Daisy Dooley Does Divorce

by Anna Pasternak

  Mum, who was waiting for me at the station, ran forward to greet me, waving exuberantly. She had clearly come straight from the hairdressers because her hair was backcombed to a gravity-defying height. She seemed giddy with pleasure as she hugged me tightly and her erratic concentration on the way home made her driving dangerously cavalier. As she swung into the driveway, narrowly missing the gate posts, she drew the car to a juddering halt before she let out a strange bone-shaking cry. “Oh, Daisy, I’ve got something so wonderful to tell you,” she said, holding her head as if in disbelief. “I never thought this day would come but it has.”

  I raised an inquiring eyebrow. “What is it? I’ve got a long-lost brother? The dogs chipped in and bought you a winning lottery ticket?”

  “No, no.” She snorted. “It’s far better than that.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if to prolong the magic of the moment. Then she threw her arms in the air and exclaimed: “I’m in love!’

  “Oh God,” I said, getting out of the car. “You haven’t gone and bought another puppy, have you?”

  Mum followed me into the house. “Not with a dog, Daisy. With a man! A flesh-and-blood proper-penis-sporting man!’

  As I stared at my mother, her cheeks flushed, I felt like a stranger in my own world. Nothing seemed familiar anymore. Each day seemed to bring new revelations that unearthed me. Selfishly I had imagined a cozy weekend alone together. We’d sit around the kitchen table and she’d listen patiently as I questioned whether I would ever meet any bloke whom I loved as much as Julius. Mum would soothe and bolster, expressing her concern with homemade soup and her stellar choc chip cake, and bring me morning tea in bed. She would have put a pitcher of fresh flowers from the garden on my bedside table—some blousy scented roses—along with glossy mags to relax me. After being dragged out on long walks, I’d go back to London nourished in every sense. Dissecting my mother’s blossoming love life around the Aga had not been in the plans. I didn’t know how to react as she made the coffee, eagerly filling me in. It wasn’t that I wasn’t thrilled for her; I was. But what I found myself asking was whether I was grown-up enough and generous enough to want her happiness more than my own. I mean, the last thing I ever expected was to feel jealous of my mother because she had a man and I didn’t.

  It turned out that she had met Archibald Fleming at a dog show. A gentleman farmer, he breeds rare sheep. Archie’s wife died five years ago and he has two grown-up daughters who, naturally, are happily married and cheerfully breeding, unlike poor Mum’s liability of a daughter. Archie’s mangy old sheepdog, Rusty, almost decapitated Dougie, which is how Mum and he met. Mum ran forward, hurling red-hot expletives and her handbag at Rusty, who had Dougie dangling from his jaw. Archie skillfully extracted Dougie and handed the traumatized, slobber-coated dachshund back to her, then suggested a drink by way of apology. That was it: late-life love was sealed over the man-sized marrows and gnarled gourds in the tea tent.

  “It’s not a sizzling sex thing,” said Mum, “although he has lovely soft lips and impressively clean fingernails for a man who lives on a farm.”

  “Please, euch, no details,” I interrupted.

  Mum waved her hand dismissively. “What I wanted to say, darling, is that I had one of the most wonderful moments in my entire life with Archie. He came over last week when I was mucking out the kennels. When I stood up to ease my back, he put his arm around me. It wasn’t passionate but it felt so wonderful to lean against a man and let him take the weight of me. He whispered, ‘You don’t have to do it all on your own, anymore, Diana,’ and I thought I was going to break down and cry.”

  You and me both, I thought.

  “Oh Daisy, I do pray that you find something similar because as Archibald Fleming held me, I realized that all these years of holding it together on my own have been such a terrible strain.” Mum burst into tears and I hugged her.

  “Oh Mum,” I said, “I’m so happy for you. I really am.”

  Mum was such a trooper when I was growing up, so hearty and hail-fellow-well-met, organizing wonderful seaside holidays and making the cold, unyielding countryside seem vibrant and fun, that I’d had no idea until now that she had nursed a violent longing for something other than safe, domestic routine. Her secret, which she hid unnervingly well, was that she prayed that there was more to her life than this. In a macabre way, the discovery that Dad had been having an affair unleashed her. Now she, too, could hold out for a chaotic passion that would enable her to redefine herself and turn her neat, contained world into something glorious and messy.

