by Fiona Gibson
And now she’s on holiday without me, and Spencer is out celebrating his girlfriend’s birthday and Andy is doing God knows what with that woman. I’m sort of used to it now, the fact that our marriage is over – or, at least, I don’t wake up in shock anymore. There’s no opening my eyes expecting to see Andy gazing adoringly at me from his pillow (that hasn’t actually happened since about 1916, but still). Yet the fury can still boil up in me, and occasionally I’m seized by an urge to stop being so mature and reasonable and just call him and yell that it’s not fair, and what kind of penis-driven idiot would have exchanged our lives together – our family – for the chance to jump into some other woman’s pants?
I manage not to call him, and to firmly shove such urges to the dirty recesses of my mind. The rest of my eerily people-less Saturday is spent on deep-cleaning the bathroom, specifically digging away at the tile grout with Andy’s special folding toothbrush that he liked to take on holiday, in the hope that it will create an aura of contentment over a job well done (it doesn’t).
I also use to it clean underneath the rim of the loo. And when I’ve done that, I rearrange the potatoes in the vegetable rack.
Sunday, August 4
I know what to do. Some gardening! Our borders could certainly do with attention, and I love being out there normally, poking about. It’s one of the many reasons why I hope to hang on to this house once Andy and I get around to dividing up our lives (the main one being that it’s the only home Izzy has ever known). While it pains me to give him credit for anything, I have to admit that Andy has never been mean where our kids are concerned. He has also made it clear that he will continue to contribute to our household without any hassle. God knows what’ll happen further down the line, though. It’s a concept I seem to have difficulty even coming to terms with: the idea that at some point, we might sell this house and divide the money and I’ll buy a flat, which would be fine of course, but all the more reason to cherish our garden now.
As I start to pull out weeds, my mood eases. This feels better. Repetitive, soothing work is good for the soul; I’m sure Jules would say that. An hour or so passes, and the drab morning has unfolded into a glorious afternoon. The sky is searing blue, smudged with white clouds. Look at me, I reflect: a single woman alone for a whole week, having finally found a way of being content with her own company. Maybe this is how I’ll be as I grow older; not a wildcat like Penny, who remarked recently that ‘doing it on a boat doesn’t half make it rock about’ – but a serene lady who enjoys gardening in a straw hat.
I must get a straw hat, I decide, straightening up and stretching my arms high above my head, the way Jules does when she’s limbering up for a yoga session. And then I think, sod it, I might as well do a few sun salutations too. After all, it is sunny, and no one’s watching, and she’s shown me the basic moves.
And so I begin, trying to ignore the audible creaks that seem to be coming from my various joints and sockets as I work my way through the sequence. Reach up to the sky, fold down forwards, arms dangling heavily. Slide a foot back, then the other; lower to the floor into upward dog. Now downward dog, no doubt alarming anyone who might happen to be glancing out of a window, but what the hell? I am a yogi now with my arse in the air, worshipping the golden orb in the sky.
‘You should never feel pain,’ Jules advised me, and actually, this is pretty painful, so maybe I’m not doing it right – but it’s better than the kind of pain I’ve experienced whilst gawping frenziedly at pictures of my husband’s new lover. That sort of pain is just mental anguish. This is the good kind that invigorates the mind. It’s – ow!
I collapse onto the lawn as something hits my backside. Scrambling back up, I look around indignantly. Did a bird just hurl itself at my bottom? As I bend to brush grass from my knees, something whooshes through the air, narrowly missing my cheek.
High-pitched giggles are coming from next door’s garden. ‘Oh, hello, Ludo.’ I bare my teeth at him.
‘Hello Viv.’ He grins malevolently.
‘Did you throw something just then?’ Mindful of Chrissie’s ‘We don’t say no’ school of parenting I’m doing my utmost to address him in a cheerful, non-threatening manner.
‘No?’ he says with an infuriating grin, although the small clod of earth I’ve spotted lying close by would suggest otherwise. Then: ‘Where’s Izzy?’
‘She’s away,’ I reply.
‘Where’s she gone?’
‘She’s in the Lake District with Maeve’s family.’
His face clouds and he pushes back his shock of wavy blond hair. ‘I don’t like Maeve.’
