The Other Woman

by Jane Green

  23

  Um. Hi.”

  “Hi.” Shit. And now I wish I hadn’t changed, hadn’t washed off the makeup, had at least looked a little better than I know I look right now.

  “I thought I should give you this.” He reaches into his pocket and brings out an envelope. “It’s the front-door key.”

  “Oh,” I say, reaching out for it and jumping slightly as our fingers touch. “Yes. Thanks. You could have used it, you know.”

  Dan shrugs. “It didn’t feel right.”

  I nod. “Yes. I understand.” I turn to place the envelope on the table, and when I look again at Dan I can’t help but think how odd this is. How can it be that just a few days ago we were sleeping in the same bed, and now we are talking to each other as if we were strangers?

  “Where’s Tom?” Dan cranes his neck, looking around the room.

  “He’s having a nap. It was a bad night last night and then he wouldn’t go down today until two. He might be awake. I’ll go and look.”

  “Would you mind if I went and got him up?”

  “No, not at all. Fine. Go ahead.” I sit down on the sofa and examine my fingernails. God. How did we get to be so polite with each other? Any second now I’ll be offering him tea.

  After a while I walk softly to Tom’s bedroom. The door is ajar and Tom is standing in his crib, giggling, and holding Dan’s face in his little, chubby hands.

  “Daddy misses you so much,” I hear Dan whisper as he turns his head to kiss Tom’s fingers. “Daddy thinks about you every minute of every day.”

  “Dada,” Tom says delightedly, pulling Dan’s hair as Dan squeals in mock pain and lifts Tom out of his crib, swinging him high up in the air, then holding him tightly. “I love you, Mr. T., do you know that?” he says, burying his face in Tom’s hair. “No matter what happens, I love you more than anything.”

  I turn and go back to the living room. They didn’t see me. It’s right that they didn’t see me. It’s not my place to intrude upon their moment of privacy. I feel like a stranger in my own home, uncomfortable, with heightened awareness of every noise, every sound.

  Relax, Ellie. Relax. Deep breaths. Loosen up. I attempt some deep breaths, then pick up a magazine lying on the table. Homes and Gardens. I flick through, pausing every now and then as if I’m genuinely interested, but I barely register what I’m looking at, one eye staying constantly on the clock, waiting for Dan to come back in. Waiting for us to at least talk a little more about this, to try to sort it out, because surely this separation has occurred too quickly and too easily, surely there need to be more tears, more talking, more trying, perhaps.

  Five minutes go by. Fifteen. Twenty. I walk back to the nursery and see Dan lying on the floor, flying Tom high in the air above his head. Thirty-five. Dan is sitting in the rocker, reading Guess How Much I Love You to Tom. Forty minutes.

  “Would you like some tea? Or anything?” I can’t believe I’m offering my husband some tea. Not least because I’ve never been known to make him tea, nor has he ever been known to drink it.

  “No, thanks,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  “Right.”

  I close the door and sit on the bed in our room for a while, feeling completely blank. But then I realize I don’t want him to see me sitting staring into space, so I get up and attempt to look busy in the kitchen by making myself some coffee.

  The phone rings. Trish.

  “I’m just ringing to see how you are,” she says.

  “I’m okay. Dan’s here.”

  “He is? How’s it going?”

  “Fine.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Weird. It’s like he’s a stranger.”

  “So what has he said?”

  “Nothing. We haven’t spoken. He’s been in Tom’s room for an hour.”

  “Oh. So what are you doing?”

  “Trying to pretend I have a life.”

  “Shall I call you later?”

  “Yes. I hope I’ll have more to report.”

  At 5:20 Dan comes into the kitchen with Tom.

  “Do you have any plans now?” he asks.

  “No,” I say eagerly. A little too eagerly. I want to talk more. Need to talk more. Can’t believe the dissolution of a marriage can happen so painlessly. I need tears. Heartache. Grief. It can’t just happen as it seems to be happening now—fading quietly into nothingness.

  “I thought maybe we could have supper out.”

  “Sure.” I smile with genuine delight. “Sounds great.”

