The Good Divorce Guide

‘I’ll come right over,’ Mum had said when I rang to tell her about Jonathan leaving home. ‘You need your mother at a time like this.’ She would brook no argument, and rang me within half an hour with station, platform and arrival time. Exhausted from days of poor sleep, I was too tired to argue—or remember that my mum’s assistance is not quite the balm to human suffering she believes.

‘I always did worry about your different backgrounds.’ Mum shakes her head as she hangs up her dress.

I haven’t forgotten the scene she made when she found out I was marrying a working-class boy from Leeds: ‘You are mad, barking mad! He won’t know how to hold his knife and fork!’

‘Mum, he’s lovely and so clever. His boss says he’s got a brilliant future ahead of him.’

‘I bet they have illuminated reindeers on the porch at Christmas.’

But Mum calmed down when Jonathan impressed my dad by confessing that he read the BMJ for pleasure. My parents’ grudging acceptance turned into positive praise when Jonathan made money with the patenting of Zelkin and invited them to stay with us the summer we rented a villa in the Dordogne.

‘Honestly,’ Mum now says, mouth set, ‘I don’t know how he could do it.’

‘He’s in love,’ I say, and I don’t think I sound too bitter.

‘Thank goodness your father’s not here to see it.’ My mother is rustling through her weekend bag. ‘Here, I brought you this—’ She pulls out a brochure and hands it over. ‘I know it’s not really your age group, but an older man might be just the ticket. And I thought it might take your mind off things.’

I look down at the glossy photos of a SAGA cruise around the Med.

‘Mu-um, I’m getting separated, not Alzheimer’s!’ I hand her back the brochure. I think ruefully of Jill’s comment about ‘the three stages of womanhood: “Aga, Saga, Gaga.”’

‘Well,’ my mother sniffs, ‘I found it very helpful when your father passed away.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘No. Your father never chose to leave me.’

In her eyes, clearly, I’m a reject, she’s a survivor.

‘You’ve got to protect those poor children.’ My mother follows me down to the kitchen. ‘I know you’re still…raw, but I hope you’re not going to take this lying down, Rosie.’

I fill the kettle. ‘Mum, you’re just thinking in stereotypes…’

But Mum interrupts, cocking her head to one side to look at me appraisingly: ‘You look as if you’ve put on weight. Do you think that’s why—’

‘Mu-um!’ I cry, exasperated.

‘Sorry, darling, didn’t mean to upset you.’

Mum has never been one for diplomacy. When I was ten, miserable because my classmates were teasing me about my braces, Mum looked at the silver twin track that ran across my face and told me, ‘You do look dreadful, darling, but only for another two years.’ I catch sight of my reflection, distorted into a swollen shape on the shiny metallic microwave, and feel the tears sting: I do look dreadful.

‘You gave him the best years of your life.’ My mother shakes her head woefully.

‘I’ve still got a few left, Mum.’

‘They’re all the same’—Mum ignores me as she sips from her mug—‘these modern men. Not a thought about duties and responsibilities. It’s all about fun fun fun.’

‘That’s not fair on Jonathan.’

‘Fair? I don’t want to be fair. Is it fair for him to dump you when you’re nearly forty?’

‘He hasn’t dumped me,’ I protest. ‘Remember? The separation is my idea.’

‘What makes me spit is the thought of his having the pick of any woman he chooses, while you’ll be stuck with some broke divorc?or some Mama’s boy who’s not fit for anyone.’ Mum helps herself to the tin of biscuits. She starts to nibble a digestive. ‘Trust me,’ she says as she wipes the crumbs from the corners of her mouth, ‘it’s awful out there.’

I wince at the thought of my mum experiencing ‘out there’—does she date? Did she try to find herself a lover after Daddy died? She has looked the same for as long as I can remember: a soft brown bob that frames her remarkably unlined face, brown eyes brought out with charcoal-grey eye shadow, a lipstick that is more wine-hued than scarlet red. Her clothes are always neat and feminine, not so much eye-catching as a perfect complement to her trim frame. She is still, I realise for the first time in years, attractive.

‘Now, the thing is not to traumatise the children,’ my mother is saying decisively as we retreat into the sitting room. ‘We really need to show them that you will all do fine without Daddy, and that no one’s cross with anyone, and no one’s playing the blame game.’ She settles in the armchair, and takes out her crossword. ‘We’ll reassure them with a cosy family weekend. You’ll see.’ She tucks her feet under her legs and starts nibbling on her pencil. ‘Two across: “Hellish time…seven letters…” Hmmm…Divorce?’

