SHE COULDN’T SEE him again. It was all she could think about that night, lying in the king-sized bed alone, and in the morning, too. After breakfast she took Oscar and Iris for a walk in the opposite direction to Marcus’s house so that she wouldn’t be tempted to stare at it, even though it was a school day and he’d be at work.
She hadn’t promised to see him again. She’d only said she didn’t know.
But she had made a promise to Lydia.
‘Don’t do it again, Mum. Don’t go with some guy just because he’s good-looking and you fancy him, and because you think it might be a good idea, or because you need a man to make you feel better about yourself.’
And the pain in Lydia’s voice; what she was really saying. Don’t betray my father. Again.
Jo pushed Oscar on the roundabout and Iris on the swing and she thought about what Stephen would say. She couldn’t think of anything. If Stephen were here, she wouldn’t have kissed Marcus. Since Stephen wasn’t here, the only way he could have an opinion about it would be if there were such a thing as an afterlife. And Jo didn’t believe in that. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. People lived on through their children and the memories that others had of them. If you did your best in this life, you would be remembered well. She believed in that; that was a rule she could apply to her everyday life.
She knew Stephen had never been the jealous type. She could never picture him condemning anything that made Jo happy. He would have wanted her to move on with her life. But what if that was just the way she wanted to think – the way she’d justified her decision to marry Richard?
Jo gave the roundabout an extra push, to squeals of delight from her children. Kissing Marcus wasn’t a betrayal of Stephen. It was a betrayal of Lydia: of what Lydia had asked of her, of what Lydia needed her to be like as a mother. So she needed to end it with Marcus, if ‘it’ indeed even existed. Although her body was full of electricity, although she still tasted him on her lips, felt his body pressing against her. Even though when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the way he had looked at her.
Even though last night she had lain awake thinking of Marcus’s kiss, instead of Stephen’s scream.
Her phone beeped. It was a text from an unknown number.
I have been very naughty and looked up your number on L’s file. My excuse is that I can’t stop thinking about you. M xx
Her heart leaped and her fingers went slick on the phone. Her hand was shaking as she texted back That IS very naughty and sent it, and then realized that what she should have done was deleted it. And blocked his number. And written him a formal, polite note to say that this was a bad idea, that she wasn’t ready for a relationship of any kind, that she had to focus on her children, but that she hoped they could be friends. And then put the letter in the post instead of putting it through his letter box, because if she went near his house, she would be tempted to knock on the door and beg him to let her in so that she could feel like that for a little while again. Like a woman. Like someone worthy of being seen.
The text came back seconds later. I want to kiss you.
Her children laughed and waved and went round and round. Jo’s heart pounded and her fingers worked by themselves to form the words Me too and send them to where he was, real and solid, less than a mile away, in a classroom or a staffroom thinking about kissing her.
‘Push, Mummy!’
She pushed. There were other mothers in the park: two chatting on a bench, one standing below her toddler on the monkey bars, arms upraised to catch him if he fell. She wondered if any of them had a secret like this.
She started another text. Sorry, it said, I shouldn’t have said that. Marcus, I think this is a bad
Her phone beeped with another message before she could finish.
What else do you want to do with me? he asked.
She nearly staggered with desire. She steadied herself against the back of a nearby bench and glanced around at the other mothers. It was impossible any of them could feel this way, too, split between what they needed to do and what they desperately, desperately wanted.
She wanted to see Marcus naked. She wanted to touch him, taste him all over; learn his body, run her hands over his chest, push him backwards onto a bed and straddle him. She wanted him to look up into her face and see her: not the mother in the park, pushing children round and round and round again, not the housewife with her arms full of laundry and toys – but her. The part of her deep inside who wanted, who was still hungry to find out more, to experience everything.
Jo closed her eyes. She took deep breaths. She wasn’t a reckless person. She had never thrown caution to the wind. She had always, practically from the moment she was born, put her responsibilities first. A sick mother, two husbands, children. Bills to be paid, houses to be cleaned, clothes to be washed, meals to be cooked.
But she was missing something in her life, wasn’t she, something vital, something irresistible? If she could feel this way, right now, in a children’s playpark at half past ten on a Thursday morning in May?