  “I’ll have him back by six-thirty,” Dan says.

  I look at Dan in confusion.

  “For bath time?” Dan says. “I thought I’d take him to one of the cafés in Belsize Park for supper. If that’s okay, I mean. If not, that’s fine.”

  “Oh, no, no.” I attempt a smile, but I’m embarrassed. Humiliated. Thank God I wasn’t more obvious; thank God I didn’t grab my coat or anything. “It’s fine.”

  “I know this is more rushed than I’d like, but can I have him on weekends? Say, Saturday morning to Sunday night? Would that be okay? And then, maybe an afternoon a week?”

  “Um, sure.” I’m still trying to get over the humiliation, praying he didn’t think I wanted to have dinner with him, not wanting him to have that kind of power over me, or to know that’s what I wanted. “The weekends sound fine. I’ll look at my diary and let you know about the day during the week?”

  “Thanks, Ellie,” he says, my name suddenly sounding strange on his lips. “We’ll see you later. Say bye bye to Mummy,” he tells Tom, and I give Tom a huge kiss, resisting the urge to squeeze him tight, tighter, as tightly as I can.

  “I love you,” I tell Tom and my eyes meet Dan’s over his head. It’s too strange. Too painful. Too familiar. And we both quickly avert our eyes as Dan busies himself putting on Tom’s coat, and I pretend to be fascinated with washing up the negligible contents of the sink.

  Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives?

  Dan brings Tom back and I resolve to sit him down, to continue the process of the other night, for surely this is a process, surely we both need to work through it somehow, first together and then apart. I may not have been happy, and I may have made a mistake marrying him, but it doesn’t feel normal that it should be this easy.

  “Can I get you anything?” I say, after Dan has bathed Tom and put him to bed. “Coffee? A glass of wine?”

  “I’d love to,” he says, “but I have plans.”

  “Oh.” I feel like an idiot. Second time this evening.

  “I’m sorry, Ellie,” he says, placing a hand on my arm.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I just thought there were more things left to talk about.”

  “Okay,” he nods. “What kind of things?”

  I shake my head. They are far too many, far too complex. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Another time. Anyway”—I look at my watch—“God, it’s already quarter after seven. Rachel’s coming here in a little while. I’ve got to get ready.” A lie, but a plausible one. If Dan has plans, then I’ll bloody well have some too.

  “Oh. Off anywhere nice?”

  I shrug. “Just out for a drink.”

  “With anyone I know?”

  The power is back in my hands. Finally. Thank you God. “Just Lisa and a couple of her friends,” I lie. “Anyway, must rush. Thanks for coming,” and I hustle him over to the door.

  I slump in the doorway as I watch him start to walk up the steps. Don’t go, I want to scream. Come back. Stay. But I don’t. He hesitates as he takes the top step, and my heart skips. He’s coming back, I think. He’s going to turn around and come back. Talk about things. Resolve them?

  And he does turn around. He turns around and looks at me sadly, then attempts a smile. “G’night, Ellie,” he says, and then he’s in his car and gone, and neither of us has mentioned the fact that our two-year anniversary is in two days’ time.

  I go back inside and spend the rest of the evening sitting on the sofa by myself,
gazing blankly into space, and wondering when in the hell it all went wrong.

  It’s been eight weeks since Dan left, and I can’t believe how upside down my life has become. Did we always get this amount of paperwork when we were together, or do the powers that be somehow know that I am far from equipped to deal with all these official, officious letters?

  Is this some sort of cosmic joke?

  Council tax, residents’ parking renewals, utility bills, letters from the Inland Revenue—in the eight weeks since Dan left, my kitchen has disappeared under piles of papers and I don’t know what on earth I’m supposed to do with them.

  I used to be organized. Used to do everything myself, never needed—heaven forbid—a man to help me sort out my life. But somehow, since having Tom, those responsibilities became Dan’s. And now all these envelopes, these awful printed envelopes that seem to arrive in a flood every single day, which I am supposed to deal with all by myself eventhough I barely understand what any of them are saying, are completely overwhelming.

