‘You are strong.’ she said. ‘You just go about it in a quieter way.’
Chad’s frown was hesitant. ‘Is that what you really think?’
‘Yes!’ Michelle reached across the table and grabbed his hand. ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘That is exactly what I think. How could I marry a man with no strength, no gumption? Bossing people around is no fun if it’s not a challenge.’ She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Trust me!’
Chad stared at his hand, as if unsure if it belonged to him. ‘I do trust you.’ He lifted his gaze to meet hers. ‘But I don’t trust myself.’
‘Why not?’ Michelle did her best not to yell. If Rosie woke up, this conversation might never, ever resolve itself. And Michelle needed a resolution. She needed it now. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying to me,’ she went on. ‘Is that why you took the new job? As a test? To see if you had what it takes?’
‘Partly.’ Chad was watching her warily. ‘But I know I can do the job now.’
‘So?’ Michelle felt an urge to slap him. ‘What are you saying? You need something else now? Some other test?’
‘I need—’ Chad hesitated, choosing his words. ‘I need to find out what kind of man I’d be if it was just me. It’s never been just me, Mitch. I’ve never been alone.’
Michelle snatched her hand from his as if it had burned her.
‘Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘You’re leaving me.’
‘No!’ Chad’s protest sounded overly loud. ‘Absolutely not! I love you. I love the kids. I love being married to you.’
‘But?’
‘I need some time,’ he said. ‘On my own.’
Michelle shook her head slowly in disbelief. ‘Christ on a freaking three-wheeler,’ she said. ‘You’re actually telling me that you need to find yourself?’ Her voice began to rise. ‘You’re seriously laying this freaking new-age cliché on me? What the freak next? You’re going to join a men’s group? Hang out naked in a sweat lodge and learn how to give man hugs?’
Chad pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. ‘I knew I couldn’t talk to you.’
‘Don’t you dare!’ said Michelle. ‘Don’t you dare walk away. This is your shit you’ve laid on me, and if you don’t like me getting angry, too bad! If you want to be strong so freaking badly, then stay here and deal with it.’
Chad had been heading for the door but at this he stopped. He shoved both hands in his pockets and stood for a moment, his back to her, rocking gently on the balls of his feet. Michelle heard him murmur, ‘Shit.’ Then he turned around.
‘You’re right,’ he said to her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ Michelle gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘I’m pretty sure “sorry” is not going to cut it. I mean, what the hell will I tell Harry? What will I tell your mother who rings me fifty million times every freaking day?’
Chad frowned. ‘Does she? Why?’
‘Because you never take her calls. Why would you? You’re only her son!’
‘What does she want?’
‘Chad. Seriously. Don’t ask me this. If you want to know what your bloody mother calls about, phone her your freaking self.’
There was pause. ‘Have you spoken to my father?’
‘Chad!’
His hands came out of his pockets and up into the surrender position. ‘OK, OK!’
For a length of miserable silence, they stared at each other.
‘I’ll talk to Harry,’ Chad said. ‘And I’ll call my parents.’
‘What about work? You’ve just started. Will they be OK with you leaving?’
Chad looked away. ‘I’ll stay working. It’s not ideal, but I’ve — made commitments.’ With a quick smile, he added, ‘I’ll miss taking the bus, though. It was a good time to think.’
Michelle had been fighting off tears, but now they began to slide damply down her cheeks. Resentfully, hopelessly, she let them fall.
‘When are you going?’ Her lips seemed all fat and numb, making it hard to form the words.
Chad shoved his hands back in his pockets. ‘To be honest, I hadn’t meant to do this right now,’ he said. ‘I was going to work up to it, find the right time.’
‘Well, that plan’s blown,’ said Michelle. ‘So what do you think is the next best right time for abandoning your family?’
‘Mitch …’
‘Come on!’ The tears felt cold and clammy on her skin. Angrily, she swiped them away. ‘You can’t put it off now.’
‘What about Monday, then? After the weekend.’
