Page 4 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

A Very Bad Big Birthday Gets a Whole Lot Worse

I stare at the monitor, my brain refusing to arrange the words into a sentence I can understand. I read the message again.

YOUR HUSBAND IS HAVING AN AFFAIR!

I say the words out loud—slowly and deliberately, as though reading a sign in a foreign language. They taste bitter and unfamiliar on my tongue.

I push back into the faux leather office chair and squeeze my eyes closed. Outside, a garbage truck sloshes along the street. The rest of the world is waking up. I need to think.

The allegation is preposterous. Jonathan would never turn his back on twenty-five years of marriage. We are childhood sweethearts. That is not the kind of history you trash for a few snatched hours in a hotel room. The Jonathan I married would never betray me like that. Surely.

I try to chase away the doubts that are starting to crowd my head. Is my husband really the same man who vowed to love me for better or worse a quarter of a century ago? In truth, I’m not entirely sure. We no longer share a life and home together so much as cohabit in the same space.

A surge of panic courses through me. Or it might be a hot flush. Either way, I am sweating and close to throwing up. I tip my head back and let the heat and nausea roll beneath my skin.

The late-night meetings. The sudden preoccupation with the gym. The new clothes.

Maybe there is another woman. But who is she? Is it someone I know? A work colleague? A gym buddy?

Jonathan has recently embraced the 24-hour fitness concept with an enthusiasm I find baffling—and, frankly, annoying.

Maybe even more annoying than my mother’s predawn texting habit.

It just seems so unfair. How can he be so energetic and ‘Life. Be in it.’ when I am so worn down?

If our marriage was a duck, Jonathan would be the handsomely plumed body gliding across the water and I’d be the ugly little webbed feet frantically thrashing around beneath the surface, trying to keep everything afloat.

There is a loud bang and a flash, and the room lights up.

I flinch. The storm is gathering strength now.

Rain and tree branches whip against the window.

Staring at my computer screen, I feel every lash like a body blow.

I think of the woman in the mirror. If Jonathan is having an affair, who could blame him?

I’ve let myself go. That much is fact even if my husband isn’t having an affair.

I’ve added a kilogram for every year of marriage and jumped a full dress size in the last six weeks.

My new tracksuit pants are already cutting into the fleshy donut of my hips.

And if my work blouses get any tighter, I’ll need to secure them with occy straps.

If I am honest with myself, my complacent middle-class life has been teetering for a while.

There is no longer any passion, laughter or companionship in my marriage.

Even if my husband is still physically faithful, he is detached emotionally.

And isn’t that the real issue? My relationship has deteriorated so completely that an affair is a real possibility.

Cheating is only a symptom of a far deeper problem.

I bring my elbows onto the desk and press my index fingers hard into my forehead. My head is pounding, as fierce and insistent as the squall outside. Tears gather against my eyelashes and plop heavily onto the keyboard.

Happy birthday to me.

Not.

I sit with my head in my hands, sobbing uncontrollably for who knows how long. It might be minutes; it might be hours. But when my phone rings, dragging me back into the here and now, the neck of my T-shirt is sodden.

I straighten up and rub my eyes with the heel of my palm.

The idea of attempting any kind of conversation in my current state appals me and I am tempted to let the call go through to voicemail.

But what if there is some kind of emergency?

It could be a call from the police in Sri Lanka or Nepal or India or wherever my parents are right now.

I wouldn’t put it past my mother to cause some kind of international incident.

No matter what else is happening in my life, I still have responsibilities. I reach across the desk. The phone vibrates angrily in my hand.

But it isn’t my mother. Or a mayday from the other side of the Indian Ocean. Although I almost wish it is when the caller’s name flashes up on my screen.

Dominic Malouf.

If I made a list of the people I least wanted to talk to in this moment—or at any time, really—my obnoxiously youthful boss would be right there near the top.

He is a man whose limited ability, experience and charisma are matched only by his Herculean ambition.

As one former colleague observed as she was clearing out her desk, the bloke was a locker room Prince Joffrey in an ill-fitting suit.

A month into the new regime and after watching a few episodes of Game of Thrones , I decided the description was spot on.

Dominic is a mean, misogynistic slob. He is also one of the few people whose phone call I simply cannot ignore.

I tip my head back another few degrees to keep the tears from falling and accept the call.

‘Hello?’ I grapple for my normal voice like a rock climber searching for an edge.

My pitch is slightly too high and I don’t usually tend to an upward inflection.

But miraculously, my voice holds. If the conversation stays brief, I might get through it without breaking down.

And if I can manage that, I might even survive the day.

‘So glad I caught you, Eva. Are you still at home?’ The wunderkind sounds pleasant, which is never a good sign.

