‘Sorry, I must have mixed it up with mine.’
I walk into the kitchen from a trip to the supermarket, to have a large envelope thrust in my face.
‘Edward, can you just . . .’ Exasperated, I wave my shopping bags around to show him I have no free hands.
‘Right, yes, of course.’
In normal households, comings and goings have a sort of grace period, a buffer where you get to enter, take off your coat, put your bags down and say hi, and perhaps exchange a few pleasantries; while leaving follows a similar routine of putting on your coat, calling out goodbye, and maybe having a little chat about what time you’ll be back. It’s a natural winding up and down of conversations.
Edward does not do buffers. Or grace periods. Or winding up and down of conversations. Whatever is on his mind is what you’ll get as soon as you walk through the door. It’s the same when you leave. His response to ‘bye, see you later’ can often be a goodbye. But it is just as likely to be ‘I think we’ve got a rat underneath the decking’ or ‘It’s a bloody disgrace!’ (With no reference to what exactly.)
I still haven’t got to the bottom of whether it’s because he’s such a deep thinker and is always so focused on what’s on his mind that he’s not aware of his surroundings, or it’s a deliberate attempt to drive me insane.
‘Here, let me help you with those bags.’
On the flipside, he can also be incredibly kind and helpful. And I’m being a total bitch after battling the aisles of the supermarket on a Friday afternoon, which is when fellow shoppers descend into a frenzy, as if there’s about to be an apocalypse in south-west London and it’s not merely the weekend.
‘You know, you really shouldn’t still be using plastic.’
‘It’s a bag for life,’ I say defensively, as he spots the one plastic bag I have amongst all my eco-friendly ones.
‘For the life of the planet, yes,’ he grumbles. ‘You know they’re even worse than the single-use ones? You’d need to use them at least twelve times because of all the extra plastic used to make them.’
‘I was caught short at the till,’ I snap, but of course I know he’s right, which is more maddening than ever. ‘What’s your excuse for having that huge gas-guzzling four-by-four you drive in the countryside?’
Which is a bit below the belt, considering he’s getting divorced and doesn’t live in the countryside any more, and it’s not exactly fair to remind him. But that’s how grumpy I am. Seriously, you didn’t see the salad aisle.
‘It’s actually electric,’ he replies evenly.
‘Of course it is!’ Dumping my bags on the counter-top, I snatch the envelope from him and tear it open.
It’s a letter from the bank. Scanning my eyes quickly over it, I see a miracle has somehow happened. I stare at it in disbelief.
‘Good news?’
‘I’ve been approved for a mortgage in principle!’
‘Oh . . . I see. Well, congratulations.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ I raise my eyes from the letter to look at Edward, who’s standing on the other side of the counter. ‘Well, it looks like you won’t have to suffer me and my bags for life much longer,’ I grin.
But obviously he doesn’t think it’s funny as he doesn’t even crack a smile.
‘That was a joke,’ I prompt.
But his expression remains deadpan. He really is angry about those bags, isn’t he. And now I feel bad.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap . . . it’s just, the supermarket was crazy and I was in a bad mood and—’
‘No, I’m not cross about that, don’t be silly,’ he interrupts before I can finish.
‘Well, what then?’
‘I had no idea you wanted to move out.’
He looks genuinely hurt. I feel suddenly wrong-footed.
‘You never mentioned anything,’ he continues.
‘Well, I just assumed I’d have to . . . what with the divorce and everything . . .’ My mind is scrambling. ‘I remember us having that conversation when we were walking Arthur, about having to sell your assets . . . needing rooms for the boys. There’s only three bedrooms here.’
Edward looks at me; his expression is unreadable.
‘I’m presuming they’re too old for bunk beds.’
He finally smiles, and I feel a beat of relief.
‘I’m sure we could work something out. You don’t need to move out . . .’
‘Thanks,’ I smile, ‘that’s really kind of you.’
‘I’m not being kind, I like having you here.’
‘And I like being here,’ I agree, and for a brief second it strikes me how much things have changed. ‘But I need to get my own place,’ I say firmly. ‘Before I could never afford it, but now . . .’ I wave the letter from the bank. ‘It’s long overdue, really. I mean, look at me, I’m in my forties and I’m renting a room—’
‘So? I’m in my forties and I’m getting divorced.’
Then we both smile and I feel the tension between us evaporating. Just in time for Arthur to make his appearance in the kitchen, sniffing around the skirting boards.
‘What about Arthur?’
We both turn to look at him doing his impression of a hoover. I’m going to miss him more than I can imagine.
‘What are my visitation rights?’
I look back at Edward and his eyes meet mine.
‘How about shared custody?’
I’m grateful for: