by Sophie King
‘Sorry. It’s my lift.’
Karen’s eyes didn’t exactly get cold but something about them was definitely changing. ‘That was quick. Be careful, Ed. Very careful. Three wives – almost four – and you’ve found someone else already. Don’t make another mistake, will you? That’s what our next session is all about. You will come, won’t you?’
Nancy was hooting again and so was the bus driver. People were turning round to look and – great – there was a police car! ‘Yes. No. Yes, I’ll be there. And about Nancy, the woman you just saw. It’s not what you think. I’ll explain next month.’
I don’t like sleeping alone. I wake in the night to reach out for his warm back. But it’s not there.
Yet I can hear his snoring. Rising and falling, steadily, through the wall of the spare room next door. He has a cold, apparently. I always said the insulation in this house needed sorting.
So I mention it at breakfast the next morning, over toast (lightly browned, the way he likes it). And it brings us back to safe ground, away from last night’s accusations when he told me our marriage had become simply a business arrangement whereby I ran the house and he brought home the means.
‘I’ll sort out the insulation,’ he says. And then he looks up over the marmalade pot and actually smiles at me.
So don’t say anything to him if you read this. It might be all right after all!
Session Two: Moving On
This isn’t easy if you’ve been with someone for years. But it can be done!
Try:
Creating new traditions (e.g. going to a market on Sundays).
Giving yourself a treat (a lavender bath).
Making a list of five things that are good about being without your partner.
SEE! You can do it!
10
LIZZIE
‘Are you sure that woman is pregnant with Tom’s baby?’
Her mother was still sitting there, her mouth open in almost exactly the same position that she’d been in when Lizzie had found the courage to break the news half an hour earlier. The ‘lar-tee’ that Mum had made earlier, was still sitting cold in the brown and cream mugs which she and Tom had brought back from a holiday in Cornwall last year.
‘I just wouldn’t have thought Tom was the type,’ hissed her mother from the cream leather sofa she’d bought in the summer sale (since the menopause, Mum had been coming home with the most unlikely stuff). ‘To think, I was so pleased when you brought him home. Dependable, that’s what I said, wasn’t it, Jim? That man’s dependable. Never thought he was a philanderer. By the way, did you know you had a nasty spot on your chin, darling? And are you sure you really want that second slice of cake?’
‘A philanderer?’ Her father’s eyes lit up. ‘Didn’t know Tom collected stamps. Don’t suppose he left his album behind, did he, when he did a bunk? Sorry – bad joke again, I’m afraid.’
‘Shhhh.’ Lizzie gestured towards the children who were sitting riveted in front of the Wee box (Dad’s name for it) that her father had bought himself to celebrate his last hip operation. ‘Don’t talk about IT in front of them.’
Her mother waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh they can’t hear. Besides, they know more than we do. Well, him, anyway.’
She jerked her head towards Dad who had now pretended to go to sleep, the way he always did when Mum got too much. ‘That reminds me. Where did I put my Do Not Resuscitate Card? Frankly, I wouldn’t want them to bring me back to life if I’ve got to carry on being married to him.’
Why was it that some couples, like her parents, seemed perfectly happy to bicker their way through marriage but still stay together? She and Tom had hardly ever argued and now look! How could he possibly fall for someone with a bottom the size of a sofa and who never missed an episode of EastEnders?
‘Mum, is Daddy having sex with Ellie’s mummy?’
Thank God her mother had gone out of the room, supposedly to find the Do Not Resuscitate card but really to top up her glass.
‘Jack, don’t be so ridiculous. Of course he’s not.’
‘But Granny says he is. She says it’s disgusting and that Sharon’s a pregotory woman.’
‘Predatory,’ corrected Lizzie automatically. It was true. She’d even written a piece in the magazine about women who took a delight in poaching married men. Yet she’d never put Sharon down as one. How could she have got her so wrong?
‘Because she was convenient?’ suggested a small voice in her head.
