Mid-Life Ex-Wife

by Stella Grey

  He replied immediately. He was online. “That’d be lovely,” he wrote. “Let’s do that some time.” Some time could mean at least three things. It could mean “Never going to happen, but I’ll keep saying ‘Yes, lovely, let’s do that,’ ad infinitum, in a Let’s Do Lunch Sweetie Darling type manner.” It could mean “I’m really keen, how about this Friday?” It could mean “I agree to that, but only tepidly, so don’t go getting any notions.”

  How about this Friday, I suggested. I waited, and waited—twenty minutes can seem like a long time—and nothing was forthcoming. So I messaged again with the name of a dining pub, nearer his flat than mine. “Shall we meet at 7, have something simple to eat?” I asked him.

  “I’d like that,” he wrote. The enthusiasm levels were not infectious.

  So, we met that next Friday at seven o’clock at a nice dark, nook and cranny old pub that does casual but pretty good food. I was ten minutes late, because I’d had an impressively noisy attack of what we should euphemistically call A Bad Tummy. There had been a suspect prawn at lunch that I should never have eaten. The pack was a few days over its date and the contents didn’t smell sea-fresh, so I’d eaten them doused in tomato and chilli mayo. (Expiry dates on food are always on the conservative side, right?) I didn’t think it’d continue to be an issue. I’d taken tummy settling meds, and seemed to be stable.

  Roger was standing outside the building, looking handsome. His picture was as under-achieving as his profile. He was wearing a hat, and a good jacket, with a white shirt and Levi’s. There was something TV historian meets Indiana Jones about him. “Golly,” I said to the car interior as we approached. I was wearing the favorite, flattering navy frock. “Don’t you look nice,” he said, as I turned from paying the driver. He took his hat off and kissed me on the cheek. “Shall we go in? I took the precaution of booking a table.”

  As we walked towards the bar to announce our arrival, I felt a distinct, unmistakable burble. “I’m just popping to the loo,” I said, walking and then running to the back stairs. I made it to the stall, and was very glad to be alone there. As I was on my own, I could think aloud and did. “Come on, come on, for God’s sake,” I said, after five minutes in which not much had occurred. “For God’s sake get a move on.” I couldn’t sit around having ploppy intermittent diarrhea, obviously. Ten minutes later I was back at the table, having made an executive decision that the attack was finished. I was wild-eyed and clammy, but Roger didn’t notice. He was sitting looking at the menu, completely unperturbed. “Ah, there you are,” he said.

  We ordered, and we drank the bottle of wine he’d ordered in my absence, and he asked me a series of questions about myself, the kind that a stranger at a wedding, placed next to you, would ask over the baked salmon. It was all faultlessly polite. I felt distinctly feverish and was having griping pains but I ignored them. I asked Roger to tell me more about himself, and he said, with predictable diffidence, that there wasn’t a lot to tell. He was self-employed these days, a consultant, but he’d been in the forces and had traveled a good deal. Did I like to travel? He was recently amicably divorced, had two sons, was perfectly happy with his life, but felt the lack of someone to share it with. As he was saying this, I felt another urgent call to the bathroom. I leapt up, almost knocking my glass over, said I’d be back in a minute, and darted away. This bout, I’m afraid to tell you, went on and on. There isn’t any way of glossing over it. It was basically a war. There was gunfire. There were explosions. There were rockets. Worse, I didn’t have the privilege of dealing with the episode alone. There were other women coming and going, and no camouflaging music in the Ladies’ Room, either. I could hear two women chatting as they washed their hands. I managed to hold back the worst of it until the hand drier roared, and managed to hold it in again once the hand drier noise stopped. I heard the main door open and close, after which there was silence. Thinking I was now alone, I unclenched and let rip. I indulged in groaning. I said, “This is a total fucking disaster,” to the cubicle door.

  “Are you all right in there?” a woman’s voice inquired.

