One Good Thing, page 24
Suffice to say, I left the cardigan at home and threw away the safety pin. Being an English teacher, I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, because she’s right: it looks so much better now. Funny how I was worried about her choosing something that wasn’t me, yet in the end it took someone else to see what was me all along.
The party soon gets into full swing as guests arrive and the room fills up. Naomi introduces me to lots of new people; plus we share mutual friends and former work colleagues, so there’s lots of hugging and kissing and catching up. I’d been slightly nervous about being back in London and seeing everyone again, and I have a bit of a wobble when I find myself on my own and having to talk to a group of strangers, but my unapologetic cleavage seems to be doing the trick at giving me more confidence. I should have asked Maya to help ages ago. Who knew that getting your boobs out was so much better than a brave face?
And yes, I’ve had a few drinks, so maybe that’s helping. But I don’t have time to think about it, as the band begins playing and Naomi and I are dancing and saying, ‘Why don’t we dance any more?’ at the top of our voices, with big grins on our faces. And now Mr Bishop – ‘call me Alan’, and head of geography – has somehow shuffled into the middle of us and my radar might be completely off, but I think he’s trying to flirt with me by telling me all about climbing the highest peaks in the Lake District while staring at my cleavage.
And now, thankfully, I’m being rescued by the arrival of the birthday cake and we’re all singing ‘Happy Birthday’, and Naomi is blowing out the candles and I’m feeling all emotional, but in a good way. Because I love my friend and our friendship and how far we’ve come; and it strikes me that I might actually love my life again. And just when I think it can’t get any better, Danny gets down on one knee, pulls out a ring and asks Naomi to marry him. And she says, ‘Yes, of course, you silly arse’ and everyone starts cheering and clapping.
And that’s when I lose it. Turns out I like surprises when they’re for other people.
‘Naomi!’ I shriek, throwing my arms around her in congratulations when I can finally reach her through all the well-wishers. ‘This is amazing! The best news!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really!’
We hug each other, both of us teary-eyed. We have drunk quite a lot. I glance over to the bar, where an elated Danny is being congratulated by his band members, then turn back to Naomi. I’m expecting her to look elated too, but her eyes are anxious.
‘What’s wrong?’ I lower my voice, suddenly worried. ‘Don’t you want to get married?’
As I said, surprises can be scary things – there’s the pressure to react in a certain way. To say ‘I do’ when you don’t.
‘Yes, of course. I love him. Ellie loves him too.’
A wave of relief.
‘I was worried about you.’
‘Me?’
‘You don’t mind me getting married?’
‘What? Because I got divorced?’ I snort, then realize she’s serious. ‘No of course not, silly, I’m happy for you.’
But Naomi looks troubled. ‘You’re not just doing that thing where you’re pretending to be really happy? Like I used to feel when women at work would announce their pregnancies. I’d be happy for them, but dying inside.’ Her dark eyes meet mine.
‘I’m really happy,’ I repeat firmly. ‘Truly.’
‘Thank you.’ She reaches for my hand and gives it a grateful squeeze. ‘And I promise not to have a hen party.’
‘Well, now I’m elated,’ I say, and we both laugh and spend the next five minutes goggling at her ring, which is Art Deco and beautiful. Who knew Danny was such a traditionalist?
Or that, only six months ago, grief and loss threatened to swamp me. That I feared this heart of mine had been so bashed and broken, it would never heal. But watching Naomi and Danny together makes me realize that: you know what? My heart might still be a bit bruised and ragged around the edges, but it works fine. I still believe in love. And that makes me extraordinarily happy.
And now, after this revelation, I need a pee.
The toilets are downstairs. I leave Naomi and head down the narrow staircase, being careful not to trip in my high heels. I’ve spent the last six months in wellies or trainers, and more recently Crocs, so I’m woefully out of practice. Feeling rather pleased with myself for managing to navigate the stairs without stumbling, I make my way across the lounge-bar. It’s a different world down here. Mood lighting. Expensive cocktails. Uber-fashionable couples. No one over thirty.
