Young Wives' Tales (49 page)

‘But this news of Lucy’s affair is just another example of how true love doesn’t exist and this whole search for the perfect man is just pointless,’I mutter, resentfully.

‘How come?’

‘When Peter left I justified his actions by telling myself that Lucy and Peter were one another’s soul-mates and oddly that helped me make sense of the hurt.’

‘You’d have been better cutting up his suits,’comments Susanne casually, as she takes a big gulp of the house white.

‘Do you think so?’

‘It seems more natural.’She leans across the table and fills up my wine glass.

‘Did you ever show Peter how angry you were with him?’asks Helen. She makes her enquiry sound nonchalant but I catch her eye and identify a steely determination. I wonder where this is leading. I think about her question.

‘No, I don’t think so. There were the boys to consider. Arguing in front of them wouldn’t have done them any good.’

‘I agree with you there. But perhaps having a good old barney when they were safely tucked up in bed, or better yet, staying with grandparents, well…you might have found that helpful,’she suggests.

I’m shocked. ‘In what way?’

‘It would have been therapeutic,’replies Helen.

‘Help you put things behind you,’adds Susanne.

‘Get a few things off your chest.’

‘Stop you feeling like a doormat.’

‘Help you let things go.’

They are a great double act. I’m lost for words. My friends think I need therapy. They think I’m a doormat. They think I haven’t let the past go, which is ridiculous because Peter and I broke up six years ago. Of course I’ve let go. OK, occasionally I refer to him as my husband, that’s just a slip of the tongue. Sometimes I
do find myself wondering what they are up to on a Sunday without me. But that’s natural. I don’t want him back. It’s just that –

‘You need some closure with Peter.’

I’m not sure whether it’s Helen or Susanne that says this. It hardly matters, it’s clear they speak as one. In fact they sound very like Connie and Daisy, Luke and Simon, my mother and the man at the corner shop. I consider how best to phrase my indignant response but Susanne doesn’t allow me the time to gather my thoughts or argument, she charges on.

‘Everyone can see it, Rose. It’s such a shame you are wasting so much time.’I want to object but she disarms me with a compliment. ‘Rose, you have so much love to give. It breaks my heart seeing it wasted.’

‘That’s why your sister and your friends put so much effort into trying to find you a new man or at least a new hobby. Something you could get passionate about, other than the past.’

‘But the men I dated were all hopeless,’I point out.

‘OK, so you met some dull guys, tight guys, guys with thin lips. Sadly there is a lot of flotsam and jetsam on the beach but then you met Craig and he was a pearl.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘I bet subconsciously you were quite pleased when in the middle of your successful date with Craig you discovered this news about your ex and his wife. It gave you an excuse to cut and run.’

‘My subconscious is not that complicated.
I’m
not that complicated,’I object.

‘We are all complicated, Rose.’

‘I’m homely and straightforward. I’m not self-destructive or complex.’

Helen and Susanne stare at me. I think I see pity in their faces.

We fall silent and sip our wine. I hope to God that is the conversation closed. I frantically search for something else to talk about but all I can think of is the scary possibility that they might be right.

‘Answer me one thing,’says Susanne. ‘If you hadn’t found out about Lucy’s affair that day at the wedding, would you have seen Craig again?’

‘Yes,’I reply hotly, then I pause and add, ‘probably.’

‘Maybe,’says Susanne; she looks sceptical. ‘Or maybe you’d have decided that the boys didn’t like you dating the headmaster, or perhaps you found it awkward at the school gate, or feasibly – on closer intimacy – you’d have found his laugh to be irritating. I’d bet my bottom dollar, Rose, you’d have found some excuse to finish it.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘You tell me. Because you like being alone? Because you still want Peter? Because you hate yourself so much that you think allowing your youth to seep away in an endless stream of missed possibilities is acceptable? I don’t know. I’m stumped.’

Her words are brutal, all the more so because the thoughts she’s articulating are ones that I have had. In
the dead of night when thoughts become fears and reason becomes elusive I have wondered the same things.

‘Maybe you secretly think the news of Lucy’s affair was pretty convenient for you. The first favour she’s done you,’concludes Susanne. She probably realizes that she’s said as much as I can take, because within the same breath she asks, ‘Now who wants pudding? The tiramisù is fabulous here.’

