was Saturday, so Patrick was at the kitchen table as I tried to leave, watching me flap about trying to find my shoes while he drank coffee from his posh silver machine. I was scared of that thing. It had more buttons than a NASA launch pad. ‘What is it today?’
‘Mother-in-law,’ I said miserably, lacing up my Converse with one foot on the stairs.
‘Ah.’ He winced. ‘Luckily, my in-laws are in New York. I had to ask Michelle’s father, the congressman, for permission to marry her.’
‘Isn’t that a bit medieval?’ Dan had suggested the same, and once I had stopped laughing I’d told him not to be daft. I hadn’t asked Dad for permission for anything since I was seven, and unless it was about Airfix models or Countdown, he wasn’t going to have an opinion.
‘She insisted. I keep wondering if I’m supposed to sign her back in again like a hire car.’ Look at him, making jokes about divorce while he ate those little teeth-shattering biscuits he liked. He had come on.
Finally, I was ready. A bit of dishevelment would probably help my case anyway. ‘I better go,’ I said reluctantly.
‘Good luck,’ Patrick crunched.
‘Thanks. I need it.’
Things that suck about divorce, number fifty-nine: having to prise yourself away from your in-laws.
Jane was early. She was always early for everything and, as I was always ten minutes late, this stressed me out. I could see her through the window of the café, her hair perfect, her suit pressed, looking anxiously at her watch. For a moment I was tempted to run away, never have to see her again in my life—wasn’t that what divorce was for?—but I remembered what I had to do, took a deep breath and jiggled open the door.
She put on a strained smile. ‘Rachel, darling.’
‘Hello.’
There was an insanely awkward moment where she reached to hug me and I backed off, so her Chanel lipstick smudged on my cheek. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Oh, you’re not—’
‘Well, I am—’
‘Well, that’s all right. Would you like coffee?’ A slip-up, rare for Jane. She must have been nervous. I don’t drink coffee and never have, and she’d been pointedly remembering this since I first came to her house aged twenty, in my muddy red Converse that I’d drawn on with fabric pen.
‘Tea, please,’ I told the waiter.
Jane and I looked at each other. ‘I—’ I reached into my bag and took out the lump of cotton wool. ‘Before I forget.’
She coloured. ‘Oh, thank you. You didn’t have—’
But I did. When someone gave you a family heirloom for an engagement ring, you couldn’t keep it when they decided they no longer wanted to be married to you.
She unwrapped it—why, I wasn’t sure, to check it was there, or more likely just for something to do—and the wink of diamond and sapphire filled my eyes. I couldn’t believe it when Dan presented me with this rock and I was supposed to put it on my nail-bitten, ink-smeared left hand. Jane stowed it in her expensive bag and I said a brief farewell to the ring that had weighed me down for three years.
‘So. Are you all right, dear?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s been hard. It wasn’t easy to find a place, but I’m settling in now. It’s been tough trying to find a new job, but I have a few interviews lined up and …’
Jane’s face had tightened. Like many people who didn’t lack for money, she hated talking about it.
‘How’s Dan?’ I asked carefully.
‘He’s— I’m not sure. Won’t talk, but he’s working a lot and eating junk food. I worry. It just seems such a shame,’ she said. I stiffened. ‘You seemed so happy. I was looking at your wedding photos this morning. It was such a nice day. And of course, Michael was so happy …’ Her eyes filled with tears and I felt my own nose sting. Dan’s father had died six months after we got married, another sudden stroke carrying him away for good. It had been a lot to take so early on in our marriage.
Our drinks arrived, and I stared at the poncey infuser that came with my tea. I’d been doing my best to block out our wedding, how much I’d loved my dress, how the sun shone even though it was only April, how my mum got drunk for the first time in her life and danced on stage to ‘Tiger Feet’.
I could feel it rising up in me, that wave of dark that drowned out even tears. I gasped for breath and said with difficulty, ‘We were happy then. But we changed.’
‘People don’t change, darling. He’s still the same Dan he was. I know his silly job has eaten him up, but maybe a holiday …’
‘We had a holiday.’ A few months before, we’d gone to Antigua on a last-ditch ‘making the effort’ trip. It was a disaster. I could almost hear the pounds cascading out of our bank account with every suck and hum of the air conditioner. We were miles from anywhere in a package hotel full of Russians in thongs—and that was just the men. The drinks were watered down and the evening buffet gave Dan raging food poisoning. He stayed in the room for days, groaning, and I walked listlessly between the bar and the pool, trying to avert my eyes from Vladimir’s hairy nether regions. I don’t think I’ve ever been as unhappy in my life as I was on that ‘luxury’ holiday.
‘What about couples counselling?’
We’d actually tried that too, for two sessions, which ended when Dan had stormed out kicking the door and calling me a particularly horrible name. I know he was … upset about what happened, but still.
Jane was speaking very carefully. My heart began to thud. ‘You know, people can forgive a lot. I’m sure this thing now, with the girl … it won’t last. He’s just upset. I know him.’
I kept my face very still. What girl? What girl?
‘So maybe if you both could get past … everything that went on, give it another try …’
I had to get out of there. My voice came from my stomach, weary and desperate. ‘No, Jane. People don’t get past it. I tried. He kicked me out. So no. I’m sorry. He said there was no chance.’
She dabbed at her lips, leaving a red stain on the napkin, like a tiny ruined heart. We jostled awkwardly over the bill, and then I abruptly left. I could see her through the steamed-up café window, the woman I’d thought I’d know for the rest of my life. Now I’d probably never see her again. Things that suck about divorce, number sixty-seven: wondering whether you’re pleased about that, or hurt, or somewhere in between, and what that says about you.
I walked back to the house past the shops of Hampstead, the dinky baby boutiques and upmarket clothes shops. Everywhere were yummy mummies with Boden tops and knee boots, crunching biscotti while adorable toddlers ran about in yellow macs. I was alone, adrift. I walked and walked to try to stay ahead of that wave inside me. I knew what it was like when it hit—the black water filled with rocks and debris, the suffocating slap of it. I walked
