When Dad tried to explain that the difficulty arose because his lover was a scientist with whom he was collaborating on an important research paper, unsurprisingly his defense didn’t hold much weight. Did he honestly believe that my mother would understand that he didn’t want to end the relationship because that might jeopardize his research? As usual he put his career first. Needless to say, the fact that his scientific and bed partner happened to be twenty years’ Mum’s junior didn’t endear him to us much either.
So now home feels like a hostel for brave women who haven’t been fought for by their men. It’s totally gloomy waking up in my childhood room with faded rose wallpaper and dried prom corsages hanging off the headboard when my friends are pushing prams around the park. It used to be a treat to come home before I was married, but being forced to live at home as a divorcée makes you feel retarded and claustrophobic. In a short marriage (or sorry mistake) like Jamie’s and mine there is no great financial settlement; you get out what you put in. That left me with just enough money to live off for a year or longer if I lived with Mum. Unlike Jamie, I wasn’t cushioned by inherited wealth and, again unlike Jamie, I had given up my job at the publishing house after we married—at his behest—so living back in the country was a lame last resort.
Everything in this house is tired and dusty but that’s okay because the tagline screams old money. The chintz may be faded, the beds lumpy, the linen sheets partially threadbare but none of that matters because everything is right. Nothing jars because nothing is new. We’re not nouveau riche but nouveau pauvre, which here in the Cotswolds is infinitely better. What does it matter if Mum can’t afford to take a decent holiday or have hot water on tap (these gargantuan oil-fired boilers cost a fortune to heat) when she wears blindingly large diamond rings ingrained with dirt and dog hair to do the gardening? Her Hermès handbag is ancient and the leather is cracked but when she goes into town in her cheap catalog fleece and M&S skirt, people who know, know in a nanosecond that she’s one of them.
Whenever I come down for breakfast, Mum is never dressed. There simply isn’t time. She’s always in a thick, green dressing gown, Wellington boots, and pearls slung around her neck, a vivid slash of pink across her lips.
“So, how was the date with the bond trader?” she asked on that particular morning, boiling up some stinky meat on the Aga. “What was he like?”
“Intelligent. Rich. Amusing. Successful,” I answered succinctly.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “Best leave well alone.”
“I’m sorry? Have you got a dog biscuit lodged in your ear?”
“Don’t think I don’t see the attraction of a man like that,” she said huffily. “I was young once too, and of course, men like him—powerful men—have always been a temptation. But these are men who would hurt you, if necessary, to get their way.”
“In business, yes, but not emotionally,” I countered.
“He’s a deal maker. For men like that their whole life is their business. They can’t distinguish between one and the other.”
I stood up, agitated, because deep down I knew Mum was right. Troy said his wife had left him because he was married to his job. But I didn’t want to marry him; I wanted to win him. To prove to myself that I could. Mum followed me into the hall. “Don’t make my mistake. There’s no greater loneliness than being with a man who puts his career first. Playing second fiddle gets awfully demoralizing over the years.”
I put my arms around Mum because I knew that nearly twenty years on there were pockets of tenderness that still hurt. “I just want what’s best for you, Daisy.”
“No,” I said, gently pulling away. “You want what you think is best for me, not what I want for myself.”
I went upstairs. And what did I want? I wanted to be free. Free of my obsession with outscoring Jamie. I wanted not to care that he appeared to have got ahead; that he was happier, more successful, and more loved-up with a new partner than I was. I wanted to be happy for him, instead of bubbling up with rage and envy that he had a life. I flicked through my battered copy of When Leaving Is Lifesaving, hungry for a nugget of wisdom to enlighten me. “When no one wins, both partners take the prize.” I had to walk away mentally, to finally let go. That would be my prize.
I sat on my bed and leafed through our photo album. Some loose photos from our last Christmas on holiday in Barbados fluttered out. Jamie and I, framed by a glorious blood-red sunset, were on a boat to see the snapping turtles. (I couldn’t get into the water as the turtles snap at you when you have your period, which, naturally, I did.) God, on paper we looked effortlessly good. But I’ll never forget lying on the beach, staring at the exquisite turquoise sea, able to see the beauty but being utterly depleted by it. Neither Jamie nor I had the energy to pretend anymore; in fact we almost bonded in our inability to inject any life into our union. We were lolling in luxury but you could taste the deprivation. Jamie must have been as lonely and despairing as I was, I thought.
I knew that I might regret it but I couldn’t help myself: I started ripping pages out of the album. I was in a hurry to heal. I couldn’t let this man and my wasted dreams take up any more of my time. (However, I was tempted to save a couple of snaps of me in my bikini in Barbados and a few of me in my wedding dress as the chances were that I’d never look that thin or my hair that bouncy and perfect again.) An hour later I was standing in front of a roaring bonfire, cheeks glowing from the heat. I hurled our wedding video on the fire, with the caption “Daisy and Dickhead’s Big Day” in Jamie’s scrawl, followed by boxes of photographs of us together. I watched the corners crinkle and the rivulets of colored ink turn black as they dripped into the heat. Little pieces of charred paper floated up from the funeral pyre of my dreams. When I saw photographs of my hated ex-mother-in-law Lavinia Prattlock, I let out a whoop of joy. Hooray! I would never have to endure dried roasts and endless games of Boggle at lunch with the Prattlocks again.
