The Ex-Wife

by Jess Ryder

  Nick cancelled a couple of international trips and tried video-conferencing instead, but he said it wasn’t as effective as meeting people face to face. He was still working long hours in the office and entertaining clients for dinner two or three nights a week, but at least he was sleeping at home. He’d turn up at one or two in the morning, sneaking in quietly and undressing without turning on the light. I was always awake, lying with my eyes closed in a strange half-dreaming state, unable to relax fully until his cold, naked body snuggled into my back. His breath often smelt of alcohol, but I didn’t mind. I’d roll over to face him, burrowing beneath the duvet to cover him in kisses. A couple of times it developed into lovemaking, but more often than not I was too late, and he was already fast asleep.

  I hardly saw Sam at all. He arrived at breakfast time to take Nick to the office and brought him home at night, but he didn’t come back to the house in between. I felt he was avoiding me. I texted him a few times, asking for a lift, but he always replied to say he was with Nick, and not available. I sensed something was wrong but didn’t know what.

  I was really missing the driving lessons. When I took Emily to nursery in the pushchair, I pretended my hands were on the steering wheel as I negotiated trees and postboxes. At dinner, my feet danced between imaginary pedals under the table. I changed gear with my fork, easing my foot off the clutch and gently pressing down on the accelerator. My head was always full of complicated manoeuvres. I dreamed of busy roundabouts and dangerous bends, emergency stops that woke me up with a start.

  And if I’m totally honest, I missed Sam.

  * * *

  A week or so later, Nick had to attend an important meeting in Paris. He’d wanted to go there and back in a day, but the flight times weren’t working out, so he was going to stay over. Sam arrived very early to take him to the airport. While Nick was upstairs saying goodbye to Emily, who was still in her cot, I dashed out to the car.

  ‘Can you come back after you’ve dropped Nick off?’ I said.

  Sam looked down at the ground. ‘The boss has given me the rest of the—’

  ‘Please! We need to talk.’

  He shrugged. ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes. You know we do.’

  I had to leave it there, because Nick was on his way downstairs. I slipped back into the hallway, flung my arms around my husband’s neck and whispered, ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘Hmm, me too.’ He kissed me lingeringly on the lips, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sam look away. ‘Love you, babe.’

  ‘Love you more,’ I countered.

  * * *

  I got Emily up, dressed her and made porridge with sliced bananas. It wasn’t a nursery day, so she would have to be there when I spoke to Sam. She seemed to understand most of what I said these days, although she wasn’t saying much. Her vocabulary revolved around household objects, toys, animals, Mama, Dada and the names of a few of her nursery friends. She knew Sam well – every time she saw him, she ran around chanting, ‘Nee-naw, nee-naw.’

  ‘Shall we look at your books?’ I said, taking her chubby little hand to help her climb the stairs to her bedroom. It doubled as a playroom, with fitted cupboards and shelves lined with stuffed animals. Emily had a bigger collection of books than our local library. I adored picture books and couldn’t stop buying them for her, although Nick disapproved when I got them from charity shops. I couldn’t see the problem – they were usually in good condition, but even if they had the odd ripped page, it didn’t matter to Emily. Before meeting Nick, I’d spent my life mooching around charity shops. I didn’t dare buy clothes from them any longer – Nick would have gone crazy – but what harm could a second-hand book do?

  We spent the next hour flicking through Emily’s current favourites – a book about Old MacDonald’s farm and another one about a baby who wouldn’t go to bed. She’d just started grasping the concept of colours, and I was full of pride as she pointed out all the red and blue (or ‘wed’ and ‘boo’) items on the page.

  ‘You clever, clever girl,’ I said, hugging her tightly. ‘Mummy loves you so much.’

  She pointed at my orange skirt. ‘Boo! Boo!’ she shouted, very pleased with herself.

  It was such fun to be with her, but every so often, my mind wandered to Sam. Why hadn’t he come back? My ears kept straining for the sound of the Range Rover pulling onto the driveway. For some reason I couldn’t explain, this meeting felt extremely important.

