I’m finding it frustrating that most of what I’m doing is waiting. Waiting for opportunities to try to reconnect with Robert, waiting to see if Saskia contacts me again, waiting for my pitiful efforts at weight loss to pay off. I need to make something happen.
Having a friendly chat about football every week or so is not going to rekindle the embers of our marriage. Especially now the season is all but over. I have to be more proactive or, before I know it, October will have come and Robert and Saskia will have run off into the autumn sunset without a care in the world. I’ve tried making a list of all the things Robert and I used to do together but, beyond hunting for antiques and watching sport, I can’t really think of anything concrete. We just got on. End of story.
I suppose that I was different then. Not just in appearance. Less stressed. More confident. But then, so was he. Different, that is. More laid back. Less worried about how the world perceived him. Whenever I think back to the two of us in the early days, I always see us sitting outside a café, falling about laughing. We used to spend hours nursing a coffee, people-watching. Making up stories about the other customers or the strangers walking past. We used to try to imagine what they were saying, making up little dialogues, doing the voices. It sounds stupid now, but I can picture it like a snapshot of when I was happiest. I don’t know when we stopped doing that.
I decide that the only thing I can take control of is myself. Since my near-miss-with-the-bus revelation I’ve come up with a strategy. Every afternoon now as I walk the first part of the journey home from work, I lag back, a couple of hundred metres from the first stop, until I hear the bus coming and then, as it rattles past me I start to run, arms flailing. I always miss it by a mile. And then, when I have got my breath back (a good five minutes), I huff loudly, as if I’ve decided to walk, and then I do the same again with stop number two. I only do it twice. That’s enough to leave me sweating profusely, legs burning, face red for the rest of my journey on board.
The first few times I can’t help glancing around to see who is sniggering. But, as before, no one is even looking at me, except with sympathy because I didn’t make it to the stop on time.
I’m a mass of chafe marks, blisters, unidentifiable under-boob rashes. My knees feel as if someone has taken a sledgehammer to them. Some mornings my calves refuse straight out to allow me to do anything but hobble.
I know I need help but I’m not ready to ask for it yet. Not ready for the surprised looks and the stifled laughs behind my back. Even if I had the faintest idea who to ask.
So I add the first morning bus stop into my routine. Start packing a rucksack with a change of clothes and a towel. Keep my secret to myself.
Myra, though, witch that she is, knows something is up. She badgers me relentlessly. She is like a pig with a truffle when it comes to secrets. She knows they’re there and she’d going to get to them if it kills her.
At first I think she thinks I’m having an early menopause. How else to explain the sweats and the need for a change of clothes every morning? Then, when I have made it clear that’s not the case, she assumes I must have some terrible problems at home (which I do, but of course she doesn’t know the half of it) and that I’ve moved into a grotty bedsit with no running water but am too ashamed to admit it. I’m running out of ways to put her straight when, one morning, she says:
‘Have you lost weight?’
‘I don’t think so …’ I splutter.
She stops what she’s doing – which is cleaning the coffee machine – and the jangle of the armful of bangles she always wears, the soundtrack to my working day, cuts out abruptly. She looks me up and down critically, hands on hips. I have to stop myself from pointing out that her short crimson hair is sticking out from her head in five different directions, as it always does when she’s been putting the effort in.
She squints at me. ‘You have. Are you OK?’
This is what happens when you have paid no attention to the way you look for years; people assume weight loss equals illness, not that it might be a choice. Although I don’t want to let anyone in on my secret, I also don’t want her to start worrying about me and recommending holistic healers and cancer-killing juice diets.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It’s probably just worry about Georgia’s exams or something.’
‘Don’t you think Paula looks like she’s lost weight?’ Myra says at the top of her voice to one of the regulars, Mrs Cobham, who is just settling down with a pot of tea and a slice of a chocolate ganache cake. Mrs Cobham peers at me through her thick-rimmed glasses.
‘I’m not sure. Maybe. Are you on a diet, dear?’
‘No,’ I say, and I make a big show of wiping down the counter, hoping that will signal that the conversation is over.
‘Oh, I forgot you were as blind as a bat,’ Myra says affectionately, and Mrs Cobham laughs indulgently. That’s the thing with Myra: she can say the most awful things to people but she gets away with it because everyone loves her and it’s obvious she doesn’t really have a mean bone in her body.
