One Good Thing, page 28
Choosing to ignore me, he gestures to Harry, who is furiously trying to sniff David’s crotch, despite my best efforts to stop him.
‘Look, what are you doing here, David?’
Now that the shock of seeing my ex-husband turn up out of the blue is starting to subside, indignation snaps. How dare he just arrive uninvited like this? After everything he’s done?
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit late?’
He’s always been so entitled. It’s that middle-class public schoolboy thing. It’s infuriating.
‘Please, Liv.’
He looks at me pleadingly and, despite everything, I feel a tugging inside. It makes me even more furious.
‘For fuck’s sake, David – I don’t care what you have to say. I’m busy,’ I snap. ‘I’m going out and my hair is wet, and I have to get dressed. So if you don’t mind,’ I go to close the door, ‘goodbye.’
‘Hannah and I broke up.’
With my hand on the latch, I freeze.
‘So? What’s that got to do with me? We’re divorced.’ I try to steady my voice, but it threatens to betray me.
He doesn’t answer, but stands there in the rain, looking down at his feet. ‘That’s just it,’ David says finally, letting out a heavy sigh. ‘It’s got everything to do with you.’
And as he raises his eyes to mine, I feel a sudden weakness. A sense of my resolve wavering. My mind quickly races ahead, warning me: Don’t let him in. Don’t let him back in.
‘I’m getting drenched out here.’
Curiosity. Closure. Our history. A chance for us to try and be friends. Call it what you want.
‘You’ve got five minutes.’
I open the door.
I pour him a glass of wine, only a small one as he’s got to drive back to London – I make that very clear – and we sit down at my kitchen table. Me in my blue fluffy dressing gown; David looking rather soggy and dishevelled. The situation feels both strange and yet crushingly familiar. Me and David, sitting across a kitchen table from each other. God, how many years did we do that? Only now it’s not just the table that’s different.
‘I’ve been such an idiot, Liv.’
David is talking. Over this past year I’ve had so many conversations with myself in my head, rehearsed so many times what I was going to say to him. But now here we are and all those long speeches seem to have disappeared into thin air.
‘Yes, you have,’ I nod.
‘I’m so sorry. I made a terrible mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘You said you were in love with her,’ I remind him. ‘That you didn’t love me any more.’
As I say the words that broke my heart, I feel strangely disconnected. As if they’ve lost their power to hurt me somehow. But not for David. His face crumples.
‘You must hate me. I hate me.’
I look at him across the table. He’s always been so charming and self-assured, but now, even with the designer labels, he cuts a sorry-looking figure. I feel a spasm of sympathy for him. It surprises me.
‘You were a dick, but I don’t hate you.’ I shake my head slowly. ‘I wanted to, but I never did, not really.’ I shrug. ‘I just hated all the lies.’
‘I’m so sorry—’
‘Don’t.’ I cut him off. ‘You did me a favour.’
‘I did?’ He looks bewildered. ‘How?’
I look down at my hands, stretching out my naked fingers on the smooth wood of the table, feeling its age and solidness. ‘Because I thought I was happy – that we were happy – and when you said you were leaving, that you’d met someone else, I was so shocked. Devastated, really. I didn’t see it coming.’
I raise my eyes to see him studying me intently. I’ve got his full attention. It strikes me that I can’t remember the last time I had that.
‘But it made me aware that if I hadn’t seen that, what else had I been blind to? What else hadn’t I realized? And once I started to look, I saw all kinds of things . . .’
‘Like what?’ David frowns, that deep, familiar crevice appearing between his eyebrows, and reaches for his wine. And yet he seems so nervous, it’s like looking at someone else entirely.
‘Like things I wanted to change – that I’d buried and never dealt with – that weren’t working.’ My mind flicks from the past to the present. ‘I discovered new things, new friends, a new career, new opportunities . . . That I like living here, in the countryside, that I don’t miss London, that I love having a dog.’
