The Foster Husband

by Pippa Wright

  44

  I had thought my life would begin again when I’d finally put all my mistakes behind me, as if they had never happened. That with a fresh start and a clean slate and any other cliché you care to use, I would move forwards confidently, with intent and self-awareness. I thought there was no place in my life for error, that making mistakes made you a bad person. But now I think differently, that mistakes are what make us who we are. That the people who can love you despite your mistakes (maybe even because of them) are the people you can trust.

  I don’t know what I had expected from telling the truth at last – that my family would cast me out in shame? Shave my head and parade me along the Cobb like the French women who slept with German soldiers in the war? In my defence, I had never actually lied. Everyone just assumed, and it seemed easier to let them keep on assuming rather than to confess to my own tawdry behaviour.

  Of course my sister was furious, but as she hadn’t had much sympathy for me when I was supposedly the victim of a philandering husband, her lack of comforting words now I was revealed as the philanderer was no great surprise. What did surprise me was her insistence that it wasn’t too late to do something about it. And Ben’s agreement. Neither of them could understand why I was hiding away in Lyme Regis, interfering in their relationship instead of trying to put things right in my own. When my parents and Mrs Curtis joined the chorus of people telling me it was time to face up to my mistakes, I could see I was going to get no rest in Lyme until I did.

  More than that, I could see they wanted me to confront my past not as a punishment, but because they cared about me (even Prue), and wanted me to come to terms with what I had done. That moving forwards without accepting my mistakes wasn’t worth anything.

  I have an overnight bag packed, although I have no idea if I am going to stay the night in London. Or even where I might stay. It’s like a reversal of my flight from London, just one month ago, except this time I have borrowed Mum’s car instead of taking the train. I want to be sure I can get away quickly if it all goes wrong.

  As I drive through the New Forest, I make myself a deal that if it goes as badly as I expect, I am allowed to check myself into the most expensive hotel I can afford. One last hurrah with my redundancy money. I will drown my sorrows with minibar cocktails and a sumptuous bubble bath that uses up all the complimentary toiletries. And if it goes really badly, I might even drown myself for real.

  It is time I faced up to the mess I left behind. Dad is right. Things won’t have sorted themselves out while I was hiding away in Lyme. It is up to me to sort them out, here and now. For one moment, I think I might have to stop the car to be sick. I swerve into the outside lane, making the lorry behind beep angrily. Whatever, I think. Your mild annoyance is nothing compared to what will be waiting for me at the end of this motorway. At least the distraction has stopped me feeling nauseous and I carry on driving.

  I’ve often done my best thinking while driving. And my best singing, since there is nowhere better for truly venting your lungs on the high notes with no one to overhear you. But I’m not singing on this journey, and not just because Mum’s CD selection is a little too heavy on the Michael Bublé for my tastes. This trip is just for thinking. I do not trust myself to say the right thing unless I have prepared for it. I rehearse conversations over and over out loud, conversations in which I’m faced with fury or sadness or a door shut in my face. I consider what I’ll do if there’s no one in. How long will I wait, parked outside? Will it make me look desperate? The truth is, I am desperate. Perhaps I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. Perhaps it will help to demonstrate how far I am prepared to go to show I’m truly sorry.

  By the time I come off the motorway my resolve is wavering, but I press my foot on the accelerator and keep moving. Or at least, I try to. The traffic is slow, and it’s raining, which always means half of London forgets how to drive. Everyone seems angry and aggressive – horns blare and pedestrians take alarmingly wild dashes across the road, making me slam on my brakes. The longer I have to wait, sitting in a traffic jam on the Euston Road, watching the windscreen wipers tick-tock in front of me, the more daunting it all seems. To expose myself like this; to take the risk that my apology will be rejected.

  I find a parking spot outside the house immediately. This has to be a sign. I unbuckle my seat belt and sit in the silent car for a moment, considering what I will say first. There is a light on, so I know he’s home. I realize it is perfectly possible there may be someone else there; a possibility I hadn’t planned for in my imaginary conversations.