  “It’s so wonderful with Archie because he actually listens to what I say to him,” Mum said as we walked the dogs by the river. “I’m unaccustomed to being with a man who takes this much notice of me and is interested in what I’m feeling. I almost died of shock when we were driving home from the animal suppliers the other day and Archie turned to me and said, ‘Diana, what are you thinking?’”

  “I had no idea that you were so unhappy with Dad,” I said.

  “A happy marriage where knowing the truth would break your heart is a tricky kind of happiness to sustain,” she said.

  “Oh no.” I sighed, instantly depressed. “I hope you didn’t stay just for me.”

  Mum smiled. “It was more complex than that.” She sat down and patted the grass beside her. “Listen, Daisy. This is important. In our twenties and thirties we search for ourselves and if we’re lucky, we find our niche in roles that bring out our best: mother, career woman, wife,etcetera.”

  “That makes me unlucky,” I interrupted, “because I’m still searching.”

  “No, actually, you’re at an advantage,” said Mum, “because when these roles reach maturity in our forties and fifties, children leave, careers shift, and marriages end—we feel lost, scared, and unsure. We wonder, ‘Was what I left behind the best expression of myself?’ You have a chance now to discover how you can best fulfill yourself and live a vivid life that’s true to who you really are.”

  “What was your best expression of yourself?” I asked.

  She pulled me to her. “You, silly.”

  “Phew,” I giggled. “For a moment I thought you were going to say all those prize dachshunds you bred.”

  She looked at me. “You have no idea how proud I am of you, do you?”

  Teary-eyed, I lowered my head. “How can you be? I’ve messed up everything.”

  “Don’t give up on yourself, because if Archibald Fleming can see the point of me when I’m sagging and sixty-odd, there is a wonderful man out there waiting to claim you.”

  When we got back from the walk and I saw a strange van in the yard, I felt a twang of anxiety. I knew this Archie must be in the house and that it was clearly serious between him and Mum or she’d never have given him a key. Suddenly I felt worried for her. What if he was some sort of cad on the make, out to flatter gullible female old fools? But the minute I saw him, any misgivings melted. Although he didn’t look dissimilar from Dad in that he had that gray-haired patrician look, he appeared softer and kinder than my father. Maybe he had less to prove, unlike Dad, still furiously toiling over his Bunsen burner determined to achieve a scientific breakthrough that would make his name.

  Archie had made a tray of Pimms complete with mint, apple slices, and lemon wedges—something Dad would never have bothered with—and as we sat in the garden enjoying the early evening light flood across the lawn, I thought how he pitched it just right. He wasn’t overly familiar; he was justifiably cautious, but he seemed keen to impress me and impress upon me that he was genuine about Mum. Something about him touched me because when he asked me what I did and I told him about the bookshop, he wasn’t patronizing as Dad would have been. He didn’t try to belittle me. He said, “The marvelous thing about opportunities that drop straight in your lap is that they are yours to do what you want with.” Later, he looked fondly toward Mum and said, “You must be very proud of Daisy, Diana,” and he meant it. He wasn’t trying to suck up. He made me feel
that if he could see my potential before I saw it myself, then another man could too. As he chatted away and I saw Mum watch him, enchanted, I felt immense gratitude on both our counts. I already knew that I would always have a soft spot for Archie because he believed in us.

  When I returned to London my belief in the redemptive power of love soared. I saw working in Miles’s bookshop as a perfect opportunity to reignite my career and possibly meet new men. It wasn’t until I had spent the first week manning the till that I realized Miles and I were reading off the same transparent sheet. Every woman with a pulse and (preferably) a push-up bra who browsed the aisles was considered instant eye ’n’ arm candy. What got me was how many returned the following day, all google-eyed and giggly. Miles remained unperturbed when I challenged him. “Daisy, don’t you know that for men, having sex with the same woman, no matter how good it is, gets a bit tired?”

