by Lucy Dawson
‘Er, not exactly.’
‘Well, I suppose it was different for you, with your head and everything.’ He stops for a minute and draws back. ‘That’s not why you’re being a bit funny with me, is it? You think I should have just taken you to hospital?’ He looks devastated. ‘You think I put you at risk?’
‘God, no, of course not!’ I instinctively reach out, realizing I really don’t think that.
‘Then what is it?’ he says. ‘Is something else wrong? Please, tell me.’
‘It’s nothing, Marc. Here – give me the passport paper.’ I grab it and sign quickly. ‘There you go. All done. I’ll see you later then, shall I?’
‘Another message?’ Mum says later as I put down my phone, having just received more kind, well-wishing texts. ‘I don’t know how you manage not to hurl it out of the window with all of that constant bleeping.’
‘I can turn it off if it’s bothering you.’
‘No, no,’ she says from the opposite sofa, where she is knitting a summer cardigan for Evie, the needles whizzing away. I have no idea how she does it so fast without even looking. Years of practice, I suppose. ‘I’m fine. Although you shouldn’t rest it on your lap like that. It’s not good for your ovaries.’
I ignore that, along with yet another message that pings in from Lou, wanting to know how I am, if we’re still going on honeymoon. I know I should text her back, but…
‘Did Dad phone you to see if you got home from hospital all right, by the way?’ Mum interrupts.
‘No.’
‘Oh, well, never mind. I rang to say everything was fine, so I expect he didn’t want to disturb you in case you were asleep. I thought he looked quite tired on Saturday, didn’t you?’
‘I honestly can’t say I noticed, Mum.’ I wriggle down into the sofa a little more, exhausted, and not wanting to go down this conversational route.
‘Hmmm.’ She glances at me. ‘He’s a funny old stick, but I do love him.’ She sighs and pauses for a second before starting to knit again, even faster. ‘It would have been our forty-second wedding anniversary tomorrow.’
‘Would it?’ I say, surprised.
She nods and we fall silent again.
‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ Mum says conversationally. ‘When I walked into the church to marry your father, I panicked. I suddenly thought, “I don’t think I should be marrying this man.”’
I look across at her. Well, that’s comforting to hear. ‘And twenty years later when you wound up divorced, you realized you had been right all along?’ I say tersely. ‘What’s your point, Mum?’
‘Actually, my point was exactly the opposite,’ she says. ‘We had twenty very happy years together, despite my reservations in the church. You just both have to be prepared to put some effort in, that’s all. The divorce was totally your father’s fault. If he’d never told me about his affair, I wouldn’t have had to do something about it. At the time he said he couldn’t live with the guilt and the lies. He had to tell me. That’s just another way of saying he wanted to feel better about it. He needed me to tell him it was all right, which was very weak of him.’
I sit very still.
‘If you’re going to do something like that, you’d better be prepared to live with it. That’s the price you pay, I’m afraid.’ She pauses and inspects the row carefully, counting under her breath, then adds, ‘Every couple has secrets, Sophie.’
‘But what if someone else had told you, and not Dad?’ I say eventually. ‘You’d have been devastated.’
‘That’s true, but we’d at least have lengthened the odds of our staying together. Is there a risk that the other person in your situation might say anything?’ she asks innocently.
There is a very long pause before I eventually say, ‘No. None at all. Someone else knows, but if they were going to do something, they would have done it by now.’
‘Well, there you are then.’
‘But isn’t that dishonest and making decisions for Marc? And what about me? You’re saying I’m just supposed to live with knowing that we shouldn’t have—’
‘Sophie,’ she interrupts again, ‘there are few chances in life at happiness. Marc was the proudest man in the world when you married him on Saturday, and you made your bed. Now enjoy lying in it. Let’s make a fresh cup of tea and go and pack, shall we?’
After lunch, I’m busily removing from my suitcase pointless things like the winter cardigan Mum insisted I take, when Marc appears in the bedroom doorway. ‘Can I ask a favour?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Will you come with me in a bit to meet the children?’
