by Haley Hill
‘In the fridge,’ I said, following them into the kitchen. ‘Brown label. Campfire stew, there’s half a tin left.’
While Freddie spooned Rupert’s food lovingly into his bowl, Kerri and I sat at the kitchen table drinking wine.
By our second glass, Kerri still hadn’t mentioned him, so I felt a little reluctant to ask the question. But after a further gulp of wine, I eventually mustered the courage. ‘So, how is David?’
Freddie glanced up and then back down at Rupert, who was quietly munching on his stew, tolerating increasingly enthusiastic strokes.
Kerri stared into space, and took a sip of wine. Immediately, I regretted questioning her. Perhaps they’d just separated. It might still be raw.
‘He’s dead,’ she said.
My muscles tensed. I’d had a response all ready to come out. I’d had countless conversations like this with clients before. I was good at this. This was my profession. I said nothing.
‘Please don’t go all weird on me, Ellie,’ she said, taking another gulp of wine. ‘I don’t need to be protected. I just need to be able to talk about it.’
I looked at her, at the creases in her forehead and the frown lines between her eyebrows. There was the reason I hadn’t recognised her straight away.
‘When did it happen?’ I asked.
‘Five months ago,’ she said.
‘How?’
‘Cancer.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I said.
She sighed. ‘Yep. We found the lump in January and he was dead five weeks later. The night before our sixth wedding anniversary.’
I looked at her and then at Freddie. He had the same kind smile as his father, the same purposeful stance, the same green eyes.
‘How do you even begin to cope?’ I asked.
She forced a laugh. ‘You don’t.’ She took another gulp of wine. ‘It’s like one day your world is full of colour, then the next it’s black and white, like a thick cloud of dust has settled and you know it will never go. I can see my old life but it’s in the distance, somewhere unreachable. I keep having dreams that he’s still alive.’ She looked out through our back doors as though searching for something. She wiped her eyes. ‘And then I wake up and it all starts again.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘Or I’ll see Freddie’s school bag in the hallway and think it’s David’s briefcase. I used to nag him about leaving it there. I was always saying: “One of us will trip over it and get hurt.”’ She took another sip of wine. ‘I was prepared for the pain. I was prepared for the endless torturous nights. It’s the little things though.’
I reached across and squeezed her hand.
‘I’ve lost his mini screwdriver. The one he always used to tighten the door hinges and to change the batteries in Freddie’s toys. I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find it.’ She held her head in her hands, her body shaking. ‘It has a black and yellow handle.’
‘I’m sure we’ve got one you can borrow.’
She looked up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘But I have to find it. It’s in the house, I know it is. I can’t lose it.’ She started sobbing. ‘I can feel him slipping away from me, Ellie, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.’
Freddie was standing in the doorway. ‘He’s gone, Mummy,’ he said. ‘Daddy’s gone.’
Kerri hurriedly wiped her cheeks, sat up, then sniffed and smiled. ‘Freddie, sweetheart. I thought you were playing with Rupert?’
Freddie held Rupert in the air. ‘He did a wee on the carpet.’
Kerri smiled and jumped down off the stool. ‘Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. Where is it? We’ll clean it up.’
I watched as Kerri donned the mask of upbeat mum, suppressing her despair to reassure her son. Freddie watched closely, mirroring her convincing smile with his own. Love and its endurance had so many layers, many of which I had yet to experience, let alone comprehend.
Rupert jumped up and licked Freddie’s face. I watched Freddie squirm and laugh. Rupert’s tail was wagging. I looked at Kerri and then back at Freddie. No matter how besotted Nick and I had become with Rupert, I knew deep down that I couldn’t justify taking him with us to New York. This was his home now.
I took a breath and then swallowed. I said the words quickly, just in case I changed my mind midway.
‘Do you think Freddie might like a dog?’ I asked.
Kerri nodded, nonchalantly.
‘One like Rupert?’ I added, my voice wavering a little.
