by Fiona Gibson
Martin’s face creases with concern. ‘Cait, you’re crying …’
‘No I’m not.’ I perch on the corner of the bed with my back to him and swipe my face with my sleeve. ‘Please get up and go home,’ I add desperately.
He sighs. ‘You really think it’ll upset the children to see me here?’
I nod. My entire face feels like it’s liquefying.
‘But it needn’t be just … just a one-off. I could come back. The Daisy thing … it was only …’ He pauses, scrabbling for words. ‘It was a mistake,’ he blunders on, ‘a hideous mistake that triggered something I should never have got involved with, and only did because of that pathetic getting-older thing – when you look at your life and think, Is this it?’
‘Thanks,’ I say witheringly.
‘Didn’t you ever feel like that before I left?’
I swallow. ‘Yes, I suppose I did. I just thought it was normal.’
Martin sighs. ‘I’ve never forgiven myself. Daisy knew it. She realised I’d gone into it without thinking, that I didn’t love her the way I love you.’
He reaches out for me, but I keep my hands bunched on my lap. The creak gives me a start. I swing round and Lola’s standing there in the doorway in her Mickey Mouse nightie and Scooby Doo feet.
‘Daddy!’ she yelps, pelting towards him and flinging herself into his arms. ‘Did you and Mummy have a sleepover party?’
* * *
Tuesday, 11 p.m.
Dear R,
I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for so long. Things have been rather hectic and confusing. Yes, I was surprised that you’d come to the Bambino event and not spoken to me – but then, I’d had to rush off as Jake had had an accident (he’s OK now) so I couldn’t hang around. Oh, apart from being accosted by our dear friend Harriet Pike. Some lecture she gave me! She seems to think that Millie edged her off the mag, suggesting that she needed a little break, when she’d planned for me to take over her page all along. I can’t believe Millie would be so devious. Actually, I can …
Anyway. Here I am, needing to talk. I can’t splurge to Millie – she’d be horrified, would probably excommunicate me from her friendship circle – and Sam’s too wrapped up in other stuff. What happened is, I slept with Martin last night. That’s right – Shagpants. In my defence, your honour, I can only say that he was here and wanted me, and I am sick to the back teeth of pretending I’m doing OK but feeling so lonely inside.
Martin hung around all day. All bloody day, like he owned the place! He insisted on making lunch, resisted making snide remarks about the shoddy selection of offerings in my fridge, and washed up too. All perky and cheerful, bounding around the kitchen as if he was on Masterchef and probably confusing the children horribly. (He was such a grumpy arse when he lived here.)
We took them to the park. It was Martin’s idea – his attempt at wangling an opportunity to talk to me while the kids mucked about in the play area. All morning Lola had been firing questions: ‘Are you going to live with us again, Daddy?’
‘I, um, I’m not sure what’s going to happen,’ he replied, trying to fix me with a look. ‘Mummy and I need to talk.’
So, the park. How normal and happy familyish. My God, did he put in the donkey work – spinning Travis on the roundabout, plus loads of other kids who didn’t even belong to us. He pushed Lola on the swing until she begged to come off. This is the man who’s usually unwilling to venture into playgrounds without a copy of the Guardian to use as a shield. In the olden days, he’d have browsed the whole of G2 while I hoofed from swings to see-saw to roundabout, consoling myself that at least I was getting some exercise.
He asked me if I’d consider getting back together. He pointed out that we’re not even divorced, that I’ve never asked him to instigate the legal proceedings, which he seems to interpret as a hint that the door to his homecoming has been left ajar. I thought of you, R. How you’ve brought up Billy on your own and said that life is better in some ways – that at least it’s an honest life. I thought, That’s what I want. It’s got to be better than being married to the wrong person. All these months I have been bitter and twisted while I mourned the loss of my relationship. Not any more.
I saw Rachel in the park. (Pasta-making friend, remember? Do keep up!) She was with Guy, her creepy husband, who patted my arse in the pub. They didn’t see us. They were too engrossed in one of those snappy rows that you try to hold in for the kids’ sake. They’d brought a picnic, and it was perfectly set out on the grass – Rachel does give excellent picnic – but I could tell by their bitter faces that they were squabbling. Poor Eve, their daughter, had the saddest look on her face.