I look up in surprise. He’s never asked me to accompany him to a drop-off or collection before.
‘Do you mind? After all, I suppose you have to meet Claudine sometime.’
‘Um. OK.’
‘Thanks.’ He looks relieved, and disappears off again.
I sit down on the bed. I absolutely do not want to see her. And I can’t imagine for one moment that she will want me to be there either.
I go downstairs and find Marc in the sitting room, on his laptop. ‘Actually, would you mind if I don’t come?’
He looks up, dismayed. ‘I do, really, yes. What’s the problem?’
I hesitate. ‘I’ve still got loads of packing and…’
‘The thing is, Soph, if you’re there, she won’t make a scene in front of the kids, which they, and to be honest I, can so do without.’ He looks at me pleadingly. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Please?’
We end up arriving at the train station slightly too early and decide to kill some time in Costa. ‘I’ve never appreciated until now the carbon contribution divorce is responsible for,’ I remark nervously, trying to appear totally relaxed.
Marc looks up from the paper. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Well, Claudine is bringing Isabelle and Olivier from Paris to London, so we can fly with them from Heathrow to Dubai – and then we all come back again to London, for Claudine to collect the children and take them home, so that we can fly straight out to Barbados. At least it’s a one-off, I suppose – we’re unlikely to ever be so jet-set again, are we?’ I try a smile and pick up my cappuccino.
This is ridiculous. My being here isn’t going to prevent Claudine from saying anything, should she decide she wants to. We both know that. So why…?
‘OK.’ Marc exhales, looking at his watch for the millionth time. ‘We ought to go and wait on the concourse now.’ He’s completely on edge.
‘Marc, I’m sure she’ll be there. She wouldn’t—’ I begin, but he’s already on his feet and making for the door.
I follow him out of the coffee shop as he begins to march in the direction of the platform, like he’s going into battle. I practically have to trot alongside him to keep up.
‘Marc,’ I pant slightly, ‘can you slow down a bit?’
He turns back impatiently. ‘Sorry, I just don’t want to be late in case—’
‘Papa!’ We hear an excited shout and Marc spins around eagerly. There they are, running towards us – Isabelle’s fair hair flying out behind her, an enormous smile on her little face and Olivier struggling to stop his backpack slipping off his shoulders as he tries to keep up. Isabelle flings herself at Marc, and he laughs as he gathers her into his arms. She clings to him like a monkey, burying her head in his neck. Olivier catches up and jostles to be hugged too. Marc attempts to engulf him as well, but overbalances, and has to set them both down amid lots of kisses.
‘Hello, you two!’ I say.
‘Hello, Sophie!’ Isabelle says breathlessly, breaking free of Marc to give me a happy smile. I am distracted, however, and don’t give this positive reaction the full attention it deserves, as Marc has begun to straighten up slowly.
His expression completely changes as he stares over Olivier’s shoulder and I follow his gaze anxiously… to see Claudine walking towards us.
I tense up immediately as she gives us a wide smile, which makes
her eyes crinkle attractively at the edges – the sign of a woman who is happy often. Her dark hair is piled loosely up on her head, curls escaping here and there, and she’s wearing a midnight-blue, tightly belted coat over skinny black trousers and what must be at least four-inch suede ankle boots that are all zips and buckles, with a toe so pointed they look dangerous. They are the only angular thing about her though, and I would guess she’s worn them for height, as she is also absolutely tiny. It’s hard to imagine anyone less threatening than this pretty little doll, but still I take a wary step back.
Her lack of stature is accentuated by the taller, older man accompanying her, pushing a trolley loaded with cases. He has greying, slightly unruly, thinning hair and lugubrious jowls. His overcoat is sharp and expensive, however, and as they arrive right in front of us, I notice that on the proprietary hand he places around Claudine’s waist is a dynastic-looking signet ring. He could be any anonymously powerful career man that one might easily walk past on the street without knowing that he runs half the world. He is, I imagine, Julien.
