The Divorce Club (2 page)

Mel appears behind me and squeezes my elbow
whispering, "You'll kick butt. I know you can do it."

No idea why she has this immense trust in me
when I feel like my knees have just turned to jelly and my tongue's
stuck to the back of my throat. From the corner of my eye I notice
Sam giving me the thumbs up and I realize I have two options.
Either I suck it up and just do it, or I pack my things, close shop
and give Greg the self-satisfaction that I can't earn a living
without him.

Taking a deep breath, I step in the middle of
the room and raise a cheap champagne glass. "Ladies, thank you so
much for being here today." My voice starts shaky, threatening to
break any moment, but I continue, "I'm Sarah, thirty-four, and
divorced with a wonderful daughter. During my long divorce from my
two-timing ex-husband, I often debated whether to take him back
because I must've done something to deserve his straying. I often
wished I could rely on someone to guide me through those moments
when I felt worthless."

Mel starts clapping and the others join in. I
smile at the sympathetic faces and hold up a hand. "The Divorce
Club's here to offer women moral support through their divorces.
But our little group is much more than that."

I grab a stack of colorful brochures Mel
designed a while back and hand them out as I speak, now fully
confident as I gaze at the interested faces. "One membership option
includes the full benefits package: weekly meetings, one-on-one
counseling, advice on how to deal with single life, filing for
child support, learning to let out your anger and rebuilding self
esteem, polishing your social skills and a 24/7 hotline. We'll help
you get a job and create a personalized battle plan uniquely
designed to suit your needs. If you're moving, we'll help you pack
and unload. If he's the one moving, we'll help you throw his
belongings out the window."

Laughter fills the room. I smile.

"If you have difficulties getting the hubby
to sign the papers, we'll come up with a strategy to get the leech
out of your life." I raise my brows meaningfully. "And if you sign
up today you'll get the full benefit package at half the membership
price. Once again, thank you so much for coming. Mel and I will be
happy to answer your questions."

"What do you mean by arrangements? You're not
talking about hiring
thugs
, are you?" the redhead asks.

I laugh and the others join in, but I can
sense the sudden uneasiness. "Of course not. We're not a gang. What
I meant was transforming you into something he no longer wants.
We'll use psychology, undercover work and female intuition."

Several heads bob and ahs and ohs echo
through the room. Mel takes over as I walk to my desk with a few
women following behind, some still clutching their brochures,
others waiting for an admissions form. The redhead hands me her
credit card while the intern girl is taking out her camera to shoot
photos. My heart flutters in my chest and I can barely breathe, so
I smile because my first client has just signed up.

The room's full of excited, chirping
soon-to-be divorcees. I'm having heart palpitations again, but not
because of my nerves. The Divorce Club opened a week ago and boasts
a staggering four members. At a hundred bucks each, I'm thrilled to
say I can at least pay this month's grocery shopping—or Sam's phone
bill, whichever comes first.

I've made myself a nice, little list so I can
remember every member:

The Redhead aka Simone Schuster: Simone's a
consultant with a major insurance company and a huge paycheck. She
has the guts to dig in other people's dirt to find pretexts so the
company doesn't pay out, but she can't tell her hubby that she
wants a divorce because she doesn't fancy him anymore. Go
figure.

Shannon, a skinny thirty-something American
with glossy raven hair and a toothpaste smile to die for.
Apparently her parents never liked the hubby, but she loves her new
house in London—and her visa needs to be renewed soon. I can see a
conflict of interest there and why she'd choose to stay with a
two-timing moron for the sake of not losing out the money she's
invested in her mortgage.

Then there's Lucy, a fifty-year-old
Glaswegian, quite chubby, with an infectious smile but a lack of a
haircut. After thirty years of marriage, her husband's decided he'd
rather have someone half his age―and preferably male. She keeps
patting the corners of her eyes with a tissue, and I start to see
that providing a 24/7 hotline might not have been my brightest
idea.

