion in the background, rhythm of feet.
“Oh, Michaelnot now, please? Not this week. My sister’s called me to Sydney, I’m flying over. Not sure for how long. Once your divorce settles, let me know, all right? Sorry, Im busy!” and hung up.
Shed heard about the divorce, tooGillian had told her, as if Michael were a mouse dropped in with snakes for them to fight over.
But this mouse smelled off, and nobody wanted him.
Lydia took him innot on her usual daydragged him to bed as always, smoked a cigarette, then let slip that she was pregnant. Not his.
“Strange, spent all these years wanting a child, now not sure I want it at all,” she said, staring at her stomach. “Don’t know how I feel about this…”
Michael babbled, promising the best doctors, to help, to pay, that Lydia must be careful now…
“Go on, tell me again! What do you know? Why are you here? Gills gone, so you crawl back to me? Think youll get a warm welcome? Sorry! Michael,” she quavered, palm to her mouth, “just go. Youre making me sick. Go!”
She didnt need him either. She had new concerns.
“I only wanted adviceI have these test results…” Michael started.
“So do Irhesus conflict,” Lydia said with a wry smile. “Get lost!”
So Michael got lost. His supposedly rich, colourful lifegone to nothing. All those warm beds, open armsno one waiting for him? Once he was free, eligiblea single man, no one wanted him? Married suited them better, less awkward. Gill had spoiled everything.
Theresa, after listening to his complaints about the doctors, immediately said he must go to Tibet, gave him a number, told him never to call again.
“I believe in auras, Mr Robinson. Yours is feeblecontagiously so. Best we dont see each other again.”
And faded away, with her fish and wine. Shed cook for someone else now, someone with a shining, egg-yolk aura
He didnt tell his mother about his illnessshed only have blamed Gillian, then launched into tales of her own ailments.
Home, he lay exhausted and hungry in bedwoke at night terrified. He didnt want to dienot yet; his children, what would become of them?
“And before? You with Lydia, Sasha, Ninaand your children with their mother” a voice whispered. “And so itll be. Buried and gone.”
He agreed to the tests in hospital, not so much to heal, but because home was so empty, so quiet. At least in hospital, youd hear trolley wheels or a nurses footsteps.
His operation was scheduled for the next morning.
“Have you told your family? Otherwise, theyll pester the place,” grumbled the man in the next bed, a curt, sullen old fellow. “Just so you know, I wont answer the phone!”
“They wont be calling, dont worry,” Michael shook his head.
And he was wheeled off.
When he awoke, sitting up, clutching his bandaged side, he reached for his phone and nearly wept. Because, in truth, no one had called. Not a single soul. As if hed never existed…
And in that moment, Michael stopped being afraid. If he was nobody, so be itlet the world move on! The children would grieve, his motherperhaps. But not himself. He was like an old kiosk, to be demolished and replaced. Let Lydia’s baby live a better life. Michael would step aside…
The fever struck at nighthe was sent to intensive care. All around, bodies under sheetspeople, but somehow half gone. Michael slipped into sleep
When he surfaced, Gillian was thereher face pressed into his hospital blanket, quietly asleep beside him. Sunlight streamed in, dazzling and sharp.
“We should draw the curtainsyou never liked the light,” he whispered, throat raw from the tube.
Gillian stirred, levelled a stern look.
“No need. Leave it be. We need the light, in here,” she said, stroking his cheek before pulling her hand back quickly.
“Sorrynot shaved. Ill”
He tried to stand to wash, but couldnt.
“Well fight this, Michael. Togetherwe’ll fight. Do you understand?” Gillian insisted. She knew all his faults, and forgave. Or at least, she hadnt left.
And he understood. He was not an old kiosk. He was a mansomeone still loved. And that made the pain sharper still…
