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‘Jill, how could you?!’ For the first time in days, I’m laughing.
‘I know, I know—wicked, isn’t it?’ Jill laughs too, then grows serious. ‘What do the children know?’
‘That their father and I need a break from each other. Just for a while.’ I swallow hard. ‘I can’t bear the thought of anything hurting them.’
‘No. Of course not.’ Jill’s eyes grow dark with longing: my best friend is thirty-eight and on her third cycle of IVF. Then she shakes her head. ‘You’ve got to move quickly, and club him before he can collect his wits.’
‘I don’t want to club him. I don’t wish him ill.’
Jill’s eyes widen into round Os. ‘That’s the shock talking. When you come to, you’ll want to milk him dry.’
‘He’s my children’s father…’
‘She’s your husband’s lover.’ Jill takes a long sip, then twirls her flute pensively: ‘You should get your revenge. Leave them penniless.’
‘Jill, I don’t want a nasty, messy break-up. Neither does Jonathan.’ I finish my glass. ‘I believe we can separate in a really civilised, non-traumatic way.’
‘And I bet’—Jill leans over, up close—‘that you believe in Father Christmas too.’
Mealtimes, I discover over the next few days, are tricky. Even though I’ve moved his chair into the garden shed, and leap in to fill every conversational gap with some innocuous comment about their school or my work, nothing can disguise the Jonathan-shaped hole at our table. I’ve taught myself to check the table setting before calling the children: if I’m not careful, I’m on automatic pilot to set for four, which then means I hurriedly whisk plate, fork, and knife away while Kat and Freddy look on, sad but silent.
But mealtimes could be tricky with Jonathan around, too. There was hair: ‘I’d be very interested to see if Louis Vincent keeps that head of hair,’ Jonathan would say, raking a hand through his own thick dark curls. ‘He’s what—forty? Forty-one? It really is phenomenally full. Unusual in a fair, Nordic type. Far more common in a dark-haired Latin. Which is why Zelkin sales are not very good in France or Italy.’
There was food: ‘Hmmmm…’ Jonathan would savour the mouthful of risotto, then cast me a suspicious look. ‘Did you make it with proper stock or is this a stock cube? I’m getting a slight aftertaste of monosodium glutamate…’ And I’d own up, feeling criminal for having failed to spend two hours boiling a chicken carcass with onion (four cloves stuck into it), bay leaf, carrot and two stalks of celery, as my gourmand husband insisted gave the best flavour.
Then there was the ‘Quiz’: ‘Let’s see, children, who can tell me how many wives Henry VIII sent to the block?’ Or, ‘Can anyone remember what a coniferous tree is?’ While I’d roll my eyes at supper being turned into quiz night at the local church hall, the children enjoyed their father’s inquisition, giggling openly about their ignorance and looking admiringly as Jonathan answered his own questions.
Without Jonathan, suppers were quieter but less testing.
‘Freddy, elbows off the table,’ I warn, ladling gravy over each plate. ‘Kat, put that phone away.’
I watch the children eat. Freddy’s round cheeks fill as he slowly chews the chicken. His expression is serious, brows gathered in thought. Freddy hasn’t shed a tear over our separation, but he’s coming to my room every morning at five, a toddler’s habit he’d shaken off six years ago. Your son needs you, Jonathan, I mentally address my husband, it’s no good pretending a part-time dad will do. I turn to Kat as she pours herself a glass of water. She has my mum’s colouring, darker than mine, but the shape of her mouth, her profile, even some of her mannerisms are reminiscent of a younger, fresher version of me. As she sits now, head to one side, a faraway look in her eyes, I am reminded of my twelve-year-old self, sitting between Dad and Tom at supper, eager to join in the grown-up conversation. I took our family’s wholeness for granted; it was a given that Mum and Dad were together, and would stay that way for ever. No such givens in Kat’s life. And without them, can she grow up confident and happy and independent?
A bleep brings me back to the supper table; under the table, I see Kat’s fingers busily tap-tapping away on her mobile.
‘Kat! The phone! It’s rude.’
‘OK, OK, it’s off !’ Kat sulkily switches off her mobile. ‘What’s the big deal?’
‘It makes us think we don’t mean anything to you.’
‘Mum…’ Freddy sets down his fork and turns to me, suddenly serious; ‘do you think that’s why Dad left?’
‘Apparently one in two marriages end in divorce.’ My mother sets down her weekend bag. ‘We’re getting worse than the Scandinavians.’
‘It’s not divorce, Mum,’ I explain patiently. ‘It’s a trial separation. We need some time to think.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be using the time to think.’ My mum extracts her flowery toiletries bag.
