‘Do you want me to drive you back?’
‘I can drive.’
‘The motorway will be horrible. I can drive with you and catch the train tonight.’
‘Douglas, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in London. Next week. I’ll choose a restaurant.’ We had a deal. Lunch, once a month. No exceptions. Like a therapist or a social worker, she was very strict about these meetings. She wanted to keep an eye on me, I suppose.
‘Drive carefully. Use the wing mirrors.’
‘I will.’
A moment passed.
‘I found that hard,’ I said.
‘Me too. But it could have been much harder, Douglas.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Nothing got smashed against the wall, nothing got torn in two.’
‘No.’
‘Thank you, Douglas.’
‘What for?’
‘For not hating me.’
In truth there had been times when I had hated her, in the wrenching and tearing of the previous months, but not then. We kissed goodbye and after she had gone, crunching through the gears on the drive, I went back into the house once more to rinse the mugs, pack the kettle, turn off the gas and water. I loaded up the boot and backseat of my car then walked from room to room, closed the windows and doors for the last time, and noted how empty an empty house can feel. For all the difficulties we had faced there, I had never wanted us to leave and yet here I was closing the front door and posting the keys through the letterbox. There was no reason for me to return, and this felt like defeat and so I felt ashamed.
But the lunches in London in April and May were pleasant and light-hearted enough. I had said that life without her by my side was inconceivable and now I was being coaxed into conceiving of a future where we might be friends. Patently, she was happy to be back in the city. The flat in Kennington was tiny, but she didn’t mind. She was seeing friends, going to exhibitions, even painting again, and I had to admit that this new life suited her. There was a glow about her, a spark, a quick wit and a vague disreputability that recalled the Connie I’d first met, and this made me both happy and a little sad, because while it was pleasing to see her come back to life, it was harsh to be revealed as the encumbrance to her spirits. So we strove to be cheerful and amicable, and succeeded for the most part, at least until our lunch in June, when she told me about Angelo.
‘Was there any overlap? Tell me.’
‘No—’
‘You’d not been in touch at all?’
‘Not until three weeks ago.’
‘You swear?’
‘Is this really the most important thing?’
‘If he’s the reason our marriage ended, then yes!’
‘He isn’t the reason, you know that.’
‘Well he must be feeling pretty pleased with himself, I expect.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because he won after all!’
‘Fuck off, Douglas!’
‘Connie!’
‘Well, really, how dare you! I’m not some fucking trophy for you and Angelo to tussle over. And he hasn’t “won” me, either! We’re seeing each other. We’re taking things slowly. I thought you had the right to know—’
But I was standing now, searching for my wallet.
‘Don’t storm out! Don’t be melodramatic, please.’
‘Connie, I can understand why you’d want this break-up to be pain-free, but it isn’t. All right? You can’t … rip something apart like this and expect not to cause any pain.’
‘You’re really walking out?’
‘Yes, I am, yes.’
‘Well, sit down for a minute. We’ll get the bill and I’ll walk out with you.’
‘I don’t want you to walk out with—’
‘If we’re going to storm out, then we’ll storm out together.’
I sat down. In silence we split the bill then walked from Soho back towards Paddington, both of us grim-faced and silent until, on Marylebone High Street, she suddenly took my arm. ‘You remember when I had that fling?’
‘With the guy at work?’
‘Angus.’
‘Angus. Christ, you’re not seeing him as well, are you?’
‘Don’t make me push you in front of a car, Douglas. That man, he was an idiot, that’s not the point. The point is when you threw me out — quite right too — and gave me that ultimatum, I thought about it for a long, long time. I was dizzy with the fact of being someone’s wife. I’d never thought I’d be anyone’s wife and I wondered, should I go back? Was it a mistake to get married?’
‘Well, clearly it was!’
