Falling in Love Again (8 page)

9

ED

A coffee, she’d suggested in that warm motherly tone that made him want to bury his head in between those large, warm (he just knew they’d be warm!) inviting pillow-breasts that he couldn’t help noticing – well who couldn’t! – underneath that clingy t-shirt thing she’d been  wearing at the meeting.

Much as he hated to admit it, if it wasn’t for those breasts, he would have simply said he was busy. There were no end of excuses he could have come up with; most of which could have been true. A board meeting; another day trip to Barcelona to sort out some more buy-to-lets; a round of golf with a client . . .

Somehow, that unexpected hug of Karen’s in front of everyone had catapulted him back to that strange, unreal time when his mother had been there one minute and gone the next. ‘Shhh, lamb, it will be all right,’ Viv their cleaner had reassured him and (even though his father had told him he was far too old to cry now and that he’d get a right beating from the other boys at school if they knew what a baby he was), he had snuggled up into Viv’s warm, woollen cardigan which always smelt of Cussons talc, and, when his father wasn’t looking, shoved his thumb in for comfort.

So it was that memory that had been responsible for him nodding down the phone and somehow agreeing to that coffee and ‘little chat’. But now, as he sat edgily by the window of Caffè Nero, stirring his hot chocolate after carefully lining the saucer with a napkin so it didn’t drip,  he found himself going back to the night he had first met Tatty.

It had been another of those parties in some wine bar in Islington for a chap in the office who was leaving. Ed, still feeling hugely relieved at his previous girlfriend’s departure (what was her name again?) and promising himself that he would never, ever again, do anything on the rebound, let alone get married again, had decided he’d go just for an hour or so before going onto another party.

But he’d no sooner than walked in, knocked back a glass of something fizzy and looked around for something else to replace it, than he had seen Tatty sitting on the knee of the bloke who was leaving, and mouthing something that looked curiously like ‘Get me out of here’ directly at him.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, he’d held out his hand although it felt as though some external force was pulling it out for him. And then she’d taken it, her beautiful green eyes locked on his, rose up from the knee of the moron she was sitting on and floated towards him . . .

‘Ed!’

An enormous turquoise blouse launched itself at him, pulling him back to the present with that chunky bead necklace and dangly earrings which scratched his cheeks as the owner planted a brief kiss (!) first to the right and then the left. Karen!

‘
So
sorry I’m late. Parking was a nightmare.’

‘I know . . . I got someone to drop me off.’

But she was still talking, as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘Afraid I’ve only got about ten minutes – we’re meant to take an hour but it’s crazy there today! Still, at least we don’t have any more mating goldfish or used condoms!’

Great. Now he had a problem with his ears too – another sign of stress according to the doctor. He could have sworn Karen had said something about goldfish wearing condoms. And her voice seemed to be coming at him in waves, reverberating round his head. She was sort of blurring in and out of focus too.

‘Ed? Are you feeling all right?’ Her hand was pressing his. ‘Did you have breakfast by any chance?’

Viv used to make him breakfast after his mother had gone. Hot baked rolls straight from the Aga. That’s when he’d first heard the C word. ‘What’s cancer?’ he had asked and Viv had fallen strangely silent.

‘Because if you didn’t eat anything,’ Karen was saying now, ‘it would explain why you look so pale. Hang on a minute.’

And before he knew it, she was back with a panino; a mushroom one which was actually his favourite (how had she known?) and she just let him eat it without asking distracting questions like Bella (wife number three) used to and which always gave him indigestion.

‘Feeling better?’

He nodded. ‘Thanks. Please, I must owe you . . .’

She waved his suggestion away. ‘You can buy me something the next time.’ She leaned forwards, both elbows on the table, and for a minute, he thought she was going to hold his hands. ‘I’m so glad you rang, Ed. I was worried about you at the end of the last session. It’s quite normal, you know. To cry, that is. I did oodles of that when my marriage broke up.’

This was getting embarrassing. Divert, his father used to say, when that happened. ‘Please, Karen.’ Briefly, he touched her arm. ‘Tell me what happened to you.’