We’re in the guest bedroom, once taken up by a succession of Latvian, Polish, and Hungarian au pairs. Now Otilya, our cleaner for the past ten years, has stemmed the flow of au pairs by offering to watch the children until I get home from work.
‘I never thought’—my mother shakes her head mournfully—‘it would happen in our family.’ She sighs. ‘It’s horrible. What am I going to tell your Aunt Lillian? And Cousin Margaret? Oh, it’s so…so embarrassing.’
Embarrassing? I give my mother a look: ever since I was this high, my mother has managed to embarrass me. Other mums accompanied the class responsibly on school trips; mine got caught smoking with the sixth formers and led the back of the bus in rousing renditions of ‘The Good Ship Venus’. Other mums might gently query their child’s mark with the relevant teacher; mine would write them five-page letters warning them not to be so provincial in their thinking. Other mums would put off any talk of the birds and the bees; mine was drawing diagrams and labelling them with rude words and inviting my friends to have a look ‘and see what’s what’.
Embarrassing, indeed.
With a huge effort I swallow my reproaches. She’s here and the summer holidays have not got off to a great start, as Jonathan has just announced that he thinks our usual fortnight in Devon would be ‘inappropriate’ this year.
‘Cup of tea?’ I volunteer.
‘I’ll come down with you, let me just organise my things,’ my mum says as she starts unpacking. Quickly and methodically, she hangs up her summer dresses and places her shirts and underwear in neat rows in the chest of drawers (I must have been looking for my mum when I married a neatness freak). She is always organising things: her house in the little village in Somerset she and Dad retired to; the members of her local Ladies’ Lawn Tennis Club; my dad’s life as a GP; mine and Tom’s as their none-too-ambitious children. She didn’t organise Dad’s untimely death, though, or my brother’s marriage to an Australian, who insists on Tom staying in Oz. And these failures spur her on to be even more in control of what is left.
‘I’ll come right over,’ Mum had said when I rang to tell her about Jonathan leaving home. ‘You need your mother at a time like this.’ She would brook no argument, and rang me within half an hour with station, platform and arrival time. Exhausted from days of poor sleep, I was too tired to argue—or remember that my mum’s assistance is not quite the balm to human suffering she believes.
‘I always did worry about your different backgrounds.’ Mum shakes her head as she hangs up her dress.
I haven’t forgotten the scene she made when she found out I was marrying a working-class boy from Leeds: ‘You are mad, barking mad! He won’t know how to hold his knife and fork!’
‘Mum, he’s lovely and so clever. His boss says he’s got a brilliant future ahead of him.’
‘I bet they have illuminated reindeers on the porch at Christmas.’
But Mum calmed down when Jonathan impressed my dad by confessing that he read the BMJ for pleasure. My parents’ grudging acceptance turned into positive praise when Jonathan made money with the patenting of Zelkin and invited them to stay with us the summer we rented a villa in the Dordogne.
‘Honestly,’ Mum now says, mouth set, ‘I don’t know how he could do it.’
‘He’s in love,’ I say, and I don’t think I sound too bitter.
‘Thank goodness your father’s not here to see it.’ My mother is rustling through her weekend bag. ‘Here, I brought you this—’ She pulls out a brochure and hands it over. ‘I know it’s not really your age group, but an older man might be just the ticket. And I thought it might take your mind off things.’
I look down at the glossy photos of a SAGA cruise around the Med.
‘Mu-um, I’m getting separated, not Alzheimer’s!’ I hand her back the brochure. I think ruefully of Jill’s comment about ‘the three stages of womanhood: “Aga, Saga, Gaga.”’
‘Well,’ my mother sniffs, ‘I found it very helpful when your father passed away.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘No. Your father never chose to leave me.’
In her eyes, clearly, I’m a reject, she’s a survivor.
‘You’ve got to protect those poor children.’ My mother follows me down to the kitchen. ‘I know you’re still…raw, but I hope you’re not going to take this lying down, Rosie.’
I fill the kettle. ‘Mum, you’re just thinking in stereotypes…’
But Mum interrupts, cocking her head to one side to look at me appraisingly: ‘You look as if you’ve put on weight. Do you think that’s why—’
‘Mu-um!’ I cry, exasperated.
‘Sorry, darling, didn’t mean to upset you.’
Mum has never been one for diplomacy. When I was ten, miserable because my classmates were teasing me about my braces, Mum looked at the silver twin track that ran across my face and told me, ‘You do look dreadful, darling, but only for another two years.’ I catch sight of my reflection, distorted into a swollen shape on the shiny metallic microwave, and feel the tears sting: I do look dreadful.
