After a while I hear footsteps in the hall, and then I hear Tom’s door being opened, and finally, very quietly, I hear Dan start to cry.
And I start crying too.
22
I don’t move for a long time after Dan leaves. I just sit, crying intermittently, unable to believe that this has actually happened, that he has actually gone. Part of me thought we would just carry on in exactly the same way, that living together unhappily was better than change.
You got what you wanted, a voice in my head keeps saying, but now that this has happened, now that the flat seems to echo with the stillness, with the absence of Dan, I’m not sure.
But no. Of course this is better. And, as I said to Dan, it isn’t necessarily permanent; it’s just a temporary separation, an absence that will enable us to find our way back to each other.
My eye catches our wedding photograph, mocking me from its prime position on the mantelpiece. God. Look how happy we were. How I thought I was marrying the perfect man, marrying into the perfect family. And how ironic that I expected Linda, Linda without whom none of this would have happened, to step into the role of mother, to be the mother I’d always dreamed of.
Filled with sadness, I take the photograph and place it gently in a drawer. I don’t need to be reminded of what once was, what will probably never be again, because I don’t honestly believe Dan and I will ever find that happiness again. The hurt has been too great, the distance we’ve moved away from each other too far.
In the early hours I go into Tom’s room and watch him sleeping. He’s on his tummy now, something I worried about in the beginning—crib death and all that—but they say once they can turn over by themselves it’s fine, and he’s been turning over for months now, edging up into the far right corner of the cot, scrunching up into a tight little ball, bottom sticking high up in the air.
The love I feel for him is so often, as now, completely overwhelming. I want to pick him up and squeeze him, find a way of merging my body with his again, but I leave him, just stroke his back gently, careful not to wake him, and eventually I leave his bedroom and fall, exhausted, onto my own bed.
I do sleep. I lie facing Dan’s side, something I haven’t done for months, unable to look at him, unwilling to be anywhere near him, and I empty my head of thoughts until finally, finally, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Trish wakes me up the next morning, the phone jolting me awake, and for a few seconds, even as I fumble for the phone, I’m not sure who, where, or what I am.
“Hello?” I mumble, squinting as I focus on the clock. Oh, God, 8:11. Tom must be starving. I can’t believe I overslept this much.
“Hi. It’s me. Did I wake you?” She’s amazed.
“Yes. I overslept.”
“I’m so sorry. I just wanted to call and see if everything was okay. You seemed pretty…tense last night. I was worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “But…” How do you tell people? How do you admit your husband has gone, that you’ve failed at your marriage? In the course of a mere twelve hours your life has changed irrevocably. “Dan’s left.”
There’s no other way to say it.
Trish gasps. “What do you mean, he’s left? You mean, he’s left?”
“Yes.”
“But where? Where’s he gone? Why? I don’t understand.”
I take a deep breath. “Oh, Trish. We’ve been so unhappy for so long. I suppose it just came to a head last night. We came home and finally admitted that it’s not working, that we can’t carry on as we are.”
“And what about Tom?” I can hear the shock in her voice.
“He’ll still see Tom. I don’t know how we’re going to work out the finer details, but I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his relationship with his son.”
“Oh, God, Ellie,” Trish says, sounding dangerously close to tears. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, I can’t believe it, I just…I knew you were unhappy, but isn’t it just a phase? I thought it would take a bit of time and then you’d be fine.”
“I know.” I shrug sadly. “I think I thought the same thing. Look, who knows? Maybe it isn’t permanent; maybe we just need some space.”
“I can’t believe it,” Trish keeps saying. “It’s awful. I can’t believe it.” She pulls herself together. “What are you doing now?”
“Now? I’m sitting in bed and I’ve got to feed poor Tom. He must be starving.”
“No, after that. This morning.”
“I don’t know. Adjusting to my new status as a single mother, I suppose.”
“I’ll come over. I’ll bring Oscar and we can really talk about things.”
“I’m fine, Trish. You don’t have to do that.”
“Of course I do,” she says. “That’s what friends are for.”
Lisa and Trish sit next to one another, hunched up on the sofa, infinite sadness on their faces.
Lisa had phoned at nine to see what we were doing today, and how could I not tell her, how could I withhold something so big? And so I told her, and her reaction was much like Trish’s, only more subdued.
For a minute I thought back to the conversation I had had with my mother-in-law, back in the days when we had conversations. How Linda had warned me about Lisa, implied that Lisa was the kind of woman who would have an affair with Dan. Dan could have had an affair, God knows he left the house early enough and came home late enough, at least since the accident, but Lisa wouldn’t do that to me, no matter what Linda thought. And that wasn’t the issue between us anyway.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I say. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s probably a good thing. Honestly, Dan and I have barely spoken for months, unless we’re screaming at each other. I’ve been so tired of pretending that everything’s okay, and it had to come to a head somehow. This is a good thing, honestly.”
“I just feel so sad,” Trish says. “And Gregory will be devastated. I mean, we see so much of you two.”
