by Anna Maxted
Alissa’s future and prospects had been taken away from her, and it wasn’t enough for Hubert to rob her of those – he’d wanted to take away her dignity too, send her to work in a shop! Hubert was like a lot of divorcing men in that he saw this process as a business transaction. With some men, the desire to get out with as much money as possible was a defence mechanism – ‘if I’m rich I’ll feel better’. I suspected that many were as distraught as the women, except their emotions were hidden from them. Not Hubert though. He wanted a brutal quick cut – he doing all the cutting.
People are at their least attractive when getting divorced. Perhaps George would surprise me as the civilised exception.
I sighed as I stirred the pink straw in my glass of Badoit, and stared out of the café window onto Fleet Street. I should go home, but I was too tired to move. I didn’t want to see George, I didn’t want to be shouted at. Last time I’d seen The Top Man, I’d asked him about the effect of stress on the baby. He’d smiled and said, ‘The baby is going to be born into the real world, not a bubble.’
I thought of Hubert’s twisted thinking. His anger had done away with his humanity – he’d upset his own children to spite his wife. He was actually proposing that his kids were removed from private school and sent to the local comprehensive, as, apparently, he would need a huge second mortgage to buy Alissa out of their home – a neat excuse that made her feel greedy and responsible. Meanwhile, Barnaby uncovered my client’s transfers to a bank account he couldn’t trace.
I wondered if the judge would let Alissa stay in their home. From what she’d said in the middle hearing, I suspected she would. Their home. When you and your beloved move into your first house in joint name, it’s very easy to think of it as ‘our home’. You imagine it as your financial and emotional security, but few people really think of what this means in terms of pounds. When they’re divorcing, the ‘our’ becomes ‘my’ – and the idea that your lover-turned-enemy can run a credible argument to steal a chunk of your home, force you out of it into alien and inferior accommodation, is barbaric.
I really didn’t think that George would be a Hubert. After all, it wasn’t as if George had earned the money. He had to have enough pride to want to earn his own . . . one day. And, he knew I was bloody good at my job – it would be like David taking on Goliath! No. Bad example.
‘I’ll have a cappy, thank you very much, and charge me for extra cinnamon!’
My neck jerked at the sound of Barnaby’s voice. The serving assistant – tiny with a pixie nose and long blonde corkscrew curls – giggled, and I wondered if she’d charge him at all.
‘Montgomery!’ he said a moment later, and I turned around as if surprised. ‘How are you? How’s little Boris?’ He nodded at my stomach.
‘Boris? I’m not calling it Boris! I don’t even know if it’s a boy!’
Barnaby grinned. ‘Sorry. Family tradition. We give the unborn baby a silly name – Dunstan, Errol, Ermentrude, Clyde. That way you give it an identity, but not its real identity, as that would be bad luck, so I’m told. The baby stays an undercover agent until it pops out, you see? Only then does it assume its real identity!’
I tried not to grin back. ‘And your real identity was . . . Barnaby? What the hell was your undercover name?’
He laughed. ‘Barnaby.’
Then I grinned.
‘They were going to call me Philip – King of Horses, or something. But, apparently, I’d assumed my undercover identity to such an extent that I popped out looking like a Barnaby! Exactly like him! Mother said it was uncanny! Also, I rather suspect she didn’t want me to become a jockey. She doesn’t like little men.’
I was finding it hard to hate him. We’d part, spitting, and the next time he saw me, I was his best friend! Either he had the memory of a goldfish – not true, as he was brilliant at picking ancient detail from an opponent’s argument and using it against them – or he was all bluster, a tom cat fluffing up his tail. Or – I didn’t wish to consider it as a serious option – he still liked me.
I said, ‘I love this theory you have that the baby just “pops out”.’
‘Some babies do pop out. I was done and dusted in two hours!’ He smiled. ‘How about you?’
‘Me!’ I found myself stammering. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I . . . was adopted.’ I blushed. ‘I . . . should ask . . . someone.’
Barnaby opened his mouth.
I said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘How are you preparing for the birth?’
