I wrinkle my nose.
‘And because I was drunk and I know what you would have been like if I threw up anywhere else…’
I hug her from behind. She knows me too well. ‘I’m sorry B. I really am…’
But Mum knows. She cups Beth’s face with her hand and Beth bursts into tears. ‘Are you OK, love?’ Mum asks.
‘Where’s Joe?’ Beth says, tearfully.
‘He’s asleep.’
‘He didn’t come back?’ Beth asks.
Mum shakes her head.
‘Then he meant it,’ says Beth. ‘He’s gone. He needs some space. On my birthday, on my actual birthday.’
‘Beth?’ I ask her. Mum can’t quite bear to look her in the eye.
‘He needs to work out what he wants in life. So he’s moving out.’
He what? Will? Oh, Beth. I can’t bear it, tears welling up in my eyes. Not you as well. I hug her tightly, feeling her body vibrate under mine. And all at once, I’m drawn back to our schooldays when Beth used to follow us around, copy our hairstyles, school bags and platform shoes. One night, I remember she followed us to a nightclub in Kingston, she was underage and she shouldn’t have been there. I remember being in that club, telling her to leave. You don’t belong in here. Get out. I didn’t want her to get hurt. And now, whatever I’m living, I don’t want someone else I love to go through the same.
‘Little bumblebee. I’m so sorry, I really am.’
Twelve
653 days since Simon walked out of my parents’ house, his nose held together with tampons
It was 2014. We had just come off a private tour of St Catherine’s School where a woman called Irene had shown us round. It had been unlike any school I’d ever seen, not just in terms of the facilities and class sizes but simple things like patches of emerald-green lawn that looked like they’d been cut with scissors. Simon did what he normally did and strutted around the place in a shiny blue suit, flirting casually with Irene by using her name a lot and touching her forearm. You could tell Irene liked it from the colour of her cheeks and the fluttery giggle.
‘I think it’s the school for Iris. Have you seen the results? They speak for themselves,’ he said.
I was sifting through the prospectus that was packed with pictures of happy, culturally diverse children skipping along in their tartan wear and monogrammed cardigans. I got to the page about fees.
‘It’s a lot of money. And then we’ll have to factor in Violet too in a couple of years.’
‘Is this you going all socialist on me again?’
Simon said it so mockingly. He was from an affluent family: he’d been educated at the top-end toff palace that was Westminster and gone to a private prep school so education was nothing to him without a blazer and a debauched rugby tour.
‘I’m thinking practically. The state system did alright by me and my sisters.’
He didn’t respond. It was like he never heard me.
‘It’s not like we don’t have the money, Emma.’
‘Yes but I’m thinking ahead to university and how we invest for them.’
‘Quite.’
‘I just feel putting them here cuts them off from a whole section of society. I don’t want them to grow up with a silver spoon in their mouths.’
‘Like me then?’
The car went quiet. We had been having this discussion for months. Simon had visited local primaries and turned his nose up at sandpits and phonic boards. I had literally missiled a prospectus about boarding school across the kitchen.
‘Well, we need to decide by the end of the week because that’s how long they will hold the place for.’
I didn’t reply. Our car was sat on Richmond Bridge in traffic and I watched as the lights danced along the river, a train darted past full of commuters. I wanted my girls to be like me. I didn’t think that was a terrible thing. A terrible thing would have been if they turned into Simon. Even then I knew there were facets of his personality that I hoped they wouldn’t inherit: the arrogance, the lying. But I didn’t know how to say that out loud. I didn’t know how to communicate anything to him. Simon was getting increasingly frustrated by the stationary cars on the bridge and hit his horn quite aggressively.
‘That will help,’ I said.
He looked aggrieved, like the traffic was suddenly my fault. ‘Do we have any tablets in this car? I have a headache coming on.’
