Chapter 1 #2
A Greek god, or a Cypriot god.
Either way, briefly, in her arms, he had been a god and if she lived to be a hundred she wouldn’t regret it.
Not unless it really had hurt Libby as much as her subdued calls home seemed to suggest.
And then what? She could hardly turn the clock back, and anyway she didn’t want to.
The Helen she’d discovered in Cyprus was a Helen who’d existed long before Libby.
B.C.
Before children. Wasn’t she allowed to see if there might be an A.C. as well? An after children?
‘You have two children?’ Simon asked, the dullness of the question clubbing her back into the present.
‘Yes, two,’ she murmured.
On he continued, with what she supposed were the usual questions. How long had they been married? How did they meet? Immediate family backgrounds… ‘So.’ His page was now a quarter full. ‘What would you both like to get from these sessions?’
Neither of them answered.
Simon glanced at his clock and, looking up, met her eye. He gave a wan smile and went back to his notes, which Helen could see had been bordered by curly doodles.
What could she say? She knew what she wanted. She wanted out. She wanted a chance to explore the second half of her life unattached to Lawrence. To shed her lemming skin and discover what water really was. On her own! She wanted to buy a backpack and take her twenty-five-year-delayed gap year! She didn’t say this and as it turned out, she didn’t need to. Because –
‘ The problem is, ’ Lawrence exploded, ‘that after twenty-five years of marriage, my wife went on holiday and shagged the first man who crossed her path! ’
Helen almost ducked.
Lawrence’s anger was like one enormous fart, which is, she supposed as she looked at him, what happens if you hold it all in too long.
The first man who crossed her path? My wife? He was talking about her as if she wasn’t in the room.
Like she was a thing, a suitcase who’d gone and messed things up by putting herself on the wrong flight and she couldn’t… she couldn’t take it seriously.
Leaning away, as if he emitted radiation, she watched him fidget under the onslaught of his own words.
He was the only one in the room hurt by them and seeing his white lips and his fisted hands, she felt the kind of helpless sorrow one feels for a bird with a broken wing.
He was beaten and he could not and would not admit it.
For weeks he’d been trying to stick a lid back on Cyprus, refusing to utter a single word about it and choosing instead to steamroll discussions of cruises and fire off over-the-top compliments about her cooking.
Well, at least it was out now.
‘Ok,’ Simon managed, looking a little windswept. ‘Umm, Helen? Is there anything you’d like to say in response?’
Helen shrugged. ‘It’s true. I went on holiday and I had an affair. Although I’m pretty sure there was a male taxi driver and a border control guard who crossed my path before?—’
‘This isn’t a joke,’ Lawrence seethed.
Simon nodded.
Helen pressed her lips together.
Simon drew a long straight line down the side of his notes. For something to do? Emphasis? A secret code? He turned to Lawrence. ‘And before this happened,’ he said seriously, ‘did you have any suspicions, Lawrence, that something wasn’t right with your sex life?’
‘What? Wait a minute!’ Lawrence sat upright. ‘This isn’t about me! Everything was fine.’ He looked from Helen back to Simon. ‘Everything was fine!’
But Simon was already turning to Helen. On a roll. ‘And how does it feel, Helen, to understand that your husband was so unaware of your sexual needs?’
Helen’s lips twitched. It was like a script. He didn’t have a clue.
‘I mean!’ Lawrence waved his hand at the ceiling. ‘I was prepared to put it behind us. That’s what I wanted to do. I’ve booked a cruise?—’
‘I don’t want to go on a cruise, Lawrence,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ve told you that.’
‘You said you did.’
‘Once upon a time, yes, I may have said I did.’
‘There’s no may about it! You said you did!’
‘And you said you’d fix the back fence.’
‘ That’s completely different, Helen. ’
‘ No. It’s not. ’ Was it? Or wasn’t it? She leaned back and folded her arms. She really didn’t care. They were arguing semantics.
Simon pressed air down with his hands. ‘Let’s try and keep our voices calm.’
No one spoke and Helen stared at Simon’s hands. Perhaps there was a sign-language script that had to be memorised as well.
‘What else would you say you’ve changed your mind about, Helen?’ Simon asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘You were just saying, how you’d changed your mind?’
‘About the cruise, yes.’
‘So my question is, is there anything else you’ve changed your mind about?’
She put her head to one side. The charade was ridiculous. ‘What else?’
‘Perhaps you could give us an example?’
An example? She tipped her chin to the ceiling. ‘I’ve changed my mind about ironing. I now consider it a complete waste of time.’
‘Oh… that’s not quite?—’
‘And socks! I don’t bother my arse matching them up any more.’
‘Do you have to be so vulgar?’ Lawrence muttered.
Helen turned to him. She was thinking about that 150-foot drop over the side of Craig Goch Dam. Why the hell hadn’t she spoken up before he put them all in that life threatening situation? Yes, she had to be so vulgar! Yes, she was going to have to scream and shout it, literally bang it like a nail through the wood of her husband’s head, if she was ever going to be heard. She turned back to Simon. ‘You asked us what we wanted from this session?’
Simon blinked. ‘I did. Yes.’
‘Nothing. I don’t want anything.’
‘I—’
‘What I want,’ she said, ‘is a divorce. And I don’t think that’s going to happen in…’ She leaned forward and turned the little clock around. 14:27. ‘Thirty-three minutes. Is it?’
