by Josie Silver
We laugh so hard that tears roll down my face, and she pats my hand.
“How long for you?”
I swallow. “Five months. My choice, though. We weren’t married all that long.”
I don’t add how shell-shocked we both are or how horrified my mother-in-law was. The only thing worse than my marrying Oscar is my divorcing him. My own mum’s at a bit of a loss; she keeps sending me texts to see if I’ve eaten breakfast, but whenever I try to talk to her she doesn’t seem to know what to say.
I’ve been renting a colleague’s spare room for the last few months; Oscar tried to insist I stay on in the flat, but there was no way I could.
“Not because of anyone else,” I add. “It just didn’t work out.”
We pick up our drinks and do our worst. “Fucking awful,” she says as we slam them down. I’m not sure if she means the drink or our predicament. She splays her left hand flat on the bar and pokes her wedding ring with the end of a straw. “Time to take it off, really.”
I do the same, placing my hand alongside hers on the bar. “Me too.”
We stare at our fingers, and then she looks at me. “Ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you ever going back to him?”
Not long after we separated, I wavered late one night and called Oscar in Brussels. I don’t even know what I wanted to say, I was just overwhelmingly sad without him. Perhaps it’s as well that Cressida answered his phone in a loud bar; I hung up and he didn’t call back. I don’t need a crystal ball to know that, in time, she will be the one who picks up his broken heart and pieces it back together. It’s as it should be; perhaps she’s always held on to a piece of it anyway. I’m embarrassed by how often I publicly cried in the aftermath of our marriage breakup. I cried silently on the bus going to work and again on the way home to my empty bed. Sometimes I didn’t even realize tears were rolling down my cheeks until I caught sight of my reflection in the dark bus windows. I recognize it now for what it was: a grieving process—for him, and for me, and for us.
I shake my head at Vanessa, downcast. No, I’m never going back to Oscar.
“Then you’re ready. We both are,” she says.
My ring hasn’t left my finger since Oscar placed it there on our wedding day. I can’t imagine ever feeling ready to take it off, but this bizarre moment has presented itself to me, and I can’t wear the ring forever. I nod, then feel sick.
She reaches for her wedding band, pausing to look pointedly at mine.
I take a big swig of my disgusting cocktail. “Let’s get it over with.”
We watch each other and keep pace, turning our rings a couple of times to free them. Mine’s looser than usual anyway; my appetite has disappeared of late. The diamond-set ring slides up over my knuckle and I take it off slowly, because once it’s off I can never put it back on again. Tears prick my eyes, and beside me Vanessa slips her ring all the way off and lays it on the bar.
I take her bravery for my own and follow suit, my mouth trembling. I can’t hide a sob, and she puts an arm of solidarity around my shoulders as we sit side by side and stare at the two wedding bands.
I’ve cried more tears than I ever thought possible over the last year. Perhaps it’s time to dry my eyes.
DECEMBER 17
Jack
Amanda’s angling for a ring for Christmas. She’s dropped every hint in the book, from leaving magazines open on the pertinent pages to studiously watching Don’t Tell the Bride every Thursday, and now we’re walking through town on the coldest Saturday afternoon of the year and she’s stopped to gaze into a jeweler’s window.
It’s become a difficult subject since she first mooted the idea of marriage in Norway, and I’m not really sure how to address it.
Now she’s pointing out one with a massive diamond—fuck, is that really the price! It looks like a weapon, not a piece of jewelry.
“Shall we go and get drunk?” I say, looking at the pub across the road.
She frowns. “Is the thought of marrying me so bad you need a drink?”
“No, but shopping is,” I say, and hate myself when she looks wounded. I don’t look directly at the rings, because I don’t want to have this conversation today.
“Okay,” she sighs. “Beer it is.”
* * *
“Another?”
I should say no. We’ve been in here for three hours now and we’re really quite plastered.
“Go on,” Amanda says. “You said you wanted to get drunk.”