And yet her promise to Lydia.
Another text. On second thoughts, don’t tell me now. Tell me later, when I’m not at school. Bell’s about to ring and I want to be able to walk down the corridor without embarrassment. M xx
Jo laughed aloud. She pictured him, texting under his desk like a teenager, his glasses slipping down his nose, and laughed again.
‘Why are you happy, Mummy?’ asked Oscar as he went spinning past.
‘I’m just happy,’ she said to him. She put her phone back into her pocket and she pushed her children, faster and faster.
‘Hello? Earth to Joanna?’ Sara waved a hand in front of her face and Jo blinked.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Miles away.’
‘Do you want another coffee?’
She looked at the mess that the four children had made of the café table. But Iris and Polly were colouring, Oscar was demolishing a cake, crumb by crumb, and Billy seemed happy enough with his cars. ‘OK. I’ll get them.’
She checked her phone at the counter, placing the order. She’d never checked her phone so much in her life as she had since this morning. For the first time, she could understand why Lydia never let her phone stray more than five inches from her right hand.
She had deleted her draft text, and then written it again over lunch. Then deleted it. She was not strong enough to delete Marcus’s number. But she hadn’t added it to her address book either.
She had read his text at least two dozen times. What else do you want to do with me?
Nine words. They were all she could think about.
‘So last night,’ Sara said to her, when she got back to the table with the coffees, ‘I put the kids to bed early, and I put on my special lingerie. The stuff I haven’t worn since Polly was born? Actually, I think I was wearing it when Polly was conceived. That’s how long it’s been. And I went downstairs to where Bob was watching the football, just wearing that and this slinky dressing gown I found in the back of the wardrobe. And guess what happened?’
‘What?’ said Jo automatically. She picked up a crayon, handed Oscar a napkin, took a sip of her coffee without tasting it.
‘I stood in front of Bob and slid the dressing gown off my shoulder, like in some cheesy film. And he actually tilted his head to look around me. He said could I wait a few minutes, the game was going into penalties!’
‘Oh.’
Sara looked outraged. Jo forced herself to remember what Sara had said.
‘Really?’ she tried instead.
‘And the thing was, I wasn’t even that disappointed. I was sort of relieved. I’d made the effort, you know? He couldn’t blame me. I just went upstairs and had an early night.’
‘Sleep is the most important thing, sometimes,’ Jo said.
‘Do you think that’s how it is for everyone? It just peters out, after you’ve had kids?’ Sara looked stricken. ‘Oh wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ask you that.’
‘You mean because of Richard starting up with Tatiana after Iris was born?’
‘It was tactless. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right. It’s crossed my mind. Iris wasn’t a good feeder. I was tired all the time.’
‘Well, that wasn’t your fault. It was no reason to turn to the au pair.’
‘I should have made more of an effort. He’d hired the au pair so we could spend more time together. That’s what he said. But I put the children first.’
‘You’re well shot of him. Can I have one of these?’ Sara took a biscuit from the packet that Jo had opened, but not eaten, and dunked it in her coffee. ‘What about with your first husband, after Lydia was born?’
‘It was … we always made the time.’ Although Lydia was not a good sleeper, and ended up in their bed five nights out of seven. He was working all hours, writing lecture notes, articles. Then there were the black hole days, when Stephen was in the house but not present, lost in his own world of pain.
But sometimes, there was an hour they could snatch on a weekend, when Lydia was napping. Sometimes they fell asleep, limbs entwined, and only woke up when their daughter crawled between them.
If she had known what was going to happen, how little time she had left with Stephen, she would have given up all of her sleep to be with him.
‘It was good,’ she added, feeling the need to defend Stephen. But against what?
‘It must be easier with only one child.’
‘Stephen was wonderful,’ she said. ‘There was never enough time, though. And then he was gone.’
Sara nodded. ‘OK, point taken,’ she said, though Jo hadn’t been trying to make a point. ‘I’ll try again with Bob. Billy, can you not drive your cars through Oscar’s cake, please? Anyway, speaking of which, have you seen the hot neighbour recently?’
Jo’s face flushed. Sara leaned forward. ‘What?’
