What Alice Forgot

Chapter 24

Elisabeth’s Homework for Jeremy

Well, I don’t know, you seemed a bit grumpy this morning. Is that allowed? Are therapists allowed to have feelings? I don’t think so, J. Save them for your own therapy sessions. Not on my time, buddy.

I really wanted a bit more praise when I showed you how many pages I’d written for my homework. Couldn’t you tell that, as a therapist? I mean, I know you’re not meant to read it, but the reason I brought along my notebook was so you could say something like “Wow! I wish all my clients were as committed to this process as you!” Or you could have said what nice handwriting I had. Just a suggestion. You’re the one who is meant to be good with people. Instead you just looked a bit taken aback, as if you didn’t even remember asking me to do the homework. It always bugged me when teachers forgot to ask for the homework they’d set. It made the world seem undependable.

Anyway, today, you wanted to talk about the coffee shop incident.

Personally, I think you were just curious about it. You were feeling a bit bored for a Monday morning and thought it might spice things up.

You seemed quite testy when I said I preferred to talk about Ben and the adoption issue. The customer is always right, Jeremy.

This is what happened in the coffee shop, if you must know.

It was a Friday morning and I’d stopped in at Dino’s on the way to work. I was having a large skim cappuccino because I wasn’t pregnant or in the middle of the cycle. There was a woman at the table next to me with a baby and a toddler about two years old.

A little girl. With brown curly hair. Ben has brown curly hair. Well, actually, he doesn’t because he gets it cut really close to his head like a car thief but I’ve seen photos from before we met. When I used to imagine our children I always gave them brown curly hair like Ben’s.

So, there was that, but she wasn’t particularly cute or anything. She had a dirty face and she was being sort of whiny.

The mother was talking on her mobile phone and smoking a cigarette.

Well, she wasn’t smoking a cigarette at all.

But she looked like a smoker. That sort of thin, edgy face. She was telling someone a story on the mobile phone that was all about how she put someone in their place and she kept saying, “It was just too funny.” How can something be too funny, Jeremy?

Anyway, she wasn’t watching the little girl. It’s like she forgot the child even existed.

Dino’s is on the Pacific Highway. The door is always being opened and closed as people come in and out.

So I was watching the little girl. Not in a weird, obsessive infertile way. Just watching her, idly.

The door opened to let in a Mothers’ Group. Prams. And mothers.

I thought, Time to go.

I stood up and the mothers came crashing through with their giant prams, sending chairs and tables skidding, and I watched the little girl slip out the door and onto the street.

The woman on the phone kept talking. I said, “Excuse me!” and nobody heard me. Two mothers had already sat down and were busy unbuttoning shirts and pulling out breasts to feed babies (this relaxed attitude to breast-feeding has got a bit too relaxed if you ask me) while they shrieked coffee orders across the room.

As I walked out of the coffee shop, the little girl was toddling straight toward the curb. Semi-trailers and four-wheel-drives were thundering down the highway. I had to run to get to her. I scooped her into the air just as she was about to step down into the gutter.

I saved the kid’s life.

And I looked back to the coffee shop and the thin-faced mother was still on her mobile phone and the Mothers’ Group was deep in conversation and the little girl was in my arms, smelling of sugar and maybe a touch of cigarette smoke. One fat little hand resting so trustingly on my shoulder.

And I kept walking. I just walked off with her.

I wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t like I was planning to dye her hair blond and drive off to the Northern Territory to live with her in a caravan by the sea, where we would both become nut brown in the sun and live on seafood and fresh fruit and I could homeschool her and . . . Kidding! I wasn’t thinking any of that.

I was just walking.

The little girl was giggling as if it was a game. If she’d cried, I would have taken her straight back, but she was giggling. She liked me. Maybe she was grateful that I saved her life.

And then, pounding feet behind me, and the thin-faced woman grabbing at my shoulder, screaming, “Hey!” Her face filled with terror, her nails scratching my skin as she dragged the little girl out of my arms, and then the little girl did cry because she got a fright, and the mother was saying, “It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay,” and looking at me with such revulsion.

Oh God, the shame and the horror.

Some of the mothers had come out of the coffee shop and were standing silently, cupping their babies’ heads and staring, as if I was a traffic accident. The owner of the coffee shop, Dino himself, I guess, had come out, too. I’d only ever seen the top half of him over the counter. He was shorter than I expected. It was a surprise: like seeing a newsreader in full length. It’s the only time I’ve seen him serious. He’s normally one of those permanent chucklers.

