Heaven save us all from rape and murder and the anonymity of ignominious unmarked graves, which the weather beats uncaringly.
Though all of that was hardly Eddy’s fault.
I set the mug in front of him on the table with a wry smile of concession. I had a sudden memory of him pushing me up against this table. There had been no words, just fumbling and heavy breathing and damp hot skin and nothing else but us in the world. Afterwards we’d realized we’d left the blinds open. Anyone could have seen us, we giggled to one another, thrilled at our own reckless daring.
‘And you a convent girl,’ he had murmured into my hair. ‘You wicked minx.’
Of course, there’s a hedge and a low wall separating the house from the street, so no one could have seen us, unless they’d been lurking on our front lawn, actively looking through the windows. You’d be lucky to get a mobile signal in this part of the village, never mind an audience. But it had pleased us both to think of ourselves as flagrant strutting libertines. At least at the time.
‘One of your magpies was in the front yard when I got here,’ he grunted after a while. ‘It must have been waiting for you.’
I softened slightly, spared him a smile. ‘Yeah. It’s there a lot.’
Somehow we moved into the living room, which was not part of my plan – the living room, with its squashy, overstuffed sofa and multitudinous brightly coloured cushions, was a place where he had always made me feel happy, safe and comforted. Many were the times I had curled up against his chest here, as we watched absurd TV together. Remembering this made my throat swell unhappily and my heart ache with cold. It was no place for this new Eddy who was now comforting somebody else. But somehow, as he accepted the mug and moved off towards the hall as we had done so many times before, I couldn’t find a way to prevent it, as though habit were a riptide, pulling us both along, and to object now would seem ill-humoured, a little mean.
I was trying to be civilized, after all.
The couch sank to accept us. Eddy drank his coffee, made expert small talk that didn’t touch on the subject of his new inamorata, his job, or the mediation arrangements. It was as though nothing remotely strange or strained was happening. I could not have done better in his shoes. It was like a dance, and he led. I had no idea how to steer matters back on course, so decided to wait for an opening, my back against the armrest, between a rock and a hard place. Who knew when I would get him back here again, and in such a good mood?
I hugged my empty mug to my chest.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.
‘Who, me? No.’
‘We could call for a takeaway,’ he said, kicking off his shoes, and for an instant it was like it had always been, me sitting on the couch, watching him perform this ritual every time he came in from work. ‘The Mai Thai delivers on a Friday. Are you in the mood for steamed sea bass?’
And yet not how it had always been.
‘Won’t Arabella be missing you?’ I asked.
He shrugged, as if this was of no matter. ‘Well, as you say, we need to talk.’
I glanced at the antique wall clock, a wedding present from my friend Lily. It was nearly quarter to eight.
Lily had never liked him.
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Good girl,’ he said complacently, flashing me that full-lipped grin, those brilliant teeth. ‘And I’ve got a bottle of Sancerre in my case to go with it.’
So sea bass with lemongrass and Sancerre followed, and Eddy and I did indeed manage to talk about the financial settlement, though I was left with the disquieting impression that he didn’t actually say all that much. Clearly the fair thing to do was for each of us to keep what we had owned before we met – me the house; he his po-faced ‘loft apartment’ in Hills Road, where he had held court in bachelor princedom before our marriage. Each to our own – our own cars, our own furniture. We could come to some arrangement about the things we had bought together – which over a little less than three years did not amount to very much.
He regarded me with those wide grey eyes, nodding, and I was encouraged by the lack of opposition (then again, why should he object?) but now that I thought about it, I could not recall any actual agreement.
‘So what do you think about that?’ I asked him. I felt flushed and oddly relaxed – we are going to get through this, I thought. We are going to negotiate this like grown-ups, and maybe, perhaps in time…
‘I think we need more wine.’
‘That’s a given,’ I said wryly. ‘But what do you think about the plan for mediation?’
He glanced into his glass, offered it a tiny smile and put it on the table.
‘I think, why are we talking about this now?’ he said, turning that smile on me. ‘I thought the rule was that after ten we didn’t discuss business.’
Lily’s wall clock said it was ten o’clock exactly.
‘That rule was for work, not business,’ I murmured, unaccountably blushing. ‘And it applied when we were still married.’ I drew back into my corner of the couch.
But he was leaning forward, his arm snaking up the sofa towards me.
‘Margot,’ he said, in that sultry golden voice of his, ‘we are still married.’
I opened my mouth to object, to draw away, but his lips were on mine, and he tasted so good, so sweet, and I’d been so lonely. I was opening up to him, letting his arms meet around my back, feeling his hard chest and tight belly against me, and I was shaking, I wanted him so badly, I…
I…
What the hell was I doing?
I pushed him away. ‘No.’
He rocked back, clearly surprised, as I ducked out from under him and rolled straight to my stockinged feet.
‘I think you need to leave.’ I folded my arms tightly across my chest.
‘Margot,’ he pushed his blond hair out of his eyes, as though stunned at my changeability. ‘What’s the matter?’
I was trembling, the floor shaking beneath my feet.
‘You left me for another woman and now you’re here on a booty call, that’s what the matter is.’ I rubbed at my face, which now felt cold and damp, like the rest of me – drained and humiliated. ‘How dare you? How fucking dare you?’
‘I didn’t see you objecting…’
‘Pay attention, Eddy. This is me objecting. This is me objecting right now.’ I flung out my arm and pointed to the door. ‘You sleazy bastard. Put your shoes on and get the fuck out.’
Something flashed in his face then, a series of emotions at war with desire. Should he be conciliatory, apologetic? Should he feign ignorance of what had offended me? Should he be cheeky, seductive? But mostly he wanted to be angry that I had exposed him, and that was what won out.
‘You’re mental, Margot. You’re crazy.’
‘Get out!’ I bellowed. My own shame was vanishing now, consumed by a very real anger, a furious rage. ‘Get out of my house and don’t come back!’
2
‘I don’t know why you make me do these things,’ Chris says. His voice is broken, as though he’s on the brink of tears. ‘Why can’t we just be happy? Why can’t you just be grateful?’