Suddenly I plucked up courage and threw my wedding album into the center of the flames. Finally, nearly a year after I left Jamie, I was burning off the karma of our union. Complete closure may not ever happen like it does in the movies but this felt close enough. I tried a little handstand of excitement but my arms gave way and I toppled sideways into the compost heap.
I was clutter-clearing my bedroom—yes, my worn Snoopy and my first Valentine’s Card had to go if I was to move on and get a life worth living—when my mobile rang. I saw Troy’s number flash up but let him leave a message. “Hello, Ms. Dooley. I’ve been thinking about you. Baby, your post-divorce dating defense was so good the other night, I want to give you a full cross-examination. How about meeting at my personal chambers, next Wednesday, at eight?”
I couldn’t wait.
“Don’t forget, men rarely appear as good-looking on the second date,” said Lucy, raking her fingers through my hair and jamming in heated rollers.
“We build them up in our minds in the space between dates,” said Jess nodding, “and then it’s like ‘euch, what’s with those shoes?’”
We were crammed into Jess’s tiny bathroom—again—as Lucy tried to glam me up and Jess tried to calm me down before my all-important second date with Troy. Lucy tugged and teased my tresses, snipping off a few split ends, while Jess launched into a menacing monologue that would have raised the roof at any self-empowerment seminar for staying single.
“Get this straight in your noodle, Daisy. You are not looking for love. You are looking for a good time.” She grabbed a makeup brush and started jabbing it against my arm. “If a good time involves a one-night stand, you must, at all times, keep your emotional distance. If you can’t remain detached, he will think you are a needy, easy lay . . .”
“If she sleeps with him tonight, he’ll have a point,” said Lucy, busily backcombing.
Jess threw her a look before continuing her diatribe to me. “If you are immature enough to allow beer goggles to distort your perception, remember: it doesn’t matter if they slip off, a
s long as the condom stays on.”
“I won’t sleep with him as I’ve got my period,” I said.
Jess shrugged. Since when was that a deterrent to any action in her book?
“Well, at least you can’t get pregnant,” Lucy said.
I sighed. Post-divorce dating suddenly seemed so tacky and undignified. “Don’t you understand?” I said as Lucy continued her ministrations. “I don’t have time for a good time. I’m nearly forty.”
Jess jerked her head backwards in horror. “Haven’t got time for a good time? You really are a saddo, Daisy.”
“Look, I know how to give good date,” I tried to explain. “I know how to be witty but not so funny as to be threatening. How to challenge yet not dominate. How to hold my knife properly—do men notice or even care? I’m a sophisticated neurotic, if nothing else. I know how to eat globe artichoke, how to flesh out meat from lobster claws, but the point is that I’m too tired to play these mating games anymore. I just want to find The One and get on with the rest of my life.”
Lucy put down the comb and grabbed my copy of Dating Dharma from my handbag. She held the book against her chest, then opened it randomly. “Perfect! This was meant for you. ‘Live out the glory of your imagination. Not your memory.’”
“And your point is?” harrumphed Jess.
“It’s telling me that my past—my painful divorce—does not have to govern my future,” I said sheepishly. “That I can create something meaningful in my life if I believe in it enough.”
“Right.” Jess slapped me on the back. “Then go out and practice having something meaningful with Troy but don’t be stupid enough to believe it’ll mean something to him.”
Lucy turned me toward the mirror. “Goodie. You’ve got artfully disheveled come-to-bed-because-I’ve-just-gotten-out-of-bed-and-look-how-fabulous-I-look hair.”
“So, I’m supposed to look like a slut yet act chaste, but if I do slip up, I’m to take it on the chest—I mean, chin—like a man?”
“You got it.” Jess smiled. “Casual sex is meant to satisfy the libido, not engage the heart.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “You should know.”
“I’ve had roughly fourteen partners in five years,” said Jess. “That is not promiscuous, it is spaced.” She opened the door and pushed me through it. “Okay, ditzy Dooley. Ready for anything.”
What I couldn’t tell Jess and Lucy was that as much as I wanted to move on, I was scared of physical intimacy. After a brief monogamous marriage to Jamie and more than a year of celibacy, I felt as inexperienced and ill-equipped as a born-again virgin when it came to hitting the high notes in the sack. I longed for teenage-style affection, where snogging wasn’t a means to an end, it was an end in itself. In those sepia-toned, inexperienced days there was no such thing as a good Merlot, a brazen double entendre, and a swift transition to the bedroom. But now, when I was old enough to have menopause in sight, I couldn’t exactly fob a guy off with only hitting first base after an expense account dinner, could I?
The fact that Troy didn’t take me out to some swanky restaurant but instead cooked me dinner at his home threw me completely. His bachelor loft cum lair was intoxicating. He had a good eye; vast canvases were strategically placed around the expanse of white walls. I couldn’t stop staring at one of a rugged slice of Cornish coastline near where his parents lived. The sea, a deep lavender color, swirled angrily against dark jutting rocks. There was passion and poetry in the painting—which I instantly read to mean that Troy had taste and sensitivity. He also cooked girlie food: swordfish with puy lentil and beetroot salad, scattered with tufts of fresh parsley, which I found strangely touching.