All those people watching me and judging. It was like I was bleeding in public. I felt something come loose in my mind. I really did. It was an actual physical sensation of going crazy. Maybe there is a word for it, Jeremy?

I collapsed to my knees on the footpath, which was so unnecessary, and also excruciatingly painful. The grazes took weeks to heal.

That’s when Alice turned up. She was wearing a new jacket I’d never seen before, hurrying into Dino’s, handbag swinging, frowning. I saw the expression on her face when she recognized me. She actually recoiled, as if she’d seen a rat. She must have been mortified. I had to pick her local coffee shop for my public meltdown.

She was nice, though. I have to admit she was nice. She came and knelt down beside me and when our eyes met, it reminded me of when we were children and we’d run into each other in the school playground and I would suddenly feel as if I’d been performing on a stage all day, because only Alice knew my real self.

“What happened?” she whispered.

I was crying too hard to talk.

She fixed everything. It turned out she knew the mother of the child, as well as some of the Mothers’ Group women. There was a lot of intense mother-to-mother talk while I stayed kneeling on the footpath. She made their faces soften. The crowd melted away.

She helped me up off the footpath and took me to her car and strapped me into the passenger seat.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she said.

I said I didn’t.

“Where do you want to go?” she said.

I said I didn’t know.

Then she did exactly the right thing and drove me to Frannie. We sat on Frannie’s tiny balcony, drinking tea and eating buttered arrowroot biscuits, and we didn’t talk about what had happened.

In fact, we talked about something quite interesting. I could see some new stationery on Frannie’s desk, and it prompted me to ask her about the time I found her writing a mysterious letter when I was a teenager. I told her that Alice and I had been convinced that she had a secret lover.

Frannie didn’t look embarrassed, just dismissive. She waved her hand impatiently as if it wasn’t an important subject. She said she had once been briefly engaged when she was in her late thirties, and she still wrote occasionally to her ex-fiancé, and she probably just hadn’t wanted to talk about it at the time.

“So you’re still friends?” said Alice, all agog.

“I guess you could say that,” Frannie had said. There was a peculiar quizzical expression on her face.

“And he writes back?” I asked.

And she said, “Well, no.”

So that was odd. And it seemed like she was about to say more but then we had to rush off because Alice had to pick up the children from school, so I never got to hear more about this man, this “Phil” who never answers her letters. Did she leave him at the altar all those years ago? Why has she never mentioned him before?

I’ve been meaning to call Frannie to ask her about it, but I haven’t even got the energy to be nosy these days. Also I’ve been avoiding her because I know she thinks I should stop trying to have a baby. She said it at least two years ago. She said that sometimes you had to be brave enough to “point your life in a new direction.” I was a bit snappy at the time. I said a baby wasn’t a “direction.” Besides which, as far as I can see, she never pointed her life in a new direction. We just fell into her life after Dad died.

Thank goodness we did, of course. And who knows, maybe there will be a convenient death in our local area! Think positive! That father two doors down always looks like he’s about to drop dead when he mows the lawn.

Anyway, the day after my psychotic episode I went to my GP and asked for a referral to see a good psychiatrist. I wonder if you pay her a spotter’s fee.

So that’s how I came into your life, Jeremy.

When Alice walked into Dino’s Coffee Shop her senses were flooded with familiarity. The aroma of coffee and pastries. The rhythmic thud and hiss of the espresso machine.

“Alice, my love!” said a small, dark-haired man behind the counter. He was working the coffee machine with two hands, expertly and elegantly, as if it were a musical instrument. “I heard on the grapevine you had an accident! Lost your memory! But you never forget Dino, do you?”

“Well,” said Alice carefully, “I think I remember your coffee.”

Dino laughed as if she’d made a hilarious joke. “Of course you do, my love! Of course you do! I won’t be one moment. I know you’re in a hurry. Busy lady. Here you go.”

Without waiting for an order, he handed her a takeaway cup. “How you feeling, anyway? You all better? You remember everything? You ready for the big day on Sunday? Mega Meringue Day at last! My daughter is so excited! All she talks about is ‘ Daddy, Daddy, this pie will be the biggest in the world! ’”

“Mmmm,” said Alice. She was assuming that by Sunday she would have her memory back, because she really had no idea how to bake the world’s biggest lemon pie.

She peeled off the lid of the cup and took a sip. Ewww. No sugar, and extremely strong. She took another sip. Actually very good. She didn’t need sugar. She took another sip, and another and another. She wanted to tip back her head and pour it straight down her throat. The caffeine was zipping through her veins, clearing her head, making her heart beat faster and her vision sharpen.

“Maybe you need two today?” chortled Dino.

“Maybe I do,” agreed Alice.

“How is your sister, by the way?” said Dino, still chuckling. He appeared to be a jolly fellow. He stopped and clicked his fingers. “Ah, my mind! I keep forgetting, my wife gave me something to give to her.”

“My sister?” Alice ran her finger around the edge of the cup and licked the froth while she wondered how well Dino knew Elisabeth. “She’s okay, I guess.” She is an entirely different person. She appears to be desperately unhappy. I’m not sure how I’ve wronged her.

“I went home and told my wife the whole story, about how this lady walks off with a child, and then when she collapsed like that, crying, and none of us knew what to do! I was making her coffee! That’s no help, is it? Even Dino’s coffee! Those stupid women wanting to call the police.”

Good Lord. Had Elisabeth tried to kidnap a child? Alice felt pity (Her poor darling Elisabeth, how bad must she be feeling to so publicly break a rule!), a horrified shame (How embarrassing ! How illegal!) and guilt (How could she be worried about what people thought when her sister was obviously suffering so badly?).

Dino continued, “I said to those women, ‘No harm done!’ It was so lucky you showed up and made them see sense, and when you told me her story, so sad! Anyway, my wife gave me this. It’s an African fertility figurine. If you have one of these dolls, you give birth to a beautiful baby. That’s the legend.”

He handed her a small dark wooden doll with a Post-it note stuck to it saying “Alice.” The doll seemed to be an African woman in tribal dress with an oversized head.

“That’s so sweet of your wife.” Alice handled the doll reverently. Was his wife African perhaps and this was some sort of mystical tribal heirloom?

“She bought it off the Internet,” confided Dino. “For her cousin, who couldn’t get pregnant. Nine months later—baby! Although to be honest, not such a beautiful baby.” He slapped his knee, his face creased with mirth. “I say to my wife, That’s one ugly baby! Got a big head, like the doll!” He could hardly speak, he was laughing so hard now. “Big head, I said. Like the doll!”

Alice smiled. Dino handed her another coffee and he became serious again.

“Nick came in the other day,” he said. “He didn’t look too good. I said, You should get back together with your wife. I said, It’s not right. I remember when I first opened the shop and you came in every weekend with little Madison. All three of you in overalls. She used to help you with the painting. You two were so proud of her. Never saw prouder parents! Remember?”

“Hmmmm,” said Alice.

“I told Nick that you two should get back together, be a family again,” said Dino. “I said, What went so wrong you can’t fix? None of my business, right? My wife says, Dino, it’s not your business! I say, I don’t care, I say what I think, that’s just me.”

“What did Nick say?” asked Alice. She was already halfway through the next cup of coffee.

“He said, ‘I would fix it if I could, mate.’ ”

Alice drove home chanting Nick’s words in her head. He would if he could, so therefore . . . why not!

She had the takeaway cup of coffee in a handy cup holder close to the steering wheel. She found she could steer this enormous car with one hand and take sips of coffee with the other. So many useful new skills! The caffeine was making her tremble with energy. She felt like her eyes were protruding. When the light changed to green and the car in front didn’t move straightaway, she shoved it along with a bossy beep of her horn.

That sharp voice was back in her head, working out everything she had to do before she picked the children up at 3:30 p.m. “You need to be on time, Mum,” Tom had told her. “Monday afternoons are a pretty tight schedule.”

Well, you can’t spend your day lounging around eating custard tart. You won’t fit into those beautiful clothes for long, will you? Speaking of which, what about laundry? You probably should do laundry when you get home. Mothers are always complaining about washing.

What else do they complain about? Groceries! When do you shop? Check pantry. Do list. You probably have a list somewhere. You seem like the sort of person who has a list. What about dinner tonight? Snacks when they come from school? Were the children used to freshly baked cookies on arrival?

Ring Sophie. She’s your best friend! You must have told her something about what’s going on.

Your diary says you’ve got a Mega Meringue meeting at 1 p.m. Presumably you’ve got to run it. Great! That should be a hoot. Find out where it is! How? Ring someone. Ring that Kate Harper if you must. Or your “boyfriend.”