And then I see them.
Just a few feet away. Standing by the bar. A slim blonde in a minidress. A distinguished dark-haired man, his arm draped around her waist. He’s whispering something in her ear. She’s laughing and flicking back her hair. I notice the huge diamond on her finger. Watch his head turn, as he realizes someone is staring at them. See his expression when he recognizes it’s me.
It all happens in seconds.
‘Liv?’
I’m already in free-fall.
‘Hello, David.’
Eighteen months ago
There’s a basic rule when it comes to relationships: Don’t snoop.
Because if you go looking for something, you’re going to find it. And more likely than not, it’s going to be something you really wished you hadn’t found.
Only I wasn’t snooping.
I was looking for something as mundane as a missing sock, when I found it tucked away at the back of the drawer. A small red box. It was nestling in David’s sock drawer. Right at the very back. Underneath several pairs of rolled-up sport socks.
Hidden.
It was the day after Valentine’s Day. Late evening. I was upstairs in our bedroom, putting away neat piles of clean laundry. We’d just got back from a weekend in Devon and I’d spent the last few hours feeding never-ending loads of dirty clothes into the washing machine and dryer. The weather forecast had said sunny, but it had poured down and everything had got filthy.
The place had been recommended on one of those glossy glamping websites. An amazing treehouse with all the trimmings, in a picturesque spot on the coast. It was going to be super-romantic: all snuggling up beside campfires on the beach, stargazing far-away constellations in clear night skies and drinking the bottle of champagne that I’d hidden in the boot.
I’d also brought along a couple of champagne flutes, which I’d wrapped up in my underwear, because I once read an article written by a French expert about how champagne doesn’t taste the same if you drink it out of plastic cups (quelle horreur!) – something about the way it affects the bubbles. And I wanted my bubbles to be perfect.
I wanted it all to be perfect.
The past few months we’d both been busy and stressed with work. Me with my new promotion as head of department; David with his partner retiring, and him having to take on their patients and restructure the dental practice. With the long hours, we’d hardly seen each other – David coming home late, me leaving early. We communicated over WhatsApp, and our conversations had lately become a list of reminders.
This was our chance to reconnect, spend time together, have some fun. Except that we didn’t, not really. The weather didn’t help. And we were both tired. But the treehouse was amazing, and we ate delicious food and swapped Valentine’s Day cards and gifts. I gave him a gorgeous silver Art Deco cocktail shaker, which I’d found at an antique fair and knew he’d love; he’d been ridiculously generous and spent a fortune on a first edition of one of my favourite novels.
Still, it was nothing I could put my finger on, but something seemed off. Probably a bit like those champagne bubbles.
David was taking a shower. I could hear the water going. He never opened a window, so it would be all steamed up in there. I felt a beat of irritation, then closed the drawer. I never wanted to be the kind of wife who looked at her husband’s private things. I knew of friends who looked through their partner’s phone as a matter of course – ‘Just a quick look, at night when it’s charging,’ one had reasoned. ‘I never expect to find anything, it’s merely a sort of habit. Kind of like an insurance.’ But I didn’t want that kind of insurance. If you didn’t trust someone, then what was the point?
I turned my attention to putting away a pile of T-shirts, a few pairs of jeans, several pairs of my knickers, a couple of shirts. Putting them on hangers, I closed the wardrobe door and went to leave the bedroom to go downstairs and order a pizza. All done. Except for that one sock straggler, lying on the bed. Bugging me. I pulled open the drawer again and began scrabbling around determinedly. That missing sock had to be in there somewhere . . .
Aha, found it! Triumphantly I quickly bundled the socks together, then hesitated. My hand hovered over the small red box. Out of nowhere, I had a distinct memory of Naomi once receiving earrings from someone she was dating and telling me that the best presents came in small packages. It had to be jewellery. Yet David had already given me a Valentine’s Day gift.