‘She’s just messing with you, Mrs Cobham,’ I say. ‘Trying to wind me up’.
Worn down, I invite Myra over on an evening when I know neither Robert nor Georgia will be there.
‘What’s going on?’ she says. Although we are good friends, I don’t often invite her over to the flat. Robert isn’t keen on unexpected guests. ‘Oh shit! You’re not going to tell me you’ve got another job, are you? Or that you want maternity leave? Are you pregnant?’
She peers down at my stomach.
‘Of course not! I just want to talk to you about something, that’s all.’
How can she resist?
She arrives on the dot of half seven, bearing a box of leftover cakes. I try to pretend they’re not there. It’s hard enough at work, but these are free and in my house.
We sit at the kitchen table and she opens the box, slides it towards me. I summon all my willpower.
‘Not at the moment, thanks.’
‘You are on a diet,’ she crows. ‘I knew it.’ She makes it sound as if she’s accusing me of a crime, which, in Myra’s eyes, dieting is. One of the things I have always loved best about Myra Jones is that she is completely happy the way she is. She’s bigger than me, older than me, she lives on her own and she couldn’t give five fucks about any of those things. She’s an inspiration.
‘OK. Yes. I am.’
‘Why? You’re gorgeous.’
‘It’s a long story. It’s … oh God, Myra, can I tell you something in absolute confidence?’
Her eyes nearly pop out of her head. She reaches for the bottle of red that’s on the table between us and pours us both a glassful.
‘Of course. Anything. I know I love a bit of gossip but I’d never repeat anything you didn’t want me to.’
I know that’s true. Myra is beyond loyal when it comes to her friends.
‘It’s Robert,’ I say. ‘He’s seeing someone else.’
I wait for it to sink in. Her expression goes through shock to sympathy then fury and then back to sympathy again.
‘That bastard. Are you sure?’
I fill her in on the story so far. Her mouth drops open when I tell her it’s Saskia and only gets even wider when I reach the bit about meeting her for coffee, but I plough on through and she waits for me to finish.
‘Jesus. And you’re definitely going to kick him out, right?’
‘Good. I’ve always thought he was a bit of a knob.’
I’m shocked. ‘What?’
‘He has that smug thing going on. Like he’s waiting for everyone to recognize him.’
‘To be fair, a lot of people do.’
‘I know, but that’s not the point. It’s as if he thinks he’s better than them. Like he’s more important than they are because he’s on TV.’
I know she’s right. That’s the thing with Myra. Her observations can be hurtful but there’s always a huge grain of truth in them. I’m so used to Robert being Mr Popular, though, that it’s hard to take in.
‘I thought you got on with him OK.’
‘He’s your husband. I’m hardly going to tell you I think the man you love is a patronizing git. Shit, you’re not going to change your mind, are you, and then this conversation will have been really awkward?’
‘Loved,’ I say. ‘The man I loved. I don’t think I do any more. I don’t think I have for a while, actually.’
‘So your plan is what? Get him to realize how much he loves you and then tell him it’s all over?’
‘Pretty much.’ It sounds idiotic at best, I know.
‘I love it,’ she says. ‘Serve him fucking right. You need to do a bit more than lose a few pounds and talk to him about football, though.’
‘I know. I need help.’
She rubs her hands together, with a look on her face I’ve only ever seen when she’s been scheming for ways to make her business more successful.
‘The element of surprise is crucial. You need him to look at you and think ‘Wow!’ Like he’s noticed you for the first time. You’re lucky you have that fat body thin face thing going on. It won’t be obvious what’s going on for a while. Well, apart from when you … do you still …?’
Only Myra could ask this outright. ‘Not so as you’d notice. And on the rare occasions we do it’s when we’ve both had a few drinks so …’
‘OK. Enough detail. Just wear baggy clothes. And you need to do more than just run after the bus. You need to join a gym.’
‘Oh God, no.’ The thought of all those perfect bodies pumping iron makes me want to cry.
‘Or get a personal trainer. You need to do something to suck it all in so you’re not just a big bag of flapping skin.’
‘Why are you so keen on this all of a sudden? I thought you said I looked good as I am?’
‘You do. You can put it all back on later but Robert’s probably the type who wants a scrawny woman on his arm. I bet Saskia’s stick thin in real life? Am I right?’
