Out of the Blue (46 page)

I’m on my own now, I said to myself as I sat in the bathroom with Graham that night. I’m thirty-six, the children are growing up and I have no partner, no spouse. I surveyed Jos’s Caribbean creation, with its swaying palm trees and turquoise sea. It was tantalisingly beautiful, but it just wasn’t real. I went downstairs to the cellar, found a tin of white silk vinyl and a paintbrush, and carried them upstairs. Then I began to go over the mural with strong, deliberate strokes. Back and forth went the brush, with a gentle slap, obliterating the lapis sky and gleaming sands. A drip of paint ran over the conch shell as I covered the distant fishing boat. And now a small sob escaped me, and then another, and soon my cheeks were wet; and I think I would have cried for a long, long time, if the phone hadn’t rung again.

“Happy birthday, Mum!” said Matt happily.

“Thank you, darling!” I croaked.

“Have you had a nice day?”

“Oh, it’s been
lovely,
” I said.

“Have you got a cold?”

“No,” I said, swallowing my tears. “I mean, yes. Yes, I have…just a sniffle.”

“Is Jos taking you out?” he asked.

“No,” I said quietly. “He isn’t. In fact I might as well tell you that Jos won’t be taking me anywhere now.” There was a moment’s silence, then I heard hand-noise as the phone was passed over and then Katie came on the line.

“Mum? It’s me. What’s happened?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just one of those things.”

“Aren’t you going to the Caribbean then?”

“Er, no. I’m not. Not now.”

“Have you dumped Jos, then?”

“Um…”

“I hope you have.”

“Well then, since you ask—yes.”

“Oh, good. We thought he was a bit of a creep,” she remarked. “Not nearly as nice as Dad. Do you want to talk about it?” she added cheerfully. “I can work through it with you if you like.”

“No thanks, Katie!” I said crisply.

“I think you need a little cognitive behavior therapy.”

“I assure you that I do not.”

“But you’re bound to have some negative feelings coming up.”

“I do not have any negative feelings whatsoever,” I said as I pressed a sodden tissue to my eyes.

“So what are you doing tonight?” Katie asked.

“I’m staying in. I’ve got some…painting to do.”

“Oh, that’ll be a coping mechanism.”

“It’s no such thing, it’s just a little chore that needs to be done. Now, let’s change the subject—tell me, how’s the play coming along?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she replied airily. “We’ve got dress rehearsals this week. I’ve got quite a big part actually, and Matt’s in charge of props. Are you going to come down and see it?”

Was I? I’d been too distracted to give it a thought.

“Go on, Mum,” she urged me. “Come and watch.”

“All right,” I said suddenly. “I will. Yes, of course I’ll come,” I added. I wanted to support my kids, and after all my recent troubles it might cheer me up. “But Katie, remind me what the play is again?”

“It’s
When We Are Married,
” she said.

* * *

Getting divorced is like falling into a big, black hole, I realized the following week as I drove down to Seaworth on my own. No, it was even worse than that—it was like falling out of a plane. But now I knew I had reached terminal velocity and that surely I would soon hit the ground. It wouldn’t kill me—I felt confident of that—but my injuries would be severe. So I’d just have to splint up my shattered bones, get out there again, and
live
. It’s going to be awful, I reflected quietly. It’s going to involve years of pain. I would have to be brave, I told myself. I’d have to do things I’d never done before. And as I crawled along in the slow lane, I imagined myself doing evening classes, or attending dinner parties on my own. I saw myself going on dates with hideous men, who’d bore me to death about golf. I’d often wondered what it was like to be single, and now I was going to find out. There were so many situations I’d have to cope with, I realized. I’d never ever been down to the school without Peter, for example. But this is what it’s going to be like now, I told myself grimly. From now on I’m on my own. Maybe I’ll be on my own for ever, I thought miserably as the amber streetlights strobed the car. What was it Lily had said? Oh yes.
Just think of all the sad divorcées who never find anyone new
. I’ll probably end up like that, I reflected—frustrated, and bitter and sad. I struggled to find the turning off the motorway and wished that it was Peter at the wheel, not me. The kids had told me that he wasn’t coming down to see the play, and I was vastly relieved. They said he’d told them he was very busy at work, but I knew the real reason why. He didn’t want to come because he knew it would distress us both too much. I remembered the last time we’d come down, on speech day. It was just so, so hot. And Peter was upset because of that nasty piece in the
Mail,
and then there’d been all that fuss about Matt. Well, I’d just have to cope alone this time, I realized as I parked the car.