I thought, Is that what I want? I don’t, R. It’s just me now – me and the kids. I’ve made an appointment to see a family lawyer so hopefully we’ll be able to set the divorce in motion and sort out the money stuff properly. As you know, being dumped isn’t fun. A single mother isn’t something I’d ever planned to be. But there are worse things. Like being trapped with a tosser like Guy, who scrambled up from the picnic rug and stormed across the grass, leaving Rachel and Eve staring bleakly after him.
I don’t really think of Martin as Shagpants. Not any more. He’s a decent dad – a devoted dad, in fact – who made one major mistake.
It feels so good to put these words down. Thanks for listening. For the first time since he left, I feel like the old Caitlin, who I thought was dead and buried a long time ago. Shagging my ex might not have been the smartest way to get over him – no pun intended – but it’s worked. I am cured.
Love, C x
Dear Cait,
I’m so proud of you, dear friend. And things could have been much worse. You could have been wearing a child’s orange Pac-a-Mac.
R x
P.S. Shall we go out sometime?
38
There’s an unfamiliar toothbrush in Sam’s bathroom. It’s purple and sparkly, like a child’s toothbrush, but adult-sized.
I don’t think it’s Sam’s style of toothbrush. By the time I’m back in his garden I’ve arranged my face into what I hope is some semblance of normality.
‘How’s Jake settling back in?’ Sam asks. He seems agitated today. Rather than sitting on the deck with me, he’s slicing back sprawling geraniums, trying to make them behave.
‘It’s like he’s never been away,’ I say. ‘Only he’s different. Cheerier. And he’s stopped cleaning his room. Hasn’t lifted a bloody finger. Within a day of him moving back in, there were comics strewn all over the floor, manky pyjamas kicked under the bed …’
Sam frowns. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘I’m joking, Sam. It’s a joke.’
‘Oh, right.’ He snips off a geranium head in its prime.
An awkward silence hangs in the air. Don’t mention the purple toothbrush. Or, for that matter, the fact that I shagged Martin accidentally. Sam hasn’t been calling me so often. I’ve told myself that it’s due to Jake’s spell at his dad’s. Our sons are what brought us together, after all.
‘So what d’you think happened?’ he asks, turning to face me. The stubbly jaw is a recent development, and it suits him. Hell and damnation to purple toothbrushes.
‘He did mention that Slapper’s a tidying maniac,’ I explain, ‘and freaks out if anyone puts down a drink without a coaster, but … I think he was homesick. Dare I say it, he actually seemed to miss me.’
‘Well, I’m glad,’ Sam murmurs. The children are splashing in an inflatable paddling pool that Sam unearthed from his cellar.
‘It’s over with them,’ I add. ‘Martin and Slapper, I mean.’
‘Why didn’t you say? You must be delighted!’
I muster a smile. ‘Not really. He’s still the kids’ dad, and he’ll always be that, but who he sees or what he gets up to is nothing to do with me. Not any more.’
Sam exhales loudly, dumps his secateurs on the table and pulls up the chair beside me. ‘My God, Caitlin Brown. I never thought I’d hear you say
that.’
‘And there’s something else,’ I add with a chuckle. ‘Ask me what I’m doing tonight.’
‘Um, exhibition opening at the White Cube? Drinks party at Nigella’s?’
I blush and he spots it. ‘Sam … I’m meeting that man. The one who’s been emailing for months now.’
‘What? For God’s sake, are you out of your mind?’
His reaction floors me. ‘I’m just curious. We get on so well in our emails … It sounds weird, but I know I can tell him anything. I feel close to him, Sam.’
He frowns, and his eyes cloud over. ‘Right. OK. Go meet an axe-wielding maniac.’
‘Why are you being like this?’ He has never raised his voice to me before. The children have fallen silent in the pool and are staring at us.
‘Like what?’ he mutters.
‘So … so negative. I’m not stupid, you know. We’re meeting in a pub. I’m not planning to sneak off down a dark alley with him – at least not on a first date.’
