Separate Lives (20 page)

And then he squeezed my arm and with that he was gone. And the next time I saw Will, a year after that, I was pregnant. And Lynda was history.

“I think I need to see you, Will.”

“Is that really a good idea?”

“You know what? I don't really give a fuck if it's a good idea or not. I don't even know what a good idea is anymore.”

“If you need to see me I will drop everything, within reason. But I'm also concerned that you're over-reacting and that all the changes in your life mean that you're not giving this your best shot. It's tough for all of you, but relationships have these hiccups. You know that. You're not stupid, Susie. And the fact is . . .” Will paused and sighed. “I'm worried that if we meet we'll be creating more problems than we'd be solving.”

And I knew what he meant by that. It had been barely more than a year since we'd fallen off our respective wagons, shortly after an entirely chance meeting in Charing Cross Road. I had just grabbed a coffee in Pret when I saw him walking out of the National Portrait Gallery, and we had small-talked awkwardly in the street and then went to a pub in Covent Garden (“just one drink”). And then, insanely, twenty-four hours later, after a flurry of texts and just a week before the golden wedding party, we found ourselves—because it really did seem as though we were not
in control, that someone else was pulling our strings—in a bed in an anonymous hotel near Regents Park. Not a million miles away from the Landmark, as it happens. And then, during our second hook-up, the night before the party, at the same hotel, we didn't have sex because we knew it would be too magnificent and entirely wrong, but had talked a lot and had still been so confused that we'd both effectively run for the hills. Or rather, straight after the party, Will had actually run for the hills and returned to his air force base in Wales, while I had begun to engineer Operation Random-on-Sea.

So what was I doing asking to see him, with all the potential problems that could—and almost inevitably would—present? All I know is that I was now on my third glass of wine and hadn't eaten enough. My kids were asleep and my partner was out on the lam on a Monday night with Phil, and my new best friend—Heinous—was turning out to be the kind of woman who gave blow-jobs to other women's husbands on their friend's fortieth birthday (not that I was in a position to judge, but . . .). And I missed Bells and my London friends, and I thought I might just keel over with self-pity and loneliness. And all of this while sitting on the steps of my bloody Dream Home at a point in my life when I should have been feeling something akin to content, if not actually downright happy.

“I'm sorry, Will. I'm a complete fucking idiot. It'll be fine. You're right. And I'm sorry I even called.”

“No need to ever apologize or explain, Susie. I take you as I find you. And obviously I'd like to help but I think my help may prove more of a hindrance, that's all. Hang on, though—we'll be seeing each other on Saturday anyway. The wedding? Don't tell me you forgot about that?”

And of course at that precise moment I had completely forgotten about Guy and Lisa's wedding. Though I was genuinely delighted that they were finally getting hitched, the prospect of Alex's twin brother getting married this very weekend in front of a crowd that would—I assumed—include Lisa's great friend, Pippa, wasn't exactly making my heart sing. In fact it was making my heart sulk like a hormonal teenager, made it want to slam doors and shout “Whatever” and “You just don't understand me!” Yup, the prospect of scrubbing up and hanging with the Fox family for a long day and evening made me want to crawl under a duvet with a huge bar of Dairy Milk and stay there for at least a week.

“It actually did slip my mind for a moment, you're right. But of course I'll—we'll—see you on Saturday. And thanks. Thanks very much for just being at the end of the phone. I'll try not to make a habit of it.”

I was determined to sound cheerful and on top of things. It seemed to work.

“Always here if you need me though. Night, Susie.”

And so I tipped the second half of the third glass of wine down the sink and crawled under the duvet and slept for at least eight hours. And I had no idea when—or indeed if—Alex got home, but he certainly wasn't there by the time I got up.

By the following Saturday morning I had somehow psyched myself into the Wedding Zone. I had a slither of brand new day-to-evening, sexy-but-not-too-sexy Vivienne Westwood “Anglomania” on a hanger on the front of the wardrobe door and a new pair of Georgina Goodman sale sandals sitting on the floor below it. On Thursday I had also managed to bag a miracle last minute cancelation at John Frieda in town so I could see my genius colorist, because I'd long since decided
that even if I was moving out of the Smoke for good, the day I started getting my hair done at Upper Cut on the High Street was indeed the day I would Curl Up and Dye.