Maybe I’m getting too old for this game, but I’ve had enough.
“Let’s go home instead,” I say, swaying a bit as I stand up.
“We don’t have a home,” she says. “It’s your flat or mine.”
“You sound sexy when you put it like that.”
She doesn’t get up. She folds her arms across her silvery metallic sweater and crosses her long, denim-clad legs, a dangerous glitter in her vodka-bold eyes.
“Propose to me.”
I blink a few times to focus. “Amanda…”
“Go on. Do it now, I’m ready.”
Clearly those diamonds are still on her mind. She’s laughing as if she’s larking around, but there’s a steely edge to her voice that warns me of incoming trouble.
“Come on,” I wheedle. “Let’s get out of here.” I’m aware that the couple at the next table overheard her and are trying not to make it obvious that they’re watching. She’s a vaguely recognizable face from TV; the last thing either of us needs is a public row.
“You said that to me the very first time I met you,” she says. “At that party. Let’s get out of here.”
I nod, remembering. “I did say that.” I sit back down on the stool, my elbows on my knees as I lean in to make our conversation more private. I’m struggling to hear her properly in here.
“No, I did,” Amanda says, contradicting herself. “I did as you asked, and I’ve been doing whatever you ask ever since. And now I’m asking you to ask me something instead.” She frowns, tripping up over her confusing speech.
“That’s a lot of asking for one woman.” I smile, going for lighthearted, aware I’m probably grimacing more than smiling.
“Ask me now or we’re done.” She’s not going to let it go, and I’m feeling increasingly backed into a corner.
“Don’t be daft.”
“I’m deadly fucking serious, Jack,” she says, too sharp, and I fall quiet because it’s clear that I’m not going to cajole her out of this pub. “Last Christmas” starts up on the jukebox and Amanda’s mouth twists at the irony.
“This isn’t the place,” I say, my hand on her knee.
“Probably not,” she says, shaking me off. “But then, there isn’t a good place to propose to someone you don’t love, is there?”
Fucking hell. “Please…” I start, not even knowing what I’m going to say next. This isn’t going to be okay.
“Oh, please yourself, you usually do. You know what, Jack? Forget it.” She’s angry now, tears on her lashes. “Forget the whole fucking thing. I’m done with waiting for you to decide if you’ll ever love me enough.” A tear runs down her cheek and she dashes it away. She stands up, wobbling on her high boots. “This is officially the last time you get to say no to me.”
I wish we hadn’t had a drink. She’s saying things, I’m saying things, and they’re the kind of things that stay unspoken for a reason. I stand, picking up our coats. “Come on,” I say, because all I want is to get out of here.
“No.” She lays her hand flat on the center of my chest. It’s not a loving gesture; it’s a “stay there.” “I’m leaving and you’re not. I’m leaving you because you don’t deserve me. Because I won’t be your girl in reserve anymore. Because you can’t love someone if you’
re already in love with someone else.”
We stare at each other, knowing there’s no coming back from this. I feel winded. Is that what I’ve done to her?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I—” I stop, because she’s already turned away and is pushing a path through the busy Christmas drinking crowd.
I sit back down again with my head in my hands, and a few minutes later the guy from the next table lays a whisky down in front of me.
I nod, try to say thanks, but the words clog in my throat. Someone puts “Lonely This Christmas” on the jukebox, and I close my eyes and feel like a fool for a million different reasons.
2017
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS
My life feels so far removed from the person I was twelve months ago; I can barely stand to look at those hopeful resolutions of last year. Where would I be now if Oscar and I had gotten pregnant on our first or second attempt? Pushing a stroller around Brussels? Would I have been happy? It feels too far away from the reality of my life to visualize.
Anyway, enough looking back. It’s time to look forward.
1) I need to sort out my living accommodation. I’m thirty this summer—too old to be renting someone’s spare room.