‘Yes,’ I say miserably.
‘I knew it. So that’s easy. You can do thin. Now all you have to do is to try and make him fall back in love with you the person again.’
‘Sadly, not so easy.’
‘One step at a time,’ she says. ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing for now. It all helps.’
‘I’m taking these with me,’ she says, gathering up the boxes of cakes as she leaves, a bottle and a half of wine later. ‘We don’t want temptation right under your nose. Really, you shouldn’t be drinking either.’
I raise my eyebrows in a way I hope conveys exactly what I think of that idea.
She laughs. ‘No, you’re right. That would be a step too far.’
She gives me a big hug.
‘Thanks, Myra,’ I say into her shoulder. I feel much better for having unburdened myself.
‘It’ll all be OK,’ she says. ‘Or, actually, it won’t, but at least he’ll be miserable too.’
I’m cursing myself for not asking Saskia more about her own relationship. I was so thrown by her mention of Josh that it didn’t occur to me to try to establish if they’re the kind of couple who see her messing around with another man as acceptable (do those people really exist?), or whether Josh is in the same boat as me. Does he indulge her because she’s an artist or some bollocks like that, or would he be devastated to find out the truth? I can’t help thinking it would be useful to know.
It’s out of the question for me to call her again but I do have one weapon in my arsenal. Saskia’s love of hot yoga, specifically, Saturday-morning classes in Marylebone.
Of course, Marylebone is awash with Bikram classes. All those lithe, beautiful people slipping about in each other’s sweat all day and night. I was paying attention when I was eavesdropping, though. I remember the name of the centre. West One Hot Yoga has three ninety-minute classes every Saturday morning. An early-bird special for superwomen at 7 a.m., and then nine and eleven. I imagine, in between, someone has to go in and mop up.
I have no intention of joining a class, obviously. Ambulances would have to be called. I don’t even do cold yoga. My plan, such as it is, is to be conveniently lurking outside when she emerges. Oh, the coincidence! Fancy seeing you here! It’s worth a try.
There’s no way I can convince Robert that I need to be in the West End at half past eight on a Saturday morning, when the first class would be heading out. I love my weekend lie-ins far too much. I can imagine that Saskia might easily be the type to leap out of bed at the crack of dawn on her day off to go and be pummelled into perfection, but even so. I decide to stake the next two out. If she’s not there, she’s not there. Even if she is, she might be in a hurry, or with a friend, or just have a life to get on with. But, at this point, it’s all I’ve got.
There’s a hairy moment when Georgia declares she wants to come shopping with me. I announced my intentions over dinner on Friday night. George, as usual, is on her way over to Eliza’s. Robert is working his way through yet another fattening ‘health’ brownie. Tonight he declared my root vegetable mash ‘fantastic’ and asked what the mystery ingredient was. I just laughed and didn’t tell him his portion had half a ton of butter added (missing from mine and Georgia’s). I know it will take months for any of this to show around his flat middle, but it makes me happy. It’s like I’m planting little bombs inside him and, one of these days, they’re all going to go off together and the button will pop off his trousers just as a fan is asking for an autograph.
‘You can’t,’ I say, all too abruptly. ‘I’m hunting for your birthday present.’
Georgia’s birthday isn’t for another six weeks but, with the self-centred confidence of youth, she buys my story immediately.
‘Oh my God! What? What is it?’
‘I don’t know yet. This is just a preliminary foray to give me ideas. A fact-finding mission.’
Robert groans. ‘Are you expecting me to come?’
I laugh indulgently. ‘No! Next time, when I’ve narrowed down the options.’
‘You can take me out for brunch,’ Georgia says and his face lights up. He loves it when she still wants to spend time with him. He’s a great dad. In all ways except one.
On Saturday I get to West One Hot Yoga (which turns out to be West1 Hot Yoga! – I wonder if they paid someone to come up with that. I mean, really. Did they get extra for the exclamation point?) about fifteen minutes before the nine o’clock class is due to end. There’s a café almost opposite (thank God for the wealthy would-be hipsters of Marylebone and their obsession with the flat white) so I pick the table with the best viewpoint, order myself a pot of tea and wait.