‘Don’t you? She’s really nice, Ludo.’ Unlike you, you cat-stoning little brat.
‘She never lets me play.’
‘Oh, that is a shame.’
He fixes me with a cold stare. ‘Where’s Andy?’
It feels like a short, sharp punch. I mean, he’s been gone for nearly five months, and it’s not as if the two of them enjoyed any kind of special rapport. Quite the contrary. ‘Irritating little psycho’ was Andy’s favourite private name for this child.
‘He doesn’t live here anymore,’ I say cheerfully.
‘Why not?’
I stare at this small human, aware that because he had sex with someone else would not be the appropriate response. ‘That just happens sometimes,’ I say, hoping he’ll leave it at that. Any normal child would; i.e. one brought up to be aware of quaint concepts such as manners and politeness.
‘Where does he live now?’ Ludo wants to know.
Search me, mate! ‘In a flat of his own.’
‘Why—’
‘So, bet you’re looking forward to having a new brother or sister!’ I cut in to swerve him off the subject.
That’s taken the wind out of his sails. Ludo digs at the ground with the toe of his trainer and declines to answer.
‘It’ll be lovely, won’t it,’ I chirp, ‘having a new baby around?’ Crying in the night, getting all the attention, making Mummy and Daddy tired?
‘S’pose so,’ he growls.
‘What names d’you like?’
He mumbles something unintelligible.
‘Pardon?’
‘Attic,’ he barks.
‘Attic?’ Why, is that where you’d like to put it, when it’s been born? ‘D’you mean Atticus?’
Ludo nods glumly as he retreats from me, far less eager to chat now he’s no longer probing me about my marital disaster. I turn and make my way back towards the house, feeling for my phone in my pocket. It’s not there. Maybe it fell out when I was downward dogging.
I go back and scan the lawn for it. I really must drag the mower out soon. That was always Andy’s job and from now on, obviously, it’ll be mine. Everything is my job now.
‘Are you getting divorced?’ Ludo yells from the back step.
Jesus Christ, where the hell are his parents? Miraculously, a tinkling sound starts up on the lawn, alerting me to my phone’s location.
I snatch it and take the call. ‘So how’s the weekend of freedom?’ Penny asks. I can tell immediately that she’s a little sparkly with drink.
‘Oh, fine,’ I reply. ‘Just out in the garden, chatting to Ludo.’
She chuckles. ‘That twisted little miscreant. Is he being as unpleasant as usual?’
He is studying me intensely from his back door, hands thrust into his shorts pockets. ‘Yes, pretty much business as usual here.’
‘Hmm. He thought I didn’t notice him pulling Bobby’s tail that time. You know he’s never been a biter, but sometimes I think that’s a shame. Let’s hope the new baby turns out nicer. Anyway,’ she goes on, ‘you’re probably loving your time alone, and I don’t want to disturb you—’
‘You’re not disturbing me,’ I say quickly as Chrissie comes out, beams indulgently at the devil’s spawn and starts to peg out washing. Great. Now he can lob clods of earth at Tim’s zingy white Calvins. ‘But I thought you were away with Hamish?’ I add.
‘Oh, that hasn’t happened,’ Penny explains. ‘Engine trouble, apparently, and Hamish is up to his elbows in grease. And I thought, it’s a beautiful day. Far too lovely to waste sitting on a stinky old boat that isn’t going anywhere …’
‘You’re right about that,’ I agree, making my way into the house now.
‘It’s the perfect day for a chilled glass of white, in fact.’
I smile. At just gone 2 p.m., the idea isn’t completely abhorrent. ‘That sounds excellent.’
‘Well, come and join us!’
‘Us? Who are you with?’
‘Friends of yours.’ I catch laughter in the background. ‘I ran into Shelley and Isla in Kelvingrove and we’re waiting for you now. But hurry up, darling – you certainly have some catching up to do.’
Chapter Fourteen
Forty-five minutes later
It’s not that I’m desperate for company. However, I manage to shower, dress, do my make-up and be out of the door in record time, and by the time I arrive at the pub, my friends are all chatting away like old buddies, at an outside table in the dappled sunshine.
