Losing Me (34 page)

“Not entirely, but yes—a lot of the time you have. But I realize now that I colluded with you. Because I thought I didn’t deserve to be looked after, I gave you permission to carry on behaving badly. I take full responsibility for that.”

He said he needed a drink.

“You drank loads at lunch.”

“I don’t care.”

He went into the living room and came back with a bottle of Scotch. He opened it and half filled a tumbler.

“Shouldn’t you put some water with that?”

“No! Just shut up telling me what to do.” He looked like he wanted to hit her. Instead he jerked back some Scotch. “Why are you telling me about you and this guy? Are you doing it to punish me?”

She hadn’t thought about it until now. “You know what? I think maybe I am.”

“So is this it? Are we over? Do you want me to leave?”

Jean had warned her. If she told him about Jack, she could lose him. “No. I just want you to understand. . . . Frank, you need to see what I did in context.”

“Context? What bloody context?”

“I have enough trouble accepting that my mother was and never will be the mother I need her to be. I know that when I need love or comfort, I can never turn to her. I’m learning to deal with that, but what I can’t cope with is you never being there for me. When two people love each other, they should want to care for each other. I have always cared for you, and all I’ve gotten in return is your selfishness.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“It’s not what I want. It has to be what you want. If you want to change, then do it.”

“I don’t know if I can. And particularly not now after what you’ve done.”

“I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Yes, but you wanted to. And like you said, you connected. You think I don’t appreciate the significance of that? Well, I do. It may surprise you, but I’m not quite as autistic as you think I am.”

“No . . . you’re not,” she said.

“How could you have done this to me? To us?”

“I didn’t set out to do it, but I was at rock bottom. Then Tiffany died. You weren’t here.”

He stood up. “I need to get away. I need to think.”

“Frank . . . please . . . I didn’t sleep with him!”

“Yeah, so you keep saying.”

He picked up his keys and wallet and said he was going to spend the night in a hotel.

The door closed. Panic overwhelmed her. What if he didn’t come back? Who would she grow old with? But in spite of the panic, a part of her felt relieved. She couldn’t continue in a lonely marriage. Right now the ball was just as much in his court as hers.

The following day he called to say he wouldn’t be coming home other than to pick up his clothes. He said he was moving in with Martin, the cameraman he’d worked with in Mexico. Martin had just got divorced and was renting a flat with a spare room.

“Presumably you think I’ve lost him,” Barbara said to Jean.

“Look, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a possibility. But I suspect that when Frank sits down and takes stock of everything that’s happened, he’ll realize what a selfish sod he’s been.”

“But can he change? You said that at his age it could be too late.”

“I don’t know, hon. I really don’t know.”

Jess and Ben were upset, but not surprised when they found out their mother’s relationship with Jack. The only thing that amazed them was that she hadn’t slept with him.

“Then again,” Ben said, when the news had sunk in, “I suppose at your age, relationships are more about companionship. You just want somebody to watch the telly with.”

“Believe that if you want to, but for your information, sexual desire doesn’t end the moment people hit fifty.”

“Er . . . Too much information. Plus I happen to know for a fact that you and Dad only ever did it twice—to make me and Jess. Please can we leave it at that?”

Jess was less cavalier. At one point she started weeping and said she didn’t want to be the child of divorced parents. Again Ben was there with the wisecracks. “We could always ask them to wait until after we’re dead.”

But for once Ben and Jess were in agreement. Much as they loved their dad, they couldn’t defend him. He had brought the situation on himself. That said, they were both on the phone to him every day, worrying about how he was coping living off takeaway in a grotty flat in South London.

“He keeps saying how much he loves you,” Jess told Barbara. “And you love him. You know you do.”

“Of course I do. I always will. But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“That’s such an old cliché. Of course love’s enough.”

“No, it isn’t, and one day when you’re a bit older you might understand. I’m sorry if that sounds patronizing, but I’m old. So shoot me.”

Frank kept his distance. He didn’t visit or call. Barbara prayed that he was using the time to reflect.