Chapter 3

I fetch the kids from the tennis club. Feeling guilty about Devon, Jonathan has enrolled them for expensive tennis lessons. He should feel guilty, because although it’s true, as I told Mum, that we’ve done our best to reassure the children that relations between us are good, they are showing signs of anxiety: Kat is texting furiously, day and night, and seems totally indifferent to everything around her; Freddy is still coming to my bed at dawn, and has to be led back to his room with whispered assurances of love and devotion. Both cling to me, whenever we’re together: Freddy holds on to my skirt, clutches my hands, and climbs on to my lap the moment I sit down; Kat watched an entire episode of Dr Who with her head on my shoulder.

As I walk towards Haverstock Hill, I decide that I must enlist my mum’s aid, so that together we can drive home the point that our separation is not an act of hostility. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if I couldn’t turn Jonathan’s straying, and his guilt, to my advantage. Now that I’m being given time to review our marriage, I can think of a number of areas that need improving: Jonathan’s workaholism, his hours on the computer playing Mensa brain games, his obsession with files, drawers, and boxes, his horrendous taste in ties…Yes, if we use this time of separation wisely, we can improve our life together.

Even the children will benefit from that. Meanwhile, Mum must help me cheer them up. We can take them to a movie, and maybe go for a meal at Gourmet Burger Kitchen, or that nice caf?in Regent’s Park. Mum can do the granny routine and ask about friends and we could plan her stay at Christmas—she comes up every year, staying into the New Year—so that they know that some things are going to stay the same.

‘Mrs Martin?’

I turn to find Mr Parker, the skinny little man who runs Belsize Parker Estate Agents. He stands, as usual, on the pavement outside his bright green office, Marlboro in one hand, mobile in the other.

‘How are we doing?’ He ends his call and stubs out his cigarette.

‘Fine, fine.’ I try to look like I’m in a hurry.

‘I heard’—Mr Parker’s eyes find his shoes, then my face again—‘about your circumstances…just wanted to offer my sincere sympathy.’

I wonder how news of our separation has reached the property world, but then I remember that Otilya cleans for Mrs Parker on Saturday mornings.

‘Yes. Well, it’s sad, but’—I try to look determined, independent, business-like—‘we need a bit of time to…’

‘I was just wondering if Mr Martin’s found something to rent?’ Mr Parker’s little eyes sparkle with hope. I notice that his pinstripe suit looks too big for him, as if it were a hand-me-down uniform that he, or his parents, were hoping he would grow into.

‘You’ll have to talk to him.’ I’m not going to find my husband a nice flat in which to nest, for goodness’ sake. ‘I’m off to fetch the children…’ I try to walk on, but Mr Parker is at my heels:

‘Nearby would be convenient, given the situation.’ He coughs and splutters, out of breath. You can’t smoke thirty a day and hope to keep up with a woman in a hurry. ‘And I’ve got a nice little flat that would be just the ticket.’

‘Do give Jonathan a ring,’ I call to Mr Parker over my shoulder.

He is at a trot now, still pitching: ‘Obviously I know this won’t be for long, he’s looking for a short-term let,’ he splutters behind me, ‘but they’re hard to come by these days, and I think I could get him a good deal.’

‘I’m sure he’d love to hear from you!’ I shout as I sprint for the gates to the low-bricked buildings of Belsize Tennis Club.

‘If you wouldn’t mind giving me his mobile number…’ I hear Mr Parker calling out as I enter the revolving doors before me. Before I can answer I’m being rotated into the warmth of the club.

The children let out a whoop when they hear who’s waiting at home for them.

‘Granny! Yippee!’ they chant as we stroll back home—unaware that I’ve short-circuited England’s Lane and Mr Parker’s agency by going the long way round. ‘Granny, hurrah!’

Jonathan’s mum lives too far away, and is too reserved, for the children to feel totally comfortable with her, but my parents (and since my father’s death, my mum) have always made them feel totally at ease. The criticism she cannot stop doling out to me is forgotten when it comes to her beloved grandchildren. I can do no right, they can do no wrong.

I let us in, and Kat and Freddy rush to the sitting room. As I watch the three figures wrapped in a hug, I smile to myself: yes, it was a good idea, Mum’s coming down.

‘Oh, my poor poor darlings,’ my mother sobs as she wraps her arms around both children simultaneously. ‘You are so precious…how awful for you to have to go through this! You’ll have to be brave and strong, my poor pets, no matter how difficult it is…’

So much for not traumatising the children.