While Helen and Susanne think about which dessert they’d prefer I chew on their words. I feel sick with the possibility that Susanne has offered an insight so accurate that it feels like a violation. Is it unnatural to divorce in silence? I do often feel used or overlooked but have I ever said so? Even once? No, I haven’t. I always wear a cheery demeanour. Does Peter have any idea how much damage he caused? I doubt it. He’s unlikely to have given the situation much thought; besides, I do my best to reassure him constantly that everything is fine. I tell him that the boys are fine, that I’m fine, that him living round the corner to us is fine, that sending his daughter to my kids’school is fine. Well, it’s not fine. Not all of it. Not all of the time. It’s not my fault that Peter left but perhaps it is my fault that he doesn’t know how much suffering has occurred as a consequence.

Is it in my power to put a stop to my feelings of hurt and anger?

I’m amazed that my friends don’t want to know what I am going to do with my choice piece of gossip. They
don’t seem to care whether I plan to expose Lucy or not. It’s obvious that they don’t care about Peter and his domestics. They care about me. And Peter and his domestics have nothing to do with me. They haven’t for a long time.

Since the wedding reception I have been frantic and resentful. I have done nothing other than churn over the past and imagine glorious showdowns where I expose Lucy and devastate Peter. But in reality I have done nothing other than make a single snide comment to Lucy, in order to let her know that I know her torrid secret. Even then, I’m not certain she heard me. The truth is I am not sure what I want to do with this knowledge. Even in my wildest fantasies I never imagine my breaking up Peter and Lucy will mean that Peter will return to me. That would be ridiculous. A step too far and not what I want. So what do I want? As I spoon delicious light and creamy tiramisù into my mouth I consider everything Susanne and Helen have said. They are right about many, many things, but it strikes me that there’s one thing Susanne got completely wrong.

I could never imagine Craig’s laugh becoming irritating.

Barefoot children with teatowels on their heads scuttle past me at breakneck speed. I am tempted to yell, ‘No running in the corridors,’which terrifies me as it’s such a sensible and grown-up thought for me to have.

I pop my head around a classroom door and spot Mrs Foster, the teacher who directed me to Craig’s office back in September. She’s surrounded by a group of little girls wearing pillowcases tied at the waist with tinsel. She’s attaching wings and haloes and it’s clearly a tricky job, because the girls are phenomenally excited. They bounce and fidget; it’s a miracle there are not more casualties of safety-pin pricks. I wave to her across the sea of blonde heads and she beams back, recognizing me in an instant.

‘Ah, Mr Harding, Mr Walker’s pal. How lovely to see you again. Have you come to watch the nativity?’I nod. ‘You made a splendid job of the scenery. We’ve never had a more authentic backdrop.’

‘Glad to help. Have you seen Mr Walker?’

We are both doing that thing that adults do around
kids. We’re using titles and surnames in an attempt to trick the kids into thinking we command respect and might be in control.

‘He’s probably in the hall, greeting parents. We’re serving mince pies and mulled wine before the performance this year. We used to leave it until afterwards but we’ve discovered that if the parents have a little seasonal spirit inside them they are less likely to punch one another as they grapple for front row seats.’

I smile and turn, to set out to find Craig. I call over my shoulder. ‘Break a leg, Mrs Foster.’

The school hall is heaving. It’s frosty outside so the parents are all insulated with large coats, but the mums are keen to disrobe and reveal their new outfits, bought especially for the nativity performance. The fathers, therefore, are left balancing bulky coats, gloves, hats and scarves while the mothers daintily concentrate on balancing a paper plate with a mince pie and a paper cup of mulled wine. The parents are possibly even more excited than the tiny angels. The mothers are gleaming, chatty and slightly manic. They cannot wait to see their budding Robert De Niros and Nicole Kidmans pace the boards. The fathers catch each other’s glance and roll their eyes at one another in mock despair at their wives’enthusiasm but each one is armed with a camera and camcorder.

I can’t see Craig but I do spot Connie, almost instantly.

