Jane’s face had tightened. Like many people who didn’t lack for money, she hated talking about it.
‘How’s Dan?’ I asked carefully.
‘He’s— I’m not sure. Won’t talk, but he’s working a lot and eating junk food. I worry. It just seems such a shame,’ she said. I stiffened. ‘You seemed so happy. I was looking at your wedding photos this morning. It was such a nice day. And of course, Michael was so happy …’ Her eyes filled with tears and I felt my own nose sting. Dan’s father had died six months after we got married, another sudden stroke carrying him away for good. It had been a lot to take so early on in our marriage.
Our drinks arrived, and I stared at the poncey infuser that came with my tea. I’d been doing my best to block out our wedding, how much I’d loved my dress, how the sun shone even though it was only April, how my mum got drunk for the first time in her life and danced on stage to ‘Tiger Feet’.
I could feel it rising up in me, that wave of dark that drowned out even tears. I gasped for breath and said with difficulty, ‘We were happy then. But we changed.’
‘People don’t change, darling. He’s still the same Dan he was. I know his silly job has eaten him up, but maybe a holiday …’
‘We had a holiday.’ A few months before, we’d gone to Antigua on a last-ditch ‘making the effort’ trip. It was a disaster. I could almost hear the pounds cascading out of our bank account with every suck and hum of the air conditioner. We were miles from anywhere in a package hotel full of Russians in thongs—and that was just the men. The drinks were watered down and the evening buffet gave Dan raging food poisoning. He stayed in the room for days, groaning, and I walked listlessly between the bar and the pool, trying to avert my eyes from Vladimir’s hairy nether regions. I don’t think I’ve ever been as unhappy in my life as I was on that ‘luxury’ holiday.
‘What about couples counselling?’
We’d actually tried that too, for two sessions, which ended when Dan had stormed out kicking the door and calling me a particularly horrible name. I know he was … upset about what happened, but still.
Jane was speaking very carefully. My heart began to thud. ‘You know, people can forgive a lot. I’m sure this thing now, with the girl … it won’t last. He’s just upset. I know him.’
I kept my face very still. What girl? What girl?
‘So maybe if you both could get past … everything that went on, give it another try …’
I had to get out of there. My voice came from my stomach, weary and desperate. ‘No, Jane. People don’t get past it. I tried. He kicked me out. So no. I’m sorry. He said there was no chance.’
She dabbed at her lips, leaving a red stain on the napkin, like a tiny ruined heart. We jostled awkwardly over the bill, and then I abruptly left. I could see her through the steamed-up café window, the woman I’d thought I’d know for the rest of my life. Now I’d probably never see her again. Things that suck about divorce, number sixty-seven: wondering whether you’re pleased about that, or hurt, or somewhere in between, and what that says about you.
I walked back to the house past the shops of Hampstead, the dinky baby boutiques and upmarket clothes shops. Everywhere were yummy mummies with Boden tops and knee boots, crunching biscotti while adorable toddlers ran about in yellow macs. I was alone, adrift. I walked and walked to try to stay ahead of that wave inside me. I knew what it was like when it hit—the black water filled with rocks and debris, the suffocating slap of it. I walked until I was almost running, panting, not sure of what it was I was trying to get away from. What was I even running to? I had nowhere to go.
I was trying not to think about what Jane had said, wrapping the words in cotton wool like the ring I’d given back. Dan had a girl. Who was she? Who was she? In my mind I rifled through his Facebook friends. Someone from work? Most likely, he practically lived there. So who?
I couldn’t believe he was ready to see someone else. I was nowhere near it. I was like an emotional octopus—legs everywhere, suckers desperately trying to attach onto anyone I could find. Just trying not to get swept away. He was moving on, swimming happily in the ocean of single life, and I was belly-flopping on the beach. I needed to work on that metaphor too.
Patrick was still in the kitchen. Damnit. I wanted to eat a thousand Jaffa Cakes and curl up to cry. ‘You’re back early.’
I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘I thought I might walk Max.’ Anything to keep moving.
‘I walked him earlier.’ He saw my face. ‘Was it rough?’
I could only nod, and then the wave hit and my voice was drowned in thick, choking tears. Patrick did what any man would do when a woman started crying in front of him—looked awkward. ‘Oh. Let me get some tissues.’ I managed to get a hold of myself while he was searching for the lavender-scented, balm-infused tissues Michelle bought—no Kleenex for that lady—so when he came back I was just staring at my hands, callused and bare, and snivelling a bit. He made me tea and found biscuits, until finally there was no more displacement activity and he had to talk to me. ‘Did you fight?’
‘No—she’s very kind. Always has been. That’s what makes it hard, especially when I don’t de-de-deserve it.’ I blotted my leaking eyes. I tried to think how I could explain. It’s hard to tell your worst, darkest secrets to a stranger. ‘During the end of the marriage, there were … things … things that made it worse … you know … and now she says he’s seeing someone, already, and I guess it’s my fault …’
He was standing behind me and, for a moment, I felt his hand on my shoulder. ‘You mustn’t beat yourself up. A failing marriage is like a war, Rachel—you’ll both do terrible things, and neither of you will win. Even if your ex is seeing someone, it’ll be a rebound thing, a disaster. You know that.’
‘Hmm.’ I stared at my hands, thinking—he wouldn’t say that, if he knew.
‘I know,’ he said brightly, ‘why don’t you plan something off your list? I’ll get it.’ He took his hand away and I got a whiff of his sharp citrus smell, and it flashed into my head—number five: sleep with a stranger.
‘Sounds good,’ I said shakily, making a mental note to avoid that page. ‘But which one?’
He was leafing through the book, which I kept on top of the fridge. ‘How about stand-up comedy?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, I’m hilarious right now. Would you suggest the routine where I cry hysterically, or the one where I blow my nose loudly?’
‘I think you’re very funny. You always make me laugh when you’re talking to Max.’
‘Thanks. But I really can’t. Look at me, I’m not fit for anything right now.’
Patrick looked at me helplessly, like a gadget that he didn’t know how to fix. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
I blew my nose. ‘You’ve let me live here. That’s a massive thing. I know I’m not much fun, moping around listening to Magic FM, songs for saddos, eating all the biscuits …’
‘I’ve got an idea.’ He leapt up. ‘You sit here a minute.’ He went into the living room and I heard him scrabbling around. ‘Have you seen my iPad?’
‘It’s on the dock there.’
‘Great. Now wait a second.’ I heard more fiddling. ‘Oh, what’s wrong with this bloody thing? “Device cannot sync at this time”. What does that even mean?’
I sniffed. ‘You know, they said that about the Titanic too and look how that turned out.’
‘Hey, that’s good! See, you are funny. OK, it’s working.