‘Oh. That.’ I keep forgetting about it. ‘I fell over. It’s fine.’
‘You fell over?’
‘Yep.’ I bend over a little bit, miming the act of falling over and he nods, as if this clarifies it for him.
We’re both standing in the doorway, as though neither of us wants to be the one to control the situation, suggest a move somewhere else. I am terrified of offering an idea in case it’s the wrong one.
God, it is so weird, seeing him again. I know him so well, better than anyone. I’m married to him. I love him. I loved him so much before this happened. When we were first together, five years ago now, I used to lie awake worrying about him. What if he got knocked off his scooter on the way in to work? What if he developed a terrible degenerative disease? What if I did? Why would someone give me someone, give me this happiness? To take it away, that’s why. I would listen to him in the night, his light snuffling breathing like a baby, and stare up at the ceiling, praying that he’d be all right, praying that we’d make it, that I was worrying for nothing.
‘Glad you’re OK.’ Oli nods. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Nothing serious, honestly.’
As if by mutual consent, we go into the living room. He looks round. There is no way to describe how bizarre it is, how we should just be chilling out on the sofa, not standing up awkwardly. It’s our sitting room, it’s both of ours. There’s a big red rug from a junk shop near Broadway Market on the floor, a rubber plant in a wicker container on the floor nearby, a blue corduroy sofa, deep and comfy, and the huge red and blue abstract print by Sandra Blow that we bought in St Ives, the first time I took Oli to Cornwall. The wall by the door is lined with our books and CDs and DVDs. It’s stuff like that. It’s our home, our life together. It would be really hard to unpick.
‘Do sit down,’ I say politely. ‘Thanks,’ says Oli. He sits on one of the oatmeal low-slung armchairs, which look as though they should be in the lobby of a seventies LA hotel. He loves those chairs. He looks round the sitting room, his hands restlessly stroking the fabric of the arms. The rain has started again. There’s a silence.
‘Look, Natasha—’
‘Yes?’ I say, too quickly.
He stops. ‘Well, I wanted to see you. Find out how you are, all that shit.’
I half-stand up. ‘Do you want a drink—?’
Oli waves me down, almost crossly. ‘No, thanks. So – how’s it going?’
I touch the bump on my head. ‘Oh, fine, as you can see.’ He sounds impatient. ‘I meant yesterday. I mean you. How you are. If you’re OK.’ He nods.
Suddenly I can feel anger rushing into me. ‘Well – I’m not OK, no.’
He looks a bit surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Oli, what do you expect me to say?’ I drop my hands into my lap and look at him, willing him to understand. ‘Of course I’m not OK. My business is on the verge of going under. My grandmother’s just died. My whole family’s going into melt-down –’ I begin, and then stop, I’m not getting into that now. ‘And my husband’s left me.’
‘You threw me out, I didn’t leave,’ he says promptly, as if it’s a quiz and he knows the answer.
‘Grow up, Oli,’ I say, feeling a release of anger and riding it, loving the sensation of feeling something, anything again. ‘Is that all you’ve got? Still? “You threw me out.”’ I am mimicking him. ‘You’re such a fucking child.’
He stares at me and shakes his head. ‘Nice.’ He looks as if he’s about to say something else, runs a hand through his floppy brown hair, stops. ‘Never mind. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said it, OK?’
‘No.’
‘No, it’s not OK? Or no, I shouldn’t have said it?’
‘Both. You pick.’
It has become so easy for us to start sniping at each other, these past few months. I don’t know where it came from. We know each other too well and take no pleasure in that familiarity. It’s little things but they grow. I am bored witless by his alleged devotion to Arsenal. I don’t believe it either, he was never into football at university or when we were friends in our twenties, and all of a sudden he’s their number one fan, along with every other media wannabe in his office. No chance he’d support Grimsby Town, for example, who happen to be the nearest team to the village where he grew up – no, not nearly sexy enough.
While we’re on the subject, I hate the way he always orders pints now when he’s with blokes. He doesn’t like beer that much. He likes wine. He actually used to love cocktails, but he has to be seen to be one of the lads, to fit in with the metrosexual guys in his office who think it’s fine to look at porn and find Frankie Boyle hilarious. I think that’s pathetic. Be a real man. Have the courage of your convictions and order a damn Southern Comfort and lemonade, you big pussy.
