As Alanna goes back to her seat Gabby catches Elliott staring at his daughter, and the expression on his face is exactly the same as on hers. Pride and love. An acknowledgment of the extraordinary girl they have created.
If only he would look at Gabby that way too.
Gabby is standing by the table that has been covered with paper plates of snacks: chocolate-chip cookies, cut-up chunks of cantaloupe, cheese sticks, grapes, chocolate brownies.
The children have raided the snack table, but Gabby is helping herself to the brownies. She would not normally allow herself to eat them but she is pregnant – although never, during her last two pregnancies, did she use that as an excuse to eat whatever she wanted. She remembers being terrified of becoming a whale, of never being able to get rid of the excess weight.
This time round she doesn’t care. She’s a pregnant single mother, or at least it looks that way. If she can’t comfort herself with food, what hope is left?
She turns, chewing a mouthful of brownie, to find herself inches from Elliott, so achingly familiar and lovely it almost makes her burst into tears there and then. His twinkling blue eyes. The stubble that never goes away, even immediately after he shaves. His Barbour, the coat she bought him for his fortieth birthday, which smells of waxed cotton and of Elliott, and is so lived-in and loved it is now as soft as silk. All of him is hers. Was hers. His strong, masculine hands. His salt-and-pepper hair, as tousled as ever. She wants to reach up, as she always does, to tuck the stray bits back, but she no longer has that right.
This is her husband, her man, her best friend. The man to whom she has told everything for twenty years, yet now she finds herself looking at him with no idea what to say.
Elliott clears his throat. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
There is an awkward silence.
‘You look good.’ She is lying, because in fact he looks terrible. His face is gaunt, his clothes are hanging off him.
‘I look terrible,’ he says.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. You look terrible. Can I just …’ And she reaches up to tuck back his hair, except when he realizes what she’s doing he turns his head sharply, so she brushes the air and has to withdraw her hand, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘Just … your hair.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He brushes it back himself. ‘Alanna was good, wasn’t she?’
‘I was so proud.’ Gabby puts her hand on her heart. ‘Our little girl. Who knew she had such a talent for poetry? And performing!’
‘Who knew?’ echoes Elliott.
‘How did you get time off work?’
‘Harvey’s taking my patients while I’m here. I thought it best, while we figure things out, to be there for the kids. They need both of us. Especially now.’
Gabby tries to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘Elliott, can we talk? I know it’s been only a few weeks, and I know you may not be ready, but there’s stuff we have to figure out. I can’t keep driving Alanna back and forth, and I need to see Olivia.’
‘She doesn’t want to see you.’
‘I know. But I’m her mother. She and I have to work this out. Please, Elliott. Can we at least have coffee? Can we just sit down and talk about it?’
Elliott thinks, then nods. ‘Okay. Coffee.’
‘Do you want to come over after this?’
‘No!’ He is vehement. Nothing would cause him more pain right now than going back to the house he no longer lives in, back to the life he has been forced to leave. ‘I’ll meet you at Starbucks on the Post Road. In an hour?’
Gabby, seeing a glimmer of hope, agrees. ‘Okay. An hour.’ She walks towards the door, turning, surprised, when she feels a hand on her arm. It is Claire.
‘How are you?’ Claire’s face is filled with sadness.
‘Pretty terrible. How are you?’
‘Okay. Fat. Emotional. Tired.’
‘How’s Elliott?’
‘You were just talking to him.’
‘I know, but you’re with him every night, Claire. How is he?’
Claire looks at her for a few seconds before shrugging. ‘He’s pretty terrible too. He cries at night. A lot. Sometimes I have to take him in my arms and hold him until he stops. Tim has tried to take him out with the boys for a drink, to take his mind off it, but he doesn’t want to do anything other than sit on the sofa and cry. He pretends to be okay until Olivia goes to bed, but then his pain just fills the house and –’
‘Oh God, Claire. Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because you asked, Gabby. I don’t know what to say. I’m trying so hard to forgive you, and I love you and Elliott so much, and … that’s why I’m struggling. I can’t see him in this kind of pain and get together with you and pretend I’m okay with all of it.’
‘I’m not asking you to pretend to be okay with all of it. I don’t expect you to be okay with it. God, I’m not okay with it. I’m disgusted with myself. I am ashamed, and if I could think of anything in the world I could do to change it, I would. Jesus, Claire …’ Gabby fights to keep her voice low enough that it doesn’t project to everyone in the room. ‘If I could, do you not think I would turn back the clock? I’m twenty-five weeks pregnant and there is nothing I can do about it other than feel sick for ruining my life, everyone’s life, with one mistake. Sick. And disgusted. And the last thing I need is for my best friend to abandon me through this. The last thing I need is to feel judged, and hated, by you.’ Tears are now streaming down Gabby’s cheeks.
‘I could never hate you,’ whispers Claire. ‘I love you, but I can’t be there for both of you. It’s too draining. This isn’t my choice. It isn’t that I’ve chosen Elliott over you, but Elliott has chosen us, and I haven’t got the strength right now for both of you. I’m sorry. I know you won’t understand …’
‘You’re right,’ Gabby snaps, whirling as she prepares to leave the room. ‘I don’t understand.’