‘You have a chocolate moustache.’ I could lick it off.
‘Are you?’ He licked it off himself and I nearly fell from my chair.
‘Well, Barnaby,’ I said, leaning forward, ‘if you really want to know, some women do special exercises, manually stretching the entrance to the womb.’
‘Surely there are better ways!’
I wondered if he’d make a cheeky comment about George helping me out, but he didn’t.
‘Not in my house.’ It was a joke but it came out more serious than I meant.
‘How is it with George?’
‘I’ve told him I want a divorce.’ I searched Barnaby’s face for a reaction, but his expression didn’t change. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘How did he take it?’
‘Not great.’
‘You’re expecting trouble.’
I felt a lurch of fear. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘What about it?’
‘Do you envisage co-parenting? Does he?’
‘Barnaby, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sure George will do whatever I want.’
‘Cassie, you’ve been in practice for seven years. Has there ever been a case where the respondent has done whatever the petitioner wanted?’
‘It will be fine. I said I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You.’ And he touched my arm with his fingertips.
Lizbet
Chapter 32
My life was like an apple core chewed by a rat. No man, no job, no home, no baby – there was no flesh to it, just teethmarks and a few pips. I didn’t like it at all. I didn’t react well to adversity.
‘You are a serious person, Elizabeth,’ my head teacher said once (bent on persuading me into social work). That was the impression I gave, being a cautious person who preferred to refine my jokes in print rather than risk them in conversation. It wasn’t true. I wasn’t serious. I was deeply shallow. I wanted it to be Christmas every day – sorry, Mrs Schuller. I loved Tim because he made me laugh. And when you laugh, for that brief moment, all of the shit, the misery – each one of the millions of unique tragedies in the world to be sad and sorry for – is blanked out.
It hadn’t been Christmas in my head for a while. It had been 27 December, the worst date in the calendar because Christmas Day and Boxing Day are the furthest away they will ever be. Tim and I were so intent on not being serious people, it was a rule in our house that we held a Boxing Day for every occasion. The day after my birthday, the day after Tim’s birthday, the day after Sphinx’s birthday, the day after Valentine’s Day – every one had its own Boxing Day, with time off work and a relevant treat attached. Oh, and we also celebrated Birthday Eve.
And then I – we – had suffered one tragedy, and all the fun had been sucked out of me. I’d been forced to hold unhappiness in my head, the thing I was most afraid of. I’d become a serious, fun-free person, exactly what I didn’t want to be. Every resentment I’d ever passed over because life was too short to be bitter – it was, it really was – had caught up with me. There was a whole unruly gaggle of them, and together we’d just about chased all the people I loved out of my life.
I thought of my godson Tomas – I hadn’t seen him in so long. Tabitha said that when he was truly furious, he spoke in triple negatives – triple! ‘I don’t want nothing – not – nothing!’
That was how I’d felt. Just – nothing!
I was slowl
y starting to feel something, but I was also scared to face up to the damage I’d caused. I couldn’t bear the idea of Tim packing up his past with me, starting, fresh and new, with another woman. I feared it because I saw its appeal. The blessed simplicity of sex – when sex was pure lust and joy, instead of a complex tangle of emotions to be hacked through like a hundred years of thorns, before you could come together. I wanted Tim to start again – with me. I wanted a kiss to be a kiss, not a sorry, or an I forgive you. Was it possible? I found I only had the strength to wonder, not the courage to find out.
I’d never been a busybody. Now I discovered its appeal. If you concern yourself with other people’s problems, you have no time to attend to your own. I’d rung George, confessed my error regarding Cassie and Tim, and he’d shouted at me. I was grateful. It relieved some of the tension. Cassie had been super-understanding, excessively kind, which put me in a difficult position. If she left her accusations unsaid, I was stuck right there. I couldn’t shut the door on our fight and move on. I needed to be yelled at. It was the only way that my anger and guilt would rinse through.
And I was still brooding about our parents.