I glance across at Harry. He’s lying curled up on his rug, one eye open, watching us suspiciously, keeping guard. Somehow seeing him there makes me draw strength.
‘That I’m more resilient, adaptable, braver . . . That I live in the moment more and I’ve learned how to have fun again; that I’m part of a community I love. That I like my life better now – I like myself better.’
Until now I’ve been so busy rebuilding my life that I haven’t realized how far I’ve come or how I’ve changed, but – faced with a physical reminder of my old life and its dynamic – all these feelings come rushing to the surface and tumbling out.
‘I was always so terrified of the worst-case scenario, but then the worst-case scenario happened and you know what?’ As I look at David, I feel a sudden sense of empowerment. ‘I didn’t curl up and die, though for a while there I wanted to.’
David visibly winces and goes to say something, but I raise my hand to silence him. Because now I’m talking, I realize there’s so much more I want to say. Out loud. For him to hear. For me to hear. Only it’s none of those well-rehearsed speeches that were all about him and how he made me feel; this is all about me.
‘You know, I was always trying to fix things, to make things right, to smooth things over. Not just between us, but at work, with friends, Josie . . . Nothing was going to fail on my watch. “Ask Liv, she’ll sort it out.”’ I break off with a rueful laugh. ‘And yet, you know, it’s only now that I’ve realized it was me I was really trying to fix. I prided myself on being a perfectionist, but that was fuelled by anxiety, a fear of things being out of control, of trying to achieve certainty in an uncertain world.’
I feel a lump in my throat and swallow it down.
‘I needed to protect myself, so my world would never collapse again, like it did when my mum died.’
I look around at my surroundings – once such a wreck and now completely transformed – remembering how I felt when I first walked in here, how I’d slept on the sofa, feeling so scared and alone.
‘But I’m not scared any more. Now I know that, whatever happens, I’m never going to go back there again: to the feeling that my life is over. Because out of all of this, I discovered a strength I had no idea I had.’
I break off, my heart racing. The absurdity of me giving this speech of empowerment, in my fleecy bathrobe with a towel on my head, isn’t lost on me, but, if anything, it makes me own it even more.
‘I’ve changed, and I’m never going to change back.’
David is staring at me. He’s listened and hasn’t interrupted, and now he sighs and rests his eyes on the heels of his hands. I notice that he’s drained his wine glass.
‘But I didn’t ever want you to change,’ he says eventually, his voice muffled.
For a split second my mind flicks back to our first date in that restaurant all those years ago – to all that hope and anticipation – and I’m hit by a bittersweet wave of nostalgia so big it almost floors me.
‘It was never about you, Liv.’
‘Exactly. And now it is.’
And then David looks up at me, and finally I think he gets it.
Five minutes turns into forty-five. I end up putting on the kettle while David tells me about how, shortly after bumping into me in the club, Hannah accused him of not being over me – something that he realized he couldn’t deny. They broke off their engagement and he moved out the next day. And yet, while the old me had dreamed of this moment, the new me gets no gratification. If anything, I simply feel a bit sad at how David blew it all up for nothing.
‘She wanted to go clubbing and, you know, those clubs are so loud you can’t hear yourself speak,’ he’s saying now as he drinks his tea, relieved that I’ve got real milk and not ‘that awful oat stuff’.
‘I don’t think speaking is the point of clubs, David. I think you’re supposed to be dancing.’
‘You know how much I hate dancing.’
‘And that’s another good reason we’re divorced,’ I say with a smile.
A smile. An actual smile. Honestly, it’s the most absurd thing. Here I am, talking to David about our divorce and I’m actually smiling. It feel so bizarre, and yet it doesn’t – if that makes sense. Though I’m not sure anything makes sense any more.
Perhaps I’m smiling because I’m grateful David blew it all up, so that I could build something better. Because now, seeing him again, I realize I was looking to him for all the answers as to why it went wrong, and yet he never really had any. All that time I beat myself up, when really it was nothing to do with me at all.