Would fix it if he could. Would fix it if he could.

Laundry.

Yes, you already said that.

Laundry!

Yes, calm down.

She shouldn’t have had the two cups of coffee. Her heart was beating much too fast. She took a few deep, shaky breaths to steady herself. She couldn’t keep up with her own body. She felt as if she needed to run crazily across a huge expanse of grass, flinging her body about like a puppy let off its leash.

When she got home she ran through the house as if she were in some sort of weird competition, gathering piles of clothes from laundry hampers and the floors of the children’s bedrooms and bathrooms. There was a lot. She pounded down the stairs to the laundry. No surprise to see a huge, shiny-white washing machine taking up half the room. She lifted the lid ready to toss in the clothes when she felt a rush of feelings. Embarrassed. Betrayed. Shocked.

What did it mean? The memory flipped to the front of her brain like a neat index card. Of course. Something had happened right here. Right here in this extraordinarily clean laundry. Something horrible.

That’s right. It was a party.

In the summer. Still warm late in the evening. There were tubs of ice on the laundry floor. Bottles of beer and wine and champagne poking out of the melting ice cubes. She went to get a new bottle of champagne and she was laughing as she pushed open the door and when she saw them, she automatically said, “Hi!” like an idiot, before her brain caught up with what they were doing, what she was seeing. A tiny graceful woman with closely cropped red hair sitting up on the washing machine, her legs apart, and Nick standing in front of her, his hands flat on the machine on either side of her legs, his head bent. Her husband was kissing another woman in the laundry.

Alice stared down at the pile of clothes in the machine. She could see the woman’s face so clearly. The delicate bones of her face. She could even hear her voice. Sugar-sweet and childlike to match her tiny body. It made her teeth ache.

She poured in a scoop of washing powder and slammed down the machine lid. How dare Nick guffaw when she asked if he’d had an affair? That kiss was worse than catching them in bed together. It was worse because it was so obviously a kiss at the beginning. Early kisses were so much more erotic than early sex. Sex at the beginning of a relationship was fumbly and silly and vaguely gynecological, like a doctor’s appointment. But fully clothed kisses, before you’d slept together, were delicious and mysterious.

Nick had kissed her for the first time up against the car after they’d just seen Lethal Weapon 3 at the movies. He tasted of popcorn, with a hint of chocolate. He was wearing a black jumper over a white T-shirt and jeans, and he was a bit stubbly under his lower lip and even as he was kissing her, she was already carefully saving it up as a memory, knowing that she’d be sitting at her computer screen the next day, reliving it. She’d pulled it out and replayed it like an old movie so many times. She had described it in minute detail to her friend Sophie, who had been in a relationship for five years and had therefore moaned with jealousy, even though Jack was the love of her life.

Sophie. Her oldest friend. Bridesmaid at her wedding.

She would ring Sophie right now. There was no way she hadn’t called Sophie and told her about the horror of that kiss in the laundry. First she would have called Elisabeth. Then Sophie. She would have skewed the story for each of them. For Elisabeth she would have concentrated on her own feelings. “How could he do that to me?” she would have asked and her voice would have quivered. For Sophie she would have spun out the story for maximum shock: “So I walked into the laundry to get some champagne and you will never in a million years guess what I saw. Go on, guess.” From Elisabeth she would have got sympathy and very clear instructions on what to do next. From Sophie she would have got shock and fury and an invitation to go out right now and get very drunk.

She found her address book and Sophie’s mobile number. It seemed that Sophie was living in Dee Why. The northern beaches. Good for her. She’d always wanted to live by the beach, but Jack preferred to live close to the city. She must have won out in the end. They must be married with children by now, although of course Alice had to remember not to take that for granted. She hoped Sophie hadn’t had fertility problems like Elisabeth. Or she and Jack could have broken up? No. Not possible.

“Sophie Drew.”

Goodness. Everyone had become so professional and grown-up.

“Sophie, hi, it’s me, Alice.”

There was a slight pause. “Oh, hi, Alice. How are you?”

“Well, you’re not going to believe what happened to me,” said Alice, and she realized she was feeling strangely silly. Almost nervous. Why? It was only Sophie.

There was another pause. “What happened to you?”

There was something not quite right. Sophie’s voice was too polite. Alice wanted to cry. Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can’t have lost you as well, can I? Who do I talk to?

She didn’t bother spinning out the story. She said, “I had an accident. Hit my head. I’ve lost my memory.”

