‘An affair is a very difficult thing for a marriage to overcome, Steffie. But for the record, I think you’re doing ever so well. I really do.’
Steffie nodded, sniffed. During these sessions, she always kept a tissue in her hand – it would start as a flat sheet and end up as a ball. She never cried here, though. For Steffie, tears were private – secret tears that were warmer, fatter for being harboured indoors and not aired.
Her counsellor, Yvonne, was very pleasant: a fifty-something who wore glasses on a chain around her neck and kept a fan on her desk that lifted her hair and ruffled the paperwork.
Steffie had been coming here once a week for three months, to the upstairs office that was only four doors along from her own shop, the Silver Tree. Yvonne’s services had been recommended to Steffie by a mum in the school playground, whom Yvonne had just helped through divorce.
I don’t want you to help me get divorced, was the first thing Steffie had said to Yvonne.
Yvonne had laughed. But of course not!
Steffie had liked her right away – the way she tucked her stretchy top down over her tummy, the way she kicked her shoes off to rub one foot with the other, the way she got so hot during sessions that she had to turn up the fan and flap her blouse. It’s my age, she would say with a regretful smile.
This, Steffie thought, was a real human.
Not like the chair beside her.
The chair – a wooden chair with a burgundy padded cushion – was sometimes Greg. She often had to turn to the sorry little chair and converse with it, to tell it how she felt or to listen to its point of view.
Today, she had just told the chair that she wanted to forgive it so badly, but she was finding it hard.
And the chair had just told her that it was OK; she could take all the time she needed.
What a chair.
Sometimes, she had told Yvonne recently, seeing Greg was like being presented with a Krispy Kreme selection box just before you went bikini shopping.
‘You often use humour as a shield, Steffie,’ Yvonne was saying, hands arched and resting on the arms of her chair.
‘I do?’ said Steffie.
‘Yes. And humour’s good. It’s healthy … But not if it’s masking the way you really feel.’
There was a pause. Steffie listened to the fan whirring, watched it lifting Yvonne’s fringe.
‘You don’t need to put on an act, or a brave face,’ Yvonne said.
‘I disagree,’ Steffie said. ‘I’m a single parent. I can’t have a meltdown in front of—’
‘I meant here, Steffie,’ Yvonne said gently. ‘You can drop the mask here.’ She smiled. ‘It’s safe.’
Steffie squeezed the tissue ball. She noticed Yvonne’s gaze dropping slightly, observing the tension in Steffie’s hand.
It was safe here, perhaps. But Yvonne didn’t miss anything. She would notice every time Steffie tensed her shoulders, every time she held her breath or squeezed the tissue ball.
But Yvonne didn’t know about the dust – about the dust-balls lying on the black rim of her open laptop, minuscule yet boulder-like; about the layer of dust on the glass surface of her desk that was threatening domination; the dust swirling in the sunshine by the window, like a swarm of dirty flies.
‘Let’s talk about the guilt that you feel concerning your marriage,’ Yvonne said.
‘Well, that’s easy to explain,’ Steffie said. ‘It’s because of Jemima.’
‘Because you moved out and took her away from Dad?’
Steffie nodded.
‘Because he cheated,’ Yvonne added.
Again, Steffie nodded.
‘Yet it is you who bears the guilt,’ Yvonne said.
Steffie shrugged this time.
‘You had a right to feel hurt and angry, Steffie – a right to buy yourself some time and space.’
‘Yes,’ said Steffie. ‘But Jemima misses him. And it makes me feel terrible.’
‘Why?’
Steffie paused, clenched the tissue ball. ‘Because I know I should be able to forgive him, but I just can’t.’
‘You can’t?’
‘No,’ said Steffie. ‘Every time I get close to it, something inside me tells me to get back, not to let him off the hook. It’s awful … Some days I wish so much that things were back as they were – that we were all living at The Fishing Lodge, that we were happy, that he never met that woman—’ She broke off.
‘Say her name,’ Yvonne said.
‘I can’t,’ Steffie said. ‘She makes me too angry.’
‘What do you want to say to her, Steffie? What would you tell her if she were here now? What would you tell Olivia?’
Steffie laughed. ‘Well, that’s easy. I’d tell her to go to hell.’
‘So tell her. Here she is,’ said Yvonne, holding her hand out and turning her head as though ushering in an invisible guest. ‘Tell her what you’d like to say.’
Steffie turned to the ghost. ‘Go to hell,’ she said.
‘Say it louder,’ Yvonne said.
‘Go to hell.’
‘Again.’
‘Go to hell!’
‘And again. Louder, Steffie.’
Steffie stood so forcibly, her chair toppled back. ‘Go to hell, Olivia! Go to hell!’
She stopped. Her heart was racing, her breath haphazard. She straightened her top, picked up the chair.
‘Good work, Steffie,’ Yvonne said. ‘But we need to press pause as our time is coming to an end and I’d like to reflect on the session.’
