The Story After Us: A heartwarming tale of life and love for modern women everywhere

by Fiona Perrin

  At our house, while I needed to go down the steps into the basement, he had to go up the steps to the front door.

  ‘Thank you for a perfect day,’ I said and smiled up at him.

  ‘I’m glad I am with you,’ Lars sang in a flat parody of Lou Reed. ‘Feed animals in the park.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it was “zoo”,” I laughed and his mouth came down to meet mine until the laugh turned into a kiss that was twice as sweet and passionate as I’d hoped it might be.

  ‘It’s an outrageous kiss,’ Lars whispered.

  ‘I must go,’ I said, before I let him kiss me again – at which point I knew I wouldn’t stop.

  ‘IOU one night out next Saturday?’ Lars said.

  ‘I owe you,’ I said and walked towards the basement steps.

  ‘Goodnight, perfect day Ami with the outrageous kiss.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  9

  2017

  Outside the school, there was a big commotion going on. Apparently, Julia’s nanny, Lila, an ebullient Aussie, had taught quite a few of the kids – including Jemima – the words and dance actions to a recent Nicki Minaj song, which involved the odd ‘booty’-type reference and a lot of butt swaying.

  I came out of the school to see Julia facing up to Nadine, who was talking about ‘cultural appropriation’. Parminder whisperingly brought me up to speed.

  ‘Freddie and I have worked so hard to ensure that Jemima has a well-balanced childhood, free from conflict and in harmony with all the world’s races,’ Nadine said.

  ‘I’m sure there’s no way she would have let them see it on purpose,’ Julia said.

  Nadine was obviously struggling to balance her inner calm; I’d never seen her so red in the face. ‘But what if Jemima now thinks it’s usual to wiggle her booty or whatever the term is?’ she spluttered.

  I was quite sympathetic but, given how much Nadine lorded her Smugum-ness over us, I had to try not to giggle. She turned to me though: ‘I needed to correct Jemima as to the appropriate term for making love after she visited Amelia’s house; I thought that was bad enough.’

  I muttered, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ under my breath and started for the bus stop to get to my appointment with the divorce lawyer; I could see Parminder slinking off too, making ‘good luck’ signs to Julia. Later that day, our group chat inbox was filled with memes of Nadine’s head stuck onto Nicki Minaj’s body, shaking her booty gloriously.

  *

  I arrived at the divorce lawyer’s office near Fleet Street. She was in her early fifties, round from her knees to her generous bosom, hair pulled back from her face in a loose chignon. She was dressed in conservative lawyer kit: John Lewis maybe, or Hobbs – except that her shoes were patent leather pumps with red stacked heels. As I came through the door, she jumped to her feet – energetically for her size – and strode forward to clutch both my hands in her pink, warm ones.

  ‘Ms Fitch? I’m Catherine but you must call me Cathy. Everyone does. Take a seat. Just here OK? Would you like tea? Or coffee? Water?’ Her voice was light and cheery. Very cheery indeed.

  ‘Water would be great.’ I sat down in a winged chair and she bounced into the one behind the desk before peering at me, concerned. She poured me a glass of water and said, ‘How are you feeling? Never a good time.’

  Tears involuntarily came into my eyes, the way they do when someone is unexpectedly nice when you’re feeling sad. She thrust a box of tissues at me. ‘Best to let it all out. Then we can see what we can do to make it better. I’m here to help.’

  She looked as if she mainlined Prozac for breakfast but the effect of all her smiling was that I felt compelled to try to smile back. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘We’ll just take a few details first, shall we? And then we’ll have a little chat.’ She picked up a fountain pen and carried on looking sympathetic. In front of her was one of those yellow lined pads that only lawyers ever use.

  ‘So, Amelia, isn’t it? And Fitch? Is that your maiden name? What’s your husband’s?’

  ‘Johansson. I’m not really entitled to be Mrs Johansson any more.’ Even though I’d never used Lars’ surname it felt sad that I was about to lose the option on the brand.

  ‘Tell me, do you have children?’