  “I’m going to be,” I said. “I ate something I shouldn’t have. Not here. I don’t mean here. I’m sure the food here is perfectly . . . hygienic.” The final word was drowned out by trumpeting. What the hell am I going to do? I thought. I got out my phone and considered calling my date, then put it back again. Ringing someone from a toilet is never acceptable dating behavior.

  When I returned to the table, finally and apologetically, Roger asked if I was well, his brow furrowing. He was sitting with two cold starters (once hot, but hot no longer), unable to eat his own until I had taken my chair. He was burdened with good manners, thanks to inflexible early training, he said. I noticed as he picked up his cutlery that he had nice hands, long fingers. I asked more about the places he’d been to. The conversation flowed, even after eating, but by now he was looking at his watch. “I’m sorry but I’ll have to go soon,” he said. “My son arrives from gap year backpacking at half ten and has no key.” We paid the bill 50–50, said goodnight, kissed on the cheek, and he strode off. “I hope you feel better soon,” he said, half turning and grinning. When eventually my cab arrived, and I got into it, my phone beeped receipt of a text message. “That was fun,” it said. “Sorry I had to dash.”

  “Let’s do it again soon,” I replied. “Let’s meet on Sunday, if you’re free.”

  “I’ll check,” he replied. A little later a second text arrived. “Sunday’s fine so yes, let’s do that.”

  Roger, it turned out, wasn’t the kind of man who communicated much, other than for dealing with facts and necessary arrangements, digitally, in between meetings. When I heard from him again, all the message said was: “I can’t do Sunday after all; could we make it Monday?” He ignored my attempt to start a conversation. He didn’t do social media or text chatting. He associated his phone and laptop with the working week, he explained on our second date, and preferred to avoid looking at them when he was at home. He didn’t do supplementary romance via typed words, and this took some adjustment in the online dating environment. I couldn’t get over-invested, and, as is the way of these things, I missed it.

  I took Monday off so that we could have lunch. Then he texted to say that he’d had to step in on a project that was going pear-shaped, so could it be dinner after all? He should be finished by four. Then, he wasn’t going to be able to get away at four o’clock after all. At 4 p.m., armed with his address, I happened to cycle past his house, being subtle about slowing my pedaling to squint through his windows. I stopped at the corner and texted to say that I was on my bike and not far away from him, and happened to have cake. Should I pop by? You see, I had this irrational conviction that Roger was married, and dating on the sly, for whatever reason. I can’t explain it. But he wouldn’t have been the first married man who’d claimed to be newly single (so new that his wife hadn’t yet been informed), going to his shed to write dating site messages on his phone. “Can’t,” Roger replied. “Sorry—work has overrun, but am stopping at 7 no matter what.”

  At 8 p.m. we met at a different restaurant, for a different sort of a dinner. This was more of a Fish Knife and Starched Napkin sort of establishment. His treat, he insisted; I could get the next one if I wanted. We chatted perfectly amicably, over three delicious courses and two bottles of wine. Warned it was fairly formal, I was wearing the black frock with the cunning fat-clamping panels. He was in the same black jacket and jeans as before, with a silky blue shirt open at the collar. I was so attracted to him that I could hear my heart thumping. When our eyes met I felt physically revved up. I was having trouble being calm, and consequently gabbled girlishly, and apologized for gabbling, and he said that no, on the contrary, he loved a woman with stories to tell.

  When we came out, he said he’d invite me back for coffee but wouldn’t this time, as his son was at home with his friends, using the sitting room for computer games. Next time, he said. He put one hand to the small of
my back and went to kiss me on the cheek, and I took hold of his face and kissed him on the mouth. I asked him what he was doing tomorrow. At this point, I felt I had to combat his natural diffidence with unambiguous interest. Some people need that, after all. He was going to a concert tomorrow, he said, in fact more of a gig, in which his son was involved. Maybe I could come with you, I said. Hey, that would be nice, he said; it’s boring having to go alone.