Lizzie felt a twinge of guilt. Sharon had been convenient. Always there to have the children for her if she had a work emergency. Always able to find her a case history for the magazine. If she hadn’t needed Sharon like that, they’d never have been friends. They were too different. But Sharon had been keen enough to befriend her. Because she’d wanted the one thing Lizzie had that she didn’t. A husband.
A loud noise across the table made her glance up. Dad really had fallen asleep, his mouth wide-open revealing a missing row of teeth (where had he put them this time?) and hands firmly round a bottle of Jacob’s Creek (or ‘creak’ as he called it) which she could swear hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.
Lizzie leant forward and gently took the bottle out of his hands. That was better! Normally, she didn’t even like the taste of white. But already she was beginning to feel a curious detachment from the rest of the room. Maybe one more sip . . .
Just as well she could walk home from her parents’ house. ‘What’s that funny smell on your breath?’ demanded Sophie as she fumbled in her bag for the front door key.
Motherhood had taught her to be quick over the years. ‘Gran’s egg sandwiches.’
‘She didn’t make egg sandwiches.’ Sophie’s clear blue eyes were as cool as her father’s. ‘’Sides, that doesn’t smell like egg. It smells of wine. Chardonnay or maybe Jacob’s Creek.’
Don’t, thought Lizzie as she fumbled with the door, say wine tasting was on the National Curriculum now. ‘How do you know the difference?’
Her daughter rolled her eyes. What gave her the right at twelve to do that? ‘Cos Julie had both at her party.’
‘Well she shouldn’t have.’
‘And you,’ said Sophie, taking the key from her and opening the door quite easily, ‘shouldn’t have a swig out of Granddad’s bottle and then lie about it.’
The loo. Quick. ‘It was purely for medicinal purposes,’ she managed to say before shutting the door just in time. What was wrong with her? It had only been two glasses after all. Was that why she could hear that awful sound in her head? Not the violin again!
‘Stop practising,’ she yelled out. ‘Please!’
By the time she got out (must buy more loo paper), Sophie had cooked fish fingers for tea and had somehow persuaded Jack to sit up at the kitchen island on one of the tall bar stools instead of the usual tray-in-front-of-the-telly. Lizzie was torn between being impressed and cross at being superseded. ‘I was going to do pasta.’
Her daughter fixed her with a look. ‘It was out of date so I had to make do with the fish fingers. We need to defrost the freezer. It’s got icicles everywhere.’
So it had. Another job. And no time. She hadn’t realised how much Tom had done round the house until he’d left. And she still had a feature to write up and file by tomorrow morning.
‘We’re seeing Dad tomorrow.’
‘Don’t eat with your mouth open, Jack.’
‘But we are. Aren’t we Soph? He’s picking us up and taking us to school.’
‘No one told me. And Sophie – stop tidying up my fridge.’
‘You should be pleased, Mum.’ Another cool stare from her daughter. ’You’re always saying you’ve got too much to do.’
Right. That was it. ‘What’s wrong, darling? Are you upset about Mummy and Daddy splitting up? It will be all right. It might not feel like it now but it will be one day.’
That’s what she wanted to say but somehow it came out differently. ‘For God’s sake, Sophie. Stop bein
g so horrid. It’s not my fault your father has left me for Sharon The Slut.’
‘Yes it is!’ Sophie was standing up now, her eyes brimming with angry tears, towering over her even in her tights without shoes. ‘Dad says you were never in and he’s right. You were late again to pick me up from school and it’s so embarrassing. Sod off.’
Sophie! But the words wouldn’t come. As though in a slow motion film, Lizzie watched Jack slither off his stool and head for the safety of the television just as her hands closed round something cool and reassuring. Something she didn’t know had been at the back of the fridge until Sophie’s jibes had made her tidy it up. A nice cold bottle of wine. Chardonnay AND Jacob’s Creek. And maybe a few chocolate fingers to go with it.
‘So you shee. I feel like shleeping with someone. Jusht to get back at shim.’