‘You gave him the best years of your life.’ My mother shakes her head woefully.
‘I’ve still got a few left, Mum.’
‘They’re all the same’—Mum ignores me as she sips from her mug—‘these modern men. Not a thought about duties and responsibilities. It’s all about fun fun fun.’
‘That’s not fair on Jonathan.’
‘Fair? I don’t want to be fair. Is it fair for him to dump you when you’re nearly forty?’
‘He hasn’t dumped me,’ I protest. ‘Remember? The separation is my idea.’
‘What makes me spit is the thought of his having the pick of any woman he chooses, while you’ll be stuck with some broke divorc?or some Mama’s boy who’s not fit for anyone.’ Mum helps herself to the tin of biscuits. She starts to nibble a digestive. ‘Trust me,’ she says as she wipes the crumbs from the corners of her mouth, ‘it’s awful out there.’
I wince at the thought of my mum experiencing ‘out there’—does she date? Did she try to find herself a lover after Daddy died? She has looked the same for as long as I can remember: a soft brown bob that frames her remarkably unlined face, brown eyes brought out with charcoal-grey eye shadow, a lipstick that is more wine-hued than scarlet red. Her clothes are always neat and feminine, not so much eye-catching as a perfect complement to her trim frame. She is still, I realise for the first time in years, attractive.
‘Now, the thing is not to traumatise the children,’ my mother is saying decisively as we retreat into the sitting room. ‘We really need to show them that you will all do fine without Daddy, and that no one’s cross with anyone, and no one’s playing the blame game.’ She settles in the armchair, and takes out her crossword. ‘We’ll reassure them with a cosy family weekend. You’ll see.’ She tucks her feet under her legs and starts nibbling on her pencil. ‘Two across: “Hellish time…seven letters…” Hmmm…Divorce?’
Chapter 3 (#ulink_14452437-29f8-5c79-8a07-004468677d40)
I fetch the kids from the tennis club. Feeling guilty about Devon, Jonathan has enrolled them for expensive tennis lessons. He should feel guilty, because although it’s true, as I told Mum, that we’ve done our best to reassure the children that relations between us are good, they are showing signs of anxiety: Kat is texting furiously, day and night, and seems totally indifferent to everything around her; Freddy is still coming to my bed at dawn, and has to be led back to his room with whispered assurances of love and devotion. Both cling to me, whenever we’re together: Freddy holds on to my skirt, clutches my hands, and climbs on to my lap the moment I sit down; Kat watched an entire episode of Dr Who with her head on my shoulder.
As I walk towards Haverstock Hill, I decide that I must enlist my mum’s aid, so that together we can drive home the point that our separation is not an act of hostility. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if I couldn’t turn Jonathan’s straying, and his guilt, to my advantage. Now that I’m being given time to review our marriage, I can think of a number of areas that need improving: Jonathan’s workaholism, his hours on the computer playing Mensa brain games, his obsession with files, drawers, and boxes, his horrendous taste in ties…Yes, if we use this time of separation wisely, we can improve our life together.
Even the children will benefit from that. Meanwhile, Mum must help me cheer them up. We can take them to a movie, and maybe go for a meal at Gourmet Burger Kitchen, or that nice caf?in Regent’s Park. Mum can do the granny routine and ask about friends and we could plan her stay at Christmas—she comes up every year, staying into the New Year—so that they know that some things are going to stay the same.
‘Mrs Martin?’
I turn to find Mr Parker, the skinny little man who runs Belsize Parker Estate Agents. He stands, as usual, on the pavement outside his bright green office, Marlboro in one hand, mobile in the other.
‘How are we doing?’ He ends his call and stubs out his cigarette.
‘Fine, fine.’ I try to look like I’m in a hurry.
‘I heard’—Mr Parker’s eyes find his shoes, then my face again—‘about your circumstances…just wanted to offer my sincere sympathy.’
I wonder how news of our separation has reached the property world, but then I remember that Otilya cleans for Mrs Parker on Saturday mornings.
‘Yes. Well, it’s sad, but’—I try to look determined, independent, business-like—‘we need a bit of time to…’
‘I was just wondering if Mr Martin’s found something to rent?’ Mr Parker’s little eyes sparkle with hope. I notice that his pinstripe suit looks too big for him, as if it were a hand-me-down uniform that he, or his parents, were hoping he would grow into.