Despite only having met them a couple of times, apparently Penny zoomed right over and persuaded Isla and Shelley to join her for wine. A bottle juts from an ice bucket on the table and Bobby is lying contentedly at Penny’s feet. It turns out that, while I’ve been lonesome at home, Shelley has also been at a loose end as Laurence, her partner, is away visiting his parents, and Shelley couldn’t face going; apparently her mother-in-law can talk for about seventeen hours without drawing breath. Meanwhile Isla ‘had to get out’ as living with three teenagers is proving testing. So why didn’t anyone call me?
‘We thought you’d be loving having time on your own,’ Shelley admits.
‘We didn’t want to interrupt your reverie,’ Isla teases.
‘I wasn’t in a reverie,’ I retort. ‘I was being pelted with clods of earth by the kid next door while I was downward dogging.’
‘The one whose parents let him play with matches and cooking oil?’ Shelley asks.
‘That’s the one. His mum believes everything is a “learning experience”.’
Penny splutters. ‘That’ll be educational for him, when the fire brigade have to drag them all out of the house.’
Isla leans forward with interest. ‘What d’you think about these pampered children, Penny? We indulge our kids so much these days. You must think we’ve all lost our minds.’
Penny smiles and flicks her bouncy highlighted hair, clearly pleased to be quizzed about such matters. ‘I suppose some children were always spoilt. But the big difference was, parenting wasn’t even a thing back then. Not one’s entire life’s work, I mean. “Parenting”—’ she waggles her fingers around the word ‘—basically meant trying to ensure they didn’t eat anything poisonous and went to bed at a reasonable hour so you had some time to yourself.’
‘I wish I’d been like that,’ declares Isla, who has remained on remarkably good terms with her ex. ‘My oldest expects me to write his English essays for him. There are few enough benefits to being fifty-two. Surely not having to sweat over the symbolism in Macbeth should be one of them.’
‘You’re a total marvel,’ I say, meaning it. ‘They have this belief that you can fix everything, do everything, so they all lean on you a lot.’
‘But why do I always agree to help?’ She pushes back her no-nonsense blonde cropped hair. ‘I still try to trick them into eating vegetables too. It’s ridiculous. My oldest is eighteen.’ She turns to Penny. ‘Did you ever do that? Did you liquidise mange tout for pasta sauces?’
‘No,’ Penny retorts, laughing, ‘because I wasn’t insane.’ And then, of course, I have to persuade her to tell them about the Angel Delight, and the strip-off in the library, which they find hysterical.
‘You’re so refreshing,’ Isla says, wiping her eyes. ‘People take parenting so bloody seriously these days. We don’t just bring up our kids and hope for the best. We raise them with such care and attention to detail, as if the future of the human race depends on us getting it right.’
‘What does Nick do now?’ Shelley asks.
‘He makes documentaries,’ Penny replies.
‘Oh, what about?’
‘Anything he really cares about. He’s based in Auckland – he married a New Zealander, but that didn’t last for very long. He’s coming over soon …’ She gives me a quick sideways look, which I choose to ignore.
‘How did he get into that?’ Isla asks.
‘By teaching himself how to make films,’ she says with a rare trace of pride, ‘with equipment he’d borrowed from friends, in the early days. He’s very determined and excellent at what he does.’
‘Did he go to university?’ Shelley asks.
‘I think he might have,’ she says with a shrug.
‘Penny!’ I exclaim, realising she’s teasing as she laughs and tops up our glasses. She knows how outraged I can be by her approach to mothering (‘benign neglect’, she calls it).
‘Girls, we should eat, shouldn’t we?’ she says. ‘I really do need to move on to solids or things are going to get messy. What do they have here?’
Obviously, at our age, crisps/nuts won’t suffice. We are relieved to find that they do tapas, and soon an array of tempting plates crowd our table.
‘Doesn’t Andy live around here?’ Shelley asks as we all dive in.
‘Yep, allegedly. I still don’t have his address, though. He’s incredibly cagey about it.’
‘Why is that?’ Isla asks, frowning.
‘Honestly, I have no idea.’
