The Foster Husband

by Pippa Wright

  I start humming under my breath, no tune in particular, just trying to make a noise so that I can’t overhear anything. It’s not like I think I’m especially fascinating – although my question about the lime should give them cause for amusement – but I know what the gossip is like here. Either they will know I’m Sandy and David’s errant daughter – in which case I don’t want to hear it – or they won’t – in which case I don’t want to hear it either. No good ever comes of listening to what people say behind your back.

  Tra-la-la, I hum to myself, trying to peer through the window, but it’s hard to see out of glass that’s as thick and swirled as the bottom of a bottle. Figures pass indistinctly, impossible to identify except as a brief blotting out of what little glow from the streetlights penetrates inside. I hadn’t considered before how pubs in London tend to be more bright and open, their big windows and well-lit interiors designed to appeal to women who want to see what somewhere is like before they venture inside, rather than having to duck into a shadowy room hoping for the best. But I guess the holey jumpers like it like this – dark and cosy for hiding away. And if your wife walks past she won’t even be able to see you’re in here, which I suppose is the point.

  Anyway, it wasn’t my choice, Eddy suggested it. And as I’m hardly an expert on Lyme’s nightlife, having spent most of my recent nights here watching television with Minnie, I wasn’t in any position to suggest somewhere different.

  I don’t even want to think about the last time I went out for a drink with a man who wasn’t either my husband or a work colleague. No, seriously, I really don’t want to think about it. It will only make me either nervous or hysterical, which is silly, because it’s only a drink with Dready Eddy. Which is weird in itself. He says he’s ‘made plans’. I wonder briefly if we’ll be sharing a bottle of cider on the beach, or laughing uncontrollably from too much dope, which was pretty much the level of plan we achieved before I fled Lyme for good.

  When he finally arrives, full of apologies for his lateness, he is welcomed as a friend by all the holey jumpers. They slap him on the back as he greets them at the bar, guffawing loudly at something – I am sure I heard the word lime, but it could have been Lyme, so I try not to take it personally.

  He returns with a pint and a rueful smile.

  ‘Sorry, got waylaid by the guys from the boatyard. And now I’m even later. Gaby didn’t pick up the girls until seven – I should have called but I was in a hurry to get here.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘There’s no rush.’

  And I really don’t mind at all – why would I? A man can talk to his friends. No matter what Matt thinks, I’m not one of those women who demands a man’s attention all the time. If you ask me, it would be pretty wearing to be under that kind of constant scrutiny anyway. Everyone needs their own space.

  ‘Well, there kind of is,’ says Eddy. ‘Because I’ve booked us a table for dinner.’

  ‘Have you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, there’s a place in the old Mill complex that I think you’ll like. Really amazing food,’ says Eddy. ‘I’ve booked us in for eight.’

  He sees my eyes flick to my watch.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll down this quickly,’ he says, picking up his pint. I must look apprehensive because he starts laughing. ‘Don’t worry, I can handle it – they don’t call me Steady Eddy for nothing.’

  ‘They don’t call you Steady Eddy at all,’ I say. ‘You will always be Dready Eddy to me, Eddy Curtis. No matter how many buzz cuts you get.’

  He rubs the top of his head, as if he’s stroking the ghost dreads from long ago.

  ‘Dready Eddy.’ He chuckles. ‘That feels like a long time ago.’

  ‘When did you shave them off?’ I asked.

  He thinks, sipping his pint. ‘Last year of university. It was a fairly lame sort of hair rebellion in the end – I was happy to be Mr Counterculture until I got turned down from three jobs in a row, and then off they came.’

  ‘You crazy anarchist, you,’ I say.

  ‘My girlfriend cut them all off one night after we’d been out,’ he says, remembering. ‘Her hands went completely green afterwards. It didn’t come off for two days.’

  ‘That is disgusting,’ I grimace.

  ‘She certainly seemed to think so,’ he says, laughing. ‘She dumped me a week later.’

  ‘Didn’t like what she’d uncovered under all that hair?’ I tease.

  ‘Something like that,’ he agrees.

  ‘Well, I think she was a fool, Eddy,’ I say kindly. ‘Who knew Dready Eddy would scrub up so well?’

