‘Did you think I’d escaped out of a bathroom window?’
He laughs. ‘I did worry.’
‘Still here.’ I take my seat.
‘I was texting my brother.’
I smile, taking my phone out of my bag. ‘My sister.’
‘He suggested this bloody look tonight. Who doesn’t wear socks? I’m going to get blisters the size of saucers. And I’m sorry about the jeans.’
‘They’re fine.’
‘They’re tight.’
I laugh. ‘I was told not to wear black.’
‘Nothing wrong with black. It’s classic,’ he replies.
‘Which is exactly what I said.’
Things are warming up. Words are flowing. We can thank wine and interfering siblings for that.
‘What’s your brother’s name?’
‘Peter, Pete. Your sister?’
‘Lucy, she’s the youngest.’
‘Of how many?
‘Five.’
‘Five?’
‘All girls. My mother had her work cut out, that’s for sure.’
‘Where are you in the birth order?’
‘I’m number two.’ I just referred to myself as a poo, didn’t I? ‘Meg, Me, Beth, Grace and Lucy.’
‘Are you all doctors?’
‘Christ no, we have a journalist, a doctor, an accountant, a teacher and Lucy who currently lives with me. At the weekends she dresses up as Disney characters and does kids’ parties. She’s the fun one.’
‘You’re fun too,’ he says, eyes sparkling.
‘To a lesser degree, perhaps. So it’s just you and Pete?’
‘Yup, he lives in Wimbledon.’
‘Is he good at tennis?’ Oh my crap, that was a terrible joke. I’m lucky he laughs back.
‘He’s actually Pete Sampras.’
‘Is he?’
‘No.’ He’s still chuckling for which I’m very very grateful. ‘We work together in IT, run the company together.’
He gets his wallet out to retrieve a business card. I take one out of politeness. It’s then I see it. It’s a photo in his wallet of a woman. Do people really do that? Wallet pictures? I thought we kept these things on our phones these days. He catches me looking.
‘I’m sorry. You didn’t need to see that.’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I still keep my wedding ring in my coin purse.’
He looks relieved. ‘For when you have no change and need to pawn it in for parking?’
‘Exactly.’ I look down at the ridge in my finger where that ring used to sit.
‘It’s just still very new, eh?’ he says.
I say something next that I shouldn’t. ‘Did you want to talk about it?’
We’d said very little via text, other than that we’d both had our hearts broken. We didn’t divulge, instead swapping vagaries about each other’s lives. I knew he liked white wine and seafood pasta. There was the strong maritime leaning in his pastimes. He knew how to spell which was always a winner. All of this but I didn’t know what his wife had done.
‘Zumba instructor. Such a bloody cliché. She left me for a Polish Zumba instructor called Val.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’ He’s pensive. I’m not sure whether to make light and talk about Zumba being a mildly ridiculous fitness pursuit.
‘Her loss?’
‘Mine really.’
I pause. He still loves her, he still misses her. He thinks this is his fault. ‘How so?’
‘Maybe it was something I did or didn’t do? I’m still figuring that out… Maybe I wasn’t a good enough husband? Maybe I allowed things to go stale?’
‘Or maybe she’s not a very nice person?’
I know I’ve overstepped as soon as the words leave my mouth.
‘She is a nice person.’
‘I’m sorry, that was out of turn. I don’t know her and it was unfair to comment.’
He’s still quiet. I feel the need to respond.
‘My husband cheated on me several times during my marriage. Several is an understatement. The end came when my mother dislocated a thumb punching his face on Christmas day.’
It’s a good story but you can tell that he doesn’t want to engage in a competition of who’s had their heart broken the worst.
‘I found him in our bed,’ he continues. ‘I’d gone home after the school run as I’d forgotten my phone. Lycra all over my bedroom floor.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I reply.
‘You keep saying that…’
‘I was talking about the Lycra.’
That didn’t raise the smile I thought it would.
‘And the look she gave me. You’d think she’d be scared or ashamed but it was like I’d interrupted her, like she was glad I’d found out.’
She sounds like a complete bitch but I’ve learnt not to say that out loud. And then something happens that I don’t expect. Geez, Phil. I know it hurts but please please please, don’t cry. I’m at a loss at what to do so I put my hand in his. The tears roll down the curve of his cheeks in the shape of sideburns. Sideburn tears. They drip on to the table. I pass him a tissue from my handbag.
‘Well, this is good. Pete told me three things: don’t talk about Brexit, don’t talk about Stacey, don’t cry.’
‘We can move on to Brexit, if that would help?’
He laughs, snot dribbling out of his nose.
‘I think I’m out of tears. Simon bled me dry.’ Grief has moved to anger. We are obviously at different stages of the process.
‘Simon?’
‘Simon. My ex-husband. You’re allowed to call him a wanker if you want.’