Karen made a snorting noise that made the man at the next table turn round. With amusement, Ed watched the man’s expression turn from disapproval to admiration at Karen’s chest outline. ‘I suppose we got married too young really. We did in those days. The late seventies you know . . . And then we had a baby.’ She beamed. ‘Adam. He’s almost twenty five now with a baby of his own!’

Ed hadn’t thought of Karen having children, let alone being a grandmother. She seemed too carefree and chilled. Those friends of his who had kids had a perpetual air of confusion. Several had become ranting bores who could have gone onto
Mastermind
with ‘Dilation’ as their specialist subject.

‘But he stayed, didn’t he? I mean until your son was older?’

Somehow Ed didn’t like the idea of Karen having to cope on her own. It had been bad enough for his dad but he’d been tough. Never once had he seen him cry.

Now, Karen was shaking her head. ‘No. I left him when Adam was fourteen. But what I want to know, is whether I can persuade you to come along again.’ She was leaning forward again and the line between those amazing breasts was becoming increasingly apparent. For someone her age, she was magnificent! ‘You’ve done the hard bit, after all. Telling us about your four wives . . .’

‘Three,’ he cut in.

Karen’s eyes twinkled. ‘Plus the fiancée. Some kids your age haven’t got married at all.’

Kids? ‘I’m older than I look,’ he said stiffly.

Those eyes were twinkling again. ‘And how old did you say you were, again?’

Was she flirting with him?

‘Thirty eight.’

‘You look younger.’ She leaned back in her chair and he noticed, for the first time, that she was wearing silvery tights under those black Uggs. ‘Guess how old I am?’

Oh God! In his experience, this was the most dangerous question a woman could ask apart from
how-many-women-have-you-slept-with
?

‘Forty nine?’ he hazarded.

There was a moment’s silence during which he held his breath. Then Karen burst into peals of laughter. ‘I know you’re just flattering me. In fact, I’m fifty five.’

Phew! ‘You look much younger.’

Karen beamed. ‘All down to my mother’s genes. Gosh – is that the time. I’ve got to get back.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘More mating goldfish, if I’m unlucky.’

So he had heard her right the first time! ‘Do you work for a vet?’

‘For classified ads. You know, the local paper. You get all kinds of weirdos – and nice ones too. I don’t suppose you want a litter of puppies, do you? Terribly sweet. Lab/springers, they are. Been in the paper for three weeks now.’

A puppy! It was the last thing he needed!

‘Is that someone waving at you?’ Karen was staring out of the window at the silver convertible parked in the bus lane.  Nancy! She was early. And – shit – there was the bus hooting impatiently behind while Nancy showed no signs of moving. Typical!

‘Sorry. It’s my lift.’

Karen’s eyes didn’t exactly get cold but something about them was definitely changing. ‘That was quick. Be careful, Ed. Very careful. Three wives –  almost four – and you’ve found someone else already. Don’t make another mistake, will you? That’s what our next session is all about. You will come, won’t you?’

Nancy was hooting again and so was the bus driver. People were turning round to look and – great – there was a police car! ‘Yes. No. Yes, I’ll be there. And about Nancy, the woman you just saw. It’s not what you think. I’ll explain next month.’

I don’t like sleeping alone. I wake in the night to reach out for his warm back. But it’s not there.

Yet I can hear his snoring. Rising and falling, steadily, through the wall of the spare room next door. He has a cold, apparently. I always said the insulation in this house needed sorting.

So I mention it at breakfast the next morning, over toast (lightly browned, the way he likes it). And it brings us back to safe ground, away from last night’s accusations when he told me our marriage had become simply a business arrangement whereby I ran the house and he brought home the means.

‘I’ll sort out the insulation,’ he says. And then he looks up over the marmalade pot  and  actually smiles at me.

So don’t say anything to him if you read this. It might be all right after all!

Session Two: Moving On

This isn’t easy if you’ve been with someone for years. But it can be done!

Try:

Creating new traditions (e.g. going to a market on Sundays).

Giving yourself a treat (a lavender bath).

Making a list of five things that are good about being without your partner.

SEE! You can do it!

10

LIZZIE

‘Are you sure that woman is pregnant with Tom’s baby?’

