My Husband's Wife (16 page)

Rosie sighed. ‘But I look awful.’ She scooped her hair up and let it fall. ‘I haven’t got anything to wear and I usually make the coleslaw.’

‘You look lovely, honestly. You’ve lost weight, you know.’

‘It’s not a diet I’d recommend.’ She had to admit, though, that she was pleased to have shed some of her excess pounds.

‘I’m sure, my lovely, but the fact is, you have and you really do look wonderful. Sad, but still beautiful. And you have lots of nice tops. Besides, it’s only a barbeque, you don’t need a ball gown. Just go shove a top on and I can whip up a bowl of coleslaw in a couple of minutes!’

‘But...’

‘But what, Rosie? You are running out of excuses and I want you to go and have a glass of wine and a giggle. It will do you the world of good.’

‘I don’t want to see Phil.’ And there it was, the real reason.

‘You won’t. He’s gone to London.’ Mo folded her cardigan and placed it on the bannister, avoiding further questions about why and with whom.

‘To London?’ Rosie felt her stomach crumple at this. Another reason to feel bereft, lost, left behind. London! She tried to picture him in the big city with his rich girlfriend on his arm and she knew that he had left her far, far behind. She took a deep breath. It might not be London, but this was where her life lay. She decided there and then to go to the barbeque, plus it wasn’t as if Mo was going to take no for an answer.

‘All right then. You make the coleslaw and I’ll go and clean my teeth and try and find a clean top.’

‘That’s my girl!’ Mo clapped.

Rosie smiled at her, the closest thing to a mum that she could ever wish for.

Half an hour later, she trod the stairs, trying not to wake the girls and still getting used to the wedged espadrilles that she hadn’t worn for years. She had found a white muslin shirt with a tie fastening and flared sleeves. Very boho. Mo was right, she had lost weight; the top used to be snug on her arms and across her shoulders but now skimmed her shape nicely. With a white vest underneath and two strings of multi-coloured glass beads that she had picked up in Primark, she knew she would pass muster.

‘Well, look at you!’ Mo beamed. ‘You look lovely.’

‘I don’t feel it, not really.’ She felt sick at the prospect of going to a social event without Phil. It wasn’t that they stuck together, joined at the hip, but she always took great comfort from knowing he was close by, just in case.

‘You’re going to be fine. The first time for anything is always the worst. Just take a deep breath.’

Rosie did just that and Mo disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with her mixing bowl full of coleslaw. It looked and smelt wonderful, just the right amount of mayonnaise and a pinch of cayenne pepper on the top to give it a kick.

‘Oh, this looks lovely. Thanks, Mo. I will of course be claiming it as my own.’ She smiled and took the large bowl into her hands.

‘I shan’t tell a soul, now off you go! Have a lovely evening and don’t worry about the time. If I get sleepy, I’ll just nod off on the sofa and if you’re really late, I’ll stay there till the morning.’

‘Mo, it’s Mel’s barbeque not a nightclub! I’ll have a glass of plonk, a raw chicken leg and I’ll be home in a bit.’ She turned, swivelled the bowl and reached for the front door. Then she hesitated and turned back. ‘Do you really think this is a good idea?’ Her nerves were making her feel sick.

‘Go!’ Mo shushed with her hand, and this time it worked.

She decided to walk the ten minutes across town rather than lose her parking space outside her house and then battle to find one in Mel’s street. Groups of teens out for the night and surfies with lithe lovelies in tow nodded at her large bowl of coleslaw, which she held protectively in front of her. She had to admit it was an unusual accessory.

Her heart raced as she drew nearer, her nerves palpable.
You can do this!
she whispered to herself, trying to feel strong, courageous. Rounding the corner, she saw the wisps of grey smoke floating up from behind their house, could smell the woody, aromatic scent of food on the barbeque and hear the dull thud of music from the outside speaker. There was the faint tinkle of laughter and the odd shout, evidence of a party in full swing.

She had walked up this driveway and into the house thousands of times, but tonight it took all her nerve to put one foot in front of the other. She stood by the gate, in front of the block-paved space that used to be a front garden, and took a deep breath, pulling the back of her blouse down with her free hand to make sure her bum was covered, then adjusting her glass beads to make sure they sat just so.
You can do this. You can.
She considered phoning Mel and asking her to meet her on the driveway but knew that would sound ridiculous. Swallowing her fear, she turned to her right and there, parked behind Andy’s pick-up truck, sat a large shiny black Range Rover. She stared at the number plate. GF38.