  If it weren’t for the fact that it’s freezing now the heater’s turned off, I could sit out here for ever. But whether it is contrition or fear of hypothermia that makes me open the car door doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I cross the road, my hands plunged deep into my pockets as if I might wave them around hysterically like a madwoman otherwise. My chin is tucked into my scarf and the wind blows my hair straight back from my face, as if the elements are conspiring to ensure I cannot hide.

  I press on the doorbell and listen. I can hear nothing from inside. I wait for a full minute. I time it on my watch, though it feels longer. It seems almost comical that I have driven here in such furious haste, only for him to be out. I press the doorbell once more, for luck – I need it – and turn to go down the steps to the street.

  I’m one step from the bottom when I hear the door open. I turn quickly, before he can shut the door.

  ‘Hello, Kate,’ he says, his face registering total shock.

  ‘Hi Chris,’ I say, as calmly as I can manage. ‘Can I come in?’

  It only takes half an hour. No, not that. Oh my God no, do you think I’ve learned nothing at all while I’ve been holed up in my home town? Do you think all the time I was staring at the sea I was just contemplating the view and working on my French Lieutenant’s Woman impression? Please. I mean, it only takes half an hour for me to apologize to Chris.

  I know Sarah thought he was the villain of the piece – the opportunist shagger who always caught me at my lowest – but I was every bit as much to blame. He didn’t pour that wine down my throat, I drank it willingly. I wanted to obliterate what I thought had happened between Matt and Sarah, and Chris was just the unwitting conduit for all my misplaced fury. That night I told Sarah to admit it, to own it. Now it’s my turn. I can’t undo everything I’ve done, but I can stare it in the face and, although I know it is a small, small thing, I can say sorry.

  Once Chris gets over his shock, and realizes I’m not there to either scream at him or make him have drunken sex with me in a bathroom, he reacts pretty well. Which is to say that he sits on the sofa and lets me make my pre-prepared speech without interruptions. And when I’m finished he says, ‘Okay.’

  It is more than I deserve. I don’t expect anything else. But as I am leaving – I have other calls to make tonight – Chris surprises me by turning my perfunctory kiss on the cheek into a proper hug, squeezing me tightly. There’s nothing at all sexual about it. It feels more like the action of a caring friend. How strange.

  ‘You’re very brave, Kate,’ he says as we pull apart. ‘I think you’re very brave.’

  I thank him, waving goodbye as I head back to my car, but it worries me a little.

  Brave is nearly always a euphemism for insane, isn’t it? As in, wow, you’ve had a spectacularly brutal haircut, aren’t you brave? Paul was really brave to climb Kilimanjaro in nothing but a pair of Speedos. Did you hear about the man who fought off two gunmen armed only with a traffic cone? Brave. Also, insane.

  I can’t deny that I feel I may be making an enormous mistake by coming back unannounced. But I’ve already made so many, what’s another one to add to the list? I have had to ask myself difficult questions to be able to do this. Am I apologizing for their sake, or for mine? I would like to present my behaviour as solidly altruistic, that I am making amends to those I have wronged, but that would be a lie. I know this is also for me. I just don’t know yet w
hether it’s more for me than it is for them. If I am after absolution at any cost.

  I nearly persuaded myself not to come, that Matt is better off without me. But then I remembered his phone calls to my parents, his letter begging me to talk, and I thought that at the very least I owed him that: to talk to him face to face.

  Talking to Chris was easy, because there was so little at stake. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, and I don’t honestly care. The important thing is that we have parted on good terms, and if I do see him, there is nothing left for either of us to be ashamed of. I can’t say I’ll be racing back to the Crown to hang out with him and his friends, but if I found myself faced with them, I would be fine.