  My new strategy is this: open anything that is hand addressed, or might be an invitation, a card, a letter, or something fun that I might enjoy reading.

  Open anything official, glance at it, and unless it is a red bill (I seem to be getting an awful lot of those lately) that can be paid quickly and easily by making a phone call or scribbling out a quick check and stuffing it into a return envelope, balance it on the top of the already precarious pile on the kitchen worktop, to be dealt with at a later date.

  When the pile becomes too big, and topples over more than three times in the space of two days, said pile should be carefully placed in cupboard below desk. Again, to be dealt with at a later date.

  Said pile should be immediately and effectively forgotten about until one of three things happens: I move house and discover an enormous stack of unpaid bills, subsequently shedding light on why the bailiffs turned up; or I hire a hugely organized personal secretary who will deal with all the stuff I cannot get my head round; or, failing that, Dan comes home.

  None of the above looks likely to happen right now, and my piles are mounting, so I do the most logical thing possible, bar dealing with them of course, which isn’t going to happen. I phone Lisa.

  “How the hell do you deal with everything?”

  “With what?” she asks, bemused.

  “With life! With all the crap that people keep sending. With bills. And tax. And demands. And just bloody paperwork.”

  “I know, isn’t it a bastard?” I can hear her grin over the phone. “Welcome to the real world.”

  “I just can’t believe that I have to do everything myself,” I moan. “I never realized quite how much Dan used to do.”

  “It gets easier,” Lisa says. “It’s just habit. I set aside one week every month when I go through everything and deal with it. And look on the bright side: you’ll get far better deals from plumbers and electricians than your husband ever would. A bit of feminine charm goes a long way, particularly when people know you’re a single mum.”

  “Oh, God. Don’t say that.”

  “What, single mum?”

  I shudder. “I’m just not ready to hear that yet.”

  “So what are you doing later? Dan has Tom tonight, doesn’t he?”

  “Yup. Every Saturday.”

  “And you’re coping with Tom staying with the murderous in-laws?”

  I sigh. Because this has been one of the hardest things about the separation. Every weekend Tom stays at Linda’s house. I hate it, worry every second he’s away, but I have no choice but to put up with it, even though I made Dan swear never to leave Tom alone with them, to which he agreed.

  “It’s not ideal,” I say, “but at this point I really have no choice. Anyway, Dan picked Tom up last night. Why?”

  “I just fancied going out somewhere local for a drink and a quiet supper. Do you fancy the Queens?”

  “I’d love to,” I say with enthusiasm, having had few girls’ nights out since my wedding day. “Shall we ask Trish?”

  “She and Gregory are going out with some friends for dinner,” Lisa says. “I spoke to her earlier.”

  “Oh.” I shouldn’t feel aggrieved. How childish to feel aggrieved. And yet for months now I have spoken to Trish first, have known of her plans first. And have, more frequently than not, been involved in those plans. For a moment I wonder if my fears have come true, if our friendship is suffering now that I am no longer part of a couple. It’s true that I don’t see Trish and Gregory as a couple as much anymore. It may only have been a couple of months since Dan left, but the dynamic has already altered. The few times they invited me out I sat and talked to Trish mostly, while Gregory pretended to be interested, but I could tell he felt out of place with Dan absent.

  And I know Gregory still talks to Dan. A lot. Trish has told me that she refuses to get involved. That she and Gregory don’t talk about Dan and me. That my conversations with Trish are private and not to be repeated to Gregory, and the same goes for Gregory’s discussions with Dan.

  I wish she’d be a bit more bloody loyal to me. But her discretion is part of the reason I value her friendship so much. And our friendship, at least between the hours of nine and seven, hasn’t changed very much at all. Admittedly, I see Lisa perhaps more often than I did before, but Lisa and I have so much in common now, both being single mothers, and Trish, however much she loves me and wants to help, couldn’t possibly understand how different, how difficult, it is to be a single mother.

  Yet it irks me slightly that I didn’t know Trish had plans this evening. That I wasn’t the first person she called this morning. That I don’t even know where they are going or with whom.