‘So I’ll be forced to pretend for three days that everything is hunky dory? Smile and carry on regardless? Is that what you expect?’
Chad blew out a breath. ‘Mitch, is there any possibility you could not see this as a complete disaster? I love you and I have no intention of leaving you. That’s the God’s honest truth.’
‘And I’m supposed to believe a man who doesn’t trust himself?’
‘I have to do this,’ he said. ‘If I don’t, I will go mad.’
His expression was nakedly beseeching, and brought a temporary halt to the misery and resentment rattling like a train through Michelle’s mind.
‘I’m so afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m terrified of losing you.’
Chad made a small, inarticulate sound, strode over and dropped to one knee beside her. He cupped her face with a hand, and ran his thumb gently over her damp cheek.
‘Mitch, I love you. I haven’t been a great husband lately, and I hope I can make up for that. And I won’t be gone too long—’
‘How long?’ Michelle had put off asking this, and now she steeled herself.
Chad shrugged. ‘A month?’
It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Still. ‘A whole month?’
‘It’s no time. It’ll fly by. Just imagine if I were a soldier. You wouldn’t see me for most of the year.’
‘You’re not a soldier. Though right now, much like Al-Qaeda, I’m seriously considering targeting you with a weapon of mass destruction.’
Chad gave her a faint smile and kissed her lightly on the mouth. His touch felt odd, alien, as if she’d already been detached from him for years.
‘Is it enough time?’ she said. ‘I mean, what happens if you come back only half found? Do I have to go through all this again?’
‘No.’ Chad shook his head firmly. ‘Whatever I get out of this is what I get. I’ll be happy with that. I promise.’
‘And will you be happy with me?’
‘You’re the best part of my life,’ Chad said. ‘I will always be happy with you.’
But Michelle was very far from reassured. She felt as if she’d begun to slide down a gravel slope, with everything she loved at the top, rushing further and further from her reach.
What should I do? she asked herself. Should I fight this, rail against it, force him to stay? Or should I become what I thought I’d only have to pretend to be — a good wife? A tolerant, generous wife who puts her husband’s needs first?
If I fight, she thought, I’ll almost certainly end up losing him. It’s like that stupid effing poster with the bird: ‘If you love something, set it free. If it’s yours, it will come back. If it doesn’t, it never was.’ Damn it, thought Michelle. The least risky choice is still no guarantee.
And for the first time, Michelle realised what that meant for her. Chad might be having doubts about who he was, but maybe he had been too quick to suggest that her approach was better. She was very clear about what she wanted and what she didn’t: that much was true. Trouble is, she’d designed her whole life around what she’d wanted, which was to be his wife and the mother of his children. To live happily married to him, in comfort and easy contentment, for the rest of her days.
It had not mattered one bit to her to give up her career, because it was no longer what she wanted. Letting it go had been her choice.
But if she lost Chad — if she had to let him go — it would not be her choice. And without him, the edges of her life would no lon
ger be clear and defined.
If she could no longer be Chad’s wife, Michelle had no idea who she would be.
16
Next morning, Michelle picked up the phone to cancel her lunch with Connie. Chad wouldn’t judge her. He had no idea that her motivation for meeting Connie had stemmed from anything but a genuine desire to apologise, and given what he had just dumped on her, he wouldn’t look askance if she said she was putting it off. Brilliant. Saved from an hour of hell with an acid-peeled, mineral-water-sipping salad-picker.
But with the number in front of her, the receiver in her hand, she changed her mind. Michelle could parrot off Chad’s job description no problem. She knew where his offices were, how many people worked for the firm, the firm’s reputation. But she had no idea what his job was like for him. No idea how he got on with his colleagues or his bosses. No idea what was at stake for him, what challenges he faced or how he felt about them. In fact, Michelle realised she was clueless about the quality and detail of his everyday working life.
