After Dark Diaries

The Bachelor Files Ep 14

The Morning I Should Have Gone Home

There are certain places where a man expects to get himself into trouble.

A nightclub at two in the morning.

A hotel bar when he’s had four whiskies and forgotten he has work the next day.

And a mate’s wedding when everyone’s drunk, emotional and pretending they still look twenty-five.

The corner shop at 9:07 on a Tuesday morning isn’t one of them.

Yet that’s where mine started.

I was standing in the queue holding a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk and a packet of chocolate digestives when a woman behind me said,

“You know those are the reason you’re putting on weight, don’t you?”

I turned around.

Dark hair tied up badly. Sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head. Oversized green jumper, black leggings and a grin that suggested she’d been waiting for an opportunity to take the piss out of me.

I knew her face.

Couldn’t immediately place her.

Then I remembered.

School gates.

Year Three.

Her daughter was in my son’s class.

“Excuse me?”

She nodded towards the biscuits.

“The digestives. Every morning you buy biscuits.”

“You’ve been monitoring me?”

“Someone has to.”

That was how I properly met Rachel.

And, looking back, I should have bought the bloody biscuits and gone home.

Becoming the Stay-at-Home Dad

I’d been a stay-at-home dad for about eighteen months by then.

It wasn’t some grand lifestyle choice.

My ex earned considerably more than I did, childcare costs were ridiculous, and after we separated, my freelance work gave me enough flexibility to organise my life around our two kids.

So that became my routine.

Breakfast.

Arguments about shoes.

Arguments about teeth.

And arguments about why a nine-year-old apparently couldn’t possibly wear a coat when it was four degrees outside.

Then the school run.

At first, I hated the school gates.

Not because of the kids.

The parents.

More specifically, the mums.

They all seemed to know each other. Little groups everywhere. Conversations already happening. Takeaway coffee cups in hands. Weekend plans being arranged.

And then there was me.

The bloke standing slightly to one side, wondering whether 8:45 in the morning was too early to start thinking about lunch.

Eventually, though, they adopted me.

That’s probably the best way to describe it.

First came the occasional hello.

Then somebody asked if I wanted a coffee.

Then I got added to a WhatsApp group.

That was the beginning of the end.

Suddenly my phone was full of messages about PE kits, forgotten water bottles, teachers’ presents, birthday parties and whether anyone fancied coffee after the school run.

I became one of the mums.

Well.

Almost.

There was still one fairly obvious difference.

Coffee After the School Run

Rachel was part of that group.

So were Emma, Claire, Jo and Natalie.

There were others who drifted in and out, but those five were the regulars.

Most mornings, we’d walk from school to the little parade of shops about ten minutes away.

Sometimes the café.

Sometimes takeaway coffee from the corner shop.

It was strangely enjoyable.

They complained about their husbands.

I complained about my ex.

They complained about their children.

I complained about mine.

Nobody pretended parenting was magical.

That helped.

Some mornings we’d laugh so much that people walking past would stare at us.

And because I was the only bloke, I heard things I probably wasn’t supposed to hear.

A lot of things.

Far too many things.

“Doesn’t this bother you?” I asked Rachel once.

“What?”

“Your husband knowing you spend your mornings drinking coffee with another man.”

She looked at me.

“You’re not another man.”

“Cheers.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I did.

I’d become safe.

I was the dad.

The harmless one.

The bloke they could talk around without filtering themselves.

At the time, I thought it was brilliant.

Rachel

Rachel was thirty-eight.

Married.

Two kids.

Her husband, Paul, worked in construction management and seemed to spend half his life driving around the country.

I’d met him a couple of times.

Big bloke.

Shaved head.

Decent enough.

The sort of man who shakes your hand properly.

Rachel talked about him constantly.

Usually while complaining.

“He came home at nine last night.”

“Paul forgot parents’ evening.”

“Paul thinks putting his plate near the dishwasher counts as helping.”

Normal married stuff.

I never thought much about it.

Besides, Rachel wasn’t my type.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Then one Wednesday morning she turned up at the school gates wearing jeans and a white shirt.

With a black bra underneath it.

Not grey.

Not something you might only notice if the sunlight caught it.

Black.

Properly black.

Either Rachel was trying to get somebody’s attention, or she’d forgotten to put the white washing on again.

I wasn’t going to ask which.

I noticed, though.

Of course I fucking noticed.