“You’ll still see me. And Gregory will probably still see Dan,” I say, but I know what she means. It won’t ever be the same. Not that I’m asking them to make a choice, I wouldn’t do that, but I know the dynamic will be different, that it won’t ever be as comfortable, going out for dinner with me as the third wheel, pretending that Gregory hasn’t spoken to Dan, or that our friendship is exactly the same.
I hadn’t thought of that. Of how friendships change when a couple splits up. Of course I’d heard about it, heard various—and I thought bitter—divorcees say they really learned who their friends were when they split up from their husbands, how they were no longer invited anywhere, how all their “happily” married friends suddenly perceived them as a threat, thought that being newly single would automatically mean they had set their sights on their middle-aged, boring, unattractive husbands.
The newly single women said they had to start afresh. That even if their friends stuck by them, they were always far more comfortable when another man was added, making up a cosy foursome instead of an awkward threesome.
I never thought I’d be in that position, but now that I am, are my friendships going to change? Trish, Gregory, Dan, and I had grown so familiar with one another, that it’s probably naive of me to think it will all stay the same without Dan. I don’t expect my friendship with Trish to change a great deal. I imagine we’ll still see just as much of each other during the day, and I know she’d never be threatened by me, would never worry about my flirting with Gregory. But sadly I realize it won’t be the same now that I’m on my own, that we won’t be sharing dinners with quite the same regularity or ease.
And what about Lisa? She’s single, and God knows sociable. For a while, when we first met, the three of us seemed about equal, but lately we’ve been seeing Lisa less and less, lately she’s seemed so busy, and Trish and I have grown closer still while Lisa has seemed further apart.
But now will Lisa become my partner in crime? Will Lisa replace Trish as my best friend? Replace Dan as my e
vening date?
A huge sigh escapes me and I shake my head. “I know it’s for the best,” I say, “but I can’t quite believe it either. A part of me thinks that Dan’s going to come home this evening, just walk in the door as if nothing ever happened.”
“How would you feel if he did?” Trish asks.
“The same. What’s terrifying is change, and doing everything on my own, but even if Dan were to come here this evening, it wouldn’t make anything different. The fact is we’ve just been hating each other for months.” Trish and Lisa both look shocked. “I know; I’m sorry, but it’s true. We’ve been horrible to one another, and we needed something to happen; we really couldn’t carry on.”
“Is he staying with Linda and Michael?” Lisa asks, and I nod. “Have you spoken to them?”
“God, no!” I snort. “I haven’t got anything to say to them. I’ll let Dan explain. Anyway, they hate me already. I’m sure Linda will be delighted I’m out of the picture.”
“I don’t think so.” Lisa shakes her head. “I don’t think they hate you. I think they just didn’t understand how to be in-laws, and then of course, after the accident, they had all that guilt to deal with, and you wouldn’t let them near.”
“Jesus.” I look at Lisa in horror. “Whose side are you on?” I notice that even Trish gives her a warning look, a look that says, shut the hell up; now is neither the time nor the place.
“I’m sorry, Ellie.” Lisa is contrite. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to help.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I understand. Anyway, the last people I need to think about now are my in-laws. Or ex-in-laws.”
“Out-laws, you mean,” says Trish. And I smile.
“Out-laws, then. But what matters most is Tom. He needs to know that he’s still loved and safe.”
“Do you think he’ll realize what’s going on?” Trish looks concerned.
I nod, sadly. “I’m sure he will, but frankly Dan’s hardly been around. It’s not like he’s suddenly losing this amazing father who was with him all the time. He only really saw Tom on the weekends, and as I said, he’ll probably still see him then anyway.”
“I have to tell you,” Lisa says, “as a single mother, it’s bloody difficult but not impossible. There will be times when you’ll be completely exhausted, when you’ll want to scream with frustration, cry with the loneliness and responsibility of it all, but those moments always pass, and you’re strong, you’ll be absolutely fine. At the end of the day those little monkeys”—she stops and leans down to kiss Amy—“are worth it. You’re absolutely right, they need to feel loved, and safe and secure, and I think far better to have one happy parent who makes them feel that way than to grow up in a household with two parents who are always arguing, who clearly should never have stayed together.”
She’s right. I look at her in amazement, suddenly realizing that the uncomfortable feeling I haven’t been able to shake since Dan left last night is guilt. Guilt about Tom. What gave me the right to deprive Tom of growing up with two parents, a mother and a father? What gave me the right to deprive Tom of a happy family?
Lisa has just given me a huge sense of clarity, because of course we weren’t a happy family. Tom was never going to grow up in the family that I had always dreamed of providing for my child, not when our house was always filled with rows, and accusations, and silences.
Far better for us to be on our own, to be able to fill the house with nothing but friends, and love, and laughter.
For the first time since last night I start to see that there might be a light at the end of the tunnel after all. This may be a terrible thing to happen, but it’s not the worst thing ever to happen to me, and, as I learned when I was thirteen years old, it may feel like the end of the world when it’s happening, but everything passes, and everything gets better.
“Thank you, Lisa.” I get up and spontaneously hug her. “Thank you for saying that. You have no idea how much better you’ve made me feel.”
“It’s okay,” she says, hugging me tightly and smiling. “That’s what friends are for.”