This time there was an even longer pause. Then she heard Sophie say to someone in the background, “I won’t be long. Just tell them to hold on.”

Her voice came back. Louder. Maybe a touch impatient. “Sorry, Alice. So, umm, you had an accident?”

“Are we still friends?” said Alice desperately. “We are still friends, aren’t we, Soph?”

“Of course we are,” said Sophie immediately, warmly, except now her voice had an undercurrent of “ Something weird is going on here. Must tread carefully !”

“It’s just that my last proper memory is of being pregnant with Madison. And now I find I’ve got three children, and Nick and I aren’t together anymore, and I can’t work out why, and Elisabeth—”

“No, no, not that one! The green one!” Sophie spoke sharply. “Sorry. I’m in the middle of a shoot for the new line. It’s a madhouse around here.”

“Oh. What do you do?”

Another pause. “Does that look green to you? Because it sure doesn’t look green to me. Alice, I’m sorry, but can I call you back?”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Look. I know we keep saying it but we must catch up!”

“Okay.” So they weren’t friends anymore. Not proper friends. They were “must catch up” friends.

“I mean, the last time I saw you was when we had that drinks thing with that friend of yours. The neighbor? Gina. How’s she?”

Gina, Gina, Gina. It occurred to Alice that she wouldn’t have called Elisabeth or Sophie about the kiss in the laundry. She would have called Gina.

“She’s dead.”

“Sorry, she’s what? Green! Green! Are you color-blind? Look, Alice, I’ve got to go. I’ll call! Soon!”

“Just tell me one thing,” said Alice, but the phone was beeping at her. Sophie had gone.

Just like everyone, it seemed.

The phone rang in her hand and Alice jumped as if it had come alive.

“Hello?”

“Oh, you sound much better.” It was her mother. Alice relaxed. Barb might now be the salsa-dancing, cleavage-baring wife of Roger, but she was still her mother.

“I’ve just been speaking to Sophie,” said Alice.

“Oh, that’s nice. She’s so famous these days, isn’t she? After that article? I was just talking to someone about her the other day. Who was it? Oh, I know! It was the lady who comes to do Roger’s feet. The chiropractor. No, no, that’s not it. The podiatrist. She said her daughter wanted one of those ‘Sophie Drew’ handbags for her birthday. I said, well, I’ve known Sophie since she was eleven years old, and I was nearly going to offer to try and get a discount for her, because it has to be said, Roger has awful hairy feet, so I do feel a bit sorry for her, but then I thought, you and Sophie don’t really see much of each other these days, do you? Just Christmas cards, isn’t it? So I changed the subject quick smart in case she asked, because she’s that sort of person, I think, who likes to try and use connections to get bargains. Gina was a bit like that, wasn’t she? Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I guess. It’s quite a clever way to live your life really, oh dear, what an absolute tragedy, it really is, anyway, what made me think of Gina? Oh yes, ah, connections. Anyway, I’ve got three reasons why I rang, I’ve actually written them down, my memory is just shocking these days—now speaking of which, how are you, darling?”

“I’m fine,” began Alice.

“Oh good, I’m so pleased. Frannie was making such a fuss about it. I said, ‘You watch, she’ll have her memory back by Monday.’”

“I’m remembering some things,” began Alice. Should she ask her mother about Nick and the kiss in the laundry?

“Wonderful!” Her mother wavered and then obviously decided to take the optimistic approach. “Wonderful! Now, darling, I wondered, when you said at the hospital that you and Nick might be getting back together, is that something that I possibly shouldn’t have mentioned to anyone? Because I happened to run into Jennifer Turner today at the shops.”

“Jennifer Turner?” The name didn’t mean anything to her.

“Yes, you know. That fierce sort of girl. The lawyer.”

“Oh, you mean Jane Turner.” Mmmm. The first face she saw when she woke up in this strange new life. Jane who was helping her divorce Nick.

“Yes, Jane. She wanted to know how you were. She said you hadn’t been answering her texts.”

Texts. What did that mean?

“Anyway, I said you were fine, and then I mentioned that you and Nick were getting back together. Well, she seemed quite taken aback. She said to tell you that you must not, under any circumstances, sign anything. Went on and on about it. I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have said anything? Have I messed up?”

“Of course not, Mum,” said Alice automatically.