The annoying thing was that she behaved as if there was nothing remotely unusual about it.

She stood beside me complaining that her daughter had left her reading book at home.

I nodded.

Tried to concentrate on the reading book.

Failed.

Then she caught me looking.

Not blatantly.

I wasn’t standing there gawping at her chest outside a primary school.

But my eyes had wandered.

Hers met mine.

She looked down at herself.

Then back at me.

“You alright?”

“Fine.”

There was the tiniest smile.

“Good.”

And off she went.

I remember standing there thinking:

Was that deliberate?

I never found out.

Something Shifted

A few days later, Rachel and I were sitting in the café after everyone else had left.

She was talking about Paul.

Again.

Something about him working Saturday when they were supposed to be taking the kids somewhere.

I wasn’t really listening.

She stopped.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“I have.”

“What did I say?”

“You were complaining about Paul.”

“That could cover the last six months.”

“Exactly. I was listening.”

She laughed.

Then she looked at me.

“You’re easy to talk to.”

“That’s because I’m incredibly wise.”

“No. It’s because you actually listen.”

I shrugged.

She kept looking at me.

Half a second too long.

Maybe one second.

Whatever it was, I noticed.

And I knew she noticed that I noticed.

Then she picked up her coffee.

Nothing happened.

That was the problem.

Nothing kept happening.

The Messages

Rachel had always messaged me occasionally.

School stuff.

What page is the homework?

Is tomorrow PE?

Have you remembered non-uniform day?

Then they changed slightly.

Not enough that you could point at one and say there, that’s where it started.

Just slightly.

You looked rough this morning.

Then:

You need a haircut.

Then:

That woman in the shop definitely fancied you.

I replied:

Jealous?

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Obviously. I’m devastated.

I stared at that one longer than necessary.

One night we messaged until nearly midnight.

Nothing sexual.

Nothing you couldn’t explain away.

That almost made it worse.

At about eleven forty-five, I put my phone down and thought:

This probably isn’t a good idea.

Thirty seconds later I picked it up again.

That tells you everything you need to know.

Prosecco at Ten Thirty

A few weeks later, Claire suggested coffee at her house.

Her youngest had chickenpox so she couldn’t go out.

After dropping the older kids at school, five of us walked back to hers.

Claire made coffee.

Emma brought pastries.

Someone found prosecco.

At ten thirty in the morning.

I said no.

Then everybody called me boring.

So I said yes.

One glass became two.

People started leaving around midday.

I should have left with them.

I didn’t.

Rachel was still there.

That probably had something to do with it.

Eventually Claire’s little boy woke up and started shouting from upstairs.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

She disappeared.

Rachel and I were alone in the kitchen.

Neither of us spoke.

She was leaning against the counter.

I was standing opposite her.

Then she smiled.

Not her normal smile.

Quieter.

“You’re staring at me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m looking in your general direction.”

“Of course you are.”

I laughed.

She didn’t.

Then she stepped closer.

I could smell her perfume.

That’s what I remember.

Not the prosecco.

Not what she was wearing.

Her perfume.

And suddenly all those harmless coffees and stupid messages didn’t feel particularly harmless.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

She didn’t answer.

Then we kissed.

I couldn’t tell you who moved first.

Maybe me.

Maybe her.

Probably both.

One second there was space between us.

The next her hands were gripping the front of my shirt, and mine were around her waist.

It wasn’t romantic.

And it wasn’t tender.

It was months of something neither of us had admitted was happening suddenly breaking loose.

Then we heard Claire upstairs.

We separated.

Rachel stared at me.

“Shit.”

Pretty much summed it up.

Apparently We Were Never Doing That Again

Rachel messaged that afternoon.

We can’t do that again.

I replied:

Agreed.

That should have been it.

For three days, we barely spoke.

Then Monday morning came.

I dropped the kids at school.

Rachel was outside the gate.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

Normal.

Completely normal.

We walked with everyone else towards the shops.

One by one they disappeared.

Emma had an appointment.

Jo needed the supermarket.

Natalie was going home.

Eventually it was just Rachel and me.

We reached the corner shop.

I stopped.

“Coffee?”

She shook her head.

“Probably not a good idea.”

“No.”

We stood there like idiots.

Then she said,

“Paul’s away.”

I knew what she meant.

She didn’t need to explain it.

I wish I could say I wrestled with my conscience for the next ten minutes.

I didn’t.

Her House

Her house was only a few streets away.

