Whatever problems you think you have, I want to say to Josh and Lydia, just let them go. You are young and you’re together and you’re alive. Make the most of everything while everything is what you have.
But of course, I can’t say these things. I can’t tell them that sometimes life is just hard and that the same applies to everyone, regardless of status or age or wealth. That would be far too honest, and it is something that no one wants to hear. Most people want the reassurance of a solution, even in situations where the possibility of one might not exist.
I look again at the ring. It is large and showy; it seems an unlikely choice for a woman who appears as reserved as Lydia, though it might be possible that it was presented to her as a surprise, in much the same way mine was. Maybe it reflects how Josh regards her, which may be very different to the way Lydia sees herself. I wonder if it once suited her, and whether the woman Josh proposed to was a different person to the woman who is sitting opposite him today.
I look at her and widen my eyes, encouraging her once again to continue. ‘You were at the bar,’ I remind her, though it is my own mind that has wandered for a moment. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘I don’t remember the details,’ she admits. ‘Well, if I’m honest, I wasn’t really looking for anything, not at that time, anyway. We talked a bit, about the party mostly, I think, and when I went home, I didn’t really expect to see him again.’
‘Why not?’
‘She probably couldn’t remember any of it.’ Josh speaks to the window, as though thinking aloud, his statement not really directed at either of us. The words are scathing and dismissive and I see the reaction they burn into Lydia’s face. She doesn’t meet my eye, too embarrassed by her husband’s shaming of her in front of someone who is still for now little more than a stranger.
‘I’d had a couple of drinks,’ she says, as though she feels the need to explain or defend herself.
‘A couple of bottles.’
She looks at me, her eyes pleading with mine as though willing me to ask her husband to stop what he is doing. Her face is flushed slightly, drawing colour into her pale cheeks. She might be an attractive woman, but a tiredness pulls at her features and there are dark shadows beneath her eyes. I say nothing in response to Josh’s comment, though it obviously raises questions. I don’t want to give attention to behaviour that is unkind, so instead I move the focus back to Lydia. He will get a chance to give his version of their meeting. I wonder which of their accounts will be closest to the truth. Sometimes it’s easier to lie to yourself than it is to accept a truth that was always there but was never wanted.
‘You say you didn’t expect to see Josh again. Why was that?’
‘I don’t know. You know how it is,’ she says, as though we’ve known each other for years, just two friends meeting up for a coffee and a chat. ‘Men like Josh and women like me …’
She trails into silence and looks down at her hands again, and I think I see one of the problems here. Looking at Josh, my suspicions are perhaps confirmed. He eyes his wife with a sideways glare, his gaze concentrated on her face and his frustrations with her almost tangible in the air between the three of us. Lydia flattens her hair against the side of her head before picking at a thumbnail, in what appears to be a concentrated effort not to make eye contact with either Josh or me. Her anxiety is palpable, infusing the air around us. Is she always this self-deprecating? I wonder. Does he always respond to her self-criticism with such obvious impatience?
‘Women like you,’ I repeat. ‘What do you mean by that?’
I already know exactly what she is suggesting, but to get to the root of this relationship’s problems I need to hear her truths as Lydia sees them. There is evidently a confidence issue here, and I wonder whether it is historically embedded within her, or whether Josh has in some way contributed to her lack of self-belief.
Josh has so far shown little more than hostility, but I realise it would be unfair of me to judge him on this first assessment alone. His response is natural, perhaps, in the way that so many people react to these initial sessions with reluctance and apathy, not quite sure of themselves, or in some cases, too sure. I remind myself that until I know and see more of him and his relationship with his wife, I must remain neutral. Living with someone who is constantly negative, someone who berates themselves for everything in the way it already appears Lydia might do, may be as challenging as living with someone who believes they can do no wrong. And things are often very different behind closed doors.
‘I don’t know,’ she replies, repeating the phrase that acts as a prefix to much of what she says. ‘I just didn’t expect him to notice me.’ She presses her hair behind her ears, though none has fallen loose from where it is carefully pinned in place. ‘Men like Josh don’t look twice at women like me.’
Josh emits a noise, a snort that seems to make light of his wife’s feelings, and it does nothing to help the awkwardness that has fallen over the room.
‘And yet he obviously made the effort to contact you again after that first meeting,’ I say, suspecting there is little chance it was Lydia who pursued the relationship. She doesn’t seem to me the type of woman who would ask a man if he wanted to go for a drink, not if her response to his initial attention is anything to judge her character by.
‘Exactly,’ Josh adds, in a tone that is at once exasperated and edged with a smug gratitude.
Lydia nods. ‘I was at work a few days later and suddenly there he was,’ she says, smiling at the memory. ‘He said he was just passing, but I knew that was a lie – he didn’t work or live anywhere near the place. He asked me out for a drink after work and I couldn’t find an excuse not to go.’
