It’s a steep incline to my in-laws’ and the hottest of days. I’m wobbling along in heels, carrying a bouquet of lilies and every so often I glance back over my shoulder, scared we’re being followed. Since Ellis’s message three days ago, I’ve been checking my phone incessantly, looking all around me whenever I leave the house, sleeping fitfully.
I didn’t expect a romantic anniversary stroll, but we’re going way too fast, Fred several strides ahead of me, carrying a Tupperware tub of salad, which will be well shaken by now. And then a cat jumps onto the wall beside me and I give such a start, gasping, that I almost drop the flowers.
I rest a moment, catching my breath. “Wait, please,” I say, tugging my dress straight. I shouldn’t have worn black, the sun’s rays soaking into it; nor high heels, but I wanted to feel smart, in control.
He stops, but doesn’t look at me. “What?” Impatience in his voice as though I’m a real drag.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do—go to your parents’?”
“You said you were fine with it,” he replies.
“Well, that was before you left me a note about divorce lawyers.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted, Gabby,” he says, gazing up at the sky, bored.
“It is. But isn’t it all a bit sudden?”
“Again, that’s what you said you wanted. In fact, I think your exact words were ‘as soon as possible.’ I’m just following orders, like I’ve always done.”
I feel my cheeks burn. “You call cheating on me following orders?” I shake the lilies slightly at him, pollen spilling. They signify purity and innocence, which is why they’re popular at weddings, so the florist told me. The irony wasn’t wasted on me.
He sighs, glancing at his watch. “I’m not arguing with you. We’re late.”
“I’m sure your mom can spare us a few minutes.” I shift my weight, my shoes pinching my toes. There’s a dusting of pollen on my sleeve, which I try to rub off, only making it worse. I don’t know why I agreed to come today. I don’t know what Monique’s intending and should have established that first.
But I’m used to going with the flow, accommodating everyone else’s needs. Which is why trying to change direction is going to be so difficult for me now.
“So they know everything?” I ask, trying not to make my voice small, but it happens anyway.
He turns to look at me then, worried I’ll start crying. “Not really.”
“But your note? You said—”
“I had coffee with Mom yesterday. You sounded determined, so I wanted advice.” His face takes on a pinched look, as though he’s the victim here.
“I see.”
He didn’t waste any time getting them on board then.
“They won’t take sides,” he says. “Which is why Mom still wants to do this lunch—to keep things as civil as possible.”
“You think sausage rolls are going to do that?”
“Don’t be a child.” He turns away, starts walking again.
“I’m not going in there,” I call after him. “Not until you tell me exactly what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on, Gabby,” he says, turning round, his nose creasing in irritation. Some people might have missed it, but I don’t—know every line on his face, and its purpose. “You won’t listen to reason. You’re paranoid about me cheating because you never forgave me for before. Even though…”
“Even though what?”
He hesitates, looking down at his feet. Brown leather sneakers, the sort that could pass for shoes. All the graphic designers wear them at Pixel8D. He’s part of a trendy set of middle-agers who dress like twenty-year-olds. How did I not notice this before, or realize what it meant?
“Well, Mom thought you were…distracted at the time, depressed.”
“She knows about Daisy?” My mouth falls open, as something else occurs. “Wait, did she know about it back then?”
“Yes.”
“But she never said anything.” I set the flowers down on the wall, humiliation drying my mouth, the start of a headache pulsing my temples. “Why didn’t she say something? I could have used the support.”
He smiles ever so faintly. “I guess because I’m her son.”
Whereas you have no one, Gabby.
This was what Monique meant the other day about me not having a sense of belonging. She didn’t really mean that though; she meant family.
“So she blamed me?”
He shakes his head as though he is wise and I am not. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m not getting into this now. It’s rude. My parents have—”
“I’m not setting one foot inside that house unless you tell me.”
He turns on his heel, waving the Tupperware salad that I painstakingly prepared. “Then I guess you’re going to have to go home.” And then striding up the path, he turns the corner, disappearing from sight.
Sitting down on the wall, I knit my fingers together, wondering what to do. Too much information in one shot, or maybe too little. I feel overwhelmed, undermined, don’t know what to focus on.
It takes me ten minutes of watching bees on the overhanging buddleia to decide. I’m not going to skulk off, as though I’ve done something wrong. I will show my face and if things take a turn for the worse, I’ll politely excuse myself and go home to cry where they can’t see me.
Their front door is ajar, waiting for me. “Hello?” I call.
My tummy shifts nervously, and then there’s a fluttering noise as Monique appears in the doorway, wearing a bouffant crepe skirt. “Quick, come with me,” she says, installing me on a kitchen chair, handing me a glass of champagne. “The men are in the garden. We’ve only got a few minutes… Cheers.” And she clinks her glass against mine.
I’m always docile around Monique, do as I’m told. She takes a seat at the table opposite me and I study the hazel ambiguity of her eyes, the beetroot tint to her lips.
“Fred and I had a frank conversation this week,” she says. “I know he cheated on you with that girl and I’m very sorry that I never said anything. Because maybe with my support, you wouldn’t be where you are now.”