Her mother was still sitting there, her mouth open in almost exactly the same position that she’d been in when Lizzie had found the courage to break the news half an hour earlier. The ‘lar-tee’ that Mum had made earlier, was still sitting cold in the brown and cream mugs which she and Tom had brought back from a holiday in Cornwall last year.

‘I just wouldn’t have thought Tom was the type,’ hissed her mother from the cream leather sofa she’d bought in the summer sale (since the menopause, Mum had been coming home with the most unlikely stuff). ‘To think, I was so pleased when you brought him home. Dependable, that’s what I said, wasn’t it, Jim? That man’s dependable. Never thought he was a philanderer. By the way, did you know you had a nasty spot on your chin, darling? And are you sure you really want that second slice of cake?’

‘A
philanderer
?’ Her father’s eyes lit up. ‘Didn’t know Tom collected stamps. Don’t suppose he left his album behind, did he, when he did a bunk? Sorry – bad joke again, I’m afraid.’

‘Shhhh.’ Lizzie gestured towards the children who were sitting riveted in front of the Wee box (Dad’s name for it) that her father had bought himself to celebrate his last hip operation. ‘Don’t talk about IT in front of them.’

Her mother waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh they can’t hear. Besides, they know more than we do. Well,
him
, anyway.’

She jerked her head towards Dad who had now pretended to go to sleep, the way he always did when Mum got too much. ‘That reminds me. Where did I put my
Do Not Resuscitate Card
? Frankly, I wouldn’t want them to bring me back to life if I’ve got to carry on being married to
him
.’

Why was it that some couples, like her parents, seemed perfectly happy to bicker their way through marriage but still stay together? She and Tom had hardly ever argued and now look! How could he possibly fall for someone with a bottom the size of a sofa and who never missed an episode of
EastEnders
?

‘Mum, is Daddy having sex with Ellie’s mummy?’

Thank God her mother had gone out of the room, supposedly to find the
Do Not Resuscitate
card but really to top up her glass.

‘Jack, don’t be so ridiculous. Of course he’s not.’

‘But Granny says he is. She says it’s disgusting and that Sharon’s a pregotory woman.’

‘Predatory,’ corrected Lizzie automatically. It was true. She’d even written a piece in the magazine about women who took a delight in poaching married men. Yet she’d never put Sharon down as one. How could she have got her so wrong?

‘Because she was convenient?’ suggested a small voice in her head.

Lizzie felt a twinge of guilt. Sharon
had
been convenient. Always there to have the children for her if she had a work emergency. Always able to find her a case history for the magazine. If she hadn’t needed Sharon like that, they’d never have been friends. They were too different. But Sharon had been keen enough to befriend her. Because she’d wanted the one thing Lizzie had that she didn’t. A husband.

A loud noise across the table made her glance up. Dad really had fallen asleep, his mouth wide-open revealing a missing row of teeth (where had he put them this time?) and hands firmly round a bottle of Jacob’s Creek (or ‘creak’ as he called it) which she could swear hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.

Lizzie leant forward and gently took the bottle out of his hands. That was better! Normally, she didn’t even like the taste of white. But already she was beginning to feel a curious detachment from the rest of the room. Maybe one more sip . . .

Just as well she could walk home from her parents’ house. ‘What’s that funny smell on your breath?’ demanded Sophie as she fumbled in her bag for the front door key.

Motherhood had taught her to be quick over the years. ‘Gran’s egg sandwiches.’

‘She didn’t make egg sandwiches.’ Sophie’s clear blue eyes were as cool as her father’s. ‘’Sides, that doesn’t smell like egg. It smells of wine. Chardonnay or maybe Jacob’s Creek.’

Don’t, thought Lizzie as she fumbled with the door,  say wine tasting was on the National Curriculum now. ‘How do you know the difference?’

Her daughter rolled her eyes. What gave her the right at twelve to do that? ‘Cos Julie had both at her party.’

‘Well she shouldn’t have.’

‘And you,’ said Sophie, taking the key from her and opening the door quite easily, ‘shouldn’t have a swig out of Granddad’s bottle and then lie about it.’

The loo. Quick. ‘It was purely for medicinal purposes,’ she managed to say before shutting the door just in time. What was wrong with her?  It had only been two glasses after all. Was that why she could hear that awful sound in her head?  Not the violin again!