  “But doesn’t waking up with a different head of hair, or worse, a set of tacky hair extensions on your pillow get just as trying after a while?”

  “That’s why I always try to get them to leave before I go to sleep.” Miles laughed.

  “Don’t you want to fall in love?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure I believe in love.” He shrugged.

  “You’re so cynical it must be terminal,” I said.

  “And you’re so gullible it must be painful,” he countered.

  “Not at all. Falling in love is simply a consuming desire to share the very marrow of another human being in the hope that life will become profound and everything will fall into place.”

  Miles guffawed. “You’re a true crackpot, Daisy.”

  “Actually, I’m going to find true love,” I said. “Just you wait and see.”

  Every day I picked at random a soul-stirring sentence from the plethora of self-help books on my shelves, wrote it in colored chalk on a tiny blackboard, and stuck it in the window of the shop. It thrilled me to see customers standing outside reading and absorbing its meaning, not least because it made me feel less alien and alone. Anyone who stopped for an inspirational nugget was clearly searching for something, too, weren’t they?

  “If you feel held and supported by life, you can let go and allow the unexpected to happen.” I thought yesterday’s bon mots were particular gems because I was beginning to realize that the more frightened we are, the less we trust life, so the more we grab on to unsuitable props and crutches. My God, dodgy men with dire agendas had certainly been the potholes to trip me up in my thirties when foolishly I was most convinced that my foothold was secure. Deluded? Certainly. In denial? Not anymore.

  Miles manned the espresso machine as I cleaned the blackboard and wrote the meaningful missive of the day. “Leaving a bad relationship is like having cosmic diarrhea. Elimination hurts but once the poison is out, you will feel much better.”

  Miles repeated the sentence, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The idea is to draw customers in, not frighten them off,” he said. “I want them to think we have sane humans working here, not unstable self-help zealots.”

  “Let’s face it,” I laughed, “the only reason you don’t enter into proper relationships is because you are too afraid of the pain they would cause if they ended. One-night stands are for scaredy-cats because they don’t pose an emotional risk.”

  “Emotion is overrated,” said Miles. “Look how mad you are and you’re the most emotionally open person I know. Your feelings are always hanging out, as if they’ve forgotten to sew you up after open heart surgery.”

  “Miles,” I said, poking him with my chalk, “I’ll just conclude this happy little chat with tomorrow’s spiritual saying, which is, ‘People who study others are wise. People who study themselves are enlightened.’” Miles put his hands to his ears and let out a frustrated roar. Laughing, I ran to the window to put the blackboard up while Miles went to check some stock.

  Spending time with Miles, even if he was the unevolved yin to my analytical yang, was comforting because although we never stopped teasing each other, at the bedrock of our friendship lay solid affection. Being with him, the less I mourned the lack of a relationship. It was liberating to watch couples browse books together and not feel the sting of envy. Okay, so sometimes I had a teensy stab, like the Saturday afternoon I was frothing some milk for a cappuccino—Miles had spent a fortune on alpha male gadgets for the coffee bar that required a degree in something highly right brain and technical—when a man ushered in a pretty girl. I recognized instantly that they were in morning-after mode. Why do so many lovers bumble along to bookshops after they’ve slept together? Do they picture cozy afternoons spent curled up reading before relationship rot sets in? While the man stroked the girl’s neck as she perused the best sellers, I felt a surge of horror. It was Troy Powers.

  When Troy saw me he nervously flicked his fringe and his eyes darted back and forth. It should have been gratifying to see the power leak from him but strangely, when my moment came, I didn’t have the heart to humiliate him. I could almost hear him say, “Please, for God’s sake, Daisy, don’t make a scene.” He was terrified of what I might reveal in front of the lithe blonde standing by his side, her fingers curled around his. But what would be the point of warning her off when her face was lit from within over the night they had just shared? She had that slightly drained—that is, shagged senseless—tired but buoyed look. Just because Troy had done the dirty on me didn’t mean that I had the right to scupper their shot at happiness, did it? That would only drain my piggy bank of karma and make me look bitter and small.

