Perhaps if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in the mire of my mistake, if I hadn’t longed for Jamie to be something he wasn’t, I could have shared his humor. Or at least I could have tried to find the hilarity in a man in his fourth decade wearing a green sweatshirt with a padded Kermit frog sewn into the front pocket. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know the code among these public-school types. The point they are making with their wacky paisley waistcoat or purple velvet suit is that they can afford to stand out sartorially because, background-wise, they fit in. If you come from the right family, what does it matter if you go to the cinema or the supermarket in ethnic mustard-colored tapestry slippers?
Regardless of Jamie’s clownish persona, everyone we came into contact with in Colorado bought into our marital dream. Who wouldn’t see a honeymoon couple as if through gauze, marveling that they must be so in love? Why should anyone else spot the fault lines of pain already pushing to the surface of our fractured story?
A couple of months after the honeymoon, Miles, one of my oldest friends from university, came over for coffee. He was then living in Hong Kong where he had become rollickingly rich as a banker and was on a fleeting visit back home. From the moment I had set eyes on Miles Kingly nearly twenty years earlier, seeing him drunkenly stagger across the quad in disheveled black tie, I had fancied him. Even watching him puke into a fountain, then snog a slutty student in a strapless dress with one tit falling out, didn’t put me off. Miles was the son of a stockbroker and had that boyish yet manly appeal: long limbs, scruffy hair, and sunburned forehead, usually from doing something sporty like sailing or windsurfing. He sweated sex appeal. He was one of those men who have always been funny and good-looking enough to know that from pubescence to the grave, and probably beyond—with the undertaker or embalmer if she was female—he was going to pull. As I had all the sexual charisma of a dead snake, it never occurred to me that Miles would look at me like that. No, my only redeeming feature was that I could tease with the best of them. So if I wasn’t going to get laid, at least I could get the laughs in.
Miles, who still had that youthful appeal in his late thirties with his short, tufty hair, suggestive smile, and crinkly laugh lines, surveyed the neat-freak perfection of my marital abode. With a vase of white lilies on the table and proudly displaying my new Limoge wedding china on the coffee tray, I felt a moment’s smug pride. He sank back against the chocolate suede cushions on the sofa, his fingers nagging at the chenille throw carefully positioned on the arm. “It’s like a museum in here,” he said. “I’m surprised Prattfuck can get it up in there,” he said, gesturing to the bedroom. “Does he dare ruffle the covers?”
“He does on both counts,” I said.
Miles shook his head in disbelief and told me that his latest shag was unable to have an orgasm. “Yeah, she’s on Prozac.”
“Why?”
“She can’t deal with her anger.”
“What about? Not being able to have an orgasm?”
He laughed.
“Oh, Miles,” I said, “you do pick ’em.”
“And you don’t?” I looked away. He leaned toward me. “Marital bliss or marital hiss?”
“It could be worse,” I said. “I just have to accept that Jamie will never understand me. Anyway, I adore this flat. I’m incredibly happy here.”
“When Jamie isn’t?”
“Yes,” I giggled.
Miles’s eyes danced and he looked at me with such warmth. “You know what your problem is, Daisy? It’s the sort of thing you’d say yourself: you sacrificed your emotional state for a piece of real estate.”
And he was right.
How long could I go on deluding myself that because the flat was feng shuied to death, because I had pink crystals in pairs in our relationship area, because I had red geraniums for fame and fortune in the window boxes, because I had done abundance rituals burning balls of sage and incense and forced Jamie to clap out old spirits from the corner of the room, then crouch and chant with me at dusk and dawn, that we were going to be okay? We were already running on empty, our relationship was in the red. There was no couple’s credit in the bank.
This was finally driven home to me when I asked Jamie almost a year into our marriage if he thought we’d have children. We were having coffee on a chilly Saturday morning, sitting outside by the Serpentine in Hyde Park. When I broke the heavy silence by asking about potential parenthood and what our plans might encompass, he put his cup of coffee down and stared ahead. “Daisy,” he said wearily, “unlike you, I try to live in the present. And frankly, from where I’m sitting it isn’t that great between us right now, so I prefer not to think beyond this cup of coffee.”
