But, whenever we are all together, those misgivings just melt away.
As they walk off hand in hand towards the ice rink, Josh bending down to hear something Emma is saying, I have to swallow a lump in my throat so large, it almost won’t shift.
56.
Rachel
December 2010
Back at home, after Emma goes to bed, I crack open the box of mince pies I picked up in Fortnum & Mason, because Ingrid goes on about them every year as if they’ve been hand-crafted by Jesus Christ himself. And then I decide to watchThe Holiday, because there is no better Christmas film. Last night I suggested to Oliver that we put it on, at which he pulled a face and said, ‘You must have seen it a hundred times. And I have to say, I never did quite get the hype.’
But he is out tonight, at a Christmas cheese-and-wine do with clients.
We moved in together last year, into a gated estate he’d had his eye on for a while. Emma loves it, and has already made friends with all the neighbours’ kids, because she is just that kind of girl. Open-hearted and curious, fun-seeking. Oliver bought her a new bike as a moving-in present, and she has been wobbling up and down the road on it most evenings, pink-cheeked with pride, even if she’s tumbled and scraped a knee.
The rent is eye-watering, though, and the house does lack a little character. I think that is what I will always miss most about the flat I shared with Josh. The quirks I ended up growing to love. The tilt of the light through our wonky front window, the constantly clunking pipes, the creak of oak beneath my feet.
But life now is about my humans, not a house – coming downstairs after a long day in my home studio to find Oliver at the kitchen table, patiently talking Emma through the basics of fractions. Having the space, at last, to host barbecues and dinnerparties and just-because get-togethers. Hearing the murmur of Oliver’s voice through the kitchen ceiling at bedtime, as he and Emma readThe Wind in the Willows, orCharlotte’s Web. And our new tradition of messy, rambling Sunday-night suppers after Lawrence has dropped Emma home. The family life that for so long lived only in my imagination.
From the outset, Oliver never seemed to irritate Lawrence in quite the same way that Josh did. They bonded fairly quickly over work, and sometimes Oliver cracks a niche joke about tax deductibles or the stock market that Lawrence seems to appreciate. They’ll never be best buddies, obviously. But I feel pretty lucky that, for now, relations between them appear to be harmonious.
And I’ve been enjoying having Oliver to myself more now, too. The pleasure of eating breakfast in bed together on Saturdays, strong coffee and fried eggs on toast. The everyday novelty of curling up in his arms and watchingSherlock, orSpooks. Deciding it would definitely be good karma, to christen every room in our first family home. Last night, we found ourselves having sex in the downstairs cloakroom because we were in an empty house with a free fifteen minutes, the ensuing fuck so intense my legs began to shake.
AsThe Holidayfinishes, it starts to snow outside, the usually bright light from the street lamp turned blurry by a torrent of white.
There isn’t a real fireplace here, but the gas one is quite pretty. I switch it on and watch the flames dance, as if to music. And then I call him.
‘Josh.’ I’m just going to come out with it now. The words have been sitting like stones in my stomach all day. ‘I couldn’t say this in front of Emma. But... I think we should get divorced.’
There follows a subdued pause, during which I hear what I think is – bizarrely – the click of a cigarette lighter.
‘Are yousmoking?’
‘Only now and then. The tar can’t kill me.’
I consider this. ‘Seems like flimsy reasoning.’
‘They do relax me, annoyingly enough.’ I hear him take a drag. ‘So, are you going to marry Oliver?’
I shift my gaze to the bright confetti of the snowstorm beyond the window. ‘I don’t think so. But I do think it probably makes him uncomfortable.’
‘That we were once together?’
‘That we’re still married. Do you blame him?’
‘For what specifically?’
‘For feeling awkward. About us.’
I don’t tell him – because of course I cannot – that a couple of months ago Oliver and I agreed to start trying for a baby. I’d expected the right decision about having more children to alight, at some point, in my heart. I thought I’d wake up one day and justknow. But, in the end, it felt more rational than that. What it came down to, I concluded, was that they would both be brilliant: Emma as a big sister, and Oliver as a dad. Our family would be like a rose bush in a garden, becoming only more beautiful with each new bloom.
Having a baby with Lawrence was a leap of faith, in many ways. But the idea of doing it with Oliver feels exactly the opposite. A soft landing, well mapped-out, the safest of bets.
Josh knocks out what I imagine to be a smoky breath. ‘Okay. Well, I have no idea how to get divorced, but I’m sure Oliver will have the relevant paperwork ready and waiting.’
‘Please don’t give me a hard time about this. I’m not sure I have the mental bandwidth to fight with you.’
A long pause unfolds. I stare again at the waterfalling snow outside.
