Gigi

It was odd to realize the lengths to which you could go to disguise or deny or ignore your unhappiness, and odder still the moments which stripped that away and forced you to confront it. Mostly it was other people who held up a mirror you had to stare at. Or tiny moments.

Most of the time Gigi was fine. ‘Fine.’ The answer she always gave to the question of how she was. And most of the time it was true. She went to work, and helped people, and ate biscuits and joked with her colleagues, who were friends too after all these years, and moaned about management, and she came home again. She checked in with her kids by email or text, more rarely by phone. She flicked through the Sunday papers and wondered if she was a cruising type of person, and, if she was, would she choose Norwegian fjords or the exotic East. She watched television, and listened to the radio, and formed opinions about the news, and read her book-club selection religiously before the monthly meeting at The White Horse with her colleagues from the maternity ward. She kept house and baked and took the car to the car wash. Weighed herself periodically and made promises to eat less and move more, and bought things on sale that were just a bit too small, because she intended to slim into them. Held dinner parties, and from time to time went to the posh makeup counter in the department store and asked them to update her look with a new lipstick or attempt to preserve her youth with an expensive eye cream. Gave money to good causes. Visited her father-in-law and sat with him, trying to get the Pointless answer on tea-time television. Tried to see the films nominated for Oscars so she could say, when the time came, whether she agreed that the winners were deserving. She was funny, and warm, more a listener than a talker, and far, far too proud to let anyone see that anything was wrong.

Most of the time, she looked at Richard and willed herself to remember all the good things about him. Not to resent washing his socks, or his falling asleep in front of any television programme that started after 9 p.m. Or that he didn’t talk to her any more – always the crossword at breakfast, the news at supper. She flicked through her memories of better times. He was a good man. A kind man. He didn’t shout, he hadn’t a violent bone in his body, he never had a go at her if she bought a new dress, he didn’t go on at her to lose weight. He’d fathered her children, and the two of them had provided for their family.

She tried. And still …

Watching a mother answer a dozen questions her son asked her in the supermarket, helpless against the irresistible pester power of the toddler in the trolley – the absolute fondness with which she talked to the child, the tenderness … could make Gigi cry in the aisle, where five minutes earlier she’d been busy with a list, trying to remember whether she needed washing powder or icing sugar.

A husband in front of her in a queue could put his hand on the small of his wife’s back, and stroke her, lean in to whisper something in her ear, and the possessive, intimate gesture could make Gigi ache.

And sometimes, at 3 a.m., as Richard slept soundly beside her, she could feel complete despair and utter loneliness, even as she tried to count her blessings instead of sheep, and be gripped by the terrible fear that her life might always be just like this – like the best bits of it were all far behind her, and what was left was a slow decline to a state like James’s with only moments of joy, and all of those vicarious.

She had tried, really tried, to talk to Richard. Much more than once. But he wouldn’t meet her in the middle. He waved away her concerns with rhetorical questions – we’re okay, aren’t we – we’re so lucky, aren’t we? He had a way of making her doubt the seriousness of her issues, blame tiredness or menopause or empty-nest syndrome, and by the time she realized it was a confidence trick, the moment had passed, blown away by Richard’s bluster. And she went back to ignoring it.

But somewhere in the back of her soul, she knew that whatever Richard said, and however often he said it, this feeling was relentless and, eventually, it would not be ignored. It was like watching the tide go out on a beach. Gradually, bit by bit, and oh so slowly, the waves receded. Whether you wanted them to or not.