He laughs bitterly. ‘I hope not.’
This is a Sam I’ve never seen before. Disapproving. Scathing. His mouth has formed a sneer.
‘I thought you were my friend,’ I say pathetically.
‘Of course I’m your friend. I care about you, that’s all.’
Yeah right. God, I’ve turned into Jake, before his personality spruce-up.
‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’ Lola skips towards us, water droplets flying from her hair.
‘Nothing, sweetie, but you’d better get dry because we need to go home now.’
‘I don’t want to go home yet.’ She folds her arms defiantly.
‘Rachel’s babysitting tonight,’ I add, knowing that this will delight her. By rights, Lola should have been born to a pasta-making mother.
‘Great!’ She grabs a towel and shrouds it around herself.
‘Jake, Travis, come and get dry.’
‘No!’ cries Travis.
‘Do we have to?’ whines Jake.
‘Yes,’ I call back with impressive firmness.
Wordlessly, Sam distributes towels. Then, as the children peel off wet bathers, he resumes his pruning project.
I don’t think he even says goodbye.
An hour later, everyone’s in PJs except me. I’m wearing a swishy black skirt, a somewhat clingy lace-edged top and a raspberry cardie flung over the top, a last-minute addition that I hope will dampen the frantic pounding of my heart.
‘Too fancy.’ Lola, who’s sitting cross-legged on my bed, shakes her head. Her hair, still damp from Sam’s pool, has clumped into snakes.
‘Don’t like it,’ declares fashion-guru Travis, who’s attempting a backward roll on my bed.
I scrutinise my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Rather than the artfully mussed effect I’d been aiming for, my hair looks quite deranged due to being put up, pulled down, put up and pulled down again.
‘Wear your nice blue jumper,’ Lola suggests.
I eye it on the bed. It’s the lambswool one I wore to meet Darren on Pac-a-Mac night. It feels tainted, as if some of my mortification might be trapped in its fibres. I doubt I’ll ever wear it again.
I tear through my wardrobe, briefly studying the dress that Martin had been especially fond of and that I wore so often that its print faded as if bleached by the sun. I glimpse my wedding dress – an ivory silk shift – and quickly shove other clothes along the rail to cover it up. In desperation, I change into trousers with a summery floral dress over the top, which I know is a ‘look’ at the moment, but feels as if I have plundered a teenager’s wardrobe.
‘No, Mum.’ Jake winces in the doorway.
‘Yuck.’ Travis scowls.
I’m about to change again when the bell rings, and it’s Rachel, my babysitting rescuer.
‘Oh, you look lovely,’ she gushes as I hurry downstairs. ‘Your hair’s great like that, all sexy and messy. Where are you going?’
‘Um, just meeting a friend for a drink. No one you know.’ My cheeks flame instantly.
‘Well, don’t hurry back,’ she says cheerfully. ‘To be honest, I’m relieved to be out of the house. Guy’s been such an arsehole lately.’ Her use of the A-word shocks me.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask.
She grins stoically and flicks her growing-out fringe from her eyes. ‘You know how men are. Complain that you don’t make an effort any more, that you’ve let yourself go …’
‘Oh, Rachel.’ I touch her arm.
‘But he’s right, isn’t he? All these mags like your Bambino – week after week they’re filled with these ridiculous pictures of new mothers in cashmere tracksuits with their hair just so.’
I splutter with laugher. ‘None of that’s real. It’s all made up.’
She musters a chuckle. ‘Not if you shop at Leoni’s it’s not. Anyway, listen to me, burdening you with my woes when you’re off out for the night.’
Lola is already delving into the bulging carrier bag of craft supplies that Rachel’s brought with her. This is the kind of mother I’d intended to be.
‘Well, I’d better get going,’ I murmur.
‘Have fun.’ Rachel grins at me, and there’s a glimmer of something – envy, maybe – in her eyes.
‘Thanks again.’
I kiss the children goodbye – even Jake allows it – and step out into the street. It’s only then that I remember I’d intended to change back into outfit number one.
Strange things happen as I stride towards Batters Corner, the junction where people met before there were mobiles and numerous coffee shops (and still do, according to R, if they’re soppy romantics like he is). Martin and I met here a few times, although I quickly push that memory from my mind.