Kerri turned to me, her eyes widening.
I smiled and nodded.
She jumped up and hugged me. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s the least I could do,’ I replied, trying to ignore the enormous lump in my throat.
We drank the rest of our wine in silence, watching Rupert bounding after Freddie around the sofa. Rupert kept jumping up and licking his face. Each time, Freddie laughed loudly.
A tear trickled down my cheek. ‘He’s such a precious little fellow,’ I said, gazing at Rupert.
She squeezed my hand, then looked back at Freddie.
‘Yes, he is,’ she said.
Chapter 11
Nick and I spent most of the flight to New York exploiting the airline’s offer of complimentary mini bottles of wine and excitedly toasting our future together. But it wasn’t until we landed at JFK airport, and were herded through passport control as though we were new arrivals at Guantanamo Bay, that I felt the first pangs of regret.
‘Behind the line, ma’am,’ a female official shouted, when my toes inadvertently compromised the boundary line.
I’d visited New York twice before, but as Matthew had so readily pointed out, it was only really for a few days, just to help with the new office set-up and to train matchmakers. Back then I’d found the caricatured patriotism and deep suspicion for anyone without a US passport entertaining. However, having left Rupert, my friends and my memories behind to start a new life, right then—albeit with Blossom Hill–enhanced emotions—I needed to feel welcome.
I huffed. ‘Sorry,’ I said, stepping back just behind the line, like a petulant teenager. The official stared at me and then at my toes. I noticed she had a taser in her front pocket. For a moment I was almost tempted to jump over the line and do a little victory dance just to see if she’d actually use it. Nick, seemingly sensing my unconscious attempts at deportation, took my arm and pulled me back to where he was standing, a compliant fifty centimetres behind the boundary.
She eyeballed me further when I switched on my phone and it virtually exploded with texts:
Have a cowfeee. Then come home. Matthew
Where is Rupert’s shampoo? Kerri
Did you know there’s a single mother now living in your house? I hope she’s not DSS. Victoria
I think I’m in love. Kat
I want Jeremy back. Harriet
I’ve emailed you the report. Mandi x
PS Dominic is sitting at your desk.
When I’d covertly read my texts and Nick and I had eventually reassured the security staff that there were no possible terrorism threats from my nail polish remover, we were released and left to navigate our way towards Brooklyn.
Nick burst out laughing when we arrived at the property.
‘When it comes to houses,’ he said, ‘you certainly have a type.’
I stepped back and looked it over.
Now we no longer had Rupert in tow, it seemed a little odd to be renting a family home in Park Slope, which was, in effect, New York’s version of Clapham. But we’d signed a six-month lease so there was no option of switching it for a pad with a roof terrace on the Upper East Side. That and, Nick pointed out, a twenty-thousand-dollar-a-month budget deficit.
Once Nick had managed to prise the keys off our shiny-smiled realtor, reassuring him that we would most definitely distribute his business cards amongst our friends, family, neighbours and colleagues, and endorse him on the exhaustive list of websites he’d listed, we made our way inside. Our boxes had
already been delivered and were stacked up in the hallway.
At first I’d thought it odd that Dominic had offered to arrange my entire relocation, then I reasoned that he must have felt bad for ousting me, but when I looked at the pile of belongings in front of me, I realised it was most likely because he wanted to make sure I actually left. I imagined him back in London, gleefully removing any remaining items from my desk and putting up a photo of himself, before calling a meeting to inform any staff who had failed to read the hourly email bulletins that they now reported directly to him.
Nick slipped his arms around my waist and kissed my neck.
‘Welcome to our new life, Mrs Rigby,’ he said.
I turned to him and smiled.
From the website link Mandi had sent me, I had learned that Montgomery, Baustein and Associates was the largest law firm in NYC practising family law. I arrived at the offices precisely one minute ahead of time, slightly concerned that I might be billed by the hour. From Mandi’s notes I’d gleaned that they handled five hundred thousand divorce petitions per year and they also had offices in London, Frankfurt and Brussels.