I shake my head, ashamed I’m thinking these things, and I look at him. He has his arms crossed and his face is blank, as though he’s shutting down, just as he always does when we have a row. Perhaps he doesn’t want to push it, but I can’t help it.
He changes the subject, wisely. ‘How’s your mum?’ he says. ‘Is she all right?’
Oli is very good about my family. He gets it. His father left his mother when Oli was eight, and she raised him pretty much by herself.
‘Mum’s OK. Ish.’ I wonder what’s going on at Summercove tonight. I hope Mum is keeping it together and hasn’t gone mad and attacked Louisa with a silver candlestick. Like Cluedo. I smile, and then I think, That’s not funny. I feel a bit mad all of a sudden. I look at him, at his face, the face I know so well. His glasses are crooked, his hair is sticking up on end. I smooth my skirt with my hands. ‘She’s Mum, you know. A bit of a nightmare. But I think she’s holding it together. I hope so.’
Oli gives me a curious look. ‘You don’t have to always hold it together, you know,’ he says. ‘Everyone gives her a hard time. I feel sorry for your mum.’
I’m on my mettle. ‘You don’t know what she’s like.’
‘I do, because you’ve told me. Many times,’ he says, and then he bites his tongue, clamping his mouth shut. There’s a silence again, and I can hear my heart beating.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve obviously been really boring about it,’ I say snappishly. I hate the tone in my voice.
Oli blinks impatiently. ‘Come on, Natasha,’ he says, as if to say, You’re being childish now. He jiggles his legs im patiently. ‘I probably don’t know what I’m talking about. Your family is a mystery to me.’ He has his palms out in a conciliatory gesture and though I know he learned this on a negotiation training course a couple of months ago I nod, because he’s right, though it irritates me.
‘They’re a mystery to me, too.’
‘I’m sure they are.’ Oli smiles and shakes his head.
I wish I could confide in him, with an ache that surprises me with its intensity. I wish we were here and it was normal again.
I would tell him about the meeting at the bank. Work out what we were going to do about it, the two of us. I would tell him about the diary and what Octavia said. Maybe we’d sit at the table and read it together. I could ask his advice, talk about where we both think the next part is, whether Mum knows about it, what I should do. I would ask about his day, about the little things that have been bothering him: whether the ad agency was happy with the campaign they put together for a new brand of peanut, or the pitch they’re doing for a big trainer company, and how the new guy from Apple who’s joined them is working out, and what he had for lunch that day and whether he remembered it’s his moth-er’s birthday in a week’s time, and . . .
We were so close, we used to joke about it. I hated it when the door closed behind him as he left for work in the mornings. I missed him all day. He made the demons go away and the happy, sane Natasha I wanted to be stay in the room. I was even glad when he had the stomach flu and was off for two days, isn’t that dreadful? I didn’t go into the studio for two days either, I stayed at home with him and we watched Die Hard and Hitch, his favourite films, and I made him chic
ken broth. We both longed for the weekends, forty-eight hours together, just the two of us, Oli and Natasha, walking down Brick Lane hand in hand, cooking up a storm in the kitchen, bickering over what shower curtain to get, what dish was nicest at Tayyabs, whether to watch The Godfather Part II again or The Princess Bride.
We were our own unit of one. Joined together to make one. Both from broken families, both looking for love and reassurance, both wanting to make a home of our own, a new family, a fresh start.
So how did it come to this? That he has slept with someone else, broken my heart, killed our dreams stone dead? That we can’t say a kind word to each other, that we actually dislike each other sometimes? How the hell did we get here?
My eyes roam round the room, as though I’m searching for something to say next. I find myself staring at the photo of our wedding day, almost the same as the one I have in the studio. It stands proudly in a silver frame on the lowest shelf by the TV. We are smiling. I stand up and look at it more closely. There is glitter on my dress; it sparkles softly in the evening light. Oli follows my gaze, and we look at the picture together.
