Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner

by Kristen Bailey

  The three of them nod in unison. Racing isn’t even the word. It sprinted to the finish like Bolt at 252 beats per minute, three times the speed it should.

  ‘It felt like bubbles in my chest and then the school went crazy panicky and they called the ambulance and they brought me to hospital but not this one, it was another one and it wasn’t as good because you weren’t there and they had really bad biscuits.’

  His mum intervenes. ‘And they gave him some drugs to bring it back to a steady rhythm; they were close to shocking him.’ Her voice trails off and both parents’ faces look drawn and pale at remembering the incident.

  Lewis looks completely unbothered by this. To be fair, we have put this boy through everything. We’ve cut his chest open more times than is necessary for someone so small, we hook him up to machines and put him on treadmills. His resilience and character amazes me but I can’t imagine what it feels like to see your child so vulnerable and helpless, to be paralysed and weighed down with such worry.

  ‘There was also a doctor who told me to try and fart to make my heart rate go down. Does that work?’ Lewis tells me, cupping his hands to his face.

  ‘Only if you’ve had beans for tea.’ My lame joke eases his parents somewhat. ‘So, little man, we need to make sure that your heart is working as it should. This is Marie. She is going to take you over for an ECG and we just need to make sure your tick tock is in good shape.’

  He looks over at Marie. ‘Are you new? You look new? How old are you?’

  She seems shocked by all the questions.

  ‘She’s 105,’ I tell him, studying my notes.

  He laughs and jumps off his chair.

  ‘Lewis, Daddy will go with you and Mummy will just stay here as I have some questions for Doctor C, is that alright?’ He doesn’t seem to mind. Over the years, both parents have always shown up for this kid and shared the responsibility and routine of having a chronically ill child. Dad stands up to salute us and offers his son a piggyback. Mum smiles. We hear Lewis offer that half of a Twix to Marie as they leave the room.

  His mother turns to me as the door is closed, her shoulders relaxing, allowing herself to breathe.

  I put a hand to her knee. ‘And how are you?’

  ‘You just think it’s done and then something like that comes along to scare you.’

  ‘Let’s have these tests and then see if it’s anything major to worry about. A child like him may have episodes of rapid heartbeat. We can look into drugs to remedy that.’

  She smiles, nodding.

  ‘Did you have any other questions for me?’

  She studies my face for a moment too long. ‘How long have you been divorced?’ As soon as the words leave her mouth, she knows she’s crossed a line. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t have to say if you don’t want to. That was rude of me to pry.’

  ‘About a year now. Officially. It just took me a while to change my name back. It felt strange not having the same name as my daughters,’ I reply calmly.

  She nods, her eyes glassing over. I hope not out of pity. A lot of it was because I didn’t have the time and inclination to deal with the endless administration. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. These things happen in life,’ I say, cringing at my own platitude.

  ‘I just… I mean it will show up in Lewis’ records soon but my husband and I are… I mean, we’re separated. We are going down that route.’

  I pause for a moment. I can’t quite compute the news as this is a couple I’ve known for the longest time. I’ve seen them at their lowest ebb, bound by friendship and their love for that boy so I feel sad. I feel disappointed they’re joining my club.

  ‘Why?’ I mumble.

  ‘It’s been coming. I mean, it’s completely amicable. He is an excellent father to Lewis and my best friend but we woke up one day and realised we’d become housemates. We were just stuck in the everyday. We’d fallen out of love.’

  She realises she’s said too much but there is comfort in her words, knowing she and her husband made this decision mutually. My divorce was swathed with such bad feeling that it’s reassuring to hear how they’ve just uncoupled. How I wish Simon had done that, fallen out of love with me and moved away quietly rather than falling into someone else’s knickers.

  ‘We just… I mean we’re still living together for now but both of us are terrified about telling Lewis…’

  ‘He doesn’t know?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ve tried. We really have but we’re scared of breaking him. I mean, look at him. All of this stuff he’s been through and he carries on like nothing has happened. We don’t want to upset him, to take that away from him?’

