The word 'Divorce' first started swirling my brain three weeks ago. Sure, a part of me before then must have been terrified of the prospect, or I wouldn't have latched on to the fear so suddenly, but I can pick out with crystal clear clarity the precise moment I understood just how deep his conviction ran.
It had been Christmas Eve, of all days, when I discovered his intention to hire that lawyer. I hadn't suspected a thing. I wasn't purposely snooping. I had just been cleaning the higher levels of the house, hoovering away the debris in time for Christmas. The children had been playing on the lower levels of the barn, whilst Roger spirited himself away into the confines of his office. It had bothered me a little that he had designated Christmas Eve as a day to work from home, although I had not complained. Instead, I stood passively aggressively outside his study, hoovering the same bit of carpet over and over again, hoping the whirring noise would slowly drive him insane. It had little effect; he didn't even get up to close the door to the sound. Exasperated, I had crept forward, settling to just argue with him like a normal person instead of doing all that passive-aggressive petty shit that had gotten me nowhere thus far. That was when I first heard it.
"I know, I know, but I'm getting the lawyers on it, first thing in the New Year" he sighed dejectedly down the phone line, pacing back and forth in his makeshift "office", which included only a drumkit and a sparse desk. He huffed impatiently as he waited for the person on the other end of the line to finish speaking. Finally, he tutted.
"I don't really care what Victoria thinks, to be perfectly honest. That's just the way it's going to be. I can't pretend forever, not even for her sake" Radio silence as the other person continued the exchange. "Well, if it was 1977, I'd feel differently, but it isn't. We've grown apart since then, and this time, I don't think it can be fixed. It's like living with a stranger". I had turned at that point, unwilling to listen to anymore of that conversation.
Christmas had been bleak. Christmas was always bleak, though, I suppose. At least he had made it home this year. There was one year he missed it entirely, due to poorly planned travel and atrocious weather conditions. Sometimes, I think he was happiest that Christmas away from me. His face never says it, a perfect masque, but I can't help but question every event I throw, every family meal or celebration I host. How it compares to the silver plates he eats from on the road. The star-studded parties he attends. How just even the room service at the most basic hotel Queen frequents was probably more impressive than my dry turkey and burnt potatoes.
These are the thoughts that plague my brain as I turn to face my love. Hardly awe-inspiring, I know. But I cannot help it. Our last happy memory pre-dates 1982, and those hurt too much to think of. Instead, I have to hold on to that tiny part of me that hates him, for loving him is too painful. Hatred will be my armour in the up-coming divorce.
Of course, that conversation may not have been about me. I struggle to understand who else it could have been about, when my name was the only one mentioned. Who else could feel like a stranger to him? Certainly, no-one in the band. He spends his life with those boys.
We exchange a cordial hello, this stranger and I. He demanded a kiss, but he settles for a warm hug. We exchange pleasentries, before I excuse myself, wordlessly passing Orla into his arms as I scramble for the bathroom. Even though I tell myself frequently that I no longer care what this stranger thinks of me, I find myself hastily applying ointment after ointment, coming out my hair, dabbing powder into my skin to pretty myself for him.
It's so easy for him. Although his shredded frame has filled out somewhat over the years, his shaggy, boyish blonde locks cropped to more a manageable - but somehow still rugged - cut above the nape of his neck, he has retained his looks. If anything, age has improved him, like a fine wine. His jaw appears more chiselled, his high cheek bones more defined, against his bleached hair and icy, piercing blue eyes. There was something commanding about him, some darkness present in his irises that was not there in his youth. I cannot even remember when the transformation happened; it was almost overnight. At some point, the dark, mucky blonde locks had been attacked with bleach, that carefree, playful smirk morphed into an arrogant air of indifference, at least, in the photo shoots. Either version of him took my breath away.