Steffie glanced at her watch. ‘Sorry, but I need to make a dash for it. I’ve got to pick up Jemima early today.’
Yvonne smiled. ‘As you wish … I’ll see you next time.’
Steffie left, hurrying downstairs to the high street, passing the Silver Tree on her way, glancing in at her mother who was serving a customer whilst Steffie was at ‘Pilates’. She wasn’t comfortable telling anyone about the counselling, least of all her mum, who would make more of it than was necessary.
She looked at her watch again and began to run. She was taking Jemima to Noella’s straight from school. Greg had agreed to meet them at the studio. They were going to give Noella their decision and then take another look at Prokofiev’s Cinderella before confirming it as Jemima’s audition piece.
To Steffie’s surprise, however, when she arrived at the school, Greg was leaning against the wall, arms folded, waiting for the gates to open.
Her heart gave a lurch on seeing him unexpectedly, combined with the shame of having just repeatedly wished his mistress would go to hell.
Sometimes she wanted to ask him whether he had seen Olivia, whether there was still any contact between them, but she found it hard to form the woman’s name on her tongue, let alone discuss details. It put a barrier between them that she found impossible to peek over, despite the fact that Greg was desperate to pretend it wasn’t there.
‘Afternoon,’ he said.
‘I thought you were meeting us at Noella’s?’ she said, walking straight past him and through the school gates, which had just opened.
‘I thought I’d surprise Jemima.’ He drew level with her. ‘Is that OK?’ he asked, his voice lowered.
The usual parents were gathering in the playground, around the eaves, around the picnic benches; the same parents each day, talking to the same people, often in the same spots.
Steffie had always noticed the glances that were shot at Greg on the rare occasions that he ventured into school. He was better-looking than she was, she thought. At least, that was what some of the mums would be thinking. And now that they were separated? Greg was like a beast set off the leash.
Except that it wasn’t really like that. Many of the mums were reading their phones or talking about SATS, IBS or other initialised subject matters. No one was outwardly unpleasant, but Steffie knew how to navigate the path in order to avoid whiplash. Amongst the practically perfect, there was a stigma attached to separation that she sometimes found difficult to deal with, which was why she didn’t like Greg joining her with his ripped jeans, his oily caramel-coloured hair and his truck parked out front as though he were about to go and lop down a tree or wrestle a bear.
The other dads who did the school run did so in suits or work-at-home daywear.
Jemima had appeared in the stream of red jumpers that was spilling from year six like over-zealous ketchup, and was now sprinting towards them, her rucksack jumping on her back.
‘Daddy!’ she shouted. And then stopped, recalling that it wasn’t cool at her age to look so pleased to see a parent.
Still, she took his hand and off they went to Noella’s studio, Steffie trailing behind as usual.
Steffie wasn’t submissive, mousy. It was just that when you were the one living with the child, when you all met up, the other parent took centre stage. It was just fair. In everything that had happened – was happening – she wanted to be fair.
They found Noella waiting for them in the studio, standing by the piano, hands clasped high on her chest.
‘Well?’ she asked, before they had even entered the room. ‘What have you decided?’
Noella hadn’t been completely truthful with the Lees. Not that she had lied. She detested liars. Growing up with four brothers in southern France, the ease with which her brothers had distorted the truth had always amazed her. They lied as easily as throwing rocks over the neighbour’s wall, as easily as poaching apples from trees. They lied all the time about everything, just to save themselves.
She wasn’t a liar, but there were certain things that she had omitted to say.
For one, she hadn’t told the Lees about her history with Mikhail Alexandrov, about the fact that she had slept with him whilst studying in Paris – twice, four times, a dozen; had lost count.
It was irrelevant and would cloud the issue. Jemima’s future was the most important thing here.
She had also failed to point out that if Alexandrov were prepared to fast-track Jemima, then other academies would too. In other words, the child was good enough to go wherever she liked, whenever.
But this wasn’t for her to highlight. It would be patronising. The Lees could work this out for themselves.
They were good people, she thought. Unusually, touchingly, they didn’t appear to be interested in pushing their daughter for their own gain. She admired them for that, but still she was scared that they were going to say no, that Jemima would be going to Wimborne Comprehensive in September.
So she held her breath that afternoon, waiting for Steffie to reply.
She wasn’t sure what was going on between husband and wife – why Steffie would want to be estranged from such a handsome, gentle man, who could pick up his daughter with one hand to kiss her.
Steffie looked pale today in a sky-blue ski jacket and faded jeans – a puffy cloud of motheryness. Noella hadn’t ever wanted children, didn’t see the appeal. Mothers were well-worn, softened by the endless chafing of little feet and limbs and cotton on skin.
Noella, by contrast, knew that she appeared bleak, sharp. Yet she was also uncompromised, undistracted.
She looked up at the windows with a shiver. It was wet and cold out – a nasty January, this one.