  Eddy scoffs and finishes his pint. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go.’

  We wave goodbye to the holey jumpers and step outside onto Broad Street. Even though it’s dark now, and the moon is obscured behind silvery clouds, there is a very faint blue line on the horizon that shows where the sea ends and the sky begins. I like how the horizon makes me feel small in the best way – as if my problems are insignificant and fleeting. The perspective seems to promise possibility and escape. That’s what I always thought when I was younger, and even though I’ve run back here with my tail between my legs, the sight of the horizon still pulls at my heart with hope. Which is an unfamiliar feeling to me these days.

  The restaurant that Eddy’s chosen is tiny, hidden behind an art gallery in the old Mill complex. There are barely ten tables and only one waiter, behind whom the solitary chef can be seen at work. Unlike the pub, however, this place is rammed. Every table is full and we have to squeeze our way apologetically past the other diners to get to our seats at the back of the room. There’s a proper hum of conversation – the kind where you can’t hear what other people are saying, so you’re free to say what you want in return – and an air of eager anticipation about the food in store. I’d expect it somewhere like the posh Hix restaurant up near the Cobb – full of visitors from London since the locals blanch at paying twenty pounds for a piece of fish – but this bustling little corner of the Mill has the buzz of somewhere twice its size.

  Eddy picks up the menu, while the waiter pours water for us.

  ‘It’s really nice in here,’ I say.

  Eddy’s eyes twinkle with amusement. ‘No need to sound so surprised,’ he says. ‘Lyme’s changed a lot while you’ve been away.’

  ‘I did used to come back, you know,’ I say, on the defensive. ‘It’s not like I never visited at all. I just, well, I was always visiting family. I guess my parents don’t know about this place.’

  ‘Oh no,’ says Eddy with confidence. ‘They’ve been here plenty of times. Gaby and I saw them in here at least twice, and they seemed pretty familiar with the place.’

  ‘Sandy and David?’ asks the waiter, reappearing with a notepad. ‘Oh yes, they’re in here all the time. They often talk about you – Kate, isn’t it? From London?’

  He cocks his head to one side sympathetically. The expression on his face conveys not only pity, but full knowledge of my tawdry circumstances.

  I do wonder how anyone in Lyme would ever manage to have an affair or keep a similarly life-affecting secret. It seems I can barely step out of the front door without a total stranger revealing that they’re entirely up to date on who I am and what’s going on in my life. And to think I was just beginning to believe that Lyme had changed.

  ‘I’m Stephen,’ he says. ‘Anyway, can I get you some wine?’

  ‘Kate?’ says Eddy, offering me the wine list.

  ‘You choose,’ I say, studying the menu.

  ‘Oh, well, I don’t know much about wine,’ says Eddy.

  ‘Me neither,’ I smile at him. ‘Whatever you pick is fine with me.’

  Stephen purses his lips and whisks the wine list out of Eddy’s hand. ‘Well I do know about the wine, so how about you tell me what you’re going to eat and I’ll choose for you, hmm?’

  Eddy grins with relief, and Stephen promises he’ll bring us something we’ll both like. Frankly as long as it’s alcoholic I’m going to l
ike it, but I don’t tell him that as he seems to relish making the effort.

  ‘It’s so weird to be sat here with Kate Bailey,’ says Eddy, breaking off a piece of the warm bread that’s been placed in front of us.

  ‘Oh stop it,’ I say, keeping my tone light and breezy. ‘Honestly, Eddy, if we’re going to be friends you’re going to have to stop going on about the past all the time. We’re both different people now. Let’s talk about other stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The present,’ I say firmly, buttering my bread and taking a bite. The butter is rich and creamy and flecked with tiny salt crystals that crunch between my teeth.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Eddy. ‘I suppose my present’s a bit fucked, to be honest. That’s probably why I keep talking about school and stuff. Everything was a lot simpler back then, wasn’t it?’

  I shrug. ‘I suppose so, in some ways.’

  Eddy looks at me quizzically.

  ‘The present,’ I repeat. ‘Let’s talk about the present tonight. Tell me what happened between you and your wife. Gaby? How long were you married.’

