The Marriage Mender

by Linda Green

  First published in the UK in 2014 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London

  W1U 8EW

  Copyright © 2014 Linda Green

  The moral right of Linda Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  PB ISBN 978 1 78087 525 5

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78087 526 2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  PART TWO

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  PART THREE

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THE MUMMYFESTO

  LINDA GREEN’S TOP 5 FAVOURITE BOOKS

  Praise for Linda Green

  ‘Smart, witty writing’ Elle

  ‘Utterly riveting’ Closer

  ‘Heart-warming and inspiring – a great read!’ Katie Fforde

  ‘Warm, well-written, thought-provoking – reminds us of the power we have to effect change in the world’ Dorothy Koomson

  ‘Warm and wonderful … will have you smiling, sobbing and cheering’ Milly Johnson

  ‘A well-written, thoughtful read about when love is put to the greatest test’ Daily Mail

  ‘Inspiring and moving – gets my vote!’ Kate Long

  ‘Keeps you guessing right up to the end’ Sun

  ‘Heartwarming and original … will leave you full of hope’ Vanessa Greene

  About the Author

  Linda Green is an award-winning journalist and has written for the Guardian, the Independent on Sunday and the Big Issue. She lives in West Yorkshire.

  Also by Linda Green

  The Mummyfesto

  And Then It Happened

  Things I Wish I’d Known

  10 Reasons NOT to Fall in Love

  I Did a Bad Thing

  For Ian and Rohan

  ‘Mr and Mrs Bentley?’

  The woman’s voice was regulation soft and soothing. I looked up. She had a sympathetic face too. And comforting strands of grey running through her long brown hair.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘I’m Polly. Please do come through.’ She gestured towards the open door.

  I glanced across at Chris. To a neutral observer his face gave nothing away. But I knew him better than that. Could see the fear in his eyes. Smell it on him, even.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ I whispered as I walked past him.

  He nodded. Almost imperceptibly.

  We went through into a large, airy room with sash windows and beige curtains which were frayed at the edges. Two Ikea-type chairs were positioned facing the windows, an occasional table in between with a strategically placed box of tissues, a jug of water and two glasses.

  Polly shut the door behind us and offered her hand and a thin smile. Not thin in a bad way. Just suitably thin for someone who has never met you before and is about to splice you open and perform open-heart surgery.

  ‘Pleased to meet you both,’ she said as we shook hands in turn. ‘Do take a seat and we can get started.’

  I sat down on the chair furthest away. Chris took the other one. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, fiddled with the strap on his watch. The one I’d given him for his fortieth birthday.

  Polly launched into the formalities. She spoke calmly and clearly, explaining that this was an initial assessment and we’d then be matched with a counsellor to suit our needs. It was textbook stuff. But I refrained from telling her so.

  ‘Now, let me just have a quick look through these forms,’ she said, nodding intermittently as she did so.

  ‘So, you’re a photographer,’ she said to Chris. ‘What sort of pictures do you take?’

  ‘Good ones, hopefully,’ he replied, managing a hint of a smile. ‘Landscapes when I can, family portraits and other stuff to pay the mortgage.’

  ‘And you have one son from a previous relationship. How old is he?’

  Chris looked down at his feet. I saw him swallow hard. No words were forthcoming.

  ‘Sixteen,’ I said. ‘Josh is sixteen.’

  Polly nodded. ‘And does he live with you?’

  We both hesitated this time. I didn’t even dare to look across at Chris.

  ‘Yes,’ I said eventually. ‘Although not at the moment.’

  Polly nodded again and wrote something down. Perhaps sensing that it wouldn’t be wise to probe any further at this stage.

  ‘And you’ve got a daughter together. How old is she?’

  ‘Nine,’ I replied. ‘Her name’s Matilda.’

  Polly smiled and nodded. I wanted to say that she was named after the Roald Dahl character. That Chris always called her ‘Tilda’ but I never did. I didn’t say anything, though. In case Chris thought I was getting at him.

  Polly turned to my form. It was only a matter of time before she found out now. I waited, watching her face for the sign. To be fair, she didn’t even flinch.

  ‘Ah, Alison, I see you’re a counsellor yourself. What sort of areas do you cover?’

  I hesitated. Aware how utterly ridiculous it was going to sound. I thought of what Matilda always said when people asked what her mother did. She called me a ‘marriage mender’. Said I kept people’s mummies and daddies together when they were arguing a lot. My stomach tightened as I wondered what on earth she would think if she could see her marriage-mender mummy right now.

  ‘Relationships,’ I said to Polly, trying to keep my voice as low and even as possible. ‘I’m a relationship counsellor.’

  The silence hung heavily in the air. Chris put his head in his hands.

