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‘I thought’—my mother looks from Carolyn to me and back again—‘it sounded just the ticket. I mean, our subconscious does very weird things. And we all know how important bed is for the boys.’
‘Hmmm…’ I try to smile but my teeth feel set in stone—and misery. ‘I believe in therapy—though maybe it’s not the sex kind we need.’
‘Well, let me know if you change your mind. Louis and I just want to help.’ Carolyn sets down her mug, only half finished, and with a reproachful look makes for the back door: ‘Nice meeting you, Mrs Walters.’
‘A lovely girl.’ My mother watches Carolyn’s slender figure retreating across our garden. ‘And I like the look of him, too. You couldn’t hope for better neighbours, really.’ Then she turns to me. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary, how different marriages can be?’
In between such helpful comments we play Monopoly, Risk and Racing Demon, and Mum wastes a lot of time trying to teach the children bridge. We watch a DVD of High School Musical: Remix, sing along to the lyrics, and call in a pizza. The children relax, and the familiar routines of Mum’s stay—the questions about school which prompt her own, rather long-winded, reminiscences, the crossword, the Earl Grey tea and ginger biscuits for elevenses and 5 p.m., the insistence on a long walk after lunch—reassure them that all is as before. Almost.
Once the children are tucked up in bed, Mum and I sit reading in the living room.
‘Freddy’s such a star, did you see how he’s been running errands for me, fetching glasses, books, my crossword?’ Mum looks up from her Jeffrey Archer to smile at me. ‘And our little girl, she’s all grown up: do you realise what all that texting is about?’ I shake my head, no. ‘A boyfriend!’
‘A boy who is a friend, you mean?’ I look up, worried, from The Times.
‘No, no, Mungo is an official boyfriend. She says so on Facebook.’ My mother smiles, pleased. ‘I think it’s marvellous.’
‘Do you?’ I sound sceptical. Is my mum on Facebook, I wonder? I’m not.
‘Yes.’ My mother nods her head vigorously. ‘It’s a sign that she hasn’t been put off men by your split.’
‘Oh…’ I breathe deeply, guiltily, and hide behind the newspaper: I hadn’t considered that our separation could turn my daughter into a man-hater.
‘It’s not puppy love as we know it,’ Mum continues, fingers tapping on the Jeffrey Archer. ‘They’ve only met once, and their whole relationship is about texting.’
I set down the newspaper, feeling left out and slightly put out: first, my daughter chooses to confide in Mum rather than me; second, my twelve-year-old is beginning a relationship just as mine threatens to end. Kat, Kat… I want to take my daughter in my arms and whisper a warning: Be careful, my love. But even as I think the words, I know not to ever utter them; I don’t want my daughter to be scared of love.
It’s as if Mum reads my thoughts: ‘I wouldn’t worry about Jonathan, you know. These…sex things don’t usually last more than a few months.’
Immediately I start imagining all kinds of scenarios: Jonathan weeping, on his knees, begging me to start again. Jonathan ringing on the door in the dead of night telling me that he’s made a terrible mistake. The children and I coming back from tennis camp to find Jonathan on our doorstep…
From the depths of the chintz armchair, she gives me a long look. ‘Would you have him back?’
Would I? I’ve gone from being shocked to being furious, to wanting some control over our relationship, to wishing him back. So would I have him back? Like a shot. Separation sounded like a good idea: a pause in which to review, regroup. But nothing had prepared me for this loneliness. Jonathan and I have always been friends, after all. I won’t be able to survive much more of this.
Out loud I say, ‘For the children’s sake, yes.’
My mother’s hope becomes my certainty. Every time I hear a car park outside or a cab pull up, I’m convinced it’s Jonathan. Whenever Jonathan rings to speak to the children, I’m sure he is about to plead to be taken back. And when Kat complains that her computer’s acting up, and Jonathan offers to come by and look at it, and ends up also fixing the dripping tap in the downstairs loo, I read in these DIY efforts an attempt to worm his way back into our affection.
‘Don’t be pathetic,’ Jill scolds me when I tell her. ‘Men love playing at Mr Fix-it. They’d fix a tap for Myra Hindley if they got half a chance.’
I don’t listen. He’s left his electric razor behind—he wouldn’t do that if he thought he would be gone for long. His post continues to come every day, as do the International Herald Tribune and the Financial Times.
‘Don’t read anything into it,’ Jill warns. ‘When they’re in the throes of sex they don’t remember their own name. When Ross was cheating on me he was always getting locked out because he’d forgotten his keys, and showing up late because he’d lost his watch. Multi-tasking is for women.’