Mother’s visit doesn’t get any better. She finds dust behind her cupboard and tells me that losing a husband is no excuse for becoming slovenly; sees Freddy glued to the telly and whispers to me that he’s retreating into a kinder world; and, after skimming through my copy of Good Housekeeping, begins, ‘Men need sex once a week, do you think that’s why…?’

‘Mu-um!’ I cry, exasperated.

On Monday, I receive a letter from the Marlborough Centre: they’re interviewing me next week for a place on the Counselling for Life course which starts in September. I study the letter, wondering if I should even attempt the interview at this point. Will my life become clearer over the next month? Do I commit to a course while holding down a job, reassuring the children, and trying to get my husband back? How can I think of helping others, even listening to them, when my own life is full of indecision?

‘What do you think?’ I ask my mum over tea and digestives.

‘For goodness’ sake, Rosie, what are you thinking of ?!’ Mum shakes her head. ‘You really need to concentrate now, put all your energy into getting Jonathan back home. You don’t have time for more work when your life is going down the plughole.’

Worse, on Wednesday when I come home from Dr Casey’s, I find her and our next-door neighbour, Carolyn Vincent, sitting in our kitchen having tea. Molly Vincent may sport black nail polish and three studs in her ear, but her mum is all Boden catalogue. Carolyn always manages to look pretty and peachy, with perfect creases on her trousers and nicely polished ballerinas and a girlish ponytail she swings over her shoulder when she wants to think things through.

‘Hullo,’ I say as I walk in on them.

Carolyn starts: ‘Hi, Rosie, how are you?’ She looks guilty and I can practically smell the pints of pity they have poured all over the subject of our s-p-l-i-t. Carolyn and Louis’s marital harmony is always on show—or at least within earshot, their cooings and tweet-tweets loud and clear beyond the wall that separates us.

‘Hullo, darling. Carolyn dropped by for a cup of tea.’ My mum looks totally unembarrassed.

‘Er…yes.’ Carolyn grows the colour of her beautifully cut pink linen dress. ‘Just seeing if the children wanted to come over for supper tonight. Louis is doing a barbecue.’

It’s a double whammy: first, Carolyn obviously suspects I no longer feed my children proper meals; second, she is letting me know that her husband hangs about the place lighting charcoal bricks and getting splattered by burgers and sausages while mine has made tracks with a sexy American.

‘That’s sweet of you, Carolyn, but I’ve bought lamb chops already,’ I lie.

Mum and Carolyn share a look of complicity.

‘Oh, and also…’ Carolyn begins, as she swings her blonde ponytail over her left shoulder and lowers her lids shyly, ‘I thought you might like to meet my friend Vanessa. She’s a brilliant therapist. Specialises in relationships and…sex.’

‘I thought’—my mother looks from Carolyn to me and back again—‘it sounded just the ticket. I mean, our subconscious does very weird things. And we all know how important bed is for the boys.’

‘Hmmm…’ I try to smile but my teeth feel set in stone—and misery. ‘I believe in therapy—though maybe it’s not the sex kind we need.’

‘Well, let me know if you change your mind. Louis and I just want to help.’ Carolyn sets down her mug, only half finished, and with a reproachful look makes for the back door: ‘Nice meeting you, Mrs Walters.’

‘A lovely girl.’ My mother watches Carolyn’s slender figure retreating across our garden. ‘And I like the look of him, too. You couldn’t hope for better neighbours, really.’ Then she turns to me. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary, how different marriages can be?’

In between such helpful comments we play Monopoly, Risk and Racing Demon, and Mum wastes a lot of time trying to teach the children bridge. We watch a DVD of High School Musical: Remix, sing along to the lyrics, and call in a pizza. The children relax, and the familiar routines of Mum’s stay—the questions about school which prompt her own, rather long-winded, reminiscences, the crossword, the Earl Grey tea and ginger biscuits for elevenses and 5 p.m., the insistence on a long walk after lunch—reassure them that all is as before. Almost.

Once the children are tucked up in bed, Mum and I sit reading in the living room.

‘Freddy’s such a star, did you see how he’s been running errands for me, fetching glasses, books, my crossword?’ Mum looks up from her Jeffrey Archer to smile at me. ‘And our little girl, she’s all grown up: do you realise what all that texting is about?’ I shake my head, no. ‘A boyfriend!’

‘A boy who is a friend, you mean?’ I look up, worried, from The Times.