Or perhaps I can smile because, when two people are woven so tightly into the fabric of each other’s lives, the creases of comfort and the folds of familiarity will always be there. Even after all the hurt and anger and crushing heartbreak have forced you to unpick the threads. He’s no longer a stranger. He’s David. My ex-husband. A huge part of my past, who will always play a part in my life. But he’s no longer my future.
And I don’t love him any more.
‘Your house is nice. Colourful.’ He adds, his eyes casting around the open-plan kitchen and resting on my bright-red Smeg fridge.
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s very different from the old house.’
‘I wanted something different.’
His eyes come back to mine and rest there. There’s no need to read between the lines.
‘Well, I should go.’ Scraping back his chair, he stands up. ‘Thanks for the wine and the tea. And for listening. I know I don’t deserve it.’
I nod and stand up too.
‘Say hi to Will for me.’
‘You know he hates me.’
‘He doesn’t hate you – he’s your son, he loves you. He just thinks you’re an idiot, that’s all.’
‘He’s not wrong.’
David smiles gratefully then and I follow him to the front door, where we stand awkwardly on the doorstep, exchanging a few pleasantries about driving safely and taking care; while I think of how last time he was leaving I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. And I have the strongest sense of wanting to reach back into the past to hug that sobbing woman and tell her it’s going to get better; that her life isn’t over – far from it. That, in many ways, it’s only just beginning.
‘Bye, David.’
‘Bye, Liv.’
And then the door closes and he’s gone.
Stanley
Usually he had Auntie Holly to babysit, but she was busy tonight so instead Stanley had Maya. He liked Maya. She was fun. She ordered pizza and let him choose the toppings he liked. He hated mushrooms, but his favourite was pineapple. But only if the cheese wasn’t melted on top of the pineapple. Then he couldn’t eat it. Once he’d gone to a cafe with his mum, and the waitress had laughed and called him a fussy eater, and his mum had got really mad at her and said, ‘He likes what he likes.’
He likes what he likes. Stanley thought that was a good saying. He liked how it rhymed and repeated itself. It was neat. He liked things that were neat. He likes what he likes. He said it to Maya tonight when she was ordering the pizza and she laughed and repeated it too.
They ate their pizza on their knees in front of the TV, and Stanley let Harry eat all his crusts. Harry loved crusts. Maya even let him play with her phone. Dad hardly ever let him play with his phone, after he downloaded a game that said it was free. Only it wasn’t free, and Dad had to ring someone up and shout a lot. Luckily Maya’s phone already had lots of good games on it, so she didn’t have to shout at anyone.
Stanley could tell the time now, so when his watch showed eight o’clock, he told her it was time for him to go to bed and he had to count to sixty when he cleaned his teeth. Maya said it was OK to count to thirty tonight, but he showed her his list, where it said sixty, so she said OK and counted with him. Stanley also showed her his telescope and told her about Mummy being a star.
Maya said that was cool, which he thought was confusing. But then she explained that cool didn’t always mean cold; sometimes it means really good. She also said that if Mummy was a star, she could also be a rainbow or a snowflake or the bit of sunlight that comes through the gap in his curtains in the morning and shines on his duvet like a light-sabre. Which he thought was really cool.
But best of all about tonight was Harry being here. Stanley was afraid of the dark, and sometimes when he went to bed he would get a funny, twisty feeling in his tummy. He told Maya he needed to leave his night-light on, and she said not to be scared as she was going to be downstairs watching TV, and to call if he woke up and needed anything. Better still, she said that Harry could sleep in his room but wasn’t allowed on his bed.
As soon as she left, Harry jumped straight on the end of his bed and lay on his feet like a big, heavy, hairy blanket. Stanley knew Harry was there to protect him and he didn’t feel scared or twisty in the tummy. He lay in bed and closed his eyes and thought about Mummy being a light-sabre, and how there were exactly eight pieces of pineapple on his pizza. It made him feel happy.
Stanley hoped his dad would put on a suit and go out with Liv again.