‘Charming,’ Josh says, and when he speaks this time it is accompanied by the faintest hint of a smile. He is better-looking when he smiles, I notice: the harder edges of his face soften, and his eyes seem to warm from their grey coolness. His nose is crooked at the bridge; it appears to have been broken at some point. I wonder what happened to him: whether the injury was accidental or the result of something more.
‘You know what I mean.’
In this moment – as in that moment at the front door earlier – no one would believe that this couple has any problems, or at the very least no problems that merit seeking the help of a marriage guidance counsellor. I wonder how their relationship looks to those outside their home yet still close enough to care about them – parents, siblings, friends. Couples in crisis often act out the marriage they wish they had when in the company of others, with many doing an effective job at convincing those who love them that everything is fine even when it isn’t. But performances like that are hard to maintain long-term. Eventually the truth escapes through the cracks and the reality of the situation warps the veneer that has been so carefully constructed.
I am always a last resort. By the time they come to me for help, most couples have already discussed the very real possibility of divorce.
‘And what then?’ I ask.
Lydia licks her lips nervously, knowing she is expected to say far more than she has so far offered. I lean forward and pour her a cup of tea; she adds milk and sips it carefully, all the while avoiding her husband’s eyes. From where I am sitting, I watch them both, conscious not to make it too obvious that I am doing so. She is anxious and on edge, constantly fiddling with something: the hair that is pinned back so precisely, the rings that adorn her slender fingers, the deep blue hemline of her dress. He, meanwhile, continues to radiate a hostility that can be felt like the heat of a flame, his angular jaw set in defiance and his face stamped with a permanent expression of irritability.
‘We arranged a time and a place, and I popped home after work to get changed before meeting him at the pub. It was nice, you know …’ She trails off as embarrassment creeps up into her cheeks in a mottle of pink that sits upon the flush already settled there. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s a bit weird talking about it all like
this, especially to a stranger. Sorry, I don’t mean any offence by that. I don’t really know what to say.’
‘It’s okay,’ I reassure her. ‘Take your time. If it’s easier, try to imagine I’m not here. Don’t tell me about it – tell Josh.’
Lydia shifts in the chair and takes a breath as though she is about to embark upon a recital. I take this moment to study her: her hands in her lap, her fingers restless; her shoulders hunched, her body bracing itself. Though she is in her thirties, there is something older about the conservative way she dresses. There is a nervousness about her that makes itself known in every movement and gesture, that makes everything around her seem unstable in some way, as though her own uncertainty is left like a trail of crumbs behind her wherever she moves, visible to anyone who might care enough to look. She is hesitant when she speaks, seeming to assess every word before she allows it to leave her mouth, and I wonder whose benefit her caution is for.
‘I made the mistake of saying I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and you insisted on getting us dinner, do you remember? I wouldn’t order anything, so you chose what you wanted and then ordered the same for me. Lamb, I think it was. It wasn’t particularly nice, but I ate it so as not to offend you.’ She turns to me. ‘I hate eating in front of people. I’d never normally have dinner on a first date – I don’t think most people do, do they? There’s always that worry about spilling something on yourself or getting something stuck in your teeth, and if anyone’s going to do something daft, it’s always likely to be me.’
She laughs nervously, seeming embarrassed at the speed at which her words have fallen from her. Looking down at her hands in her lap, she lapses into silence, as though immediately regretting having said so much. There is something vulnerable about this woman. Her anxiety makes the room feel small and constricting.
‘That’s not how it happened,’ Josh says, shaking his head but directing his comment at me. ‘She couldn’t make a decision, so she asked me to choose something for her.’
There’s something defensive in his tone, as though he feels himself under attack by Lydia. The way he addresses me when it was his wife who spoke to him implies a dismissiveness that is already beginning to appear to be second nature to him.
A silence follows.
‘Did I?’
Josh tuts as though dealing with an argumentative child, and I wonder if he always treats her in this way. This short amount of time has already allowed me an insight into his personality, and what he has shown of himself so far does little to endear him to an onlooker. I know how it feels to live with someone who trivialises your feelings and belittles you as though for fun. I know the effects of being spoken down to and made to feel like less than nothing, how over time these things chip the edges off you and change your shape, altering your very form. I wonder if the Lydia who sits beside me today is different to the one who existed before Josh, and if so, just how altered she is.
Josh sighs heavily and shifts on the sofa. It is obvious already that he is not engaged in the session, and it is starting to feel as though his very being here is an inconvenience to him. ‘You know, I found it charming at first,’ he says, ‘the way she deliberated over everything. It was flattering to be relied upon to make choices; it felt like I was earning her trust. Gets a bit wearing after a while, though.’ He sits back and folds his arms across his chest, a defensive action that creates a divide between him and Lydia. Between him and me. ‘She’s just not very good at making decisions. She never seems to know what she wants.’
She. That single word used yet again says so much more than it might at first suggest. I am trying not to make a snap judgement of Josh, but he isn’t making it easy for me to see anything through the hostility radiating from him.
