‘Or a servant. It’s occasionally a case of one-upmanship, he likes to peacock and pretend nothing happened but I try to not let that affect me.’
‘Get that racquet up, deflect all those shots?’
‘Or sometimes just lose, throw a point. Don’t waste my energy on balls I can’t return over the net?’
He’s quiet. It seems like he may have spent a lot of time chasing balls, running himself ragged. There’s a lot to be said for standing still sometimes.
‘You’re smart,’ he says.
‘Not that smart. I’m sat in the cold with you. We could be inside.’
‘True but I’ve just told you what I think I was supposed to have told our marriage counsellor, that’s interesting.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we paid that counsellor one hundred pounds per session and she didn’t even provide drinks. Did you go down that route?’
I shake my head. The truth was it was beyond repair by that point. The wheels had fallen off the car, and whilst Simon was behind the driving seat, I was the mug behind it pushing its carcass towards some unknown destination. Uphill. In the rain. It had become tiring, humiliating.
I study Leo’s face. He has that sallow look in his eyes where I can tell he’s not slept much and is emotionally exhausted. I know that feeling. You feel drained and you don’t know how the emotion will ever get topped up again.
‘Have you sorted the school holiday childcare situation yet? Christmases? Birthdays? That’s the fun bit. When you start bargaining and fighting over time. I’ve transplanted organs that require less logistical issues.’
‘She’ll cage fight me for Christmas. I know she will.’
‘I’d pay to see that fight. Reserve me tickets.’
He laughs again and I like that feeling of rallying around him and being useful.
‘Can I give you some advice?’ I tell him.
‘I am all ears.’
‘I’m a bit further down this divorce journey than you. It is very overwhelming to start, like you’re drowning in a river of all that grief, anger, disappointment. But don’t drown. Just keep treading water. It does get better.’
‘Tennis and rivers. We’re killing it with the analogies, eh? I take it you’ve read all the self-help books too?’
‘I Do, I Did, I’m Done was my favourite.’
‘How to Sleep Alone.’
‘That’s the part I don’t mind as much. I can sleep like a starfish now and build forts out of pillows.’
He laughs. ‘Can I ask if you’ve heard anything about me at the school gate?’ he asks. ‘I think she’s done a decent job vilifying me. The snarls some women give me.’
‘I’ve heard nothing,’ I reply. ‘Unless you’re the dad with the gambling problem?’
‘No. I know him. He was addicted to online fruit machines, lost a whole term’s school fees in three weeks. No doubt I’ve been painted as neglectful, always away on location, terribly unorganised and emotionally cut off.’
‘I hope that’s how you sell yourself on any new dating profiles?’
‘Of course. The women flood to me now.’ I laugh. ‘It’s been nice to chat to you, Emma, you should hang around the school gate more. We need more of your type.’
‘Lonely divorcees who can offer medical advice?’
He chuckles. ‘We need variety, normality.’
‘I don’t know if I’m ready to enter the fray, right now…’
‘Well, you talked to me?’ He gets out a roll of Fruit Pastilles from his rucksack and offers me one. I don’t refuse. In his rucksack is a bike helmet, a stuffed zebra and a six pack of Pom Bears.
‘Which is more than I’ve done with most, I guess,’ I reply.
I chew on my lemon Fruit Pastille and look over the way. Leah keeps glancing at me and Leo and, no doubt, will report back to Faith that we had an intimate conversation on a bench sharing sweets and looking lovingly into each other’s eyes while the ponies whinnied with their approval in the distance. I am tempted to touch his knee to add fuel to the fire but don’t need the drama.
But then another thing catches my eye. Little Violet emerging from a courtyard on top of a horse, Iris beside her clapping and looking ecstatic. I can’t read Violet’s expression but it’s somewhere between tears and looking like her teeth may shatter from the massive grin spread across her face. We’re halfway through this party but hell, better late than never. I grab my phone and take a picture. The girl got on an actual horse. I pause. The first instinct would be to send this to Simon but I stop myself. Leo looks on at Violet and smiles.
