At around nine o’clock, long after Frankie had got back from Hylands and a while after she’d spent all afternoon not watching Wimbledon, she did something she’d made herself not do, ever since she and Rob had split: she looked at their wedding album.
On the first page was a large picture of Rob outside the church. He looked nervous, cheeky, expectant. There was one of him and his sister, Beth, his arm round her shoulders. They were both grinning from ear to ear. He looked excited. Beth had told her that Rob had been ready super early that day. Really early for him. He hadn’t drunk a drop the night before either, she’d been told, or eaten a kebab, like the others had. He’d wanted to be fresh for the day, he’d kept saying. Beth said all his mates had teased him for it, trying to get him to have a beer, but he’d refused. ‘No, not tonight,’ he’d said, apparently.
Frankie was excited too – she’d arrived ten minutes too early, and had to go round the block twice as she could see some of their friends, animated and laughing, still making their way into the church. Even when she’d finally told the car to stop, one minute after 2p.m., there were still a couple of stragglers making their way in. Everyone had been so on form, so happy. There were photos of some of their friends, outside the church before she’d turned up, taken with Rob. There was a funny one of someone doing bunny ears, behind Rob’s head. Then there were photos of her, in her dress, with her dad. She’d worn a huge meringue, in the palest of pale pinks, her hair pinned up into waves. She’d looked gorgeous; everyone had said so.
She turned the next page and smiled. She and Rob were coming down the aisle, after signing the register. With tears springing to her eyes, she remembered how Rob had practically marched her down there, laughing, as though he couldn’t wait to get her outside, into the sunshine and the pealing bells and the confetti, so they could begin their married life.
She looked at the photos again, slowly, from beginning to end, and she cried and cried and cried. For the people they’d been. For the people they were now. And for the huge gulf and four beautiful children that sat between the two.
After two hours of crying, her nose was red raw from being blown into less than soft kitchen roll and her eyes felt like onions. She lay on the sofa, slippers on, despite the heat. Every time she stopped and thought, enough now, she started bawling again. But she still didn’t know what she wanted. She thought she wanted him back. But she was terrified that having him come home would set them on the same road again – just slightly further back. Before they knew it, they would reach the exact same point again – the point where she’d had enough of it all and kicked him out.
She reckoned she could easily spend the entire night this way. Thinking and crying. Crying and thinking. She was just entering another ready bout of sobbing when her mobile phone rang. It was Rob. She sniffed a giant sniff and tested out her voice, ridiculously saying, ‘Hello, hello,’ into the silent living room, to make sure her voice wasn’t too wavery or croaky. Then, she pressed the green phone symbol and said it to him.
‘Hello?’
‘Frankie. Hi. It’s Rob. Tilly’s not well. I don’t know if it’s an A and E job or not but if it is I can’t go because the others are all asleep.’
‘A and E!’ Frankie sat up and one of her slippers fell off. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. But she’s all feverish. Burning hot, all shivery. I’m pretty worried.’
‘Have you given her the pink paracetamol stuff?’
‘Yes, but it’s not doing anything yet. It was half an hour ago. Can you please come over, Frankie. I’m sure it’s not anything serious, but I’m beginning to panic a bit.’
‘Oh God,’ said Frankie. ‘Yes. I’m coming over. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’ She grabbed a jacket and her keys, changed her slippers for flip-flops and flew out of the front door.
When she got to Rob’s flat, he was pale and couldn’t muster a smile.
‘How’s she doing? She any better?’
‘I think so. I’m not sure. Come and have a look.’
Tilly was lying on Rob’s brown leather sofa, on a cotton sheet that he must have laid there for her. She was in her One Direction pyjamas and was fast asleep. Frankie placed a hand to her forehead. She felt hot and her face was all flushed.
‘Have you called the NHS number, whatever it is these days?’
‘No, I hadn’t thought of that. That was always your – ’
‘Department?’ She smiled ruefully. ‘What’s her temperature?’