I try to come up with titbits I can offer up that will pique Saskia’s interest but won’t give her the impression that my marriage is dead and buried already. By the time the hordes of sweaty bodies start to exit at half past ten I’ve come up with a whole scenario that paints me as the loving wife, bemused and heartbroken by a sudden cooling-off on her husband’s part. You’d have to have a heart of stone not to feel sorry for me.
I’ve also prepared some leading questions about her own marriage. I just have to find a way to work them into the conversation without giving myself away.
I daren’t take my eyes off the exiting crowd for a second. This is all for nothing if I miss her. I’m surprised to see there are a few men too. I’d imagined a room full of identikit pretty blonde skinny women. And, actually, they all do fit that description, for the most part. It’s a bit like looking for a polar bear on an iceberg crammed with other polar bears. In a blizzard. I am rendered snow blind by honey highlights. I keep watching as the last few stragglers leave. Most seem to go home without showering (it doesn’t bear thinking about) so I assume they all live nearby. They wear their sheen of sweat and damp skin-tight Lycra like a badge of pride. Look at what I’ve just endured! But wasn’t it all worth it to get this body?
There’s a small hiatus and, just as I think everyone has left, with no sign of Saskia, a couple of women emerge with (clean) damp hair and normal clothes on. Almost immediately, others start arriving, presumably for the eleven o’clock class. Of course, it hadn’t even occurred to me that Saskia might spot me on her way in and then I would have no possible excuse to still be sitting in the same spot ninety-odd minutes later.
I do my best not to draw attention to myself. By which I mean I just sit there not quite knowing what to do. The waitress comes and asks if I’d like anything else and I flap her away, so intent am I on my task. At about ten to eleven I spot Saskia on the other side of the road. Hair neatly tied up at the top of her head. The obligatory skin-tight leggings and a colourful stretchy vest top. Gym bag over her right arm. She’s talking into her mobile. Probably to my husband.
I keep my head down and my fingers crossed. If she notices me sitting there, she doesn’t say anything, and I’m pretty confident she wouldn’t want to pass up the opportunity for another close look at her rival. I allow myself to breathe out. Now I know she’s definitely there, I have an hour and a half to kill. I’m loathe to give up my seat in case she leaves early (I’ve heard people are carried out faint and sick from these classes from time to time, something I’m sad not to have witnessed thus far) or I don’t manage to secure another table later on. I can’t just sit here drinking tea for all that time, though. I’ll be a gibbering basketcase by the time she comes out. And the pastries look far too tempting. Besides, there are people hovering, glaring at me when they get the chance to let me know I should be giving up my table in the sun to them.
I pay my bill and wander down towards Selfridges. I might as well really do some scouting for gifts for Georgia while I’m here. It’s her eighteenth so, of necessity, we have to make a big deal of it. We want to get her some things to help equip her for her new life away from home (don’t think about it), but Robert and I also talked last night (companionable evening on the sofa watching people battering each other senseless on UFC. The things that can bring a couple together) about finding her something she can keep. Something to always remember. ‘A framed decree nisi,’ I almost quipped, but I reined myself in. Now I head to the jewellery section and stare boggle-eyed at the prices for a while.
When I get back to West1 Hot Yoga! all the tables at the café opposite are, predictably, taken. So I lurk in that fat Labrador waiting for a sandwich way beside the people who seem to be furthest along in their meal. Ideally, I will be sitting and looking at a menu at the point Saskia emerges. Then it would be easy to ask her to join me. Asking her if she wants to loiter by the side of the road for a while doesn’t seem like such an attractive proposition.
The waitress who served me only an hour and a half ago shows no sign of recognizing me. This is how much I stand out from the crowd.
‘Just one?’ she says with a smile.
‘At the moment. A friend’s joining me.’
‘We’ve got space inside.’
‘I’d rather wait, if that’s OK?’
The people at the table I’m coveting look up, disappointed. Clearly, they were hoping I’d take myself and my sad, hopeful eyes elsewhere.
‘No problem. I’ll bring you a menu to have a look while you wait.’
I check my phone. Three minutes till the class ends. My heart starts beating up a storm. And right on cue they start to trickle out. The sweaty glowers first – no sign of Saskia – and then, five minutes later, just as I am sitting down at the table – the clean, damp-haired showerers. Two, three, and then, there she is. Before I allow self-consciousness to overtake me I’m waving and calling her name.
She looks over. Sees me. Confusion. Then a smile.