‘Can I friend you on Facebook, Emma? I only have one other parent on there. It feels good to have an ally. We could start a divorced parents’ self-help book club.’
I look over to him. All my other male friends are doctors, relations, or the Ocado man who delivers my shopping every Thursday evening. His name is Ian. Maybe this is a step forward in the right direction.
‘You can. I’m Emma Callaghan now.’
‘You changed your name back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good for you.’
Five
637 days since Lucy caught Simon looking at someone’s lady bits on FaceTime
‘Lucy, I’d look like a milkmaid.’
My sister is not listening to me but is sifting through my wardrobe looking for a jacket. She pulls a mustard polo neck jumper out of my wardrobe.
‘This is awful, can I burn it?’
‘Luce, I think that’s Burberry.’
‘Doesn’t make it any prettier, it’s the colour of old sweetcorn. You’re not allowed to wear this anymore.’
I don’t argue with her as I think that might be a gift that Simon once gave me for Christmas. It wasn’t me at all and I envisioned that he just went into a shop, pointed to the first thing he saw and handed over his credit card. I never wore it – next to all the black I own it would have made me look like a wasp.
Lucy is in my bedroom like some very bad version of a TV stylist except the criticism is personal and she’s not listening to anything I say. She holds up a polka dot Zara dress with Cardi B rapping in the background, hoping that some of that cool may infuse into my bones. The dress is a little floaty and not what I’d normally wear, and it’s white which means I won’t be able to drink red wine, surely.
‘What you don’t want is this cute anaesthetist to show up looking trendy and you just looking like you’re there for a job interview.’
‘It’s smart casual.’
‘It’s boring as balls, that’s what it is. I hadn’t realised we had let you get this dull. At least try this on.’
I take my dressing gown off, standing in my pants, and she stares at them intently. They are flesh coloured and high waisted. The bra matches but is plain and functional.
‘I don’t get this underwear situation. Why don’t you wear those knickers I got you for your first date?’
‘The see-through ones without a gusset? No. These are comfortable and provide support.’
‘Except when he has you naked and you look like a giant egg. They don’t even have lace.’
I grab the dress from her and try it on. ‘I look like a Dalmatian.’
‘Then why don’t you wear your black dress, with your black tights and carry your black bag?’
‘You’re mocking me.’
‘It’s my reason for living.’
It’s a Monday evening and tonight is the night. My second date since my divorce except this one feels less a natural meeting of minds but more the biggest set-up in the history of dating. I can feel myself sweating through my actual bra; the balmy side of nervous. It’s been a year since I last did this and look how well that turned out. I haven’t even spoken to him and only know to look for the fab man who is five years younger than me with the good skin and shoes. Maddie told me he’ll catch me at the South Bank at 8.30 p.m. after work. It feels late but maybe having a smaller window of time means there’s less chance for things to go wrong
. Maybe it mitigates the risk of him crying. I don’t even know what he sounds like. Will he have an accent? What if he has a really high voice? Or a lisp? This could all go very wrong.
‘Do you solely own blazers and suit jackets? Anything in denim or leather?’
‘No. And these earrings hurt.’ They look like chainmail and make bizarre clattering sounds like wind chimes.
‘You can’t just wear studs.’
Yes, I can. It’s what I’ve been wearing for twenty-odd years. She pulls my waist in with a gold belt that looks like I’m about to fight for my heavyweight title. I shake my head at her. She throws it at the bed like she’s done with me.
‘By the way, did Meg ring you today?’ I ask.
Lucy throws me a confused look. Meg was the eldest of the tribe but had moved up to the Lake District with her husband, Danny, living some country life idyll in wellies and North Face with their three daughters. Modern communications meant we were all in touch but it meant our ship no longer had a captain. I filled that position in her absence but we all miss her, she completes the jigsaw. She was the one who stood up to our mother, the one who could get us into parties because she was a cool journalist chick. I remember the time she got us into a Glamour magazine awards ceremony. It wasn’t pretty, Grace got so drunk she threw up in her goodie bag and Lucy possibly copped off with a member of the Kaiser Chiefs in the loos but I loved how she would herd us like sheep and was always the one at the end of a night buying us chips and flashing the kebab man so he’d give us extra garlic mayo.