I rooted around in the glove compartment and my handbag. Nothing. I undid my seat belt and leant behind to check in the map pocket. As soon as my hand touched it, I knew. I pulled them out. Women’s knickers. They weren’t mine. I put them back. The next day I got them and threw them in the bin. I convinced myself they were never there. I said nothing. I also did nothing two weeks later when Simon told me he’d put down a deposit for that school. It was non-refundable. At least one of us had our girls’ best interests at heart, he told me.
‘But you’re talking, that’s a start?’
‘He’s not being completely shitty I guess,’ answers Beth on the phone. I can tell she wants to bookend that sentence with ‘not like Simon’.
Poor Beth. It turns out that a new baby was a game changer for her and Will’s relationship and the pressures of work, real life and a whole lot of sleepless nights had turned things on their head. Will wasn’t completely gone. He hovered in the distance and was staying with his brother. For now, the sisters and I all talk about him privately in slurs and anger. You don’t do that to our Bumblebee. You hurt one, you hurt us all. Yet as I’m the only sister to have gone through something similar, I also prop her up.
‘Why are your teeth chattering?’ she asks me on the phone.
‘Because I’m standing outside in the cold.’
‘For shits and giggles?’
‘I’m waiting for Simon. We’re at a parents’ evening.’
‘Then wait in the school.’
‘I can’t because Simon wants it to appear like we’ve arrived together so I have to wait at the gate and then we can drive in the same car.’
‘Then why couldn’t he have picked you up from your house?’ You can hear the confusion in Beth’s voice.
‘Because then I’d have had to sit in a car with him for half an hour and I don’t think I’m capable of that.’
Beth doesn’t have to say it. I’ve given him the power here. I’m the one stood in the cold. I could have been the one driving and he could be the one out here. I could have summoned up the strength and sat in that car with him but made it uncomfortable for him. But no. Instead I stand at the railings and every time a car rolls past, I hide in the trees so I don’t look like I’m some strange straggler at the gates of a school. Beth’s pause also reads relief that she’s nowhere near anything this complicated with her Will just yet.
‘Are you OK, B?’ I ask her.
‘Well, I got out of that bathtub. Each day at a time.’
‘You’ll be golden, kid. I need to go.’
She laughs. ‘Golden?’
I smile as I realise it’s something I’ve learnt off Jag. ‘We are all golden. Love you, B.’
‘Be strong, Ems.’
She hangs up. The sisters say this a lot to me. They send me emojis of the strong flexed arm. Do they want me to be emotionally strong? Or actually punch Simon one day? I assume the latter. Deep down, I know this is just a glitch for Beth. Like it was for Meg up north with her Danny, who’ve since resolved their sex toy drama. You’re allowed the odd moment for dips in your relationship. It’s good to expose them and question the stability of the foundations but I know those sisters will be fine. My foundations were always leaky to start, big crevices in them. I just pretended they weren’t there. I moved the rug so no one would see them.
Simon’s Range Rover doesn’t even pull up to the curb. He literally stops in the middle of the road so I have to jog over in case he gets in the way of any traffic. I clamber in.
‘Emma.’
‘Simon.’
We haven’t broached the
subject of Susie and her impending pregnancy yet. When I confronted him, he walked away. It was none of my business apparently. But it was. This was a new sibling for my daughters, I had to gauge whether they were set to be replaced with a new family. Because it had taken Simon just over a year to replace me. Or maybe she’d always been there. I just didn’t want that for my girls, best interests and all that.
He approaches the winding driveway up to the school and we sit in silence. Simon is fond of a valet so the car is always impeccable; mine is always the one littered in little girl shoes and sweet wrappers. He listens to some sporting event on Radio Five Live and when we finally stop to park, he keeps the engine running to hear the event’s conclusion. I think it may be something to do with golf.
‘Oh, by the way… Violet lost her first tooth?’ he asks me.
‘Yes?’
‘Why did I hear about this from Facebook?’
‘I need to tell you every time our daughter loses a tooth?’
‘Yes. It’d be nice to be informed of milestones. I am her father.’
‘Unfortunately, I’m all too aware of that fact.’