She’s looking good in cropped skinny jeans and Converse (I look hopefully for signs of cankles and, sadly, find none). She’s wearing the same red T-shirt that I threw my drink over.
‘Paula! What on earth are you doing here?’
Don’t babble. You don’t want her to think you’re some kind of stalker maniac.
‘Birthday shopping.’ I roll my eyes. ‘It’s Georgia’s eighteenth in a few weeks and I’m trying to get ahead of myself.’
‘Looks like you’re hard at it, haha,’ she says, indicating the fact that I’m holding a menu in my hand.
‘Busted. Oh, do you want to join me? I’m just having a quick coffee before I go back into the fray.’
I’m relying on her thinking this is too good an opportunity to pass up. She can get a bit more info on the state of her lover’s marriage and he can’t be upset with her because, what could she do?
She hesitates for just a second. ‘OK, lovely. Just a quick one.’ She sits down next to me.
‘What have you been up to?’ I ask, feigning innocence. Hot yoga? What hot yoga?
‘Bikram. I’m obsessed. Addicted to the sweating. Don’t worry, I’ve had a shower, haha!’
‘I’ve always wanted to try that! Do they do it round here?’ BAFTA for the woman in powder blue.
‘Over there.’ She waves at the studio with its huge sign: ‘West1 Hot Yoga!’ ‘You should come one day. I’m here every Saturday. I don’t let myself miss it, whatever’s going on.’
‘Even with the shoulder?’
‘Even with the shoulder. I just avoid putting any pressure on that arm for the time being. Oh, your guy really is working miracles, by the way.’
‘You’ve been back?’
‘Twice. I was going to call you, but it was all a bit last minute …’
Or Robert asked you not to, more like.
‘Oh, that’s OK. Work’s been crazy so I probably wouldn’t have been able to … but it’s getting better? I’m so glad.’
She fills me in on how she’s getting on, and how much her range of movement has improved already and I pretend like I care.
‘Is that the T-shirt?’ I say when she’s exhausted the topic.
‘Oh yes! So, you can see there was no lasting damage.’
‘Now I’m terrified I might accidentally spill my coffee on it. What if I have some kind of compulsion?’
‘I’ll take the chance. How have you been?’
‘Yeah … good,’ I say, with just the right amount of doubt. Don’t tip over into self-pity or you’ll just get on her nerves.
‘That didn’t sound very convincing.’ That’s got her attention. When the waitress comes she decides she’s hungry and orders a salad for lunch. (‘Niçoise, please, my darling. With the dressing on the side.’) I follow suit. Dressing on the top. I’d only pour it all on anyway. I’m not ready for naked salad yet.
‘So, what’s up?’ she says, once our order has been taken.
I give her a tight little smile. Poor, brave woman, trying so hard to keep it together. ‘Oh, nothing much … I’m … we’re just having a bit of a funny time. I think, with … I don’t know … then there’s Georgia …’
‘It’s a big thing for couples, suddenly looking at an empty nest. Not that I know anything about that, of course …’
I nod to let her know that she’s already told me.
‘It’s understandable if you and Robert are finding it hard …’
She waits, hoping I’ll elaborate. How much easier it would be for her if I told her our marriage was all but over. I won’t give her that satisfaction, obviously.
‘I sometimes … I shouldn’t really talk about Robert when he’s not here, especially as the two of you work together …’
‘I would never say anything, don’t worry about that. I know when to keep my mouth shut.’
I nearly laugh but instead turn it into a sigh, as if I’m thinking it over. ‘I sometimes worry that once it’s just us he’ll start thinking, what’s the point …’ As I say this a genuine tear wells up in the corner of my eye. I’m acting but I’m not acting. Saskia reaches out and puts her beautifully manicured hand over mine, and it’s all I can do not to shake it off.
‘I’m sure that’s not true. You have a history, that must count for something …’
I shrug. ‘Maybe …’
Our salads have arrived and the waitress hovers awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do. Saskia moves her hand to make space. I dab at my eyes with my fingers.
‘It’s just … we’ve always been so close, and now he seems … distracted. Do you ever have that … you know, with Josh … that you feel as if he’s not there sometimes?’
‘Oh, Joshie’s a darling,’ she says. ‘I’m lucky that way. I don’t have to worry … sorry, that sounds awful, as if I’m saying you do. I don’t mean it like that.’