‘Wanker.’
It took me years to admit that much.
‘This is too soon, wasn’t it?’ Phil says. ‘Pete just thought I could meet up with someone and shag it out of my system.’
My eyes widen at the revelation. Was this just a polite, precursory drink before sex? In a small way I’m glad he thought I was shaggable, unless that’s not the case now he’s met me. Maybe he cried to get out of the sex. I don’t even want to sleep with a man who still carries a picture of his ex-wife in his wallet. I don’t want to have sex tonight to help him get over her.
‘I think this was too soon. For you at least,’ I eventually reply.
‘Maybe in a few months’ time.’
‘Maybe when you’re ready to take that photo out of your wallet.’
‘Can I buy you another drink? To say sorry for crying and being a shit date?’
‘Hell, why not? I’ll take some olives too.’
Luce, you still up?
I hope you’re texting me from a taxi because you’re going back to his.
I’m texting from an Uber. I am alone.
Second date?
He cried.
Because you’re so boring?
Piss off. He’s not over his wife.
Oh.
I would have been shagging him and he would have been thinking about her and cried on top of me and I’d have died of the shame.
I’m sad Ems, this one had potential. I liked the seaman thing he had going on.
Except I didn’t see his semen.
Did you just make a joke about cum? I may be having a positive influence on you.
Are the girls OK?
Yup. Was it a complete car crash then?
In parts. I gave him details of my mediation team. He also fixes laptops if we ever need him.
Romantic…
He also bought me olives and chips.
Big spender. Did he at least try and feel you up?
No.
Then he’s a loser. You’re smoking hot.
You normally say differently.
I don’t mean it really. I love you Ems x x x x
Love you too.
If you want some sex, I have an old uni mate who’d shag you. He lives in Brixton.
Lovely. No.
You’re so boring.
Back in 5. Put t
he kettle on.
One
624 days since my mother broke Simon’s nose
‘This is a drop off zone only!’
Ever since we gave Hetty Michaels a hi-vis vest, it’s transformed this woman into some power-hungry traffic-calming Nazi. I watch as she dictates the parking law to a man in a four-by-four who has no problems parking up, removing a child from its car seat and strolling into school.
‘Move your car, please!’
‘Make me. What are you going to do, write me a ticket?’ he replies.
The parents of St Catherine’s stop in their tracks. I don’t know this man but I like how he’s standing his ground so Hetty will go back to raffle ticket selling where she belongs.
‘This is in the interests of safety for the children!’ Hetty’s voice rises to a high shrill.
I look at the time in the car. I have half an hour to watch but also navigate this bedlam, still confused that we can send people into space and cure smallpox but can’t seem to remedy the drop off and parking situation at these school gates. Their disagreement attracts a crowd, and the school caretaker, who chuckles to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway.
‘Why is Mrs Michaels screaming like that?’ asks Iris from the back of the car.
‘It’s a parking thing… Who is that man?’ I ask.
Iris peers over to inspect. ‘He’s Giles’ dad.’
‘Do we like Giles?’
‘Not unless we like boys who pee down slides. He stood at the top, peed down it like a waterfall. The boy is feral,’ Iris says, strong judgement in her tones.
‘Good use of the word feral, Potato,’ I say.
‘What’s feral? asks Violet.
‘It means he was brought up in the jungle,’ replies Iris.
The nearest woodland is the park down the road but I am too stressed to correct her. Giles’ dad has held up the drop-off process and Hetty is waving her arms around in some manic semaphore trying to sort the ensuing chaos.
‘Why do you still call me Potato?’ asks Iris.
I spy her face in the rear-view mirror. It fits her round face and blonde locks, like a little golden new potato.
‘It just stuck. People have all sorts of nicknames.’
‘But not food ones…’
‘Honey. Sugar… all the foods,’ I tell her.
‘I once heard Granny call Daddy an effing melon once, that’s food,’ adds Violet.
I’m half relieved that’s the worst name she’s heard her father be called but also that she substituted what my mum most likely prefaced the melon part with. I sigh. I have to do this, don’t I?
‘That was wrong of Granny. Daddy is not a melon.’
Their little eyes peer at me through the mirror. I did the right thing there. But their father is the worst sort of lying evil shitmelon there is. Don’t let your face show what you think, I silently tell myself. Focus on something else, like this line of cars that refuses to shift, the woman on her Dutch cargo bike who swerves around everyone smugly, the gaggles of mums gossiping while their little ones swing off the school fencing.
There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I was educated in a south London state school so I remember book bags and sweatshirts and an array of faces and families representative of the city we lived in. Here there are more au pairs, bigger cars, the jeans fit better and people carry impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in blazers and ties and burgundy V-neck jumpers in the vague hope that sartorial smarts will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past me with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land, one which my socialist parents don’t forgive me for and which my sisters constantly tease me about, but the girls are happy. They thrive, they know little snippets of Mandarin, even if they share a class with a Constantine and an Ophelia.