‘No, no, Mungo is an official boyfriend. She says so on Facebook.’ My mother smiles, pleased. ‘I think it’s marvellous.’

‘Do you?’ I sound sceptical. Is my mum on Facebook, I wonder? I’m not.

‘Yes.’ My mother nods her head vigorously. ‘It’s a sign that she hasn’t been put off men by your split.’

‘Oh…’ I breathe deeply, guiltily, and hide behind the newspaper: I hadn’t considered that our separation could turn my daughter into a man-hater.

‘It’s not puppy love as we know it,’ Mum continues, fingers tapping on the Jeffrey Archer. ‘They’ve only met once, and their whole relationship is about texting.’

I set down the newspaper, feeling left out and slightly put out: first, my daughter chooses to confide in Mum rather than me; second, my twelve-year-old is beginning a relationship just as mine threatens to end. Kat, Kat… I want to take my daughter in my arms and whisper a warning: Be careful, my love. But even as I think the words, I know not to ever utter them; I don’t want my daughter to be scared of love.

It’s as if Mum reads my thoughts: ‘I wouldn’t worry about Jonathan, you know. These…sex things don’t usually last more than a few months.’

Immediately I start imagining all kinds of scenarios: Jonathan weeping, on his knees, begging me to start again. Jonathan ringing on the door in the dead of night telling me that he’s made a terrible mistake. The children and I coming back from tennis camp to find Jonathan on our doorstep…

From the depths of the chintz armchair, she gives me a long look. ‘Would you have him back?’

Would I? I’ve gone from being shocked to being furious, to wanting some control over our relationship, to wishing him back. So would I have him back? Like a shot. Separation sounded like a good idea: a pause in which to review, regroup. But nothing had prepared me for this loneliness. Jonathan and I have always been friends, after all. I won’t be able to survive much more of this.

Out loud I say, ‘For the children’s sake, yes.’

My mother’s hope becomes my certainty. Every time I hear a car park outside or a cab pull up, I’m convinced it’s Jonathan. Whenever Jonathan rings to speak to the children, I’m sure he is about to plead to be taken back. And when Kat complains that her computer’s acting up, and Jonathan offers to come by and look at it, and ends up also fixing the dripping tap in the downstairs loo, I read in these DIY efforts an attempt to worm his way back into our affection.

‘Don’t be pathetic,’ Jill scolds me when I tell her. ‘Men love playing at Mr Fix-it. They’d fix a tap for Myra Hindley if they got half a chance.’

I don’t listen. He’s left his electric razor behind—he wouldn’t do that if he thought he would be gone for long. His post continues to come every day, as do the International Herald Tribune and the Financial Times.

‘Don’t read anything into it,’ Jill warns. ‘When they’re in the throes of sex they don’t remember their own name. When Ross was cheating on me he was always getting locked out because he’d forgotten his keys, and showing up late because he’d lost his watch. Multi-tasking is for women.’

‘Hmmm…’ I murmur, unconvinced. Ross and Jonathan have nothing in common. Ross is still getting handouts from his parents, whereas Jonathan prides himself on being a caveman provider. Ross is bohemian, while Jonathan’s idea of being creative is thinking up names for pharmaceutical patents. Ross never wanted children, Jonathan adores his.

Which is another reason for my optimism. Kat and Freddy are my most powerful weapons against the American. I have to hide my smile when I hear Kat on the telephone to Molly, describing ‘what a pain’ Linda is. I feel a little thrill of victory when Freddy refuses to go to the Science Museum with his father and ‘her’. And I’m secretly delighted when I overhear the children telling their father that they want to be with ‘just you, Dad’, when he offers to take them out for lunch on Saturday.

Jonathan is sheepish when he comes to pick up or drop off the children. He tries to worm his way back into Otilya’s good graces by taking out the rubbish piled up in the kitchen. He offers to lend me the car so I can get to John Lewis to pick up the curtains I’d ordered. And he offers to help Freddy with his back stroke for hours on end. Between us, though, conversation has become impossibly stilted. We may be only separated, but we speak like a couple in the throes of divorce.

A brief guide to divorce-speak:

1 He says: ‘This is very painful for me.’ He means: This is going to be very expensive.

2 He says: ‘This is not doing either one of us any good.’ He means: I don’t want to have sex with you any more.

3 He says: ‘The children are so grown-up.’ He means: Don’t try a guilt trip on me.

4 He says: ‘You don’t understand…’ He means: You’d better do what I want.

5 He says: ‘Linda understands me.’ He means: Linda’s better in bed than you.

6 He says: ‘I want regular access to the children.’ He means: I want to see the children for fun outings on the occasional weekend, once you’ve fed them, bathed them, and made sure they’ve done their homework.

