‘You’re laughing,’ Cassie says, as we sit together in a café in London. ‘You’re feeling better, I can tell.’
‘Am I? Maybe I’m just getting used to my new life as a single, middle-aged woman.’
‘You’re free now,’ she says, moving towards me in her seat. ‘You can go and shag whoever you like and there’s nothing to feel guilty about. I’m jealous.’
‘I don’t know why – you shag whoever you want and I don’t think you’ve a guilty bone in your body,’ I tell her, moving to take another bite of cake. ‘There are two kinds of people, the ones who can lie without it affecting their lives and the ones who can’t. You’re just like him,’ I add between mouthfuls.
‘Oh, now that’s a dig.’ Cassie shakes back her dark hair, just like she used to when she was a little girl. ‘Please don’t compare me to Simon, the love of your life, or the shag of your life. Let’s face it, if you were with him night and day he’d drive you mad and then you’d be the one he was cheating on. When the mistress becomes the wife, there’s a vacancy.’
‘She’s not his wife. Maybe she turns a blind eye,’ I mutter. ‘How could she not? But why does she stay?’
‘Because they love each other, and it’s easier than leaving.’ Cassie looks me directly in the eye, sipping her coffee. ‘Men like that are weak,’ she states. ‘And selfish. I know you don’t want to hear it, but you need to. Everything in your so-called relationship has always been about him, on his time frame. He didn’t even call you on your birthday. I’m sorry, Zara, but don’t you think it’s time to turn things around?’
‘He told me he might be separating from her. He’s unhappy, he needs me.’
‘Zara, what’s important is what makes you happy.’
I text Simon to remind him that I’m here, the way I usually do, but the reply is not what I expect.
‘I’m a married man now. I can’t do this anymore.’
I feel sick to the stomach. It takes me a moment to absorb what I’m reading.
‘What? You didn’t tell me you were getting married. I thought you were splitting up? That the relationship was over? That’s what you told me.’ My hands are shaking.
‘I didn’t know then. It all happened rather quickly.’
‘What, in the last three weeks? Did she drag you down the aisle? How could you keep texting me and say nothing? Do I really mean that little to you?’
I’m furious; I feel so betrayed. We text back and forth rapidly, Cassie interjecting with what she thinks I should say.
‘Let’s meet,’ he texts. ‘We need to talk.’
But I realise the only reason he wants to meet me is because he’s scared I’ll say something to his new wife.
‘I don’t want to see you again.’ I’m crying hard, I’m so embarrassed.
‘Stop being so dramatic, Zara,’ he texts. ‘I never promised you anything.’
He’s trying to control me, but I stand firm. The truth is he never cared about me. For him it’s only ever been about sex. I’m reeling. I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face, woken from a stupid, stupid dream. Why had I allowed myself to be treated this way? Was this all I deserved? I feel betrayed, not just by him but also by myself. He keeps texting, asking to meet me, but I don’t respond – I can’t let him see me this way.
I can’t do anything that evening. Cassie lets me sit on her bedroom floor and cry, comforting me as best she can. I cancel my plans, and as I go back to my cousin’s house where I’m staying, I say nothing to them. As I lie in bed that evening in their attic room, I’m a little surprised that mingled in with my sadness is a sense of relief: it was over. Simon had done what I probably never could have.
I deserved much more, didn’t I?
Part of me can’t believe it. I call Terry and he lets me sob until I have no more tears left in me. But as I learned so many years ago when I first got sober, it’s never too late to start over. Finally, I close my eyes. I’m dreaming again. This time I’m in a shop, walking up and down each aisle, looking at shoes, boxes and boxes of endless shoes. It takes me a moment to recognise that they are all my mother’s shoes. I touch them gently, lifting each one. I notice the shape of her foot still imprinted in those familiar shoes, some that she had kept for many years.
I hold a soft leather shoe, one that I had played dressing up in as a child – it used to be so big on me. I lay it alongside my foot, but they were now too small. My feet had been larger than my mother’s since I became a teenager. Our bodies were different in every way. Confused, I keep walking, touching the shoes. Then I stop, and I’m standing by the dressy shoes that she wore to my wedding, a light pink satin with jewels. How she loved those shoes. How she had loved choosing her dress, so excited her daughter was finally getting married, that she was finally doing something normal.
I hold the shoe against me, rubbing the satin between my fingers. What would she think now? That the wedding had been a waste of money and a waste of time.
‘Excuse me, Madam,’ A woman’s voice is behind me. ‘Can I help you with something?’
