‘I don’t want Jonathan suffering. He’s a good man. An excellent father. A better husband than most.’
‘You can’t be nice about your ex when you’re in the middle of a split. It’s perverse.’ She grabs my hand. ‘Now, get back in there and strut your stuff,’ she barks.
In the sitting room, alas, Orlando’s one-man show continues: ‘“You’re a harpy!” “You’re an idiot!” “May you rot in hell!” “May your scrotum itch you for seven years.”’
The worst, though, is next door. Carolyn Vincent cannot resist a few words of concern every time our paths cross: ‘Oh, poor you!’ she intones piously when she sees me struggling under the weight of carrier bags. ‘Do you want a hand?’ she calls out from her doorstep. And then, over her shoulder: ‘My love, will you help Rosie with her shopping?’ And husband Louis, a square-jawed and handsome knight in shining armour, materialises to help me with the bags.
‘Well done, angel.’ Carolyn rewards her husband with a big smack of a kiss, right on the doorstep for everyone to see.
Worse, it seems as if whenever I stand at my window, lost in thought and wondering about what life will bring next, I am subjected to a sighting of the happy couple hugging, kissing, rubbing noses (nothing seems beyond them). These little vignettes of marital harmony have me reaching for the curtain cord and longing to move to Nuneaton.
Not that the Vincents are unkind. Carolyn is constantly inviting us over for a ‘kitchen supper’, or tea, or Sunday lunch.
Into the bright yellow kitchen we troop. Carolyn, in a pretty pale blue Cath Kidston apron, stands at her stove, stirring some delicious but non-fattening sauce. Louis springs up from the table where he was reading out loud, presumably for Carolyn’s amusement, the Daily Mail Richard Kay gossip column.
‘Hullo! Carolyn, Rosie and the children are here!’ He offers me a glass of Bordeaux, and an expression of condolence fills his face.
‘Kat, Freddy, will you fetch the children?’ Carolyn turns from the Aga, wooden spoon in hand, a perfect homemaker’s smile on her face. ‘It’s supper time. And wash hands.’ Then, when Kat and Freddy are no longer in earshot, ‘They’re being so braaaave, you must be so prooooouuuud.’
At table, Molly immediately sits beside me. She has not, I’ve noticed, been seeking my advice lately: she has obviously drawn her own conclusions about my ability to navigate emotional life. Louis, on my other side, keeps my glass and plate filled and makes kind suggestions like, ‘You will let me know if I can do anything, won’t you? DIY, dig you out of the snow, cart down any heavy rubbish…’
Worst of all is watching Carolyn and him perform a perfect duet as they move back and forth from kitchen table to sink, from stove to dishwasher, enviably in synch with every step and look. Were Jonathan and I ever like that?
‘Sweetpea, will you pour me a glass of water? Thanks, darling one. Rosie, are you and Jon…’ Carolyn stops in her tracks, flushes, gives a little embarrassed cough, then resumes, ‘er, I mean, are you going off somewhere nice before term starts?’
‘Nah,’ Freddy answers before I can.
‘We aren’t either,’ Molly scowls. ‘Dad just wants to be near a golf course so he can disappear for hours. Holidays are supposed to be, like, spent with the family all together and…’ A look from her parents sends her into manic backpedalling: ‘I mean, er…Actually who needs fathers on holidays?’
The children and I seek refuge in Carolyn’s tender roast chicken and comforting mash. We eat silently, leaving our hosts to find another subject of conversation.
‘Mum, did you get Oliver’s birthday present?’ Freddy asks me.
‘Oliver?…’ I ask blankly, wondering in a panic who Oliver could be and when this shock birthday party is to be held.
‘Oh, Mu-um!’ Freddy groans. ‘I to-old you!’
‘Well, your mum has had a lot on her plate,’ Carolyn says hurriedly. Then, trying to turn the conversation away from odious comparisons: ‘Oh, Kat, that is the prettiest pendant!’ Carolyn smiles. ‘Matches your eyes.’
‘Dad gave it to me,’ Kat sighs. ‘Hush money, I suppose.’
Babette Pagorsky’s smile casts the soft and comforting glow of a child’s night light. I feel as if I am sitting on Kat’s or Freddy’s bed, waiting for them to fall asleep. ‘What brings you here?’ Babette asks in her deep man’s voice. I’m brought back to reality. I’m not with my children in their cosy bedrooms but with my soon to be ex-husband in a marriage counsellor’s room. In the month between Babette making her assessment of us, during which she asked a million questions—how had we met, what did we do for a living, where did we live, how many children, and when had our ‘problem’ arisen?—and her managing to slot us into her busy schedule for our first appointment, Jonathan and I have started proceedings on our friendly divorce.
‘So,’ Babette repeats as she looks across to us, ‘what brings you here?’
Jonathan and I sit side by side (but at least two feet apart) on a capable brown leather sofa. Babette sits in a squat armchair across an Oriental carpet from us. The room, painted the palest shade of green, looks elegant rather than cosy: antiques and silver ornaments, silk throw cushions, and two lamps on side tables rather than overhead lights. It’s brilliant sunshine outside, but heavy green curtains are drawn against all that.
Babette had already briefed me over the telephone about the ‘counselling process’: we could have several joint sessions and then, if desired, we could meet with Babette one on one. Every case, she’d warned, is different, and she could give me no guarantees, or even time frames.
Jonathan looks at Babette. I look at Babette. Babette smiles at both of us. She is an elegant plump woman, in her fifties, with soft dark hair and eyes. She has a colourful silk scarf draped over her shoulders, in the continental fashion.
Jonathan clears his throat. ‘We’re getting divorced, and want to make it as painless as possible.’
‘Oh?’ Babette looks a bit put out. ‘People usually come here because they want to avoid divorce.’
‘Well, we know what we want.’ Jonathan gives me an encouraging smile. ‘We just want to take all the proper steps.’
‘So you know what you want…’ Babette echoes Jonathan, and her tone is ever so slightly ironic. Her dark eyes settle on me: ‘You too, Rosie?’
‘Yes,’ Jonathan interrupts. ‘The divorce is a mutual agreement.’
‘Mutual?’ Babette raises a well-arched eyebrow. ‘You rolled out of bed one morning, one on the right, the other on the left, and said, “Hey, let’s get a divorce”?’
‘Well…’ Jonathan begins.
‘This divorce,’ Babette’s voice is warm and intimate, ‘is your idea, Rosie?’
‘No…’ I sound uncertain. I shoot a look at Jonathan beside me on the couch. He smooths down the linen of his trousers. I’m suddenly conscious of feeling uncomfortably hot in this elegant but airless room. ‘But…but the separation was!’
‘I see.’ Babette grants me a smile so small you’d think she had to pay for it. ‘And so the separation didn’t work and you now want to go down the divorce route?’
‘I…agree that this is the best way to go.’
‘Best for whom?’ Babette asks, readjusting her silk scarf.
‘Best for…’ I begin lamely, looking