I was stung by how little he cared. It’s one thing to live in the present but how can you build a future with someone, let alone your husband, who has no dreams to share?
This wasn’t really happening, was it? I would do anything in the world for this not to be true. I would never again willfully gossip and say bitchy things in my regular rap ’n’ yap sessions with Lucy and Jess. I would make a concerted effort to give Mum a hand in the kennels and muck them out at least once a week. I would let Mum’s favorites, Donald and Dougie, sleep on my bed with their smelly snouts on my pillow, never pushing them down to the floor. I would never pick dry skin off my heels again or squeeze my blackheads. I would listen to people on the phone doing telesales or surveys. I would do whatever it took to pay off my karmic debt. Anything, anything but this.
I had prayed that it was a false alarm but having watched the indelible blue line creep up five pregnancy sticks, on five consecutive days, who was I fooling? I was pregnant. I had to face it. The shock immobilized all sensation, as if I was having an out-of-body experience, yet I was burning up with heat and freezing cold at the same time. I lay back on the bathroom floor. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This didn’t pay tribute to the fantasy script I had played out in my mind for years. Where was the husband—now the second husband but obviously the soul mate—who would come home from work as I smiled ecstatically from the top of the stairs? He would call out, “Darling, I’m home,” and I would reply, “Darling, I’m pregnant.”
He would roar with joy and bound up the stairs and take me in his arms. At that moment he would never have loved me more and I would never have felt more adored, or stronger or more vulnerable in my intoxicating fertile state.
But this . . . there was no husband, no soul mate. I was a thirty-nine-year-old divorcée living back at home, lying on a dog-hair-covered bathroom floor, feeling cold and sick, pregnant after a post-divorce one-night stand. It couldn’t get any worse, could it? How on earth did my life résumé, which once looked so promising, get so stained? I crawled back to bed and called Jess, who insisted I come straight to London.
On the train I tried to make sense of my splintered scenario, dipping into Faith in the Future, a new book about trusting life. “Life is unpredictable . . .” No kidding. I read on. “We get tripped up when we are most convinced our foothold is sure. It is not what happens to us, it is how we deal with it that counts.”
How was I going to deal with this? I wasn’t ready for a baby, was I? My life was shot to pieces. But an abortion? At thirty-nine? What if this was my only chance? What would I tell Troy? And my parents? They were going to go berserk. The stupidity, the irresponsibility. Sorry Mum and Dad, a year ago I had a nice home and a husband and a decent life and now look!
Lucy collected me from the station and took me to Jess’s. By the time I arrived I had cried so much, I had tiny shreds of tissue sticking to my blotchy face. “I thought you said you had your period when you slept with Troy,” said Lucy.
“I did,” I sobbed.
“You couldn’t have,” said Jess. “It must have been breakthrough bleeding.”
“Does it matter, doctor?” I said, tetchily. “Because the fact is that I’m bloody well up the duff.”
Jess hugged me as she led me to the sitting room, which, typical of her Bohemian sty
le, was awash with mounds of stale newspapers, overflowing ashtrays, stained coffee cups, and dusty plants in dire need of water. What raised it from feeling like a careless student abode were the decent antiques dotted around and the wildly expensive French tapestry hanging above the fireplace.
“It could be a sign,” I said as I slumped on the kilim-covered sofa.
“Sick joke of fate more like,” spat Jess.
“Maybe a baby could bring me the inner peace I crave.”
Lucy almost choked. “The one thing a baby won’t bring you is peace.”
“But how do we know that this isn’t meant to be?” I wailed.
“A marriage didn’t save you, a baby won’t either,” said Jess.
Lucy sat beside me. “Listen, Daisy. Goodness knows you’ve had a rough ride. But a bad marriage you can undo. As you know, that’s difficult enough. But you can never undo having a baby with the wrong man. A baby is a lasting commitment. It is real till death do us part.”