She took a step towards it on wobbly legs, thinking that at any moment she might actually be sick. The paintwork was pristine, so glossy she could see her reflection in it, and the seats inside were cream leather and looked comfier than any seat in her house. She was both fascinated and distressed by the car and its presence. They were here, Phil and his girlfriend; they were in her best friend’s house. She suddenly felt very alone.

Rosie closed her eyes and longed to disappear, bitterly regretting having left the house and wishing she didn’t know that they were just the other side of the garden fence, laughing with the group of people that used to be her friends. It was as if Phil had got himself a newer, blonder, richer upgrade and Mel had gone along with it. She felt the stab of disloyalty and rejection and it was unpleasant.

Suddenly, the front door opened and she was gripped by panic that she would be seen. Ducking, she slid down the side of the fancy car and as she did so she tipped the bowl of coleslaw into her lap. She ran her fingers through the mayonnaise-drenched mess that sat in a pile all over her jeans and shirt, with flecks of red cayenne spreading into a stain on the white cotton. Her head dipped and her hair caught in her eyelashes. She pulled the strands free with coleslaw-slippery fingers, smearing gunk on her cheek in the process. It was everywhere. She closed her eyes, prayed that whoever had come outside would go back in just as quickly and hoped that she was adequately hidden from anyone who was leaving.

She heard the teeter-totter of heels on concrete, the sound made by the kind of shoes she had spent the day arguing with Naomi about. And then the sound stopped and a clear-cut voice said, ‘Are you okay down there? What are you doing?’ It was the same singsong tone she had used in the Spar, only now it sounded superior and condescending.

Rosie blinked, the blobs of mayonnaise on her eyelashes making this harder than it should have been. She stared at the peep-toed white stiletto sandals and worked her way up the tight designer jeans, oversized tan leather belt and long-sleeved, baby-pink cotton jersey sitting snuggly over pert, high boobs that had never been grappled and deflated by a feeding baby until she was, for the second time in her life, staring into the face of Geraldine Farmer.

‘Have you been sick?’

Rosie was floored by this new question when she was still trying to work out how to answer the first. She shook her head and tried to wipe the piles of mayo-covered carrot and cabbage onto the driveway.

‘No, it’s... it’s coleslaw. I dropped it.’

For weeks now, Rosie had lain awake at night imagining an encounter with this woman, thinking of all the things she wanted to say and what would have the biggest impact. In her fantasies, she was witty, cutting, classy and in control, and above all, she looked amazing. This was nothing at all like that.

‘Do you need a hand getting up?’ Geraldine’s tone was pleasant and this confused and upset Rosie. If this woman was nice, then people would like her and if they liked her, where did that leave Rosie? It was far easier to cope with her nemesis when she pictured her as wicked and vile, because
that
character was one that her friends and family could unite against.

‘No, I’m fine.’ She kept her tone neutral, hoping that Geraldine would go back inside and leave her on the ground. That, however, was clearly not her intention.

‘Shall I take the bowl? Would that make it easier?’

Rosie exhaled.
Please just go away! Go away and leave me alone!
With the bowl in her hand, she awkwardly clawed her way to standing, placing a mayonnaise-covered hand on the dazzling paintwork. When she was finally upright, she was a head and shoulders taller than the neat, pocket-sized Geraldine, especially in her heeled espadrilles. She decided to simply walk away, holding her head as high as possible. She had no desire to spend more time in Geraldine’s company than was absolutely necessary, didn’t want the woman to see how she had turned her life upside down or realise that her face dominated Rosie’s nightmares.

Placing the bowl under her arm, she took a step forwards, just as Phil came out onto the driveway.

‘Rosie?’ He looked at her through narrowed eyes, taking in her appearance. ‘What
are
you doing?’

‘Why does everyone keep asking me what I’m doing?’ She flicked her hair over her shoulder, oblivious of the two pieces of grated carrot that clung to her fringe. ‘It’s not complicated. I was coming to visit my best friend.’ She paused. ‘But instead, I decided to take a coleslaw bath up the side of your girlfriend’s car.’