  ‘Two, yes.’ I gave her Tessa and Finn’s names and dates of birth.

  ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘it’s terribly vulgar but I need to ask you about money.’ We rattled through various financial details: our seemingly massive mortgage, value of our house – I knew this because one two doors away had just been sold to a footballer with a yellow Ferrari – and our non-existent savings accounts, explaining about all our money going back into our nascent businesses.

  I wondered whether she was married – whether she’d ever sat on this side of the table, knew what it was actually like. I tried to catch a look at her left hand but it was under the desk as she wrote with her right.

  Behind her on a small corner table were a couple of framed pictures, one of which seemed to show a younger Cathy alongside a tall, thin man. ‘Are you married?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, gosh, bless you, yes, I am. To Jeremy. For the last thirty years.’

  Just my luck. The happily married divorce lawyer.

  ‘Now we’d better talk about you though? What’s been going on?’

  I gave her a brief history of my marriage and how Lars wanted a divorce, tears welling towards the end.

  ‘And you don’t? Poor thing.’

  ‘Well, no, I mean, something had to change, but I never thought it would come to this, or at least I hoped it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Never a good time. Now, this is an absolutely vile thing to have to ask you.’ Cathy leaned forward. ‘Does this involve anyone else?’

  I told her that I didn’t think so, and I didn’t, but the thought of Lars with another woman sent a cold shock through my capillaries.

  ‘No other unusual sexual proclivities?’ She tittered again. I opened my eyes wide and shook my head.

  ‘So sad, these Type D divorces,’ said Cathy almost abstractedly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just my theory – silly me.’ She shook her head and laughed again. Was it appropriate to be quite so cheery in the face of her clients’ misery? ‘There are only four types of divorce really and I call them Type A, B, C and D.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said, intrigued, despite knowing that lawyers charged by periods of six minutes.

  ‘Really? Well, Type As are classic adulterers, you know, trying to get out as fast as they can.’

  ‘Because they’re already into someone else?’

  ‘Ha, ha, yes.’ Cathy laughed at my weak joke. ‘Now, we don’t want to give the other side anything we don’t have to, do we?’ I was heartened that she actually had a tough side; I wasn’t looking for a divorce shark but she did look as if she should be at home making scones. ‘But Type As feel guilty so they’re normally too generous.’

  ‘Type Bs?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, they’re the wronged party and, if you don’t mind me saying so, easily the most satisfying clients.’ I felt inadequate but she pushed on, ‘The thing is, they want to take the other party for everything they’re worth. Right down to the last line on my spreadsheet.’

  Good. She had a spreadsheet to match Lars’. I knew I really had to be on top of all the money stuff.

  ‘Type C – married to a psychopath, alcoholic, drug addict, violent mad person or any combination of the above. They just want to get away but it’s my moral duty to get whatever cash I can get on their behalf. This morning I had to tell a woman – of course, you don’t know who – who’s been married to a mad alcoholic for twenty years that he won’t need any money when he’s sectioned.’ She shook her head.

  Were lawyers allowed to be this indiscreet?

  ‘You’re a D. No single deciding motive. Just people who simply can’t get on with each other. The sum of you is no longer greater than the individual elements.’
/>
  ‘That’s exactly it.’ I teared up again.

  She reached out with her pudgy hand. ‘You poor dear. Now, let me tell you about what could happen next if you decide to go ahead.’

  ‘With irretrievable breakdown, there are many reasons for divorce. Desertion, adultery, separation, unreasonable behaviour are all grounds. It sounds as if in your case, we are looking at unreasonable behaviour. You or your husband will need to list several reasons as to why you can no longer live together and file the papers.’ It was good that I had possession of the marital home and a job, she continued. I told her about Lars’ business and how we had to get enough money out for the kids to keep their home.

