He must sense my eyes, because he looks up. We are separated only by the window. He smiles. But the smile is different: distant. For a second or two my feet slow down and I think, Oh my gosh! I can’t go in!
Walking here, I’d had it sorted. We’d take the baby at weekends – give Lisa a chance to find another man. We’d buy that house we’d been planning to buy, the one we had never quite found. Dylan would have his own room, of course, and a special set of clothes that he’d keep at ours. There’d be another room for when we adopted – maybe a little boy from Syria or somewhere; a child who would make Dylan realise how lucky he was. Maybe Dylan would even help us find him when he got a bit older.
Justin looks at me again, as if to say, Why are you just standing there? So I walk to the entrance and go in, flooded with hope and dread. The bar is packed. I squeeze past bodies. A few men glance me over – how many times has this happened, too? I arrive at his table. He stands, kisses me cautiously on the cheek. As I pull out the chair, I have to catch my breath at the familiarity of it. It’s as though there never was a baby. Lisa is long in the past. It’s just us, meeting after work on a Friday, something I’ve looked forward to all day.
When we are seated, almost touching knees, he looks expectant, and I feel a confusing flurry of possibility again.
‘So . . . ?’ I say.
His gaze settles on my throat, on the small silver Tiffany starfish pendant he bought me for my birthday. I’d put it on this morning and hadn’t thought to take it off when I’d got his text.
‘How are you?’ he asks. He sounds like he genuinely needs to hear.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to talk about how I am. ‘If you lose any more weight you’ll disappear,’ I say, instead.
He holds my eyes. ‘Regular meals are a bit of a thing of the past.’
I am saved from adding anything by the arrival of the waitress. We order two apple martinis, as normal.
‘Can we have a bowl of spiced nuts?’ Justin asks the girl.
Our routine. The martinis – two of them each – would always be followed by dinner. ‘Why am I here?’ I ask. It might be direct, but I need putting out of my misery.
He sits back, and crosses his arms. His head tips back slightly. He sighs. Sally would have said he was being dramatic. I can’t help but think, For God’s sake, just be settled in your choice, now that you’ve made it – if you’ve made it!
Seeing him still looking like this – like he’s in emotional traction – I regret taking any pleasure in him not kissing Lisa. Life’s too precious for me to live it like my mother.
‘I really wanted to see you, Alice. I miss you, naturally, and I think of you so much, and I’m trying so hard to keep it all together . . .’
Sally would say, He’s playing the victim, when it’s you who is the victim! But in a way we are all victims.
‘Will you ever be able to forgive me?’ he asks. I’m sure this isn’t what he’s come here to say. ‘I know it’s insane for me to even hope that you ever could. I just can’t stand knowing how much I’ve hurt you.’
So I should forgive you to make you feel better? Or myself? ‘I’m not sure it’s something that requires forgiveness, Justin. It’s, well, it is what it is. That’s all.’ I hate that expression. But this one time it’s appropriate. Surprisingly, I feel no animosity toward him. I feel nothing. I stare out of the window at the rush-hour traffic sliding to a stop at the light.
‘I suppose, maybe I understand you, if that makes you feel any better. I understand why you did it. I mean, I think I do.’
He wipes a hand across his face. He looks as though he’s woken up from a long nap and hasn’t managed to pull himself together. Is he back to work now? Is he still sleeping in Lisa’s spare room? I remember what Evelyn said. You mustn’t care.
The waitress brings the drinks. She asks if we’re planning to order dinner, and Justin answers with a pretty straight-out no.
‘What’s been going on, then, in your life, lately?’ he asks when the girl leaves. The no is still echoing. He doesn’t even sound like himself. This isn’t something he says.
I imagine telling him about Evelyn, the gallery visits, the discovery of my real father: he would love this. It’s so odd to think he doesn’t already know about such a significant change in my life. The reality that I can’t really say any of this hits home with full force. We have passed the stage of sharing life’s dramas, great or small. I don’t want to do anything that will re-attach myself to him, now that I’m feeling a modicum of distance. So I tell him a bit about work, but it’s too strange to try to talk to him the way I always used to. Even casual conversation is a sore reminder for us.
‘How is Dylan?’ I ask.
I’d hoped he might look positive for a second, but instead he says, ‘He came through his surgery fairly well. But we still don’t know. He has another hospital appointment next week.’
If he knew I’d seen them . . . ‘Well, I will definitely keep my fingers crossed.’
‘Alice,’ he says quickly, so I know the real reason I am here is coming. ‘I wanted to tell you face to face. I’m looking into getting an annulment.’
He lets the word sit there for a moment, scrutinising me for my reaction. ‘This way, we don’t have to wait a year before we can divorce. If we both agree to it, it can take between six and eight months. But the grounds aren’t always straightforward, so I’m having to seek advice from a family lawyer to see if we qualify.’
Because I am so motionless, he says, ‘Are you following?’
I stare at him, blankly, then say, ‘Yes. I mean, I’m not sure. No – I don’t really understand. Why the rush?’ Because he wants to marry Lisa soon, to make it all neat and official?
‘There’s not a rush on my part. But I thought, perhaps . . . I thought you might want to be free sooner so you can . . .’