Into the Light
Page 19
“I’m glad you said that. It’s how I would feel too. Take the moral high ground and let karma do whatever it sees fit to Charles.”
“I’ll talk to my solicitor tomorrow.”
He seals my promise with a kiss.
“What about you? When do you go back to Oxford?”
“I’m not.”
“What?”
“I’ve not had chance to explain. We’ve been busy with more important things.” He tweaks my nipple as a sign of what he obviously sees as more important. “I’ve arranged for a house clearance company to take everything away and I’ve instructed a letting agent to rent it out. I meant it when I said I’m ready to move on Rosa.”
“What about your job?”
“The research is complete and the Dean has agreed to me taking a sabbatical. I don’t need to commit to returning for at least a year.”
“Wow.”
“I can help my uncle with the gardening business, although, now his back is on the mend, there’s not enough for two over the winter. Unless you’ve got any other ideas of what I can do?”
“And I’ve handed my notice in.” I quickly add.
“Well Rosa Belle, we’re pretty much free to do whatever we want then.”
We turn our heads to each other in recognition of the ending of significant chapters in our lives and the start of new ones.
“Shall we go back and make this real?” he asks.
I know exactly what he is referring to. We need to start telling people. Make it real.
Poppy and Sky will love the unhindered turn in our lives, perhaps offer advice, because all I can see right now is white light. Nothing that looks familiar in my future sight.
It’s scary and unnerving.
My life has never, not had boundaries and goals.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rosa
Poppy and Sky have had a good day too. They took Lilly to the beach, which Sky was a little dismissive of when Poppy suggested it over breakfast, but now here he is exuding the charms of a Yorkshire seaside resort.
“The ocean…”
“Sea.” Poppy corrects him.
“The sea…” Sky over-emphasises the term and his actual point seems a little under-delivered now. “was goddamn cold. Like, seriously cold. How is that so? 75 degrees today and it’s still cold? Shit, you Brits are pretty tough.”
“It was fine.” Poppy comments, standing behind him, and unbeknownst to him, shaking her head.
“Did Lily paddle in it?" I ask, looking across at the now walking niece of mine. She is chasing Belle about the kitchen, who is starting to get slightly grumpy at having to move every few minutes to what she deems to be a quiet spot.
Kane is making dinner. Yes, that’s right, Kane is in my kitchen making dinner for us all. He kept banging on about his Ramen so Poppy called his bluff and he had no choice but to make it for us all.
My kitchen looks like a bomb has gone off and, considering it is three times the size of his kitchen in Oxford, there’s a sizable mess.
But you know what? I don’t care. I really don’t. My kitchen has been a sad place. A cold, pristine, sad place where at one point there was no food, never mind people in it. One that I had rattled around in on my own with only empty bottles and Adele to listen to.
Now it was full of life from the people I loved. Sharing jokes and laughter. Breathing in delicious smells.
Our hearts are full and our souls nourished.
It is joyous.
It’s funny how a place can accommodate a range of emotions without guilt or remorse. A place can change with you and not just become you. You can see it differently but because it holds no grudges. It isn’t about the decor and the matching cutlery, or the picture window and the range of gadgets. It’s about the people in it and the energy they emit.
Right now, that energy is everything. Everything I ever wanted and everything I would ever need.
I sidle up to Kane who is finely chopping ginger to garnish the broth. The fresh pungent smell adding a final note to the already fragrant mix. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head on his shoulder. He rubs my hands with his free, knifeless hand and leans his head onto mine.
I have all the feels right now.
Every single one.
Please God let this last.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t, because I am securing the memory of it deep within my heart. Ready to pull it out into my consciousness at any moment that I might feel melancholy, because this memory will surely have the power to restore.
The clattering of cutlery and tableware brings me back to reality. Poppy never inherited the grace of our mother, she had more of the bull-dozing nature of Dad. ‘I’m here’ and ‘don’t we know it’ are the two phrases that go together when I think of Poppy.
Subtlety and grace are not in Poppy’s make up at all. That’s probably why her and Sky get on so well. They tackle everything in life at full speed and to hell with the consequences, and I know that as soon as Kane starts to tell them about the doors we’ve both just opened in our lives, they will take over our dreams like they are their own.
Yes, as I figured, when we sit to eat and reveal our new chapter to them, Poppy and Sky are brimming with ideas and suggestions. There are no masculine exchanges about boxing or quips about where we have been and what we have been doing today.
It’s as if we are their protégés. Real life examples of their blog.
Our minds are full of the pictures they paint of little wooden shacks on the peninsula of south eastern Thailand; of log cabins and a pack of husky dogs in northernmost Canada; sea fishing and kayaking in the wilderness of Scandinavia. The list is endless.
I’m not sure if it is for us though?
Rosa and Kane.
We’re not gung-ho adventurers like Poppy and Sky, who entered their free-living lifestyles early in adulthood, at a time when life seemed a little less onerous and consequences of no importance.