‘Thirty-seven.’
‘That’s fine then. Normal.’ She had a sudden thought. ‘Have you checked her for spots?’
‘Spots?’
‘Chicken pox.’
Tilly was the only one who’d never had it; the others all had. Frankie had even taken her to a chicken pox party when she was two – they were all the rage at the time – and Tilly still didn’t get it.
Frankie gently pulled up the bottom of her daughter’s pyjama top. There, on her tummy, was a smattering of the tell-tale, irregular-shaped spots, just emerging.
‘I’m sure that’s chicken pox,’ she said, with a sigh of relief. ‘I know it well.’ She did. She’d been the one to nurse the other three children through it: running tepid baths, applying cold flannels, giving them lectures on not scratching and scars. Rob hadn’t been involved. ‘I’m sure the paracetamol will kick in soon. Keep a note of the time you gave it to her. It’s every four hours. You can wake her, even through the night, to keep her dosed up. Or,’ she said. ‘I can take her home with me.’ She wanted to. She wanted to take Tilly home with her.
‘I don’t think we should disturb her,’ said Rob. ‘She’s out for the count. Can you stay, Frankie? Stay with me, to look after her?’
There was only one answer. ‘Okay,’ Frankie said. ‘I’ll stay.’
He put the kettle on, then they sat on the floor in front of the sofa, and the telly, which had some old comedy show on, turned down low. They talked in low voices. They talked and talked. About Tilly. About all the children, in turn, how they were doing at school, the wonderful and funny things they said, how they were growing up so fast. Then they started talking about TV programmes they used to watch together but had watched separately over the last few months, until Rob looked at Frankie and said, ‘I don’t blame you for chucking me out. I was awful, Frankie, I’m sorry.’
‘You were,’ she said.
‘I know.’ He nodded. ‘I was a lazy, self-centred, unappreciative git.’
‘Yes, that pretty much sums it up.’
‘Okay, enough about me…’ he joked. ‘I’m trying here. I want to try and make things right. I think I can change, if we got back together…’
Rob straightened his back and his eyes, which had been blinking sleepily, focused on hers. She hadn’t looked into his eyes for a long time. She’d forgotten what nice eyes they were. ‘I really want us to get back together, Franks. If you want to, that is. Would you consider it?’
Frankie sat up too. She realised she was shaking. It took her by surprise. ‘If we do, you have to change. In a lot of ways.’
‘I will, Frankie, I promise.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I really need you to know, that as awful as it was, it wasn’t a mistake – me kicking you out like that. It was the opposite of a mistake.’ Rob lowered his head and stared at the floor. ‘I know it’s really hurt you,’ she continued, ‘but I needed this to happen. I needed to be on my own.’
‘You needed to get rid of me.’
‘I did.’
‘As bad as it’s been,’ said Rob, looking up, ‘and it was really bad, in the beginning. I was so angry with you – my own fault, I know, I know,’ he said, holding his hands up, ‘it’s been good for us. I hated you at first, really hated you. Then I came to realise, it was me I hated. What I’d become. The lazy so-and-so I’d become.’ He leant back and sighed. ‘You know, I felt like I’d never been a proper father to them, until I had them on my own. That first weekend I had them, bloody hell, it was hard, but I realised that’s what it’s like for you, all the time. That first weekend I became their father.’
Frankie nodded.
‘Then I wanted to show you that I could do it – that I could scrub up, shape up, look after them properly and without complaining. That I could keep somewhere clean and tidy, do the washing and the ironing and all that stuff.’
‘I’m glad you got to experience how mind-numbing all that stuff is. I saw your Monica cupboard, by the way.’
‘Did you? Oh God! I wanted to create a good impression. I’m afraid it did involve shoving a load of junk in there ten minutes before you turned up!’
‘Don’t beat yourself up. I do the same, in a multitude of cupboards, before mum and dad come over. You just never noticed. You didn’t have to.’