‘How did you feel after that first evening you spent together?’
Lydia picks at the nail of her left thumb again. ‘Good. I mean … it was nice, obviously.’ She looks at her husband and smiles, though the gesture is not reciprocated. ‘We swapped numbers and said we’d do it again sometime. And that sometime turned out to be the following weekend, I think. We went to the theatre – there was a show on that I must have mentioned. He went and bought tickets, as a surprise.’
Romantic, I think. The act appears in complete contradiction to everything that Josh has managed to present of himself during the short time they’ve been here. It is an indicator that he listened to Lydia during that first date; really listened, and not just in the way that people often seem to, mostly thinking about what they want to say next. I have seen so many of those people in this room, men and women: people who talk but don’t hear; people who speak relentlessly but say very little.
What happened between that first date and now that so dramatically changed the way he behaves towards her?
Perhaps my initial judgement of Josh is unfair – and it is true that despite the necessity to appear neutral, impartiality is almost impossible, and judgement is inevitable. Maybe I have got him wrong: perhaps he is one of those rare listeners, someone who says little but takes everything in, preferring to maintain a silence until he has something meaningful to offer to a conversation. His few words today may simply be evidence of this, and yet I can’t place a finger on the reason why I already doubt it.
‘What was it called?’
‘Sorry?’ Lydia looks at Josh, a flicker of panic flitting across her face, and I wonder why she seems so flustered by the question.
‘The show,’ he says flatly. ‘What was it called?’
Lydia looks at me and smiles. ‘I can’t remember now,’ she says, waving a hand as though to shoo away her forgetfulness. ‘I’ve got a shocking memory, really I have. I need to write things down otherwise they go out of my head again within seconds. I remember I enjoyed it, though.’
Ignoring her, Josh turns to direct his response to me. ‘It was called The Playing Field. It was a local production about a group of graduates: where their lives took them after university and how fate brought them all back together. She loved it, but it was awful. Like watching a bunch of sixth-form students fail a drama exam.’
He adopts a different voice for this last statement, making his tone deeper as though to mimic someone. He holds my gaze for a moment longer than is comfortable, and I look away. The weight of his stare reminds me of someone else, taking me back to a time I have tried for years to put to the back of my mind, though I know that no matter what I do, those days will never be forgotten. He is out of my life, but he will never be truly gone.
‘But you stayed for the duration, for Lydia’s sake,’ I say, speaking to Josh but directing the words at his wife. ‘To give her something you knew would make her happy,’ I add, confirming it as fact rather than offering it as a question.
Josh shrugs. ‘Of course. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’
Not everyone does, I think. Some people only see their own wants, their own needs.
‘I remember now,’ Lydia says. ‘Of course I do.’ She smiles, first at her husband and then at me. ‘I’d really wanted to see it, but I had no one else to go with.’
‘Are you sure you remember?’ Josh says, his tone unnecessarily challenging. ‘I mean, this is one of the problems, isn’t it?’ he continues, throwing the words at her. ‘Your memory isn’t that reliable. How much do you actually remember of anything? She only seems to recall the bad bits,’ he says, turning to me. ‘It’s like everything that was ever good has just been wiped from her memory.’
This is the most Josh has said, and it tells me something more about their relationship and why they are here, the shades of grey that pattern the two of them together beginning to form a picture as they speak. They were happy, once. For whatever reason, it seems their versions of the past are very different, though this is not uncommon between two people who have experienced so much together yet are shaped by life differently enough to view their shared history in contrast. It is true that while the human brain can easily forget names, places and events, it is usuall
y able to remember feelings. We may not recall exactly what happened, but we are able to remember how something made us feel.
‘It’s quite usual for that to happen,’ I tell him. ‘Sometimes our brains focus on the negative and we appear to forget the good. It doesn’t mean the happy memories aren’t there – there are ways we can bring them back. It’s actually a lot more common than people realise.’
It can work the other way as well. People forget the bad and focus only on the good, as though blocking out anything that might stain the image of a time or a person they have imprinted upon their mind. It often happens this way following a death. Once someone is gone, only the goodness in their character remains in the memory of the person who loved them, as though they personified perfection, elevated to a saintly status once there is nothing tangible to contradict the illusion. No one is without flaws, though these flaws become lost to the memory once memory is all that remains.
Perhaps I am guilty of doing the same where Sean is concerned, although in his case there were so few flaws to be found. He was patient when I most needed him to be; he was understanding of things that I was unable to put into words or explain even to myself. We met at a time when I believed myself incapable of love – of loving another person or of being loved by someone else – and he managed to restore most of what my first husband had taken from me and broken. Sean was one of those rare beings, an anomaly among humans: an almost-perfect.
‘That’s not true,’ Lydia says, objecting to her husband’s accusation. ‘It’s just it sometimes feels as though the bad has started to outweigh the good, that’s all.’
The Divorce: A gripping psychological thriller with a fantastic twist Page 2