‘Grace Dunn.’ Her name sounds clearly through the hall. Over the heads of other parents, I watch my daughter as she mounts the steps to the podium to collect her philosophy degree. She makes her way back to her seat with composure, gliding across the floor, clutching that precious roll of paper to her chest. Her eyes scan the crowd, seeking us out. Leo and I put up our hands simultaneously and wave. She grins.
I’m proud of her, of the choices she’s made. She kept dancing, but now she’s set on working in the charity sector; she’s off to be a paid volunteer teaching in a school near Bangalore next month. She’s had a tattoo inked onto her shoulder of a large brown and yellow eagle, wings spread in flight. Leo was horrified. I thought of Sam’s musical notes, and asked her what the eagle stood for. ‘Freedom,’ she replied. She put her fingers on her shoulder, touching the place like a friend. ‘And it reminds me that I’m stronger than I think.’ Just under her sleeve, I caught a glimpse of her wrist, her scars still visible.
The three of us have dinner, and after we’ve toasted her with champagne, she goes off to celebrate with her friends. She’s staying on in Bristol for a few more days: more parties, time with her boyfriend, packing up her room and shared house. I’m going to drive down again at the weekend to bring her and her stuff back to London.
It’s late when we leave the restaurant. It’ll take us nearly three hours to drive back to Hampstead. Leo has consultations in the morning, needs to get home. He takes the wheel, and I sit in the passenger seat staring into the darkness, the rush and roar of the motorway making me sleepy. Headlights flash as they pass, red tail-lights moving in an ever-changing pattern. I force myself to stay awake to keep Leo company, although he’s listening to a political programme on the radio, eyes fixed on the road. Despite the warmth of the car, I shiver, aware of a sudden prickling across my skin, the realisation that something changed today, irrevocably. Grace’s ceremony, our dinner, even this journey: they all mark the end of a phase in our lives. Sadness and nostalgia have settled inside me, but now there’s a sense of urgency too. My stomach lurches. I squint into the darkness, and it’s as if a locked door swings open before me.
Leo and I don’t speak as we go through our separate bedtime routines. As I pull back the covers, I glance down at the cupboard below my bedside table where I keep my diaries, two volumes charting my life, tracing the story of me and Sam. I think of our last meeting at the bench, and our plan to wait for ten years. The truth sits inside me like a stone, worn by time and knowledge to a fine, smooth shine. I can’t keep it secret any more. There’s no mistaking the care I feel for my husband, for the life we’ve made together. But there’s someone else who will always be first in my thoughts, first in my heart.
Leo gets into bed, his pyjamas buttoned to the neck, his breath minty with mouthwash.
‘Leo,’ I say, ‘can we talk?’
‘Not now, Cat.’ His hand hovers over the light switch. ‘You know I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
‘I just … I need to tell you something.’ My pulse is racing. I didn’t plan for this to happen, but there will never be a right time to tell my husband that I want to live separately from him.
I fumble around the words to explain that we’re more like room-mates than husband and wife; that we both deserve better. As he listens, his expression changes from irritable to disbelieving. He shakes his head, dismissing everything I’ve said. ‘Don’t you think, at our age, that being friends is more important than passion?’ His voice is calm and steady, a little patronising.
‘It could be,’ I tell him. ‘But no. Not for me.’
He sighs, making a point. ‘Get some sleep, darling. You’re tired. It’s been an emotional day. We can talk about this another time.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I’m sorry. It can’t wait.’
Every nerve jumps, my body alive with a drumming fear. I’ve just done the unthinkable, leapt into the void, told him that we should separate, but Leo thinks he can make it go away with a pat on the hand and some practical advice. I remember Sam telling me I was brave when I first resolved to leave Leo, all those years ago. I didn’t feel brave then, and I don’t now. My hands shake, and I’m shivering.
I have to find a way to explain properly, to tell him everything. I try again, starting at the beginning, in Atlantic City. At the mention of Sam, Leo sits up straighter, puts his glasses back on. I don’t leave anything out. He waits for me to finish. As the story unfolds, I feel him shrinking from me, the air between us becoming thin and tight.
‘So … even when we were trying for a baby – even then – you were thinking of this other man. Jesus Christ.’ He thumps his fist onto the bed.
I flinch. But after that one outburst, he doesn’t rage and shout; instead he covers his face with his fingers, head bowed, sitting silent beside me.
I want to touch him, but I know I mustn’t. I curl my fingers back into my palms. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Did you ever love me?’ he asks, raising his head. He looks at me with searching eyes.
I nod. ‘Yes. I did. I do.’
‘But not like you love him.’
‘No. Not like that.’ My words are brutal. I’m horrified by them – but I can’t stop them.
‘Where is this man?’ His mouth turns down. ‘Is he in London?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since Grace … since she cut her wrists. Last time I saw him was when we arranged to meet in ten years’ time,’ I say.
‘So there’s been no communication between you for, what, seven years?’ Leo’s voice is hard.
I move my head.
‘The whole thing sounds like a fantasy.’ He folds his arms. ‘How do you know he’s going to turn up?’
‘I don’t.’ I stare at my hands. ‘But whether he does or not, it doesn’t change this – us; it doesn’t change the fact that it’s … it’s time we accepted that we’re not good for each other any more.’
‘You seem very sure of that.’ He rubs his hand over his forehead.
‘I think …’ I lower my voice. ‘I think you know it too.’