‘Of course you do Lizzie but tell me something else first.’ Karen’s lovely, warm, reassuring voice that made her feel so much better from the minute she picked up the phone (well she had told them all to call if they felt desperate), was booming at her like waves. ‘Where are the children?’
‘Ahsleep.’
‘Are you sure?’
Lizzie nodded. ‘Quite shure. I’ve shecked them. A lot. Jack’s in his sister’s bed. He doeshn’t like shleeping alone.’
‘Do you feel sick, dear?’
Hiccup. ‘Shnope.’
‘Then listen carefully. I want you to have a glass of cold water and then sit upright on the sofa for a bit. After that, call me and then perhaps you might be all right to go to bed. But don’t go now just in case you’re sick.’
Sick? Even as Lizzie leant back into the sofa, she knew she wasn’t going to be sick. All she’d wanted to do was block it out. And the wine – something she didn’t normally drink much of – was doing that all right.
The phone again? Maybe it was Tom, saying he’d made a silly mistake. Or perhaps it was Sharon saying she’d made one. Or maybe Karen . . .
‘Lizzie? It’s me. Dan.’
Who?
‘Sorry to bother you so late but I needed to caption those pictures. I seem to have lost my notes. What were the names of those kids again?’
‘Shwhat kids?’
‘Lizzie? Are you all right?’
‘Yesh.’
‘You don’t sound it.’
Something in Lizzie’s fuzzy mind reminded her she hadn’t seen Dan since that day; the day she’d found out about Tom. ‘He’s left me.’
‘Who’s left you.’
‘My hushband. For a pregatory woman.’
‘Predatory. Christ. One of those. How awful.’
‘I shnow.’
‘Don’t cry Lizzie.’ She’d never heard him sound like this before. ‘Listen, I think I’m in your area. Near Amersham, isn’t it? I’m with friends and we’re in some pub on the high street. Want me to come round?’
She shook her head, forgetting he couldn’t see.
‘I’ve got your address. It was on that email. Hang on in there. I’ll be there in a second. Did I tell you about my sister in Sydney who went through the same thing? I didn’t? Well I will when I see you. I’ll be there in twenty.’
11
ALISON
‘I’m afraid it’s true.’
Brian’s pale eyes (singularly unattractive in a man!) were milky with sympathy across the table of the expensive Italian restaurant he had insisted on taking her to, when she had rung after Ross’s revelation.
A talk is all I need, she’d tried to say but somehow she’d let herself be talked into a full blown dinner by her husband’s partner. It had been hard enough to swallow a piece of toast since David had walked, let alone anything else. How ironic that she’d been trying to lose that extra half stone for years and now it had fallen off her. She must be at least a size twelve now.
‘I should have warned you perhaps.’ Brian’s voice had always got on her nerves with that rather squeaky tone. At partners’ dinners, she had tried her best to be polite but now she suddenly had this terrible compulsion to scream. To shout that she didn’t want his sympathy. Just the facts.
‘I don’t understand.’ She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. ‘You and David signed a partnership contract. He can’t just get out of it.’
‘That’s exactly the point.’ Brian leaned towards her and she could smell his breath. Ugh! ‘There was a get out clause, allowing one of us to terminate the partnership after fifteen years.’
‘But what happened to the money he put into it?’
Brian shrugged. ‘He took out his agreed share.’
Ross’s words came back to her. He’d gone abroad. That was where he was going to spend it. Bastard! Alison didn’t do anger. Perhaps it was because her own parents had been placid people; the kind who never had an argument. But now she was beginning to feel something warm and hot rising up through her chest. ‘And what about this woman. Primrose?’
Brian coloured. ‘Ah, you know about her, do you?’
‘For God’s sake, this isn’t a guessing game.’ She pushed away her bowl of mushroom tagliatelle, suddenly feeling revolted by it. ‘This is my marriage, we’re talking about. A marriage that lasted nearly thirty years until six weeks ago. I need to know what happened.’