  Talking to Sarah would have been harder, but she is out. Jay, too. I suppose I should have called her mobile first, but I didn’t want to give her the chance to say she wouldn’t see me. After I’ve pushed a scrawled note of apology through the letterbox, I stand outside her block of flats, staring up at the dark windows, thinking of the last time I was here. Remembering stumbling out of the front door in the unforgiving morning, nauseous with hangover and remorse, my ridiculous dress covered in a borrowed cardigan. I’d done the walk of shame before, but it was nothing compared to this time. The grief and pain of the memory nearly doubles me over, and I have to sit down on the steps and hold my head in my hands. My breath comes in shudders that shake my ribs. It feels as if I’m struggling to get air into my lungs; the scarf around my neck is too tight and I pull it away from my throat.

  I cling to the iron railings that lead up the steps to Sarah and Jay’s flat; their cold solidity is anchoring. Clutching onto the hard metal brings me back to the present.

  So does an angry old lady who suddenly appears at the entrance to the flats, clad in a dressing gown and wielding a broom.

  ‘Get out of here,’ she yells. ‘Bloody layabouts. Go on, before I call the police!’

  I notice for the first time that the ground near the steps is littered with cigarette butts, and there is a collection of crushed cider cans underneath the nearby hydrangea. Great, now I’ve been mistaken for a homeless person. The signs for my next apology are not exactly filling me with confidence.

  ‘Don’t make me come down there,’ warns the woman with the broom, pushing it towards me. I realize she is genuinely afraid of me, so I apologize (I’m getting good at this) and scurry away across the road to my car.

  45

  Matt is in. Although the living room appears dark I can see a bluish flickering on the wall that tells me he’s either watching television or playing on the PlayStation.

  The keys to our house are in my handbag, but it feels strangely like I’d be breaking and entering if I used them. Also, I have no idea what I might find. He might not be alone. He’d have every right not to be. Although it would be fairly lame if he was attempting to entertain a new woman by watching television in the dark at nine at night, I can’t make any assumptions.

  There is movement as soon as I ring the bell. The light flicks on in the hallway and a tall figure approaches, distorted by the frosted glass. I see him stop halfway down the hall and hear him say, ‘Fuck,’ and then he turns back.

  Has he recognised me already? Did Chris warn him I would be on my way over?

  But no, he comes back and the door swings open. Matt stands there in pyjama bottoms and the rumpled grey sweatshirt I remember so well, wearing his glasses and holding his wallet open in front of him. He is unshaven and there are dark circles under each eye.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  Matt snaps his wallet shut. He doesn’t move to let me in. He doesn’t smile.

  ‘Kate? What the fuck? I thought you were the takeaway,’ he says, his tone suggesting that a prawn biryani would be a much more welcome sight.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. I guess it’s never too early to start apologizing. ‘Can I come in?’

  Matt casts an anxious glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Are . . . are you alone?’ I ask.

  Matt looks at me over the top of his glasses, and I finally see a small glint of humour in his eyes.

  ‘I’m hardly dressed for entertaining,’ he says. He steps backwards into the hall and holds the door open for me to come in.

  Our hall has never been very wide, but it feels as if it might have shrunk in the weeks that I’ve been away. There’s a suitcase near the door, Emirates Airlines tags hanging from the handle, crowding us further, and suddenly Matt feels very close. I have to fight an impulse to turn and grab him, to bury my face in his chest and never let go. I don’t have the right any more.

  ‘Where shall I . . .?’ I am suddenly a hesitant stranger in my own home, unsure where I should go.

  ‘Kitchen,’ says Matt. ‘And Kate, just, look, don’t say anything about the mess. If I’d known you were coming it would’ve been different.’

  I steel myself for the worst as I descend the stairs, but it’s not all that bad. The lid of the bin is perilously balanced on a tower of takeaway containers, and it looks like every single mug we’ve ever owned is piled up in the sink. But it’s not like he’s burned the kitchen to the ground or anything. The mess could be cleared up in no time. It’s not irreparable.

  ‘So, um, shall I get us—’ I begin, gesturing at the kettle.

  ‘No,’ says Matt firmly. ‘You sit down. I’ll sort it. I was having a beer. Do you want one?’ He looks at me challengingly, as if this is a test.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say quickly, and am rewarded by a look of surprise that flashes across his face.

  ‘Right, beer.’