Finally, there's Mindy, the youngest in the
group. She's a friend of Mel's and not here to divorce her husband.
As a personal assistant to a banker's wife, she's researching ways
to prove the husband's preference for strippers so her employer can
snatch the guy's millions in the process. I make it clear right
from the beginning that we don't provide that kind of trap when she
assures me we won't need to. Who would've thought my new job would
be so diverse?

"Ladies, may I have your attention, please?"
Mel, dressed in yet another pencil skirt ensemble with six-inch
heels that make my feet ache just from watching, clinks her
dessertspoon against my cheap
Poundland
champagne glass. I
cringe, waiting for disaster to unfold, but surprisingly the glass
remains intact. I make a mental note to ask her to get a whistle or
something. Mel continues, "I'm thrilled to announce next week's
timetable."

I get the hint and start handing out black
cardboard sleeves embellished with a tiny diamante butterfly,
courtesy of Sam's nail art case, which would make any nail artist
green with envy. Papers shuffle and I hear first giggles and
exclamations of delight. A first rush of accomplishment washes over
me. It might not be the vital job of a heart surgeon, but I'm
saving lives too. Sort of.

"You sure you want me to do this?" Shannon
flicks her black hair back and points at bullet point number two on
her list.

For a moment I feel tempted to ask whether
she has a better idea, but then I remind myself I'm supposed to be
the professional one here, hence, no snapping, bitching, moaning or
otherwise expressing my own self-consciousness in the way I
interact with my clients.

So I smile and grab her hand as I say,
"Shannon, dear, trust me when I say once you're done with him, the
idiot will wish he'd never messed with you in the first place."

Shannon nods enthusiastically, blue eyes
sparkling. "Yes, you're right. Sorry I got weak there for a moment.
Won't happen again."

I pat her hand and turn away, hoping I'm
doing the right thing by reverting to such a cheap trick to get
Shannon's visa and a one-way ticket to a cheap hotel for her
straying soon-to-be-ex.

"I'm off," Mel whispers in my ear, "you know,
big launch party tonight. I can't miss it."

"All right, thanks for stopping by," I say,
feeling guilty for wishing Mel would've forgotten. After all, Sony
at al. make gazillions a year already. One PR manager not showing
up shouldn't make a difference to their bank account, but it could
decide over whether I meet the mortgage payment this month.

Mel smiles, hesitation written on her
unnaturally smooth face, courtesy to lots of money spent in beauty
parlors.

"Off you go. Chop, chop, and don't forget to
get loads of samples." I wave her out the door with an enthusiasm I
don't feel.

"Love you," she mouths and then
disappears.

I heave a big sigh and turn to face the room.
My clients are still reading their papers, chattering as they
compare their to-do lists.

"Shall we get started, everyone?" The room
falls silent and four pairs of eyes peer up at me. I wipe my damp
hands on my oversized pencil skirt and sit on my chair in the
circle. "Today we'll be working on Lesson One in our wonderful
six-month program to get you where you want to be in life. I want
you all to start thinking of yourselves as individuals rather than
as part of someone else. To be able to do so, you'll have to work
on your
individuality
and build
self-confidence
." I
speak the words slowly as though they're Chinese. For a woman in
the process of breaking free from the ego-killing bond of marriage
I might as well be speaking a different language.

"You want us to get all dolled up to land a
guy, eh?" Lucy chuckles. "Well, fancy that. I'm in."

I shake my head. "No, it's not about finding
a man but finding contentment within yourselves. Getting a guy in
the process is just a bonus."

"So you're teaching us to start thinking like
a lad, you know, being
liberal
and all," Lucy says.

I cringe inwardly, sensing that I'm wasting
my time with explanations here. The poor woman was married to a man
who turned out to like men. How could I blame her for wanting to
get laid to feel wanted again?

"I think Sarah means we need to find our
self-worth again after we let some guy treat us like crap," Mindy
says.

I stare at her, open-mouthed. For someone
who's not even married Mindy knows a lot. She might just prove a
natural when it comes to understanding the laws of attraction and
why marriages are actually doomed to fail. "Well done, Mindy.
That's exactly my point. In the coming weeks we will be talking
about ways to achieve just that, but for now we'll start with a
little blaming―and not ourselves, for a change."