Lucy handed me more Kleenex. “I’m not saying don’t have this baby . . .”
“Well I am,” interrupted Jess.
“Jess,” said Lucy archly, “just because you’re a doctor and trained to take a clinical approach, you mustn’t override Daisy’s emotional state.”
“Daisy’s emotional state is what got her into this in the first place,” said Jess, clearly put out.
“I’m merely saying . . .”
“And all I’m saying . . .” Jess continued, throwing Lucy a look.
“Hey, you two, I’m still here,” I sniffed.
“All I’m saying is that you must make the right decision for you, for the right reasons. This is your call, Daisy,” said Lucy firmly.
Jess gave a “whatever” shrug but her lips were pursed.
Oh Jesus, I thought, how am I ever going to survive this? Especially as the next call I needed to make was to Troy.
As I stood outside Troy’s front door, I wondered how I was going to break it to him that I was pregnant. I knew I had to tell him face-to-face—you can hardly drop the baby bombshell over the phone—but bringing my hand up to ring his doorbell was pure torture. Breaking the ice of my own shock was bad enough without having to face his terror too. “Hello, Troy. Remember me? The needy divorcée? We only met twice and the second time I fell into your arms, then into your bed, and guess what? I’m knocked up.” I was dreading the sight of the horror ripping across his features.
He buzzed open the door and stood before me in running gear, a small towel around his neck. Flushed and disheveled, with a thin shadow of stubble, he looked athletic and sexy. His face cracked into a wide smile, which stopped me in my tracks. “Daisy Dolittle. What a surprise! Come on in.” He seemed genuinely delighted to see me. So why hadn’t he called?
He beckoned me to follow him into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Devoid of food, it contained bottles of champagne, beer, wine, and water. I tried to picture the shelves stocked with jars of baby food and formula. I failed. “What can I get you?” Troy grabbed a bottle of Evian and gulped it back.
“Nothing, thanks. Erm, Troy, we need to talk.” I was desperately trying not to stammer.
“Indeed we do,” said Troy, putting his arms around me and guiding me to the sitting room, toward the sofa. He smelled great; slightly sweaty yet manly. He threw on a shirt—he needn’t have bothered. His chest looked so buffed and beautiful that it deserved to be seen. “Daisy, I owe you an apology. I’ve been so caught up with this complicated deal that I never called. I’ve betrayed your trust. Forgive me.” He took a white amaryllis from the arrangement on the glass coffee table and handed it to me.
My heart was beating so fast that I thought the sofa might begin to shake. “Troy . . . I’m . . . well . . . I’m . . .” I said, laying the amaryllis back on the table as bits of water were dripping from the stem on to my skirt. “Troy, I’m . . .”
Troy was looking at me, as if seeing me for the first time. Staring into my eyes with patience and interest, as if to say, “Go on, I’m here. I’m hearing you.”
“Actually, I’m . . . I’m . . . pretty thirsty after all. Can I have a drink?”
He returned with a bottle of champagne and filled two glasses, handing me one. I guiltily knocked it straight back. (One glass couldn’t do much damage, could it?) My hands were trembling. “Troy . . . I’m . . . I’m . . .”
Suddenly he leaned across, put his fingers to my lips to quiet me, and kissed me. I felt instantly relieved—and massively turned on. Must have been all the new hormones flooding through me. I could feel myself wrapping myself around him, tighter and tighter, unable to let go.
Laughing, he gently disentangled himself and pulled away. “Hey, what’s with you?” He stared at me. “Actually you look really good, Dooley. Great, in fact. I don’t remember your tits looking this hot.”
Oh God, I couldn’t string this out much longer. Perhaps there was nothing to fear after all and I’d gotten it all wrong? Maybe there was a teensy smidgeon of hope that he might be into me after all? “Troy, I’m, I’m . . .”
“Not ready to date? I figured as much.” He nodded knowingly. “We went too far too soon. I’m sorry. It was my fault. I couldn’t resist you.”
“No, Troy, listen.” I stood up.