Unconsciously, she touched the little swallow on the back of her neck. She often forgot it was there and yet when she did remember it, it was always with the same sweet pain. She could feel the slight rising of the ink on her skin, the etching of the wings.
It had been so good to see Mikhail at their chance meeting last month – so fateful, fortunate.
The world of dance, like any specialist industry, was a small one and you often bumped into the same faces repeatedly. Yet still she hadn’t expected to see him after all these years, especially not in Soho, for he was not what one might describe as a social animal.
She tried not to look shocked or grateful when he said he would consider an application from her.
Standing outside The French House in Soho with people jostling for space in thick coats, she blew on her mulled cider and hoped that her lipstick had stayed on – that her cheeks looked prettily pinched and not sallow, that the silvery trails of grey in her hair were not illuminated underneath the Christmas lights. She would be forty next year and was aware that her looks were time-sensitive, could change by the hour now.
Mikhail, the same age as her, had not changed. She could barely hear him above the chatter around her, above her beating heart. But she heard him say that yes, she could send him her pupil’s video.
‘You won’t regret it,’ she had told him, as though he were committing already. Which he most definitely was not.
What he said next had startled her. He had leant in closer to whisper, his mouth brushing her ear. It was an accident, but it sent a shiver down her spine. She could smell his familiar scent; not cologne, he was too subtle for that, but something intriguing, undetectable: the trace of blue in the cigarette smoke, the drop of moisture in mist.
‘Look out for the étoiles,’ he had said.
She had gazed at him in incomprehension. Whatever could he mean?
She wondered momentarily if he were drunk. He rarely used to drink, didn’t appear to be drinking now. She took a step back from him to assess him more clearly, treading on someone behind her who yelped. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she told them.
‘What étoiles?’ she said, turning back to Mikhail.
But he was gone.
She looked for him – around the outside of the bar, in the crowded room upstairs. Perhaps he had gone to the bathroom.
She lingered, made excuses to her friends as they left – told them she would catch up with them shortly.
Yet she didn’t see him again that night.
‘We want to go ahead with the audition,’ Steffie said.
‘Yes!’ said Jemima, punching the air.
Noella clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Really?’
Steffie nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Woo hoo!’ Jemima said, jumping up and down. She was still wearing her school uniform and began to pirouette, her checked skirt rising, her Frozen pants on display.
‘That’s fantastic!’ Noella said. ‘Thank you! So, wait … Today’s the twenty-seventh. So that gives us …’ She counted the days on her fingers. ‘Eleven days … Can Jemima rehearse after school every day this week?’ Suddenly, she paused, staring at Steffie with her dark eyes. ‘Could I come to the audition?’
Steffie laughed. ‘Of course, Noella. I assumed you would.’
‘Perfect,’ Noella said.
Greg was smiling affably, but outside as they parted on the corner of Peach Street, he hesitated, frowning. ‘I think it was the right choice,’ he said. ‘But we need to keep Jemima’s feet on the ground.’
‘I know,’ Steffie said.
‘And ours.’
‘Yes.’
She watched a sparrow pecking around the base of a tree a couple of yards away. The poor bird was shivering.
‘Well, I’d better be off,’ Greg said.
Today, she didn’t want him to go. It was upsetting, the thought of him walking away.
She set off decisively in the opposite direction, her footsteps making hollow sounds on the cold pavement. She wouldn’t think of Greg walking away, would concentrate on the day ahead, like she always did.
She was going to do an hour’s work at the shop whilst Jemima rehearsed – would relieve her mum of some of her duties. Her mother didn’t work at the shop full time, just when Steffie needed help. It gave her mum – a widow – a means of meeting people, of being connected and useful. And wasn’t that the whole point of parenting, or at least a major part of it: being useful?
And that, Steffie realised, was the grating bit in all of this, the little fishbone in the tooth – the secret discomfort that she had felt at Noella’s the other day and had wanted to take home and unwrap alone.
Someone else would be Jemima’s cook and cleaner and wardrobe adviser and confidante and best friend and guardian soon; because Steffie wouldn’t be there to be any of those things.
She gave a little sniff. No use being selfish, self-indulgent. This was what Jemima wanted to do. It was her course in life.
Despite her intentions not to do so, Steffie found herself glancing back over her shoulder at Greg.
He was in the distance, about to turn the corner, elbow raised, talking on his phone.
Her stomach dipped. Who would he be talking to? A client? Olivia?
It didn’t help matters, this separation pickle. It didn’t help her deal with the possibility of Jemima leaving home. It didn’t help make her feel loved, settled or safe – all of which a mother had to feel in order to let go.
But she was going to do it anyway, loved or not, because Jemima was the most important person in her life and her happiness was everything.
She upped her pace and when she arrived at the Silver Tree she tossed her coat to one side and began to talk enthusiastically to her mother about audition dates and Prokofiev’s Cinderella, and the well-documented benefits of Pilates.