Claudine clears her throat. ‘Marc.’ She turns to me. ‘And you must be Sophie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is my fiancé, Julien.’ He reaches out his hand and smiles at me. As he does, his face completely changes, lighting up warmly, and just for a second I think I see what Claudine might find attractive about him.
‘Many congratulations to you both on your recent marriage,’ he says, and then I completely get it. His voice is a million clichés: melted butter, chocolate, liqueurs, late nights, and far, far too many cigarettes. I could listen to him speak all day.
Marc, however, remains mute. He just stares at Julien, who raises an eyebrow and drops my hand before simply looking away.
‘Thank you,’ I say, looking at Marc and willing him to say something.
‘I hope you are fully recovered from your accident now, Sophie.’ Claudine turns to face me, speaking with concern. ‘It’s incredible that it was concussion all along, but you were walking around and…’ She trails off uncertainly.
Phoning you? ‘I’m much better, thank you,’ I say firmly, silently challenging her not to disagree, or to say anything at all. We’re done, remember, Claudine? Let’s both of us just walk quietly away. ‘Very excited to be heading for a bit of sun. You know our terrible reputation for bad weather.’ I laugh lightly, but no one else does. Even the children have fallen silent as they stand next to Marc.
‘Indeed,’ she says politely. ‘I have packed everything the children will need for pretty much every eventuality in their suitcases. Here are their passports.’ She holds them out and Marc takes them. ‘I’d be very grateful if you could make sure they only use the sun block I’ve provided you with, as Isabelle has very sensitive skin and most creams give her a rash.’ She looks at me as she says that, and I nod.
‘Of course, that’s no problem.’
‘There’s easily enough for the whole week,’ she says, suddenly anxious. ‘And please keep a hat on them at all times, particularly in the midday sun.’
‘Claudine…’ says Julien quietly.
‘Sorry. It’s lucky you’re not going on safari – then I really would be a complete mess, hey?’ She laughs but looks horribly flustered, for a moment just a nice mum who is worried about things being done as she’s used to doing them, because she loves her children. It seems that is all she’s worried about right now.
‘We’ll take very good care, I promise,’ I assure her automatically in my best teacher voice.
She looks at me quickly and, after a pause, says, ‘Thank you. And please make sure they drink lots of water – only bottled, though.’
‘We should go now,’ says Julien firmly.
Claudine nods and smiles brightly. I realize she’s trying not to cry and instinctively take a respectful step back to busy myself with looking in a newsagent window while she hugs them both fiercely and whispers to them in French, kissing them repeatedly, before forcing herself to straighten up and let them go. ‘Have fun!’ she says. ‘Say a nice goodbye to Julien.’
Marc visibly stiffens as Isabelle steps forward and dutifully kisses Julien’s cheek, and Olivier follows suit. ‘Come on!’ Marc says, taking the trolley and beginning to walk away. He doesn’t even say goodbye.
My eyes widen. I find myself giving Claudine and Julien a silent wave – I can’t not, it’s too rude – before turning to follow him, but Claudine doesn’t notice me anyway. She’s only watching the kids already trotting after Marc.
I don’t know how any divorced couple does it. I can’t think of anything worse than having to let your children go off for a week with your ex and his new wife, who you don’t know from Adam. I hope Imogen never divorces Ed. I don’t think we’d all cope. I am still reeling slightly – trying to reconcile the woman I’ve just met with the one who sent me that letter – as we climb into a cab. The children are already bouncing around and have started gabbling away excitedly in French. I wait for Marc to ask them to start speaking English, as he usually does, but although he is smiling, he’s also noticeably still very wound up, and I decide it would be better just to let it go.
It takes Marc an absolute age to get them into bed after supper. I’m about to offer to go up and help when the doorbell rings.
To my horror, I open the door to find Lou on the other side.
‘Oh, that’s nice!’ She laughs. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not stopping long. Glad I’ve just driven all the way over here to make sure you’re all right because you weren’t answering any of your texts… Jesus! I won’t bloody bother next time.’
