TOM WANTS A divorce. He told me so on the night we came home. It is such a stark thing that I can’t think about it without it seeming to be about someone else. I don’t understand how this can be the end when I still love him. I am bemused by how fast things have moved, how quickly our life has been dismantled. I can’t help thinking that some of it is Amber’s fault. I’m not making excuses for myself. I know I’ve behaved badly. But I could have come through this without catastrophe if Amber hadn’t known. I still want to give her the benefit of the doubt – she’s not herself, she’s under pressure, she’s unhappy, maybe even depressed – but I’m not blind and I can’t hide from the bald truth: that lately where she goes calamity follows. As long as she doesn’t tell Tom about Josh. I have to be cautious now that there’s custody to consider. At least Miriam and the dreaded Ian haven’t been in touch again. With any luck, I’m off their radar.
Ideally, Tom would have moved into the spare bedroom on his own but because it’s directly under the children’s bathroom and needs redecorating and a new carpet we have to put up with each other’s company at night for the time being. The house smells damp. I’ve put dehumidifiers in all three damaged rooms but our decorator reckons he won’t be able to start for a couple more weeks.
Because Tom’s asked me to, I make some calls and three sets of estate agents turn up to value the house. I can’t help dwelling on the fact that my desire for a new project – to make money – was what started it all. This is not what I had in mind and, leading the agents from room to room, seeing the lovely, lived-in house through their eyes, I remember Tom and me working on this place together in the time before Josh was born, when everything was easier and we were so hopeful and enthusiastic. Tom stripping varnish off the banisters with the radio blasting rock music and Emily corralled in a playpen on a dusty floor, asking endless questions.
‘What dat?’
‘It’s a screwdriver, Emily.’
‘What dat?’
I remember picking her up and standing her beside me while I undid the bottom screw of a door hinge and showing her the result.
‘Me!’ she shouted, grabbing at it.
I laughed and set her back amongst her toys. ‘When you’re bigger, I’ll get you one of your own.’
I have lunch with the children and watch an animated film and slowly, section by section, the day fills up with blocks of killed time. I give the kids an early supper, read them a story, and then kiss them goodnight and pour myself a glass of wine. This is not the motherhood of magazine articles. I should have baked with them, painted, made models out of lavatory rolls and cereal packets. Instead, I’ve spent the whole day outside myself, not engaging, doing the bare minimum; longing for them to be asleep. Their voices have barely registered, like bells in a faraway village.
Tom phones to say he’s meeting colleagues for an after-work drink and that I shouldn’t worry about supper for him. He also tells me that he’s found a rental flat that he can move into in a week’s time. I don’t get a chance to think about it until the children go to bed, and when I do, I can’t even cry.
‘Oh, Vicky,’ Mum says when I tell her the news.
I’m in our bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, bent over with one elbow resting on my knee, the other supporting a head that feels too heavy. I’ve been drinking alone, which is not like me. I choke up at the thought that I’ve disappointed her.
‘Tell me what to do.’
‘I’m not exactly an expert, lovely.’ She hesitates. ‘I could have the children for a day or two, if that would help.’
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. ‘It would. It really would. Just for a couple of nights, so we can talk things over properly. I’ll bring them down.’
‘No, don’t be silly. I’ll come and get them.’
‘Don’t you have guests?’
‘Yes, a full house.’
‘Then don’t. It’s too much. Or at least, don’t have Josh.’
‘It isn’t too much, and I will have Josh. Maureen can help. She’s always round here anyway, and Emily is old enough to give me a hand with the other two. She can do the breakfasts. We’ll be fine.’
‘Well, I am truly grateful. You are a saint.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve never been that.’
Mum is as good as her word and drives up to London the next morning to pick up the children. Tom has taken the day off work and he and I hug Polly and Emily, kiss Josh’s fat cheeks and wave them off. Then I take a damp cloth to the kitchen table and wipe spirals on it; taking my tension out on ancient stains.
‘You’re going to rub a hole in it if you carry on like that.’
Tom says it without anger, which is worse somehow. It feels like he’s moving on already. I read real concern in his eyes. For my sanity maybe, or for my unhappiness. He can’t help being kind even when he isn’t.
That evening we order a takeaway curry and supper arrives, hot and fragrant, twenty minutes later. I’ve warmed the plates in the oven and laid the table. We don’t say much at first but I can’t stand silences, so I put down my knife and fork and wait for him to notice I’m not eating.
It doesn’t take long. He raises his eyebrows.
I launch into a speech, the words sounding rehearsed, because they are. ‘I know you don’t think there’s anything left to say, but I do. I’ve agreed to a divorce but I want you to know that it is the last thing I want. I love you very much, and I love my family and I think you’re overreacting. We need time to let this settle and see how we both really feel. I know you’re angry and hurt and that I’m entirely to blame, but why does it have to be so final?’
He waits, eats a mouthful then says, ‘Are you finished?’
I nod, my eyes glued to his face.
He drinks some wine and puts down his glass, twists it with his long fingers. ‘We’ve known each other a long time.’
‘Yes, we have. I—’
He holds up his fork and I shut my mouth. ‘We were barely out of school when we met. You were my first really serious relationship. I always assumed I’d have lots of girlfriends. My dad even joked about me sowing my wild oats. That was the expectation. My expectation. I never expected to meet someone at twenty-one and spend the rest of my life with her.’
I pull my mouth into a semblance of a smile. The reaction from friends when we announced my pregnancy was not one of unmitigated joy. They split pretty much into two camps: those who genuinely did wish the best for us and crossed their fingers, and those who thought that I had ruined Tom’s life, scuppered his future, put a spanner in his works. I did think at the time: well, what about me?