‘You’re a good kid,’ I say, but am surprised that it comes out as a bit of a slur. ‘I’ll increase your pocket money.’ This is a joke we still run. Liam doesn’t have pocket money anymore – he has a part-time job in Costa and earns a bit through babysitting – but whenever he does anything helpful or kind, we joke that he’s doing it for economic reasons and that we’ll increase his pocket money.
‘Do I get extra if I bring you water and paracetamol in the morning? I think you’re going to need it.’ There’s nothing a teen likes more than teasing a parent because they’re handling their alcohol poorly.
‘I’m on it,’ laughs Ben. Holding up a glass of water.
Abi stumbles back into the kitchen. ‘God, he’s amazing, isn’t he? Tends to your every need.’ Then she suddenly pulls me into a tight hug. ‘I love you, guys’ she says with the absolute conviction of a drunk, I don’t care if this affection is alcohol induced. I feel warm and glowing when she adds, ‘You are the best.’ She hugs Ben and then Liam too with equal ferocity.
I go to bed knowing all is right with the world.
Abigail lay on the sofa bed, her long, tanned limbs stretched out in front of her. The room was not dark enough – the girls preferred the landing light to stay on during the night and the bedroom door didn’t quite fit as snugly as would have been ideal, so light flooded under and over. Also, the room was too hot. She’d tried turning the radiator down but it didn’t seem to make any difference. She got out of bed and flung open the window. The cold night air rushed in, a relief. Ben’s words floated around Abigail’s head. ‘You know what you need, Abi. You need to get back in the saddle.’
Back in the saddle.
Giddy up.
People wanted her to move on. They were bored of her mooning. Rob had stopped loving her and, chivvy along now, she had to stop loving him. Giddy up. The thought made her smile. It was a good idea. He was right; there was no time to waste. No more time. You know what you need, Abi. You need to get back in the saddle. She wondered, just briefly, was it a suggestion or an offer? They seemed like such a happy couple but who knew? No one ever really knew what went on in a relationship.
Abigail checked her emails. Even though it was a Saturday, Rob had sent her two: one from him and one from his lawyer. He must have his lawyer working on this around the clock. Naturally he had; he knew he was in trouble. Being caught having sex is pretty damning evidence of fault. She planned to take him to the cleaners. Make him pay in every way she could. His email suggested they could make this divorce quick, clean, and as painless as possible. Fuck that. She saw that offer for what it was: a man who knew he was going to be paying through the nose, running scared. She opened the email from the lawyer and looked at the details of the proposed settlement. It was fair enough, some might say, not exactly generous, but reasonable. She typed her response.
Fuck you.
She was drunk enough to think this was hilarious and bold.
She was sober enough to regret it the moment she pressed send. She wondered whether it was possible to recall emails and Googled it. She wasn’t sure, even after she’d read the chat forums debating the issue. It seemed it was but the recipient would know you’d done so. That was just as bad. Worse. She’d rather Rob think she was bold and rash than cowed and insecure.
She started to cry. She hated crying, it was ageing and hopeless, defeatist.
She heard a quiet knock at the door, so quiet she hardly dared call, ‘Come in.’ Slowly the door opened just a couple of inches. He put his head around.
‘I thought you might need water, too?’
Abi hurriedly brushed the tears away; she didn’t want him to see them. ‘Oh, thanks, yes.’ He handed her a glass of iced water. Thoughtful, not tepid from the bathroom tap. Their fingers brushed together.
You can’t make some things up, you can’t imagine them, even if you want to wish them away or even if you plan to ignore them. There was a flicker of electricity. It shot through her arm, her shoulder, her chest and then down into the pit, the core of her body. She hadn’t felt anything like it for years. She met his eye, acknowledging the flash that had just lit between them. Those things were always two-way, weren’t they? She felt it, he must have. A bee sting of sexual attraction. He looked her in the eye and no doubt noticed she’d been crying. ‘Get some sleep, Abi,’ he instructed, as he closed the bedroom door behind him.
And she did sleep. She dreamed she was riding a horse over a prairie. She was riding it hard, could feel its size and strength beneath her; between her legs, she felt its muscles ripple next to her thighs. She was breathless and free. Excited and able. It felt real, as she bumped up and down on the warm, leather saddle.
Sunday 25th February
I look up from chopping carrots as Ben walks into the kitchen. He’s wearing the Paul Smith shirt that I got him for his birthday, like I told him he should, with new jeans (that still look a little stiff) and his Ted Baker brogues, which he normally keeps for the office as he generally prefers Adidas trainers at home. He’s handsome, no doubt about it. When I’m walking in the streets with him, out shopping or whatever, I always feel secretly pleased, smug. I often see women check him out. He either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, for my sake. Bless. Today he puts me in mind of the new, neat bay trees outside our front door. A little too formal, out of place and stiff.
‘Maybe you should put on a T-shirt,’ I suggest.
‘You told me to wear this,’ he replies with a confused and slightly frustrated shrug.
He glances about. I have the lunch ingredients out of the fridge but nowhere near in the oven. Even though I’ve been up since six thirty when Lily came into our room and asked if I wanted to see a puppet show. There are approximately a hundred things – including toys, homework, stray socks, breakfast pots and a hairbrush – scattered across the table. I’m obviously not what anyone would describe as on top of things. My head aches and I’m so pale I’m transparent. I’m too old to stay up drinking until two a.m.
One of the very many lovely things about being married to Ben is that we are a partnership. I don’t have to nag him to help out or do his share. If he sees something needs doing, he invariably does it. Maybe not exactly as I might have done it, but he gives it a go and I’m grateful. Normally, he lends a hand with notable affability; right now, he gathers up the debris from the kitchen table and then clatters down the cutlery in a distinctly irritated manner. He didn’t like me suggesting what he should put on today and, having complied, he likes me changing my mind even less. I can hear his frustration in the clinking of the knives and forks.
‘I know I did but—’ I’m about