I want to let go, really I do, but feel it is going to take baby steps for Kane and I.
We’ve got a bit more of life’s baggage to shake off first. Cutting financial and job ties are just the beginning.
We take it all in though. Soak it all up. We are individually testing the boundaries of our dreams and when we lie in bed later that night we exchange our thoughts and darings.
“What about Belle?” I ask, the only real tie and responsibility either of us have.
“Belle?” He looks at me with faint amusement. “Belle is a floozy, she’s as faithful as her next walk and doggie treat. I’ve had quite a few dogs over the years and she’s the only one that I’ve not had with me constantly, and I guess that has materialised in her flippant devotion. She’ll be fine up here with my aunt and uncle.”
“What did you make of all of the ideas that were floated around tonight?” I ask
“Not sure. How about you?”
“I like the idea of all of them, but if I’m being honest, I’m a bit scared by them too. I’m just not been the adventurous type. More of a home-bird. Even in my younger years I only ventured as far as Manchester when it came to university and although I’ve been a few places on holiday, they’ve all been five star all-inclusive versions of the countries I’ve visited. Not the real deal.”
“Yeah. I’ve not really been anywhere outside of the UK, so for me it’s all new. But I’d like to give it a go. My brother seems to have taken to it, although he’s got an underlying objective I guess.”
“Do you think that’s what we need? An objective? Like Sky and Poppy have got their blog and are using Mexico as the first window on this new world they are filling everyone else dreams with.”
“Yeah. That’s quite possible what we need. An objective.”
We both lie silently and I take that quandary into my dreams.
Chapter Thirty
Rosa
Sky and Poppy are going back to the US today, leaving Kane and I to tie up our loose ends. We’ve managed
to not let them railroad us into any plans that we might regret. We need to determine our own path; whatever that might be.
My boss has emailed and has said that it is with regret that he accepts my resignation. Yeah right. And he has let me go on full pay. Result. He is concerned that I might go to a competitor with all his clients. More likely, he couldn’t live with the embarrassment of my rejection of his advances. It suits me anyway, as it means I can spend the rest of the summer with Kane.
It feels like we have both been on holiday, until today that is. Today feels nothing like a holiday. After taking my sister and her family back to the airport I’ve got to go to the divorce mediation session and sit opposite Charles. Ugh.
Kane has insisted in driving me to the session, although my lawyer and the mediator have advised that he shouldn’t attend.
We take my car and park in a multi-storey car park nearby. It’s still the school holidays and the car park is full of mothers stressed out from dragging their children around various clothing and stationery stores, in a last ditch attempt to kit them out for the new school year.
I am also stressed out and it must show because Kane repeatedly squeezes my hand on the way to the mediator’s offices.
I’ve spoken to the mediator and she seems like a nice enough lady, but I’ve not met her, and I’m worried that until I have, I’m not able to fully form a judgement about her ability to control Charles.
She did try and alleviate my fears, boasting there had never been an altercation at a mediation she’d chaired before. There is a first time for everything.
I’m on the verge of asking Kane to come in with me but also know that would only serve to fuel Charles’ anger. I’m also on the verge of copping out but my solicitor and the mediator have warned of the consequences. A longer divorce hearing in court and a likelihood of an adverse settlement.
Kane reluctantly leaves me at the doors to the reception, with an overly-gripping hug that lingers and blocks the door to my fears.
I am ushered by the receptionist into an ante-room that my solicitor already occupies. A safe zone.
Charles must have been put into the room next door, as I can hear his muffled tone. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck prick up, along with an excess watering in my mouth, which is surprising because my mouth is simultaneously dry. I stand up and walk towards the water cooler.
My solicitor raises her hand, as if to stop me from heading out of the door. I cast her a negative look and catch an unfortunate hint of worry in hers.
Shit. She shouldn’t look worried. It’s okay for me to be worried, this is my first time and I’ve seen Charles in his recent anxious state. Seen him frustrated with loss and ready to fight despite the consequences. I’ve seen him outside my house and in the rear-view mirror of my car. I’ve seen him in my nightmares and in my nights alone at home. The home we lived in, and in the bed we shared.
Since Kane came up from Oxford, my nervous thoughts about Charles have subsided. Kane protected me once, and when in my company, ever since. But he’s not with me right now and I curse the instruction I heeded not to have him here.
I remember reading an article about domestic violence and how the statistics show a woman is most vulnerable to fatal harm after she has left the relationship. That memory makes every nerve ending in my body scream out at me to leave.
Leave this windowless room, right now.
Get out.
Get out, right now.
My solicitor has lowered her worried eyes and is tapping away on her phone, as if this is just another day at the office. Another five-minute interlude, to fill with LinkedIn or one of the other social media sites that are acceptable to professionals at work. Desperate to scratch the itch these virtual communities create.
The room is not decorated in a meditative calming way. There are no pictures of dreamy landscapes or other hopeful pointers.