He glares over at me. I could knock a few of your teeth out now if that would help. We get out of the car and he gives me a once over to check I look presentable enough to be by his side. I’ve come straight from work so I’m in a sensible trouser with a kitten heel. He dons a shiny charcoal suit, one I actually bought him. The green tie, the colour of mushy peas, is a mistake but I don’t say that out loud. We take the short walk to the school door and I watch him carefully. It’s going to happen in a moment, isn’t it? We see the headmistress, Mrs Buchanan at the door. And… action.
You see, Simon does a strange thing when we are in public, and that is to act like our divorce never happened. His body will relax and he’ll move closer to me. Tonight, he’s even put a hand to the small of my back. It’s all part of the fun and games because he knows if he laid a hand on me otherwise then I would go completely ninja on his ass, body slam him and break his fingers. It’s all about the show. I’m not the bad guy here, I am such a nice bloke. How could she divorce someone who was so gentlemanly? And look at that soured snarl on this one’s face. This was obviously all her doing. I always act with bemusement at this character he puts on. He should’ve been an actor.
‘Mrs Buchanan, always a pleasure!’ He takes her hand, shakes it animatedly and looks at me to do the same, a fixed smug grin on his face.
‘Mr and Mrs Chadwick, welcome.’
I think about correcting her now I’ve reverted back to Callaghan but that would just get us all off on the wrong foot.
‘Busy evening?’ I ask.
‘Always, but such a wonderful opportunity to connect with our parents and build on the special relationships we have with our school community.’
Mrs Buchanan has big bushy red hair like Bonnie Tyler in the eighties and speaks like she’s reading out of brochures.
‘You are so right,’ Simon replies attempting to be earnest. Christ, he’s a cheese ball.
Two uniformed minions appear.
‘Horatio, Yi Lin, please can you show the Chadwicks through to the drinks reception?’
They both nod in unison, the boy holding his arms out like a waiter showing us to our table. We follow them through the school’s grand corridors to the main hall. It’s the one thing I like about this place, the air of Hogwarts about it with its hefty engraved name boards and sepia photos of successful sports teams. In the hall, a throng of parents mill around waiting to see respective teachers. It’s the same every year. We all dodge the people from the PTA trying to sell us quiz tickets, and the bowls of crisps out of hygiene concerns.
‘Red or white?’ asks a lady in an apron.
This here is the very reason I get through parents’ evenings. From the look of the bottle, it’s decent wine too so I can only think that’s where a good proportion of our fees is going.
‘Oh, I have a surgery tomorrow morning so I will just have OJ please,’ says Simon.
The lady, who looks like her other job is in Downton Abbey, smiles. Oh, a surgeon and a dashing one at that. He had to drop that in, didn’t he? He may as well have just got his penis out and whopped it on the serving table here.
‘Red, please,’ I say.
I take my glass and follow Simon to a corner of the hall. It’s essentially a holding area without the background music. The idea is that all the parents will get on and create a party vibe but it just becomes a strange family gathering. As terrible as it sounds, it’s sorted into cliques: parents who know each other via NCT groups, the international expat brigades who keep to themselves, the parents who’ve ostracised themselves by gossip, the ones who you know regularly brunch and ski together. There’s a pat on my shoulder and I turn to see Leo. He seems sheepish and Simon looks upon him suspiciously.
‘Leo.’ I kiss him on the cheek as I know that will upset Simon further.
‘This is Simon, my ex-husband. Leo is Freya’s dad. Freya—’
‘—is in Violet’s class?’ Simon finishes my sentence in patronising tones.
Leo’s expression says it all. I thought you were a dickhead and you are.
‘So, I just wanted to say I am so sorry about that party. I ruined your dress, I really didn’t behave and I’ve squared it off with your sister but I didn’t want you to think that—’
I can tell that Simon’s ears have pricked up. He was unaware of any sort of social gathering and I was keen to keep that information from him. That said, it may be fun to keep him guessing.