A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.
‘Are you Violet’s mum?’ a mother asks.
‘I am.’
‘It’s about Pippa’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.’
Like I say, different land.
‘I thought we RSVPed to that?’
‘Yes, you did but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts so I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.’
‘Have you explained this to the horses?’
She laughs but obviously doesn’t get the joke. I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews but I nod politely.
‘And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.’
Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. I suddenly panic. We haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jodhpurs and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Pippa’s mum saunters off before I have the chance to ask.
‘Do I have to go to that party, Mummy?’ asks Violet.
‘Well, we’ve already replied. Did you not want to go?’
‘I’ll go if I have to.’
I don’t have time to answer, edging the car forward to a vacant space.
‘Love you. Aunty Lucy is picking you up today.’
‘On the bus? Yes!’ they chirp in unison.
Turns out a comfy car with heated seats and a hi-tech music system is nothing compared to the adventure of going on the bus with Aunty Lucy and sitting next to a drunk who sings Boney M. and smells of armpit. They collect their assorted bags and clamber out of the car.
‘Bye Mummy! We’ll see you after work!’
But they won’t. I’ll get back home too late and arrive in time to kiss their sleepy foreheads. It always hurts my heart a smidge but they’ll be with Aunty Lucy who’ll stop at the corner shop to let them buy sweets and overpriced magazines. I wave them off. Meanwhile, Giles’ dad is back. This could be entertaining but I have twenty minutes to get home and collect my thoughts. I pull out in front of an angry Mercedes driver who rolls their eyes at me. Oh, piss off – you’re wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap in September, you tool. Do I start a fight? No, I have to save my fight for Simon.
I distract myself by turning on the radio. Avoid the North Circular, lots of rain and phone in the next time you hear Ed Sheeran. Why? Can I win Ed Sheeran? That would rile my ex-husband – look! I’ve replaced you with a superior being. He can play guitar and doesn’t even need a band. I could give him the spare room and Lucy could bunk in with me.
Simon, Simon, Simon. Why has he called this meeting? His lawyer called on Friday to arrange it. He went with some cutthroat family law firm that always spoke to me in patronising tones. We know you’re a busy lady so we’d be happy to come to you. It was code for Simon wanting to be in our family home again and check out what I had changed or whether another man was living there. However, although intrusive, it was also convenient. If they were lucky, they’d get to sit down, maybe a glass of water.
When I arrive, George, my lawyer, is waiting for me outside the house.
‘You should have rung the bell, George. Lucy should be in.’
‘I did. There was no answer.’
Please still don’t be asleep, Luce. I put the key in the door and let us both in.
‘LUCE! ARE YOU UP?!’
‘I’M ON THE BOG!’
George smiles at me and wipes his feet on the mat. Lovely George. When I was first going through the process of divorce, my sister Grace put me in touch with George. Will he help my fight, I’d asked her, and ensure I get access to my girls and sort my finances out accordingly? I wanted fire and brimstone when I took Simon on. I wanted him to feel pure fear, literally soil himself when he met my legal team. Grace responded by sending me George. He is lovely and punctual but as he stands in my hallway, crumbs pepper his shirt and the slightest smear of what looks like marmalade paints his lips. He has
a mop of curly hair, a fifty-something paunch and there are pattern combinations going on with the shirt, tie and socks that aren’t easy on the eye. It looks like he could be made entirely out of bread and a mature cheddar. Reliable, was what Grace had said. He will get the job done. You don’t want drama, you want steely calm and someone who’ll know every law and loophole in the book. George knows this. He doesn’t know how to keep a sandwich in his mouth but he’s a bloody good lawyer.
‘Can I get you a coffee, George? Just make your way into the living room.’
‘I’m fine, Emma. I’ve never been here before – you have a lovely home.’
I smile. Like I say, lovely. It was our family home – we chose Richmond because it was south of the Thames, had good transport links into London and was near our families. It’s a three-storey townhouse with minimal garden space but it has high ceilings and stairs leading to the front door that reminded me of a New York City brownstone. We bought it when I was pregnant with Violet. I want to say this out loud but my mind is racing. Is this meeting about the house? Simon had tried to get us to sell it, split the asset and start again, but I refused to uproot the girls. He didn’t suffer; he bought himself a flat in Kew, near the famous gardens and fifteen minutes away from me. Five hundred million miles away on Mars would have been better but kids dictated he stayed close.
George senses my nervous paranoia. ‘You look very worried, Emma. I’m sure it’s just formalities today so a more relaxed meeting is ideal.’
Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner Page 2