  He turned up shortly after eleven, just as I’d given up hope. I think he’d spent the last couple of hours driving around, wondering what to do. But his timing was perfect, because Emily had just gone down for her mid-morning nap.

  As soon as I heard the wheels on the drive, I ran downstairs and opened the front door. Sam got out of the car and locked it with the fob. ‘Please come in,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

  He sat on a kitchen stool and watched me while I got the machine going. ‘How you doing, Natasha?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Yeah, all’s good.’ I banged the coffee basket against the side of the bin. ‘I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in that business with Jen. So embarrassing.’

  ‘No worries,’ he replied.

  ‘Did Nick ask you about what happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only I was wondering whether Jen had said anything, you know, about us …’ I saw him blush. ‘I thought maybe she saw the L-plates and … jumped to conclusions.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know. Nick’s not said anything to me. I took the L-plates home, hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Yeah, fine, thanks. Good idea. God knows when we’re going to get a chance to resume the lessons, what with Nick needing you so much at the moment. I mean, obviously he has first call, but it’s a shame, ’cos I don’t want to lose momentum, you know, and forget how to drive.’ I knew I was rambling horribly.

  ‘I’m looking for a new job,’ he blurted out.

  ‘Oh.’ My heart sank. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I feel dead uncomfortable.’

  ‘Sam!’ I put down the packet of coffee beans. ‘I’m sorry, I never meant to make you feel like that. Shit … it’s all my fault. I’m so sorry. Look, forget about the driving lessons, I can get an instructor—’

  ‘It’s not you,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s him. The boss. Him and … and her. It makes me feel sick, it’s disgusting. I can’t go on.’

  I stared at him, confused. ‘What do you mean, Sam?’

  ‘I’ve been tossing up whether to tell you or not, didn’t know what to do. I’ve hardly slept these past few weeks, thinking about you. That’s why I’ve been avoiding you: it was all getting too much. I’d decided I was going to hand my notice in, then you asked to see me, and I thought, well, probably you already suspect, and anyway, you deserve to know the truth … You’re a lovely girl, Natasha.’

  ‘The truth about what?’ I lowered myself onto the stool next to him. ‘Sam, tell me.’

  He swallowed hard. ‘Nick has been going to Jen’s flat. Like, a lot. He told me he was helping with her accounts, and not to mention it to you because you were dead jealous and wouldn’t understand, but …’ He paused.

  ‘I know she’s in financial trouble,’ I said carefully. ‘And it would be typical of Nick to want to help. It doesn’t necessarily mean …’

  ‘No, I know, but …’

  ‘But what? You’d better explain.’

  He stared glumly into his lap. ‘Nick always makes me draw up in a side road, just short of her flat. I have to wait in the car until he’s ready to leave. Sometimes he’s there for hours. Afternoons, evenings … He doesn’t seem to be doing much work lately. Suddenly there’s this trip to Paris …’

  ‘How often has this been happening?’

  ‘Recently? A lot. Before that, once a week, maybe …’

  My voice was trembling. ‘In the evenings, how late … how late does he stay?’

  ‘Dunno. I drop him off about eight and he tells me to knock of
f for the day. I guess he gets a cab back. You’ll know what time he gets in.’

  I felt sick inside as I remembered all the late nights. Nick had told me he was entertaining a group of foreign investors, introducing them to various co-producing partners. There was a huge finder’s fee for the taking, that was what he’d said; he was that close. He’d sounded so convincing.

  ‘What else?’ I said, eventually. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  He nodded. ‘I don’t know if I should be telling you this. I don’t want to upset you, Natasha, I really care about you, you know? I mean, we’ve got on so well with these driving lessons and stuff … I really respect you.’

  ‘Just tell me, for God’s sake.’ I was shaking visibly now.