I accepted Cassie’s reasons for keeping quiet about her adoption. But the more I thought about it, the more strongly I felt that Vivica and Geoffrey shouldn’t have given her a choice. They should have told me – at the same time as they told her. That they didn’t was yet one more example of our unequal treatment. It was difficult. I was no longer furious with our parents, but nor was I delighted with them. And I wanted to be. I wanted Vivica to explain her inadequacies as a mother to my total satisfaction, so that I could rewrite the past, look back and think of myself as a beloved child. So that when we kissed hello, there was no rebel chatter in my head.
I had to admit, I was a beloved adult. I saw that now. Now that I was taller, with better table manners, our mother and father related to me with a lot more ease. They certainly weren’t the parents of a child’s fantasy, but they weren’t as useless as I’d thought.
I actually felt proud when I thought of them marching round to tell me about the adoption. Of course, in an ideal world they’d have told me sooner, but what’s a couple of decades between friends? They had come to me, and that they had physically made the move towards me, without me having to budge – it felt significant. It suggested a gentle shift in the power balance of our relationship, it suggested that I was even seen as an important and respected family member.
It meant a lot to me, also, that Cassie hadn’t abandoned our ship, jumped in the life raft, rowed at top speed to her genetic family. I wanted her to know them, I really did. I felt that in some way it would complete her. But a small selfish part of me was happy and defiant that she was playing it cool with the aunt – not even playing it: she actually was cool. See, I wanted to say to her blood relatives: me, Geoffrey, Vivica, we’re not so bad. Cassie had the option to desert us for the newness and glamour of you, but she didn’t take it.
And yet.
While the rational adult me was all for forgiveness and understanding, the stampy-footed five-year-old me remained in a sulk. I had a greater tolerance for my parents’ mistakes, but I wanted a frank and full apology, complete with tears of regret and shame.
I thought of Tomas, who resisted being told off with all his might. The last time I’d seen him, his baby sister was wearing a sticker on her forehead that read ‘Ripen me in the fruitbowl for 4–5 days’.
‘You do NOT stick stickers on your sister!’ Tabitha had bellowed. ‘She is NOT a toy! Do you understand me?’
‘Mummy!’ Tomas had replied. ‘I’m sick and tired of this! If you say that again, I take your computer to the charity shop!’
‘Stop threatening me! You’re the naughty one! I’m the adult! I’m in charge!’
‘Don’t shout at me, you hurt my feelings!’
Tomas refused point-blank to admit any wrongdoing. However, he was the first – I noticed, and I hoped that Tabitha did – to extend the hand of friendship after a disagreement. The debate would descend into violence, Tomas scratching and biting. Tabitha would roughly haul him out of the room and shut the door. Tomas would scream and cry, then, after ten minutes, bounce back into the room with a cheery, ‘Mummy, I dress up as a fireman, ok?’ – as if they were and always had been on the most courteous of terms. But he was the tiniest bit coy, showing, I felt, an awareness that he’d misbehaved and the desire to make up for it in a way that didn’t require outright subservience.
Now that behaviour was acceptable, for a three-year-old. It was not quite so acceptable for two sixty-three-year-olds. The desire to make up for old transgressions by acting in a pleasing way was a great start. But it didn’t feel like enough. I wanted a full explanation and a detailed apology too. Then perhaps I could let it go.
Tabitha would tersely remind Tomas of the screaming and biting, and he would say, ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’
And the tension in her shoulders would melt away, and she’d say, in the sweetest voice, ‘I’m sorry too, darling. I overreacted.’
(Not that I had overreacted. Well, not much. But like Tomas, my parents were not going to volunteer a verbal apology unless directly commanded.)
I rang Vivica.
‘Darling! You don’t know how to download music off a computer, do you? It’s not letting me!’
‘You haven’t got the correct software, Vivica,’ I said.
‘But it’s all there, in the files. It just won’t go onto the disk.’
‘Vivica. I—’
‘Tim would know. Is he there?’
‘No, he is not here. I’m calling from Fletch’s house.’
‘I’ll call him at your house then. Or is he working?’