I stand and hand out blank sheets of paper
and pencils, then sit again. "While I'm grabbing us all some
coffee, you girls can jot down your husbands' flaws and actions
that you think contributed to the breakup of your marriage. And no
cheating because this is supposed to be an enlightening experience
for everyone."

As soon as I'm in the kitchen, I lean against
the yellow wall and take a moment to smell my armpits and apply
some more deodorant, then pop a chocolate praline―the
Tesco's
Value
kind―into my mouth. A degree in psychology may have
endowed me with knowledge about the human psyche, but it didn't
turn me into a public speaker. A week ago, I was literally shaking
at the thought of people staring at me, so I'm making progress
here. Who knows, maybe by the end of the six months I'll have
miraculously transformed into a conversation goddess that can
enthrall a venue with a charming smile and small talk about the
fairness of the new taxation system. But to actually know that I'd
have to buy
The Times
. Spending unnecessary money on a
newspaper doesn't rank high on my shopping list at the moment.

Five minutes later and carrying a serving
tray with five lukewarm mugs and some more value chocolates, I
return to my clients. Shannon starts sipping, leaving sticky layers
of glittery pink lip-gloss on the mug, while Lucy turns bright red,
avoiding my gaze. Blaming isn't as easy as it seems.

"Who's confident enough to start?" I fix my
eyes on Simone, but it's Mindy who raises her hand. I point at her.
"Please, feel free to speak whenever you want, Mindy."

Mindy clears her throat and reads from her
notes. "During my five-year marriage to Patrick―"

"Wait," I interrupt. "I thought your employer
sent you here."

Mindy nods. "Yes, but she wants me to pretend
I'm she so the research feels authentic."

That's one messed up employer. She can't even
be married without the personal assistant joining in. I smile. "Oh,
I see. Sounds plausible. Please continue."

"Well, Patrick's never given me an orgasm.
Whenever I complained he said there must be something wrong with
the way I'm built."

"Oh, my god, that's awful. There's absolutely
nothing wrong with you." I peer around the room, waiting for the
others to join in, but there's complete silence.

Eventually, Lucy laughs and pats Mindy's
knee. "You held onto that hope for five years? I gave up after six
months when I realized the guy had no intention to ever venture
south, if you know what I mean."

I gasp, unbelieving. "So you just did the
deed without expecting anything in return?"

"What was I supposed to do? He brought home
the bacon." Lucy looks at me defensively and the others nod.

"I had mind-numbing orgasms―with the help of
my Rampant Rabbit," Shannon says.

Heat's slowly crawling up my neck. "Shall we
get back to the topic at hand?" I ask, trying to change the
subject. "So, Patrick didn't care about your personal needs. What
else about him did you find damaging to your relationship?"

"He never tried to get along with my mother.
He always made me feel stupid because he had a postgraduate degree
and I didn't." I open my mouth to speak when Mindy holds up a hand
as she continues, "And he favors strippers because I'm apparently
not attractive enough―even after getting a boob job and Botox."

The others gasp. Lucy places a hand on her
large bosom and exclaims, "No!"

Mindy shrugs. "I even got extensions and a
bikini wax."

Ouch. I hope Mindy's boss didn't actually
force her to do that for
research purposes
. Smiling
sympathetically, I hold out the tray to Mindy. She grabs a praline
and starts nibbling, mouthing, "I didn't. The boss did. My hair's
real."

Huh? I peer at her, confused who got what
now.

"Actually, I tried the bikini waxing at
home." Simone cringes. "So I sealed my private parts with hot wax.
The pain was excruciating. I ended up walking like a penguin for a
week."

"No woman should be forced to go through that
torture," Lucy says. "In my time, au natural was all the rage. I
had lads queuing outside to get a look at my bush."

Mindy almost chokes on her chocolate. I pat
her back as I ask Lucy, "What do you think your husband did
wrong?"

Lucy scoffs. "You mean apart from making me
dress up like Arnold Schwarzenegger and groan in a deep voice so he
could
perform
?"