‘Sweetie…’ she said eventually, ‘I want to tell you something, and you have to promise me, that you won’t let it… that you will try and understand. Okay?’
‘… Okay?’ I said, warily. Was she about to admit that she knew the sofa was blindingly awful and had done this entire time? Was she colour-blind? Because that would explain some things.
Mum took a deep breath. ‘When we were first going out, your dad and I, long, long, before we were married and had you… your father cheated on me.’
My heart felt like it was being clenched in a fist. ‘Dad cheated on you? With who? When? How long have you known about it?’
Mum held up her hands, cutting off my questions. ‘Like I said, it was a very long time ago, and I don’t want you to hold it against him, because we were very young, he was very sorry and I forgave him. It doesn’t matter any more.’
‘It does to me! I can’t believe he’d do that,’ I said, skin crawling in horror. ‘He’s… Dad.’
Mum laughed. ‘He wasn’t always “Dad”, honey. Anyway, it was a few weeks after we started going out together and he went drinking with his friends. One thing led to another and they ended up at a house party… and he slept with someone else. I was furious and your dad was mortified… but after a while I forgave him.’
‘Why?’ I asked, trying to make this information match up with what I knew of my dad. My tool-hoarding, parking-charge-protesting dad. ‘I mean, how could you forgive him? That’s… unforgivable,’ I finished lamely.
‘I know it probably seems that way. But, in the end, I decided that I believed he was sorry and that when he said it would never happen again, he was telling the truth.’ Mum shrugged, like it was just that easy. ‘After the anger fizzled out… I realised I missed him. That I was just making myself miserable for the sake of being “right” and that maybe someday, years down the line, we’d be married and have a wonderful daughter… and that one night wouldn’t mean anything compared with that.’
There was a lump in my throat as she looked at me. I could see she meant it. It wasn’t just a story for my benefit, to convince me to give Richard another shot. Mum genuinely believed – knew – that she had made the right decision. That her marriage and her life with Dad was worth swallowing her pride over his one mistake and giving him a second chance.
‘And you’ve never… regretted it?’ I asked.
‘He’s never given me a reason to,’ Mum said firmly. ‘In all the years we’ve been married, he’s never so much as looked at anyone else. I think he was so scared of losing me that, when I took him back, he couldn’t believe his luck. I think he realised once he’d lost me, for those few days, the value of what he had.’ She smiled slightly. ‘Not to toot my own horn, of course.’
I laughed, but sobered quickly. ‘I’m just… what if he’s another Chelsea, instead of another Dad? What if he makes me look stupid?’
Mum covered my hand with her own, her engagement ring and wedding band warm against my skin. ‘You weren’t stupid to trust Chelsea again. She was an idiot for betraying your trust and losing you as a friend. So if you do decide to give Richard a second chance and he wastes his last shot with you, he’s the idiot – not you. Don’t let the fear of disappointment keep you from believing in people, sweetie. No one’s perfect.’
‘I know,’ I said, and I thought of Cooper – who’d rescued me from the canal and charmed me, only to turn so cold and distant the second I asked a question he didn’t like. ‘I suppose you never really know what someone’ll do if you give them a chance.’
‘Exactly.’ Mum smiled softly. ‘All you can do is wait and see what they’ll do with it.’
Chapter 21
Ihad a lotto think about on the short drive home. Thankfully, the rain had petered out and I was left with the soft hushing of tyres on wet tarmac, accompanying my reeling thoughts.
Dad had cheated on Mum and she’d forgiven him. It was hard not to feel a bit weird about my dad being with someone other than Mum. Point of fact, it was weird to think of Dad at a party which she hadn’t organised. But I was relieved that, when I probed my feelings over it, I didn’t feel any resentment or anger towards him. I wasn’t appalled at him on her behalf, because Mum had seemed so accepting of it as just a part of their story. This other woman, whoever she was in her nameless, faceless existence, was just a complication in my parents’ rom-com. The halfway point before they got together and lived happily ever after with me and a flock of inflatable flamingos.
No, the real headline of the afternoon was that Mum had told me about it. I could count on one hand the number of times in my life that we’d had open, honest talks about stuff that actually mattered. Hell, I could count it on three fingers – Dad’s cheating, when she gave me ‘the talk’ when I was eleven and when she told me where meat came from. That was it. This was actually the first time Mum had ever shared something really personal with me. I was kind of stunned. Maybe things were changing and we’d had a kind of breakthrough over the whole Richard situation. Maybe this was the start of us understanding each other and being close. I smiled at that. God, it would be great to finally be the kind of daughter who ran to her mum with things, instead of avoiding her.
As I manoeuvred through the drenched roads of Leaford, I found myself imagining a future where I forgave Richard. We’d talk it out and he’d promise to never betray me again. Sure, things would be cold and awkward for a while but we’d get past it and back to normal eventually. Parties at Mum and Dad’s, weekly shops together, curling up in bed at the end of the day – our lives would be as they were. Then Richard would propose, with red roses and dinner, a classic move. We’d announce it and my family would be thrilled, his too. I’d go dress shopping with his mother and my mum, sample cakes and pick floral arrangements. Mum would tell me all about what married life was really like over wine. She’d tell me all the little secrets and tips to make it work and cry on my wedding day. We’d marry and honeymoon and soon I’d find out I was pregnant and we would focus on creating a perfect home for our first child. Mum would be there at the birth, coaching me through it.
One day in the future I might sit that child or those children down and explain to him, her or them that once, a long time ago, their father made a stupid mistake. But that all this – the house full of family pictures and shared memories, every picnic and beach day and even their very existence, had come about because I forgave him. That together we had worked through it and that what we had now was worth the temporary awkwardness.
I pulled up outside the block of flats and imagined a second scenario. Me, alone, in a house share in my forties. My business having failed and the library having not taken me back on. I’d be working somewhere boring and soul-destroying and coming home to no one but the twenty-somethings who avoided me like the plague. Going over to my parents’ house at the weekend while they tiptoed around the subject of dating and children. That fledgling closeness with Mum having died a death as I spurned her advice and ignored the fact that she’d opened her inner life to me. Getting dressed up and going on a few dates before I lost interest or the will to make conversation. Or before the man I’d met revealed some secret or snapped at me and I walked away. But at least I’d know that I was the better person. The better, lonely, sad little person.
I got out of the car with a sigh and went inside, taking the lift up to the flat. Maybe Mum was right – I couldn’t be sure Richard wouldn’t make another mistake but, at least if he did, I’d have tried to make things work instead of giving up and wondering what might have been. I’d have a child, a marriage, instead of nothing.
‘Tabitha?’
I looked up in shock at the sound his voice. The last I’d expected to hear.
‘Richard?’
He was standing by the front door, his pea coat black with rain. He looked small and apologetic, like a wet puppy. For a moment I wondered if he was drunk and looking for a place to sleep it off again but, as I moved closer, I could tell he was sober. There wasn’t a whiff of alcohol about him and he looked miserably present.
‘I came to… well, I need to get my things, but more than that…’ he sighed helplessly. ‘I wanted to say I’m sorry. I really am and… I’m even sorrier for not respecting that you needed space. So… I’m going to leave you alone, once I’ve grabbed the last of my stuff.’
My first instinct was still to deliver a sarcastic retort. To make him feel even worse, but with Mum’s words still swimming around my brain, I resisted.