  I nod thoughtfully. I’m not sure how they’ve kept it from him but I guess I hid years of heartbreak from my own.

  ‘You mentioned you have daughters?’

  ‘I have two, they’re eight and six.’

  ‘How did you tell them?’

  I pause for a moment. It was after I returned to our family home with our girls, weeks after that Christmas when I’d finally ended our marriage. Simon had left at that point; he’d taken his things and the coward that he was, he left me to sit down with our daughters to tell them that their father didn’t live here anymore. Well, you’re the one who wanted to end it, you tell them. I remember sitting there, high off the emotion and not knowing how to do it at all. Every sentence sounded corny, clichéd and dishonest. So I did the only thing I could.

  ‘I got us all into our pyjamas, brought all the duvets downstairs and I put on Mrs Doubtfire.’

  Lewis’ mum laughs under her breath. Yes, I let Robin Williams assist.

  ‘And it came with a rambling commentary from me about what was going to happen.’

  ‘How did they react?’

  That evening still plays through my mind constantly. I don’t know what you mean? Where will Daddy live? Do you still love him? Did we do something wrong? All the questions came from Iris. She was calm and thoughtful, she needed to know how this changed her every day. Violet just didn’t get it. She thought Simon wanted to start wearing dresses. He’d have to shave his legs, she said. We giggled. I held them both tight. I had visions of standing over Simon with a razor, some hot wax. That would have been fun. I didn’t say that out loud. Do you hate Daddy? The truth was I did. The hate felt like flames, it burned so bright. I wanted to turn Simon into a villain. To gather my girls under that duvet and tell them everything he’d done to break up our family. But I couldn’t.

  ‘It broke their hearts,’ I say quietly.

  She catches her breath. Naturally, a statement like that has different implications for her boy.

  ‘Not like that,’ I exclaim, backtracking immediately.

  She smiles at me. It was my biggest hurt in all of this, I rewired two little hearts that night, forever. I couldn’t see the damage, I didn’t know if they’d recover. I don’t know if they have recovered. I tear up.

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. I’ve said too much. I…’ Lewis’ mum mumbles, panicked.

  I shake my head at her. ‘I’m fine. Have that chat with him. The longer you leave it, the harder it will be. And it took a team of us the best part of six years to build Lewis’ heart. There’s a warranty on that workmanship. He’ll be fine.’ I’m realising I’m lying to her so I stand up and pull her in for a hug. ‘It’ll all be fine.’

  Three

  It’s ten o’clock when I get home that night. I approach the steps to the house and see the kitchen light on. Lucy better have food. And wine. I hope she did a white wash and didn’t forget to pick up milk. Or the girls. Walking through the doors though, I hear a baby crying. The fatigue of the day makes me question which child this is. I don’t have a baby. Do I? The last time I had sex was in 2017. Then a head pops out from around the corner.

  ‘Yo, bitch,’ comes a voice from the kitchen.

  Beth. She’s number three in our clan, the English teacher, the new Millennial mum and admittedly, our resident ditzy sister. I think Beth act
ually confessed to once leaving her baby in a Costa and only remembering once she got to a bus stop. Her little boy is Joe. As far as babies go, I think she has all of us beat. He seriously looks like a cartoon mouse with brown hair like waves of chocolate and hazel eyes, but then I am always biased when it comes to my nieces and nephew.

  Beth will be the first to admit, motherhood wasn’t planned for her. She was very much a happy, carefree Londoner who used to frequent festivals, take pictures of her flat whites and have weekend meditation breaks in Ibiza, making us all jealous with her Instagram posts. And then there was Joe. She’s in leggings, a large T-shirt and Converse today; battered and broken and that’s just the shoes. The top is either covered in old milk stains or it’s some strange avant-garde print thing. She carries Joe awkwardly like one would wear a rucksack in a crowded city when you’re trying not to be pickpocketed. He cries lightly.

  I head to the kitchen, dumping my bag on the counter and kicking off my heels. Lucy, who is propped up against said counter, knows to get a wine glass for me straight away. She then does something entirely unexpected and opens the oven door.