A lorry driver whistles from his cab window. Another man, who’s heading towards me, turns to watch me pass by and emits a low whistle. What’s going on? I didn’t manage to get my hair right or apply make-up, apart from a slick of sheer lipstick. It’s as if I have suddenly become visible again.
At Batters Corner, there’s no sign of anyone who might be R. It’s a still, dry evening, and a faint vinegar smell hangs in the air. Batters Corner takes its name from J. & J. Batters furniture store, a long-gone fixture at the wedge-shaped junction. The creamy building still stands, although it’s lain empty for years, with dust-mottled windows and a flaking ‘To Let’ sign. But R was right: it’s still a meeting place. A few people are hanging around, trying to affect casualness. There’s an Asian boy in baggy jeans, a yellow top and gleaming silver wristwatch, which he glances at far too often to appear truly comfortable. There’s a woman of around my age, sharply dressed and fully made up, as if she’s glossed herself up in the ladies’ mirrors. She loiters for a couple of minutes before zipping over the road to meet a man in a flowing grey coat.
The third loiterer has a silvery fuzz of hair and is wearing a red V-neck and some kind of drapey trousers. He flicks me a glance, his moist eyes lingering over the breast region for just long enough to be creepy. Please, please don’t be R. I turn away quickly. There’s a man in a suit whose tongue keeps flitting out – a tiny pink dart – to moisten his anxious mouth.
Twelve minutes past eight. The red-jumpered man gives me a ‘stood up?’ look, as if grateful that he’s not the only one who appears to be stranded on a Friday night. I grimace back. A sweet-looking girl in a floor-sweeping skirt hurries towards him. The other loiterers have gone, and now it’s just me. R is now twenty minutes late, which counts as either plain rude or simply not coming.
Stranded at Batters Corner. Brilliant. Angrily, I snatch my phone from my bag and call Rachel’s mobile.
‘Cait, hi,’ she exclaims. ‘Everyone’s fine – you needn’t worry. Just enjoy your evening.’
To my shame, it hadn’t occurred to me to enquire after my offspring’s well-being. ‘Rachel,’ I say, ‘my, um, friend hasn’t shown up. I was wondering if he’d sent me an email or anything.’
‘An email? Wouldn’t he have called?’
>
‘He doesn’t have my number.’
‘Well, couldn’t you call him?’
This is getting worse. I can’t tell her the truth – not after the ticking-off she gave me in Leoni’s. ‘I … don’t have his number either. I, um … I met him online,’ I babble feebly.
A pause. ‘You’ve been dabbling with those Internet dating sites?’
‘Yes.’
She chuckles. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I suppose it’s sensible, really, for someone in your situation, though I’m sure you could meet someone in a more normal way—’
‘Rachel,’ I cut in, ‘could you log on to my computer and check my inbox? It wouldn’t take a minute.’
‘Oh, I’m not very techy, Cait. Hang on …’ The cordless phone crackles as she crosses the kitchen. I hear a sharp tapping noise. What’s she doing, trying to turn it on at the keyboard?
‘There’s a button,’ I say, desperation creeping into my voice, ‘on the big black box under my desk.’
‘What? Ew, there’s a banana skin here. Let’s get rid of that … Right. Shall I … press it?’
This woman is capable of fashioning ravioli pillows stuffed with puréed pumpkin, yet is nervous about pressing a button. Does she think it’ll blow up in her face?
‘Yes,’ I breathe, my eyes darting this way and that in case R should appear, awash with apologies.
‘Right,’ Rachel says. ‘It’s on.’ A trace of confidence has crept into her voice. ‘What now?’
Now you have to climb on to the little hamster wheel at the back and start running to power it up. ‘Type in my password,’ I tell her. ‘It’s, um …’
‘Didn’t catch that. Are you next to a busy road or something? Where are you?’
‘Fuckwit,’ I say.
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s my password. Fuckwit. I’ve used it since Martin left.’ I snigger awkwardly. ‘I suppose it helped me vent my anger or something. Type it in lower case.’