Upstairs, Lucy sits with all these children. I’ve paid her ten pounds and the promise of my house for a social gathering so she can entertain them. I don’t know what she’s doing but I can hear the faint bass of some song from Moana kick into action and I text her from under my kitchen table to turn it down.
It’s a strange arrangement in here. Susie, George and I sit to one side of the table and Cat and Simon to the other. In better circumstances, we’d be playing Monopoly and I’d be putting hotels on Mayfair and slaying Simon financially.
‘And Miss Hunter’s current abode? The house in Brentford. Miss Hunter has accrued some funds where she’d like to take over the mortgage on that property. She wants some reassurances that the house will remain in her name.’
‘Funds?’ asks Simon.
‘My mum. She’s going to move in with us.’
He stares back over at her to check if she’s lying, shrugging his shoulders.
‘So, now talk of custody and visiting arrangements…’ mentions Cat. She’s excelled herself today. The dress is clingy and the eyeliner winged and threatening. ‘Mr Chadwick would argue that you are keeping him from seeing his sons.’
‘For good reason,’ interrupts Susie. I grab her elbow next to me. Reason over emotion, Susie.
‘Yes, if I was a danger to those boys but Emma would tell you that I’ve never been a threat to my own children.’
You clever one you, dragging me into this.
‘I am willing to take this higher so I can have at least visitation rights.’
Bring out the trump card, George.
‘Well, yes… you are not a threat but Miss Callaghan and Miss Hunter want to ensure that you develop healthy and appropriate relationships with your children.’
Simon eyeballs me.
‘And it has also come to their notice that both these sisters and brothers need to bond as siblings,’ George continues. ‘So Miss Callaghan and Miss Hunter have come to a mutual decision that they would like the children to spend some time together in the week. Naturally, this can be done under your custody or in moments in the week that are mutually convenient.’
Simon seems taken aback at the news.
‘I don’t have space for four children.’
‘But seemingly you had the time to bring them into this world,’ I tell him. ‘We can help, we want them to see your mum too. We just want what’s best for them.’ We can all hear the scamper of little feet upstairs and what sounds like Lucy letting them jump off beds.
‘And another condition too,’ George adds, ‘we are under no doubt that Mr Chadwick is an excellent father but he has led us to believe that he has facets to his character that worry us.’
‘How so?’ asks Simon.
‘Hints of addictive behaviour, emotional manipulation. Misses Hunter and Callaghan do not appreciate being used against each other either.’
‘How on earth have I done that?’
‘You told me she was a bitch looking to get sole custody,’ adds Susie. ‘You made me hide Oliver like a dirty little secret.’
‘I was trying to do what was best. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.’
‘You were doing what was best for you.’
It feels all at once sad yet satisfying to catch him out. His blank expression tells us we’ve achieved that much.
‘I’m sorry, Susie. Is there any way I can make this up to you?’
There’s a look between them both. I wonder if she’s falling for it but then her eyes mist over and I see some other emotion there. I assume it to be self-respect. She looks at me.
‘I want those boys to have a father. I want them to know their sisters. Let’s make that work.’
He nods.
‘I don’t want any communication from you. Any hint of midnight sexting or anything provocative then I review this. Know the boundaries.’
‘I was drunk when I sent those…’ says Simon trying to cover his tracks.
‘You sent some last week. I had to block you.’
George slides some print outs to the other side of the table of screen grabs that Susie must have taken. Simon’s face drops. I don’t even flinch. I’ve seen that penis from all angles. He used to love taking pictures of it for others. He was so proud of it; look at my willy, isn’t it great? Cat looks like she could stab Simon with a biro.
‘Exactly,’ comments George. ‘This is not the behaviour of someone these women want to have around their children. There is potential for it to be toxic and unhealthy so we want conditions in place.’
‘Conditions?’
‘Weekly visits to a therapist or counsellor when you can review your behaviour.’
