LITMIR.BIZ

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so violent, her fury, her hurt so absolute that she felt something like passion.

      She couldn’t remember wanting to rip off his clothes. She couldn’t remember thinking the world was populated by just the two of them. It was a relief, in a way. It would hurt so much if she could.

      She wished he was dead. Then people would have sent cards and flowers. They’d have respected her, sympathised with her. As soon as news of their split leaked out, people started to avoid her, cancelled coffee dates, didn’t listen to her at production meetings, scattered to the corners of a busy room when she walked into the centre of it. They were embarrassed for her. She was drenched in shame and it should have been him. He was the shameful one.

      She’d been robbed. Opportunities had been stolen from her. Years had been squandered. She’d been a fool.

      But she wasn’t going to be anybody’s fucking fool again.

13

       Melanie

       Saturday 24th February

      On Saturday evening, Abi offers to take Ben and me out for dinner as a thank you for our hospitality. She even thinks to invite Liam along, which is so kind. He declines, preferring to spend the evening with Tanya, but it was nice of her to think to include him. We pay him and Tanya to babysit the girls and the three of us set off to Golden Orchid for Thai – it’s the nicest place in the local area.

      As we leave the house, Abi giggles, ‘Isn’t that weird for you?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘The fact you’ve basically just paid them to have sex on your sofa.’

      ‘Oh my God, Abi. That is not what I have done,’ I laugh.

      ‘It sort of is,’ Ben points out as he climbs into the front of the taxi and Abi and I scramble into the back.

      ‘No, I paid them to see that Imogen and Lily clean their teeth and go to bed. If they have sex on the sofa, that’s their business. There are some things it’s best not to think about too closely.’

      ‘I just can’t believe you have a son old enough to be in an adult relationship,’ says Abi. ‘I still feel like we’re eighteen, don’t you?’ I nod and smile. I guess I do, when I’m around Abi at least, I get glimmers of it. But until this weekend, I’d say I felt the full weight of my years. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, I’m a mum of three.

      Tanya is slight, blonde, clever and generally calm and smiley. I see her as a very positive addition to the family dynamic. The girls adore her. Almost as much as Liam does. Liam has had girlfriends before Tanya. Interchangeable, pretty, feral girls in tiny denim cut-off shorts and thick black tights, the sort who couldn’t look you in the eye but could certainly roll their eyes. None of them lasted longer than six weeks and they all came with a huge dollop of teenage emotional trauma and drama. There isn’t any of that with Tanya. They are simply content and confident in one another’s company. They go to the same sixth-form college and see each other most Friday and Saturday evenings – she often stays over and joins us for Sunday lunch. She does wear the same uniform as his previous girlfriends though, denim and denier.

      I sometimes wonder what’s going to happen to their relationship when they go to university. Tanya wants to be a vet and really must go where there are courses, which are few and far between. Liam wants to go into politics and is very keen to study in London – he already has a place confirmed at UCL, providing he gets the right grades. Their one chance of avoiding a long-distance relationship is if Tanya gets accepted at the Royal Veterinary College, University of London. She won’t find out for another month or so. I’m crossing my fingers for her. If that doesn’t work out I don’t know how they plan to manage. It’s their business and not mine. If Liam, or even Tanya, decides to discuss the matter with me then it becomes my business but until then I’ll keep my nose out of it.

      We have a great night at the Golden Orchid. Again, it flies by. Again, I get a little bit drunk, I don’t know how. It sort of creeps up on me. I wonder whether it’s down to that thing Abi was saying in the cab? There’s something about being with her that makes me feel as though I’m eighteen again and can knock back drinks without any consequences. I want to use chopsticks in front of her, and not resort to a fork, so I don’t manage to line my stomach as efficiently as I should. Abi is a little worse for wear, too. When we are drinking our second bottle of wine, she reiterates the story of finding Rob in bed with his PA, for Ben’s benefit ostensibly. Although, the way Ben squirms on his chair, I think he’d have been happier not to get the details. I discover that Abi did indeed self-censor when she told me the story in front of Imogen and Lily. In the Golden Orchid, she is less discreet, which is a little tricky because it’s not a big place and the tables are quite tightly packed.

      ‘Sneaked up the stairs,’ she slurs, ‘like a criminal. In my own home. At it like dirty animals, they were. Tits practically hit me in my face. Slapping her arse as he came. Filthy bastard.’ Ben shifts uncomfortably, coughs and then suggests we might want coffee, in much the way I offered cake when I first heard the sad story. Ben and I are not prudish. We have a good sex life. There just comes a point when that sort of thing doesn’t seem appropriate conversation. My conversations with Gillian or Becky centre around OFSTED reports, not orgasms. Honestly? It’s often the same conversation at the school gate; we use one another as a check and balance. Are we doing enough as parents? I suppose Abi talks more openly. More honestly.

      Abi accepts the coffee and stops talking about sex but can’t seem to get away from the subject of Rob’s infidelity.

      ‘The problem is, I’m left exposed, financially and emotionally. What a fool I’ve been.’ She shakes her head, still stunned. ‘Everything I’ve ever done was for him. The move to America, the type of work I took on, the size of our family – or rather the non-existence thereof, were all his decisions.’ Ben and I murmur sympathetic noises but don’t quite commit to words. ‘How has it ended up like this?’ Abi wails, disbelieving. ‘You know I had such promise,’ she says, eagerly grabbing Ben’s arm. ‘There was such possibility when we first met at university. I could have had anyone. Been anyone. Couldn’t I, Mel? Tell him.’

      I nod because it’s true.

      ‘There’s nothing more heartbreaking than squandered promise,’ she adds.

      I glance at Ben, and indicate, with an almost imperceptible shift of my head, that it might be time to get the bill. I don’t feel comfortable with her laying this all out in this tiny restaurant, in this small town; I know that big ears are always flapping.

      ‘My mother never liked him,’ Abi tells Ben. ‘Said that he’d turned my head.’ Ben smiles. ‘What?’ Abi demands.

      ‘Nothing. It’s just a funny turn of phrase.’

      Abi laughs but she doesn’t sound amused, more bitter. ‘You are right,’ she says, poking his arm, one jab per word. ‘I always imagine a cartoon character with its head spinning, comically. But it’s not so funny now because that’s how I feel. Foolish, distorted. Two dimensional.’ She pauses and then adds. ‘Terrified.’

      Abi starts to cry. Tears curl and swell; her long lashes can’t harness them. They trickle down her face. She’s a very beautiful crier. Ben looks about and grabs a clean napkin from a nearby unoccupied table, offers it to her. She takes it and dabs her eyes. I rub her back and try to stare down the rubberneckers. I can’t intimidate them – Abi is too much of a draw. It is impossible to hope that they’ll even pretend to stay in their own conversations.

      ‘I just want to undo the moment. To just rewind, or wipe it out. You know?’ Abi sighs and adds, with a stale air of defeatism. ‘I’d even settle for it happening but me not knowing about it,’ she admits. ‘How pathetic is that? I want to be an ostrich. I’m willing to bury my head in the sand.’

      But, it’s

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