When We Are Married,
I thought grimly as I took my seat in the crowded hall.
When We Are Parted,
rather, or,
When We Are Divorced
. The play was billed as a “serio-comic assessment of married life”. I glanced at the program and read Katie’s name with a stab of pride. She was playing one of three Yorkshire wives celebrating their silver wedding. Peter and I would never get to that milestone, I realized with a bitter sigh. We’d got to fifteen years—our crystal anniversary—and then we’d smashed it all up. But now, as the curtain rose I forgot my troubles and gradually got lost in the play. Katie was playing Clara Soppit, the bossiest of the three wives.

* * *

PARKER: “Marriage is a serious business.”

CLARA: “That’s right, Albert. Where’d we be without it?”

SOPPIT: “Single!”

CLARA: “That’ll do, Herbert.”

PARKER: “So we’re all gathered ’ere to celebrate the anniversary of our joint wedding day, friends, I give you—the toast of
marriage!
”

But then they discover that the vicar who jointly married them wasn’t properly qualified, and that—shock horror for those days—they’d been living “in sin” for twenty-five years.

PARKER: “You might feel married to him—but strictly speaking—and in the eyes of the law—the fact is, you’re not married to him. We’re none of us married.”

CLARA: “Some o’ t’neighbors ha’ missed it. Couldn’t you shout it louder?”

PARKER: “All right, all right, all right. But we shan’t get anywhere till we face facts. It’s not our fault, but our misfortune.”

CLARA: “Let me tell you, in the sight of Heaven, Herbert and me’s been married for twenty-five years.”

PARKER: “And there you’re wrong again, in the sight of Heaven, nobody’s married at all.”

The curtain fell for the interval in a burst of applause and we all trooped outside. This was the part I’d been dreading most as I’d never been to a school function alone. I clocked all the people we’d met on speech day and gave them a polite but disinterested smile. Then, in order to cover my embarrassment at being alone, I pretended to be absorbed in my program.

“Mrs Smith?” I looked up. Oh God. It was that ghastly woman, Mrs Thompson. She was the one who’d been so sniffy in July about Matt getting the Junior Math Prize. The old bag was probably coming to beat me up again, I thought, as she bore down on me with a gleam in her eye. Without Peter here to protect me I felt my metaphorical fists go up. This is what it’s going to be like now, I realized. I’d have to fight my corner alone. But as she approached me I noticed she was beaming, and that she looked—different, somehow.

“How lovely to see you!” she exclaimed. I was almost catatonic with shock. “How are you, Mrs Smith?” she enquired solicitously.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I lied. “You look well.”

“Oh, I
am
well,” she said with a smirk. And as she babbled away about the play, I took in the change in her appearance. She’d lost quite a bit of weight, she was nicely made up, and her rigid perm had been replaced by soft, subtly highlighted layers. She was wearing a very expensive-looking angora coat-dress, and she exuded a delicious scent. I’ve got quite a good nose, but I couldn’t for the life of me recall which one it was.

“Isn’t Katie fabulous!” she gushed as we sipped our coffee.

“Oh, yes, well…thanks,” I replied. And hearing her compliment my daughter like that, I suddenly regarded her as my New Best Friend. “Johnny’s
marvelous,
too,” I added warmly. She gave me a rapturous smile.

“But he’s not as good as Katie,” she said generously.

“No, honestly, he is,” I replied.

“Katie’s such a natural.”

“But so is Johnny—and his diction’s divine.”

“No really, Katie’s the star turn today. Her comic timing is
great
.”

“But Johnny’s just—
fantastic!”
I insisted, determined not to be outdone.

“Oh, that’s
awfully
nice of you, Mrs Smith, but I think your children are great—I mean, they’re so attractive, and incredibly bright.” By this stage I loved Mrs Thompson so much I wanted to kiss her on the lips. “And the way Matt’s paid everyone back,” she added. “Well, we’re all
so
impressed.”

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” she went on as she stirred her coffee. “He’s reimbursed all his friends.”

“Er, has he? Good. I…didn’t know.”

“Yes. He won some money.”