And so we set off,
en famille
, at 11 a.m. on Saturday in order to make the 3 p.m. ceremony at Kenwood House in Hampstead with room to breathe, because above and beyond the fact that Alex was Best Man, lateness was not and never had been a Fox option. Apart from Guy, that is, who was habitually late for everything but hoping to break the habit of a lifetime today.

I don't want you to feel cheated by my description of the wedding, because I'm warning you right now: I'm keeping it brief. We all love a good wedding, after all, and of course I'd love to paint you a suitably “romantic” picture of the beautiful ex-model bride in her elegant column of halter-necked cream silk by Vera Wang, accessorized by a simple ponytail “Do,” discreet makeup and a small bouquet of peonies. I'd love to bang on at considerable length about the perfection of the weather and the fact that Guy wasn't late (though of course Lisa was), and how the civil ceremony was a minimal yet heartfelt delight—and all the more so for being over in fifteen minutes. And I'd love to tell you how Pea and iPod were divine in their roles as ring-bearer and flowergirl and how I got just the right amount of teary, which is to say a bit, but not to the point of being either smeary or snotty. And then how the sit-down lunch for 120 was magnificent, and the speeches trod just the right delicate balance between sentimental and offensive. And how we then all danced and drank and caroused until the cows came home to Kenwood for about the first time in 150 years.

I'd love to tell you all of this but I may have to leave it to someone else to do that, because I wasn't actually there.

It's not my proudest moment but somewhere along the Highway to Hell, in a petrol station forecourt near Tunbridge Wells, Alex and I found ourselves in the middle of a stand-up row triggered by the fact that Charlie had wet himself. And despite the fact that I distinctly recall having a second pair of trousers on hand just in case, they were nowhere to be found. And then one of us remembered that they'd been put on the roof of the car for a second or two before one of us also remembered that they'd never been removed from the roof of the car before we'd driven off. And so something which, between a couple sharing the same emotional as well as physical journey, might have been a trigger for shared giggles and shrugs and the emergency purchase of a pair of pull-ups, instead became a metaphor for all our separate stresses and highlighted the fact that we were now moving away from each other at high speed, both literally and metaphorically.

Which is also how, twenty very shouty minutes later, Alex and (a visibly distressed, for which I hated myself) Lula—and her bridesmaid's dress, hanging in the back of the car under plastic—found themselves driving on to the wedding while an equally visibly distressed (not to mention visibly wet) Chuck and I found ourselves ordering a cab to take us back home to Random. Like I say, not my finest hour. But then these are the kind of irrational decisions a couple in crisis will make when their lives stop being an “us” kind of relationship and instead become a couple of separate “I” relationships, forever stuck in No Man's Land and intent on self-preservation.

So Chuck and I never made it to the wedding (though I did eventually see some photographs, which is how I know about the dress and the flowers). Instead we spent the
afternoon trawling rock-pools on Random's beach, after which I sent a brief text to Heinous, saying “Heeeeeelp! Am going bonkers!” or something to that effect, and she texted back “Kettle's on . . .” and we pitched up at hers, and because Edie was in London with her dad for the weekend and Chuck was exhausted and conked out on her sofa in front of
Toy Story
, Heinous and I were able to have a proper child-free heart-to-heart for the first time in weeks—and definitely the first time since my birthday. And that was . . . interesting.

“So, this isn't looking great, if I may say so, Susie,” said Heinous.

“No, not great. I think Alex and I have reached some kind of point of no return.” But I wasn't about to elaborate in detail. While Heinous was the closest friend I had in Random it didn't automatically follow that she was the closest friend I had in the world. I had never, for example, told her about Will. The only person still in my life who knew anything about Will and me was Bells, and she was 12,000 miles away.

“So where do you go from here?”

“I'm not quite sure. In fact never mind ‘quite,' I'm not even remotely sure. Things are moving so fast. On the subject of which . . .” and I fancied a change of subject, so I peered at her quite intently. “Ah, you and, er, Phil. Is it a ‘don't mention the war' situation? A moment of madness fueled by the intoxicating high of celebrating my fortieth birthday? Or?”