7 He says: ‘I want you to know I’m always here for you.’ He means: Don’t bother me unless the house is burning down.

8 You say: ‘Everything will be fine.’ You mean: This is hell on earth.

9 You say: ‘Your father’s wonderful, really.’ You mean: Your father’s wrecked your lives and when you’re older you can sue him for negligence.

10 10. You say: ‘This can be a new beginning.’ You mean: I’m so emotionally battered I wonder if I’ll survive this.

‘I’m dead! I’ve had an electric muscle-stimulator facial, and you can’t imagine how loooooong that takes.’ Jill drops by Saturday morning. Jonathan has taken the children for pizza (’With just you, Dad, right?’). It’s a glorious day and I’m sunbathing in the garden, trying to ignore the Vincents’ loveydovey duet on the other side of the wall.

‘They say it takes years off your face.’ Jill opens and shuts her mouth in an exaggerated sequence. ‘You know, we’re supposed to give our facial muscles a daily eight-minute workout.’ She scrunches her face, then relaxes it. You’d never know this was a much-respected GP, a woman who is rational and ultra-sane about most things. ‘Now, are you ready to meet other people?’

‘I don’t need to, Jill!’ I’m on the chaise longue, and I need to shield my eyes to see my friend, sitting beside me. I’ve made us both iced tea. ‘He’s coming back.’

‘What?!’ Jill’s look of astonishment is comical. ‘Thrown over the Yank?’

‘Shshshshsh.’ I bring an index finger to my lips and nod in the direction of the wall. From the other side comes a steady stream of ‘Sweety’ and ‘Darling’, ‘Treasure’ and ‘Petal’. ‘No, he hasn’t left her yet. But it’s almost over.’

‘What’s “almost”? Almost as in, he’s told you to pack your bags because the two of you are off to the Caribbean for a love-fest, or almost as in, your wishful thinking?’

‘Neither. The children keep saying that he looks miserable when he’s saying goodbye to them, and he keeps hanging about the house, and he keeps doing things to be helpful, like offering to look into my mum’s prescription and find out why it’s not working…’

Jill draws her chair closer to me. She looks stern. ‘This does not mean that he’s coming back, Rosie. It just shows Jonathan’s not a complete bastard. He loves the kids. He probably even loves you—in a kind of fraternal, protective way. But I see no proof of a change of mind.’

‘Jill, you’re always so negative,’ I burst out. Then, mindful of the ‘petal’ and ‘treasure’ on the other side of the hedge I lower my voice: ‘I bet you anything he comes back, apologises, and we start a whole new life together.’

I hang on to the vision of our family reunited. And when I come home from Mr Ahmed the dry cleaner’s to find Jonathan’s message on our voicemail, I’m convinced this is it. ‘Rosie. It’s me. Can I come by this afternoon? I’m unhappy…garble garble…’ The tape becomes indistinct but I am sure of the sentiment conveyed: Jonathan is unhappy and wants to return.

I run upstairs to check my makeup. I hear footsteps outside the bathroom: I’m tempted to ask Kat what she thinks of my dress—scoop neck, cotton, light blue; but I don’t want to get her hopes up.

‘Mu-um!’ It’s not Kat, it’s Freddy coming up the stairs. I lock the door: my nine-year-old still has only a nominal notion of privacy.

‘What?’ I try to keep my hand steady as I draw eyeliner on to my lid.

‘I’m just going over to the Vincents’ to play FIFA 08 with Oscar. Kat wants to come to see Molly.’

‘Off you go.’ For only a second I feel guilty that I’m allowing the children to miss one of their father’s visits. If my suspicions are right, though, today marks their father’s return. Just me and Jonathan, I think, and my heart thumps. I feel shockingly lust-filled when I think about my straying husband: maybe someone else needed to find him attractive before I could get excited about him again.

The door bell goes as I finish brushing my hair. I rush down and let Jonathan in. Except I can’t. The knob that is supposed to unclick stays rigid in my hand. I try desperately to turn it but nothing happens. It’s an American-style, button-in-the-middle knob that Jonathan had warned was lethal for small children. He’s been promising to change it from the day we moved in. My husband is coming back to me and I’m stuck in the loo!

The door bell rings again. ‘Jonathan! I’m just coming!’ I yell. But there’s nothing for it: the handle resists all attempts to turn it. ‘I can’t!’ I scream.