“He won some money? How?”

“By playing poker.”

“But he doesn’t play poker,” I said.

“Oh yes he does. Apparently he’s brilliant at it. He told Johnny his grandmother had taught him in the summer.”

“No, no, that’s not true, Mrs Thompson, you see she just taught him… Rummy. Oh,” I said slowly. “
Oh.”
Was there no end to my mother’s antics?

“Johnny said Matt was playing on the Internet, using his granny’s credit card. Very enterprising of him, Mrs Smith—apparently he won five thousand pounds.
So
much better than gambling on those silly dot.coms, don’t you think? But changing the subject,” she went on smoothly, “I just wanted to say…”

“Er, yes?” I said faintly, resolving to have it out with Mum when I felt stronger.

“And I do hope you don’t mind my mentioning this—”

“No…”

“That I’m so sorry about your divorce.”

“Oh,” I said with a pang, “that’s fine.” And I realized that everyone would know about it because the kids would have told their friends.

“Are you bearing up all right?” Mrs Thompson asked solicitously.

“Oh, absolutely,” I lied.

“You’ve got Rory Cheetham-Stabb, haven’t you?”

“Um, yes, I have, that’s right. Er, how do you know I’ve got him?” I added.

“Because I’ve got him too!” she declared.

“
Really?”
I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Oh yes,” she replied. “My husband’s gone off with his temp, Mrs Smith, but to be frank I couldn’t care less. I’m enjoying myself too much,” she added happily. “I’m having a
wonderful
time. I’ve been married for twenty years, I’ve brought up three kids, and now I’m going to have some
fun
.”

“Well…good!” I was laughing by now.

“But isn’t he fantastic?” she said, her eyes misting over.

“Who? Johnny? Oh
yes
.”

“No, not Johnny,” she said with a girlish giggle. “I mean Rory Cheetham-Stabb.”

“Oh, well…”

“I think he’s just
marvelous!”
she gushed.

“Well, he’s certainly efficient,” I pointed out. “He’s a bit ruthless,” I added.

“Oh,
yes,
” she said enthusiastically, “he
is
. I’m so glad I’ve got him seeing to me, Mrs Smith,” she went on. “I mean, he really does the business, don’t you find?”

“Er…”

“He’s just what I’ve needed really,” she went on with this odd little sparkle in her eye. “Do you know what I mean, Mrs Smith?”

“Well, yes,” I lied. “I do.”

We exchanged protestations of undying friendship, then went back in for the second half; and now the three couples were suddenly not sure they wanted to stick with their “spouses” after all. Now that they knew they were technically free, the worms were turning all round. Clara’s henpecked husband, Herbert, rebels, and the others glimpse the possibilities too. And I was just sitting there, reflecting on this, when suddenly the name of Mrs Thompson’s scent came to me—it was called No Regrets.

The following week the kids came home. This would be the first time we weren’t all together at Christmas, so I tried to make it fun. We went to a carol service, and made mince pies, and strung up the Christmas cards. Then, on the Sunday, the kids spent the day with Peter.

“How was he?” I asked Katie casually that night as we decorated the Christmas tree.

“Oh, he’s all right,” she replied. “He told us about Andie by the way, Mum. She’s got him now.”

“Is he—living with her?”

“Oh no, he’s still at the flat. Poor Dad,” she added as she untangled the fairy lights. “Poor you, too.”

“I’ll be OK,” I lied. For the truth was I felt as fragile and hollow as the glass bauble I was holding in my hand. Just one little knock and it would shatter into fragments—that’s all it would take. “You were quite right about Jos, by the way,” I offered. “All he wanted was to be loved.”

“He must have been compensating for something in his childhood,” she said.

“Yes. I’m sure he was.” Then I told her what I’d found out about him—she was old enough to know.

“Oh! So it wasn’t Graham who needed the snip,” she remarked indignantly, “it was
him!
Lily liked him though, didn’t she?” Katie added.

“Yes,” I said crisply. “She did.”

“But then she’s a bit like Jos in a way—still looking for her inner adult. Mum,” she continued, slightly hesitantly as she draped red tinsel over the lower boughs, “I’ve never asked you this before, but why are you and Lily such close friends?”

“Well, to be honest, there are times when I wonder that myself,” I said as I hung up a gold star. “I mean, Lily can drive me mad.”