‘Look at us,’ he says. ‘Funny, eh.’
‘I know,’ I say, closing my eyes, not wanting to look any more.
‘Where did it go wrong?’
When you fucked someone else. I pause, the quick retort on my lips, but I bite it back. ‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head, look down at him, his hair falling into his face.
He nods, as if acknowledging what I haven’t said. ‘I still love you,’ he says, ‘but . . . I just . . . It’s been hard.’ He scrapes his knuckles along the wooden floor, stretching his arms out from the low chair.
‘I know that too,’ I say. ‘I don’t know when it started being like that. Before—’
‘I think it was a long time before,’ Oli says. ‘Long time?’ My eyes fly wide open at this. He puts his hands out again.
‘Not a long time, but a few months now, you know? Because when it started, and for a long time, you and me, well – hah.’ He is smiling. ‘I thought we were the perfect couple. I think the problem is we changed. Both of us. And we didn’t notice. I think we’ve become different people from the people we wanted to be at university, the people we were then, and that’s the problem.’
‘Perhaps it has,’ I say slowly. He’s right. He’s changed. So I probably have too. ‘I haven’t been easy.’
‘Neither have I.’ He smiles. ‘But it didn’t used to matter, did it?’
‘No.’ I smile back. ‘It didn’t.’
Oli looks into my eyes from across the sitting room, and suddenly the distance is nothing. ‘I loved everything about you, even the stuff I didn’t agree with, the things I didn’t understand.’
‘Me too,’ I say, clasping my hands in front of me and looking at him. ‘Ol, do you think that—’
‘I don’t know,’ he says simply. ‘I don’t know where it’s gone, and I don’t know if we can ever get it back.’
I take a deep breath. ‘You had a one-night stand,’ I say. ‘One night. You know – perhaps it’s – OK. Perhaps we just agree to move on . . . Perhaps we just say it’s not the end of the world.’
Oli puts his head in his hands. He gives a little groan. Someone is shouting something outside in the street. I watch my husband, fear inside my head, in my heart.
‘Oli?’ I say gently. ‘Oh, God. Natasha, that’s why we need to talk. I didn’t want to say it like this.’
I swallow. ‘Why?’
‘Come on . . .’ His eyes peer at me through his fingers, like bars on a window. ‘It wasn’t a one-night stand. You must know that.’
‘What?’ I rock on my heels. I feel as though he’s just punched me.
‘Chloe and I – it wasn’t just once. It’s more than that – it’s, well. It’s been going on for a while.’
‘But—’ I shake my head. ‘No, Oli—’
‘That’s why I’m here, Natasha,’ he says, getting up, struggling out of the chair and standing in front of me. ‘I’m so sorry. I know this isn’t what you want to hear.’
I clear my throat, and when I speak, I am surprised by how calm my voice is. ‘You think – you think we should split up. Permanently.’
Oli tugs his hair, hard, and then looks straight at me. ‘I don’t know. Probably. Yes.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Hi, Nat. Same again?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Flat white coming up, my dear. Sit back down, it’ll be ready in a minute.’
I sit down at the counter, watching the organised mayhem behind as Arthur, the owner, and his two cohorts juggle with beans, huge silver machines belching steam, frothing milk, and paper cups, as people stand patiently waiting for their orders to come through. I watch the world go by, the smell of fresh bagels from the shop next door wafting tantalisingly in, as Brick Lane slowly comes alive again. I love the early mornings here, before the tourists and the hungry hordes arrive, when it’s just people who live here, work here.
I have been here since it opened at seven, sitting on a tall stool, staring out of the window and trying to read the papers, but I can’t. I haven’t slept yet. It is just after eight.
‘Nat?’ someone behind me says. ‘Hey, I thought it was you.’
I turn round slowly, and look up. ‘Oh, Ben. Hi.’