I let the question hang. Heinous looked momentarily flustered. Surprisingly flustered, really. I'd assumed that the Phil—Heinous conjunction had been an alcohol-fueled
carpe-diem
moment seized by both parties to assuage some small-town boredom at the end of a long winter. But now
I could tell just by looking at her that I'd completely misread the situation. That it was far more complicated than I'd imagined. Not that I'd done much imagining, frankly, because the sight of Heinous giving Phil a moonlit blow-job was not an image I wished to have burned into my cerebral cortex for all eternity.

“I shouldn't be telling you this, Susie. I really shouldn't, but . . . Phil and I . . . we're . . .”

“Oh bloody hell, Harriet. What are you doing?” This first-name formality seemed entirely appropriate.

“We're in love. Phil's leaving Bridge and we're going to be together. You may as well know now because by Monday everybody will.”

“For fuck's sake! What are you doing? What do you mean, ‘We're in love'? You're not eighteen. They're married, they've got small kids, they're a family. What is he doing? Leaving Bridge this weekend and shacking up here?”

“That's about the size of it. He'll be round tonight. Carrying a suitcase full of guilty clichés.”

“Christ, H. Are you mental? You've only known each other for six months.”

“How long do you need? And marriages break down every day, as you may have noticed. I don't see that we're doing anything demonstrably more mental or selfish than, say, shouting at each other in a petrol station forecourt and heading in different directions on the day of a family wedding—somebody else's big day which you have now both effectively blighted. Anyway, Bridge and Phil haven't fucked since 2007.”

“Says Phil. Come on, you can't be that dumb? You know what men say. I'll bet he and Bridge are still at it. And Bridge will be devastated. Confused first, and then devastated. And
three kids
.”

I felt very strongly that Heinous was doing the wrong thing, but of course how hypocritical was I? The woman who had just four days previously phoned her ex-lover, her partner's brother, in desperation . . . Who, every day, wondered how she'd fucked up her life to the point where, despite now living in the house of her dreams, the man she'd assumed she'd be with for the rest of her life was increasingly a stranger and she felt miserable most of the time.

At that moment, Heinous's phone pinged with a text. She scrutinized it carefully, before pulling a :-/ face and saying: “OK, wow, looks like the proverbial shit has hit the propellers sooner than I'd expected. He's on his way.”

“OK, so we're out of here.”

I scooped up a still-sleeping Chuck from the sofa and grabbed my bag and we left. Even with the dead weight on my hips, it took about three minutes to get home—we really were that close. “Home.” Home was where the heart was, right? As I fumbled for the keys on the steps of the Dream Home and waved a cheery “Hi!” at a car-washing neighbor, my heart—which had stopped being a sulky teenager and was now just the heart of a deeply saddened middle-aged woman—sank even further.

An hour or two later, at about 8:30 p.m., when Chuck was in the bath and I had poured myself a glass of something cold and white and very attractive-looking, the phone rang. It was Alex, clearly a bit drunk.

“OK, the reception's underway so I thought I'd grab a moment to call you. You're a fucking disgrace, Susie. You're a selfish bitch and despite having a good go at ruining my brother and sister-in-law's wedding you didn't succeed because it's fucking great and everybody's having a fabulous time. And you know what? Nobody could give a fuck
whether you're here or not because, funnily enough, it's not all about you. And in case you're interested, Lula's had a lovely time, despite everything. And we'll be back sometime tomorrow, but I don't know exactly when because we're in no hurry.”

“No need to hurry. No need to hurry at all.” All the energy seemed to have drained from my body. “Oh and by the way, Phil's just left Bridge for Harriet.”

“Yeah, I know, he just texted me. I knew he was going to do it. We were up until half three last Monday talking about it. Good luck to them! I don't know how he stuck it with fatso for as long as he did. Mind you, to be fair, being fat is one thing she could've changed; being boring and stupid wasn't. And while we're at it, I think this relationship has probably run its course too. And I can tell you straight away that I'm keeping the house so you'll have to leave.”