‘It’s fine. You’re lucky. I doubt there’re many couples who can say they never have any periods where one or other of them is unsure.’
‘We made a pact when we met,’ she says, looking me straight in the eye. She’s a better actress than I thought. ‘That we would always be honest with each other. If one of us did something that got on the other’s nerves or made them unhappy we could say so without any recriminations. It works.’
‘But what if one of you thought the other was cheating …?’
She gives a little laugh. ‘I’d cut his balls off, haha!’
So they clearly don’t have an open relationship.
‘How did he end up working on the show?’
‘Nothing to do with me! Well, not really. He’s freelance, you know, and he’d just come off another job for the BBC so he put himself in the frame. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt that he was my husband – actually, that sounds awful, don’t ever tell him I said that. He would have been in with a good shot anyway but the little word I put in with the execs might just have edged it for him.’
I can’t imagine why the executive producers would have listened to an actress they must all consider a pain in the arse when it came to hiring a new face to run the show. Most likely what Robert said to me at the time was true: they thought it wouldn’t hurt having someone on board who could try and keep her in line.
‘How did you meet?’
She gazes off into the distance, a Tennessee Williams heroine having a bitter-sweet reminiscence.
‘On Under the Blue Sky,’ she says, referencing another god-awful series she was a regular on before Farmer Giles. This one was about an ex-pat couple settling into life in Spain. I think she played the cantankerous but sexy neighbour on that too.
‘He was in the script department. I used to try to persuade him to write me all the juicy storylines, haha!’
I haha along with her, just to be nice.
‘Have you and Robert been together since college, or have I imagined that?’
I nod, and rearrange my face into a more rueful expression again. ‘Twenty years. It’s hard to believe sometimes.’
‘That’s amazing. What an achievement.’
I bite my tongue. ‘That’s why it’s so hard, you know, at the moment …’
‘It’s a big deal, isn’t it? All that history,’ she says, looking at me with what seems like genuine sympathy. That’s it, the moment she bites down on the hook.
I lower my eyes. Lady Di at a press call. ‘It’s everything.’
By the time we say goodbye I know I’ve got her. A pang of guilt has got through. Now I just need to work on making it take hold.
‘Don’t … Maybe don’t mention to Robert that we bumped into each other,’ I say as she hugs me goodbye, having agreed that we will meet up again soon. ‘Just because you work together and I would never want him to worry that I was talking to one of his co-stars about our personal life.’
The relief on her face is so palpable I almost laugh. I’m offering her a free pass. A front-row seat to the state of my marriage. ‘Of course not. Hey, you should come to Bikram next week. We could have lunch again after.’
‘I’d be in A & E. Maybe one day. Let’s just do the lunch part.’
‘Deal,’ she says, hugging me again. ‘I’ll call you.’
I’m still trying to make a list of all the things that Robert and I used to love to do together so that we can have a few good bonding sessions that might remind him why he ever thought I was his soulmate. (Myra’s advice: buy a mirror, hold it up and let him look at himself; that’ll make him happy.) It’s harder than you would think, pinning down exactly what shared interests you have with your spouse. Unless you still go ballroom dancing or dogging regularly, that is. And most of the activities that come to mind – dancing till four in the morning, taking ecstasy, going on anti-war demonstrations – are things neither of us have had any yearning to do, so far as I’m aware anyway, in the past eighteen-odd years. It’s funny how everything I can think of that was a shared interest is from before Georgia came along. After that we became a family, doing family things, and the rest of it felt a bit immature, a bit trivial.
So far on my list I have: watching sport, browsing vintage markets, weekends away, walking. I added walking even though both Georgia and I gave that one up years ago. She because she thought it was a lame way to spend a Sunday, me because I was too busy comfort eating. It’s one I think we could resurrect now, though.
The next sunny Sunday I start making a picnic before Robert has even surfaced. I’ve bought all his favourite things from the deli up the road – tiny red peppers stuffed with goat’s cheese, taramasalata and pitta bread, mini quiches. I wrap them up, along with smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches (full fat for him, ‘lightest’ for me) and a half-bottle of Prosecco. I’ve planned out a route, just like we used to. Only about five or six kilometres (as opposed to the fifteen we used to happily tackle, but I thought Robert wouldn’t be too happy if he had to carry me the last ten) across the Heath to the pergola in Golders Hill Park. We used to go and sit there for hours when Robert was between jobs and I was a stay-at-home mum, watching Georgia run up and down the steps, chuckling away to herself. I used to worry then about her being an only child. I still do. This whole thing would be much easier for her if she had a sibling to share it with. Somehow, it just never happened, even though we tried.
