As I waited for the food to be delivered, I phoned the bank theft hotline and cancelled my debit card.  After negotiating the irritating computerised answering system, I learned that a cash withdrawal totalling £300, the daily-limit, had been taken from the account, though fortunately the card had not been used for any other purchases.  I suspected that the money was long since spent and the product of the purchase already injected into Musgrove’s veins or poured down his throat.  I cursed my stupidity for going back to his flat.  What in God’s name was I thinking!  I fleetingly considered reporting the theft to the police, but although I was furious with Musgrove I had no desire to dredge up the events of the previous day.  I took some consolation in the fact that I would never see him again.  Mercifully, we didn’t exactly move in the same social circles.

As I chewed the greasy pizza, I mulled over the events of the previous night.  My recollections were at best hazy, particularly after leaving the pub.  Concentrating hard, I gradually pieced together some of the fragments of disjointed memory; I cringed when I remembered telling Musgrove about my problems at work and Helen’s affair with Kentish, and even more embarrassingly my half-arsed suicide attempt.  I shuddered when I thought back to the incident with the cement lorry.  Maybe some time in the future I’d be able to laugh at my stupidity – but certainly not yet.  Amidst all the fogginess of the evening, I also vaguely remembered Musgrove’s bizarre offer to kill Helen; the man was totally deluded.

Over the next few hours I ate three-quarters of the pizza washed down with a two-litre bottle of Coke.  A couple of times I thought I was going to be sick, but fortunately a couple of good belches did the trick.  I watched an hour or so of TV, sprawling on the settee, but the instant I tried to sit up the room-spinning resumed.  At 9.00 p.m. I headed for bed, slowly making my way upstairs, my head bowed, controlling my breathing to stave off the nausea.  I crawled under the duvet and hoped sleep would come quickly.

I woke the next morning to the sound of the letterbox rattling with the early post.  It was no small relief to feel slightly less close to death than the previous day, though I was by no means in rude health.  The headache persisted and I had an edgy, post-alcohol paranoia.  I hated the feeling; it was as if I’d something important to take care of but couldn’t quite remember what. I had tea and toast for breakfast while watching Saturday morning kids TV, but within a few hours the nausea returned and the headache worsened despite a cocktail of painkillers – paracetamol, codeine and ibuprofen.  I’d planned to phone Helen, not necessarily to speak to her but more to check on the boys, and, I suppose, in the back of my mind, to reassure myself that she wasn’t with Kentish.  But as the afternoon went on I was in no mood for chat and instead headed back to bed and slept the rest of the day.

It was only when I woke up the following morning that I started to feel anywhere close to human.  It was a cold fresh early spring day and the sky was a perfect blue colour with just the occasional cloud.  I sat in the back garden eating my breakfast wearing a thick jacket, with the reassuring sound of distant church bells hailing the start of Sunday Service.  All alone, I had time to think and take stock of my life.  I realised, of course, that my marriage was not in a healthy state, but I definitely didn’t think it was beyond repair.  I knew that Helen had been frustrated with my preoccupation with work, the long hours at the lab; and then even when I was at home I would often lock myself in the study for hours on end.  I certainly couldn’t forget or forgive Helen’s deceit and her involvement with Kentish, but I had no doubt my obsession with work was a contributing factor.  Kentish was a smarmy fool and I was sure that if I could get my act together I could convince Helen that we had a future and that we could rebuild our marriage.  To this end, my most pressing issue was the job offer from Bob Andrews, and with just a few hours of reflection I knew that accepting it was the right thing to do.  Although by no means the perfect solution, it would provide a regular and decent income that was not dependent on obtaining grant funding and did not bring with it the huge pressures and time commitment that came with that.  Without the stress, I felt sure I’d be able to spend more time with Helen and the boys and build a better relationship with them.  Despite, and probably even because of, the events of the previous few days, I realised how much I still loved her, and I suspected that she felt the same way.

With the decision made, I began to feel a little more optimistic, and rather than wait until work the next day I decided to phone Bob Andrews with the news.  Although a Sunday morning, I suspected Bob would almost certainly be in his office at the lab, and sure enough, on the fourth ring he answered with his usual gruff tone. “Bob Andrews.”

“Hi, Bob, it’s Julian – I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

He was clearly surprised to hear from me, and I suspect more than a little uncomfortable, bearing in mind my near breakdown in his office just a few days earlier.  “Erm, no problem Julian … Erm … I was going to call you actually, just to check you were okay.  You were obviously pretty upset with …”

I had no desire to go over the events, and with acute embarrassment setting in I forcefully interrupted, “YES, YES, sorry about that, Bob, I was having a bad day.  Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’ve thought about what you said and I will be accepting the job offer.”

There was a momentary silence at the other end as he took in the unexpected news. “Erm … that’s great, Julian, erm … why don’t we get together tomorrow and discuss it some more.  As you know, I can’t say for definite that you’ll get it.  We’ve got to go through the usual university bollocks and advertise the post externally, but I honestly can’t imagine there’ll be a problem.”  I could hear him rummaging on his desk. “I’ll just check my diary … how about 9:30?”

“Fine, no problem, see you then.”  I had a palpable sense of relief as I put the phone down. I know it’s a cliché, but it was as if a large weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  I desperately hoped that my new job would be the start of a happier chapter in my life and would play some part in salvaging my marriage.

With several hours before Helen and the boys were due to return, I spent the afternoon tidying the house, vacuuming, putting a load of washing in, even ironing, a job I despised at the best of times and invariably left to Helen.  With the housework finished I hung a print on the wall that we’d been given as a wedding anniversary present a few months earlier.  Helen had been asking me to put it up for weeks but I’d never quite had the time and it felt good to finally get it done.  This was the new me for whom family and home life came first.

I’d just sat down with a coffee when I heard the sound of Helen’s car pulling onto the drive.  I went to the front door and opened it, surprised at the intensity of my pleasure at seeing the three of them again.  I immediately kissed her on the forehead and held her close before she pulled away; clearly I’d not been forgiven for my drinking escapade.  “What’s got into you?”, she said frostily. “I must have come to the wrong house.”  I hugged the boys and carried their bags in from the car.

While Helen unpacked the suitcase and sorted out William’s uniform and bag ready for school, I spent the next hour or so listening to the excited chatter of the boys as they told me what they’d been up to over the weekend.  After hearing about the fairground, the dodgem cars and various other rides, it was soon time for their bed and they reluctantly headed upstairs for pyjamas and a story.  I offered to read to them and was slightly taken aback when William informed me that I didn’t read to them, “It’s Mummy’s job.”  I made a mental note that in future, now that I’d be home from work at a reasonable time, it would be my job as well.