Rose was the first person I phoned after Brendan told me he was leaving me. Just thinking about that evening makes me feel tense, even after all these years. It was on 6 January. The first day back at school for the kids and peak season for divorce lawyers. Brendan is nothing if not conventional.
Things had been strained between us for three or four months and Christmas had been difficult. I felt as if I was permanently pretending everything was okay, even though I had an ominous knot in my stomach that had nothing to do with brussels sprouts.
I couldn’t work out what had changed exactly, or why we were suddenly not getting along. Brendan had never really had a temper, but he was suddenly, inexplicably vile – picking fights at the slightest thing, complaining resentfully at basicallyeverything. I couldn’t do a thing right and I literally didn’t know why.
We could not have continued like that but I hadn’t appreciated how unhappy he was until, in a heart-to-heart at some point between Christmas and New Year, he suggested we go to couples’ therapy. That alone shocked me to the core. I couldn’t believe it was happening. But I booked an appointment, absolutely certain that this would be the thing that would make Brendan snap out of it – whatever ‘it’ was.
Only, on the day in question, he didn’t show up and I had to sit awkwardly with a nice woman called Deborah, chatting about how much I liked her jumper, which she told me she’d got in the Oliver Bonas sale.
When it became clear he wasn’t coming, she suggested I go home, make myself a cup of tea and not to worry, she wouldn’t charge me. Which was kind of her, because I suspect she already knew she was unlikely to get any repeat business out of us. When I arrived home, Brendan was sitting at the table, nursing a can of lager. It was 11am. We were supposed to be doing Dry January.
He looked up at me and his bottom lip was trembling. He said something trite and soap opera-ish, about howhe couldn’t do this anymore. The row that followed was short, explosive and may possibly have broken a world record in the number of expletives crammed into three minutes.
I remember sitting on the kitchen floor, unable to catch my breath, as I pulled up the only number I ever phoned in a true emergency. Within twenty minutes of Brendan’s departure, Rose’s Peugeot hatchback screamed onto the pavement outside like it was taking part in a drive-by shooting.
I sobbed into her arms that day, for the first of what would be multiple occasions. Of all the friends who supported me during that horrible time – when I had to tell my parents, then the kids, then move house and essentially deconstruct my entirelife – she was the one who was easiest to be around. She was my scaffolding, propping me up when all I wanted to do was crumble.
I always knew I’d do the same for her. But I suppose I never thought I’d have to.
‘Fancy seeing you two reprobates here.’
We look up and spot Jeff walking towards us, with one of his cocker spaniels on a lead. He’s wearing an expensive-looking rib-knit sweater, with pale blue and white stripes that make him look ridiculously stylish.
Jeff is also dressed well.
‘Love the dog’s jumper,’ Rose says. ‘Where are the other two though?’
I bend down to stroke the animal and its tail begins to wag.
‘They’re at home. Because for some reason, Pascal here hates me, so Andy thinks we need some time together.To bond,’ he says ominously.
‘I’m sure he doesn’thateyou,’ I argue. ‘Look at him. Those eyes! The little waggy tail! He’s so cute!’
‘Yes and I treat him like a prince. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it. Watch.’ He bends down to pet Pascal, who turns his head away with a disdainful curl of his top lip. ‘I had a boyfriend whose mother used to look at me like that,’ Jeff sighs, standing up. ‘Come on, let’s walk together. You two might put him in a better mood.’
We continue our stroll and the first thing that Jeff brings up is the one subject I’d rather avoid. ‘I haven’t seen you since the wine night, Lisa. You’re a dark horse, aren’t you? Your date was an absolutedelight.’
Rose looks at me, astonished. ‘What date?’
‘It wasn’t a date,’ I assure her.
‘Looked like it to me,’ Jeff says, leaning around me. ‘It was someone you guys work with. Zach?’
Rose’s feet come to a standstill. ‘You went on a date with Zach? My stand-in?’
‘It wasn’t a date,’ I repeat firmly, refusing to stop walking. ‘It was a stupid school event. I only let him come because I needed to flog the last ticket.’
‘But I thought he was an arsehole?’ she says, scurrying to catch up with me.
‘I’ve warmed to him. Slightly. But it still wasn’t a date.’
I suddenly realise that I’m blushing. It does not go unnoticed. ‘Are you all right? Your cheeks have gone very pink,’ says Rose.
‘Must be a hot flush,’ I reply, looking straight ahead and focusing on a toddler terrorising a mallard with some crusts.
Jeff raises an eyebrow. ‘If that’s a hot flush, it’s a delicate one. Our poor office manager Adele looked as if she’d stepped out of a shower the other day. I had to go out at lunchtime to buy her a mini fan.’
‘That was nice of you, Jeff,’ Rose says.
