Gigi

Gigi had always seen Emily – with or without Christopher – regularly. Since her daughter-in-law had gone on maternity leave last year, a few weeks before Ava’s birth, it had pretty much been weekly. With Emily’s own mother several hours’ drive away, Gigi had fallen easily into the role of adviser (never unsolicited) and comforter. They’d shopped together for Ava, and Gigi had answered a million questions about pregnancy and birth. It had made them even closer. After Ava was born, the bond strengthened. Sometimes, Gigi had simply gone round on her day off, and sent an exhausted Emily upstairs to bed while she cared for Ava downstairs, like her own mother had done for her when Christopher and Oliver had been young.

Since Gigi had left Richard, they’d met up a couple of times most weeks, usually for walks with the baby, sometimes for lunch or a potter about the shops. No heavy interrogations or questions. Just their normal relationship, ramped up a bit. And Emily texted her most days, checking in. Gigi was incredibly touched by the concern, and profoundly appreciated the kindness, as well as the fact that Emily didn’t cross-examine her.

She knew Emily and Christopher hadn’t taken sides – they both saw Richard, she knew, and she was glad of it. If Oliver was probably on hers, and Megan – at this point – very firmly on her father’s, Emily and Christopher were definitely Switzerland. She knew too that Emily would have advocated on her behalf with Christopher, if needed. Her tacit support was hugely important to Gigi. Emily had asked her once, very early on, whether she wanted to know about Richard – how he was doing … She’d said no. How could it help? Then added, because she couldn’t help herself, and because old habits died hard, that if Emily thought there was something she should know about his state of mind, or just his state in general, that she’d like to be told. So far, there hadn’t been anything. Sometimes she was curious – but she didn’t let herself ask. She told herself it wasn’t her business or her concern.

Emily just seemed to know what she needed.

She remembered when Ava had been a new-born. Christopher had called at breakfast time one Saturday morning, when the baby was barely an hour old, and Gigi and Richard had gone straight to the hospital. They were closer geographically than Emily’s parents, and so they were the first visitors. The delivery had been straightforward, but Ava had had a touch of jaundice, so they were keeping them both in for the first night. Emily had been in bed, holding Ava, when they got there. She’d immediately held her out for Gigi. Not a second of hesitation or new-mother possessiveness. She was a generous and empathetic girl then and still. The restorative powers of a good cuddle with delicious Ava were undiminished, and Emily always offered her daughter easily, like the human medicine she was.

Oliver was being brilliant, as she could have guessed he would be. He had made it easy, from the start. She supposed he was probably the least shocked of all of them. Maybe even less than she’d been herself. He’d called her at Kate’s, the wretched morning after the big revelation, let her know that he’d put Megan – roughly still in one piece, he said, and at least okay enough to eat a bacon sandwich – on the train back to university, and he’d asked to see her on his own.

‘Come to mine. Next night off. I’ll cook us something.’

Gigi was grateful to her boy – she knew she was almost certainly going to cry and she didn’t want to do it in public.

‘Will Caitlin be there?’

‘No. Of course not. Just you and me.’

Over a whisky, then a bottle of red, sometimes in floods of tears, she’d talked and talked, and it had been such a relief to be able to. Oliver had listened, and held her hand, and pulled her into his arms to stroke her hair and tell her it was all right.

At some point in the evening she’d tried hard to pull herself together.

‘This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be talking to you this way.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s your dad. I’m your mum, for Christ’s sake.’

Oliver had smiled. ‘And you’re both just people. And I’m not a kid.’

‘I know.’ She’d cupped his beloved face in her hands. ‘I know, my love. But still –’

‘So don’t worry about it. You’ve listened to me enough over the years. It’s fine. I’m not writing it down, and I won’t quote it back to you anytime. I’m not holding you to anything you’ve said. As far as I’m concerned, for the record, you’re being brave. You’re saying something isn’t right, and that you’re not happy, and you’re trying to do something about it.’

‘And making everyone else miserable in the process …’

‘I’m not miserable, Mum. Chris is fine – he’s got a family of his own. Dad – he’s miserable. Can’t sugar-coat that one. None of this is what he wanted. But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it – at least how I’ve understood it. Adherence to the bleeding status quo … He’s part of the problem. He might see it differently once you’ve been gone a while. That might be exactly what’s needed. And Meg … Meg’ll be all right …’

And it was Megan who kept her awake at night. Hurting Richard wasn’t nice, but it didn’t torture her. She and Richard had been willing participants in their own marriage. Meg was an innocent bystander: the only victim, so far as she could see. How much longer could Gigi have waited? Graduation didn’t mean adulthood – God knows she’d seen that with the boys. Until Megan had her own home? Her own family? How much more of her half-life would she have had to live, waiting until Megan was ready? She couldn’t have. She’d been diligently working at letting her go since she’d first left for university – before, even – but this was too much, too sudden. Knowing that Meg was angry, too angry to want to have anything to do with her – it stung. If she was perfectly honest, it felt slightly like a betrayal too. Did she really deserve it, from her own daughter? Is that still all she was to Meg – a wife and mother? When might a daughter be expected to see her mother as a woman?

‘Go and see her.’ Oliver was loading the dishwasher. The flat was pretty tidy, for Olly. There was no evidence of Caitlin here – it looked as it had for the last couple of years. Slightly in need of a woman’s touch. Comfortable, with proper furniture now, not the flat pack of earlier years, but stopping just short of stylish. If Caitlin was spending much time here, she was doing it on Oliver’s terms …

He’d made a cup of coffee for them both, and now he sat down across from her again, his hands cupping the mug. ‘I’m serious. Just show up. Don’t give her the option. What’s she going to do then?’

Gigi shrugged. ‘Walk right past me?’

‘She won’t do that.’

‘Are you sure?’

Oliver rubbed his forehead. ‘No. I suppose I’m not sure. She’s a kid. She’s mad and stupid. She knows nothing. But what have you got to lose? I bet she won’t be able to keep up the cold shoulder if she’s looking right at you.’

‘Maybe …’

‘I could come with you. If you wanted.’

Gigi shook her head. ‘I think it’s up to me, love.’

‘She’s taken the position that you’re the baddie, Dad’s the innocent party. You’re a home-wrecker. Her home, by the way, not Dad’s. She’s selfish … What a baby. I blame you, by the way. You have spoilt that girl sinful.’ He was smiling, but Gigi knew he wasn’t wrong about that. ‘It won’t even necessarily be what she still thinks. But she’s proud and she’s stubborn, and she hates to be wrong, and she’ll find it really difficult to back down, even if she wants to. Trust me. She’ll come round. And if she doesn’t, you’ll have to go up there and call her bloody bluff.’