by Jane Green
The place he used to call home.
Trish wears a silk nightgown. Never before has he come across anyone who wears a nightgown, unless it’s a cotton one, short and printed with a whimsical design. Trish wears a nightgown every night, always ivory, silky, strappy. This is, to her, what flannel pyjamas are to Gabby. He didn’t think women like Trish existed any more, and, even if they did, he definitely wouldn’t have expected a woman like Trish to be interested in a man like him.
It was Tim’s idea. Elliott didn’t know this until afterwards. Tim and Claire invited Trish to join them for dinner one night, Trish having broken up with her boyfriend some time before.
‘What was the matter with him? He seemed like a great guy,’ Elliott remembers asking.
‘I think he was. But he wasn’t the guy for her. She needs someone older. More stable. Honestly? I think he was probably just about sex.’
‘That’s a problem?’ Elliott asked. Tim laughed.
The dinner had been perfectly lovely. There certainly hadn’t been any flirting as the four of them sat round the kitchen table, but there had been lots of laughing, and Trish had clearly been intrigued by Elliott, genuinely keen to hear about his work, asking him thoughtful questions. He missed being heard, being thought of as interesting, rather than being taken for granted. At the end of the night, as Trish got up to leave, Tim suggested Elliott walk her to her car.
‘I really enjoyed getting to know you,’ she said. ‘We should do this again.’
Elliott just stared at her, having no idea what to say. He had been married for ever, had dated a hundred years ago as a very young man, had no idea how to pursue, or whether this meant something, or what he was supposed to do next.
Trish made the move for him. She leaned forward and kissed him, very softly, and not for very long, on the lips. When she stepped back she was smiling. ‘You should call me,’ she said before getting into her car, beaming a smile at him and reversing out of the driveway.
Elliott walked back into the house in a state of shock.
‘She kissed me!’ he muttered to Tim, who high-fived him. ‘What do I do now?’
‘Now you call her. Not now – I mean, tomorrow. Ask her for dinner. Damn. Claire was right. I can’t believe she kissed you on the first date. It wasn’t even a date, and she kissed you! Was it hot?’
‘Claire was right about what?’
‘She said she thought Trish was interested in you. Apparently she’s been asking about you for a while. The only reason Claire didn’t want to set up anything is because she feels she’s betraying Gabby.’
‘Even though they’re not speaking?’
‘She misses her, you know? But we made our choice.’ He gave Elliott a rueful smile, as if the choice wasn’t made freely, as if their friendship had suffered from having been put in the position of making a choice.
Elliott was confused. He had gone to stay with them simply because Tim was his best friend and he couldn’t think of what else to do, where else to go. He hadn’t meant to force a choice on them. He never asked it of them.
There were so many things Elliott hadn’t asked for, Trish being one of them.
During the first few dates, Elliott felt as if he was in some surreal version of his life. This was him. Elliott. Married with children. He didn’t go to smart restaurants with glamorous women and charm them with his stories. Hell, he didn’t even have any stories. Except, he found he did. He found his stories, and his humour, and his charm. He asked lots of questions, and relaxed under the gaze of a gorgeous, intelligent woman.
The first time they slept together was strange. Fantastic. Overwhelming. Terrifying. He and Gabby had a routine. It was comfortable and quick and suited them both. Here he found himself with new territory to explore. Trish didn’t like being touched like that; she wanted it softer, but harder there …
They both moved over and under, excited by the discovery, flipping like slippery fish until they exploded, first Trish, then Elliott, in unexpected delight.
Afterwards they hadn’t, as he and Gabby had done for so long, rolled onto their respective sides of the bed, picked up their books or turned on the television, and said only a handful of words to each other before one gave the other a quick peck on the lips, switched off the bedside lamp and went to sleep.