I made a rude face before answering. ‘I’ve no idea. We’re not together.’
‘What! Still?’
This conversation was not taking the direction I’d hoped. ‘So,’ I said, ‘we were going to talk about me feeling different from Cassie, growing up.’
Silence.
‘I was . . . surprised not to have been told about the adoption, actually.’ My heart beat fast. Could this be construed as a reprimand? To rebuke Vivica with even a feather-light touch was the same to her as if you’d hit her over the head with a mallet.
‘No one was told.’
‘What, not Cousin Denise? Not Aunt Edith?’
‘They were older. Once, Denise made a comment, but your father spoke to her, and it didn’t happen again. We didn’t want you or Cassie growing up feeling awkward, or different, or unequal. You were sisters, our girls, full stop. Everyone understood that.’
It was like she lived on a parallel plane and we’d experienced alternate realities.
I felt unequal. I felt unequal. I was trying to push the words out, but they wouldn’t make the leap.
Vivica took a deep breath, and I bit my lip. Oh God! She was going to confess . . .
‘Darling Lizbet, oh, I know I didn’t treat you as well as I treated Cassie, but the truth is, it was only because she was so difficult, and you were such a good, easy, clever child, you were like a beautiful purring pedigree . . . car, never a rattle or a clank out of you, whereas your sister was more like a pedigree cat, always demanding attention and fuss, and we were scared witless that she would blame us for any problems she encountered later on, but Brownie’s honour, we loved you, our own flesh and blood, just as much, oh! We loved you to the stars and back! But we didn’t want to be accused of favouritism, and nowadays, with the research done on adopted children, the potential they have to become lunatics due to the trauma of being ripped away from their natural mother and parked with a bunch of strangers, we were right to pay close attention to Cassie as the child most likely to become a nutcase, but we do see that we neglected our most precious gift – you – all to your credit, of course, but we are so super-sorry about this, we cry about it every night, I’m in analysis and so is your father, three times a week, we’re spending three grand a month on therapy, we�
��ve mortgaged the house to pay for it, but we feel it’s worth it, in order to understand your pain, own it, and atone for it . . .’
‘So, what did you have for lunch today, darling? Marks do the most delicious tartlets – wild mushroom, leeks, or goat’s cheese. Have you tried them? The pastry is simply divine. I’m addicted to the wild mushroom, it’s doing my waistline no good at all.’
Eh? Lunch? Where was her confession? Where was the emotional outpouring? I was owed some wailing and renting of cloth!
‘I haven’t eaten yet,’ I said. I felt itchy with panic. The subject was slipping away. We had to get back to it! ‘So, you were saying,’ I said. ‘You didn’t want Cassie or I growing up feeling awkward, or different, or unequal.’
‘No,’ agreed Vivica. ‘Darling, you must eat. I hate to say it, but Denise was right. You are looking a little thin. I’d hate you to look fat, but scraggy isn’t nice either. You can’t just survive on chocolate. Shall I bring over a couple of Marks’ tartlets? We can throw a bit of green over them, chop up some avocado, perfect! What a pity Tim isn’t around, he does such a nice mustard vinaigrette.’
‘Vivica,’ I said. I shut my eyes. How to say this? How to prompt the big confrontation?
‘I’m rummaging through the fridge. Baby spinach leaves, here we go. Folic acid. Ah, well, that’s good. That’s what we’re after.’
‘Vivica,’ I said again.
‘Yes?’
I paused.
‘Darling, if I’m disturbing your work, don’t worry. Have you found anything yet? Any interviews lined up?’
I smiled to myself then, because I finally got it. And I said to my mother, ‘You’re not disturbing me at all. It all sounds lovely. Come over – we’ll have lunch together.’
Chapter 33
Vivica left at two for her manicure – ‘They’ve got a lovely new Korean girl at the club. They asked me what I thought, and I said, “Beautiful”’ – and I waved her off with a sense of peace. It is not always necessary to hold those who love you, however imperfectly, to account for every mistake. People do change, if only a little. And there are many ways to say sorry, without speaking the word.