  So we went to the gig together. It only occurred to me when I met him outside that his wife might be there, but he said she wouldn’t be. She’d moved away; she was already living with someone else. We retreated to the bar afterwards, and when he asked me what I’d like, I said that what I’d like was to be kissing somewhere other than here. He was standing very close to me, looking into my eyes, which is how I misinterpreted the question. He threw his head back and laughed, and said that unfortunately he had to be up early tomorrow. Embarrassed, I said, “I was only talking about kissing; I’m not going to attempt to drag you back to my lair or anything.” He nodded his head into the middle distance.

  Later, at home in bed, I counted the ways in which I seemed to be doing all the work. I was doing most of the inviting and all the flirting, and he was being charmingly lovely about it all, while at the same time transmitting clear signals that he could take me or leave me. Perhaps, inescapably, my role was to be good enough company until a swishy-haired goddess came along. I told Jack that I thought perhaps I’d overdone it, that Roger might be fastidious about taking the lead. I might have spoiled things. I told him I was going to cool down and wait to be contacted. Jack approved. “Though when men really want something, they’re pretty resilient,” he said.

  Days passed after this with no communication. If Roger was interested, he was in no rush whatsoever to put his interest into action. I decided I would ring him up. So I called him. He sounded quite surprised to hear from me. I could hear young adults talking in the background, and muffled shouts of amicable computer game aggression. Once we’d covered what sort of a day we’d both had, a silence descended. I let it run on. So, was there a reason you called? Roger asked eventually. I just wanted to hear your voice, I said—grimacing at myself—and to say hello. Well, that’s very nice, he said. Another silence descended. I was determined not to be the one to bring it to an end. Eventually on the crackly line I heard him say, “Well, I suppose we should organize dinner here, or at your place if you prefer, over the next few days.” It was my turn to say that would be lovely. That would be really lovely, I repeated. I was smiling when we rang off.

  I texted Chief Sensible Friend and said I’d been wrong: Roger was interested. He was just diffident by nature, and preferred things to take an unhurried course; that was just his style. “Great, that’s great,” she replied warily. “I hope you’re right.”

  Roger rang shortly after this. He’d volunteered to host our dinner. “I should have asked if there’s anything you don’t eat,” he said. I told him I was more or less omnivorous. What was he thinking of doing? “Well, that’s just it,” he said. “I’m wondering what to cook.”

  “Well,” I said. “I don’t know. We could keep it simple and just have a chicken. Chicken’s easy and reliable, isn’t it—chicken and baked potatoes and salad.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll cook,” Roger said. “Okay, great. That’s a plan. Cheerio then.”

  Something about this conversation bothered me. I’d suggested chicken because it was easy, and then I thought, Why are you acting like his bloody mother? I’d had the same issue with Marc. I do, on occasion, have to fight off a tendency to mother people. This isn’t good in the case of boyfriends. Other than for strange nappy-wearing fetishists, people don’t usually want to have sex with their mothers.

  Roger’s house was actually part of a house, a small flat, somewhat run-down and chaotic, though in a nice way, with piles of books on tables, papers, newspapers, objects he’d collected on other continents, and the belongings of the son who still lived at home (who was out with his mates at the pub). Roger was apologetic about the untidiness, but actually I like it when people don’t go all show home on you, in preparation for your visit; sometimes it means you’re being embraced into the extended family. We had a conversation about post-divorce living arrangements, and how they can knock the stuffing out of you, something I’d had painful experience of, losing my home in the great divide. “You understand this,” he said, looking at me differently. I was leaning against a worktop in his kitchen as he scissored the ends off green beans, as he half withdrew the chicken to put rosemary and sea salt on it. I did understand, and I was struck by a new feeling for him: empathy. I saw how a man who’d been dumped for someone else, unexpectedly in midlife, might struggle to keep up his old sense of self, his old optimism. How he might take on an Indiana Jones look, indicative of hopes of adventure, while being very careful not to get into anything new that might result in further pain. I saw the polite charm, the detachment, the silk shirt and the expensive restaurant in a new light, and the way he’d surrounded himself with objects that reminded him he’d been places and done things, nourishing this unexpected new stage of his life with icons from the past that would carry him forward.