‘I had a strange phone call from her before my last surgery,’ I carry on. ‘She thinks Danny might be cheating on her.’
Lucy stops accessorising to look up at me. ‘What?’ she says, already seething with anger. In our girl gang, Lucy was the wildcard, the likeliest one to carry a shank. In her mind, she’s already halfway up the M6, drowning him in one of the Lakes when she gets there.
‘I don’t know. Apparently he had sex toys delivered to the house. She was a little vague. I think it might be a complete overreaction.’
Lucy’s face turns to horror. ‘What, Farmer Dan?’ Danny wasn’t a farmer at all but it was our nickname for him given he had that surly monosyllabic thing going on and occasionally wore a flat cap. I suspected that was also part of the attraction for Meg. Like a modern-day Poldark, without the six pack. ‘Doesn’t look the sort. What sort of sex toys? Like proper kink?’
I don’t want to know what that entails and if she divulges it may taint the clear mind I’m planning to take into tonight’s date.
‘I didn’t ask. Possibly a dildo.’
‘Is she OK?’ asks Lucy.
‘I didn’t pry. I told her to come back when she has concrete evidence. Maybe drop her a text later when I’m out.’
‘Will do. Can I ring Danny and shout at him?’
‘No.’
‘Spoilsport. I am going to my room to find some jackets.’
She escapes for a moment and Violet enters wearing her nightie and giant rabbit slippers. The look of confusion is everything to me.
‘It doesn’t look right, does it V?’
‘It’s a pretty dress but you just don’t look like my mummy.’
I smile. She climbs on to my bed and lies down on her front in a star shape, waving her limbs up and down like she’s swimming. I replace the gold dangly earrings with a simple gold stud. It’s a start.
‘Where are you and Aunty Maddie going out for dinner?’ she asks. I’ve not told the girls I’m going on a date. Both times I’ve met Maddie instead. ‘You should go to Pizza Express. I like the dough balls there.’
I smile. It’s not a bad shout but I suspect not cool enough for Lucy who would expect me to do something trendy and modern like Korean barbequing or hot potting, whatever that is.
‘Or maybe you could go to McDonald’s?’
Also not a terrible idea, we could cut this date back by an hour and I could have a McFlurry. The lighting would be the killer though. I smile as she sifts through the accessories on the bed and tries all of her aunt’s vintage gothic rings on her little fingers. Lucy returns clutching a leather bomber jacket and a pair of gold Converse.
‘Both, no.’
‘You are soooo boring. At least one of them.’ I grab the jacket and throw it on over the dress. It’ll do but I don’t think it’ll provide much warmth nor protection should there be a light shower.
‘I can wear those black Hobbs boots with the laces,’ I say.
Lucy half smiles. ‘Well, they look a little like Doc Martens so yes and what about a red bag?’ She hands me something the size of a pencil case.
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure what I can fit in that? I’ll need to take an umbrella for a start.’ I open the red bag to find she’s stuffed it with condoms. I throw it back to her in disgust. ‘No.’
Grabbing a grey tote from my chair, I hang it over my shoulder. ‘What do we think, Little V?’ I do a circle and she giggles.
‘It’s funny seeing you in a dress, Mummy.’
‘Not just any dress, it’s bang on trend. It even has its own Instagram account,’ Lucy says.
‘But it doesn’t have hands, how does it post its own pics?’ I reply.
Lucy pulls a face, as if that was a terrible joke and I need to trust her. Does anyone trust Lucy, really? Before she came in here I had on black trousers and a white shirt. She told me I looked like I was going to dance with someone called Vincent Vega. Now I look a modern version of a milkmaid in a leather jacket. Worse, this has a hospital gown feel to it. He’ll think that I mugged this off a patient. I stand in front of the mirror and Lucy drapes herself over me as we study my silhouette in the mirror. I can see her considering a velvet alice band whereas I am more concerned about visible panty lines.