When I went to wash my hands—i.e., check my hair and reapply spot concealer—I did a quick snoop and mental inventory of his pad. He got full marks for reading matter—along with business tomes, weighty classics, and dodgy thrillers, he had a well-thumbed copy of Chemistry or Karma? the new best seller on sex and spirituality on the bedside table. Hmm. Promising. Maybe Jess was wrong and he was looking for a soul connection, too? A quick spot-check revealed my period seemed to have basically stopped. I was good to go. When I came back to the dining table, I saw that he had laid the table with linen napkins, water glasses, and serving spoons, which men always forget.
The champagne was chilled, a Coldplay CD was spinning, and Troy’s conversation was smooth and funny. He asked me when you know you’ve become a woman, which I thought was a great, incisive question. I said, “When you realize Daddy isn’t a God or Mummy’s first choice, after all,” and we fell about laughing.
I don’t know if I was wearing beer goggles or just alcoholic pince-nez, but I found Troy seriously attractive. He was bigger set than Jamie, not fat but broad, and seemed such an open, unedited person. After Jamie and his emotional constipation, it was an incredible relief. That Troy had a pulse and seemed sensitive—and was plying me with champagne—sent me into another orbit. I was desperate for him to take me in his arms and hold me tight.
“So Daisy,” he said, adopting an authoritative tone, “tell me what you hate most about dating?”
I giggled. “Am I under oath?”
“Yeah, you’re under an obligation to tell me the truth, the whole truth . . .”
“And will it lead to a full examination later?” I ventured bravely.
Troy grinned. “You bet, baby.”
“You’d be shocked,” I said.
“Really?” he said excitedly, scooping his last mouthful of chocolate pudding on to his spoon. “Try me . . .”
I leaned toward him and said in a loud whisper, “Secret shitting.”
Troy put his spoon down. “What?”
I explained how I hated the artifice that when you first went out with someone, you had to pretend that you were too perfect to poo. You may have spent the night with him and he had probably navigated the contours of your naked body inch by inch but there was still that insurmountable intimacy barrier to conquer of his knowing that you were in the loo doing a “big job,” or a “jobby,” as my mother still insisted on calling it. Many is the time I’ve held it in and suggested we go for a morning coffee, only to hurl myself down the stairs and into the loo the moment we hit Starbucks.
Troy was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Well, I guess I asked for that. You’re quite a character, Daisy Dooley.”
He stood up and put his hand out. I took it and the next thing I was in his arms and he was kissing me. I could feel the energy of his heart melting into me like warm honey. There was something strong and reassuring in the way we molded together. Well, it felt meaningful enough to me. He stopped kissing me but I didn’t want to let go. I hadn’t realized how lonely and bereft of physical affection I was. I started to cry. At first it was a mute snuffle, which gathered pace into full sobbing and runny snot.
Troy nuzzled my neck. “Listen, if it’s too soon . . .”
“No, no, you don’t understand. I’m crying because . . . because my husband never once held me like that.”
“I can’t believe you slept with him.” Lucy shook her head.
“I can’t believe you didn’t use a condom,” hollered Jess. Did the whole coffee shop really fall silent, swivel, and stare or did I imagine it? Either way, my cheeks were puce and my head was pounding.
I closed my eyes and plunged my fingers into my sockets. Quite how I could have lost my emotional foothold so soon—on the second date—and tumbled into bed with a virtual stranger was beyond me. I had never behaved so badly before I was married to Jamie, so why did being a divorcée make me unstable and erratic, as opposed to unusual and erotic?
When Troy had led me to his bedroom, I had followed in a daze. Because he had seemed so nurturing when I was crying, soothing me and stroking my hair, I trusted him. “We don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I just want to hold you.”
Ah yes, that old chestnut. In my state of addled naïveté I fell for it as fast as the conker falls from the tree. At first, when we lay
together, whispering and giggling, it felt safe and romantic. But I had forgotten how predatory a man in boxer shorts in the dark can be. Before I knew it he was coaxing me here, easing underwear off there, kissing me, caressing me, turning me on. When it came to the crunch, I protested that we should use a condom, but he was going in all guns blazing. “Ah, baby, I just want to fill you up,” was his jarring cri de cœur as he came.
I suppose, pathetically, I was partly flattered. I assumed that a man of his substance knew full well the consequence of crossing the line of no return. It even occurred to me that he had made a deliberate decision—let’s roll the dice of life and see what happens.
I tried to protest to Lucy and Jess that the situation wasn’t irredeemable. Clearly, Troy held me in high regard. Despite the fact that he was in the middle of a large deal and had to take some important sounding calls during dinner, when we retired to bed, he switched the phone to silent. All night it rang, but only the lights twinkled on and off, like fireflies glowing in the dark. It was kind of romantic.
Daisy Dooley Does Divorce Page 3