‘Hmmm…’ I murmur, unconvinced. Ross and Jonathan have nothing in common. Ross is still getting handouts from his parents, whereas Jonathan prides himself on being a caveman provider. Ross is bohemian, while Jonathan’s idea of being creative is thinking up names for pharmaceutical patents. Ross never wanted children, Jonathan adores his.
Which is another reason for my optimism. Kat and Freddy are my most powerful weapons against the American. I have to hide my smile when I hear Kat on the telephone to Molly, describing ‘what a pain’ Linda is. I feel a little thrill of victory when Freddy refuses to go to the Science Museum with his father and ‘her’. And I’m secretly delighted when I overhear the children telling their father that they want to be with ‘just you, Dad’, when he offers to take them out for lunch on Saturday.
Jonathan is sheepish when he comes to pick up or drop off the children. He tries to worm his way back into Otilya’s good graces by taking out the rubbish piled up in the kitchen. He offers to lend me the car so I can get to John Lewis to pick up the curtains I’d ordered. And he offers to help Freddy with his back stroke for hours on end. Between us, though, conversation has become impossibly stilted. We may be only separated, but we speak like a couple in the throes of divorce.
A brief guide to divorce-speak:
1 He says: ‘This is very painful for me.’ He means: This is going to be very expensive.
2 He says: ‘This is not doing either one of us any good.’ He means: I don’t want to have sex with you any more.
3 He says: ‘The children are so grown-up.’ He means: Don’t try a guilt trip on me.
4 He says: ‘You don’t understand…’ He means: You’d better do what I want.
5 He says: ‘Linda understands me.’ He means: Linda’s better in bed than you.
6 He says: ‘I want regular access to the children.’ He means: I want to see the children for fun outings on the occasional weekend, once you’ve fed them, bathed them, and made sure they’ve done their homework.
7 He says: ‘I want you to know I’m always here for you.’ He means: Don’t bother me unless the house is burning down.
8 You say: ‘Everything will be fine.’ You mean: This is hell on earth.
9 You say: ‘Your father’s wonderful, really.’ You mean: Your father’s wrecked your lives and when you’re older you can sue him for negligence.
10 10. You say: ‘This can be a new beginning.’ You mean: I’m so emotionally battered I wonder if I’ll survive this.
‘I’m dead! I’ve had an electric muscle-stimulator facial, and you can’t imagine how loooooong that takes.’ Jill drops by Saturday morning. Jonathan has taken the children for pizza (’With just you, Dad, right?’). It’s a glorious day and I’m sunbathing in the garden, trying to ignore the Vincents’ loveydovey duet on the other side of the wall.
‘They say it takes years off your face.’ Jill opens and shuts her mouth in an exaggerated sequence. ‘You know, we’re supposed to give our facial muscles a daily eight-minute workout.’ She scrunches her face, then relaxes it. You’d never know this was a much-respected GP, a woman who is rational and ultra-sane about most things. ‘Now, are you ready to meet other people?’
‘I don’t need to, Jill!’ I’m on the chaise longue, and I need to shield my eyes to see my friend, sitting beside me. I’ve made us both iced tea. ‘He’s coming back.’
‘What?!’ Jill’s look of astonishment is comical. ‘Thrown over the Yank?’
‘Shshshshsh.’ I bring an index finger to my lips and nod in the direction of the wall. From the other side comes a steady stream of ‘Sweety’ and ‘Darling’, ‘Treasure’ and ‘Petal’. ‘No, he hasn’t left her yet. But it’s almost over.’
‘What’s “almost”? Almost as in, he’s told you to pack your bags because the two of you are off to the Caribbean for a love-fest, or almost as in, your wishful thinking?’
‘Neither. The children keep saying that he looks miserable when he’s saying goodbye to them, and he keeps hanging about the house, and he keeps doing things to be helpful, like offering to look into my mum’s prescription and find out why it’s not working…’
Jill draws her chair closer to me. She looks stern. ‘This does not mean that he’s coming back, Rosie. It just shows Jonathan’s not a complete bastard. He loves the kids. He probably even loves you—in a kind of fraternal, protective way. But I see no proof of a change of mind.’
‘Jill, you’re always so negative,’ I burst out. Then, mindful of the ‘petal’ and ‘treasure’ on the other side of the hedge I lower my voice: ‘I bet you anything he comes back, apologises, and we start a whole new life together.’