Troy got up, too, and stood before me, cupping my face with his hands. “You’re a great catch, Daisy. Original and oh so sexy. So when you’re ready to settle down again, just let me know.” He tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my ear. I thought I was going to explode.
“No. Look, there’s no easy way to say this . . . I’m . . . I’m pregnant.”
Troy froze. “You’re what?”
“You heard.”
“Pregnant?” The silence was deafening. And endless. “Pregnant?” He turned and walked away, his back to me. I don’t know how I managed to stay standing as my knees were quivering so much. Then he turned around to face me. “Pregnant?” he hollered. I stared past him, out of the huge glass windows, and fixated on the view of surrounding rooftops. Time stood still. I could hear a funny whooshing in my ears. It must have been the pressure.
Suddenly Troy leaped into the air and punched it with his fist. I couldn’t believe it. He whooped and shrieked with joy. He even did a cartwheel. Then he scooped me up into his arms. “Honey, this is fantastic. Unbelievable.”
“You’re pleased?”
“Ecstatic! Aren’t you? Boy, I’ve always wanted to be a father.” He gestured toward his crotch. “Wow, at least I know it works. I was beginning to wonder.” He gave a throaty laugh and a thumbs-up sign. I sank back on the sofa. My whole body seemed to collapse, free-falling with relief.
“Daisy,” Troy knelt before me and took my hands in his. “This is just the beginning for us. A new start. After all we’ve been through . . . This is obviously fate, meant to be. We’ve both had a bad relationship experience. We’ve been hurt and this is the reason that we’ve met. To help each other heal and to eradicate the past. And what better way to do that than with a new life? This is incredible!”
I was staring at him, mouth agape. He began to stroke my cheek, running his fingers lightly across my face. “I know that it must be frightening for you. After all, you’re going to have to bear the brunt of this, but I want you to know that I’m going to be here for you every single step of the way. I know its unconventional having a kid before a relationship but with enough effort we’ll make it work. I promise you, I’m going to do everything in the world I can for you and our child.”
I tried to get up but I couldn’t move. I wasn’t in Troy’s flat at all but sitting on a bench in the park nearby, dreaming of Happily Ever After. I looked at my watch. Troy said he would meet me at seven in a nearby wine bar. He sounded short on the phone but didn’t ask why I needed to see him. Probably too busy to care. He said he could give me twenty minutes before an important work dinner. I felt sick. Not just a wisp of prenatal nausea but a deep, guttural panic.
Somehow I made my way to the wine b
ar where I sat quaking with fear and unbearably hot. The wine bar was packed. In my terror, I wondered if I had B.O. I tried to surreptitiously sniff my armpits but couldn’t get close enough without being too obvious. Fingers crossed not. All I knew was that sweat was coursing down my back and my cleavage felt sticky. I sipped a bitter lemon to appear occupied. Bad choice. It made me even queasier. In despair at the sluggish passing of time—every second seemed an eternity—I got my copy of Faith in the Future from my handbag and opened it. “‘Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens.’ Carl Jung.” Tears began to prick. My heart was hurting so much that no matter where I looked all I could see was my stupidity. All I could feel was my pain. And still part of me couldn’t believe that this was happening to me.
I looked up. Troy was real enough, walking toward me in an expensive-looking gray suit. Power and success emanated from him. Women turned to look at him as his magnetic appeal, like heady cologne, wafted in his wake. He seemed so sure of himself, so intact and unburdened by life, that I had a stab of jealousy. I had never felt less sure. He checked his Blackberry, quickly tapping something in before he even looked at me. Then he sat down and said, “So shoot.” He leaned back and waited.
I felt a flush of panic. Color rose to my cheeks. The pressure was worse than being interviewed for my dream job, whatever that might be. In that moment I realized that I wanted Troy to want this baby. Not just because it would mean that he wanted me, but more because then he would make the decision for me. For us. Rather than against us. Until then, the thought of having an abortion had never really been a possibility for me. Terminations happened to other girls. To stupid sluts. They didn’t happen to dopey divorcées like me.
Daisy Dooley Does Divorce Page 5