“But you haven’t suffered?” says Lorcan.
“Not at all.” From nowhere, I’ve mustered the most relaxed, serene smile. “Actually, it’s all been very easy and straightforward. And quick,” I add for good measure. “Very quick.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Very lucky.” I nod. “So, so lucky!”
“And you and your ex get on?”
“We’re like this.” I cross my fingers.
“You’re incredible!” says Lorcan in marveling tones. “Are you sure you want to be divorced from him?”
“I’m just super-glad he’s found happiness with another woman.” I smile yet more sweetly. My ability to lie is unnerving even to myself. Essentially, I’m saying the diametric opposite of the truth. It’s almost a game.
“And do you get on with his new partner?”
“Love her!”
“And does Noah?”
“It’s like one big happy family!”
“Would you like another drink?”
“No, I’d hate one!” Abruptly I remember that Lorcan doesn’t know we’re playing the game. “I mean, love one,” I amend.
As Lorcan summons a waiter, I eat a couple of nuts and try to come up with more divorce-related lies. But even as I’m composing them—We all play table tennis together! Daniel’s naming his new baby after me!—my head is buzzing. My fingers are fiddling at the memory stick with more and more agitation. I don’t like this game anymore. My inner good fairy is losing her glow. The bad fairy is barging in and wants to have a say.
“So, your husband must be a great guy,” says Lorcan, after he’s given our order. “For you two to have such a special relationship.”
“He’s a star!” I nod, my teeth gritted.
“Must be.”
“He’s just so thoughtful and kind!” I’m clenching my fists by my sides. “He’s such a charismatic, charming, unselfish, caring—” I break off. I’m panting. There are actual stars in front of my eyes. Complimenting Daniel is bad for my health; I can’t do it anymore. “He’s a … a … a …” It’s like a sneeze. It has to come out. “Bastard.”
There’s a slight pause. I can see some men at a nearby table looking over with interest.
“A bastard in a good way?” hazards Lorcan. “Or … oh.” He sees my face.
“I lied. Daniel is the biggest nightmare that any divorced wife has had to put up with, and I’m bitter, OK? I’m bitter!” Just saying it is a relief. “My bones are bitter, my heart’s bitter, my blood is bitter.…” Something occurs to me. “Wait. You’ve had sex with me. You know I’m bitter.”
There’s no way he couldn’t have picked that up from our night together. I was fairly tense. I think I swore a lot.
“I wondered.” Lorcan tilts his head affirmatively.
“Was it when I shouted, ‘Screw you, Daniel!’ just as I came?” I can’t help cracking, then lift a hand. “Sorry. Bad-taste joke.”
“No apology needed.” Lorcan doesn’t even blink. “The only way to survive a divorce is to tell bad-taste jokes. What do you do if you miss your ex-wife? Take better aim next time.”
“Why is divorce so expensive?” I automatically counter. “Because it’s worth it.”
“Why do divorced men get married again? Bad memory.”
He waits for me to laugh, but I’m lost in thought. My adrenaline tidal wave has ebbed away, leaving behind the detritus of old familiar thoughts.
“The thing is …” I rub my nose hard. “The thing is, I haven’t survived my divorce. Wouldn’t ‘survival’ imply I’m the same person I was before?”
“So who are you now?” says Lorcan.
“I don’t know,” I say after a long pause. “I feel scalded inside. Like, third-degree burns. But no one can see them.”
Lorcan winces but doesn’t reply. He’s one of those rare people who can wait it out and listen.
“I started to wonder if I was going mad,” I say, staring into my glass. “Could Daniel really see the world that way? Could he really be saying those awful things and could people be believing him? And the worst thing is, no one else is in it with you. A divorce is like a controlled explosion. Everyone on the outside is OK.”
“Everyone on the outside.” Lorcan nods vigorously. “Don’t you hate those people? Telling you not to think about it.”
“Yes!” I nod in recognition. “And saying, ‘Be positive! At least you haven’t been horribly disfigured in an industrial accident!’ ”
Lorcan bursts into laughter. “You know the same people I know.”
“I just wish beyond anything that he was out of my life.” I exhale, resting my forehead briefly in my hands. “I wish they could do … I don’t know. Keyhole surgery for ex-husband removal.” Lorcan gives an appreciative smile and I gulp my wine. “What about you?”
“It was fairly grim.” He nods. “There was some nastiness about money, but we didn’t have kids, so that made it simpler.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t have kids.”
“Not really,” he replies tonelessly.
“No, really, you are,” I persist. “I mean, when you get into custody, it’s a whole other—”
“No, really, I’m not.” There’s an acerbic edge to his voice I haven’t heard before, and I suddenly remember I know very little of his private life. “We couldn’t,” he adds shortly. “I couldn’t. And I would say that that fact contributed about eighty percent to our breakup. Make that a hundred percent.” He takes a deep gulp of whiskey.
I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say. In those few words, he’s conveyed a background story of such sadness that I feel instantly guilty for having complained about my own plight. Because at least I have Noah.
“I’m sorry,” I falter at last.
“Yes. Me too.” He gives me a wry, kind smile, and I realize that he can tell I’m feeling guilty. “Although, as you say, it would have complicated things more.”
“I didn’t mean—” I begin. “I didn’t realize—”
“It’s fine.” He lifts a hand. “It’s fine.”
I recognize his tone; I use it myself. It isn’t fine: it just is.
“I really am sorry.” I repeat myself feebly.
“I know.” He nods. “Thanks.”
For a while we’re silent. Thoughts are spinning around my head, but I don’t quite dare to share any of them with him. I don’t know him well enough. They might inadvertently hurt him.
At last I retreat to the safe, once-removed territory of Lottie and Ben.
“The thing is …” I exhale. “I just want to save my sister from the same kind of hurt that we’ve both experienced. That’s all. That’s why I’m here.”
“Can I make a small point?” says Lorcan. His mouth twitches with humor, and I can tell he wants to lighten the mood. “You haven’t even met Ben.”
“I don’t need to,” I retort. “What you don’t realize is there’s a history to this. Every time Lottie breaks up with someone, she makes some stupid, rash, insane gesture that she then has to undo. I call them her Unfortunate Choices.”
“ ‘Unfortunate Choices.’ I like it.” Lorcan raises an eyebrow. “So you think Ben is her Unfortunate Choice.”
“Well, don’t you? I mean, really. Getting hitched after five minutes, planning to live in a gîte—”
“A gîte?” Lorcan looks surprised. “Who said that?”
“Lottie! She’s full of it. They’re going to have goats and chickens and we all have to visit them and eat baguettes.”
“This doesn’t sound like Ben at all,” says Lorcan. “Chickens? Are you sure?”
“Precisely! It sounds like some ridiculous pipe dream. And it’ll crumble to bits and she’ll end up divorced and bitter and just like me—” Too late, I realize I’m almost shouting. The men at the next table are looking at me again. “Just like me,” I repeat more quietly. “And that would be a disaster.”