Don’t bother contacting me again till you’ve done exactly as I ask. And can you please stop leaving voice messages on my phone the length of a radio play? I get the message. But you know what?
Sometimes being sorry for everything just won’t cut it.
Jo.
From: [email protected]
Re: The last of your things.
April 17th, 9.15 a.m.
Christ Jo, you really should take a moment to read back on some of your more stinging emails. Just take note though, this is the result of what we’re going through and how it’s affecting you. Even though I’m the only one brave/foolhardy enough to say it to your face.
Ever stumbled across the phrase, ‘misdirected anger’?
Suggest you look it up in the dictionary. You’ll find it right there, under, ‘Jo Hargreaves: nut job.’
See you this weekend.
In spite of what you think, I’m still prepared to work things out.
Yours,
Dave.
(Your husband, just in case that minor little factoid had slipped your mind, my pet.)
PS. Will now spend the rest of the day wondering what in the name of all ye Gods happened to that gorgeous, loving girl I married.
Just so you know.
Jo had just boarded her flight when that particular gem pinged through and was about to switch off her phone and let it go, when a sudden hot flush of anger swept right over her.
‘Misdirected anger’? Did Dave really say that? And had she been seeing things or had he actually used the phrase, ‘still prepared to work this out’ after everything that had happened?
She checked the phone again, but there it was, in black and white. Then just as an air hostess made an announcement asking that all portable electronic devices be switched off, she went back to typing furiously, phone hidden under her coat, so no one would see.
From: [email protected]
Re: The last of your things.
April 17th, 9.22 a.m.
Dave,
Out of idle curiosity, you’re prepared to work out what exactly? How you can inveigle your way back into living with me? It’s clearly not because you actually want to be with me, so dare I suggest, because it’s nice and handy for your dole office? So you can continue to sponge off me and live the life of an eternal student, while calling yourself an out-of-work actor?
As for all this utter crap about my ‘misdirecting anger’, frankly, you can take a running jump with yourself. My anger is pretty direct and well aimed, as it happens.
You know what you sound like? A child who thinks every problem in their little life is everyone else’s fault bar theirs. You may have played the part of a head shrink in a show once, but that certainly doesn’t make you one. If you really want to psychoanalyse someone, suggest you start a little closer to home. Oooh, off the top of my head, say for instance, a thirty-eight-year-old man in long-term unemployment, who’s back living with his mother?
Now piss off and leave me alone. Some of us have real work to do.
Jo.
PS. As for ‘this is the result of what we’re going through and how it’s affecting you’? Cop yourself on, Dave. You’re not ‘going through’ anything that I can see. Other than six cans of Bulmers a night, that is.
From: [email protected]
Re: The last of your things.
April 17th, 9.35 a.m.
Dear Queen narky moody-pants,
You know why you’re acting like this and saying these things. Because this isn’t you, at least, not the real you. You’re just acting out and looking for a convenient punchbag. So enter Dave, long-suffering husband, stage left.
That is, at least, I fecking hope it’s not the real you. Otherwise never mind about your threats of wanting a divorce. I bloody want one first. So there. So how do you like it, when it’s thrown back into your pretty and freakishly unlined face?
In spite of what you may think, dearest insane one, I still wish you love and luck on your trip and look forward to seeing you on your return.
Because I’m here for you. And the day may yet come when you’ll need to remember that.
Dxxx
PS. You told me you liked the red Ferrari print. Shattered that you lied. Oh, the deceit of womanhood, etc.
PPS. As for your vitriolic comment re: my employment status, you know I could be in a job right now if I wanted to be. I’ll have you know, dearest one, that I was offered a telly commercial only last week, playing the part of a speaking Sky Plus box, but chose to take the principled stand of telling the casting director where he could go and shove it. Because in spite of your oft-repeated ‘career advice’ to me, I refuse to compromise my art for mere lucre.
PPPS. I don’t really want a divorce. I don’t want one at all. In fact, I want to stay married to you forever and ever, if only to annoy you. I want us to grow old and grey together, then be the one who wheels you around the nursing home, when you’re stroke-ridden and need someone to wipe your arse. That’s a measure of how much I’m staying married to you, sweet spouse of mine.
From: [email protected]
Re: The last of your things.
April 17th, 9.42 a.m.
Dave,
As it happens, I think you’d have made a fantastic speaking Sky Plus box. Shame you weren’t offered something made of wood though, then you really could have had a chance to show off your range.
Have to go, flight taxiing now.
Am greatly looking forward to coming home to a lovely, empty flat, free of any and all reminders of you.
Jo.
PS. Please don’t tell me the subliminal reasons behind my behaviour. I know there’s nothing easier for you in the world than to conveniently blame what I’ve been dealing with personally for the breakdown of our relationship.
But trust me, it’s broken and unfixable. It’s over.
From: [email protected]
Re: The last of your things.
April 17th, 11.10 a.m.
Sweet-natured angel of mine,
Has your flight landed yet? Because I’ve a few further points I’d like to make and given the humour you’re in these days, it’ll be more than my life’s worth to say to your face.