Penny turns to me. ‘You should find out. Why don’t you call him, make some excuse? We could pop round to see him en masse.’ She grins mischievously.
‘I imagine he’ll be on his way to Loch Fyne right now, or maybe he’s there already. And the signal’s terrible up there.’
‘Give it a try,’ Penny adds. ‘Say you need his address for something while he’s away.’
I laugh and sip my wine. It dawns on me how lucky I am really, having the freedom to be out on a glorious day with my friends, without having to rush home or be answerable to anyone. I know Izzy is having a wonderful time, as we have chatted and Jules has already sent me pictures of the girls playing at the lakeside. Although things feel uncertain at work – Rose still hasn’t even hinted at what she has in mind for me – I really don’t have too much to worry about. I make a mental note to appreciate what I have, instead of allowing dark thoughts about Andy and his new woman to infiltrate my brain.
‘I know,’ Shelley announces suddenly. ‘Tell him you want to forward some letters that look important. Say you want them out of your way, in case you lose them in the house.’
I frown, considering this. ‘That doesn’t sound feasible.’
‘Just give it a go,’ she cajoles me. ‘He can only say no, can’t he?’ And so I text him a rambling request, which obviously baffles him as he replies, almost immediately: Can this wait? Just arrived. Everyone says hi.
‘How long does it take to type an address?’ Shelley remarks.
‘He’s just palming you off,’ Penny adds. She snatches my phone from the table and jabs at it.
‘Penny! What are you doing?’
Beaming, she hands it back to me. To give her credit, her method turns out to be more effective than mine as, in response to her GIVE ME YOUR ADDRESS! command, he has replied, obediently: Flat 1/2 19 Kinnerton St.
‘So?’ Penny smirks as we divvy up our bill. ‘We’re so close, it seems silly not to check it out. Let’s go.’
I can only surmise that the wine and the sunshine have messed with our heads as, minutes later, we arrive in a straggly group, giddy and sniggering at the end of Andy’s road. As it’s not a part of town I visit often, I hadn’t realised that this street in particular is as charming as it is. Tucked away from the main thoroughfare, it’s a mixture of well-kept red sandstone tenement flats, a couple of traditional pubs and a row of cheerily painted
shops. There’s a baker’s, an upmarket off-licence advertising gin tastings, a grocer’s and a quaint tea room, plus a specialist cheese shop, which is emitting a pungent aroma across the street.
‘That’s very … ripe, isn’t it?’ Isla remarks. ‘I mean, I love cheese but that’s seriously strong. Imagine working in there.’ As we cross the road towards it, I check the numbering system of the flats.
‘Andy’s flat’s directly above it!’ I announce.
Penny turns to me. ‘He lives above the cheese shop?’
‘Yes! Look – that’s number nineteen.’ I grin at her and her grey-blue eyes crinkle with delight.
‘Didn’t you once tell me he was obsessed with an imaginary cheese smell in the fridge, when you were in Paris?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘I remember that,’ Isla exclaims. ‘You were demented by the time you came back. Are you sure this is his address?’
‘It definitely is, absolutely.’
‘But why would he choose to live here,’ Penny adds, frowning, ‘if he’s hypersensitive to strong smells?’
‘God knows,’ I say as we make our way into the shop. It’s a beautiful store, with mirrored walls and hand-painted tiles, like an old-fashioned dairy, and the array of cheeses on display is literally breathtaking.
The young sales assistant smiles from behind the counter. ‘Can I help you with anything?’ she asks.
‘We were just, um, drawn in,’ I say, taking a big inhalation. ‘It smells amazing in here.’
‘If you love cheese, it does,’ the young woman concedes. ‘And it’s particularly pungent at the moment.’
‘Because of the weather?’ Shelley asks, managing to keep a straight face.
‘It’s more down to the varieties we have in just now,’ she explains. ‘There’s a few that vie for the word’s smelliest award and I’m proud to say we have them all.’
‘Ooh, which are they?’ Penny asks eagerly.
The shop assistant indicates the varieties all beautifully arranged on the counter before her. ‘That’s Brie de Meaux and this one’s a Vieux Boulogne, which is probably the strongest of all. Stinking Bishop is pretty pongy too. Would you like to try some samples?’