Somewhere inside me, a pulse started beating. As I picked the box up and pressed the small brass button to release the lid, I saw the distinctive gold logo of a famous luxury jewellers. David didn’t skimp. Inside was a gold bracelet. Heart pounding, I turned it over in my fingers. He’d had it engraved. The words swam in front of my eyes and the walls seemed to warp in. I’d always thought nothing could be worse than finding out that the person you love doesn’t love you any more. I was wrong. It’s finding out they’re in love with someone else that kills you.
So then I did what every woman does when the bottom drops out of her world. I looked at his phone and found the texts.
Brave Face
Thanks for such a fab party.
Was it? I can’t remember!
Why did I drink so much?
BECAUSE YOU’RE
GETTING MARRIED!!!
Ah yes! Ha-ha. Love U!
Text when you get home.
Will do. Love you too xx
On Sunday I say my goodbyes to Naomi and catch the train from King’s Cross back to Yorkshire. As the train pulls away from the station, I feel a wave of relief. Pretending everything is fine is exhausting. Grateful to finally be able to drop my brave face and be alone with my thoughts, I stick in my AirPods and stare abstractedly out of the window, replaying the night before.
I hadn’t told Naomi about seeing David. I didn’t want to spoil her party. We were supposed to be celebrating her birthday and surprise engagement, not talking about my ex-husband and his new fiancée. New fiancée. It had sent me reeling, but somehow I’d kept it together. Being introduced, saying hello.
‘Liv, this is Hannah.’
‘Hello. Nice to meet you.’
‘Hi, how’s it going?’
It was like all the air had been sucked out of my lungs. I nodded politely. Said something I can’t quite remember, about the music being loud. Tried not to appear as awkward as I felt. She was so much prettier in real life. And younger than me. I hated myself for caring.
‘I see congratulations are in order.’ Well, I couldn’t ignore it.
‘Oh yes.’
I’ve never seen David look so uncomfortable. In different circumstances I might have enjoyed watching him squirm.
‘Thank you.’
She glanced at her finger as if checking the engagement ring was still there. It was so unlike the one he’d bought me. Bigger. More flashy. I wanted to say something bitchy, but pride stopped me. I noticed she was wearing the gold bracelet I’d found in his drawer.
‘You look well.’
I snapped back. I used to hear him say that to casual acquaintances at Rotary Club dinners. He was always so formal – I used to tease him about it. Now all that intimacy between us was gone, like it never existed. It felt surreal.
‘Thanks. You too.’
She had amazing yoga arms. I suddenly regretted my outfit. Showing all this cleavage. I no longer felt like a babe. Or a knockout. I felt old and ridiculous.
‘Well, nice to see you. I must go, there’s probably a queue.’ I gestured lamely towards the ladies’ loos.
She smiled then and said something that I didn’t quite catch because of the music, but I noticed her accent and that she seemed nervous. And it struck me then that she must think I hated her, which unexpectedly made me feel quite sorry for her. I didn’t hate her at all; on the contrary, I didn’t feel anything towards her.
Well, apart from wishing my arms looked like hers.
But then it was never about her. I raised my eyes to meet David’s and, for the briefest of moments, the busy bar receded and all the background noise – all that grief and loss and hurt and anger – disappeared with it.
‘Bye, Liv.’
‘Bye.’
It was only ever about Us.
Of course the composure lasted only for the two minutes it took to find the ladies’ loos and lock myself in a cubicle. At which point I burst into tears. I’m not sure how long I sat there, bewildered and blindsided by emotions I thought I’d dealt with months ago. But after a while I knew I had to pull myself together. I had a birthday party to go to. A best friend’s engagement to celebrate. I couldn’t sit there all night, sobbing and blowing my nose into the loo roll, feeling sorry for myself.
So I splashed cold water on my face, reapplied my make-up and I braced myself to go back outside. But David had gone, they must have left; and I went back upstairs like nothing had ever happened. And, really, what had happened? I’d just bumped into my ex-husband and his new girlfriend. Correction: fiancée. So what? It happens all the time. He’d moved on. I’d moved on. Hadn’t I?