It’s like it always has been for the two of us. We are in a crowded room and somehow we pick one another
out, we are drawn to one another – maybe it’s an animal instinct that identifies attraction or danger. She turns to me in slow motion and then at comedy double speed she pushes through the crowd to stand face to face.

She launches in. ‘Well, I wish I could call this a nice surprise. I thought things were settled. I really didn’t expect to see you here. I didn’t really expect to see you
again
. You said you were going away. Well, there’s no alternative, I’m going to introduce you to Luke. I’m fed up of this skulking about. He’s right over there.’

I scan the crowd in the direction she is pointing. I am a little bit curious and interested in meeting Luke. If I had time I’d study the man, understand him and maybe even learn from him. But I don’t have time and there’s no point in upsetting his day by pushing my way into his consciousness this late in the game.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’

‘We’ve said goodbye.’

We have, not in so many words, but what’s not said is often valuable.

‘To Craig,’I add.

‘Oh, I see.’Connie is still and silent for a moment. ‘So you are going to Manchester?’

‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Good shops.’

‘Clean start.’I smile at her. She nods. She knows that besides saying see ya to Craig, I’m saying goodbye to us, it, whatever and all that.

‘Mr Walker was meeting and greeting the parents at the gate. I’m not sure if you’ll get to see him now
until after the play. You should stay and watch it. Fran is Mary.’She beams at me with unapologetic pride.

‘That’s only because I pulled strings,’I tell her.

‘You didn’t.’She looks aghast.

‘No, I didn’t. She got the part on the strength of her audition.’I can’t pee on the proud mum’s parade. It’s obvious that Connie is already imagining gracefully acknowledging her daughter’s thanks, as her daughter delivers her Oscar acceptance speech.

‘So when are you off?’

‘This afternoon. My work here is done.’

‘Was it a successful project?’she asks politely.

I wanted to get you to fall in love with me again but you didn’t, so no, not especially. I say this in my head. To Connie I reply, ‘Yes, unexpected outcome but very educational.’

She nods. Somebody jolts Connie’s arm and she nearly spills her mulled wine. We’re being squeezed closer and closer together, as more parents arrive and space is at a premium.

‘We never talked,’she says.

‘We never did anything other,’I reply.

She grins. ‘No. I mean really talked about the old days.’

I give in to the awful inevitability. I’ve been playing dodgeball for too long. I’m tired. ‘What is it you want to know?’

We fall silent, it seems like hours pass. I begin to wonder if I was right all along and talking between men and women is impossible. After an age Connie says, ‘It
doesn’t matter any more.’But she’s not accusing me. She’s not angry with me. She’s peaceful. We both know that the past is for learning from and letting go. You can’t revisit it. It vanishes.

‘Oh, except one thing. Do you know what went on between my friend Rose and Mr Walker? He must have done something really awful to upset her. She’s been acting so peculiarly since their date.’

‘She
is
peculiar,’I confirm. ‘She ditched him at the wedding. Without a word of warning. Just ran off.’

‘She did?’

‘She did. He was gutted.’

‘He was?’

‘Yes, he’s really into her. I don’t know, women.’I shrug.

‘We’re a mystery, aren’t we?’says Connie with a graceful smile. I can see that she’s no longer thinking about me but she’s consumed with curiosity and concern for her pal. ‘I’d better go. I want a good seat.’She leans towards me and kisses me on the cheek. ‘’Bye, John. Look after yourself.’

Then she melts into the crowd of twitchy, excited parents before I even have a chance to wink.

He left my life as easily and unobtrusively as he entered it, but he has had a profound effect on how I will choose to live from now onwards and he’ll never have any idea how much he affected me.

Joe Whitehead was laughingly easy to scare off. When Mick and I returned to the office, Mick called Joe into the boardroom and we faced him together. Coolly, calmly and courageously Mick stood in my corner and explained to Joe why we thought it would be better for Joe to resign that afternoon, rather than to force our hand and make us bring the whole sorry mess to Ralph’s attention, the attention of the HR department and perhaps the courts. Joe was brazen for only a minute or so. He insisted I’d enjoyed myself at the time.

‘I find that hard to believe,’said Mick. ‘And you are even more insane than I thought if you really believe it to be so.’