  I smiled weakly. ‘It is rather ridiculous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Polly. ‘I’m divorced. I’d say that’s more ridiculous.’ She smiled at me.

  I smiled back, grateful for her efforts to put me at ease.

  ‘As I’m sure you’re aware,’ she continued, ‘I do need to have some understanding of the situation and why you’re here, in order to place you with an appropriate counsellor. For example, I need to know if there are any sexual problems in your relationship?’

  Chris smiled slightly and shook his head. He was thinking of that eighties sitcom – Dear John, was it? – t
he one where the counsellor kept asking if he had any sexual problems.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  On one level that was a lie. Not having sex for more months than I cared to remember was quite obviously a sexual problem. But it was a symptom of the problem, not the cause. Which meant I could get away with it.

  ‘Fine. And how would you describe the issues which have led you to seek counselling?’ asked Polly.

  She looked at Chris as she said it but he simply continued fiddling with his watch strap. I shifted in my seat, aware he wasn’t doing himself any favours. That if it had been me in Polly’s chair, I wouldn’t exactly be warming to him. I understood he wasn’t being deliberately obstructive. That he was simply unable to engage fully in the process when he was so riddled with hurt.

  ‘We’ve had some family issues,’ I said. ‘There’s been a lot of change. We’ve been under a great deal of strain.’

  Again, I avoided mentioning her name. I didn’t want Polly to think badly of Chris. And she would do if I mentioned another woman. You couldn’t help it, even if you were trained not to show it.

  ‘I see,’ said Polly. ‘And how has the strain affected you both? Has it interfered with communication?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘We haven’t really been talking properly.’

  ‘Would you say that’s fair, Chris?’ Polly asked.

  Chris looked up. I worried for a second that he was going to stand up and simply walk out of the room. He looked at me. The first time he’d looked at me properly since we’d arrived.

  He ran his fingers through his dark curls. Sighed deeply. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I would.’

  ‘Good,’ said Polly. ‘And is either of you able to identify how long ago these problems started? When your relationship started to deteriorate?’

  It was my turn to look at my feet. To swallow hard. I heard Chris’s voice cut through the silence.

  ‘Saturday, September the 29th, last year,’ he said.

  Polly raised her eyebrows slightly and turned to look at me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was.’

  PART ONE

  1

  ‘When is Josh going to get up? He’s already missed loads of his birthday. His presents will be going cold.’

  Matilda was sitting talking to us at the kitchen table from her Muppet station halfway up the stairs. She had been barred from going upstairs because I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist bursting into Josh’s room. And it was still only 10 a.m. on Saturday morning, which, to a teenager, was the early hours.

  ‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘when it’s your sixteenth birthday, you can get up at whatever time you like. But I have a feeling you’ll be having a lie-in too.’

  ‘I won’t. Lie-ins are for losers.’

  She made an ‘L’ sign and pulled a face as she said it. It was the downside of having an eight-year-old and a teenager; they tended to pick up all the things you’d rather they didn’t learn until they were at secondary school.

  ‘Why don’t you do something instead of sitting there waiting for him, then?’ I said. ‘That way the time will go faster.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Matilda, sounding genuinely surprised that her mother might be capable of a good idea. ‘I think I will.’

  She ran downstairs, rummaged in her toy box in the hallway and went back to her position on the stairs with two sock puppets on her hands, which she proceeded to use in the style of laughing hyenas.

  ‘You have to hand it to her,’ said Chris, smiling as he looked up from his mug of coffee. ‘She is truly skilled in the art of waking someone without being able to be accused of having woken them on purpose.’

  ‘Josh isn’t going to be happy,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s slept through worse than that. Besides, he’s not going to be grumpy for long on his birthday, is he?’

  He was right, of course. He tended to be right when it came to Josh. Probably something to do with bringing him up pretty much single-handedly for the first seven years of his life.

  ‘I still can’t get my head around him being sixteen,’ I said. ‘It seems like only yesterday I was reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to him.’

  ‘I hope not. I hate to break it to you but he can read by himself now.’

  I pulled a face at him. ‘You know what I mean. It just kind of creeps up on you. The fact that your child has grown up …’

  I paused for a second. Even now, after all these years, I still worried sometimes about calling him ‘my’ child. I knew Chris would laugh if I told him. But it was there, all the same.

  ‘I don’t know about grown up. I’m not sure lads really grow up until they leave home. I know I didn’t.’

  ‘So does that mean you’ll be kicking him out if he’s still here when he’s twenty-one?’

  ‘What do you mean, twenty-one?’ asked Chris. ‘I’ll be changing the locks on his eighteenth birthday.’