He frowns. ‘You lied to me, Cat. You’ve been dishonest. But … I still want to at least try and save our marriage.’ He looks at me as if I’m a stranger. ‘Don’t you?’
I should agree with him. I should tell him that yes, we can talk more, see a therapist. But now that I’ve spoken the words, relief fills me. An extraordinary, head-spinning relief. There’s no going back, there’s nothing that will change this.
He waits for me to speak, but it’s the look on my face that gives him his answer. His mouth turns down, and he nods as if something has been decided. ‘Your mind’s made up, isn’t it?’ He clears his throat, sets his shoulders. ‘If this is really what you want …’ He looks at me with a hurt gaze. ‘But you should be the one to tell Grace.’ He turns away from me. ‘I hope for your sake she forgives you.’
He takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. His face is naked and vulnerable without them. He looks exhausted and old. I wish there was something I could say to make things easier, better. But I’ve ripped up the worn fabric of our marriage, and a gale is blowing through, bleak and cold. There’s no access to our familiar comforts, our consoling platitudes.
He’s staring blindly towards the door. ‘I want … I want to be alone.’ His voice breaks.
I expected more anger, more of a fight. He’s let me go.
He continues to look towards the door, his features rigid. I slip out of bed. Coldness has always been his weapon; it’s what I deserve. I make up the single bed in my old room and crawl into it, feeling ancient, tired. The hurt I’ve inflicted on Leo has drained all my energy. I curl up, shivering, hugging my knees. I am dry-eyed, miserable, but I know that whatever happens in three years’ time, Leo and I don’t belong together any more.
It hurts. I knew it would, when we finally parted, but it’s worse than I could have imagined; every part of me is alive with a kind of wrung-out aching pain, as if my internal organs are being squeezed and squeezed.
In Bristol, at the weekend, after we’ve packed up the car with her boxes and cases, Grace and I go for a coffee and sandwich before the drive home.
‘There’s something I need to tell you, bug,’ I say, my stomach knotting. ‘Your dad and I. We’re … separating.’
She holds her mug between her hands, frowning into its contents like a fortune-teller. Then she nods. ‘You waited for me to finish my degree?’
It wasn’t what I was expecting her to say. I swallow. ‘Kind of.’ I lean across the table. ‘Actually, there wasn’t a plan. It just happened. I don’t think we’ve been truly happy for a while.’
‘No.’ She looks at me, her face suddenly older and wiser. ‘I can see that.’
I take a deep breath and let it out. I remember so clearly when she surprised me before the wedding, telling me tearfully why she couldn’t call me mom. Now she’s surprising me again. She has questions, practical questions, which I do my best to answer.
‘Dad and I, we don’t want this to get ugly,’ I try to reassure her. ‘We’ve agreed to separate. There won’t be any need to go to court or anything.’ I touch her hand. ‘It will be hard. For all of us. But I truly believe it’s for the best.’
In the car, she cries quietly, looking away from me, sniffing. I hand her a tissue and she takes it silently, blowing her nose.
I haven’t mentioned Sam, because Leo asked me not to. ‘She needs to deal with the fact that we’re separating first,’ he said. ‘And this man … Sam Sage … may not reappear in our lives,’ he added grimly.
I agreed, because it seemed only fair, and I knew he needed to claw back some control, to set limits and rules.
October 2001
My tiny terraced house in Gospel Oak is still near enough to the Heath for daily swims. The neighbourhood is mixed, the sidewalks dirtier, the shops more eclectic, creating an energy, a buzz that was missing in the long, sweeping, elegant road I’ve left behind. As I arrange my ornaments and books on shelves, put my few pictures on the walls, I have a sense of rightness.
The days pass, and I work in my study looking out at the square of muddy grass that passes for a garden. I swim and walk. Grace is away in India. When she’s in London, she’ll share her time between her father and me. Leo is reserved with me, polite. He holds himself stiffly, as if he’s standing behind an invisible protective barrier, and he never touches me. It will take a long time to reach something more relaxed and friendly. Perhaps we never will, but we’ve achieved what we agreed we wanted, at least as much as it’s ever possible: a civilised divorce.
I want to contact Sam. Three years early. I sit down in my kitchen and try his cell. My fingers shake as I dial: Sorry, the number you have dialled has not been recognised. I try again, and get the same mechanical voice. I call his music label. The receptionist seems confused when I ask to speak to someone about Sam Sage. Eventually a voice comes on the line. They tell me that he’s left the label. He’s gone off grid, they say. I remember that his sister is called Mattie, and try finding M. Winterson in the directory, but she’s not listed. Maybe she goes under a different surname.
At his old house in Islington, there are different curtains at the windows. The door is painted red, not grey. I stand on the doorstep, my heart hammering in my ears as I ring the bell. A housekeeper holds the door part open, looking suspicious. She shakes her head when I ask if she has a forwarding address for the previous occupant.
As I walk back to the Tube, rain begins to fall, light and misty, dampening my skin, darkening my coat. Disappointment hollows me out, and I drag my feet, suddenly exhausted. I falter to a stop on the sidewalk, and people mutter in annoyance, stepping around me. I stare into the blank, wet sky, watching pigeons flutter from a ledge. From their outspread wings, a feather falls, landing grey and lost at my feet. I bend to pick it up. As I turn it between my fingers I wonder: shouldn’t I be able to feel something? Intuit something about what he’s doing and where he is? I close my eyes, concentrating. But it’s like that time in Atlantic City when I was waiting for his letters, as if he’s stepped off the edge of the world.