I hear him stirring in the bedroom. Brace myself. Rehearse my lines in my head. ‘Don’t just say them, live them,’ I hear one of our old tutors say. I always thought he was a bit of a pretentious idiot but at the moment that feels like the exact advice I need.
The toilet flushes, then pad, pad, pad down the corridor and he’s here.
I paste on a bright smile. ‘Morning!’
‘Huh,’ Robert says. He’s never been a morning person. He pushes his hair back from his face, a habit he’s had ever since I’ve known him. The only difference being that he used to have thick dark brown hair and now I can see his scalp peeking through at the crown. I know how much he hates this. Loathes the fact that, whatever he does, he can’t seem to stop the strands leaping from his head like rats from a sinking ship. He’s considering a transplant. The make-up people on Farmer Giles do something miraculous with some kind of dark powder that means his impending baldness does not show up on camera, but it’s only a matter of time. To compensate, he’s grown a beard, like every other man in the country at the moment. He thinks it gives him hipsterish qualities. I think: young Santa.
Robert’s otherwise handsome, chiselled face is a bit let down by his eyes. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but they’re unremarkable. They don’t have that piercing quality that marks out the leading men from the character actors. They’re a muddy grey-blue. I’ve seen him in the mirror many times, practising his arresting stare when he thinks I’m not looking. He can’t quite pull it off, though. In middle age he’s in danger of looking ordinary. Shame.
I place a mug of coffee in front of him. He reaches for it, bleary-eyed, and slugs it back greedily.
‘It’s a gorgeous day.’ I beam at him. ‘So I’ve hatched a plan.’
He looks at me warily. ‘Oh God.’
‘No, you’ll like it. We’re going to park the car up the top of Hampstead and walk up to the pergola. We haven’t done it for years. I’ve already made a picnic.’
I wait for him to object, wondering if I should have held off for him to wake up a bit more before I pounced.
‘Since when did you want to go walking?’
‘Since now. It’ll be fun.’
‘Last time I suggested going for a walk I think your exact words were ‘Why would I want to do that?’ He raises an eyebrow at me. A challenge, but a jokey one. I laugh.
‘Yes, well, let’s just say I’ve seen the error of my ways.’
He looks out of the window. ‘It is a lovely day.’
I know he must be wanting to make some kind of comment about the fact that I’ll want to cop out halfway through. I try to distract him.
I wave the picnic bag at him. ‘I have goat’s-cheese-stuffed peppers.’
He gives me a slightly forced smile. ‘Well, in that case …’
Bingo.
An hour later we’re striding out past Whitestone Pond at the top of the hill. Robert always walks at a pace that suggests he’s being followed by something big and scary but doesn’t want to alert it to the fact he’s trying to get away by actually breaking into a run. Consequently, I’m breathless already, which is affecting my sparkling attempts at conversation. (Among other things, I have researched the progress of the preparations for the Rio Olympics, what new shows are opening in theatres around the country and what’s happening in The Archers, all topics that are close to his heart). I slow my pace, hoping he’ll match it, but he just keeps moving. If we carry on like this, I’ll have to sit down in a minute.
‘Could we … um … I need to slow down a bit …’
He turns and then stops. ‘Oh, sure. Sorry.’
So at least now we’re ambling along next to each other. To an outsider it must look quite companionable. I decide to try out one of my topics.
‘Oh! I was reading there’s a new production of Noises Off,’ I say, my breathing still coming out in deep rasps. ‘It starts doing the regional rounds next month.’
‘Right’ he says. I can tell he’s like a Jack Russell who thinks he might have seen a mouse; he’s dying to be able to speed up and yomp off into the woods. Robert has always thought walking should be exercise, not just pleasure.
‘We should go and see it. It’s coming to Windsor, that’s probably the closest.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘Shall I look into tickets? We could stay the night down there somewhere …’
‘Not if it’s while we’re still filming. You know I like to try and avoid too many commitments at the weekends.’