  ‘What does your husband do?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, Jeremy’s retired now but he did have a job in a distribution centre.’ Cathy kept a fixed smile on her face. Her eyes flicked to the other photo, which showed the same tall thin man holding some sort of shield against a backdrop of a corporate office. ‘But we really do need to talk about you, not me.’ She leaned forward. ‘We’ll take a positive tone with the other side and hope it doesn’t get ugly.’ There was a spark in her eye, however, as if she would really enjoy it if it got ugly. ‘We’ll need him to complete an affidavit on money and you’ll have to fill in some forms too. There’s a court hearing where the decree nisi is published – you don’t have to go usually – and then six weeks after that you get the absolute and you’re no longer married.’

  ‘It’s as simple as that?’ I said.

  ‘Well, it could be.’ Cathy chuckled. ‘But it very rarely is.’ She jumped up and clasped my hands again. ‘Now, you need to look after yourself. But I’m here, ready and waiting when you are.’

  I went home and rang Liv to update her. ‘She’s a gusher,’ I said. ‘Resolutely cheerful about dealing in other people’s misery. And happily married.’

  ‘Divorce lawyers shouldn’t be married,’ said Liv.

  ‘Exactly. Or smile like a demented aunt who’s been on the sauce. Apparently I need to write down reasons why I can’t live with Lars.’

  ‘I can think of a few, starting with he was never there. Can’t you get him on desertion?’

  *

  I decided to take Bridget with me to the Campury meeting. My justification was giving her experience, but really I knew it was personal protection. I was determined that I would make Ben stay on a professional level.

  Having pulled myself from bed that Wednesday morning, I painted my ravaged face with an extra-thick coat of make-up and climbed into a taller pair of heels than usual; I wore my most expensive Max Mara dress and jacket, a treat to myself when I’d got a bonus back in the Goldwyn days.

  Bridget was waiting outside Campury House when I came round the corner from the Tube, leaning against a pillar the colour of sand. The knocker on the double oak doors gleamed with history and wealth. Bridget was clutching our portfolio and looked as if she was nearly beside herself with anticipation.

  I looked at my watch. It was exactly 9.50 a.m. Damn the man.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Now, Bridget, let me do the talking. You take notes. Good notes and make sure that we get all the information we need.’

  ‘His colleague rang up last night and said she knew that you were particular about what coffee you drank and could I give her any guidance,’ Bridget told me. ‘It was very efficient, I thought, but, Ami, how do they know about your coffee thing?’

  ‘I do not have a coffee thing,’ I said. ‘I like French-blend coffee – you know that, but it’s not a thing. Now listen to me, Bridget, this is a man who I suspect likes to play mind games. However, he is also in charge of the account that will rescue Brand New, so we’re going to be very professional and we’re not going to let him get to us.’

  Good, it was now 9.52 a.m. By the time we’d signed in at the desk it would be five to ten and I would’ve proved him wrong about me always being ten minutes early.

  Bridget and I pushed our way into the dark-panelled lobby and told the immaculate blonde behind the sweep of oak desk why we were there. She indicated that we should wait in the deep upholstery of a couple of sofas to the left; as we sat down I could hear her picking up the phone. I looked up at what looked like a Renoir hanging from the dark panelling.

  ‘Can’t be real.’ I wafted my arm at it and Bridget stared too.

  ‘You’re right, it’s a fake,’ came the northern voice I’d last heard on the phone, from a corridor, which led to the lift. ‘But apparently the one upstairs in the boardroom is real.’

  Ben sounded as if he thought that the idea of having a real old master was highly amusing. He was wearing a dark suit and a deep pink shirt. Patches of purple sat under his eyes over a fading suntan; his blond hair was a mop on his head. He was a big man – in the wrong light he could have been slightly overweight, but he was undeniably attractive.

  Behind him was a polished brunette in an expensive, subtly sexy pencil skirt. Her hair swung down her back in a shining curtain of health and her cheekbones were from pure aristocratic DNA.

  ‘Amelia.’ Ben held out his hand as I rose to greet him. The hazel of his eyes was speckled with a lighter glint; the lines around them had been caused by irrepressible laughter – probably at other people’s expense.

  I shook his enormous hand.

  ‘This is Bridget Ashcroft.’ I gestured with my left hand and realised that he was still holding firmly onto my right.