‘That’s all?’ he says surprised.
‘Yes,’ George concludes. ‘You were expecting more?’
‘Yes, quite frankly, I thought you two were going to take me to the cleaners. You’re seriously saying that I go see a shrink and I can start seeing those boys?’ he asks.
‘We want proof of appointments and then we can work on a timetable that is suitable to everyone.’
Cat is still lingering on Susie’s admission and she pushes her chair back from the table. I see her note the dates and times on the messages. Then she calmly puts her stuff back in her bag and slaps Simon sharply across the face. He doesn’t react but Susie may let out a laugh.
‘Are you alright, Miss De Vere?’ asks George.
‘George, send through all the paperwork to the firm and we will get it sorted. Mr Chadwick, a new solicitor will be appointed to you moving forward.’
Susie’s face reads relief but also vindication. She glares at Cat telling her to run. Cat doesn’t need any persuasion and storms out the room, Simon in close pursuit. I follow them to ensure she is alright but I won’t lie, this is worth me having a snoop. The front door opens and there is animated chat at the foot of the stairs, Cat points a finger in his face and actually tells him that he is a See You Next Tuesday, before making quite a stylish strutting exit away from my house. Wow, good for you, Cat.
And then there he is, out on the street, on his own. He follows Cat’s figure but then looks up into the sky. This is the bit where you’re supposed to cry and fall to your knees, Simon. It should rain at this point too.
‘Chadwick?’
He looks over at me. The thing is he’s not alone really, is he? He looks up at me. I take a seat on the steps, urging him to sit beside me. He comes over and does just that. And all at once, there’s a strange feeling of déjà vu. These steps witnessed a lot of our marriage. We liked to sit out here in the summer. When we first moved in, we sat out here with beers, sleeves rolled up, boxes stacked into Jenga-style columns. We don’t say a word to each other for a moment.
‘Well played, Callaghan,’ he whispers. He puts his hands to his face and presses his fingers into his forehead.
I am generous in response. ‘No, you also had good game.’
‘Why?’
‘Those girls. Have you seen them? They have brothers. They’re beyond thrilled.’
He still seems confused that I don’t seem to have too much anger about this.
‘It’s certainly a crowd.’
‘I grew up with a crowd. It’s worth it.’
‘Did you persuade Susie to let me see my boys?’
I pause. ‘I did. I persuaded her that you were human. That we needed a chance to make this work.’
Whatever I thought of him and whatever he did to me, it’s time to move on. All that hatred, doubt and emotion was like a cancer eating away at me. He did a bad thing but it was tiring trying to vilify him constantly.
‘You are human, aren’t you?’ I ask him.
‘I think so.’
‘Go for the counselling. Fix yourself.’
‘I will.’
‘And I want us to stop dancing around each other.’
‘How so?’
‘You are inevitably going to be a part of my life forever. I don’t love you but I don’t want to hate you either. No more games
…’
‘Unless they’re school quizzes, of course.’
‘Well obviously. I’m up for a rematch next year so I can defend my title.’
‘You’re on.’
‘Then we try and make this work? All these children, let’s do the right thing by them.’
‘It takes a village and all that.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Am I the village idiot?’
‘Why, of course. Can I buy stocks?’
‘Deal.’
There is silence. A quiet hum of traffic in the distance, puffs of breath cloud the air making me think we should both be wearing coats. I spy Mrs Phelps, her tree is up and she stands beside it, trying to hide her figure in the curtains. Christmas is nearly here. Nearly two years since I decided to divorce him. Yet here we are.
‘I do have a new boyfriend by the way. The Asian fella from the quiz. His name is Jag.’
‘I figured. He seemed alright. Have the girls met him yet?’
‘Soon. We’re going to the circus together.’
‘OK. Was Cat your girlfriend?’
‘Not really. Going forward, do you want to know who I’m seeing?’
‘Unless they’re meeting my girls then no.’