There is a table in the corner of Starbucks, by the window, which Gabby grabs, cradling her green tea as she looks out onto the Post Road, lulled into calm by the passing cars. She still can’t believe the conversation she had with Claire, can’t believe that, despite the way Claire has decided to reframe it in her mind, Claire has chosen Elliott over Gabby.
And then there were none, she thinks.
She looks up to see Elliott approaching the table.
‘Hi. Sorry I’m a bit late.’ He sits down as Gabby jumps up.
‘Let me get you something,’ she blurts, in a reversal of their roles, for Elliott would always be the one to get coffee, or food, or anything, while Gabby and the girls sat at the table.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘You must have something. Tea? I’m drinking green tea. It’s good. You’ll like it.’
‘Okay,’ he acquiesces. ‘Sure.’
She goes to the counter to place the order, knowing this would never happen if they were still a couple. Elliott would automatically order the tea, pulling his wallet from his pocket to pay for it. Back at the table she sets down his mug and sits.
‘Thanks. I just came from the realtor’s office.’ Elliott takes a sip of his tea. ‘That’s why I was late. They’re going to phone you to make an appointment to come and value the house.’
Gabby stares at him. ‘What?’
‘I thought it would make sense to sell the house, and even though they don’t recommend putting it on the market until the spring, I’d like to have an idea of what it’s worth.’
‘Why would we sell the house?’
Elliott snorts. ‘Gabby, if we’re not together, we each need money for our separate homes, and the only place that money’s going to come from is the house. This is the most practical solution.’
Gabby’s heart is pounding. ‘If we’re not together. But what if we are? What if we are able to work through this? What if we get back together, but we’ve lost our home? Elliott, you and I both love the house; think of all the work we put into it. We can’t sell our house.’ There i
s an urgency to her voice.
‘Gabby,’ he says quietly, ‘I don’t think there’s anything to work through.’
She makes an effort to calm her voice, even though her body is jittery with panic. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’re pregnant with a baby by another man. That’s it. It’s done.’
‘You want to divorce me?’ Of course deep down she knew that this was the way things were going, but they haven’t mentioned the D word before and she thought, hoped, that as long as it wasn’t mentioned then getting back together was always a possibility.
Elliott stares at the table, grimacing with discomfort and pain, unable to believe he is sitting inches from his wife and having this discussion with her, the woman he thought he would spend the rest of his life with, the woman he imagined growing old with, a woman so perfect for him he has never, not for a second, even thought about anyone else.
‘No,’ he says, looking up at her, wincing as he speaks. ‘I don’t want to divorce you. But you’ve left me no other choice.’
Gabby holds it in until she is in her car. She holds it in until she turns onto Center Street. She holds it in until she finds a quiet spot on the side of an empty street at the edge of town, where she parks, hides her head in her hands, and howls.
Putting her head back she screams at the roof of the car, pounding the steering wheel until, exhausted, she just lays her forehead on the wheel and sobs, moaning in pain.
Her mobile phone rings. Maybe it’s Elliott. It must be Elliott. He must be phoning to say he made a terrible mistake; he’s thought things through and he can’t throw away twenty years of marriage like this. Frantically she roots through her handbag, pulling out the crap that mysteriously makes its way into all her bags – tissues, earplugs, leaflets, more leaflets, tampons with torn wrappers, hair bands – until she finds the phone.
It isn’t Elliott. It’s her mum.
‘Darling!’ Natasha trills down the phone. ‘I haven’t heard from you for ages. I just turned to your father earlier and said, “Have you heard from our naughty daughter recently?” And he said, “Not for months.” So I decided to call! How are you? And how are my gorgeous granddaughters?’
‘Hi, Mum.’ Gabby’s voice is reedy and thin, despite her attempt to disguise her tears. ‘We’re good.’
‘You don’t sound good, darling. You sound terrible. What’s the matter? Do you have a cold?’
Gabby has never turned to her mother in her life. Her mother, who was there for everyone else, who took in strangers and helped them sort out their lives, is the very last person Gabby would ever think to turn in a crisis.
She rarely thinks to call them, and they, she assumes, are too wrapped up in their own worlds to call her. She loves her parents, naturally, but when people talk of their support systems, their families, Gabby has always known that the only support system to whom she would turn is her family of choice: Elliott, the girls, Claire.
Now that support system has broken down, and the only person that’s left is the woman on the end of the phone right now.
‘I don’t have a cold.’ Gabby can feel herself starting to break down. ‘Elliott’s left me.’
Natasha doesn’t say a word of interruption, just lets her daughter tell her the whole story. She asks questions when necessary, prompts Gabby when needed, but there is no judgement in her voice, only kindness, compassion and love.
‘What am I going to do?’ Gabby says, over and over. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘You’re going to get the local paper, you’re going to go to the noticeboard in the library, and you’re going to go online and Google. You’re going to find yourself a divorce support group with a bloody good therapist leading the group. You’re going to find other women going through the same thing, because you cannot be alone through this. You will not be alone. My God, Gabby, if I have to come out there myself and help you through it, I will. Darling girl, you aren’t alone. I promise you.’