With Trish in his arms, they lay talking softly for hours, his murmurs punctuated by the tinkle of her laughter until she fell asleep, actually in his arms. It was desperately uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to move and disturb the perfection of this moment. This exquisite, tiny blonde, in her rustling silk, sleeping so prettily on his dead arm. Eventually he had to move, and Trish just burrowed under the sheet without waking up. Elliott gazed at her, unable to believe they had just made love.
Trish is, he thinks, as he walks up the stairs to her room, completely selfless. She makes him feel like the most important man in the world. She creates a beautiful home, cooks like a dream, runs a hugely successful business, is a loving and present mother. She is the woman who has it all, the domestic goddess personified.
It will kill Gabby when she finds out. When he tells her he is living with Trish, not just dating her. But he knows he will have to tell her.
Why did she have to buy the watch? It was so … sad. So desperate. So heartbreaking. The hope in her eyes and the disappointment when he couldn’t take it. There was no question of him taking it. He knew exactly what it was, and he knew too that he couldn’t not tell her about Trish. Not when Gabby’s need for him was so evident.
He never wanted to hurt her. However much she has hurt him – and my God, the pain these last few months has been, at times, almost unbearable – he has never wanted to cause her pain. He did, tonight, telling her about Trish; he had no choice.
Things with Trish seem to be serious. Elliott walks into the bedroom, marvelling at how beautiful she looks, lying there with her legs crossed, not a patch of stubble on them, her nail polish always perfectly, prettily pink, her hair slicked back behind her ears.
‘How was it?’ she asks, craning up for a kiss.
‘It was good. Good for the kids. A little awkward.’
She reaches up and caresses his cheek. ‘You’re a good man, Elliott. You did the right thing.’
‘This is what I love about you,’ he says, careful not to say he loves her, because he is not there yet, even though he suspects he may be well on the way. ‘You give me room to do the things I have to do.’
‘I’m not the jealous type,’ she says with a smile.
‘I know. And it makes it possible for me to be the man I want to be. To show up for my kids. To be a father to them, and to give them a Christmas they couldn’t have otherwise had. Thank you.’ He lifts her hand, brings it to his lips and kisses it. ‘Honestly. Thank you for never being threatened by Gabby or the relationship I have to have with her for the sake of the children.’
‘I’m not threatened by Gabby.’ Trish smiles again, pulling him in for a kiss. ‘I’m not threatened by anyone.’
Elliott likes being married. He likes being a father. He likes familiarity, and comfort, and knowing where he stands. These past months, marked first with the awkwardness of staying with Claire and Tim, then with the loneliness of living in the little house close to the railroad tracks that never felt like home, have thrown him.
Nothing felt right. Elliott would wake up in the morning feeling out of sorts, unable to regain his equilibrium, no matter what he did. His equilibrium had always come from being married and everything that derived from that: waking up next to a woman you love; raising your children together; phoning each other a couple of times during the day just to check in, or remind the other of a dinner date they may have forgotten about. His equilibrium came from being able to go down to the boatyard at the weekends and chat with the men there about the old boats for sale, knowing his wife was at home, taking care of the kids, getting lunch ready, keeping everything balanced and even.
Until Trish, nothing had felt balanced f
or a while, and Elliott wasn’t a man able to deal with his life being off-kilter. If it hadn’t been Trish, it might have been someone else.
Yet if it hadn’t been for Trish, it is entirely possible Elliott would have found himself staying in the spare room tonight.
If it hadn’t been for Trish, it is entirely possible Elliott would have lain under the blanket on the new bed in the spare room, listening to Gabby as she finished clearing up the kitchen.
It is entirely possible he would have fallen asleep thinking about the years they were married, how happy they were, how she looked when she lay underneath him, gazing into his eyes with love. He would have been woken up in the early hours of the morning by the creaking of the stairs, would have emerged from his bedroom to find Gabby creeping down to fill the stockings while the girls were fast asleep, moving as quietly as she could to avoid the danger of them waking up and seeing that there is no Santa Claus, even though they both know there is no Santa Claus.