I hang on to the vision of our family reunited. And when I come home from Mr Ahmed the dry cleaner’s to find Jonathan’s message on our voicemail, I’m convinced this is it. ‘Rosie. It’s me. Can I come by this afternoon? I’m unhappy…garble garble…’ The tape becomes indistinct but I am sure of the sentiment conveyed: Jonathan is unhappy and wants to return.
I run upstairs to check my makeup. I hear footsteps outside the bathroom: I’m tempted to ask Kat what she thinks of my dress—scoop neck, cotton, light blue; but I don’t want to get her hopes up.
‘Mu-um!’ It’s not Kat, it’s Freddy coming up the stairs. I lock the door: my nine-year-old still has only a nominal notion of privacy.
‘What?’ I try to keep my hand steady as I draw eyeliner on to my lid.
‘I’m just going over to the Vincents’ to play FIFA 08 with Oscar. Kat wants to come to see Molly.’
‘Off you go.’ For only a second I feel guilty that I’m allowing the children to miss one of their father’s visits. If my suspicions are right, though, today marks their father’s return. Just me and Jonathan, I think, and my heart thumps. I feel shockingly lust-filled when I think about my straying husband: maybe someone else needed to find him attractive before I could get excited about him again.
The door bell goes as I finish brushing my hair. I rush down and let Jonathan in. Except I can’t. The knob that is supposed to unclick stays rigid in my hand. I try desperately to turn it but nothing happens. It’s an American-style, button-in-the-middle knob that Jonathan had warned was lethal for small children. He’s been promising to change it from the day we moved in. My husband is coming back to me and I’m stuck in the loo!
The door bell rings again. ‘Jonathan! I’m just coming!’ I yell. But there’s nothing for it: the handle resists all attempts to turn it. ‘I can’t!’ I scream.
Helplessly I look around the bathroom for something with which to prise open the wooden door. Tweezers? Nail scissors? Razor? I try to poke the little button in the middle of the knob, but nothing gives. I look up at the skylight that is the only window. If I stand on the loo seat, and prise it open, I could shout out so that Jonathan (and anyone else in the street below) could hear me.
The door bell goes again, this time for longer. Then I hear my mobile ring next door: Jonathan obviously thinks I’ve forgotten our appointment. As if. I’m up on the loo seat, and I push open the skylight: ‘Jonathan!’ I call out.
‘Where are you?’ I hear from below.
‘Up here! In the loo! I’m locked in!’ I try to sound calm and in control, but you can’t when you’ve locked yourself into a 3 × 5 room with your maybe-on-again-husband waiting on the doorstep below.
‘Let me come in and see if I can let you out!’ Jonathan shouts up. ‘I’ve got the keys still!’
‘Thanks!’
I press my ear against the door and hear Jonathan’s familiar heavy steps climb the stairs.
‘Here I am. Now how are we going to get you out of here?’ Jonathan asks affectionately. He sounds like Christopher Robin talking to Pooh Bear. It’s the manner I know well. ‘How do you manage these scrapes?’ he asked when I, in a coat with rabbit-fur collar and cuffs, emerged from his HQ to find myself in the midst of a dozen placard-waving anti-fur demonstrators. Or ‘I’d better come home and see to this’ when I rang in a panic because I’d forgotten my house keys when I’d nipped out to buy some dill and was standing there in front of our locked door, with six guests arriving in ten minutes.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ I moan as on the other side of the door I hear my husband trying the knob. ‘I just locked it!’
‘We should have got rid of these stupid locks when we moved in,’ Jonathan grunts as he keeps working on the knob.
‘I know. Do you think you can get me out?’ I steal a look at the mirror: I’m a bit flushed, but the makeup is still in place.
‘Of course.’ Calm, confident, in charge: oh, how I’ve missed my husband. ‘I have to get into the bathroom come what may. I’ve got to get my electric razor back. I’ve been using disposables and they’re killing my face.’
My heart lurches. Surely he doesn’t need to take his electric razor if he’s coming back?
‘You said you were unhappy…’
‘Hmm?’ Sound of a screwdriver working at the knob. ‘Oh, I know what it was. Kat told me you were having problems sleeping…’ (Oh no, she shouldn’t lay on the guilt trip, I’m sure that’s counter-productive!) ‘…and I wanted to say that usually I’m unhappy with anyone taking sleeping pills, but if it’s only for a short period…’
‘Well, it has been’—Don’t sound bitter, I remind myself—‘a bit difficult.’
More rattling of the knob.