  I can’t help looking into the empty fridge as he opens it – there’s nothing in it except booze. I turn my head away before Matt catches me, and I take the cold beer from his hand with a wobbly attempt at a smile.

  Matt sits down opposite me at the kitchen table. I think of how he always used to sit here on Sunday mornings, his legs sprawled out away from his own chair, his foot nudging me as he read out bits of the paper he thought I’d be interested in. Now he sits stiffly, legs pulled underneath the chair, far away from me. He has both hands on the beer bottle.

  ‘So,’ he says, staring down at the table top between us.

  ‘Matt,’ I say. He looks up at me. My voice sounds thin and weak. ‘I don’t even know how to say sorry for what I did.’

  Matt laughs scornfully and takes a long pull on his beer bottle. ‘You’d better try, Kate. Harder than that. I haven’t heard from you in all this time – surely you’ve had time to come up with something?’

  ‘I haven’t even got started,’ I say. I take a deep breath. ‘Matt, I let you down long before that . . . that thing with Chris. I know you were just trying to help me and . . . and I pushed you away. I shut you out. You deserved better, Matt.’

  He just nods, waiting to hear what I have to say next.

  ‘I don’t know what happened to me. I just lost perspective on everything after I left Hitz. I can see that now. I think I was scared that if you saw how depressed and low I’d got you’d be horrified. I thought I’d scare you away.’

  ‘Kate,’ Matt says. ‘I saw it anyway. And it was so much worse that you wouldn’t admit it.’

  I start to cry now, but I keep talking, hiccuping through the speech I’ve prepared in the car. ‘I got obsessed with trivial things. Things I could take charge of when I’d lost control over everything else. Nothing was working – not finding a job, not having a baby – and so the small things suddenly seemed incredibly important. I just . . . it didn’t seem like you understood me at all.’

  ‘Me?’ Matt’s eyes narrow angrily.

  ‘No,’ I say hastily. ‘You don’t understand. I mean that I got it all wrong. We both knew there were problems, we were just coming at them from different directions.’

  Matt frowns.

  ‘And then,’ I sob, ‘and then . . . Chris.’

  ‘Chris,’ repeats Matt slowly.

  ‘Oh Matt, I was drunk and insane and I thought you and Sarah—’

&n
bsp; ‘I know what you thought,’ says Matt, his jaw set like stone. ‘I just can’t believe you thought it.’

  Before I can answer the doorbell rings, and I look at Matt in alarm. Who would it be at this hour? Surely Matt won’t answer.

  But he does. ‘Takeaway,’ he shrugs. He picks up his wallet from the table and goes upstairs. I even hear laughter as he exchanges a few words with the delivery driver. How can he be so calm in the middle of this?

  I twist my hands over and over as I wait for him to come downstairs. I feel like Lady Macbeth trying to wash out that damned spot. It’s never going to go. All the apologies in the world can’t rid me of it.

  Matt puts the blue and white plastic bag on the kitchen table next to his beer, and ignores it. The fragrant smell of curry fills the kitchen. It makes me realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

  ‘It’ll go cold,’ I say. I wonder if he will offer to share it with me? That would be a good sign, wouldn’t it?

  Matt rolls his eyes. ‘I know how to work the microwave,’ he says. ‘Carry on.’

  I sniff. ‘Matt, I’m sorry for everything. All of it. I’ve been hateful and spoiled and I’ve blamed it all on you. And then I slept with Chris and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for it.’

  ‘I–I–I–I–I,’ says Matt, his face as blank as paper.

  ‘Pardon?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t you hear yourself?’ he says. ‘It’s all “I felt this”, “I thought that”, “I did this”. You haven’t once even asked me what I think about any of it. The word “we” hasn’t even crossed your lips. This isn’t just your marriage, you know, it’s ours. At least, it was.’

  ‘I just . . . I thought,’ I stammer.

  ‘But Kate.’ Matt sighs. ‘Don’t you see, you’re doing it all again? I’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks – writing to you, calling your parents – but no, it can only happen on your terms, according to your timetable.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I protest. ‘I wanted to do it face to face. I thought I owed you that, at least.’