He would have crept down alongside her, smiling in the darkness, to help with the stockings, and while they were filling them perhaps their hands would have met, in the soft illumination of the Christmas tree, and then they wouldn’t have been smiling, and he would have been kissing her, melting in the familiarity of her lips, the smell of her, the feel of her hair.
If it hadn’t been for Trish, perhaps he would have gone home.
But then he remembers the bump, the baby. Then he remembers the betrayal that ruined his life, that will never go away, that will be a daily reminder of how his wife screwed him – screwed someone other than him. And his heart closes down, and he is thankful, so thankful, that Trish came along when she did.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gabby is weighed down with dread in the morning. Elliott and Trish. Trish and Elliott. She slept terribly, waking up all night with visions of her husband and Trish playing in her mind. She hadn’t prepared for this, hadn’t imagined, not for a second, that Elliott would even be thinking about dating anyone else.
Don’t they say that men take far longer to get over things because they can’t process them emotionally in the way women can? Why isn’t Elliott taking longer to get over her? How is it possible that he has moved on so quickly? Jesus. It’s hardly been any time at all.
With Trish of all people. She groans out loud. ‘I hate her,’ she says suddenly.
Alanna overhears as she passes Gabby’s bedroom, her arms filled with goodies from her stocking. ‘Who do you hate?’
‘What? No one,’ she says quickly. ‘I was just thinking of the lyrics to a song.’
‘I hate her?’ Alanna gives her a strange look. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ Gabby insists, heaving herself out of bed and stumbling to the bathroom.
‘Wow, Mom! You’re huge.’
‘Thanks, Alanna,’ Gabby snaps. ‘Way to go to make your mom feel good at Christmas.’
Alanna follows her into the doorway. ‘Sorry, Mom. It’s just … you look like you’re about to give birth.’
‘I hope not.’ Then Gabby reconsiders. ‘Actually I wish. But it’s still rather early. I have to tell you, I feel ready. I cannot wait to hold this new baby in my arms.’ She looks up at her daughter. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to have another little one. Oh, Alanna, you were both so gorgeous when you were tiny. I don’t mean that you aren’t gorgeous now, but I still can’t quite believe I’m going to have a tiny baby again.’
‘Don’t cry, Mom. You should be happy.’
Gabby starts to laugh. ‘I am! I’m just sentimental. I’m so crazy about babies, and I never thought I’d have another one. These are tears of joy.’
‘Mom? Can I ask you something? The baby’s father. Are you still in touch with him?’
Gabby sighs. This is so hard. She didn’t want the girls to know, but in the end she couldn’t protect them. But how does she explain this, when she isn’t even sure she’s doing the right thing?
‘I’m not, and I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. He’s young, and not ready for children. I don’t want to impose upon his life. I think at some point I might let him know, but I have no expectations, and I think it’s better this way.’
Alanna thinks for a while. ‘But don’t you think the baby deserves to know who his father is?’
Yes, thinks Gabby. But she always hoped Elliott would step up to fill the role; she still hopes Elliott will step up to fill the role. ‘I think,’ she says, ‘we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
Alanna says nothing, leaving the room to take her stash of goodies back downstairs.
Today, Elliott’s presence is getting on Gabby’s nerves. The fantasies of them all playing a happy family, the fake perfection and cosiness of last night are long gone. Gabby watches him frying bacon, pretending that everything’s fine, and feels a surge of anger. His happiness has nothing to do with her, and everything to do with that bitch Trish.
How she blames Trish. It doesn’t matter that it could have been anyone, that Elliott is free to date, given that they are officially separated; it doesn’t matter that Gabby was unfaithful to him, is pregnant with another man’s child; all that matters is that Trish is the woman who stole her husband, and Gabby will never be able to say her name without gnashing her teeth in rage.
I bet this is Claire’s doing, she thinks, in a flash of fury. For years she called herself my best friend, then couldn’t wait to set my husband up with Trish, the one woman guaranteed to make me nuts. Claire, who emailed her a while back out of the blue, who now sends her emails on a fairly regular basis, as if nothing is wrong between them, as if they are still great friends.