  We ate the chicken, and tidied up, and then I kissed him in the kitchen. I put my arms round his neck, and kissed him, and he kissed me back, and then we half walked, half staggered into his bedroom, falling into his bed, laughing. But then when we tried to consummate our friendship, Roger found that he couldn’t get it together. He was deeply, deeply mortified, groaning and falling facedown onto the bed and turning away from me. This had been a problem of late, he said. I told him it didn’t matter a bit. I rubbed his shoulders and back, and he made happy, relaxed noises, and I rested my face against his neck, and we talked in the dark about other things. I was half dozing when I heard the main door opening and closing. It was Roger’s son, calling out to him. “Dad? Dad, are you here?” Roger dressed swiftly and went into the hall, and had a conversation with him about the day, and didn’t say anything about having a visitor. I felt, when I left shortly afterwards, that my exit was being engineered to be covert. But that was fair enough in the circumstances.

  Three evenings later Roger came over to eat. I’d been looking forward to seeing him all day. All my old reticence, all my single-lady worries about inviting strange men into my flat, had melted away. My reluctance hadn’t only been to do with safety. My rented home had complicated layers of significance for me. Even though the flat didn’t have marriage associations—because I’d moved into it afterwards—it still had divorce associations. It had been somewhere I’d been deeply unhappy and lost (which was one reason I was about to move; I needed another fresh start). I’d brought things with me from the marriage, things that had been saved from the shipwreck but with which I now had a love-hate relationship. A marriage is, among other things, an extended process of acquisition: every book and CD and DVD my ex and I had bought marked a season and an old conversation, a moment, a day, a memory; every chair and rug and picture had its story that used to be our story. For the first time I found myself thinking how tricky it might be to team up with someone else and his history, his belongings rescued from his own shipwreck, from his different past. How did you marry all that together?

  In the event, having Roger over felt like the most natural thing in the world. “Mmm,” he said, coming into the kitchen. “That smells good, whatever it is.” He was wearing a tweed cap and long overcoat and looked very dashing. I’d made a warm salad with shredded duck and endive and plums; an apple crumble sat on the stove waiting to be cooked. He wandered round the flat while I finished getting the food ready, discreetly surveying my possessions (just like I had done at his place), and when he asked about the origins of things I was very nearly breezy about old holidays and auction houses and junk shops. Roger chose a CD from the pile under the television and put it on, a Brian Eno, saying he loved Eno, he hadn’t known I was an Eno fan. We talked about music as we ate. We took
the last of the wine through to the big sofa and half sat, half lay on it together, my head on his chest, listening to more music. I discovered he had a liking for some of the same film soundtracks I like. He told me that I’d cheered him up more than he could say, which for a man so reticent was something of a tribute, and made me happy.

  I thought we were embarking on something, a relationship. I was so confident that when he’d gone, I came up with Lesson Five in the dating diary. Lesson Five: make allowances for people who aren’t communicators and who move at a different speed. Allow yourselves to align before going into a doom spiral.

  Not that the rest of the evening had gone brilliantly. We ended up in my bed, among the many throws and hundred cushions. Roger kept finding new cushions and throwing them across the room, which made us both giggly. The dog ambled in to have a look at us and had to be evicted, which made us giggly again. Cuddled up naked together, listening to the evening noises of the city, I’d assumed we were going to have sex, but this didn’t seem to be happening. We continued lying companionably together like the babes in the wood. So I took the initiative. I tried to resurrect the passionate mood that had brought us in here, when we’d rushed to remove our clothes, rushing to be together, skin to skin. “I’m sorry,” Roger said after a while. “It just isn’t going to happen. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I didn’t used to have this problem.” It was probably a mistake on my part to keep trying, but I felt I could beat it, given enough time and enough technique. All my efforts made no difference, though, and Roger’s face had acquired a pained expression. He said he thought he should go home.