There’s a sign prohibiting smoking. A water cooler with frustrating paper cones that collapse in on themselves when water is added, like the desperate failed relationships that are about to be examined. Chairs with no supportive arms and legs that are too low to give any occupier self-esteem.
This room is a prison that strips its temporary occupants of any hope. I feel like a convict on death row, spending my last few moments before I enter the death chamber. The room beyond this one.
I sit on the chair and rest my head back on the wall, closing my eyes and recreating in my mind the moment with Kane when we laid on the grass. The feeling of his arms protecting me and his words of love soothing me. This is my go to place. My inner heaven.
I am still in this meditative state when we are called through to the boxing ring.
The stench of testosterone is pungent.
Charles is already there. His solicitor and him both encapsulating an image of arrogant masculinity. Charles with one foot resting on his knee and hands in both pockets of his suit trousers. His solicitor sat back with equal hubris.
I am not unnerved, unlike my solicitor. She is scrabbling about in her briefcase pulling out an irritating number of files and notebooks.
I, on the other hand, am calm. Unnaturally so. I feel like I am having an out of body experience and now the time is here, in the eye of the storm I have been able to pull on the inner strength that I always knew was there.
The mediator walks in the room and, with an air of officialdom, introduces herself. I love the manner in which she spells out the process.
“There will be no churlishness and point scoring in my office today. You will both conduct yourself in a manner befitting your age and nothing less will be tolerated.”
I know this will feel like a dressing down, doled out by the headmaster at the private schools Charles and his solicitor have been educated in. It goes without saying, they are cut from the same cloth. They will have had years of actual beatings from a birch cane held by a sadist. And what makes that so laughable, is that their parents paid for it. Paid handsomely for the privilege of sending their beloved sons to a school, where they were deprived of decent food, the luxury of heating in a sob filled dorm, and a soft kiss goodnight from their mothers. Deprived of family and love. And given regular beatings. This is what has formed Charles and his solicitor into the men they have become.
There is not a chance in hell that I will be the victim of their insecurities. Of their lack of childhood love.
No, my inner strength has come from the love of my family growing up. My sister. And now my man. Kane.
I look at the mediator and she looks back at me.
She sees it too.
She crosses her fingers in a closed prayer and symbolically rests her hands on the table in front of her. When she feels sufficient time has passed for her authority to be accepted, with a mere opening of one hand to her left, she invites Charles’ solicitor to speak.
“My client has suffered from the frigid nature of his wife for years and was forced into an extra-marital affair by her lack of affection and attention to his conjugal needs.”
Conjugal needs. Lack of affection. Frigid. Please!
I cannot help but smile at my current lack of frigidity. In fact, it’s all I can do to not fall onto the floor and roll around with hysterical laughter.
Oh, how I wish he could see how frigid I really am, when shown love and desire.
I look across at Charles. His rotund belly is busting apart the buttoned-up seam of his shirt and thrusting to one side his flaccid tie. His hairline is receding and there is hint of red at the roots that belies his attempts to reject the graceful acceptance of aging.
I see this man in a new light. A light that does everything to emasculate him.
I know that a man’s attraction is drawn to women that primevally hint at being a good mate, but surely that is a two-way street and his ability to sire a strong and healthy offspring is not in any way advertised by his body, his nature or his mind.
He is the complete antonym of a life partner. A soul mate. A husband.
But he is now living that choice and he has to make the best of it. Has to make it work and to look like it was the only choice he had and the best decision of his life.
Oh, but how his eyes tell a different story.
Oh dear Charles. What have you done? You poor, poor boy. My heart bleeds.
Hah.
Cxxx.
I relax.
His solicitor continues. “His former wife’s selfish desire to put career and status before my client’s licit and most basic of human rights to have a child. A son. Were too much for any man to have to bear.”
A mere raising of a finger and thumb from the mediator, and his solicitor stops.
“As eloquent as this preamble is, this is a mediation, not a courtroom. There is no need for drama and no place for storytelling. Please move on to the point at which you inform us what your client wants from this divorce settlement.”
My solicitor nods with unrequited vigour.
His solicitor clears his throat and stretches his neck free of his shirt collar. The strangle he feels is more than likely caused by the metaphorical tightening of the mediator’s grasp rather than his attire.
I am starting to weirdly enjoy this.
“My client requires the house, he bought, to raise his family in and…”
My solicitor interrupts, breaking the basic rule and acting against all of the reiterated demands she made of me in the waiting room.
“The house is currently in the process of being sold under the mutual instruction of both parties.”
The mediator raises her other hand, at which my solicitor snaps her mouth closed. Shuffling on her seat in self-reprimand of breaking the cardinal rule.
“Please, let Mr Cockburn-Holt’s wishes be heard and then we will move on to Mrs Cockburn-Holt’s, before we finally get to forge a, mutually agreeable, way forward.”