Being caught having sex is pretty damning evidence of fault. She planned to take him to the cleaners. Make him pay in every way she could. His email suggested they could make this divorce quick, clean, and as painless as possible. Fuck that. She saw that offer for what it was: a man who knew he was going to be paying through the nose, running scared. She opened the email from the lawyer and looked at the details of the proposed settlement. It was fair enough, some might say, not exactly generous, but reasonable. She typed her response.
Fuck you.
She was drunk enough to think this was hilarious and bold.
She was sober enough to regret it the moment she pressed send. She wondered whether it was possible to recall emails and Googled it. She wasn’t sure, even after she’d read the chat forums debating the issue. It seemed it was but the recipient would know you’d done so. That was just as bad. Worse. She’d rather Rob think she was bold and rash than cowed and insecure.
She started to cry. She hated crying, it was ageing and hopeless, defeatist.
She heard a quiet knock at the door, so quiet she hardly dared call, ‘Come in.’ Slowly the door opened just a couple of inches. He put his head around.
‘I thought you might need water, too?’
Abi hurriedly brushed the tears away; she didn’t want him to see them. ‘Oh, thanks, yes.’ He handed her a glass of iced water. Thoughtful, not tepid from the bathroom tap. Their fingers brushed together.
You can’t make some things up, you can’t imagine them, even if you want to wish them away or even if you plan to ignore them. There was a flicker of electricity. It shot through her arm, her shoulder, her chest and then down into the pit, the core of her body. She hadn’t felt anything like it for years. She met his eye, acknowledging the flash that had just lit between them. Those things were always two-way, weren’t they? She felt it, he must have. A bee sting of sexual attraction. He looked her in the eye and no doubt noticed she’d been crying. ‘Get some sleep, Abi,’ he instructed, as he closed the bedroom door behind him.
And she did sleep. She dreamed she was riding a horse over a prairie. She was riding it hard, could feel its size and strength beneath her; between her legs, she felt its muscles ripple next to her thighs. She was breathless and free. Excited and able. It felt real, as she bumped up and down on the warm, leather saddle.
Sunday 25th February
I look up from chopping carrots as Ben walks into the kitchen. He’s wearing the Paul Smith shirt that I got him for his birthday, like I told him he should, with new jeans (that still look a little stiff) and his Ted Baker brogues, which he normally keeps for the office as he generally prefers Adidas trainers at home. He’s handsome, no doubt about it. When I’m walking in the streets with him, out shopping or whatever, I always feel secretly pleased, smug. I often see women check him out. He either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, for my sake. Bless. Today he puts me in mind of the new, neat bay trees outside our front door. A little too formal, out of place and stiff.
‘Maybe you should put on a T-shirt,’ I suggest.
‘You told me to wear this,’ he replies with a confused and slightly frustrated shrug.
He glances about. I have the lunch ingredients out of the fridge but nowhere near in the oven. Even though I’ve been up since six thirty when Lily came into our room and asked if I wanted to see a puppet show. There are approximately a hundred things – including toys, homework, stray socks, breakfast pots and a hairbrush – scattered across the table. I’m obviously not what anyone would describe as on top of things. My head aches and I’m so pale I’m transparent. I’m too old to stay up drinking until two a.m.
One of the very many lovely things about being married to Ben is that we are a partnership. I don’t have to nag him to help out or do his share. If he sees something needs doing, he invariably does it. Maybe not exactly as I might have done it, but he gives it a go and I’m grateful. Normally, he lends a hand with notable affability; right now, he gathers up the debris from the kitchen table and then clatters down the cutlery in a distinctly irritated manner. He didn’t like me suggesting what he should put on today and, having complied, he likes me changing my mind even less. I can hear his frustration in the clinking of the knives and forks.
‘I know I did but—’ I’m about to say it looks a bit over the top, when Abi interrupts.
‘You look fabulous Ben, ignore her.’
‘Oh, Abi, I didn’t realise you were there.’ I’m embarrassed that she’s caught our conversation and wonder whether she noticed the slight testiness in the air. I want everything to look effortless, seamless and – most of all – blissful. Nagging my husband about the formality of his wardrobe is none of those things. It’s too late to get Ben to change now. I shouldn’t even expect it. Her compliments make me feel shallow. I’m also embarrassed that she’s here before I’ve managed to transform the kitchen. I wanted to have set it with a vase of tulips, a bowl of olives and wine. I have a very specific image of how I want to present things for Abi.
Clearing the breakfast pots would have been a start.
She looks around too. Her gaze is unreadable. She might be thinking we’re charming, or she might be thinking we’re revolting. ‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asks with convincing gusto.
‘Oh no,’ I reply automatically, although why? When another pair of hands would obviously be useful. Instead I find myself saying, ‘Ben, why don’t you show Abi our holiday photos from last summer?’ Turning to Abi I add, ‘We visited the Edinburgh Fringe.’ Ben looks startled.
‘Are you interested?’ he asks Abi with some scepticism. ‘It’s a bit throwback. People haven’t actually thought it was entertaining to show others their holiday snaps since circa 1979, have they?’
‘Yes, yes, she is interested,’ I insist.
Abi backs me up. ‘I love the way Mel still goes to the effort of printing photos and putting them in albums. With the tickets of the places you visited, and maps and such. Works of art, really. History in the making. Who does that?’
‘Who indeed?’ says Ben, mildly amused. He thinks my photo albums are a bit of a waste of space and money and prefers keeping things digitally, but he indulges me. He has even promised that if there is a fire or flood, after the kids and the cats, he’d save my albums. Exactly how he’d do that isn’t clear, since I have about two dozen.
‘I’ve shown Abi loads of old albums already,’ I say.
I’m eager to encourage them both to get out of the kitchen, so that I can rush about and pull the place into some semblance of order. I want the kitchen to myself. I don’t feel up to coordinating making lunch and having a conversation.
Somehow, when the doorbell rings at one o’clock, lunch is almost ready and the table is dressed with our best glassware and pretty paper napkins.
‘Will someone get that?’ I yell. No one reacts. ‘It will be Tanya.’ I hear Liam gallop down the stairs with enthusiasm.
‘Someone’s keen,’ says Abi, amused; she and Ben have wandered back into the kitchen,