‘Just about to head out the door actually.’ I glance at the clock on my computer. It is well past seven thirty. My lie would be the truth any other day. I need to get moving, especially in this weather. The window of opportunity to call in sick is long past.

‘Look, no need to come in today.’

Short of doubling my wages and halving my working hours, Dominic could not make a more welcome suggestion. I feel an unexpected rush of warmth toward him. I can scarcely believe it. Something is actually going right on this most miserable of birthdays.

‘Really? I can stay home?’

‘Absolutely. You can take the whole day off. Actually, you can take two weeks off. We’ve decided not to renew your contract.’

I feel my stomach do a skip and drop. Surely, I’ve misheard?

I’ve worked for the one company for twenty-eight years, most of it sitting at the same desk.

But secure full-time employment hasn’t been a thing in television for many years.

It’s all short-term contracts and mine suspiciously expired a few months ago without anyone scrambling to get my signature to extend.

I am blindsided. How did I not read the tea leaves? Losing my job isn’t something I’ve ever considered. Then again, I’ve never entertained the idea that my husband is cheating on me before today either.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘There’s nothing to understand. The company is restructuring and your position doesn’t exist anymore.’

A silence follows that I don’t trust myself to fill.

‘We’ll be giving you two weeks’ pay, of course.’

There is another uncomfortable few seconds of dead air.

I am clearly expected to be the next to speak, presumably to express my gratitude for the company’s benevolence.

I grapple for a more appropriate response.

But nothing suggests itself that doesn’t involve a lot of begging and crying.

My deeply ingrained manners step into the breach.

‘Thank you for letting me know.’ I curse myself as the words fall from my mouth. Thank you for letting me know? Who says that? But who sacks someone over the phone after almost three decades?

‘Terrific. Well, I better get going then,’ my ex-boss rushes on. ‘I’ve got a few more calls to make yet. Have a great day, kiddo.’

The phone goes dead.

Kiddo . I feel a wave of bile rush into my mouth. What a twat.

I sleepwalk into the kitchen and crank the coffee machine to the shortest and strongest option available.

As the machine whirs to life, I grab a bottle of my husband’s special occasion whisky from the liquor cabinet.

I pour a generous nip into my coffee mug and proceed to knock down the contents in a few scalding gulps.

I refill the mug with equal parts caffeine and scotch and head back to the computer.

I need a strategy before I tackle the rest of the day.

I take another, more cautious, sip of coffee, give the mouse a jiggle and click through to Facebook.

My revised employment status can wait. For the moment, I will treat it as a convenient stroke of luck.

An unexpected opportunity to sort out other bigger problems in my life.

And my most pressing problem is what to do about my husband’s (alleged) affair.

I peel a sliver off my already stubby thumbnail, jam the bloody digit into my mouth and type one-handed.

Eva Moore Who are you?

The reply comes immediately.

Ernest Friend I am your earnest friend.

I snarl at the screen. How dare this anonymous person throw a grenade into my life and then play coy? I need hard information not cutesy online banter. But just as I am framing another more pertinent question, Ernest Friend’s user icon disappears from the screen. He is offline and I am on my own.

Outside, the rain continues to pound.

My phone pings, alerting me to an incoming text. It’s Emily.

Happy Birthday, Mum. Nanna says you’re starting on a fitness regime. That’s terrific! Better late than never—right? Em xxox

I love my daughter dearly, but she does share her grandmother’s hideous timing and lack of filter. I turn my phone face down. Today, Emily is the least of my worries.

From the journals and miscellaneous paperwork of Eva Reddy (Age 30)

February 1st, 2003

It’s Emily’s first day of school tomorrow and as good a time as any to return to my journal. It’s been more than five years since I wrote anything more thought-provoking than a Christmas card. That has to change. Now!

I’m 30 years old. In just over a month, I turn 31.

And I have achieved absolutely nothing of note.

Well, I’ve kept a child alive, which is not to be discounted.

But that wasn’t in my original game plan.

I am not a writer, and my television career is near enough to non-existent.

In short, I am hurtling toward mediocrity.

This is the sum total of my writing last week:

Sugar

Potatoes

500g chicken thighs

Coffee!!!!

Cereal

Not exactly Anna Karenina .

But I’m reclaiming my life as of today! I still have plenty of time to steer my mind and my body in a more positive direction. (Here’s looking at you, size 12 elastic-waisted tracksuit pants.)

So, I have come up with a revised manifesto.

Now that I am almost 31 with a school-aged child I will …

1. Make moves toward a career change

2. Write something more interesting than a shopping list

3. Be fabulous

4. Go out somewhere more inspiring than the supermarket

5. Join the gym

There—five nice, simple, easy-to-reach goals. If I can’t manage those, there’s no hope for me.