“Thank goodness, because Roger and I are just thrilled. Thrilled! We were thinking we could take the children for a weekend and you and Nick could go somewhere romantic. That was the second thing on my list. I’ll just cross it off. You say the word. We’d love to have them. Roger said he’d even foot the bill for a meal at somewhere fancy-schmancy. He’s so generous like that.”

“That sounds great.”

“Really? Oh, I’m so pleased because I mentioned it to Elisabeth and she said she thought once you got your memory back that you would be ‘singing a different tune.’ But you know, she takes the pessimistic approach to things these days, poor thing, and that was my third reason for calling. Have you heard from her by any chance? I’m desperate to know if she’s got the results yet. I’ve been ringing and ringing and no answer.”

“What results?”

“Today was the blood test. You know, for the last egg. Oh, wait a minute, I always get that word wrong. Embryo.” Her mother’s voice broke. “Oh, Alice, I’ve been praying and praying and sometimes I have to admit I get a bit cross with God. Elisabeth and Ben have tried so hard. Just one little baby isn’t too much to ask for, is it?”

“No,” said Alice. She looked at Dino’s fertility doll sitting on the counter. Why didn’t Elisabeth tell her there was a blood test today?

Her mother sighed. “I said to Roger, I’m so happy myself now, why can’t my girls be happy, too?”

Elisabeth’s Homework for Jeremy

A lot of people have left messages for me today.

Mum has called five times.

I just saw a missed call from Alice.

Oh, and the nurse has called twice trying to give me the results of today’s blood test.

Layla has called, probably wondering where I am, because I went out at lunchtime and for some reason I just never got the energy to go back to the office. She probably thinks it’s because she offended me by not asking about Alice.

Ben has called three times.

I don’t seem to be able to call anyone back. I’m just sitting here behind the wheel of my car outside your office, writing to you.

Now the phone is ringing again. Ring, ring! Ring, ring! Engage with the world, Elisabeth! Go away, all of you.

Alice was hanging clothes on the line (it was taking forever) when the phone rang again. She had to run to answer it.

“Hello?” she said breathlessly.

“Oh, hi, it’s me,” said Nick. He paused. “Nick.”

“Yes, I recognized your voice actually.”

You kissed another woman in the laundry! I can’t believe you did that! Should she mention the kiss? No. She should think about the right way to approach it first.

He said, “I just thought I should call and see how you, how your ah, your head, your injury, is today. Were you okay driving the children to school?”

“It’s a bit late if I wasn’t,” said Alice tartly. Last night she’d had to iron all their school uniforms, do all the cleaning up, and make very specific lunches for each of them (after Tom had politely pointed out that was what she normally did on a Sunday night).

“Oh, good,” said Nick. “So, I assume, you’ve got that memory thing all sorted out?”

“Well, I’ve got one memory back,” burst out Alice. It appeared she was going to mention the kiss after all. It was physically impossible not to mention it. “I remember you kissing that woman in the laundry.”

“Kissing a woman in the laundry?”

“Yes. At a party. I came in to get a drink.”

There was silence and then Nick laughed sharply.

“Sitting on the washing machine, right?”

“Yes,” said Alice, wondering how he could sound so smug, as if this point went to him, when it so clearly went to her.

“You remember me kissing a woman sitting on our washing machine?”

“Yes!”

“You know what? I never even looked at another woman while we were together. I never kissed another woman. I never slept with another woman.”

“But I remember—”

“Yeah. I know exactly what you remember, and I find that very interesting.”

Alice was baffled. “But—”

“Very interesting. Look, I’ve got to go, but clearly you haven’t got your memory back properly yet and you need to see a doctor. If you’re not capable of looking after the children, you need to let me know. You’ve got a responsibility to them.”

Oh, but it was fine to leave her with them last night when he knew perfectly well that she didn’t even recognize them, let alone know how to look after them. It wasn’t logical, and yet, he was speaking in that pompous, I’m-so-rational-you’re-so-irrational voice, each word stuffed with his own rightness. She could remember that voice from arguments in the past, like that morning when they didn’t have milk for breakfast, and the night when they ran late for his sister’s first baby’s christening, and the time neither of them had enough cash for the ferry tickets, and each time he had put on that voice. That superior, crisp, businesslike voice, with a hint of a sigh. It drove her bananas.

Each time he used that voice it brought back the other occasions he’d used it before and she would think, That’s right, I can’t stand it when you talk like that.

“You know what?” she said. “I’m glad we’re getting a divorce!”

As she slammed the phone down, she could hear him laughing.