‘And who’s going to pay the mortgage?’ I say.
‘We’ll sell and downsize. We can get two flats.’
‘And Hampstead?’
‘It was never going to happen, Lalla. It’s your delusion.’ ‘Women are forever being told that their dreams are delusions, Stephen. You’re not taking my dream away from me. So grow up and get your fucking job back!’ I feel a sudden jolt, like someone’s plugged in an electric current. I lean back against the counter. The only way that I might get a settlement from this now seemingly imminent divorce is if no one finds out that I’m already married. If they do, I’ll be left living with Hollis in Meadow Estate with urine-stained doormats, surrounded by dog faeces and youths in hoodies.
‘Don’t panic,’ he says. ‘We’ve also got savings. We can survive until the divorce.’
‘We don’t have any savings,’ I inform him.
‘We have two hundred thousand.’
‘I used that for the deposit on the house,’ I say. He is about to shout, but he just puts his hands on his head and makes a moaning sound. ‘Non-returnable, I’m afraid. It’s a sellers’ market in Hampstead.’
‘You forged my signature?’
‘I just used your phone. It’s all digital these days. On the bright side, if you return to work, ask your mother for your inheritance, and we sell this place, we can still achieve Hampstead and nothing is lost. Never say never, Stephen.’
Stephen stands and walks to the window. He looks out and shakes his head. Without turning around he says, ‘I’m in love with someone else.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I say.
‘Lalla, I’m sorry, but I am.’
I stare at him and he stares at me. There are tears in his eyes. I think about my ten-point plan and feel a sense of sadness that it’s failed.
‘What is love, Stephen? The dopamine hit you get from having a sordid affair and lying to your family, or is it this unique piquant feeling that is always here and curiously pleasurable and painful at the same time – Nelly, Nathan, me, us?’
‘It’s not like that. It’s someone I’ve known a long, long time.’
‘Look, I know about your sad reunion with Georgie, but that’s not love, that’s the only delusion here. You’re escaping into the past. And tomorrow is Nelly’s test, so today we must stop being selfish and think about her, OK?’
‘We can’t afford Adams,’ he says. ‘She can’t go.’
‘Take that back, you useless, cowardly fuck,’ I shout, as I jab the knife at him.
‘We can’t afford it!’ he shouts back, and foolishly grabs my arm. ‘You’ve even fucked up our savings. The gravy train is over, Lalla!’
‘It’s not about money, it’s her future,’ I shout. He tells me to drop the knife. I switch it to my free hand and scowl at him. I’m better at this than he is. He’s now screaming at me, but my pulse remains slow. I pull my arm back, and I’m about to thrust the knife into his leg when my phone rings.
I stop, glance across, and look at the number. It’s the doctor who wants to discuss my fertility test results. I look up at the clock. Surprisingly, they’re right on time. That doesn’t bode well. Bad news always arrives promptly.
‘Sorry, Stephen, I’ve got to take this,’ I say, put the knife down, and take my phone. At which point, Stephen, who is quite cross at being nearly stabbed, throws a vase on the kitchen floor. He can be so childish sometimes.
Chapter69Test
Wednesday, 22 January
The day circled several times in red on the calendar has finally arrived. According to the weather app, it’s going to be fine with zero chance of rain. Stephen is sleeping in the guest room, which is actually a relief.
I walk into his room, pull open the curtains, and tell him to get up and go to work. He grunts and turns over. This is not what I married, I tell him. I know this won’t help him to fall in love with me again, but I’m losing patience. I pull the duvet off him and throw it on the floor. I want to hurt him, but there are things that have to be prioritized above bludgeoning your useless, adulterous, jobless husband to death.
I head upstairs to the attic and yank the duvet from Aimée’s bed. I see Luca, my gorgeous gardener, lying next to her, stark naked. I tell him that this kind of slovenly behaviour is not going to get the garden ready for spring.
Luca informs me that it’s 4.30 a.m. I explain that I’ve been up for an hour already, making a fruit compote for Nelly’s yoghurt, and if people don’t start making a contribution, I’ll wield the axe or, in his case, the secateurs. Aimée doesn’t even stir, although judging by Luca’s expression I appear to be shouting.
I open the curtains in the living room and am astonished to see Hollis’s car sitting just outside our house. I rush outside and down the steps to the gate.
