‘I’m not.’
‘But you can’t do that,’ she said, looking at me as though I was faintly disgusting. ‘The child belongs with her father. All children need fathers, did you not know that? Well, it depends on the father but in this case, I think we can all agree that Michael is a good father, the best kind of father to a little girl like Rosie.You didn’t have one so you don’t understand how elemental they are. Do you want Rosie to grow up without a proper family, the two parents… anormal,loving home?’
‘But we’re not happy…’
‘Correction,’ she said. ‘You’renot happy. Michael informs me that he is happy. He was perfectly happy with you and your life together. You’ve just got to get yourself happy and stop asking for too much. Lifeisn’t about trying to be happy. It’s about sacrifice, tenacity, keeping going. There will be moments of happiness and pleasure, yes. But that is it not daily life. And nor should it be. When will you see sense?’ She looked around, worried in case any neighbours were nearby, listening. ‘And we can’t have this discussion on the doorstep,’ she said, shoulder barging past me.
‘Celia,’ I said, ‘wecan’t have this discussion at all. It’s between me and Michael.’
‘Yes,’ she tried a softer approach, ‘but he’s incapable, you know that. But, Tabitha, he’s not a bad man. Not a serial killer or murderer. He told me about the tea.’
‘It’s not about the tea…’
‘And I understand,’ she said, ‘I really do. It’s the little things. The thoughtful things. Michael Sr wasn’t good in terms of affection,remembering my birthday that kind of thing. Michael is just like his father. But I realised that there was a bigger picture. And you should too.’
‘Is everything all right, Tabitha?’ Nora was hovering in the background.
‘Yes, thanks, Mum.’
‘Hello, Nora,’ said Celia, trying to smile, ‘how lovely to see you again. And you are looking… splendid. That cardigan. It has a hand-knitted quality thatis very charming. I think I saw something very similar in Brown Thomas last week. Yves St Laurent perhaps?’
‘Nearly,’ said Nora. ‘St Vincent De Paul.’
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ I said. ‘I just want to talk to Celia for a moment.’ I gave Nora a reassuring smile. I could handle this.
‘Tabitha,’ Celia began again, ‘he needs you. He can’t become a politician, like his father, if he is divorced. Noone would trust him. They’d all wonder why his wife left him andno onewould believe it was because of the silly matter of a cup of tea…’
‘It’s not about the tea!’ Why didn’t these people just get it? It wasn’t the tea, it was something deeper, something that said about how I wanted to be loved, deeply and properly for who I was. Not be in some working partnership. I wanted more.
‘They’d imagineterrible things about him. That maybe he had, oh I don’t know, predilections, peccadilloes,partialities. Perhaps, they might think he was homosexual…’
‘I don’t care what people think.’
‘No, dear, you obviously don’t. But I do. And Michael does. And that little girl who is going to grow up without a father, she does too. Think of Rosie, her needs. Herrights. And, Tabitha, marriage is not meantto be fun. You’re not supposed to actually enjoy it. Hard slog is what it is. But worth it in the end. When you are standing by the graveside, dressed in black, and you look back on a long marriage, you will think it worth it.’
‘I can’t wait that long,’ I said, wanting to laugh at the weird turn the conversation was taking. ‘Celia, he calls me Mammy.’
‘Tabitha, that’s nothing. Michael Seniorused to call meMrs Fogarty. What is in a name?’
‘But we just aren’t compatible…’
‘Now, you’re just being silly. Think of it as a business, and Michael is your colleague. You don’t expect compatibility and passion and superb tea-making skills from someone you work with, hmmm? That’s just naïve.’ She smiled at me, sensing victory. ‘I was married to Michael Senior for thirty-five years. And allthat mattered was the team. I mean, there were a few incidents I had to turn a blind eye to. There was one woman who wouldn’t stop phoning the house. And then there was that columnist that developed quite the crush… but I ploughed on. Eyes on the prize.’
The prize being the widow at the graveside, I thought. The dowager political wife.
‘Thank you, Celia,’ I said, edging her back to the doorand holding it open. ‘I appreciate you coming round, I really do.’ I felt resolve and determination falling away. They were right, she and Michael. I was young and immature. I was asking for something that didn’t belong in real life. I had a daughter to think about. I had wanted marriage and I had got myself into this relationship. I couldn’t bail out of ‘us’, crying about love and tea, just becauseit wasn’t perfect.
‘You need to think very clearly about what you want to do, Tabitha.’ She was now standing on the doorstep. ‘And be clever about your life. Don’t just throw it away over a cup of tea.’