  ‘You cooked?’ I ask.

  ‘Cottage pie.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Did I bollocks? I picked it up from that organic shop on the high street. Beth and I have been spending some quality sister time together over mash and minced beef.’

  I shrug. It could be worse. For her first two weeks, my girls experienced a new dining adventure Lucy called ‘freezer tapas’. She pours me a glass of wine. I head over and inspect Joe, urging Beth to hand him over.

  ‘How are you? You look bloody knackered.’

  ‘Why thank you. Why he no sleep?’

  ‘Because he’s a baby and he’s excited to be in the world.’ I settle him at my chest, holding him upright. The novelty of babies will never wear thin with me. I adored having my own, loving the warmth and fuzziness of a tiny baby head under my chin. I sway a little and he closes his eyes.

  ‘He hates me,’ she mutters, resigned.

  ‘He doesn’t. He just likes me better.’

  Beth grabs a bench from the kitchen table and curls up in a ball. This may be her done for the night. Lucy looks over at me and mouths the word, Will. I pull a face. Will is Beth’s other half. They never married so you never quite knew what direction their relationship was headed. Will is a nice enough bloke but both of them are struggling with first time parenthood, having trouble wrangling the new roles, the sleeplessness, the general void one falls into when a baby comes along and sucks the fun out of everything. She settles into a light snore and we leave her be. I take a seat, grateful for the warmth baby Joe seems to be offering.

  ‘How was your day, dear sister of ours? Did you fix all the children?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘How are the girls?’ I ask. ‘How was gymnastics?’

  ‘Excellent. Iris is officially my bendiest niece. We did cool hair stuff today too.’

  ‘Please tell me you didn’t dye their hair? I am pretty sure that’s against the school rules.’

  She gives my brown, poker straight bob the once over. I don’t even experiment with layers as I worry it’ll make me look like a spaniel.

  ‘We did little plaits. We’ll undo them in the morning and they’ll look like little eighties rockstars.’

  I don’t reply because I’ll eat my hat if she’s up at 7.30 a.m. tomorrow, so it’s something else to factor into the manic school morning routine.

  ‘Some woman came up to me at the gate ranting about ponies and nuts? She looked me up and down and was talking slowly because I’m going to assume she thought I was a continental au pair?’ Lucy carries on.

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘Anyway, I played along and put on a Swedish accent.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Made your girls giggle.’

  I take a large gulp of wine and look over at Beth. ‘What happened with Will?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. I think he’s gone a bit MIA, always at work, still partying hard and they’re not having sex. She hates how she looks. Just a new mum slump I think. She’s laid down some timber for sure.’

  I shake my head at her. ‘Don’t be a cow. It’s what happens, she’s breastfeeding, her leptin and ghrelin hormones are imbalanced. You wait till you get to your thirties and your metabolism gives up on you.’

  ‘You’re so medical and old, it’s dull.’

  I stick my middle finger up at her. She grins back at me.

  ‘Anyway, I thought a good way to cheer her up might be to throw a party here for her birthday in a few weeks? We could theme it. It’d be good for you too, we could invite people and give you a chance to mingle.’

  The thought alone is tiring. Plus with the sort of parties I know Lucy likes to throw, I fear for my carpets and soft furnishings.

  ‘Who would be mingling?’ I ask.

  ‘I’d invite some of her teacher mates. I’ve met some cool people on my course too.’

  ‘Students?’

  Lucy was enrolled in a university course nearby in Roehampton in Dance Movement Psychotherapy. Her field of choice seemed to be in the arts but she had a hard time pinning down where she belonged in the field. After my marriage finally broke down, she used to have me in the living room trying to act out my feelings via the medium of contemporary dance. We’d both wear black. The last time we tried it out, her contemporary vision ended up in me voguing and laughing in her face. She then called me an emotionally-void bitch for not taking it seriously and then tried to wrestle me like we were children again.

  ‘Are they clean students?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re such a snob.’

