In between such helpful comments we play Monopoly, Risk and Racing Demon, and Mum wastes a lot of time trying to teach the children bridge. We watch a DVD of High School Musical: Remix, sing along to the lyrics, and call in a pizza. The children relax, and the familiar routines of Mum’s stay—the questions about school which prompt her own, rather long-winded, reminiscences, the crossword, the Earl Grey tea and ginger biscuits for elevenses and 5 p.m., the insistence on a long walk after lunch—reassure them that all is as before. Almost.
Once the children are tucked up in bed, Mum and I sit reading in the living room.
‘Freddy’s such a star, did you see how he’s been running errands for me, fetching glasses, books, my crossword?’ Mum looks up from her Jeffrey Archer to smile at me. ‘And our little girl, she’s all grown up: do you realise what all that texting is about?’ I shake my head, no. ‘A boyfriend!’
‘A boy who is a friend, you mean?’ I look up, worried, from The Times.
‘No, no, Mungo is an official boyfriend. She says so on Facebook.’ My mother smiles, pleased. ‘I think it’s marvellous.’
‘Do you?’ I sound sceptical. Is my mum on Facebook, I wonder? I’m not.
‘Yes.’ My mother nods her head vigorously. ‘It’s a sign that she hasn’t been put off men by your split.’
‘Oh…’ I breathe deeply, guiltily, and hide behind the newspaper: I hadn’t considered that our separation could turn my daughter into a man-hater.
‘It’s not puppy love as we know it,’ Mum continues, fingers tapping on the Jeffrey Archer. ‘They’ve only met once, and their whole relationship is about texting.’
I set down the newspaper, feeling left out and slightly put out: first, my daughter chooses to confide in Mum rather than me; second, my twelve-year-old is beginning a relationship just as mine threatens to end. Kat, Kat… I want to take my daughter in my arms and whisper a warning: Be careful, my love. But even as I think the words, I know not to ever utter them; I don’t want my daughter to be scared of love.
It’s as if Mum reads my thoughts: ‘I wouldn’t worry about Jonathan, you know. These…sex things don’t usually last more than a few months.’
Immediately I start imagining all kinds of scenarios: Jonathan weeping, on his knees, begging me to start again. Jonathan ringing on the door in the dead of night telling me that he’s made a terrible mistake. The children and I coming back from tennis camp to find Jonathan on our doorstep…
From the depths of the chintz armchair, she gives me a long look. ‘Would you have him back?’
Would I? I’ve gone from being shocked to being furious, to wanting some control over our relationship, to wishing him back. So would I have him back? Like a shot. Separation sounded like a good idea: a pause in which to review, regroup. But nothing had prepared me for this loneliness. Jonathan and I have always been friends, after all. I won’t be able to survive much more of this.
Out loud I say, ‘For the children’s sake, yes.’
My mother’s hope becomes my certainty. Every time I hear a car park outside or a cab pull up, I’m convinced it’s Jonathan. Whenever Jonathan rings to speak to the children, I’m sure he is about to plead to be taken back. And when Kat complains that her computer’s acting up, and Jonathan offers to come by and look at it, and ends up also fixing the dripping tap in the downstairs loo, I read in these DIY efforts an attempt to worm his way back into our affection.
‘Don’t be pathetic,’ Jill scolds me when I tell her. ‘Men love playing at Mr Fix-it. They’d fix a tap for Myra Hindley if they got half a chance.’
I don’t listen. He’s left his electric razor behind—he wouldn’t do that if he thought he would be gone for long. His post continues to come every day, as do the International Herald Tribune and the Financial Times.
‘Don’t read anything into it,’ Jill warns. ‘When they’re in the throes of sex they don’t remember their own name. When Ross was cheating on me he was always getting locked out because he’d forgotten his keys, and showing up late because he’d lost his watch. Multi-tasking is for women.’
‘Hmmm…’ I murmur, unconvinced. Ross and Jonathan have nothing in common. Ross is still getting handouts from his parents, whereas Jonathan prides himself on being a caveman provider. Ross is bohemian, while Jonathan’s idea of being creative is thinking up names for pharmaceutical patents. Ross never wanted children, Jonathan adores his.
Which is another reason for my optimism. Kat and Freddy are my most powerful weapons against the American. I have to hide my smile when I hear Kat on the telephone to Molly, describing ‘what a pain’ Linda is. I feel a little thrill of victory when Freddy refuses to go to the Science Museum with his father and ‘her’. And I’m secretly delighted when I overhear the children telling their father that they want to be with ‘just you, Dad’, when he offers to take them out for lunch on Saturday.
Jonathan is sheepish when he comes to pick up or drop off the children. He tries to worm his way back into Otilya’s good graces by taking out the rubbish piled up in the kitchen. He offers to lend me the car so I can get to John Lewis to pick up the curtains I’d ordered. And he offers to help Freddy with his back stroke for hours on end. Between us, though, conversation has become impossibly stilted. We may be only separated, but we speak like a couple in the throes of divorce.
A brief guide to divorce-speak:
1 He says: ‘This is very painful for me.’ He means: This is going to be very expensive.
2 He says: ‘This is not doing either one of us any good.’ He means: I don’t want to have sex with you any more.
3 He says: ‘The children are so grown-up.’ He means: Don’t try a guilt trip on me.
4 He says: ‘You don’t understand…’ He means: You’d better do what I want.
5 He says: ‘Linda understands me.’ He means: Linda’s better in bed than you.
6 He says: ‘I want regular access to the children.’ He means: I want to see the children for fun outings on the occasional weekend, once you’ve fed them, bathed them, and made sure they’ve done their homework.
7 He says: ‘I want you to know I’m always here for you.’ He means: Don’t bother me unless the house is burning down.
8 You say: ‘Everything will be fine.’ You mean: This is hell on earth.
9 You say: ‘Your father’s wonderful, really.’ You mean: Your father’s wrecked your lives and when you’re older you can sue him for negligence.
10 10. You say: ‘This can be a new beginning.’ You mean: I’m so emotionally battered I wonder if I’ll survive this.
‘I’m dead! I’ve had an electric muscle-stimulator facial, and you can’t imagine how loooooong that takes.’ Jill drops by Saturday morning. Jonathan has taken the children for pizza (’With just you, Dad, right?’). It’s a glorious day and I’m sunbathing in the garden, trying to ignore the Vincents’ loveydovey duet on the other side of the wall.
‘They say it takes years off your face.’ Jill opens and shuts her mouth in an exaggerated sequence. ‘You know, we’re supposed to give our facial muscles a daily eight-minute workout.’ She scrunches her face, then relaxes it. You’d never know this was a much-respected GP, a woman who is rational and ultra-sane about most things. ‘Now, are you ready to meet other people?’
‘I don’t need to, Jill!’ I’m on the chaise longue, and I need to shield my eyes to see my friend, sitting beside me. I’ve made us both iced tea. ‘He’s coming back.’
‘What?!’