When we break apart, I see the scribbled-on map he’s been looking at and the sheet of notes beside it. ‘What’s that?’ I ask, feigning interest. Continuing to be the good wife in this wonderful moment.
‘Oh, I’m thinking of doing some outreach work. Voluntary stuff. With a charity or something. I’m not sure yet. Part of why I thought you might need the phone.’ His eyes dart sideways at me, but I smile.
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I say. ‘It really is.’
‘It means I might be out more. At the weekends and evenings. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.’
He’s talking in short phrases, and I know from this that he’s uncomfortable. You learn little tells in a long marriage.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I think it’s a very kind thing.’
‘You mean that?’
Now it’s his turn to be surprised. I’ve always liked him working as much as possible in the private sector. There’s a soothing sophistication about it, away from the grime and grit of hard living. I’ve pushed him for a Harley Street practice, where he belongs. Where there will be more time for us. He is brilliant. Everyone says so. He always has been, and he should be at the very top. But this suits me. It will suit both of us.
‘I was thinking of doing some redecorating anyway. It will be easier without you under my feet.’ I smile, making sure he knows I’m teasing. I don’t suggest that I get a job. Where would I start anyway? I haven’t had one in years and I certainly wouldn’t get a reference from there.
‘You’re a good man, David,’ I say, even though it’s hard and feels like a lie. ‘You really are.’
The atmosphere stills then, a momentary heaviness in the room, and we both feel the past cement itself between us once more.
‘I’ll go and take one of these then,’ I say. ‘Leave you to it.’ I keep my smile up as I leave, pretending not to notice the sudden awkwardness, but even with the pills I have no intention of taking in one hand, I have a renewed spring in my step. A phone and a credit card. Today is like Christmas.
9
LOUISE
By Sunday afternoon I’ve given up all hope of my ‘liberating me me me weekend’ and am just clock-watching until Adam comes home. I had a drink with Sophie after work on Friday and made her laugh some more over bossgate as she calls it, although I could see she was relieved that nothing more had happened. Don’t shit on your own doorstep, is what she’d said. I almost pointed out that she was always sleeping with Jay’s friends or clients, but decided against it. Anyway, she couldn’t stay out for long, and after two glasses of wine I was happy to say goodbye. Her amusement at my situation was becoming tiring.
The thing with couples is that even if they’re not as smug as singles think they are, they do fall into that groove in life where they only really do things with other couples. No one wants a spare wheel hanging around and upsetting the even numbers. I remember it. Ian and I used to be like that. And as you get older everyone is married anyway, and those who aren’t are frantically dating in order to fit back into the mould. Sometimes it seems like everyone but me is paired up.
On Saturday I did the housework, playing the radio loud and trying to make it feel like fun rather than drudgery, and then watched TV, ordered in a pizza, and drank wine and smoked too much, and then hated myself for my excesses. What had sounded so decadent when I had planned it felt pathetic living it out.
My resolve not to think about David had failed too. What had they done this weekend? Played tennis? Sat in their no doubt perfect garden sipping cocktails and laughing together? Had he thought about me at all? Was there any reason to? Maybe he was having problems in his marriage. The thoughts had been going around and around while I half-watched TV and drank too much wine. I needed to forget about him, but it was easier said than done. I sleepwalked on both nights, finding myself standing in the kitchen with the cold tap running in the sink, scarily close to the balcony door, at four a.m. on Sunday morning. I end up laying in until ten, eating the last dregs of leftover pizza for breakfast, and then forcing myself to Morrisons for the weekly shop before sitting and waiting for Adam to come home and fill the flat with life.
Adam finally gets back at just gone seven. I have to stop myself from running to the door, and when he races in past me like a whirlwind, my heart leaps at the noise and the energy. He exhausts me at times, but he’s my perfect boy.
‘No playing,’ I say, as he wraps around my legs. ‘Go and run your bath, it’s nearly bedtime.’ He rolls his eyes and groans, but trudges off towards the bathroom.
‘Bye son.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ Adam shouts, his backpack barely across his shoulder as he holds a plastic dinosaur up high, ‘see you next week!’
‘Next week?’ I’m confused, and Ian looks down, giving me a brief glimpse of his growing bald spot. He waits until our son is out of earshot.