  And the thought pops into my head that perhaps they are seeing Dan. Oh, God. Perhaps Dan and another woman? To be honest it hadn’t occurred to me that Dan might be seeing anyone, but as paranoia begins to set in, I wonder whether perhaps that was why Trish didn’t say anything.

  Maybe Dan has fallen in love. Could that have happened in such a short space of time? Could he have met someone? Someone so special that he wants to introduce her to his closest friends?

  Would she have met Linda? A picture of this imaginary woman appears: beautiful, sophisticated, the kind of woman who does not do as I do and sleep in men’s pajamas and thick woolly socks, but who sleeps in silken negligees and wakes with sun-kissed skin and perfect hair.

  I picture her as a younger version of Linda and resist a snigger—Freud would have a thing or two to say about that. But as the paranoia starts to take hold, I begin to feel slightly sick. The separation I can handle. I did, after all, instigate it. But the thought of my husband with another woman? Absolutely not.

  “He’s seeing someone, isn’t he?” The words come out before I even know what I’m saying.

  “What? Who? Gregory?”

  “No. Dan. There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? Trish and Gregory are seeing Dan tonight, aren’t they? And he has a girlfriend. You can tell me. I can take it. I just want to know the truth.”

  There’s a long pause, during which my heart starts to hammer. “Are you completely off your rocker?” Lisa says. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Trish didn’t say anything about dinner, and I think she’s seeing Dan.”

  “Okay, you crazy woman. Trish rarely tells me anything about her life, so I don’t know who they’re seeing, but I do know that they’ve been seeing loads of different friends lately, and you’re jumping to ridiculous conclusions.”

  I start to calm down. Maybe I have been jumping to conclusions slightly.

  “And I very much doubt Dan has a girlfriend. I promise you that if I knew something, I would definitely tell you, but he’s going through as difficult a time as you are, and let’s face it, you’re not exactly interested in other men right now, are you?”

  “No,” I grudgingly admit.

  “So what makes you think Dan’s the slightest bit interested in another woman?”r />
  I start to feel a lot calmer. “So you think I’m being silly?”

  “More than silly. Absurd. I guarantee you Dan’s sitting at home every night watching television and counting off each day until he can spend the weekend with Tom. The only thing he cares about right now is getting through the days, not shagging around! Ellie, darling, thank God I called, because you definitely need to get out more and have some fun. I’ll meet you downstairs at the Queens at seven-thirty. How does that sound?”

  “Okay,” I laugh. “Sounds great.”

  “Oh, and Ellie? Make a bit of an effort, okay?”

  I should be pissed off, but I’m not. I look at myself in the mirror: at my hair that hasn’t been washed for almost a week, which is scraped back in a ponytail to hide the greasiness, at my skin that’s blotchy and tired looking, at my shapeless sweater, and I realize Lisa’s right.

  I’m tired of feeling like crap, and I’m tired of looking like crap. And while I can’t do much about the way I feel, I can at least start with the way I look, and who knows, if I change the way I look, perhaps I’ll start feeling differently too.

  In the back of the bathroom cabinet I find an old Body Shop clay face mask that promises to draw out all impurities. Next to it a tube of apricot scrub and an ancient Darphin cream that claims to refresh and revitalize.

  I draw a hot bath—what are child-free weekends for if not for pampering yourself a little, I think—and lie in the bubbles, savoring the feel of the face pack and the luxury of indulging in a way I haven’t been able to since having Tom.

  A couple of hours later I barely recognize myself. In the new cashmere cardigan that was supposed to have been my way of showing Dan what he was missing, with glossy, swinging hair and soft, fresh makeup, I look pretty damn good. In fact I’d say I look better than pretty damn good, I look great.

  How ironic that on a night when I feel like I could pull anyone I want, I’m not the slightest bit interested in pulling anyone at all. Although I’m glad I made the effort, I think, as I shut the front door behind me and double lock it just to be on the safe side, a part of me can’t help but feel I’d rather be in my pajamas watching television in bed.