  ‘This is Claudia Bennett.’ Ben let go of my hand but carried on looking straight at me as he referred to the glossy brunette beside him.

  ‘Hello, Claudia. Pleased to meet you.’

  I bet he’s trying to sleep with her. I shook hands, smiled as normally as I could and then reached behind me to gather up my briefcase and the portfolio of work.

  ‘Shall we go straight to the conference room?’ Claudia said in immaculate received pronunciation.

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ I said and started to follow the little procession towards the corridor.

  ‘Your friend was right, you know,’ Ben whispered in my ear, just as I got to the lift door. ‘I know it’s not the done thing to say this at work, but you are very beautiful.’

  I stared straight ahead of me and refused to acknowledge that he’d spoken. I was chuffed and annoyed in equal measure but I knew he’d only said it to get the upper hand.

  Inside another panelled room upstairs I sat down, passed out my business card, gestured to Bridget to sit down too and zipped open the portfolio.

  Ben sprawled in his chair as if it were too small for his frame. ‘I think we’ve got some French coffee,’ he said.

  ‘That’s extremely kind of you.’ I tried to smile. ‘But I really don’t have a thing about coffee.’

  ‘I love French-blend coffee too.’

  I accepted a cup from Claudia and added milk. ‘Shall we go through our presentation first?’

  ‘You go ahead, Ami.’ He smiled on. Claudia didn’t seem to notice anything peculiar about the atmosphere, but I saw that Bridget’s eyes were darting around as if she was trying to get a grip on what was happening.

  I started to present the various pages of the portfolio – campaigns we’d worked on, statistics about their success. Claudia looked with interest at every page – shoe campaigns, lingerie, handbags, clothes – and asked lots of questions. Ben, however, sat smiling and looking as much at me talking as he did at the portfolio.

  ‘Brave thing to do, set up on your own,’ he said, interrupting me midflow.

  ‘Yes, but we’re still part of a much bigger group. We’ve access to all the Goldwyn resources but the ability to draw on all sorts of young, outside thinking.’ It was my stock answer to that question.

  ‘I like your work,’ he said as if he’d seen enough now and Bridget closed the portfolio. ‘You’re obviously a very clever woman, Ami, but that’s not surprising given the potential you showed at school and how hard you’ve always worked.’ Damn Liv.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew each other,’ Claud
ia said.

  ‘We don’t.’ I tried very hard not to sound terse.

  ‘I know an awful lot about Ami, though,’ Ben went on.

  ‘I admired your work with LandGirls,’ Claudia said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s a shame about that brand,’ Ben said. ‘Impact your agency much?’

  ‘Well, it’s not good news, of course, but we have a broad client base and—’

  ‘And you’d like to add Campury to it?’ He looked directly at me.

  ‘We’d like that.’ I stared straight back. ‘Why don’t you tell us what you’re trying to achieve?’

  As I sat back and he sat forward, I fumed like a pipe smoker spitting out new puffs of anger.

  ‘It’s probably a bigger challenge than anything you’ve taken on before – or than I have either,’ he started. ‘We will, of course, be going out for a competitive pitch with several agencies and we need to move very fast indeed if we want to get the sales growth we’ve projected in the UK this year. This is not a job for the faint-hearted.’

  ‘We love a challenge,’ Bridget piped up.

  I tried not to glare at her.

  Ben went on talking, his craggy brow pulled together in concentration. ‘Campury – beautiful bags, reek of history and wealth. A bit like a Rolls-Royce in Britain. The brand has become unattainable to most people. We’ve got to turn it on its head and make the bags appeal to younger women – be something that they buy early in their thirties and build a collection. It’s the only way we avoid a dying market.

  ‘This can’t be ordinary and it has to have a huge impact – literally reinvent the brand overnight. We’ve got a file of demographic information and all that,’ he went on. ‘But that’s it really – we need to double our turnover in the UK. We’re prepared to throw quite a lot of money at it.’

  Claudia pushed a folder full of information across the desk to Bridget.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll want to pitch if you’d like to include us.’ I got ready to go. ‘When do you need ideas back?’