‘Oh, it’s okay, I’m just looking,’ I say, not turning round.
‘Let me know if you need anything. I’m always here, you know.’
That voice, that high lilting voice… Turning slowly, I see the back of the lady, the pink glistening mother of the bride dress, her coiffed grey hair.
* * *
Cassie comes to see me the next morning.
‘The Queen has arisen,’ she smirks. ‘Your hair looks awful, you need to get your roots done. I didn’t know you were so grey.’
‘Fuck off!’ I reply.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
I’m sitting on my cousin’s bedroom floor, holding a box that I had taken from my Dad’s. Sitting down beside me, she looks in the box and pulls out a book. She reads the title: ‘The Library of Inspiration: A Collection of the World’s Greatest Literature.’
‘They were from my dad,’ I explain. ‘When I was about fourteen, he had gone out shopping and came back with books. We were standing in the kitchen when he said, “Zara, I have something for you.” I was stunned. It wasn’t my birthday, he’d just bought them for me because he knew I liked poetry.’ I pause for a moment. ‘He had never bought me a present before that wasn’t for my birthday or Christmas. I felt so touched that he thought of me when he was out, I’ve never been able to part with those books. He never ever did it again, just that one time.’
‘Oh, your generous father! He should have showered his little girl with gifts.’
I smile grimly.
‘Simon never bought me a present. He thought if he did, it meant we were really having an affair.’
‘What did he think you were doing?’
‘Who knows?’ I begin to cry again, and then laugh at the absurdity of it all.
‘We should sit photos of them side by side,’ Cassie says. ‘And place them high on your shelf. Those two tight-fisted men can keep each other company, to remind you of the little crumbs of love they signify.’
* * *
I head over to see my father in his little flat and knock loudly on the door. He doesn’t hear me; the TV is at its usually deafening volume. The door is unlocked so I enter. I’m relieved that he’s there.
‘Oh, hello.’ He smiles up at me, his frame appearing small in the large leather chair where he always sits. ‘I didn’t hear you. Just a minute…’
It’s warm in London, almost summer.
‘Dad, do you still have the heat on?’ I’m sitting next to the radiator. ‘No wonder you’re sweating so much. Wouldn’t you feel better if you turn it down?’
‘Don’t touch the heat!’ he yells. ‘Leave it alone.’
I feel myself recoil, as I always do when he raises his voice. He has mellowed with age, but still has his moments of anger. We sit silently for a moment.
‘Make us a cup of tea?’ he asks, gently this time.
We spend the afternoon talking about nothing in particular, the usual surface-level conversations. His back is bent and twisted as he tries to heave himself out of the chair to go to the bathroom, a walker now needed for every move. My strange, distant father is now so vulnerable. It’s hard for me to watch. Now that his body has begun to let him down, he can no longer hide his emotional fragility. It’s his turn to panic, reaching out to me like a child as he approaches the end of his life.
I have a clear choice: I could punish him for his past behaviour, or be there for the person he is now. Now though, I feel compassion for this man, although he has caused me more hurt than he can ever imagine. I know he has no idea of the effects his behaviour has had on me. I always longed for the impossible. Despite everything, I still want him to act like a father.
‘If you like, I could take you out to dinner one night, Dad?’ I hear myself say gently.
‘We’ll see. I’m not sure I want to go out.’
‘Have you been downstairs to join in any of the entertainment? They have a quiz night and music.’
I straighten out his papers as I talk.
‘Not much – they’re full of old people who never speak,’ he grumbles. ‘But I did meet a new friend.’
‘I’m so glad you gave it a try, you might enjoy yourself.’
He makes a face like a child.
‘You might need to be the one to start the conversation. You always let Mum do the talking.’
‘I didn’t let your mother do the talking,’ he replies, finally a small smile on his face. ‘She wouldn’t stop talking, and no one could have made her. Maybe if she had met the Queen she would have been quiet, although I’m not sure about that.’
I laugh.
My mother’s face is looking at us both from a photo on the side table. I pick it up.
‘Dad, I love this picture. It really captures her personality. You can almost hear her laughing, can’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He smiles wistfully. ‘I miss talking to her, Zara. Sometimes I still chat to her while I’m watching television. I miss her so much.’ He turns back towards the TV.
‘Go downstairs and find some company, Dad. It will be good for you. Other people here have lost their spouses. It might make you feel better to talk about it.’
‘Okay, Zara,’ he says to my surprise. ‘I will… Soon.’