State We're In (14 page)

‘They are hardly children any more. Two of them are married. Lisa is a mother three times over.'

‘But Joanna?'

‘Yes.' Clara sighed. Joanna was a worry. She was still a child, in a way. Today, Clara had come so close to telling her daughter that she simply had to grow up, get on with it. Sweet and whimsical was just a birthday away from silly and inefficient. Haphazard and chaotic. ‘She visited today,' Clara said as she took a sip of her wine. It was crisp and refreshing; the citrus notes played on her tongue, separating themselves out from the mineral tones. Clara knew her wines; she'd taken a masters course a few years ago. She'd taken lots of courses over the years: philosophical appreciation of art, interior design, A level Spanish, Buddhist meditation …

‘Did she?'

‘Yes. For one awful moment, I thought she knew. She kept staring at my suitcase.'

‘Has she guessed?'

‘No, of course not. She came round to talk about her own problems.' Clara bit her tongue to avoid adding,
as usual
. Instead she said, ‘She's feeling twitchy because Martin is getting married.'

‘Martin?'

‘The one she was going to marry.'

‘Oh yes, of course. How could I have forgotten? That fiasco cost us an arm and a leg.'

‘He's marrying someone else.'

Tim couldn't see the problem. ‘Well, she didn't want him.'

‘No.'

‘But now she does?'

‘She wants someone. She's been invited to the wedding. I told her to go. I said that watching the wedding might offer some sort of closure. Help her move on. Besides, I didn't want her around here this weekend.'

‘That's my point. She's vulnerable. She's going to take this very badly.'

‘Tim, I can't stay for the children. Most people do that for eighteen years, not thirty-eight.'

Tim sighed and looked directly at his wife. ‘If not the children, then for me.'

‘It's different now. You don't need a wife.'

‘I like having you around.' He smiled, perhaps embarrassed by the scanty nature of the compliment. She knew he always said less than he thought. He wasn't one to lavish declarations. Stiff upper lip and all that. He belonged in another world.

‘Yes, and I like being around you, too,' she admitted.

‘Then stay. I've always been discreet. We've managed it well. I've looked after you. Clothes, cars, the house, the holidays.' Tim glanced around the room, but the perfection sneered back at him.

‘I know, but it's not enough. I'm surprised I ever thought it might be.' She handed him the letter.

T
he familiar dial of a phone connecting me to Martin, thousands of miles away, causes my stomach to lurch in a way that reminds me of being a teenager.

‘Martin? Martin, it's Jo.' There's a slight pause, which is the worst. ‘Jo Russell,' I gabble, squashing down the embarrassment that's threatening to ambush. The pause between us swells.

‘Of course. Jo. Well, hi.' Martin sounds jovial enough; at least he manages to be so the split second after he places my name. His not recognising my voice, possibly not remembering me at all, hurts, obviously. A sudden, searing hot pain, like a sharp knife, slices its way through my body. Quickly I remind myself that it's sometimes the case, when cut by a sharp knife, that you don't actually feel anything until the moment you see the blood and your brain acknowledges the damage. If I choose to ignore the blood and refuse to concede an injury, I might just avoid feeling the pain. To be fair, he hasn't heard my voice in nearly five years; not unsurprisingly, he never forwarded me his American telephone number. I've had to call three mutual friends to track it down; no one seemed keen to pass it on.

‘How
are
you?' I ask in what, even for me, is an exaggeratedly upbeat tone.

‘Great, just great.' He pauses, and then remembers his manners. ‘And you?'

‘Great.' I realise I sound like a parrot, so quickly add, ‘Wonderful.'

I should have rehearsed this call. I don't want him to think I'm wonderful. Not exactly. I need to explain that I'm wonderful aside from the fact that he's no longer in my life. Almost wonderful. Definitely doing well, practically thriving, certainly still a very interesting and desirable person, but just one who is lacking Martin Kenwood in her life. ‘Well, you know,' I add, hoping that covers it. ‘You?' I ask again, taking the conversation in a rather bland and pointless full circle.

‘Great, great, yes.'

‘The wedding?' I prompt.

‘Great,' he adds again. His tone of voice definitely alters, but I can't quite work out if he sounds more or less enthusiastic about his wedding versus his general well-being. ‘Sorry, I'm not exactly with it right now.' Is there a crisis? A problem with the wedding? My heart lifts a little. ‘It's late here, well, early. The middle of the night, actually.'