‘Sure,’ I say, deflated. Noises Off was one of my best weapons. It’s a play Robert loves, coming to a town he adores. ‘Well, maybe it’ll still be going somewhere when you break.’
‘Great.’
I try again. ‘Oh! I was reading a thing about the Stone Roses! They’re going back on tour, can you imagine? That might be a laugh.’
Robert pulls a face that basically says ‘what the fuck are you talking about?’ ‘Sounds tragic to me.’
We walk on in silence for a few minutes and his phone starts to ring in his pocket. I wait for him to look to see who it is, but he just strides on, staring into the distance.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’
‘No. It’ll just be someone asking if I want to claim for an accident I never had.’
‘It might be important. What if it’s work?’
The ringing has stopped. He whips it out of his pocket and glances at the screen, holding it in a way that means I can’t see it without making it obvious that he’s doing so.
‘Unknown,’ he says. ‘Told you. I’ll put it on silent.’
We pass the muddy track that leads directly to the pergola and head for the main gates to Golders Hill Park. We don’t discuss going this way, it’s just the way we always used to go, and I feel a little jolt of sadness that our relationship still has muscle memory.
It’s busy today because it’s a weekend and the sun is out. Families chase each other around on the grass. Some are already having picnics, even though it’s not yet twelve. There’s a queue snaking out from the café but I want to stick to our old rituals as much as I can.
‘Shall I get coffees?’
He looks at the line of people. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. You wait here, it won’t take long.’
He leans against a wall outside as I join the back of the line and edge my way forward slowly. I watch as he takes his mobile out of his pocket and examines it. Dashes off a text and sends it. Let me guess. ‘Don’t call again! Am with Paula. Walking!!!!’ Something like that anyway. I imagine Saskia all fresh and shiny after yeaterday’s Bikram session (and brunch with me after), smiling as she reads it. Flicking back her highlighted hair as unsuspecting Josh lovingly brings her a coffee.
When I look again Robert is posing for a selfie with an eager fan. The rule seems to be that once one person gets up the courage to waylay him and doesn’t get punched in the face for their efforts, then everyone else within walking distance decides to have a go too. I know he’ll be getting antsy. Cursing the fact that he’s a sitting target and he can’t get away because I won’t know where he is.
I take a moment’s comfort from his displeasure and then I do what any good, devoted wife would do. I send him a text telling him to head on up to the pergola and I’ll find him there once I’m coffee’d up. Of course, he assumes it’s Saskia texting him – I know he’ll want to read her message as soon as humanly possible – and I watch as he holds up a hand to silence the fan at the front of the queue, who is almost certainly halfway through her life story by now, and dives a hand into his pocket, looking around guiltily to check I’m not about to surprise him any time soon. When he sees my name he looks over to the café and catches me watching him. I wave encouragingly.
He reads the text and smiles gratefully. I watch as he shakes off the rest of the autograph hunters, I assume by telling them that some emergency has arisen, and strides off.
Once I finally have my prize in my hands, I know exactly where I’ll find him. We always used to camp out in the same spot, up some stairs and around a corner where there is just a single bench. Of course, if it was already taken when he got there, then I have no idea where he’ll have gone to hide, but when I round the corner there he is. For once, his nose isn’t buried in his phone. He’s leaning back with his face turned towards the sun and his eyes closed. He’s even made an effort to lay out the picnic in the middle of the seat. I stop myself from pointing out that the perishables would have been much happier staying in the cold bag for a bit longer. New Paula would never find fault.
‘God, sorry,’ I say as I approach. ‘I had no idea it would take so long.’
‘It’s fine. It’s nice sitting here, actually. Peaceful.’
I hand him his coffee and plonk myself down at the other end. Tip my head back, close my eyes. He’s right. It’s nice.
Later, when I’m soaking in the bath, trying to calm my protesting muscles, I congratulate myself on a successful day. Not that I think sparks were flying between Robert and myself – far from it – but we passed a pleasant afternoon in each other’s company. By the end of the walk back to the car I was wheezing like a pug with a smoking habit, but I did it. I didn’t sit down on a bench and refuse to move until he went and fetched the car to pick me up. (I did consider it at one point but I managed to keep the thought to myself.)
When we got home I knew from the way he described to Georgia where we walked, how beautiful the woods were looking, the baby rabbits we saw, that he enjoyed himself. Round one to me.