I don’t know if that’s true, whether her input would have changed anything. But I nod. “That’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t, but I didn’t want to make things worse. I thought ignoring it would help it to go away. I knew he loved you, still does.”
Behind her, Fred appears in the French windows, making his way toward the pond with Len to feed the fish. I envy him the simplicity of his familial bonds, the unconditionality.
“This latest girl…” she says, reaching for my hand, setting it on mine “…it will all blow over. Wait and see.”
She means well and I’m thinking this is a brave talk for her to have with me, but something is troubling me. I glance around the kitchen, at the food platters covered in plastic wrap, the spotless surfaces. So neat and tidy, no one would think she’d been cooking in here all morning. And that’s when I realize how off everything is. “What do you mean: latest girl?”
There are so many things wrong with this; she sees it too, meeting my gaze, her pupils shrinking.
There have been others.
She knows about them, as well as this one.
Fred has told her there is someone, meaning that it must be serious.
She squeezes my hand. “He’s being very stupid, but he still loves you, Gabby, in his own way.”
“It’s not about that anymore, Monique. We’re past that point. It’s not about love now, but…”
“But what?” she says, examining my face, trying to read it before I speak.
I inhale, squeezing the stem of my glass. “Divorcing as amicably as possible, to protect the kids.”
“So it’s true, then. You want a divorce.”
“Yes.” I badly want a gulp of champagne too, but daren’t move. She’s watching me so closely.
“And there’s no hope of reconciliation?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Her shoulders sag and she recoils into herself. I’ve never seen her do that, but then I don’t think I’ve ever crushed her before.
Several moments of silence pass. I watch Fred and Len outside, tossing food flakes on the pond.
“Listen, this isn’t going to change anything between you and me,” she says. “I love Fred, that goes without saying, but I love you like a daughter and I will not lose you over this.” Her eyes brim with tears and then she blinks rapidly, jumping up, going to the oven as though the timer just went.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to lose her either. But if it’s a choice between our relationship or my personal well-being, then I choose the latter—have to.
“I’ll do everything I can to keep things the same between us, Monique. But you know it’s going to be difficult. Fred’s your own flesh and blood, and—”
“He’s a cheating dickwad who can’t keep his tackle zipped up,” she says, slamming a hot baking tray onto the counter.
I would laugh, but it’s not funny.
Outside, the men are strolling toward the house, lost in conversation. “This new girl…” I say hurriedly.
“She’s not new,” Monique replies, forking chipolatas out of the pan. “I said latest. This one’s been around for some time.”
“Really?” I frown fearfully. “He said that?”
“In so many words.” She sets the pan into the sink, runs the tap. “It was more of a hint than anything else.”
“So what made you think it would blow over?”
Sitting back down, she cocks her head ruefully. “Wishful thinking?”
We have about one minute until they’re here. They must have stopped on the patio, looking at Len’s clematis. “Have there been many others?” I ask.
She nods, sipping champagne, shuddering as though it’s sour. “Perhaps.”
“Many times?”
“Possibly, yes.” A mother’s way of saying dozens.
“And this latest one…is she called Paige?”
“Paige? I’m not sure,” she whispers, as the door handle goes. And then they’re with us and Len is kissing me hello as though I’m the one person in the world he’s happiest to see. And then Monique is smoothing Fred’s shirt, tugging it straight, and I realize in that one tiny action that she’s going to stand by him no matter what. The ties between us will be cut the moment he tells her to do so.
This is what I didn’t want to happen, this orphaning for a second time in my life. This was what I would have done anything to prevent, but it’s been taken from my hands.
As the three of them launch into a conversation about the neighbors, I have the strange feeling that I’m already a shadow—not in colored pen like them, but a pencil sketch who has already been erased.
Excusing myself, I slip through to the bathroom, standing there breathlessly as though the walls are about to narrow and squash me. This is all starting to feel very wrong. I only made up my mind last week to end our marriage, only just admitted it to myself. Why the sudden rush? It was supposed to be a slow operation, under my control, my instigation. He doesn’t get to choose what happens when. And yet that’s exactly what it feels as though he’s doing.
On my way back down the hallway, my phone pings a message and I know without looking that it’s from her. Returning to the bathroom, I close the door behind me, reading the text, holding my breath.
They don’t deserve you. Don’t waste your precious time.
I look all around me, even though I’m in this tiny room with frosted windows. She can’t possibly know I’m here? Did she follow me earlier?
Trying to think straight, my headache thickening, I ring her. But again, the line disconnects. I chew my thumbnail, my heart racing. Why does everything about her feel like a threat?
A sudden laugh from Monique makes me give a start. Turning to the mirror, I dab concealer under my eyes, trying to mask my insomnia, and then I return to the kitchen, my heels snagging on the carpet, reminding me of the gorse in my nightmares.
I wish I’d never met her. What have I got myself into?
“Oh, there you are!” Monique says, topping up my glass.
Picking up my champagne, I sip it, swallowing fear with the bubbles, thinking about the message hiding in my bag.
My precious time…
Is she saying it’s running out?