  Eddy lets out a long breath, less of a sigh than an expellation of everything inside, as if he’s trying to get rid of it all. ‘Ten years?’ he says, and I wonder why he’s posed it as a question, as if he isn’t sure of the answer. As if he can’t believe it’s over, or as if he can’t believe it happened?

  ‘Wow! Ten years. Jeez, Eddy, you were a child groom. If that’s even an expression. I know you get child brides, so you must get child grooms.’

  Eddy laughs. ‘I was twenty-three. Yeah, it’s pretty young I suppose. But we thought why wait? We were in love – all the usual bollocks. It was going to be different for us, you know?’

  ‘I do know,’ I say.

  ‘You?’

  ‘A year and a half,’ I say. It doesn’t sound long at all. Not in comparison to ten years. And no children, either. ‘Yeah, we were just beginners really. But I think when it’s finished, it’s finished – you cut your losses and move on. No point dragging it out for years when you both know it’s over.’

  Eddy pinches a piece of bread between finger and thumb, pressing it into a tight ball.

  ‘It’s different when you have children,’ he says, his voice tight in his throat. ‘I’d have dragged it out forever to stay at home with them. But Gaby, yeah, she thought like you. Thinks like you. Move on.’

  He makes a pathetic little mime of his hand taking off from the table, like a plane.

  ‘Um, sorry,’ I say. ‘You were right. We should’ve stuck to schooldays. I suppose the present is pretty fucked, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ says Eddy and lifts his glass to mine.

  By the time the waiter arrives with our starters we are well on the way to being drunk. I don’t know about Eddy but I’m actively pursuing it, doggedly downing my drinks as if they were prescribed medicine. I feel like I’ve been tightly wound up for weeks, and the alcohol spreads welcomingly through my veins, loosening everything, making me feel like everything will be okay. I’m sure I won’t feel like that tomorrow morning, but tonight I don’t care. It feels good to be out, to have a friend in Lyme, to have a life again instead of hiding from the one I used to have.

  ‘These anchovies are amazing,’ I say, taking another tiny battered fish from my plate with my fingers. It reminds me of something, but I can’t think what.

  ‘Told you the food here was good,’ says Eddy.

  ‘It’s not just good, it’s unbelievable,’ I say. ‘This is the best meal I’ve had in years.’

  ‘Oh, that’s the company,’ he says. ‘The food’s pretty average, actually, but the company just makes it seem unbelievable. I have that effect on women all the time.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t just take me to McDonald’s in that case,’ I say. ‘If it would’ve tasted amazing wherever we went, you should’ve taken me somewhere way cheaper.’

  Eddy snorts and grabs his wine glass. ‘Yeah, I can just see Kate Bailey slumming it in Maccy D’s. I know what you’re like – a different fancy restaurant every weekend, I bet. Wine list as long as your arm. One of those little scrapy things for taking the crumbs off the table.’

  ‘I carry my own, obviously,’ I say. ‘In my handbag. I like to be prepared.’

  ‘Seriously, though, you must be finding it so quiet in Lyme after what you’re used to.’

  I consider. Quiet? After what I’d grown used to it’s quite the opposite. I smooth out the tablecloth under my fingers, the thick weave of the linen is rough and scratchy, like a hairshirt. There’s something pleasing about the texture – I wonder, briefly, if it would be so bad to wear a hairshirt anyway. Having a tactile reminder of your sins always with you might be better than being ambushed by the memory of them when you least expect it.

  ‘Once upon a time, maybe,’ I reply. ‘But to be honest I wasn’t going out much by the time I left. I – well, I stayed in a lot. Matt bought me Minnie – the puppy – and that kind of tied me to home a bit. I didn’t like to leave her on her own at nights. She’d chew things, and I could tell it distressed her to be left alone.’

  ‘Do you think he did it on purpose?’ asks Eddy.

  My eyes widen. ‘Bought me a dog to keep me at home you mean?’

  Eddy nods.

  ‘No!’ I start laughing at the idea. As if Matt had tied me to a chair with a dog lead and forbidden me to ever go out again. ‘No, I mean – God, I never even considered that. Totally the opposite, I think; he thought it would get me out of the house more, and then he got frustrated when it did the opposite.’

  Eddy wipes a finger along the side of his plate, scraping up the last of the horseradish sauce.