‘Stop practising,’ she yelled out. ‘Please!’

By the time she got out (must buy more loo paper), Sophie had cooked fish fingers for tea and had somehow persuaded Jack to sit up at the kitchen island on one of the tall bar stools instead of the usual tray-in-front-of-the-telly. Lizzie was torn between being impressed and cross at being superseded. ‘I was going to do pasta.’

Her daughter fixed her with a look. ‘It was out of date so I had to make do with the fish fingers. We need to defrost the freezer. It’s got icicles everywhere.’

So it had. Another job. And no time. She hadn’t realised how much Tom had done round the house until he’d left. And she still had a feature to write up and file by tomorrow morning.

‘We’re seeing Dad tomorrow.’

‘Don’t eat with your mouth open, Jack.’

‘But we are. Aren’t we Soph? He’s picking us up and taking us to school.’

‘No one told me. And Sophie – stop tidying up my fridge.’

‘You should be pleased, Mum.’ Another cool stare from her daughter. ’You’re always saying you’ve got too much to do.’

Right. That was it. ‘What’s wrong, darling? Are you upset about Mummy and Daddy splitting up? It will be all right. It might not feel like it now but it will be one day.’

That’s what she wanted to say but somehow it came out differently. ‘For God’s sake, Sophie. Stop being so horrid. It’s not my fault your father has left me for Sharon The Slut.’

‘Yes it is!’ Sophie was standing up now, her eyes brimming with angry tears, towering over her even in her tights without shoes. ‘Dad says you were never in and he’s right. You were late again to pick me up from school and it’s so embarrassing. Sod off.’

Sophie! But the words wouldn’t come. As though in a slow motion film, Lizzie watched Jack slither off his stool and head for the safety of the television just as her hands closed round something cool and reassuring. Something she didn’t know had been at the back of the fridge until Sophie’s jibes had made her tidy it up. A nice cold bottle of wine. Chardonnay AND Jacob’s Creek. And maybe a few chocolate fingers to go with it.

‘So you shee. I feel like shleeping with someone. Jusht to get back at shim.’

‘Of course you do Lizzie but tell me something else first.’ Karen’s lovely, warm, reassuring voice that made her feel so much better from the minute she picked up the phone (well she had told them all to call if they felt desperate), was booming at her like waves. ‘Where are the children?’

‘Ahsleep.’

‘Are you sure?’

Lizzie nodded. ‘Quite shure. I’ve shecked them. A lot. Jack’s in his sister’s bed. He doeshn’t like shleeping alone.’

‘Do you feel sick, dear?’

Hiccup. ‘Shnope.’

‘Then listen carefully. I want you to have a glass of cold water and then sit upright on the sofa for a bit. After that, call me and then perhaps you might be all right to go to bed. But don’t go now just in case you’re sick.’

Sick? Even as Lizzie leant back into the sofa, she knew she wasn’t going to be sick. All she’d wanted to do was block it out. And the wine – something she didn’t normally drink much of – was doing that all right.

The phone again? Maybe it was Tom, saying he’d made a silly mistake. Or perhaps it was Sharon saying she’d made one. Or maybe Karen . . .

‘Lizzie? It’s me. Dan.’

Who?

‘Sorry to bother you so late but I needed to caption those pictures. I seem to have lost my notes. What were the names of those kids again?’

‘Shwhat kids?’

‘Lizzie? Are you all right?’

‘Yesh.’

‘You don’t sound it.’

Something in Lizzie’s fuzzy mind reminded her she hadn’t seen Dan since that day; the day she’d found out about Tom. ‘He’s left me.’

‘Who’s left you.’

‘My hushband. For a pregatory woman.’

‘Predatory. Christ. One of those. How awful.’

‘I shnow.’

‘Don’t cry Lizzie.’ She’d never heard him sound like this before. ‘Listen, I think I’m in your area. Near Amersham, isn’t it? I’m with friends and we’re in some pub on the high street. Want me to come round?’

She shook her head, forgetting he couldn’t see.

‘I’ve got your address. It was on that email. Hang on in there. I’ll be there in a second. Did I tell you about my sister in Sydney who went through the same thing? I didn’t? Well I will when I see you. I’ll be there in twenty.’