Table for Two
The Langley Arms is one of those lovely country hotels filled with chintz and wood panelling, and grandfather clocks that chime softly as you enter, making you feel like you’re stepping into another era. The restaurant is intimate, with low lighting and the hum of discreet conversation. It’s quite a reach from our local pub, with its salted peanuts and pints of ale.
‘Gosh, this is very fancy,’ I whisper, leaning across the table as the waiter finishes telling us about the specials and leaves us to consider our menus.
‘I thought you’d be used to fancy restaurants, after living in London,’ says Ben, fiddling with his collar.
He’s had a shave and is wearing a smart jacket and a freshly ironed shirt. When he picked me up in his van, I made some jokey comment about how well he scrubbed up, and Ben said something about how he thought he should make an effort. But what I was really thinking was how handsome he looked. Out of his overalls and with a fresh shave, the transformation is quite startling, and when I went to kiss him on the cheek, I caught the scent of his aftershave and I felt something shift between us. It felt different.
Or is it just me that’s different?
‘Honestly I think you’ve got completely the wrong impression about me,’ I protest, smoothing my napkin onto my knee. It’s made of heavy, starched white linen and is so spotlessly clean I can’t help wondering how on earth they get the stains out. ‘My life was hardly glamorous. Most of the time you’d find me on the sofa, marking homework.’
Ben laughs then and I feel him relax a bit. I get the feeling he chose this restaurant for me, and he would have been as happy – if not a lot more comfortable – down the local pub. Me too, if I’m honest, but of course I can’t tell him that. He’s made such an effort.
He turns to the menu. ‘What’s pommes purée?’ he asks, lowering his voice.
‘I think it’s mashed potato.’
‘Well, that’s not very fancy – even I can make that.’ He looks triumphant and I laugh. ‘Though mine’s probably lumpier,’ he admits as an afterthought.
‘That’s a good thing. My grandma always used to say that’s how you know it’s home-made.’
‘Wise lady, your grandma,’ he nods approvingly and I start giggling. I don’t know what’s got into us. Neither of us is drinking and yet I feel giddy. Aware of the other diners’ eyes on us, we both duck behind our menus, trying to straighten our faces.
‘Chicken looks good.’
‘Ah yes,’ I nod, ‘but can you make Parmesan Snow?’ Reading from the description, I look at Ben over the leather-bound parapet and raise my eyebrows.
Which of course sets us both off again, and it’s only when the waiter returns to take our order that we finally manage to stop giggling. Though I do feel a bit guilty about dabbing my eyes on my lovely white napkin, as I get two big smudges of eyeliner all over it.
We both go for the chicken, complete with the Parmesan snow. Ben isn’t drinking, so I order sparkling water, even though he tries to persuade me to have some wine.
‘Please at least have a glass,’ he insists. ‘I’m the one driving.’
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I say, handing the waiter the wine list.
‘Or what about a gin and tonic?’
‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’
He stops cajoling me and smiles sheepishly as the waiter disappears.
‘I just want you to have a nice time.’
‘I am having a nice time.’
He studies me, as if making sure I’m telling the truth, then leans back against his chair, satisfied.
‘You look nice.’
‘Thanks.’ I put my hand to my hair, trying to smooth it down. ‘I didn’t have time to blow-dry my hair properly.’
‘I like it like that. Your curls suit you.’
‘That’s lucky,’ I smile. ‘I was planning to straighten it, but something came up.’
‘Would that something have anything to do with the Porsche I saw parked outside your house?’
I let out a groan. ‘You saw David’s car.’
‘I arrived early to pick you up and couldn’t miss it. We don’t get too much call for sports cars around here; it’s mostly tractors and Land Rovers . . .’ His eyes dance mischievously. ‘Though I know of a white van that can do nought to sixty in about five minutes, if the wind’s in the right direction.’
He pulls a face and, despite myself, I start laughing. I wonder briefly what David would say about me going out for dinner in a white builder’s van, which amuses me even more.