Dan phones on Friday morning. It’s a shock to hear his voice. So familiar and so distant at the same time. My heart pounds as soon as I hear him. Nerves. Anxiety. Loss. And hope.
Because, while I know it’s over, while I’m relieved there’s finally an end to the rows, the hatred, the horrible atmosphere in the flat, hearing his voice makes me think of the early days, of the days when we were happy, when I just loved him so much, and for a few seconds I find myself hoping he’s phoning for a reconciliation.
Oh, God, Ellie. Could you be any more fickle?
I wait to hear what he’s going to say, knowing he’ll want to talk, expecting him to break down, but there’s almost no emotion when he speaks. Short. Succinct. To the point.
“How’s Tom?”
“He’s doing fine. Lovely.”
“Good. I miss him.”
“I know. I’m sure.”
“Ellie. We need to talk.” There, he said it. I knew it. He wants to find a way of working this out. I steel myself to tell him it’s too soon, I’m not ready to try again, still need some more space, but before I can speak he continues. “There’s still a load of stuff I need from the flat, and we need to talk about Tom, find a way of working this out between us. I know we talked about my seeing him on weekends, but I was thinking about maybe taking an afternoon off during the week as well, seeing him during the week too.”
“Oh.” My voice is flat. This, I didn’t expect.
“I thought perhaps I could come over this afternoon to pick up some of my stuff and we could talk.”
“Sure,” I say, looking at my watch. “About four?”
“Fine,” he says, his voice still cool, detached. “See you then. Bye.”
I’m surprised that I’m shaking slightly as I put down the phone.
It doesn’t get easier. I am as nervous today as I was on our first date. Actually, that’s a lie. I wasn’t nervous on our first date at all. I fell in love with Dan precisely because I wasn’t nervous, because I’d never felt so relaxed with anyone, that it felt more like being with my best friend than with a date. I fell in love with him because when I was with him I felt as if I’d come home.
Today I am more than making up for my lack of nerves on our first date. I take Tom out for a walk and pause outside one of Primrose Hill’s trendiest and most expensive clothes shops. In the window is an amazing beaded cardigan. It’s soft, and cashmere, and clingy, and quite the most beautiful, and probably expensive, thing I’ve ever seen.
What am I doing?
On autopilot, I find myself going in, pointing to the cardigan and standing, a few minutes later, looking completely unlike myself. I smile at my reflection and the shop assistant smiles back. “It looks fantastic,” she says.
“I don’t look like me,” I say, turning to examine myself from the side, from behind. “It’s so beautiful. I’m just a mother.” I gesture to Tom, happily gurgling in his stroller. “I don’t get to wear things like this, not unless I want sick all down the sleeve within about five minutes.”
“You’ll wear it in the evenings,” she says, smiling, “after the baby’s gone to bed. And anyway, with a little one, that’s all the more reason to treat yourself.”
I twirl, hum, and ha and then gasp as I look at the price tag.
“Oh, treat yourself,” she says. “It’s very sexy. Your husband should come in and thank me.”
I don’t say anything. But a few minutes later I’m outside, carrying the treasured cardigan in a large shopping bag.
And a few shops down I find some beautiful high-heeled shoes, strappy mules, ridiculously impractical; I won’t ever wear them, can hardly even walk in them, and yet a few minutes later they’re added to my collection.
What am I doing?
Some new makeup, a pair of earrings, and finally Tom and I are home. I look at the clock: 3:15. Forty-five minutes in which to make myself mo
re beautiful than I have ever looked.
At 3:55 I’m finished. My new crystal earrings sparkle in the lamplight, my cardigan feels as soft as butter against my skin, giving me a waist I haven’t seen in months, and a cleavage that is rather spectacular, if I do say so myself. My heels give me a height and an elegance I haven’t felt since my wedding day, and I smile as I look at this new improved me smiling back.
What the hell am I doing?
I tear everything off, shove my old gray sweater back over my head, and run into the bathroom to wash off all the makeup. I’m being ridiculous. He’ll know I’m being ridiculous. And it’s not that I want to win him back, to make him change his mind, I just want him to know what he’s missing. I want him to feel some regret, because the Dan I spoke to earlier today sounded far too together for my liking.
I may not want him, but I want him to want me.
But how unfair, I realize, as I wipe the last of the lipstick off my lips. How childish, and silly, and selfish.
I look like me again, and it’s better this way. It’s better that I’m not trying to prove anything, not trying to play games, and now that it’s time, now that my watch says four o’clock, I start to feel horribly nervous.
It’s just Dan. It’s just my husband. How can my husband, the man who knows me better than anyone else on earth, make me feel so nervous?
The doorbell rings, and I start to feel slightly sick. He has a key. He’s always had a key. And I know he still has it and that he’s telling me this is real. This is not a game. Not something that’s going to be made better in a few hours, or a few days. He has a key but he’s not using it because this is no longer our house.
He has a key but he’s not using it because we are no longer a couple.
He has a key but he’s not using it because he no longer has any rights.
Oh, my God.
Like a sledgehammer it hits me and finally becomes real. My marriage is over. I am a single mother. I am a failure.