‘You’d really come out?’ Her mother has come to America three times in the last twenty years, the last of which was five years ago. It was much easier, she’d taken to saying, if they all came to London. Gabby would think: easier for whom? Although she never put up much of a fight as she did so love going home.
‘I would. I will. You just say the word and I’ll book my flight.’
Gabby lies in bed, her hands resting on her belly as she feels the baby do a lazy somersault. She moves her nightshirt aside and watches her stomach undulate, a knee or an elbow pushing out her skin, and despite all that has happened, despite wishing she could go back and do things differently, she cannot help but gasp with amazement that she is carrying another life inside her.
Today it feels as magical as it was with Olivia and Alanna – the miracle of a tiny person in her stomach – and for the first time, as the tears roll gently down her cheeks, she smiles, just a little.
This time, they are tears of wonder and joy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gabby has passed the big white church many times, but has never had any reason to go inside. She has always found it easier to say she is not a believer in organized religion than to offer up the truth, which is that she is slightly envious of people who have faith, religion, whatever it is you want to call it.
When she first arrived in the suburbs she looked in astonishment at the smartly dressed people teeming out of their houses on a Sunday.
‘Where are they all going?’ she asked Elliott.
He was amazed she genuinely didn’t know. ‘To church.’
No one she knew in London went to church, other than for weddings and, perhaps, christenings. She knew plenty of Jewish people who went to synagogue, but even then it was only for the major holidays, often only Yom Kippur.
When she was growing up Gabby had always wanted somewhere to go. Her parents didn’t believe in organized religion; they had decided it was the root of the world’s evils.
‘The only religion your father follows is that of the Liberal Intelligentsia,’ her mother would say with a laugh if ever Gabby tried to question him. Her mother, having renounced Catholicism, had spent most of Gabby’s childhood trying Buddhism. There were various kinds. She tried the Nam Myoho Renge Kyo kind, which was said to manifest anything you should want; then she tried Zen Buddhism; then finally she tried to follow the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh, with his suggestions of daily Mindful Meditations.
Elliott would admit to being Episcopalian only if pushed. He too had religious confusion. It was one of the things they had always shared, always laughed about.
There is a white sign pasted up on the door with an arrow pointing upstairs to the church library. Gabby hesitates in the doorway, wanting suddenly to get back in her car, anxious about what a divorce support group might entail.
Perhaps she can sit quietly in the back and listen to the others. Perhaps pearls of wisdom will fall from the lips of the therapist who leads the group – Sally, who, incidentally, seemed lovely on the phone. Gabby hopes these pearls will instantaneously give her the peace and serenity she has been looking for, enabling her to leave silently, renewed.
As she is standing there another woman walks in, hesitating when she sees Gabby.
‘Are you here for the … support group?’ she asks, nervously smoothing her blonde ponytail.
‘The divorce support group?’ As if there would be more than one support group meeting at this time, in this church.
The woman nods, and, relieved to have found strength in the power of two, they both walk up the stairs to push open the library door.
A couple of women who appear to know each other stand at one end by a large table with some leaflets on it, while others are dotted sporadically around the room. One is on a soft loveseat and others are perched on folding chairs that have been placed in a circle in the centre of the room.
Opposite the loveseat is a wing chair, in which sits a woman with glasses, grey hair and a warm smile.
‘Welcome,’ sh
e says, standing up and coming over to greet the women. ‘I’m Sally.’
The woman Gabby came in with, with whom she feels an instant affinity, is Josephine. They move in unison towards two chairs, their heads together as they make small talk, establishing their bond. Where do they live, do they have children, is this their first group … ?
It is a disparate group of women, a group you would never put together. They age from early thirties to terribly sad late sixties. There is one gorgeous, glamorous, high-heeled and sexed-up girl, or woman – it is hard to tell for she is unlined and overly made-up – and the rest look much like Gabby: tired, weary, colourless.
After a few moments Sally calls the group together and suggests they make a start.
‘First of all, I want to commend each and every one of you,’ she looks at each of the women as she talks, her eyes slowly scanning the room, ‘for coming to this meeting. It is an incredibly brave thing to do, to bring out your pain in public, but sharing that pain with other women who are going through the same thing is ultimately the most healing thing you can do for yourself. So well done. All of you.’ She claps her hands and the room slowly joins in, a round of applause for each of them, none of whom feel remotely brave.
‘We’re going to meet, in this room, for the next eight weeks, and we’re going to get to know one another very well. I’d like each of you in this room to take what I call the privacy vow. We need this to be a safe space, a sacred space. We need to be able to trust that we can say anything we want in this room, to express our pain, our fears, our grief, and know that nothing we say will ever leave this room. I’m going to vow that I will not discuss anything in this room with anyone outside this room, ever. Nor will I discuss any of the members of this group, with any of the other members. And, finally, I will not divulge who the members of this group are. What you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here. Please, one by one, raise your hand after me and say, “I vow.” ’
Gabby turns to Josephine, wide-eyed, to see her expression reflected back at her. They give each other a small smile as Sally looks round the circle.