  Sam cleared his throat. ‘I, er … had my suspicions, but I needed proof. So a few nights ago, after I dropped him off, I drove around for a bit, then came back and parked further up the road. I walked down to her block and hid behind a tree, where I could get a good view of the windows.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I knew which was her flat because I’d taken her home after she’d got pissed here, remember? She went all floppy on me, made me carry her upstairs and put her down on the bed. The thing is, I know which room her bedroom is, and that’s the room they were in. It was pretty obvious. I mean, the lights in the lounge were turned off, and they hadn’t drawn the bedroom curtains. It was like they didn’t care if anyone saw or not.’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘Walking around, drinking champagne or something. She was in a sort of kimono thing and he was wearing a white dressing gown.’ He looked away. ‘I’m sorry … I feel really shitty telling you this, but—’

  ‘No, you did the right thing. Really you did. I’m grateful to you.’ Words were coming out of my mouth, but I didn’t know what I was saying. I was caving in on myself, barely able to stand. I gripped the worktop.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he whispered. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, no, just go now, please. I need to be on my own.’

  He mumbled yet another apology and crept out, shutting the front door quietly behind him. I sank to the floor and put my head in my hands. Sam had to be telling the truth. Why would he lie? He had nothing to gain from it and too much to lose. As the tears fell uncontrollably down my face, one of Mum’s warnings rang loudly in my ears. Never trust a man who cheats on his wife.

  11

  Now

  Anna

  * * *

  Chris in Operations has ‘taken a shine’ to me, or so Margaret tells me over morning coffee. We are standing in the galley kitchen just off our open-plan office.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ she says, dunking a biscuit, ‘but I think he’s a bit of a dish.’

  I glance across the room to where Chris is standing with a small group of colleagues, all men and all dressed the same, like there’s a uniform. Pale blue shirt and ill-fitting grey trousers slung low beneath a protruding beer belly. Black lace-up shoes and grey socks. Pasty skin, boring features and hair cut too short for their sticky-out ears. Chris is definitely the best of the rather mediocre bunch. Slimmer and taller, blessed with a good head of thick brown locks. I’ve already clocked that his eyes are hazel, and his skin has a healthy olive tone. Even so, I’m not interested.

  ‘Divorced,’ Margaret adds, lowering her voice. ‘His wife left him for another man. Very sad, it was. He was a mess for a while, but he seems to be on the mend.’ Her voice drops even further, and she hides her mouth behind the rim of her mug. ‘He’s okay now. Apparently, he’s got God.’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply, noting a slight feeling of disappointment.

  ‘Yes. He volunteers at St Saviour’s – you know, the homeless centre.’ I think of the druggies I met a few weeks ago and shudder inwardly. ‘He was asking after you the other day. Pumping me for information.’ She takes a sip of coffee, keeping her eyes trained on mine. ‘I have to admit, duck, I didn’t know what to say. You’ve been here over two months now and I still don’t know a thing about you …’

  I wait for the pause to reach its natural limit. If this is Margaret’s way of digging into my past, it’s a very clumsy attempt. ‘I’m quite a private person, I suppose,’ I say eventually, fixing her with a smile. ‘It takes a while to get to know me properly.’ Not that I’ll ever tell her the truth, not in a million years.

  Margaret takes another biscuit from the tin. ‘Anyway, he’s trying to round up a few more volunteers for the centre. I can’t do it, I haven’t got the time, but you live on your own, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, it might suit you. Give you a chance to get to know people. The other volunteers, I mean,’ she laughs, ‘not the homeless lot. You want to steer well clear of them.’

  We return to our desks and for the rest of the day I concentrate on processing the latest batch of applications for allotments. It amazes me to think that this is my world now. I took this job as a kind of punishment, but actually, I quite enjoy it. The work’s monotonous, but not so monotonous that it allows my mind to wander into dangerous areas. It’s important to keep busy, that’s what Lindsay, my counsellor, says.

  So perhaps it would help to do some volunteering in the evenings. I’m reflecting on this as I shut down my computer and tidy my desk. Everyone here leaves at 5 p.m. sharp and goes straight home, regardless of their workload.

  Margaret and I are standing by the lifts when Chris sidles up. I am sandwiched between them and sense a set-up.

  ‘Anna,’ he says, ‘I don’t suppose I could interest you in giving a couple of hours of your time to help the homeless?’