‘All right.’ He squirmed uncomfortably on his seat. ‘I’ll give it to you straight. Primrose was on secondment from another firm to help David with a case on . . .’
‘Fuck that.’
The words shocked her – and, she could see, him too. ‘What did she look like? Was she married?’ Did they have sex in the office, she wanted to add. How long had it been going on for?
‘Skinny, actually.’ Brian looked as though he’d just tasted something rather unpleasant. ‘Wore shapeless tops and trousers. Thinnish hair and frankly, very boring. None of us could understand what he saw in her.’
She pounced. ‘So everyone knew they were having an affair?’
He was playing now with his napkin nervously. ‘They did spend a lot of time together and go out to dinner to discuss the case. It set a few tongues wagging to be honest.’
‘How long? How long was this going on for?’
‘Almost as soon as she joined, actually.’
When had that been? Exactly when had David mentioned – casually, oh so casually – that a woman from another firm was helping him with a case that was proving quite complex. But she’d been busy with Jules; desperately trying to nag her into working so she could get her grades, at the expense of neglecting her own husband so even when she’d met this Primrose (the name stood out which was why she remembered it) at the company dinner, she still hadn’t twigged . . .
‘You mustn’t blame yourself, you know.’
Oh God. He was trying to hold her hand now, squeezing it reassuringly. Immediately, she pulled it away but – heavens! – he was hanging onto it, staring at her with something odd that she hadn’t seen before. ‘You’re an attractive woman, Alison. And I love the way you’ve done your hair. Different isn’t it? Shorter but very chic especially with those dangly earrings. You’ll have men queuing up round the block before long if you don’t have already . . .’
Scraping back the chair, she signalled madly at the waiter for her coat. ‘I’m sorry Brian. But I have to go.’
Caroline, of course, had roared with laughter when she called as soon as she got in. ‘What – that awful man with sandy hair and gold-rimmed specs? The one you had over to dinner last year when I’d just left thingamajig?’ Her sister frequently forgot the names of men she took up with and then promptly disposed of.
It had been a small dinner party, Alison recalled, where her sister and Brian could talk if they chose with enough guests – four others – to divert them if they didn’t choose. Indeed, they’d plumped for the latter option.
‘How could he possibly think I fancied him? The only man I want is David.’
‘Maybe he didn’t. Fancy you, that is.’ There was a slurping sound down the phone, suggesting her si
ster was having her usual evening glass of wine. ‘Perhaps he was trying to boost your confidence.’
‘Thanks.’ Alison plonked herself on the bottom step of the stairs; her favourite position. Somehow, sitting on a sofa seemed too comfortable for this kind of conversation.
‘Just goes to show what can happen, though doesn’t it, Alison? Splitting up is all about moving on. Creating a new image. Like your hair. Ever thought of having a makeover?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t say it like that.’ Her sister’s voice softened. ‘Listen, why don’t you come over to my place. Ross has gone now, hasn’t he?’
Too true. The silence around her was screaming in her ears. So too was the tidiness. For years, she had despaired over the wake of clothes, dirty plates, newspapers left on the floor . . . But now, with everyone gone, things stayed clean when she cleaned them. Everything was in its place. Even Mungo, sleepy in his basket, who didn’t like his evening walks now the cold nights had set in.
‘The problem,’ said Caroline as though reading her mind, ‘is that you’ve got a double whammy. Divorce and empty nest. And that reminds me, I’ve got the name of a good lawyer when you’re ready.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Alison, none of us are. But you have to get real. Have you got the house on the market, now it’s been valued?’
‘No.’ Wildly she looked around at her lovely hall with its black and white tiles and ornate mirror over the pine chest. The mirror that she and David had bought in France all those years ago. It was bad enough losing her husband. Bad enough not having the children around – Ross hadn’t been able to get back to his flat fast enough the other week, having delivered his message. But she wasn’t losing her home too.
‘It’s what happens, I’m afraid. When I . . . ’