I’d never been inside before.

That surprised me considering how long we’d all known each other.

There were kids’ shoes by the door.

School pictures on the wall.

A family photograph on a shelf.

Paul was in it.

I saw him.

I carried on walking.

Rachel went into the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Yeah.”

She made two.

Neither of us drank them.

We talked absolute bollocks for several minutes.

Anything except why I was standing in her kitchen while her husband was away.

Then she put her mug down.

“This is stupid.”

“Very.”

“You should probably go.”

“Probably.”

I stayed where I was.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

Then she kissed me.

This time there was no prosecco.

No Claire upstairs.

No pretending it had just happened.

We knew.

And we did it anyway.

There’s no point dressing up what happened next.

There was no romance.

No declarations.

No whispered nonsense about how we’d secretly wanted each other forever.

We slept together.

Two adults making a selfish decision in a quiet house on a Monday morning.

That was it.

Afterwards, I lay staring at the ceiling.

Rachel was beside me.

Neither of us spoke.

Whatever buzz there had been beforehand had gone.

Completely.

Eventually I sat up.

“I should go.”

“Yeah.”

That was the first thing either of us had said.

I got dressed.

Rachel sat on the edge of the bed.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

I left.

Then I Met Paul

That afternoon I got to the school early.

Normally I stood with everyone else.

That day I stayed near the wall pretending to read something on my phone.

Then Rachel arrived.

Paul was with her.

Fuck.

I hadn’t expected that.

Apparently he’d finished whatever job he’d been away on earlier than planned.

He spotted me.

“Mate!”

There are moments when your stomach genuinely drops.

That was one of them.

He walked over.

Rachel stayed slightly behind him.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Can’t complain.”

Then he started talking about football.

I nodded when I thought I was supposed to.

I barely heard him.

Then he said,

“Rachel says you’ve been a lifesaver with all this school stuff.”

I looked at her.

She looked away.

Paul carried on talking.

I wanted the ground to open.

That was the moment it stopped being something Rachel and I had done.

Because now he was standing there.

Not Rachel’s husband.

Paul.

A bloke who called me mate.

A bloke who trusted me.

The bloke whose bed I’d been in a few hours earlier.

The school bell went.

I’d never been so pleased to hear it.

After That

Rachel and I never slept together again.

There were a couple of messages.

Nothing worth repeating.

Then those stopped too.

Coffee mornings became uncomfortable.

Not enough that anyone else noticed.

At least I don’t think they did.

But I noticed.

Rachel noticed.

Eventually I started finding reasons not to go.

Work.

Appointments.

Shopping.

Anything.

I stopped being one of the mums.

A few months later, my ex moved to another part of town and the kids changed schools.

Just like that, the whole little world disappeared.

The school gates.

Coffee mornings.

WhatsApp messages.

Rachel.

Paul.

I never told anyone.

As far as I know, neither did she.

Back at the Corner Shop

About a year later, I was driving through the old neighbourhood and realised I needed milk.

Without thinking, I stopped at the same corner shop.

There was the same bloke behind the counter.

Same cramped aisles.

And the same ridiculous amount of biscuits.

I picked up a packet of chocolate digestives.

Then I heard her voice in my head.

You know those are the reason you’re putting on weight, don’t you?

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

The bloke behind the counter looked at me like I was mental.

I paid and went back to the car.

For a moment, I wondered about Rachel.

Was she still with Paul?

Whether she ever thought about that morning.

And whether the white shirt really had been deliberate.

Then I decided I didn’t want to know.

I don’t spend my life feeling guilty about what happened.

I’m not going to pretend I wake up at three in the morning tortured by it.

Because I don’t.

But I do regret it.

There’s a difference.

People talk about affairs as though they always start with miserable marriages, irresistible attraction and months of secret planning.

Ours started with chocolate digestives.

Then coffee.

A few innocent messages.

A black bra under a white shirt.

And then there was the look, the look I probably should have ignored.

And somewhere along the way, harmless stopped being harmless.

That’s about as complicated as it was.

So, if there’s a lesson in any of this, I’m probably the wrong bloke to give it to you.

Just remember one thing.

There are certain places where a man expects to get himself into trouble.

A nightclub.

The hotel bar.

Your mate’s wedding.

The corner shop at 9:07 on a Tuesday morning?

Apparently that one needs adding to the list.

Especially when the chocolate digestives are on offer.

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