  ‘Why did he think you needed to get out of the house?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ says Eddy.

  It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I do mind but – maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the unaccustomed night out – instead I start talking.

  ‘He just couldn’t accept that things changed,’ I say. ‘He thought I’d always be the party girl who was out all night and working like a maniac. He couldn’t deal with me growing up and calming down.’

  Eddy’s forehead creases. ‘So he got angry with you for calming down?’ he asks, as if he’s heard wrong.

  I know in Eddy’s eyes I will forever be the wild girl he knew back in the day.

  ‘Oh you should’ve seen me, Eddy,’ I tease. ‘Apron on, dusting the banisters. I even did a cordon bleu cookery course. I don’t do anything by halves, you know.’

  Eddy chokes on his wine. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I know! I thought, Whatever it took to be a good wife, I’d do it. I gave up everything. My career, my friends, my social life.’

  ‘He asked you to do that?’ Eddy looks dumbfounded.

  ‘He didn’t ask,’ I admit. No matter how angry I am with Matt I can’t pretend he was some kind of pre-feminist-era caveman, dragging me into the kitchen by my hair and chaining me to the stove. ‘He didn’t have to. You know how some of the most important stuff in a marriage is what isn’t said.’

  Eddy nods sympathetically.

  ‘He was always saying how I put too much time into work and not enough time into our relationship. So I did it for us. For our future together. And then he turned around and said I’d turned into someone else. After everything I’d done for him.’

  ‘It hardly seems fair,’ says Eddy loyally.

  ‘He just didn’t appreciate any of it. He kept saying I’d changed, but he didn’t see that relationships have to change if they’re going to move on.’

  Eddy’s lips twist into a rueful smile. ‘Children have a way of forcing that change on you,’ he says.

  I pick up my wine glass and hold the bowl of it in both hands, as if I’m trying to absorb the wine through my palms. I stare into it, watching the reflections of the candlelight shift and flicker on the surface.

&nb
sp; ‘Yeah, well, that didn’t happen for us,’ I say. Light again, light as air. ‘There was a time when it seemed like a tragedy, but now I wonder if it was a sign, you know? That this wasn’t going to work out. We weren’t going to get what we wanted from each other.’

  Eddy looks bewildered, unsurprisingly, considering I have veered off into dangerously alcohol-fuelled philosophy – next I will be claiming something weird about the Law of Attraction or some other woo-woo nonsense.

  ‘Or perhaps it was just my hostile womb,’ I say, forcing a smile.

  I know the best way to get Eddy off the subject of my failed marriage is to lead him into a conversational dead end. A dead end with a man-terrifying gynaecological reference. Womb is hardly the worst I could say – especially to a man who has witnessed the birth of two daughters – but, as I had hoped, Eddy blanches, changes tack entirely and the evening is saved.

  It’s fortunate for both of us that the food is extraordinary and, like most of the other diners here, we can content ourselves with marvelling at it instead of talking about ourselves. The fish arrives with a bowl of buttery samphire, in whose branches rest the palest pink curls of shrimps. It’s so rich that I can barely eat half of it, but somehow we both find space for pudding, too: a shared bowl of homemade vanilla ice cream, served with a warm salted caramel sauce that I expect to see again in my dreams.

  I like talking like this, just being in the present moment, appreciating the food, with no agenda or issues bubbling under the surface. Mealtimes had become so fraught before I left London.

  I was always so anxious to please, to know that Matt appreciated my efforts, understood the exact technique I’d used for the zabaglione. After all, wasn’t the cordon bleu course I’d done for his benefit, too? Matt thought it was hilarious to buy me an apron with a Masterchef logo on it, and I laughed along with his impressions of the judges, though it seemed to me that he wasn’t taking me very seriously. I didn’t find the culinary dramas of those contestants ridiculous – I cried along with them when their soufflés failed, when they dropped the tray of cakes two minutes before service, when the lamb was cold and raw in the middle. I understood what it meant to put everything you had into a plate of food, to hold your breath for the reaction of the person eating it. But unlike those chefs on the television, for whom the praise of the judges got greater with every episode, it seemed that the harder I tried, the less Matt noticed. Or the less he cared, I should say. But isn’t that the same thing anyway?