  Troy stared at me, his expression fixed, waiting for the verbal detonation while the girl awaited a polite introduction with a benign air of expectancy. I said sweetly, “Let me know if I can help you with anything.” I pointed to the Mind/Body/Spirit section and said, “We’ve got the new best seller from the States on self-actualization over there. It’s all about becoming the best you can be.” I smiled, monitoring the concern in his eyes and her slight look of surprise before I swiftly retreated out to the back. I watched on the CCTV camera in the stockroom as a relieved Troy quickly ushered his lover out.

  As I sat on a box of books, I was intrigued that my anger had not flared. The more I thought of how Troy had treated me, the emptier I felt. I didn’t feel anything as strong and urgent as hatred; I was simply aware of a temperate void. Where does dead anger go when it expires? After all those bruised, painful hours I had lain on my bed, hot with shame and temper, it was liberating to realize that I no longer had any need to keep fighting, because the battle within had been won. It was as if a tiny elastic band of tension had snapped inside me and I was free.

  In order to celebrate this, I persuaded Jess to join me on a weekend jolly to a fancy hotel in Bath. Miles had given me a bonus for selling so many self-help best sellers in the shop and I decided to splurge it on our girlie spa break. Jess had been working nonstop at the surgery and as I hadn’t seen her properly for what had seemed like months, even though we were still flat sharing, I was looking forward to a gossipy getaway. We had arranged to meet at Paddington train station on Friday afternoon and as I kept staring at the clock, I worried that Jess was running late. When my mobile rang and I saw her number, I said, “Thank goodness. For an awful moment I thought you weren’t coming.” There was a pause. “Where are you?” I said. “The train leaves in seven minutes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Daisy. I can’t make it. One of the doctors has called in sick and I’ve got to be on call this weekend.”

  Felled by disappointment, I slumped down on my bag, shoulders hunched. “Typical,” I said. “My new beginning is buggered before it’s even begun.”

  “Why don’t you go on your own?” urged Jess.

  “I don’t want to go to a hotel on my own that is going to be full of loved-up couples snogging in the spa.”

  I watched from the platform as people piled on to the Bath train and then I got up and boarded it. Tucked in a window seat, blindly staring at the view, I had a real fee
ling of achievement. I didn’t have that spoiled, childish whine of entitlement about life anymore—that it owed me because early on in my dreams I had promised myself that my life would encompass A, B, and C. For the first time in my adulthood, probably, I felt at one with the concept of being alone. I didn’t feel lonely, I felt at home within myself. What on earth had I been thinking earlier—denying myself a luxury that I had worked hard for, all for the sake of not being alone? Of course I wanted to find love but if it didn’t happen, I would accept it. I had read that this was called radical acceptance; a willingness to recognize and tolerate what is, rather than fight or judge what isn’t. It enables you to live with existential disappointment and move on.

  Seeing the light warm up the honey-colored Bath stone and taking in the majestic sweep of the architecture lifted my spirits. I kept closing my eyes and opening within to see if I really was doing okay or if I was in denial, but as far as I could tell, I still felt pretty accepting. Even when I was shown my hotel room and rushed to the window to scan the romantic view of the city, I did not feel incomplete without a partner. I looked at the four-poster bed and, for the first time since my divorce, it did not occur to me to feel less of a woman or more of a failure because I wouldn’t be sharing it. I didn’t look at the plump pillows and inviting linen sheets and yearn to destroy them in the name of a damn good time. Actually I couldn’t wait to slip inside without ruffling the covers and enjoy the comfort in neat solitary peace.

  The following afternoon I was preparing to visit the spa when I realized that I had forgotten to pack my swimsuit. I walked across the courtyard to the indoor swimming pool and asked the staff if I could borrow one. When they offered me the only one they could find—a monstrous fifties-style lurid pink spotted number complete with ra-ra skirt—I almost laughed out loud. I considered jettisoning the idea of a swim altogether but the pool beckoned, still and empty. Who would see me trussed up like Ma Larkin, anyway? As I was going for a massage afterwards and didn’t want wet hair, I scrunched my hair on top of my head with a dachshund clip—the best stocking stuffer from Christmas last year—and furtively entered the water.