But motorbikes reminded me too much of Billy. I was scared, I think, that if I climbed on behind him I’d remember so powerfully how young and free and in-love I’d once been that carrying on with Rob would be impossible.
And then, around the time of Mum’s chemo, Rob gave up trying to convince me and started doing things on his own. I’d wake up on a Sunday and find him gone – a note saying that he was off biking, or running, or cycling. Or I’d wake up to feel the bed gently bouncing and realise that my husband was beside me actually wanking.
But it suited me, that’s the horror of it. His absence meant that I didn’t need to find excuses not to have sex. I didn’t have to find excuses to head over to Mum’s, either. And I didn’t even have to feel guilty about not wanting to take care of Rob, because Rob was too busy to care.
Did I suspect that he was having an affair? Well,sort of, I suppose is the best answer I can give, because I both did suspect and at the same time I didn’t. It was a bit of a blurry monster at the edge of my vision, a monster I refused to look in the eye. Because if he was having an affair, if that really was the reason he’d stopped pressing his hard-on against my hip, then that suited me too. Is that a terrible thing to say? I expect it probably is, but, my God, it’s true.
Anyway, by the time royal Kate had given birth to Louis Arthur Charles (at least they hadn’t called him Gandhi), Mum’s breast had been rebuilt and was healing pretty well. Her chemo was over and had been deemed successful, and her hair was growing back so well that wearing a wig was starting to get problematic. And it was only then, as the latest crisis started to wane, that I noticed how far apart Rob and I had drifted.
I worried I’d pushed him away too hard, and felt genuinely sorry about it if I had. So I started suggesting mini-breaks; I started trying to drag him to the beach.
But he’d plugged all the gaps Mum’s illness had created, with squash and motorbiking and work. The cracks that remained seemed somehow too small for me to fit back through.
Mum met a man at Home from Home – not one of the asylum seekers, but a helper. I’d got out of the habit of volunteering with her, probably because I’d spent so much of the rest of my time looking after her. Amazingly, Mum had continued to find the energy to stay involved, and it’s just as well she did, because it was in the Home from Home kitchen she met Quentin. Quentin didn’t mind her keeping her bra on, Mum said, and with her treatment over and Quentin to fawn over, she suddenly became far less present in my life. We’d been spending so much time together, it really was quite a shock. Obviously I was glad she was feeling better and was taking the time to live her little love story, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a bit like she’d dumped me as soon as she found herself a man.
Anyway, time stretched. I started noticing how empty the house was. I started listening to the eerie silence that came from the kids’ rooms during the afternoons. It seemed to drift down the stairs, like mist.
I’d open a book and tell myself to enjoy the peace and quiet. I’d remind myself how I’d just come out of years and years of madness during which I’d been gagging for an afternoon to read a book.
But no matter how much I’d craved it over the years, I couldn’t quite convince myself calm was my ‘thing’. Perhaps being needed was what made me feel best, after all.
* * *
In December 2019, Mum finally introduced us to ‘Quin’.
Wayne, who was staying with me for a few days, had just been to pick his new girlfriend up from Ramsgate train station too, so the event felt pretty special.
But Rob wasn’t home. He’d missed his train back from Manchester and it annoyed me more than was reasonable.
Just once, I kept thinking.Just once, I actually ask him to be present, I actually tell him that it’s important, and he’s damned well not here.
Of course, anyone can miss a train – it’s happened to the best of us. But I think I suspected that he hadn’t been where he said he was, and that’s why I was so annoyed.
Anyway, both Quentin and Belinda turned out to be great, so we had a lovely meal all the same.
Quentin, who because of his name I’d imagined slightly posh and a bit theatrical, turned out to be a retired bus driver from Hackney. He looked vaguely like De Niro but with a shiny bald head. He was also funny and cheeky and visibly head over heels about my mother. Other than Pete, who at fifteen I’d been secretly in love with myself, I decided Quentin was the cream of the crop.
As for Wayne’s new flame, well, what can I say? She was an absolute stunner in every way.
She was clever (she had her own advertising agency) and was helpful and funny too. But oh my God, she was pretty. She was so very very pretty that I remember wondering if it would be acceptable to ask if life was different for people like her. I wondered if things just always fell into place because no one she ever met could say ‘no’.
Afterwards, as we were washing up – the dishwasher had given up the ghost – Mum leaned towards me, bumping my hip with hers, and said, ‘You know, I suspect this might be The One.’
Because she’d never said anything like that about any of the many men she’d dated, I automatically assumed she was talking about Belinda.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? She reminds me of Freema What’s-her-name. The one who used to be inDoctor Who. Martha Jones. D’you remember?’
‘Never watched it,’ Mum said. ‘Can’t stand it. But anyway, I meant me, stupid. I meant Quin. I think he might be the one.’
‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Gosh!’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘No, no, I do, Mum,’ I said. ‘I think he’s lovely.’
‘But?’ Mum said.
‘There’s no buts at all. I’m just not used to hearing you say that.’