  I smiled and kissed him on the top of his head as I stood up. We both knew he didn’t mean it.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Chris, slipping his arms around my waist, ‘it won’t really make much difference to the level of noise in this house. Somehow I can’t imagine Tilda getting quieter as she gets older.’

  At that moment the sock puppets embarked on some kind of roaring competition. A few seconds later, I could hear Josh calling out to keep the noise down. That was all it took. She glanced down at us for a nano-second but didn’t even wait for an approving nod before rushing to his bedroom.

  ‘Happy birthday, lazybones,’ I heard her call out to him. ‘You’ve missed half your birthday and you’ve got presents downstairs. One of them’s a big one and it’s not from me, so it might be something good.’

  Chris smiled and shook his head. ‘Let’s hope he thinks so.’

  ‘He’ll love it,’ I said. ‘So quit worrying.’

  Josh emerged from his bedroom, with Matilda prodding him from behind towards the banisters, as if she were herding him to market. He was wearing a purple T-shirt and black boxers. He’d once said that if anyone broke into the house in the night he wanted them to know he was an emo. Personally I thought the black walls in his room (which he’d painted himself) would have given it away, but clearly he didn’t want to take any chances.

  ‘Morning!’ called Chris. ‘Welcome to the house of fun.’

  The Madness reference may have been lost on Matilda, but Josh managed a bleary-eyed grin.

  ‘Happy birthday, love,’ I said. ‘What can I get you for breakfast?’

  ‘Nothing for now, thanks. I’m going to grab a shower first.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ insisted Matilda. ‘If you don’t open your presents right away I’ll open them myself and put any stuff I don’t want on eBay.’

  Josh rolled his eyes. ‘God, you make the people on The Apprentice look soft, you do.’

  He padded downstairs in his bare feet, Matilda still prodding him from behind, and took a seat at the kitchen table. He ran his hand across his hair – you couldn’t really say ‘through’ because it was cropped short to avoid it going curly like his father’s. He had the same pale skin as Chris too. Though fortunately that fitted the emo thing better than the curls.

  ‘Woo,’ he said, eyeing up the presents on the table.

  ‘Open the big one first,’ Matilda said, looking as if she might wet herself if she had to wait any longer.

  Josh looked at Chris and back at the large rectangular parcel on the table. Chris had put it in a box to disguise it. He’d also wisely not told Matilda what it was, despite her constant pestering. Keeping secrets was not her forte.

  Josh picked it up and tore at the wrapping paper, his enthusiasm getting the better of his cool demeanour for a moment. There was an audible intake of breath as he opened the box.

  ‘It’s a guitar!’ screamed Matilda. ‘They’ve got you a guitar. Will I get one when I’m sixteen?’

  Chris laughed and shook his head. ‘You might not want a guitar when you’re sixteen.’

>   ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I’ll want the same as Josh. Do they do them in shiny colours as well as black? I think I’d like a silver one.’

  Josh looked from Chris to me in turn and back again, apparently still unable to form words. I noticed the sheen on the surface of his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he mumbled as he turned to give Chris and me a hug in turn.

  ‘Say “thank you for my guitar”,’ said Matilda. ‘That way you might get something good next year too.’

  ‘It’s not any old guitar,’ said Josh. ‘It’s a Fender Squier.’

  ‘Sorry we couldn’t run to the real deal,’ said Chris.

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s well sick,’ said Josh. ‘Wait till I show Tom.’

  ‘Well, if the two of you do form a band, just make sure you don’t call it something stupid,’ said Chris.

  ‘Says the man who was the lead guitarist in Pig Swill,’ said Josh with a smirk.

  ‘I still think it was a good name,’ said Chris. ‘Just a shame about our music.’

  ‘You could call your band No Direction,’ said Matilda. ‘Then people might get it confused with One Direction and buy your CDs by mistake.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Josh. ‘Remind me not to make you my agent.’

  ‘Now, if you open the smaller present,’ said Chris, ‘you’ll find something to go with it.’

  Josh picked up the box and ripped off the paper, a smile spreading across his face as he saw the amp inside.

  ‘On the strict understanding that you’ll use headphones with it after eight o’clock at night,’ Chris said.

  ‘I don’t mind being woken up,’ said Matilda. ‘I like noise.’

  ‘Do you?’ said Chris with a smile. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  Matilda launched into an off-key rendition of something by Jessie J, sung at the top of her voice.

  ‘Open hers next,’ I whispered to Josh. ‘It might keep her quiet.’

  Josh picked up Matilda’s present, which she had wrapped herself in tinfoil because the wrapping paper we had in wasn’t shiny enough. I sometimes swore she must have been a magpie in a previous life.

  ‘I know, it’s a roast turkey,’ said Josh.