‘The divorce,’ says Stephen, showing a little frustration.
‘Oh, I thought that was a joke. A response to the stress of your mum and dad and maybe even work too.’
‘It’s not stress. It’s what I want.’
‘Oh, don’t give me that hang-dog expression, Stephen.’
‘But I want a divorce.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘We’re not getting divorced. It’s not in the plan. We’ll rekindle our love instead.’
‘I’m not in love with you any more, Lalla.’
‘That’s just your opinion.’
‘No, it’s not an opinion,’ says Stephen, looking shocked.
‘Well, it’s not a fact, is it? Love is a feeling. Your feelings may be wrong.’
Stephen seems about to say something, but just puts his head in his hands, which gives me the perfect opportunity to share my thoughts.
‘We’re just on different ships at the moment, and we need to steer in the same direction. If you want to take up cycling, walk the Camino de Santiago, or have separate bedrooms, I’m happy, as long as we’re on the same path together.’
‘Lalla, I’m just not—’
‘Trying hard enough?’ I add quickly.
‘Happy. I don’t want to be a partner. I don’t want a house in Hampstead.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I refuse to be punished because you can’t manage the simple task of keeping yourself happy. Here’s an idea. We don’t get divorced and you start making an effort.’
‘I find this all really, really draining,’ he says. ‘You’ve changed. I’ve changed.’
‘Well, it’s no surprise, is it? I didn’t have children to care for. You used to be quite independent, too. You used to be able to wash your own clothes, book your own dentist appointments, plan holidays, pay your council tax, cut your toenails, make social arrangements, even make a woman orgasm. It’s a little galling to then claim I’ve lost my sparkle. I’ll fucking sparkle if you wantme to, darling! Just stay at home and look after everything, and I’ll be your firework.’
‘I empty the dishwasher,’ says Stephen.
‘Sadly, darling, like sex, even that is a rare delight these days.’
‘Well, you don’t know what it’s like to earn the money to keep this all going,’ he says. ‘I feel like I’m being drained, like all my energy is being siphoned off. Like there’s a syringe in my arm taking everything.’
‘Fine, if that’s how you feel, let’s get on with it. Have you thought about practicalities?’ I say. ‘Where will you live?’
‘We’ll sell the house. I’ll get a flat and you can get a smaller house for you and the children.’
‘Children? What do you mean?’ I say, feeling the anger rise in my throat. ‘If you want a divorce, you can have the fucking children.’
‘Pardon?’ he says, his eyes wide now.
‘I’ve no interest in them. What for? They belong to our marriage. If that dissolves, it’s all off. You think providing money is tough, you should try providing motherhood. If you’re closing your wallet, I’m closing mine.’
‘Don’t you want your children?’
‘Certainly not. I don’t want to be reminded of their weak-willed failure of a father, who jumps the moment it all feels a little strained.’