Presumably touched by the video Mandi had sent of her singing a doctored version of Toni Braxton’s ‘Unbreak My Heart’, along with her personal plea to Montgomery, Baustein and Associates to help mend the broken hearts of the world, the founding partner, Clifford Montgomery, had agreed to meet with me.
I walked into the foyer and gazed up at the vast glass atrium and the shiny white walls. It seemed inconceivable that the blood money from pain and heartbreak could have built such an astounding empire.
Mr Montgomery’s PA was waiting from me at a private reception desk for his clients. She had eyes like a fawn and lips like a Maybelline model but she retained a professional poise, almost as if to reassure her peers: I’m here to work, not shag the boss. She handed me a pass and led me to the private lift.
On the way up, she politely reported the company’s stats.
‘This month we have processed nearly forty-nine thousand divorce petitions,’ she began.
I raised my eyebrows.
‘February is generally our busiest month.’
I smirked. ‘What with Valentine’s Day and everything.’
She looked at me, seemingly unsure as to whether I was being serious. ‘Our clients include movie stars, sports personalities, businessmen and even congressmen.’
‘I thought politicians weren’t allowed to get divorced?’
This time she cocked her head as though trying to ascertain if I was simply being weird and English or if I was actually a simpleton.
Eventually, she continued. ‘We won a case this week where our client was awarded a thirty-million dollar settlement.’
I raised my eyebrows again.
There was a moment’s silence as the lift kept climbing. I noticed a wedding band on her left hand.
‘So what do you think is the key to a happy marriage?’ I asked.
She leaned over to the lift buttons and pressed one that was already lit. ‘My husband and I go to therapy regularly,’ she said, ‘we keep ourselves in shape, we try to communicate without blame and—’ she looked up to the ceiling ‘—we never flirt with other people.’
I nodded, wondering if she hadn’t misunderstood the question as to how to prevent divorce.
The lift doors opened directly into the penthouse office, which at first glance seemed to comprise the collective square footage of our London offices, Victoria’s mansion and Clapham Common.
I was greeted by a soft English accent. ‘You must be the wonderful matchmaker Mandi has told me so much about.’
I turned around to see a small, portly man wearing pinstriped trousers, a blue striped shirt and red braces. His face was round, with a grey beard. He looked not unlike an extremely wealthy Father Christmas.
‘Mr Montgomery?’ I asked.
He gestured for me to sit down on an enormous leather office chair.
‘Yes,’ he chuckled. I half expected him to pull out a present from a sack and for an elf to appear and take a Polaroid of us. ‘You’ve come all the way over the pond to meet a fellow Londoner.’
I pulled out a pen and paper. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said, although I’d been secretly hoping the world’s top divorce attorney might be more like Will Gardner from The Good Wife.
‘Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me,’ I added.
‘The pleasure is all mine.’ He threaded his fingers together. ‘Off you go, my dear, please fire away.’
‘Right,’ I said, clicking my pen. ‘So, what I’d really like to know is why couples divorce.’
He sat back and rubbed his beard, presumably to conceal the wry smile that was creeping out the corners of his mouth.
I felt obliged to provide further information. ‘I’m looking into why marriages fail so I can try to find a way to prevent it.’
By now the smile had stretched across his face. ‘That’s very noble of you, Ellie.’
I wrote: ‘Why marriages fail’ on my notepad and then underlined it.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘you want to know why marriages fail, or why people divorce?’ I nodded.
‘Which one?’ he asked.
‘They are the same thing, aren’t they?’
He chuckled and shook his head. ‘Failure is subjective,’ he said. ‘Most divorces occur because one or both parties failed to deliver what was perceived to be their part in the marriage contract.’
‘What does that even mean?’
He chuckled again. ‘Law,’ he said, rubbing his beard, ‘much like love, is largely governed by interpretation.’