In her time as a corporate lawyer, Michelle had had dealings with some of the Charlotte branch executives of Chad’s firm. They had been smart, ambitious and ruthless. Profit was the motive. People were expendable. Even though the San Francisco office was much smaller, Michelle imagined the culture was no different. Possibly harder — despite the wads of money that floated around Silicon Valley, the city was not one of the big financial centres, and was viewed by those on high almost as a provincial outpost. It occurred to Michelle that Chad’s team would have to work extra hard to prove themselves, while knowing that there were no prizes for effort, only results.
But I’ve never asked him if that’s the case, thought Michelle. I’ve never asked him anything; just bitched about his hours. Would I be in this situation if I’d shown an interest? she wondered. I suppose it’s too late to worry about that now. I had my chance and I didn’t see it, let alone take it. Guess I have only my selfish self to blame.
It was the notion that Connie might be able to offer some insight that persuaded Michelle not to cancel lunch. Chances are she doesn’t have a clue either, thought Michelle. Wives like her don’t really want to know the details of how the money gets made. All they care about is whether the credit card is primed and ready. And even if Phil does talk to her about work, it’ll be edited through his ego filter. Everyone down to the tea lady might own his ass, but that’s not how Phil will tell it. All Connie will hear is that Fat Phil’s the man.
But Michelle’s urge to know more about Chad at work, to reduce by at least an inch or two the terrifying gap that had opened up between them, prompted her to take the risk. If Connie knows nothing, she reasoned, our lack of any other common ground should make it a very short lunch.
As Michelle reached out to replace the phone in its stand, it rang. Michelle sighed and hit the talk button.
‘Virginia.’
‘No, it’s me.’
Michelle was suddenly on high alert. It was obvious that Darrell had been crying, and Michelle had a pretty good idea why. She felt a stab of guilt, which she quickly suppressed. She hadn’t told Anselo anything, had she? In fact, he’d left their conversation on quite the wrong track. If he’d happened to finally latch onto the truth — well, that was hardly her fault.
‘Hi.’ Michelle tried not to sound too guarded. ‘What’s up?’
‘He knows,’ said Darrell. ‘He knows I’m pregnant.’
Michelle was surprised to find that her initial reaction was one of foot-tapping impatience. Jesus, she scolded herself. Darrell is your best friend. She’s patiently put up with all your shit over these last few months, and now that she finally has some shit of her own, you can barely be tolerant. So what if you don’t believe pregnancy is a big deal? It clearly is for Darrell — so suck it up.
‘Right. And I’m assuming you didn’t tell him? He guessed?’
‘Yes! And I don’t know how. I’m not showing. I don’t have any morning sickness.’
‘Then why didn’t you deny it?’
Darrell’s voice thickened up with tears again. ‘I just couldn’t. He caught me on the hop and I’m such a crappy liar, I couldn’t even try. And it was awful,’ she went on, ‘really, seriously awful.’
‘Was he angry?’
‘No,’ said Darrell. ‘Worse. He was hurt. Horribly, awfully hurt.’
With good reason, Michelle thought uncharitably. I mean, what were you thinking trying to conceal it from him?
‘Well, what now?’ she said. ‘What’s the plan?’
Darrell waited a beat before replying. ‘I told him I still wasn’t sure.’
‘What?’ Michelle was appalled. ‘Are you saying you told him there was still a chance you might abort his child? Have you lost your mind?’
‘It’s my choice!’ Darrell’s voice rose.
‘It bloody well is not! It took two people to make that baby—’
‘It’s not a baby yet.’ Darrell’s tone was mulish.
‘It bloody well is!’ Michelle yelled. ‘If it’s alive, it is a baby. How can you say otherwise?’
‘Abortion law says otherwise. What are you now — some fascist right-to-lifer?’
That gave Michelle pause. ‘No.’ She made an effort to calm herself. ‘No, I’m not. But Darrell, please — don’t do anything you’ll regret. And I don’t just mean the baby. There’s more at stake here than that, isn’t there?’
‘You mean my relationship,’ said Darrell dully. ‘Anselo.’
‘No! I mean you. Your freaking mental health! Your quality of life.’
‘You think I can’t have a full life if I don’t have a baby?’