Meanwhile, she decided, she could either sit and mope or get busy. She chose the latter. That was what strong people were supposed to do, wasn’t it?

She started by calling Maureen. “Have you got a minute? I’ve had this insane idea about rebuilding the Orchard Farm community center. . . .”

Maureen listened. “O . . . K . . . And you think you can raise a million quid?”

“Why not? People do stuff like that all the time.”

“OK, so what’s your plan?”

“I don’t actually have one.”

“Ah . . . I’m thinking that’s probably the insane part.”

“But do you think it’s a good idea in principle?”

Maureen said she thought it was a great idea . . . in principle.

“Right, then, who do I speak to at the council? I can’t do anything without their backing.”

“You need to speak to somebody in the buildings and recreation department.” As it happened, Maureen knew somebody. He was married to one of the social workers in her office. “Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.”

Rob Truswell, the chap in the buildings department, agreed to see her and, to give him his due, he didn’t laugh. “It’s a wonderful idea and one I, personally, would support wholeheartedly if you could raise the funds. But believe me, a few bake sales and fun runs aren’t going to get you what you need. And fund-raising aside, have you any idea of the processes this scheme would need to go through at the council? There would be planning meetings, finance meetings, building-regulation meetings—meetings about meetings.”

“I get all that, but let’s suppose for one daft, crazy moment that I could raise the money—would it be something that the council would consider?”

“I can’t tell you. There would need to be a meeting . . .”

“Are you telling me to give up on this before I’ve even started?”

“No. I’m telling you that you have no idea of the obstacles you’d be facing.”

“People might say that’s a good thing.”

Rob Truswell smiled. “Here’s my advice. Go away, see how much money you can raise and then come back and see me.”

“And then you’ll call a meeting?”

“And then I’ll call a meeting.”

•   •   •

Sandra had always insisted that the reason the original community center failed was because the council had never got commercial backing. “It’s a no-brainer,” she’d said. “These days you have to get into bed with big business.”

Barbara remembered thinking at the time that this made sense. But she had no idea where to start. Then it occurred to her that Sally and Jeremy worked for banks, which most likely had charity divisions. She called Sally and explained about her plan for the community center.

“Everybody thinks I’m bonkers, and maybe I am, but . . .”

“Of course you’re bonkers.” Sally laughed. “But I know for a fact that therein lies your strength. Only a bonkers person with absolutely no idea what they’re taking on would even contemplate doing what you’re trying to do.”

“So you think I should give up?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous. Of course you shouldn’t. Did Wellington give up at Waterloo? Did Scott of the Antarctic give up?”

“Scott froze to death.”

“Yes, but he didn’t give up. At boarding school we had this Latin motto, which loosely translates as: ‘Chin up, chest out and don’t let the blighters get you down.’”

Sally and Jeremy both contacted their banks’ philanthropy divisions and arranged meetings for Barbara.

The first was at Sally’s bank, Premier Star. She was expecting a cozy, informal chat over a cup of tea and a Garibaldi biscuit. Instead she was shown into a glass-and-chrome power-meeting room on the fifteenth floor and was confronted by a dozen suits with legal pads. She joined them at the long boardroom table. They were clearly expecting some slick pitch and a PowerPoint presentation and she had nothing. She wasn’t just out of her depth. She was sinking without a trace—and she hadn’t even begun.

Barbara introduced herself and thanked them for agreeing to see her. “I’d like to begin with some statistics. On average, one incident of domestic violence is reported to the police every minute. Two women a week are killed by a current or former male partner. . . .”

The woman who appeared to be chairing the meeting removed her specs. “Yes, we pretty much know all that. But time is a bit limited, so if you could take us through your actual plan. Do you have a written proposal?”

“Er, no. I apologize . . . but I can certainly get something to you.”

Barbara stuttered and stumbled her way through her plan.

“So do you have architects’ plans and an EBC?”

“EBC?”

“Estimated breakdown of costs.”