I looked up. ‘So, is marriage about law or about love?’
He laughed again. ‘Marriage,’ he said, ‘for most, is about love. Divorce, however, tends to be more about law.’
I looked down at my pad and considered what to write. Then I looked back up again. ‘The marriage contract,’ I said. ‘What precisely is that?’
He chuckled again and looked down at my wedding band. ‘What is it to you?’
I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it again, realising that I couldn’t recall any of the written information on the marriage certificate Nick and I had signed. It had seemed so irrelevant at the time.
Mr Montgomery continued. ‘Love means different things to each person. Just because you love or think you love your husband, doesn’t mean that he sees love the same way.’
I glanced down at my notepad again.
‘Look,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘When a man says to a woman, “I love you”, then immediately there are expectations, an unspoken unwritten contract. For her, being loved might mean having a foot rub every day, a Gucci handbag for her birthday. She might think if a man loves her then he will pre-empt her every emotional need, keep her financially secure, or put up shelves, or look after their children while she pursues her career. For a marriage to be deemed happy in modern times, both parties expect to have their needs fulfilled. Without sacrifice or selflessness. And you see, Eleanor, that can only go one way.’
He leaned forward and handed me a file. ‘Here is a report of all the divorces we’ve handled in the past year.’
I heaved the file onto my lap and began leafing through the pages.
Mr Montgomery continued. ‘All personal details have been deleted, aside from the reason. The laws in the US are different from those in the UK. Here, we have what is called a “no fault” divorce, which simplifies the process a little. However, in the UK for a quickie divorce the client must cite “unreasonable behaviour”, which is often not the case, so aside from those, you will see that very few divorces are due to any truly unsavoury activities like drug taking, or abuse. Most of the causes—’ he pointed to the UK listings ‘—are because of irreconcilable differences.’
I continued to leaf through the report. The figures seemed interesting but I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them. They gave me the reasons but no insight into the m
otives.
I glanced back up at him. ‘And in your opinion, could some of the irreconcilable differences have been reconciled?’
He chuckled again. ‘Most,’ he said, leaning back and swivelling on his chair. ‘In answer to your original question, I believe the reason most couples divorce is because they don’t see the true value of marriage until it’s too late.’
‘Are you married?’ I asked.
‘Divorced,’ he answered, ‘three times.’
I left the offices with a lump in my throat and a fifty-page report detailing the demise of nearly six hundred thousand marriages. During the lift ride back down to the foyer, I thought about the forces at work, sucking the love from these marriages and then spitting it back out into a divorce attorney’s shredder, and I wondered how to combat them.
Strangely, an image of Matthew brandishing a baguette flashed through my mind, along with his mocking plea for me to ‘save us all’. I sighed. Perhaps it had been naive of me to believe I could have any impact at all. I glanced down at the wad of paper in my arms. If we truly had brainwashed ourselves into believing we were entitled to fulfilment, then how could we ever begin to rectify that?
My phone rang as I walked out onto Park Avenue. Just as I answered it, an Armani-clad woman barged past me, knocking the phone out of my hand.
I fumbled on the ground, trying to retrieve it.
‘Jesus Christ, look where you’re going,’ she shouted back at me.
I heard Matthew giggling when I put the phone to my ear. ‘Jesus Christ is in New York?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, laughing. ‘Lucky for him, his resurrection came long before Bergdorf and Goodman.’
‘Not sure Jesus would see himself as lucky, Ellie,’ Matthew replied. ‘So, aside from enraging the locals, what the devil have you been up to?’
I sidestepped into what seemed to be the slow lane on the sidewalk. ‘I just met with a divorce lawyer.’
‘Wow,’ Matthew gasped. ‘I didn’t realise it had got that bad.’
I sighed. ‘Why does everyone think Nick and I are splitting up?’
‘Er, perhaps it’s because you’re telling them you’ve met with a divorce lawyer.’