2) Work. I don’t mind my job, but it feels stale. It covers the bills, just, but I don’t think that’s enough anymore. I’m treading water. In fact, that’s how I’d sum up my whole life right now. It’s strange—you’d think that in the upheaval of separation, the stability of work would be welcome. It’s actually had the opposite effect; it’s made me want to throw all my cards up in the air and see where they land. I’m treading water, but what I want is to swim.
There. That’s my resolution for the year ahead in one word.
3) Swim.
MARCH 1
Jack
“Happy birthday.”
Martique (I know, it’s a stage name; she won’t answer to her actual name, which is Tara—I saw her passport) has just strolled into my apartment on heels higher than some people’s kneecaps, and now she’s unbuttoning her dress.
“I didn’t know what to get you, so I bought myself some new underwear instead.”
Her dress pools around her ankles and she dips one knee, her hand on her hip. She’s filthy hot and she knows it. She reminds me of a young Sophia Loren; all delicious curves and smoky eyes. “Well?” she pouts. “Do you like it, Jack?”
No red-blooded man could resist. She’s a temptress; I wouldn’t be surprised if she produced an apple out of nowhere and asked me if I’d like a bite.
“I like it,” I say, crossing the room.
“Then show me.”
Her perfume is pure bordello, sending a message straight to my groin, and her mouth tastes of lipstick and one of the ten million cigarettes she smokes a day. Her teeth are tugging on my bottom lip, her hands working my jeans open. We’ve been doing this on and off for a few weeks now. It’s an arrangement that suits us both. She’s on the way up, one of the many starlet singers who pass through the radio station. I’m her ideal man, she told me when we first met. By that, I know she means I’m her ideal step up on the route to stardom, someone slightly less good-looking than her who she can shag without any emotional complications and no fear of exposure.
I don’t think we even like each other very much; my personal life has hit the buffers. Even as she steps out of her underwear, I’m thinking that this is going to be the last time.
We sink onto the sofa, her astride me, and I admire the way even the mess of smeared lipstick somehow looks sexy on her. She leans in, saying all the right words in the right order, and I close my eyes and try not to feel bad.
“Happy birthday,” she murmurs when we’re done, biting my earlobe before she climbs off me and checks her phone. “There’s somewhere I need to be.”
I watch her get dressed, my jeans around my ankles. I rub my ear, checking if she’s drawn blood. I’m not sorry she’s leaving.
* * *
Later, at the station, I pick up a text from Sarah and Luke, who bizarrely has turned out to be one of my favorite Aussies—not that I know that many. He likes a beer and he loves Sarah in a clear and uncomplicated way that he doesn’t even try to hide. They’ve sent me a picture of them holding up a “Happy Birthday Jack” sign, both of them pissing about laughing. They’re on a beach and the words have come out backward, which only seems to have amused them more. It amuses me too, and I send them back a quick Thank you, you pair of idiots.
Laurie has texted too. All her message says is Happy Birthday x. It’s so brief that there’s nothing to read into it. All the same, I study it, wondering if she puts a kiss at the end of every text she sends.
That’s when I decide. I don’t want to be the type of person who shags the type of person like Martique. I want what Sarah and Luke have. I may not be worthy of someone as good as Laurie, but I want to try to be that person.
I read her message over one last time, and then reply.
Thanks x
JUNE 5
Laurie
“You live in paradise.”
Sarah and I are sitting outside a cafe overlooking the impossibly white sands of Cottesloe beach. It’s winter here, but still a million times sunnier than the gray skies I left behind a couple of weeks ago. We’ve spent a gorgeous two weeks catching up; Skype is all well and good, but it’s got nothing on being in the same room or on the same beach or laughing over a movie together. We ceremonially re-created our Delancey Street signature sandwich a few days ago; Luke declared it disgusting, but we put our feet up and savored the moment. I don’t think either of us would make that sandwich without the other one being there; the fact that it’s ours is the whole point of it. We’re refilling our friendship with new memories, and I’m loving every minute of being here.