“Not as such. But we need to raise just over a million pounds.”

“How much over?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

She had lost them. It hadn’t occurred to her that these days people pitched for charitable donations and support the way they pitched a business plan. She had never felt so old or out of touch.

“Look, you’re right I have come unprepared,” she said. “And I’m sorry. But here’s the thing. A few weeks ago a woman called Tiffany Butler died when her ventilator was switched off. She was the mother of one of the children I used to teach.”

Barbara told them Tiffany’s story. “Orchard Farm Estate, where she lived, is one of the most notorious and neglected public-housing estates in the country. The community center was shut down through lack of funds, and women and children have nowhere to go—nowhere to get advice, counseling or just hang out with their kids. I want to change that. I’ve had a fantastic costs-only offer from a major building company, and now I just need a million pounds or so to do it.”

She thanked them for listening. They thanked her for coming and said they’d be in touch. She couldn’t get out fast enough. She sat in Starbucks and called Jean. “I’ve never felt so humiliated in my life. How could I have been so stupid not to prepare?” Jean tried to calm her down with talk of learning curves and how she wouldn’t make that mistake again.

A few days later she got a letter from Premier Star saying that they thought her cause was commendable but on this occasion they wouldn’t be able to offer financial support. They wished her well.

She called Jack.

“I need to put together a brochure to support my pitch—with EBCs. Can you get some figures over to me?”

“No. Not until you’ve got an architect and a structural engineer on board and you can show me some plans.”

“But how do I do that if I haven’t got any money to pay them?”

He suggested she try Rob Truswell at the council. “It seems like he’s prepared to take you seriously, so ask him if you can use council architects. That way the project stays in house and costs are kept down.”

“Of course. That makes perfect sense.” She said she would call Rob Truswell straightaway.

“Barbara, before you go, there’s something I need to tell you. I’m sorry to announce this over the phone, but everything’s happened to fast. I’m going abroad for a while.”

“Why? How long for?”

“I don’t know. A year or so. Maybe for good. I need a fresh start, and I’m not sure I can do it in this country. I thought I might go to Portugal. The climate’s great. The golf’s good.”

“But what about Freddie? He’ll think you’re abandoning him.”

“He’s starting at Larkswood in September. I’ll make sure I’m back to see him for the holidays. And I think Sally and Jeremy need some space to start reconnecting with him.”

“So your mind’s made up.”

“It is. I need to get away from that house.”

“Then sell it. Surely that would make more sense?”

“I’m not ready. But I’m hoping after a few months away that might change.”

She wasn’t sure if putting geographical distance between him and the Gloucestershire house would separate him from his grief, but it was clear he wasn’t about to be dissuaded.

“By the way,” she said, “Frank’s back. I told him about us.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I think I wanted to hurt him. It felt like the only way I could get his attention.”

“How did he take it?”

“He’s moved out. He said he needed time to think.”

“I wouldn’t have thought there was much to think about. Your husband is a selfish idiot.”

“I know, but he’s my selfish idiot.”

“Does that mean you still love him?”

“I don’t think I ever stopped—not really. But I need him to change, and I’m not sure he knows how.”

Jack said what Jean had said, that discovering she’d almost had an affair might be the jolt he needed. “You need to give him time.”

“What other choice do I have?” she said.

Jack said he thought it would be for the best if they kept contact to a minimum from now on. “I’ve done enough damage, and if Frank comes back, I’d hate him to think we were still in touch. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh.”

“It does, but you’re right. It makes sense.”

He said he’d appointed somebody at his company to take charge of the community center project.

“He’ll give you a call to introduce himself.”

“Jack—before you go . . . thank you.”

“What for?”

“First of all, for your support of my lunatic scheme. But also just for being there. And listening.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he said.

•   •   •

“So as you can see,” Barbara said to Rob Truswell at the council, “I’m in a complete catch-22 situation. I know this is a huge ask, but is there any chance you could get council architects and engineers to draw up some plans for the new community center?”