Michelle made an exasperated noise. ‘No. You’re wilfully misunderstanding me.’
‘I think it’s you who doesn’t understand me,’ said Darrell. ‘You can only see things your way. If something doesn’t fit within your “perfect life” criteria, then it has to be wrong. I don’t want what you want from your life. I might have once, when Tom was alive, but I don’t now. So maybe it’s best if I don’t bother you any more.’
And she hung up.
Michelle listened to the dial tone. Its monotony was strangely soothing. Her mind was flicking through memories of her and Darrell’s friendship, serving them up in jerky sequence like an old home movie.
There they were at high school, slightly plump and wholly uncool in their unflattering uniforms. The person who thought teal would be a super colour for a blazer, thought Michelle, was either blind or a vicious sadist. Teal makes you look like you’re underwater. Or on top of it, suffering from mal de mer.
High school. That was the last time Darrell and I were actually together, thought Michelle. I went to university in another city, then I moved to another country. We’ve spent more time apart than together, yet we’ve managed to stay friends.
True, there was that ruction in the sixth form, when Danny McArdle asked me and not her to the school dance. I didn’t even know she liked him, but then Darrell always did spend a lot of time living in her own head. It was no surprise that she became a writer. We were friends again within a week. Mainly because Danny turned out to be a monumentous thicko who thought the Sistine Chapel was painted by a turtle that said ‘Dude’ a lot.
And then there was last year, Michelle recalled, when we had a disagreement a lot like this one. OK, I admit, I was being a bitch, teasing her about the fact she was being kept dangling by some posh bloke who was about as likely to commit to her as America was to become a monarchy. She rightly gave me beans, and I got shirty and hung up on her. But then she rang back to apologise, and we were friends again.
So what do I do this time? Michelle wondered. I suppose I could start by hanging up this stupid phone.
‘Everything all right?’
Benedict was in the kitchen doorway, holding Rosie in his arms. Her daughter was looking particularly smug, Michelle thought. She’s got her man under full control, that’s why. Whereas I don’t seem to be on top of anything any more.
‘Yep,’ said Michelle. ‘Everything’s right as rain.’
Connie had suggested that they meet at the Rotunda restaurant on the top floor of the Neiman Marcus department store in Union Square. Michelle got there first and, while she waited to be seated, gazed up at the spectacular stained-glass dome that glittered blue and gold above. It’ll be like dining in a church, Michelle decided. Maybe it’s a sign? That I need to atone?
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ said a breathless voice in her ear. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
Connie was there, clutching a Birkin bag and wearing a beige linen shift dress that was stylish enough but managed to conceal every aspect of her figure. Her legs, dementedly thin in Michelle’s opinion, were on view but clad in the kind of flesh-coloured high-denier pantyhose much favoured by Michelle’s mother. Mrs Horton would sooner die of overheating than go out without her pantyhose. Mrs Phil, it seemed, had emerged from a similar, if considerably more slim-line, mould.
‘About twenty seconds,’ said Michelle. And do you apologise for everything? was the question she kept to herself.
‘Oh, I’m so glad.’ Connie fanned her face. ‘I just had such a drama with the housekeeper. I simply cannot get her to understand that you need to clean all the way around the taps.’
Don’t say a word, Michelle warned herself. Don’t say a freaking word.
‘How do you manage your housekeeper?’ Connie seemed genuinely anxious to know.
‘I do my own housework,’ said Michelle. There was no point in lying. ‘Though I have to admit, with two small children, I’ve given up trying to keep my taps sparkling. And as for under the rim — I just find it best not to look.’
‘Oh.’
Connie’s expression was half-puzzled, half-mortified, like a child who senses from Mommy’s tone that they’ve been admonished but isn’t quite sure what they’ve done. Michelle felt like a heel.
‘I have a nanny, though,’ she added. ‘But so far, he hasn’t needed managing.’
Connie’s eyes widened. ‘He?’
‘Ladies.’ The maître d’ was ready to show them to their table.
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 14