Ben stares at me. I must look delightful, unbrushed hair, no sleep, bump on forehead, in an assortment of crazy clothes. I had to get out of the flat. ‘How weird.’ He stares at me. ‘I was just thinking about you. We didn’t see you yesterday after lunch. Wondered if you were OK. Tania, look—’
He pats his girlfriend’s arm and Tania looks up. She smiles when she sees me. ‘Nat, how are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. They both look me over. ‘You don’t look fine,’ Ben says. ‘Natasha . . . ?’ I look through the window. Oli is staring at me. He pushes open the door. ‘Where the hell did you go?’ he says angrily. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you just ran off—’
‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ I say. I push my hand through my hair.
Ben and Tania are still staring at us, with increasing discomfort.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Oli, you’ve met Ben. And this is Tania.’ I wave my arm limpidly at them, as if it’s filled with heavy liquid.
Ben steps forward. ‘Hi, Oli,’ he says. He stretches out one thick, blue jumper-clad arm. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘Thanks,’ Oli says, pumping his arm back heartily. ‘Ben – yes, it’s good to see you. We met at that open studio night a few months ago, didn’t we? You’re a photographer, aren’t you, I really liked your stuff.’
This conversation is unreal. I want to pinch myself. ‘Hey. Thanks. Thanks a lot.’ Ben smiles at him, and turns back to me.
‘Tania’s Ben’s girlfriend. She works with him,’ I say. ‘Not any more,’ Tania says hurriedly, as if she wants to fill the void. ‘But we used to.’
Oli waves his hand to attract Arthur’s attention. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’ How could I not have noticed she wasn’t working there any more?
‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, smiling. Ben drums his fingers on the counter. ‘Look, we should go,’ he says. ‘Um – good to see you both. See you around, I guess,’ he says to Oli.
‘Sure, mate,’ Oli says, not really listening. ‘Nat – see you at the studio.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘See you – see you soon.’ I watch them go, Ben striding down the street, Tania next to him. It occurs to me then that they didn’t order anything.
‘Weird guy,’ Oli says. ‘Got a crush on you.’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ I say, picking at a napkin. ‘He has. He’s the one who likes Morecambe and Wise, isn’t he?’ He laughs. ‘That hair, and those big jumpers . . . Weird guy.’
‘He’s not weird,’ I say tiredly. ‘He’s lovely. I’ve known him for years, remember. He’s a good man.’
A good man. That’s what he is. I thi
nk it now, and I turn to Oli, turn and stare at him. Is he a good man?
‘I’m starving,’ Oli says, patting his pockets. ‘I’m going to order some food.’
Arthur’s voice rises with pleasure. ‘Oli, great to see you again, it’s been a while now. Where you been?’
Oli smiles and pulls out his wallet. ‘Working too hard, I guess.’
‘Neglecting your beautiful wife?’ Arthur is shaking his head. ‘You want to be careful. I’ll snap her up if you don’t watch it!’ He laughs and, of course, we laugh merrily back. ‘Same as usual?’
Oli nods. ‘Yeah. Same as usual.’ He comes back, and sits on the stool next to me. ‘I thought you might be here.’
Before all this, we virtually lived at Arthur’s, which is at the top end of Brick Lane. It’s a little bit Brooklyn New York wannabe, with simple wooden tables, chalked menus, and every third person owns a MacBook, but the food is delicious and the coffee is great. And Arthur is friendly and genuine, and it’s locals of all ages here, not just tourists, and we could sit here happily for hours and read the papers. It’s very lifestyle section. Our life together was, I’ve been realising, very lifestyle section.
I nod. ‘Sorry. I needed to get out. You were still asleep.’ Oli touches my hand. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘You can’t just run away again. We need to talk about this.’
‘We talked about it last night,’ I say, knowing I am being ridiculous.
‘We didn’t!’ Oli raises his voice and people look round. ‘I just didn’t want to talk about it any more,’ I say. ‘Well, locking the bedroom door on me and going to sleep isn’t exactly—’
‘I didn’t sleep,’ I say. ‘I just – I didn’t want to talk about it. Any more.’ I couldn’t. I got into our bed, staring at the ceiling until he stopped knocking, and then there was silence in the sitting room, followed by snoring, and I lay there for the rest of the night, looking at nothing, not crying, not feeling anything. I don’t know why, even. Perhaps I was afraid of what I’d do if I let go, of all the tension, the fear, the rage inside me.
Love Always Page 23