‘Sorry,’ I say automatically. My face must have completely given my shock away.
‘You should be. I’ve been really worried.’ She walks in past me. ‘Also, I know you’re probably up to your ears in packing for tomorrow, but I really did just want to check in before you go. You are still going, I take it?’
‘Yes, we are. And I’m really sorry, Lou. You’re right – I should have called you back.’
‘Ah, don’t worry about it.’ She waves a hand, goes into the sitting room and flops down on the sofa. ‘It gave me a good excuse to get out of the house. It’s fine, honestly.’
There’s a moment’s silence, until I remember myself. ‘Do you want a drink? Tea, coffee?’
‘Have you got wine?’ she says. ‘But just a small one, I’m driving. And I’d rather red if it’s—’ She stops, interrupted by a loud ringing coming from her bag. She closes her eyes briefly. ‘Excuse me…’ She reaches in, answers and says, ‘Hi, darling!’ brightly. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Not really, no,’ Rich says crossly – loud enough that I can hear every word. ‘The girls are saying they can’t get in the bath without bubbles, and I can’t find any. Where have you put them, please?’
‘Hey!’ We hear a small voice shout in the background. ‘That’s mine! Daddy, Tilly stole my rod!’
‘Give it back, Tilly, please – and don’t touch that either.’
‘If there aren’t any on the side of the bath, there might be some in the cupboard under the sink,’ Lou says.
‘Nope!’ he barks. ‘Already looked and there’s nothing. I said don’t touch that!’
‘Well, there’s not much I can do from here,’ Lou says calmly. ‘Can I leave you to sort it out?’
‘I hardly have much choice, do I?’ he says tightly. ‘You’re not going to be back late, are you, because I’ve— MATILDA, DON’T TOUCH THAT, I SAID!’ A high-pitched wail begins in the background. ‘Well, it’s your own fault, you were winding her up! I’ve got a presentation to finish for tomorrow and it’s already half seven. I really would appreciate it if you could stay no more than half an hour. This is about work, Louisa, I’ve got to be able to—’
‘I want to speak to Mummy!’
‘Well, you can’t, unfortunately, she’s busy. Right, I’d better go.’
‘Daddy, I need to!’
‘Bye,’ he says tersely, although he’s almost completely drowned out by
a roar of ‘MUMMYYYY!’
‘Good, well, he’s got everything under control, then.’ Lou hangs up. ‘Sorry, I was saying red if you’ve got some open, wasn’t I?’ She smiles at me. ‘So how is your head?’
‘I’m still getting some headaches, but painkillers are keeping them under control.’
Lou whistles. ‘Who knew massage tables could be so lethal, hey? Still, all you’ve got to do as of tomorrow is lie in the sun. Excited?’
‘Of course,’ I say uncomfortably. This is horrible. She’s my best friend and I don’t want her here any more than Rich clearly wants her alone with me. Why didn’t I just text her back earlier? ‘Let me get your wine.’
When I come back in, she has kicked her shoes off, folded her legs up underneath her and is frowning at her phone. ‘Thanks.’ She beams at me and takes the glass. ‘To marital bliss.’
Feeling sick, I raise an imaginary glass and chink with her.
‘What gives with you taking the children on honeymoon, by the way?’
‘Well, they break up from school in a week or something. You know how Marc usually has them for a bit of every holiday? This time Claudine wants them for the whole thing, apparently, so it’s more us doing something with them first, then having our honeymoon, rather than we’re taking them on honeymoon with us, if you see what I mean.’
‘I do,’ she says. ‘Talking of which – can we very briefly discuss how amazing your wedding was? Weird to say the least, because you weren’t there, but amazing. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’ I sit down.
‘The food was the best I’ve had at a big bash like that and Marc chose such a great band. I don’t think I’ve danced that much in ages. The thing is’ – she drinks some more – ‘it was pretty subdued until we all got the news that you were OK, then everyone went a bit crazy and just got plastered. Rich was completely hammered. It was like being back in uni again! You looked incredible.’