Oh no. Why didn't I think of that? My heart plummets. Why hadn't I thought of that? I decide that all I can do is bluff it out. I push on. ‘You must be busy.'

‘Not me so much as my fiancée. She's doing all the hard work and rushing around.'

I try to listen out for a hint of impatience or frustration. Arranging a wedding is notoriously stressful. Many previously blissful couples fight like warlords on the run up to the nuptials. Is he being overwhelmed by a bossy and controlling Bridezilla (let's face it, like last time)? And if so, is it annoying him? That would be something. Or is he indifferent to the wedding preparations because, ultimately, he's not that committed to getting married? That would be ideal. I can't tell. Of course there's the chance he's relieved that she's doing all the work and intends to be eternally grateful. That thought is uncomfortable. I also wonder whether it means anything that he called her his fiancée rather than using her actual name? It sounds a bit forced and contrived. Shouldn't they be more relaxed with one another? On the other hand, maybe he just likes saying fiancée and is going to be one of those men who, rather than using their wife's actual name, forever refers to ‘her indoors', ‘the missus' or ‘my better half', just so everyone in the vicinity is clear that he's attached. I already know I'll say ‘hubby'.

‘So are you … erm … looking forward to the big day?' I am unsure why I am falling back on clichés and the safety of small talk. That isn't the direction I want to take this conversation, but I'm out of the habit of talking to Martin, especially about important things, if I ever mastered that habit in the first place.

‘Absolutely. Of course.' Martin coughs. However excited he may or may not be about the big day, he can't be oblivious to how weird this situation is. After all,
we
were once going to get married. We were going to share a big day, and now here we are talking about his impending wedding to someone else.

‘Nervous?' I ask, trying to probe as to his true feelings.

‘A bit,' he replies. ‘Everyone keeps reassuring us that it will all run like clockwork. You know the sort of thing: that the caterers will nail the timing of the soufflé. I'm not concerned about that level of detail. I just hope she shows up.' He starts to laugh. It's a slightly manic laugh. I join in nervously; obviously I realise he's referencing our own marriage plans. It's not helpful to me if he dwells on the end bit of our relationship (when is that ever helpful?), but at least he is acknowledging that we have a history. Now all I have to do is guide him back to more exhilarating times. We were once very happy.

‘It's good to hear you laugh,' I gush. Not mentioning the hint of mania in the joviality.

‘Oh Jo, did you think I stopped laughing for ever?' His directness floors me, because yes, I suppose I had thought that. Plus, there's something more. I'm not being direct with him, I daren't be, but he feels he can cut to the chase with me. I'm encouraged that such intimacy still flows between us.

‘I hoped not.' I lower my voice and try to make it as flirty and seductive as possible. I shove meaning and weight into every word. Like an overfull sausage I add, ‘I like your laugh.'

Martin immediately stops laughing. He's clearly unused to a compliment, as he's a bit of an idiot when it comes to receiving them. ‘Right,' he says stiffly.

Undeterred, I push on. ‘So, I got your invite.'

‘You never replied.' This time I am sure I can hear disappointment, but it might be that he's disappointed at my lapse of etiquette rather than the fact that on receiving the invite I didn't call him up and beg him not to go ahead. It's hard to be sure.

‘Didn't I? How terrible of me. These things … well, this thing in particular is so …' I pause, ‘delicate.'

‘Suppose.'

‘I wasn't sure how to reply.'

‘It's simple, really. A yes-or-no situation.' We must both be thinking about the last time we were in a particularly profound yes/no situation. When I said yes. Then no. I feel horrible. I giggle nervously; it's better than being sick.

‘Well, the funny thing is, I wasn't sure exactly what the invitation meant.'

‘In what way?'

‘Well …' I take a deep breath. ‘Do you want me to come?'

‘That's usually the accepted understanding behind an invite,' points out Martin.

‘I mean, now, do
you
want me to come
now
?' He must understand. If I come
now
, it's not just as any old guest – one who returned the RSVP in the prepaid envelope three months ago; if I come now, it means
something
. It possibly means
everything
. My attendance or non-attendance is charged. ‘You see, I could. The funny thing is, I'm at the airport. I'm standing just in front of the ticket sales desk. I could just about get there in time. Before it all takes place. Before it's all over, if that's what you want.' He must understand what I mean.