‘Oh, he …’ is sending me texts saying he is thinking about me, he wants to kiss me ‘… it turns out he is Lydia’s teacher.’
‘No! What a disappointment.’
‘I know.’ She took a hasty drink of her coffee and scalded her mouth. ‘Ow!’
Sara passed her a plastic beaker of water, smeared with child’s fingerprints. ‘I thought he was at the very least a hot gardener.’
‘He’s a Geography teacher. And also Lydia’s tutor. I met him at her parents’ evening.’
‘Damn! Still, at least it must have made parents’ evening more interesting, to have some eye candy to look at. Did you introduce yourself as his incredibly single neighbour?’
‘We … mostly talked about Lydia.’
Why was she lying to Sara about this?
‘I have a great idea,’ she said suddenly. ‘Let’s go lingerie shopping after this. Splash out a little. Buy something that makes us feel pretty.’
Sara laughed. ‘With this lot? I don’t feel like spending the next two hours untangling Billy from bras, thank you.’
‘Right. Yeah. Good point.’
Secretly, she touched her phone in her pocket.
That night, after the children were in bed, when Lydia was revising in her room and Honor was listening to music in hers, Jo stood at her kitchen window looking out. His light was on, as he’d promised. The outdoor light, and a light in the top window of his house, which might be his bedroom. She watched the strip of light between the curtains, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Hoping to catch him looking out at her.
God, she was obsessed. It had been a little less than twenty-four hours, and she’d thought of nothing but Marcus, what he was doing, whether he was thinking of her. She had deceived her friend Sara. She had still not yet sent the text ending it. She knew, to the minute, how long ago he had been in this kitchen with her.
She made herself turn away from the window and finish making the cup of tea she’d started. It was going cold already. She brought it upstairs, along with her phone. She was alone now. She’d be able to think straight. She could delete his messages, send him something cool yet friendly, and get on with her life.
The master bedroom was much too big for one person, with a king-sized bed, walk-in wardrobes that gaped half-empty. The furniture was new and one side of the bed hardly used. Jo had tried sleeping in the middle, tried sprawling out, but she always ended up on the right-hand side. She was used to taking up little space. After Richard had left she’d bought some flowered scatter cushions, with the half-formed idea of making the room seem more feminine, more hers. They didn’t do much.
Sometimes she stayed up later than she should, doing housework, so that she would not have to come up to this room alone.
Her phone beeped as soon as she sat on the bed.
Safe now. Are the kids in bed? Did you have a good day? M xx
Her bedroom was above the kitchen. She went to the window, opened it. From this vantage point she could see the end of his bed. A blue duvet cover. Nothing else.
This has to stop, she texted, and deleted.
I promised Lydia
I hardly know you
You’re young enough to
She held the button down, watching the words disappearing letter by letter. Jo swallowed, and spelled out the truth instead.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you either, she wrote, and held her breath as she sent it off.
It didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt … it felt the same way as she had felt in that café in Cambridge, when Stephen had put down his books and seen her for the first time.
No, not the same way. It couldn’t be the same way. But she was breathless, heart pounding, stomach full of fire, feet hardly tethered to the floor. Alone in her bedroom with her children asleep in the house and she wanted to dance.
It was physical. The physical symptoms of desire. It was a temporary thing, a crush, just a part of what she had felt for Stephen, but it was more powerful than she remembered. Maybe you couldn’t remember something this intense, this all-encompassing, once it was gone; not in all its details. Maybe once you’d had it, like she’d had it with Stephen, it left a hole inside you and most of the time you didn’t even notice something was missing, until suddenly, one day, you found someone who filled it, and you knew that you couldn’t bear to be without it again.
It was more powerful than almost anything, except the pull she felt towards her own children when she held them. And even that was different. Calmer, softer, wider. Not as hungry, not as greedy or focused.
Tell me what you were thinking, texted Marcus. Tell me what you want to do.
Fully clothed, she slipped underneath the bedclothes. She pulled them over her head, so she was hidden, surrounded, in a warm pocket of secret air. Not seen, not heard by anyone, except for this invisible current from her phone, bounced up into space, bounced down to him. Travelling thousands of miles to travel a few metres. She licked her lips.
First, I’d unbutton your shirt, she began.