‘How much does Susie hate me?’
‘As much as I hated you two Christmases ago. Give her time.’
We sit quietly in each other’s company.
‘Are we friends yet, Emma?’
‘No. Maybe one day. But we’re something, I just don’t have the word for it yet.’
‘Mrs Phelps is watching us from behind her curtain.’
‘I know. Probably because Cat called you a See You Next Tuesday quite loudly in the street.’
Simon stops for a moment.
‘That’s what that means! I thought your sister was overly fond of saying it.’
‘Well, you are one…’
‘I’ll take that.’
The front door opens and two little faces pop out from behind it.
‘What are you doing? It’s freezing!’ shouts Iris.
‘Well then come here and give me cuddles and warm me up,’ says Simon.
I see Lucy watching us from the living room window. She gestures that now is the perfect time to push him down those steps. I don’t. Simon and I take a girl each. I take Violet and let her entangle her legs in mine, cradling herself into the hook of my arm. Her hair smells of coconut and Play-Doh. Iris uses Simon like a climbing frame. He bops her on the nose as he has done since she was a baby. It never stops being hilarious to her. The sky starts to dim, trees casting shadows onto the pavement. A house down the road has some festive lights that switch on and flicker on and off in strange syncopated patterns.
That Christmas day it all happened, I remember being perched here watching the girls ride scooters up and down the street. Simon and I were both in pyjamas and slippers sipping coffees out of matching mugs. My heart aches. Our marriage was peppered with vignettes like that, moments that made sense, that made me want to prolong what we had in some vain hope that it could all be that perfect. But it wasn’t. And for once that sits fine with my soul.
‘Mama, why are you both sitting in the street?’ asks Violet.
‘Technically, it’s not the street. It’s still our own house,’ I tell her.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ she asks. ‘What is frostbite?’
‘It’s when your extremities get very cold and turn blue, why?’ I explain.
‘Aunty Lucy said something about daddy getting it in his willy.’
‘She did now, did she?’ says Simon. He turns to the window but Lucy is quick to hide from view. Iris nestles her head into Simon’s chest, in the shallows of his neck.
‘I can hear your heartbeat,’ Iris comments.
It’s reassuring to know there’s something in there.
‘Ba-boom-ba-boom-ba-boom… why does it beat like that?’
‘Ask your mother. She knows hearts.’
I smile.
‘I know. She’s also a better doctor than you too. Aunty Lucy said that.’
He laughs under his breath.
‘Let’s get these girls into the warm, Simon.’
He nods. ‘Sure thing, Emma.’
Epilogue
The day I gave my husband back
‘Are you calling my turkey dry?’
I look over at Meg in the corner of our family kitchen wondering where on earth she had the courage to come out with a comment like that. Even Danny stops washing up to absorb what his wife just said to our mother. I mean, you think it, but you just douse it in gravy and make do. Such is the joy of a white chalky meat like turkey. Why do this now? Now she’ll harp on about the bacon she puts on the breasts and all the goose fat. But it’s Meg. She likes the challenge. I secretly think the only way she believes she can have a relationship with our mother is to spar with her regularly so they at least have one line of communication.
‘It was a lovely dinner, Mum. Did you make the mince pies?’ Meg winks at me.
You know very well she didn’t. I shake my head at her and bring the plate of mince pies through to the living room. Amidst my mother’s wreaths and tinsel wrapped around the lampshades, it’s a familiar tableau: Dad asleep in the armchair in the corner, a holly green paper hat covering his eyes. Small children crawl on the floor and make angel shapes with their bodies amidst remnants of old glittery wrapping paper. I hope Mum’s made trifle. Beth and Will snooze on a neighbouring sofa, still nursing London hangovers from last night where they partied in some neon warehouse bar in Hoxton. I like this part of Christmas where bits of old crackers litter the floor and twilight takes over.