Claire, who fills those emails with funny stories about her child, the horrors of being the oldest mother in the mommy and me group, the bags under her eyes large enough to carry groceries in, thanks to the endless sleepless nights.
Initially flabbergasted to receive a chatty, warm, information-filled email from her former best friend, speaking to Gabby as if she hadn’t dropped her like a dirty shirt at a time when Gabby needed her most, after a while she couldn’t help but enjoy Claire’s emails.
Gabby wanted to write back telling her how disgusted she was, but as she read through that first email she realized how much she missed Claire’s voice, her point of view, her guidance and wisdom.
She has grown to look forward to the emails, even though she doesn’t respond. She isn’t ready to forgive Claire for not standing by her, not being there for her. But at the same time she can’t help but laugh at the things Claire writes; can’t help but miss having a friend like her.
And yet, however much she longs to have Claire back in her life she isn’t able to forget Claire’s betrayal. Why did Claire ‘choose’ Elliott, to the exclusion of her best friend? Gabby can’t see that a choice even had to be made.
And Elliott? He is trying, oh how he is trying, to make things right, to recreate last night, but their easy camaraderie is gone, and Gabby looks grim as she takes the strawberries out of the fridge and pours hot chocolate for the girls.
She closes her eyes for a second as she stands by the fridge, so tired, so desperately wanting her life to be something, anything, other than the life she has.
‘Mom? Are you okay?’ Olivia is watching her.
‘I’m fine. I’m just really tired suddenly.’
‘Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?’ Elliott is concerned. ‘The girls will bring you breakfast in bed.’
What do you care? She wants to say it, but she doesn’t. She nods and goes upstairs, relieved as soon as she lies on her bed, cradled in the heap of pillows. Elliott telling her about his girlfriend – the word is snarled nastily in her head – has thrown her. She hasn’t felt right since then. Sick and tired. Ha! She is, indeed, sick and tired. And terrified, now, of what this means.
All this time, she has harboured the hope that they will get back together. More than hoped. Known. She has presumed Elliott will come home, because this is where he belongs. This
is where he has always belonged. She has been able to keep away, to give him space, only because she has always known that at some point he is going to take her face in his hands and gently kiss her, telling her how sorry he is, asking her to give things another chance.
But she was wrong. Which means she is on her own. Which means that life will never be the same again. And despite what Sally at the divorce support group said, despite her assurances that there would be love, and possibility, and joy again, Gabby knows that’s not true.
Not without Elliott.
After breakfast, brought up by the girls, Gabby falls asleep. When she awakes, the house is quiet. She crawls out from under the covers and takes the tray downstairs, finding Elliott asleep on the sofa in the family room, Olivia and Alanna on either side of him, both of them avidly watching some movie as a fire dies down in the fireplace.
Gabby stands watching them for a while. Alanna notices her and waves, then Olivia does the same, neither of them talking.
‘What are you watching?’ she asks finally.
‘Love Actually,’ mumbles Alanna. ‘Ssshh.’
‘Shall I make popcorn?’ Gabby offers, as she feels a warm whoosh of liquid down her legs. ‘Oh God,’ she says, reaching out a hand to steady herself, trying to make sense of what has happened. Could she have had an accident? Has her bladder been rendered so weak by pregnancy that she could just stand and wet herself?
‘What’s the matter?’ Both girls look alarmed. ‘What is it?’
Gabby reaches down to swipe her legs and then inspects the liquid. It’s clear. Has no colour, no scent.
‘I think,’ she moans, ‘my waters just broke.’
Elliott keeps turning to her. ‘Are you okay? Are you sure you’re okay?’
Gabby clutches the armrests, furiously breathing in and out, nodding with wide, scared eyes.
‘Mom?’ Olivia, excited and terrified, peers over the back of Gabby’s seat. ‘I saw in a movie someone doing some counting. Do you want me to count?’