‘Bloody hell, this thing is difficult…’
I lean against the door, and feel as if I’m leaning against him. I’ll take you back, I whisper, I know we’re no longer in love but we’re so comfortable together.
‘Hmmm…? Did you say something…Hey!’ The door handle falls on to the floor and the door opens.
‘Bless you!’ I cry and spontaneously (well, almost) throw my arms around him.
‘No worries.’ Jonathan gently unclasps my hands to free himself. ‘I think, er…you’ll want a stiff drink after your captivity.’ His face lights up with a smile, but not for me: he goes straight to the electric razor in its vinyl case. ‘Perfect.’ He turns back to me, adopts a look of concern. ‘Kat’s right. You do look pale.’
It’s all I can do not to scream, ‘Because of this mad separation, you idiot!’ Instead I say lightly, ‘Let’s have a drink.’
He follows me down the stairs to the kitchen. I open the cupboard, get out the bottle of Famous Grouse. Jonathan leans against the counter. ‘Where are the kids?’
‘Vincents. As per usual.’
It’s as if he’d never gone, I think. As if this episode had never taken place, Linda never existed. Then I notice it: the big green canvas weekend bag he’d packed that dreadful night. It’s back! He’s brought his things back and we’re going to be together again. I sigh with relief.
Jonathan follows my eyes. ‘I’ve brought my bag. I need to get a few essentials. In fact, Rosie,’ he looks me in the eye, right hand warming the whisky in his glass, ‘it really makes no sense procrastinating about painful decisions: I’m going to consult a lawyer on Monday and seek a divorce.’
My face must have given me away because he reaches out to touch my hand. ‘Don’t look like that. I care for you very much, I always will. But Linda and I…it’s not a fling. It’s for ever.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_f2ebed45-97ef-5532-9db6-af7d9c3ce856)
Jonathan holds my hands in his. ‘Rosie, we don’t need to be enemies, you know. We’ve got two wonderful children. A million memories. A divorce doesn’t need to be horrible and devastating. It can be an arrangement that suits us both. I’ll be with Linda, you’ll find someone too, the children will still be the centre of our lives.’ He studies my face for a reaction. ‘You can still do your counselling programme, I’ll pay for that. And the three of you can stay here, no problem.’
I shut my eyes: separation is for now, but divorce is for ever. I never meant to let this period drag on for more than a month or two.
Life without Jonathan for ever? I’ve never seriously considered it. Who else can find the shortest way from Belsize Park to Brixton? Or immediately guess what’s wrong with Mum’s prescription? We brush our teeth at the same time, check in with a telephone call at least once a day, eat supper together and, when it comes to the children, we lean on each other, like poles holding up the tent under which Kat and Fred can crawl and be cosy.
But then I look at my husband’s expression of pity. Ugh! I can’t bear the thought of him and Linda shaking their heads over my lonely disappointment. Hey, you! I feel like shouting, You don’t need to feel sorry for me. I can build a new life, find a new love. I breathe in deeply: if I need directions, I can get myself a sat nav. If I need help with prescriptions I can ring Jill. And I’ll always protect the children, Jonathan or no Jonathan.
I can do this. I toss my hair and stand up straight; yes, I can. I’m going to explode every prejudice, and turn all preconceived notions on their head. I’m going to think the unthinkable and do the impossible. I’m going for…
‘A good divorce!’ My voice rings with conviction. ‘We’ll make this a good divorce. A civilised split.’
‘The most civilised divorce in the annals of break-ups.’ Jonathan gives me a lopsided grin.
‘Pain-free.’
‘Humane.’
‘Generous-spirited.’
‘No one will be able to say that we traumatised our children, or ruined each other’s lives.’
‘Everyone will congratulate us on how brilliantly we’ve managed a difficult process.’
‘Ours will be the most constructive collaboration ever.’ Then, with a look of concern, ‘Hey, sweetheart’—Jonathan takes a tissue from the Kleenex box on the mirrored shelves above the toilet—‘you’re crying!’
What not to do when you’re considering a friendly divorce: tell anyone.
I’d prepared my speech, and repeated its promises of ‘civilised separation…mutually convenient arrangement…friendly division of spoils…best for the children…’
Somehow, though, nobody heard these reassuring pledges, and the reactions to my announcement are the same as if I’d said Jonathan and I were fighting to the bitter end, no holds barred, until no one was left standing and the children were covered in our blood.
Kat: ‘How can you DO that to us?! We’ll have to see a therapist for the rest of our lives!’