“Come and live out here. We can be neighbors.”
I laugh softly. She’s said the same thing a dozen times or more since I arrived. “Okay. I’ll ring work and tell them I’m never coming back.”
“Fancy us getting to thirty,” Sarah says. She’s sitting in the shade sipping some health-juice thing on account of the fact that she’s four months pregnant; she and Luke have put their wedding plans on ice for a while in favor of welcoming the baby. It’s all just so easy between them; they live in each other’s pockets in their gorgeous beach house, with their windows and doors flung open to the world.
There was always a part of me that used to envy her, but I know life hasn’t just dropped good things in her lap; she made all of this happen for herself. She was brave enough to take chances—she always has been.
“I know you think I’m kidding, but what’s holding you there?”
I sip the champagne Sarah insisted I have. “It’s her birthday,” she told the waitress as soon as we arrived. “Bring her the good stuff.”
“Imagine what my mum would say if I told her I was leaving England?”
She nods, her face turned toward the ocean. “She’d adjust, though. Everyone does. And she’s got your brother and his family.” She sucks more of the green gunk up the straw and pulls a face. “What else is holding you there?”
“Well, my job, for starters,” I say.
“Which you could do from anywhere,” she counters. I moved on from the health desk a couple of months ago; ironically enough I’ve returned to my old stomping ground as an agony aunt. This time, though, it’s troubled adults who write to me rather than teenage girls; clearly I’m qualified to dish out advice on the stuff that matters these days. Divorce, grief, love, loss. I’ve been there, and I have the drawer full of T-shirts to prove it. I’ve turned out to be so much of a hit with readers that I’ve been asked to do something similar for one of the magazines in a Sunday paper. I’m as surprised as anyone. I’ve returned to studying recently too; a psychology degree to deepe
n my understanding of the human condition—at least, that’s how I described it when I was convincing my boss to help fund it shortly after I started there. I’m quietly loving it; the industry of study, the organization, the stationery even. It’s not a direction I’d ever imagined I’d go in, but that’s okay. Life does that, doesn’t it? Reroutes you as it goes along. But Sarah’s right, I could work and study from anywhere—as long as I have my laptop and a Wi-Fi connection, I’m good.
Could I live here? I look at Sarah in her wide-brimmed red sun hat and glamorous sunglasses, and I can see the advantages.
“This place is beautiful, Sar, but it’s your place in the world, not mine.”
“Where’s yours?” she says. “Because I’ll tell you what I think. Your place isn’t somewhere. It’s someone. I’m here because it’s where Luke is. You’d have gone to Brussels if Oscar was your place.”
I nod, and she pushes her glasses up her nose.
Now that Oscar and I have been apart for some time, I’m starting to understand that we didn’t have what it takes to stay together for a lifetime. I thought we did, for a while; he was a safe and secure interlude in the tumult of my life, but in the end we weren’t a forever fit. We were just too different. I’m sure that doesn’t matter sometimes if the love is strong enough; opposites attract, as they say. Perhaps we just didn’t love each other enough? I don’t like that thought, though. I prefer to think we had something wonderful for a while, and that we shouldn’t regret anything about the time we gave to each other.
I never see him; I don’t run into him in bars or spot him out walking and cross the street—a positive side effect of living in different countries. Not that I’m spending my time in bars. I seem to have gone into hibernation.
He mailed our painting to my mum’s house at Christmas. The accompanying note said that he finds it too difficult having it around. I don’t know what I’ll do with it; I feel as if I have no right to it. I looked at it for a long time after it arrived. I lay on the single bed I slept in as a child and I thought of all the moments leading up to now. My childhood with Mum and Dad, Daryl and Ginny. School and college boyfriends. Delancey Street. Sarah. The top deck of a packed bus. A kiss in the snow. A beach in Thailand. A proposal in front of this very picture. Our beautiful wedding.