‘You’ll have to talk to him.’ I’m not going to find my husband a nice flat in which to nest, for goodness’ sake. ‘I’m off to fetch the children…’ I try to walk on, but Mr Parker is at my heels:
‘Nearby would be convenient, given the situation.’ He coughs and splutters, out of breath. You can’t smoke thirty a day and hope to keep up with a woman in a hurry. ‘And I’ve got a nice little flat that would be just the ticket.’
‘Do give Jonathan a ring,’ I call to Mr Parker over my shoulder.
He is at a trot now, still pitching: ‘Obviously I know this won’t be for long, he’s looking for a short-term let,’ he splutters behind me, ‘but they’re hard to come by these days, and I think I could get him a good deal.’
‘I’m sure he’d love to hear from you!’ I shout as I sprint for the gates to the low-bricked buildings of Belsize Tennis Club.
‘If you wouldn’t mind giving me his mobile number…’ I hear Mr Parker calling out as I enter the revolving doors before me. Before I can answer I’m being rotated into the warmth of the club.
The children let out a whoop when they hear who’s waiting at home for them.
‘Granny! Yippee!’ they chant as we stroll back home—unaware that I’ve short-circuited England’s Lane and Mr Parker’s agency by going the long way round. ‘Granny, hurrah!’
Jonathan’s mum lives too far away, and is too reserved, for the children to feel totally comfortable with her, but my parents (and since my father’s death, my mum) have always made them feel totally at ease. The criticism she cannot stop doling out to me is forgotten when it comes to her beloved grandchildren. I can do no right, they can do no wrong.
I let us in, and Kat and Freddy rush to the sitting room. As I watch the three figures wrapped in a hug, I smile to myself: yes, it was a good idea, Mum’s coming down.
‘Oh, my poor poor darlings,’ my mother sobs as she wraps her arms around both children simultaneously. ‘You are so precious…how awful for you to have to go through this! You’ll have to be brave and strong, my poor pets, no matter how difficult it is…’
So much for not traumatising the children.
Mother’s visit doesn’t get any better. She finds dust behind her cupboard and tells me that losing a husband is no excuse for becoming slovenly; sees Freddy glued to the telly and whispers to me that he’s retreating into a kinder world; and, after skimming through my copy of Good Housekeeping, begins, ‘Men need sex once a week, do you think that’s why…?’
‘Mu-um!’ I cry, exasperated.
On Monday, I receive a letter from the Marlborough Centre: they’re interviewing me next week for a place on the Counselling for Life course which starts in September. I study the letter, wondering if I should even attempt the interview at this point. Will my life become clearer over the next month? Do I commit to a course while holding down a job, reassuring the children, and trying to get my husband back? How can I think of helping others, even listening to them, when my own life is full of indecision?
‘What do you think?’ I ask my mum over tea and digestives.
‘For goodness’ sake, Rosie, what are you thinking of ?!’ Mum shakes her head. ‘You really need to concentrate now, put all your energy into getting Jonathan back home. You don’t have time for more work when your life is going down the plughole.’
Worse, on Wednesday when I come home from Dr Casey’s, I find her and our next-door neighbour, Carolyn Vincent, sitting in our kitchen having tea. Molly Vincent may sport black nail polish and three studs in her ear, but her mum is all Boden catalogue. Carolyn always manages to look pretty and peachy, with perfect creases on her trousers and nicely polished ballerinas and a girlish ponytail she swings over her shoulder when she wants to think things through.
‘Hullo,’ I say as I walk in on them.
Carolyn starts: ‘Hi, Rosie, how are you?’ She looks guilty and I can practically smell the pints of pity they have poured all over the subject of our s-p-l-i-t. Carolyn and Louis’s marital harmony is always on show—or at least within earshot, their cooings and tweet-tweets loud and clear beyond the wall that separates us.
‘Hullo, darling. Carolyn dropped by for a cup of tea.’ My mum looks totally unembarrassed.
‘Er…yes.’ Carolyn grows the colour of her beautifully cut pink linen dress. ‘Just seeing if the children wanted to come over for supper tonight. Louis is doing a barbecue.’
It’s a double whammy: first, Carolyn obviously suspects I no longer feed my children proper meals; second, she is letting me know that her husband hangs about the place lighting charcoal bricks and getting splattered by burgers and sausages while mine has made tracks with a sexy American.
‘That’s sweet of you, Carolyn, but I’ve bought lamb chops already,’ I lie.
Mum and Carolyn share a look of complicity.
‘Oh, and also…’ Carolyn begins, as she swings her blonde ponytail over her left shoulder and lowers her lids shyly, ‘I thought you might like to meet my friend Vanessa. She’s a brilliant therapist. Specialises in relationships and…sex.’