  ‘Well … um …’ I look down at the floor. ‘The thing is … I’m not sure I’ve anything to offer.’

  ‘Don’t ever think that. We all have something to offer,’ Chris says smoothly as the lift arrives. The doors open, and we step inside. ‘Anyway, all I’m talking about is passing round cups of tea, serving up some chips, listening to people, showing you care. I’ve heard you dealing with people on the phone – you’ve got a great touch.’

  But you don’t know the hatred I’ve felt for a fellow human being. You don’t know what I’ve done.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say as we hit the ground floor.

  Chris keeps pace as I sweep across the foyer and step into the revolving doors. He slips in behind me, touching my back as we shuffle round. ‘Some of our clients are very challenging,’ he continues as we exit onto the pavement, ‘but others have just lost their way and need a nudge in the right direction.’

  That sounds familiar, I think, immediately looking back over the last six months. There were times when I felt so desperate, I could have easily turned to drugs and ended up on the streets. Perhaps it would do me good to volunteer – make me more grateful for what I have, rather than depressed about all I’ve lost. As my gran used to say, ‘There’s always someone worse off than yourself.’

  Chris senses that I’m weakening. ‘Try it for a couple of hours and see how you like it. If you hate it, I promise never to ask you again.’

  ‘All right,’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘Fantastic! Come on, it’s this way.’ He grabs my arm and starts to steer me in the opposite direction.

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Of course, now.’

  * * *

  St Saviour’s church is conveniently tucked behind a huge Wetherspoon’s, which apparently used to be the town’s main cinema. It’s a Victorian brick structure, far too large and cavernous for the dwindling population of worshippers. As we enter via a side door, Chris explains that the church has recently been ‘reimagined’, the nave drastically reduced and sectioned off to create rooms for community activities.

  ‘Kitchen there, toilets on the other side of the font.’ He pauses at the door of an internal room. ‘A few tips before we go in … Be friendly, but not too friendly. Don’t give them any personal details other than your first name, don’t give them your phone number or friend them on
Facebook. Don’t give them any cash, no matter what story they tell you. It’ll only go on drugs.’

  ‘No, obviously,’ I say, my head starting to spin. Why am I doing this?

  We walk in. The room is full of mismatched sofas and armchairs, stained coffee tables and a large dining table in the corner. There’s a bookcase lined with tatty paperbacks and a pile of old magazines. It looks like a junk shop, but there’s a homely feel to the place. A quick scan of the group – all men – reassures me that there’s nobody here I recognise from the encounter on the industrial estate.

  Chris raises his voice. ‘Guys! Guys! This is Anna, she’s come to give us a try-out, so best behaviour, please.’ Most of the men ignore him, but a couple turn their heads and make an annoying whooping sound. ‘Now, now, none of that. We treat each other with respect here, remember?’ I make a mental note to wear something less feminine next time – if there’s a next time.

  ‘So, what do you want me to do?’ I say.

  ‘Fancy making a round of tea? I’ll come with you, show you what’s what.’

  While we’re in the kitchen, Chris fills me in on some of the regulars. One guy has just come out of prison for beating up his mother; another has a degree in chemistry; a third used to be in the armed forces. Most of them, he tells me, have ended up on the streets after marital breakdowns or redundancy – often both. ‘The descent to homelessness can happen very quickly,’ he says, holding onto the flimsy polystyrene cups while I pour out the tea from a giant teapot. ‘One minute you’re going along quite happily, the next you’ve got no wife, no job, no money, no home …’

  ‘Yes, it can happen to anyone,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. We slop milk into the cups, then put them on a tray. ‘Shall we go, then?’

  When we get back to the room, more men have turned up, plus a couple of young women. The atmosphere is noisy; the conversation – if you can call it that – has an edgy tone. The guys are taking the piss out of each other, and not in a friendly way. I hand the teas round and take orders for hot sausage rolls and pasties – apparently a local bakery donates stuff that hasn’t been sold. The vicar pops his head round the door to say hello, then rushes off. Two more volunteers arrive, both female, and immediately set to work in the kitchen, putting the oven on and opening catering-size cans of baked beans.