I take a mince pie and escape to the last vacant spot on the sofa. Four-year-old Violet rests her head on my knees. ‘What you eating, Mama?’ I like how she calls me Mama. It’s ever so slightly continental. I look down at her big hazel eyes and wonder how she can still be hungry as she must be ninety per cent roast potato.
‘A mince pie.’
‘With cow mince?’
‘No, like fruity bits.’ I pick out said fruity bits and drop them into her mouth like a baby bird. She pulls a face, tasting it, and then rolls away.
Will very possibly farts next to me but I ignore him. Him and Beth are wrapped around each other. Actually, that may be the smell of weed. Stoned and drunk and full to the brim with sprouts. That may be medically quite dangerous. Time to bring on the better alcohol, kids. Make wishes for a better year. I scratch at my neck. Simon gifted me a very mustard jumper that is soft and cashmere but has made me break out into hives around my neck. It also isn’t red and that has upset my mother’s colour palette for her photos. Where is Simon? Is it bad that I ask this question a lot? Is it bad that all I wanted to say was sod the jumper, some assurances that you’d stop putting it about would be a much better Christmas present? He could hand that to me as voucher, maybe frame it.
‘Pass us a mince pie, Emma,’ asks Will as he sifts through the TV schedule to look for a film for the little ones. Dad wakes from his slumber and smiles at me.
‘All good, Ems?’ he asks.
I smile and nod. It’s a stock response these days. I could be sick, my girls could be ill, I could be in a war zone or homeless or without anyone in this room. It could be worse. But everyone knows about Simon so I get this question a lot. They question my judgement and my sanity. One of the sisters will occasionally get drunk and tell me I’m an idiot and acting like I’m some wife from the fifties but none of them have been able to tear me away from him. None of them understand my fear, my anxiety over being divorced. I’d be alone. I would be thirty-three and on my own with young children and a career. Every time I’ve even imagined some alternative future where Simon isn’t there, the future is muddied and unclear. I would be lost. I would be broken. And I would hate that very personal feeling of failure. So I stay where I am. I feel the better option is the one you know, even if it does involve ritual humiliation.
Tom i
s on the floor with four nieces sat on his back while he colours in with them. He’s the fun uncle whom they all love because he’s got a skill for origami and animal noises. Grace comes over, plonking herself atop my lap and gives me a huge bear hug. Someone has been at the sherry.
‘Emsy Ems. Love you. Thank you for my slipper socks.’
‘And thank you for my chocolates and wine. You always say you have cold feet. I was trying to be functional.’
‘They are very useful. More useful than the rude coasters that Lucy got me.’
‘What’s on yours?’ she asks.
‘Mine are inscribed with Use A Fucking Coaster,’ I whisper given the children in proximity.
‘I got actual penises, in graphic tiled print.’
We both laugh and she downs the rest of her drink, watching Tom intently. Those two have been together since university, they’re an unlikely couple in a relationship that’s run quite the emotional gamut but their wedding last year seemed to quieten all the doubters. Except we don’t talk about the cake. A cake made of cheese was not a way to cement a relationship, my mother said.
‘And how are you?’ she asks.
‘I am well, I may need more alcohol though.’
‘Meg told me about the parent from school who Simon—’
I put my finger hand to my mouth to encourage her to be quiet around the girls.
‘I told her not to say anything,’ I say. Grace gives me a look. When have any of us ever kept quiet about anything? You tell one sister and it trickles down the grapevine. The other parent was also married and from what I hear, she’s now separated. The kids got taken out of the school in quite an acrimonious split. I quizzed Simon about everything and he denied it but I knew. Of course I knew. Did I want the same to happen to our girls? That upheaval and distress? So I let it go. Like all the other times.
‘He tells me it’s over.’
‘Ems…’
‘Don’t. It’s Christmas.’
In an uncharacteristic move, she cradles my head and strokes my hair.
‘Ems, can I ask you a weird question?’
Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner Page 31