And that’s what’s floored me. I thought I was over it. All those stages of grief and loss they talk about in the self-help books – I’d pushed, stridden and dragged myself through them. Shock, disbelief, anger, depression, fear, hopelessness: the whole sorry mess. I’d waded through them all, done all the things they tell you to and had finally come out the other side.
Now, David is no longer the last thing I think about when I go to sleep, or the first thing when I wake up. In fact, the truth is, I haven’t thought of him for months. It was deliberate at first, but now I can go days – even weeks – without thinking about our marriage. And when I do, it’s only fleeting, some little reminder of my old life that’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
But now it feels like I’m right back where I started. Which is as much of a shock as it is confusing. Why do I feel so upset? We’re divorced; what does it matter if David’s getting married again? Why do I care? Does it mean I’m not over it? That I still miss him?
That I’m still in love with him?
I catch a taxi home from the station. Earlier Ben had texted to offer to pick me up, but it was Stanley’s bedtime, so I’d said thanks, but I was fine. Fine. That word should come with a warning. Even as I texted my reply I wondered how many people who used it actually were. Plus Ben would want to know all about my trip to London – ask for details of the party; I wasn’t ready to put the brave face back on just yet.
I get the taxi to drop me outside Valentine’s, so I can pick up Harry. If there’s one face I do want to see right now, it’s his. But when I knock on the door there’s no answer, and it’s then I remember that Sunday night is quiz night. Sure enough, I find them both at the pub. Valentine is sitting with the Three Degrees and, hearing my voice, Harry dives out from underneath the table, sending pints flying and tangling his lead around everyone’s legs. It’s quite some greeting, especially as they were in the middle of the bonus-points cryptogram round.
I’m invited to join them, but I just want to get home and, after much mopping-up and apologizing to the quizmaster, I make my excuses and leave. The cottage is pitch-dark. Flicking on the hallway light, I dump my bag on the floor, unclip Harry’s lead and busy myself by filling up his water bowl, flicking on the kettle, fussing over him and giving him a treat.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, I sit down at the kitchen table. Weariness threatens to overwhelm me. My new log-burner’s finally been installed and I briefly think about making a fire and turning on the TV, but I have no energy or enthusiasm for either. I can’t believe I’m back here. Depression lurks in the shadows, waiting for me, and I look at the clock on the wall. Eight thirty. Is it too early to go to bed?
The kettle clicks itself it off, but I ignore it and, leaving the teabag waiting patiently in its mug, turn off the lights and go upstairs. Harry loyally follows me, his soft body brushing against my legs as I head straight for the bathroom, where he flops himself down on the rug. His presence is comforting and I begin to get undressed. The walk-in shower has been installed. Ben was right: it looks great. The tiles and fittings that he suggested are sleek and stylish, and it’s got this huge, rainfall shower-head.
And yet all I want is to run myself a bath and collapse into it. Soak it all away. Naked, I go to turn on the shower, then remember my dressing gown. It’s hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I go to get it – and that’s when I see it. Free-standing in the corner of my bedroom, its white cast-iron curves lit up by the moonlight streaming in from my window: a roll-top bath. Like I always dreamed of.
What the—?
For a moment I stand motionless in the doorway, before noticing a scrap of paper taped to the side. I pad barefoot across the floorboards and peel it off:
Stanley got into his new school! This is just a little thank-you from the both of us. The farmer let me have it. Don’t worry, it’s been cleaned and re-enamelled. Now you get to soak in a long bath until the cows come home.
Ben
I stare at the note, then back at the bath in disbelief. No, it can’t be. It’s unrecognizable. And yet as the words slowly sink in, so does the realization that this is the same rusty old claw-foot bath that the farmer was using as a water trough for his cows – the one I used to walk past in the fields and photographed to show Ben. He knew how disappointed I was when I couldn’t fit a new bath in my tiny bathroom, nor afford one. Somehow he’s salvaged and transformed it, and plumbed it all in while I was away this weekend. He’s even left a bottle of bubble bath.