  I will be if some unwashed kids with skateboards show up and sit around lighting up spliffs. I look over at Beth who’s drooling onto the oilcloth bench cover. She mumbles something in her sleepy delirium. Little B.

  ‘Fine. Plan your party. But no shots in plastic glasses, no dance music that’s all bass and no lyrics.’

  She salutes me but has a look of mischief about her eyes that is always worrying. I know why Lucy is here. Six months after the Christmas Minge and Mince Pie debacle, she showed up with her bags on my front door. I’d stopped talking to everyone at that point. I’d had enough and knew I needed out of my marriage but it felt like too many people’s opinions were in my head. I was grieving and I just wanted to focus on my girls. I watched a lot of box sets, long into the night, seeking solace from fictional characters and their messed-up lives. I mean Simon was bad but he wasn’t Dexter who was an actual serial killer. And none of these TV companions spoke back to me in condescending clichés about moving on, keeping my chin up and finding myself in the next chapter of my life. I was told Lucy was at my door because her and Mum had had words. They had been having words since Lucy could learn to talk but I knew the real reason she turned up. She was here to look after me. I won’t lie, I like having her around. She cheers me up with bags of penny sweets, she’d make me laugh until my stomach hurt. I wish she’d wipe down my splashbacks though.

  ‘Are you OK from this morning?’ She juggles with my oven and cuts me a large A4-sized piece of cottage pie. Her brief had obviously been to fatten me up for winter too.

  ‘With See You Next Tuesday?’ I reply.

  ‘Ahhh, you get it now. You were staring at that photo, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Can we move that picture?’ she asks. ‘Can we put it up in the bathroom so I have something to look at when I’m having a crap?’

  ‘Nice… and no. Leave it there for now or you’ll upset Iris.’

  She scans my face. Through all of this I’ve always put the girls’ needs before my own and she knows that. I hope she respects me for that much. I can’t think about my idiot of an ex-husband any more, especially if I’ve got wine in hand as I run the risk of getting morose. Must change the subject.

  ‘Maddie at work has set me up with someone.’

  ‘Oooh, tell.’ Lucy
tosses the kitchen utensils in the sink and brings my food over, taking Joe and giving me a look that orders me to eat or she’s going to tell our mother. Carbs. I don’t care what anyone tells you but the true remedy to divorce is carbs. I trail my fork over the mashed potato to inspect that she’s heated it up correctly.

  ‘He’s called Jag. He’s an anaesthetist.’

  ‘Here’s hoping he doesn’t make you fall asleep.’ Lucy laughs at her own joke. ‘Do we have a surname?’ She gets her phone out and immediately goes to Facebook.

  ‘No, what are you doing?’

  ‘Doing what everyone does when they have a potential new date. You go through the internet and find out if they’re legit?’

  ‘Like stalking?’

  ‘Like looking out for one’s personal safety?’

  ‘Did you stalk Phil the Crier?’ I ask.

  ‘No and that’s where we went wrong because if we had then we would have known that he posts a lot of memes about love and being wronged and hasn’t deleted all his wife’s pictures yet. Found him!’

  That literally took her a minute. This girl’s talents are wasted.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You mentioned Maddie so I went on her friends list and he’s quite easy to track down with a name like that. Would have been harder if he was a Tom or a Chris.’

  She scrolls through his profile. I try to grab her phone but our baby nephew gets in the way. I eat my dinner sullenly as she gets her measure of him.

  ‘I like this one Ems. He’s a bit trendy.’

  ‘Urgh, like skinny jeans?’

  She puts the phone down on the table between us. Jag Kohli looks up at me. Maddie might be right, he has very clear skin. The profile picture seems to be one of him on a cliff admiring a view. He’s wearing a helmet. His smile is wide and from initial impressions looks sincere.

  ‘Why trendy?’

  Lucy scrolls through some photos. He seems to spend his weekends on bikes but also in pubs with different arrays of acquaintances. He likes attending concerts of bands I’ve not heard of and enjoys a bowl of ramen. I guess trendy because there is evidence of bright, patterned trainers and the occasional beanie hat which I hope isn’t hiding hair plugs or a perm.