‘Well, because we didn't hear back from you, we haven't counted you in.'

We.
It's such a tiny word, but lethal. I don't know what to say to stave off its cruelty. ‘Oh gosh, I hadn't thought about that. I don't want to mess up the seating plan.' This is a ridiculous observation, because if I do go to Chicago and explain to Martin that I have made a grave mistake in letting the opportunity of being his wife pass me by, then my hope is that there won't be a reception, and seating plans – flawless or muddled – will be redundant. I think about his sentence and scrutinise it for a layer of coded meaning. Of course, he's duty-bound to say
we
, but if he means
I
, then that innocuous sentence has altogether a different meaning. ‘Because I didn't hear back from you, I haven't counted you in' could very well mean that he was gutted that I didn't respond to his emotional SOS.

I'm even more convinced that my decoding is accurate when he adds, ‘Well, I'm sure we can sort something out, find room for you.' He's practically begging me.

I don't tell him it doesn't matter, that we won't be getting as far as the wedding breakfast, because that would be putting the cart before the horse. Instead I say, ‘Don't put me on the children's table, will you? Do you remember my cousin Harriet's wedding? We had to sit with all the little bridesmaids.' I laugh, pretending that it was a happy or at least amusing memory, although at the time I was furious and it wasn't much fun.

‘Erm.' Martin sounds a bit confused. I'm surprised that he is clearly struggling to recall the catastrophe; it was quite a big deal at the time, at least to me.

‘You must remember. To add insult to injury, they served us the kids' menu too. Chicken nuggets and chips, while all the other guests had roast lamb with dauphinoise potatoes. Of course it was a genuine mistake. Harriet was mortified, but still.'

‘We did go to a lot of weddings,' murmurs Martin. We did. We were in our late twenties; everyone we knew was dashing down the aisle. When I called off our wedding, I explained to my parents that that had been half the problem. There was immense pressure to accept the proposal. It had seemed like the obvious thing to do, the next step. Then it hadn't. Now it does again. This is so confusing. Martin adds, ‘There were so many weddings, they were all a blur in the end.'

‘This one won't blur,' I say ominously.

‘No. Of course not.' Martin can't be expected to understand what I am hinting at. ‘So, that's it decided, you're coming?' he asks. I know him well enough to remember the tone of his voice when he's thrilled by something; he's practically giggling like a schoolboy. ‘You're sure. This time?'

He couldn't be clearer.

‘I'll book a ticket.'

So I gather every ounce of courage and belief I possess and blow a sum that is the equivalent of the deposit for a three-bedroom house in some parts of the UK on an economy ticket to Chicago. I am forced to tie myself down to a return date because that is the slightly cheaper option; even so, I still have to split the cost across two credit cards. An open return is out of the question because I don't think Boots loyalty points are a viable currency. I'm quite concerned: will a return flight on Monday give Martin enough time to pack his bags?

I love airports. They combine – in abundance – three of my favourite things,
ever.
They're full of excitement (people are speeding off on wonderful holidays or to invigorating business meetings) and drama (people call out welcoming greetings or collapse into difficult goodbyes) and shops. Excitement, drama, shops, what's not to love? As I gaze around, I wonder how many momentous events are occurring in this very terminal, at this very second. How many declarations of love, how many hearts snapping?

I haven't taken a long-haul flight since before Martin and I split up. We used to travel together a lot; we visited New York, Thailand and Madrid. We planned to go on honeymoon to the Seychelles. I was so excited about that trip: tropical paradise islands, cobalt seas and endless white sand beaches; of course I was excited. I've often imagined since what that trip might have been like; it's impossible not to wonder. I bought three beautiful new bikinis, a floral beach bag and a huge straw sunhat especially. I spent weeks planning exactly what I'd look like lying under a parasol, the waves licking my toes, the gentle breeze brushing my limbs. After I called off the wedding, Martin came to some arrangement with the travel agent and exchanged our would-have-been-romantic honeymoon for a wild trip to Las Vegas with two of his mates. Word got back to me that for six days in a row he drank, gambled and passed out on dance floors.