‘Don’t. We were all drunk and did stuff we shouldn’t have. It’s fine.’
‘I’m glad. I lost my mask by the way? It must be at yours.’
Simon looks mildly surprised now. You had what sort of party involving masks?
‘Are you here alone?’ I ask Leo.
‘Oh, I’m not allowed to stand near her tonight.’ He gestures over to his ex-wife, Faith, who is standing with Pony Party Leah. They pretend not to have been staring and look in other directions.
‘Leo and his wife, Faith, are also divorced,’ I inform Simon.
‘Oh.’
I know Simon will hate that I’ve said the D-word out loud. ‘That woman stood next to Faith. Do you know her, Emma?’ Simon asks.
‘Her name is Leah, why?’
For the love of god, he hasn’t slept with her too, has he? I already know of him sleeping with one other mum. He’d met her at a sports day and they spent their time flirting over the free Pimms as we watched the foam javelins sail through the air. By the egg and spoon, they may as well have just mounted each other. Her husband stormed off in a rage. Two weeks later, said husband sent me pictures of both of them emerging from a Holiday Inn. That was a good day.
‘She’s the pony lady. She invoiced me for that party that Violet went to.’
This is new information to Leo. ‘You were invoiced? For what?’
‘Because Violet didn’t ride for the fully allotted time,’ replies Simon.
Leo looks aghast. ‘That’s disgraceful!’
‘And she was pretty awful at that party too. She sent you that invoice too?’ I ask. ‘I thought Lucy told her to do one.’
Simon doesn’t look surprised but he remains quiet and I know exactly what he’s done.
‘You paid her, didn’t you?’ I ask him.
‘It was only twenty pounds.’
‘I just wish you’d spoken to me about this first?’
‘It’s a small price to pay to avoid her causing added drama, no?’
I look at him as she shrugs at me. It’s the principle of the whole affair. But then I’m talking to Simon; principles aren’t his strong point. I shake my head while Leo surveys the awkwardness.
‘Would it help if I said something awful that Faith has done this week…?’ Leo mumbles.
‘Be my guest.’
‘She’s made me take on all our credit card and loan debt because it was in my name.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Let’s put another holiday on the cards, Leo. We need it. We also need this copper-plated sink and hexagonal tiles in the downstairs bathroom.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It is what it is. A man can live off rice and baked beans forever, right?’
He glances over at Faith. I know that look. It’s pure exasperation that things are just so darned difficult. Why can’t it be easier? I put a hand to his shoulder and Simon watches hesitantly.
Young Horatio suddenly appears in front of us. ‘Mrs Westlake is ready for you now.’
‘Good luck kids,’ mumbles Leo and I grimace at him, gesturing that this whole evening is some self-imposed torture. I do have his mask. I’ll return it in a school bag but maybe not via Lucy. I down my wine and pick up another glass on my way out. Just get this done. Violet’s teacher first and then Iris’ straight after. Smile and breathe.
Simon’s act dips as we walk along the school’s parquet floors. Who is Leo? I didn’t know that man. You had a party. And he was there in a mask. I, meanwhile, can’t believe he paid off that horrific school gate mum. I hope he slips on these floors and sprains an ankle or something. As predicted though, it doesn’t take long for him to put on a show again.
‘Mrs Westlake! We meet again!’ he says, holding his arms aloft.
I have no qualms about Mrs Westlake. She’s a seasoned teacher who likes a slack and sensible moccasin and we’re familiar with her since she taught Iris two years previously. When we enter the classroom, Horatio bows in reverence, taking his leave and I wonder whether to tip him. I don’t join in Simon’s animated greeting but having a glass of red to keep me company means I toast her instead which I worry has hints of Cersei Lannister about it.
‘You are looking so well,’ Simon says.
I think I was a little bit sick in my mouth. I have no worries showing how unnerved I am, furthered when he decides to sit there and manspread himself on the plastic chair.
‘It’s always lovely to have another Chadwick girl in my classroom. Violet is a particular delight.’
Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner Page 17
