I don’t tell him, obviously, that I was wondering earlier what he and I might have been doing together, on our fiftieth birthday in another life. My mind wanders in this way occasionally, but I try to put it down to nostalgic curiosity, nothing more.
Maybe I’m feeling particularly emotional because Oliver and I had our first online therapy session last night, a very odd precursor to a fiftieth birthday. It had been Oliver’s suggestion, which made it even more infuriating and baffling when he refused to open up to the therapist (though not before he’d laid into Josh, and – inexplicably – Ingrid), then informed me once we’d logged off that he’d felt very uncomfortable, baring his soul to a stranger. That he thought the therapist’s questions had been almost voyeuristically intrusive.
Music is pumping from the living room. Mungo Jerry, ‘In The Summertime’. The single which was, according to my thoughtful daughter, number one on the day I was born.
‘Well. I should let you get back to it,’ Josh says, perhaps misinterpreting my pause.
‘No, wait,’ I say, heart in my throat. ‘I need a break. I’ve been dancing to K-pop. I’m not lithe and fit like you, remember?’
I hear him smile. ‘All right. How’s life, Rach?’
I fill him in, tell him Oliver’s winding down to early retirement, that next year Emma will be applying to study law at Oxford. He updates me on the latest withGraveyard Heart, the stratospheric sales and film option, the fast-flowing foreign rights deals.
‘I always knew you’d make it,’ I say.
He laughs softly. ‘Ah, well. At least one of us did, then.’
‘I don’t think I ever told you how much I adored it.Graveyard Heart. You should have been writing love stories all along.’
On the other end of the line, a lengthy silence.
I take a breath. ‘I’m really sorry we couldn’t stay in touch. I think about you a lot. It’s just been difficult. With Oliver.’ Unexpectedly, a tear breaks free, speeds down my cheek. ‘I know I probably navigated that all wrong.’
‘No, look, hey,’ he says softly. ‘You don’t owe me any explanations, Rach.’
Suddenly, I hear Emma from inside the house, shouting, ‘Mum! We’re doing the cake! Mum!’
‘I should go. Thank you for calling.’
‘Thank you for picking up.’
‘I could never see your name and not.’
A breath of hesitation, as if he wants to say something else. But then the screen goes dark.
70.
Rachel
August 2022
During the summer following Emma’s A-levels, Lawrence takes her on holiday to Turks and Caicos, where he informs her, off the back of one too many rum punches, that he and I never stood a chance when we were together, because I was still in love with Josh.
I doubt he does this out of spite; we are long past pettiness, I think. Perhaps these are even his true feelings, and the rum punch just brought them out.
A few hours after she gets home, Emma finds me upstairs, prone on the carpet in my bedroom, doing a poor impression of somebody attempting yoga. Ingrid sent me a link to a teacher she rates on YouTube, but I’m struggling.
It’s at moments like these that I occasionally fantasise about having taken that pill, so at the very least I might be able to perform basic flexibility exercises without feeling like I need a shot of WD-40 first.
Emma perches on the edge of my bed. She’s wearing her school leaver’s sweatshirt and a pair of faded leggings. Her blonde hair, made several shades lighter by Caribbean sun, is pulled into a long plait.
‘Mum, did you dump Dad because you were still in love with Josh?’
A jarring feeling in my chest. I sit up, back creaking. Lawrence’s and my official line, when it comes to our daughter, has always been the truth – that we drifted apart.
‘No. Who told you that?’
Emma repeats what Lawrence said. She looks bruised, and I feel the ache of it pass to me. Bloody Lawrence, always putting his foot in it. How he got to be CEO of a FTSE 100 company without ending up in jail for insider trading, I will never know.