‘I’ll change,’ he repeated. ‘And I want to help the kids to change, too. To be better – we don’t want them growing up to be like me.’
‘No, we don’t,’ said Frankie. ‘Or to be too soft, like me. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. How they got so bad. You’ve been lazy and I think my own parents were so strict with me that I’ve completely gone the other way with the children. Over-compensated. Tried to be their friend, the best, most brilliant mum in the world. It’s back-fired, hasn’t it?’
‘It may have done. I think if we put in more rules and boundaries then we’ll all have a better time. Kids love boundaries; I heard it on the news the other day.’
‘Who knew?’ She laughed, but she felt hopeful. It sounded like Rob was finally ready to be a help not a hindrance. They could work on things together.
‘And I’ll get rid of the kit car.’
‘Really? You love Kit!’
‘Where can we go in it, unless we get a sidecar? It was a selfish pursuit, with a selfish end – me going off on my own. I don’t want to be on my own. I want to be with you.’ He locked eyes with her. She remembered the green fleck he had in his left eye. She hadn’t noticed it for a very long time. ‘Remember that day you came over here? I really wanted to ask you to come with us, to the museum. But I couldn’t, I wanted to make you see I could do it on my own.’ He ran a hand through his hair. He looked knackered. ‘You did look lovely that day, though.’
‘Did I?’
‘You always look lovely, Frankie. I should really have told you more often.’
‘You never told me at all, Rob.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He looked her right in the eye. ‘I promise I’ll bring some romance back into our lives. You deserve it. You’re still lovely, Frankie.’
Frankie gulped. She knew she looked terrible after all that crying earlier, but it obviously wasn’t bothering Rob. Blimey, this was bordering on romantic. There’d been no romantic moments with Rob for about fifteen years. She’d love romantic moments in her life again.
‘I love you,’ said Rob.
She got a funny feeling in her stomach. A feeling Rob hadn’t generated for aeons. She could see in his face that lad she’d met in The Ram, all those years before. He looked handsome, tender, earnest, and utterly delighted with her. Could they get it back, what they’d had before life got in the way?
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m bloody sure. I want to be with you.’ His face took on a hurt puppy look. ‘Frankie? Help me out here, for God’s sake!’
She’d enjoyed her time on her own, going it alone. She’d proved she could do it. She’d rediscovered her sense of fun and adventure. She’d even kissed another man.
It was now time to be part of a team again. On better terms.
‘And I want to be with you, Rob.’
His face relaxed; his eyes lit up. ‘You do? Really? Do you mean it?’
‘Yes, I mean it.’
‘So we can get back together? Can I come home?’
She’d loved being single. She was sorry she hadn’t managed it for a whole year. But she’d made her decision.
‘As long as you bring your new laundry skills with you, yes, you can come home.’
‘Thank God for that!’ said Rob and he sat, with his head down, and exhaled for what seemed like for ever. When he looked up he had tears in his eyes. ‘Come here.’ And he bundled her into a massive bear hug and held her so tightly stuffed into his neck she could hardly breathe. When he released her, he put his face close to hers and kissed her, in a way he’d done once upon a time. Way back when. It felt lovely. It felt like coming home. Then he put his arm round her and she nuzzled into his warm, familiar shoulder.
‘Were you on a date with that woman, that Jen?’ she suddenly said, pulling away from him slightly.
‘No, we’re just friends. But I like that you think I was.’ He grinned.
‘I don’t actually,’ she lied, sticking her tongue out. ‘Why would you be? She’s nowhere near as attractive as me.’
‘No, she’s not.’
‘And you’ve always hated Breton tops.’
He laughed. That way he laughed by throwing his head back and showing all his teeth. She’d missed that. ‘You’re terrible…’
‘Mariel,’ she added.
And he pulled her close to him again and they sat like that, in each other’s arms, for ages, and watched The Love Boat, which somebody had decided was just right for putting on telly at one in the morning.
They were back together, and everything was perfect.