A voice pipes up behind us. ‘Last time I went to Pizza Express, I had a ham and mushroom pizza and Daddy shouted at the waiter because it came with olives but it was alright because Susie helped me pick them all off.’
Lucy’s casual drape turns into a grip of my shoulders. We both pause for a moment. Mainly because we know Susie is not Simon’s mum’s name or that of any of his relatives. I stare straight into the mirror trying to forget what I just heard. Lucy won’t leave it though.
‘Who’s Susie, V?’
‘She’s daddy’s friend from work. We went to Pizza Express for dinner.’
Lucy goes quiet. I stare her out. I know what her next move will be. She wants to tell Violet that Mummy has friends too. Man friends and Mummy is going to go for dinner with them too, but now is not the time.
I exhale deeply. You’re allowed to go out with who you want, Simon. I am not your keeper but I am their mother, don’t replace me just yet. Lucy can tell this has shaken me and the anger which likes to vibrate through her bones comes to the fore.
‘Does this Susie sleep over at Daddy’s house?’
I shake my head at her. Not now in front of Violet who looks confused that the information has caused some upset. Was this something we should have discussed beforehand? He could shag who he wanted – he had done already, plenty of times – but when our girls are involved, then it’s a game changer.
‘Sometimes she stays at Daddy’s flat.’
‘Like a nanny?’ Lucy asks. ‘Do they hold hands? What does she look like?’
‘Lucy, stop. Get out of here.’
‘But Ems…’
I glare at her. Don’t you dare argue with me about this. We can bicker over belts and earrings but not my kids and the state of my divorce. She leaves reluctantly, not closing the door so she can keep her ear in. I sit on the bed and gesture for Violet to put her head on my lap.
‘I’m sorry. Did I say something bad?’ she asks.
‘No. Not at all.’ I run my fingers through her brunette bob, smoothing the hair over her cheeks. That’s the thing about kids post-divorce. You will love them completely and without measure, these little people that you’ve grown a
nd nurtured, but you also have reminders of the person you made them with forever and a day. Look at those big hazel eyes, all him.
‘Do they still have the dough balls in Pizza Express for pudding with the chocolate dip?’ I ask.
‘They do but Daddy said I couldn’t have them as I had a lot of dough balls.’
‘And you do love dough balls.’ I smile thinking of a little V stuffing her face with them until she has cute comedy chipmunk cheeks.
‘Susie’s OK. She doesn’t know how to do hair though.’
‘Well, this is why we call Aunty Luce in so she can French plait the lot of us.’
‘Do you want me to not like her?’
I hear Lucy cough outside the bedroom door. I ignore her. I can’t play this game. I really can’t. Yes, spy on that bitch and be completely awful and tantrummy and get on her phone and look for incriminating photos and send them to me. Wake her in the middle of the night and spoil every dinner and social occasion you can so she will leave Simon and deny him of the happiness because she can’t deal with being your step-parent. But I can’t.
‘No. You keep being you.’
‘Do you want to know more about her?’
I shake my head. Yes. But not from you.
‘There’s a Suzanne Donne but she’s some battered old bird who lives in Hampshire. Looks about fifty-something.’
‘That’s his aunty. Look harder.’
‘You’re not talking to me while he’s sitting there, are you?’
‘No. But hurry up.’
I’m sat outside a bar on the South Bank clutching an overpriced tumbler of Prosecco in my hand. I know they don’t give us a glass anymore because they don’t want us to break anything, but now they give us plastic instead which I thought was bad for the environment. I’m waiting for the day when they ask us to bring our own glasses instead or allow us to join up those paper straws and drink the stuff straight out of the bottle.
I can hear Lucy humming on the other end of the phone. She’s been given no other instruction today but to put the girls to sleep and not mention Susie’s name in any way, shape or form. However, as soon as their heads hit the pillow she is to stalk that woman to the hilt.
Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner Page 8