‘Awkward.’ Geraldine looked at her beau and made a wide mouth.

‘Yes, awkward.’ Rosie trotted back down the driveway, facing forwards. She carried on walking, looking straight ahead so no one would see her tears.

She made her way through town, ignoring the families and holidaymakers eating chips and laughing, pretending not to notice how they had to step into the road to make way for the lady who was crying, covered in salad and dressing, and carrying a large plastic mixing bowl. She made her way up along the Esplanade until she rounded the headland. With her bench in sight, she headed straight for it and there she sat, crying silently into the encroaching night.
I wish you were here, Mum. I wish I could talk to you.

She sensed Mel’s presence before she saw her: the familiar snort of outward breath as she trod the grass, her familiar outline in Rosie’s peripheral vision.

‘Rosie!’ she called as she came close. ‘I knew you’d be here.’

Rosie stared ahead, trying to think of what to say first. Anger and rejection swirled through her and it hurt.

‘You said you weren’t going to come! I’d have called you otherwise.’ Mel was breathless.

‘Oh, well, I’m sorry,’ Rosie spat.

‘That’s not what I meant! It’s just that Andy asked if you were coming and when I said no, he invited Phil. And then Phil said he couldn’t make it, but he had a change of plan last minute. Oh God, I feel like I’m in the middle. I never for a minute thought he’d bring Gerri.’

Rosie jerked sideways. ‘Gerri? Well, isn’t that nice, you’ve got a little nickname for your new friend. I can’t believe you chose
her
!’

‘She’s not my new friend! Don’t be daft. That’s just how she introduced herself.’

‘I don’t care how she introduced herself!’ Rosie shouted, caring enormously and aware of how juvenile she sounded.

Mel looked shocked, trying and failing to recall another time her friend had shouted at her like that.

‘You don’t know what it’s like, Mel, you really don’t. I am so lost. I have been Phil’s wife for so long, it’s all I know. And I know how terrible this sounds, but if he had died, if I’d lost him that way, everyone would be buying me flowers and sending me cards; they’d be on my side. Instead, they’re avoiding me, but the end result is the same: he’s gone and I have to start over. If he had died, at least everyone would know that he hadn’t
wanted
to leave me. This is the most humiliating thing you can imagine. I’ve been traded in, swapped and I haven’t done anything wrong!’

‘That’s not what people think, not at all.’ Mel shook her head.

‘Well that’s what it feels like.’

The two sat in silence for some minutes, staring out to sea. Then Rosie spoke.

‘Someone once pointed out to me that when you see a huge tanker on the horizon, you can’t tell if it’s coming closer to you or moving further away, and that was like my marriage. Every time I looked up, I thought we were steady. I thought he was moving closer to me all the time because we shared kids and history. But he wasn’t, he was moving further away and by the time I realised, he was too far out of reach. It’s not her fault, deep down I know that – if it wasn’t her, it would have been another. I want to hate her, but I can’t. I don’t know her and she wasn’t married to me, he was, it was him who broke his vows. But that doesn’t mean I want to be in her company or for my best friend to be her mate.’ She wiped her nose and a sliver of cabbage fell from her sleeve.

‘Why are you covered in vegetables?’ Mel asked, as if this were the most natural question in the world, given what her friend had just revealed.

‘Coleslaw. I dropped it.’

Mel snickered and shook her head. ‘And you wonder where your girls get it from – they’re as mad as you.’

Rosie gave a small laugh and rubbed her eyes. ‘Oh God, Mel, I’m exhausted with feeling this low.’

‘It will pass, Rosie. It will.’

‘I hope so. I hate being like this; this bitter. I keep returning to the fact that I thought he was working hard for us, working to give us a better life, putting the hours in, missing dinner, you know, and all the time he was working on getting away from us. I find it hard to accept. How could I have been so clueless, so bloody stupid? I mean, it’s so clichéd! If this was someone else’s marriage, I’d think the woman must be stupid. All the signs were there, but I guess you only see what you want to see and I didn’t want to see it. I was in the dark.’

‘And that’s why you have to stop beating yourself up about it and look forwards. And for the record, I choose you. I always choose you.’ She reached out and took her friend’s hand in the dark. ‘Urgh!’ she shrieked. ‘I don’t want to ruin a moment, but what the bloody hell is that all over your hand?’