As the St Stephen’s Wellness Centre receded in the rear-view mirror, Helen leaned back, exhaling all the air she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Something had shifted. It was tangible in the shape of the space between herself and Lawrence. What had once been rigid, was softer. What had been flat, felt rippled. Like a stone thrown into water, Lawrence’s involuntary outburst had broken the smooth surface of his resistance. After his explosion and her flat announcement, the counselling session had drizzled to a close. And although she’d always intended taking another sneak peek at Simon’s clock, in the end she hadn’t because standing to leave, Lawrence hadn’t been able to resist taking one of the two stray stones at the bottom of the ornamental cairn and placing it on top. The action had sent Simon into a paralysis of fear.
‘Please don’t!’ He’d trembled, one pale hand thrust forward just as the tiny cairn had toppled.
After which they had left as quickly as possible, with yes, something changed.
Was it the conspiratorial smile they’d shared getting into the car? (It had been hard not to giggle over Simon’s attempts to put the stones back together again.) Or just the relaxation of the force-field they’d been operating in for weeks now? Either way, as she unwound her scarf and pulled the passenger mirror down to check her face was still on, Helen felt sadly optimistic. She could almost feel the change pulsating towards her. Was this the beginning of the end of his resistance? ‘Well,’ she breathed as the car came to a stop in front of a red light. ‘That was that.’
Lawrence leaned forward, craning his neck at the traffic light as he always did, as if watching would make it change faster. ‘You really mean it, don’t you?’ he said to the red light.
Helen nodded.
And when he turned to look at her, she was still nodding.
‘I do,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry, but I do.’
The lights changed. Lawrence sat back, arms stretched to the wheel, and the car gathered speed. On they went, past the old stocking factory that was now a Tesco Extra , past the primary school gates she’d once walked through twice a day and never would again. Past the bakery, where the hawthorn blossom was going over and where she used to sit counting red, blue or green cars, Libby on the bench, Jack in his pushchair, strawberry jam over their faces. Days, more distant than stars, that produced such bittersweet nostalgia. She turned her head to the window and watched the town flash past, the sky above grey as unwashed socks. It was hard to believe how quickly this part of her life had passed. Gone now, all gone.
‘What is?’
The question startled her. Had she spoken out loud? ‘The clouds,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s the middle of June and the sun’s gone. All gone.’
Lawrence glanced upward. ‘Storm clouds,’ he said and when he inhaled, his chest swelled like a balloon. His knuckles shone white against the black leather of the wheel.
Helen looked at them, the hands she knew so well. ‘I suppose you learn to read them. Clouds, I mean.’
‘Of course,’ he murmured, eyes fixed on the road.
She bought her elbow to the rim of the window and leaned her chin in her hand and all along the high street memories unfolded like pop-out greeting cards. The butchers, queuing in the semi-dark of a December morning for a free-range, locally reared turkey. The town hall, scuffing dirt waiting for Brownies or Scouts or tap class to finish. The post office, queuing in the semi-light of a December afternoon to post Christmas cards to Lawrence’s parents. The health centre (she checked her watch) where even now her colleagues Daisy and Tina would be arguing over whose turn it was to put the kettle on. Where she’d spent eight years treading the water of missed appointments and ear infections. Was she really ready to leave all this behind? Ready to embark on the second half of her life based upon nothing more than a shift-shaping, nebulous idea of travel that would not go away. The answer slipped into her mind, seamless as dawn. Yes, she was.
Lawrence flicked the indicator and the car turned into Station Road. Within another minute they were pulling into the driveway of home.
‘No one,’ Lawrence said, ‘wants to get caught in a storm at thirty thousand feet.’ He switched the engine off.
Helen looked at him. Thirty thousand feet was as high as a jet plane. ‘Were you scared?’ she whispered. Hadn’t she asked him this before? So why, suddenly, did it feel like she hadn’t?
He didn’t answer. His jaw worked side to side as if he was having to chew the words before voicing them, a reverse digestion process.
She didn’t speak. She was still looking at him, only now she was thinking something she knew she’d never thought before. That filled her with sudden and profound sadness. The great void at the centre of their marriage was as much her creation as it was his. Were you scared? She hadn’t asked Lawrence this. Ever. What she’d always said was: Was it scary? And that was something else altogether. Her eyes pricked tears. It was true. She’d laid as many bricks between them as he had.
‘Sometimes,’ Lawrence murmured, and his head moved up and down. ‘Sometimes, I was very scared.’
Again Helen didn’t speak. Once upon a time this would have been the cue for her to reach across and put her hand on his knee. Such a shame. It was all such a shame.
‘Sometimes,’ she said quietly, ‘I was too.’
His jacket rustled as he turned to her.
‘Sitting at home,’ she continued, ‘trying to imagine where you where, or what you were doing… Sometimes I was terrified.’
They sat in silence, no hands on knees. It was too late.
Outside the first heavy spots of rain tapped on the windscreen. Helen leaned her head back against the headrest. What she had said was true. Sometimes she had been terrified. His adventures had left her lonely and afraid, but what she had always known was that the fear wasn’t so much about losing Lawrence as of having to cope without him. And with that fear gone, because it had, so very little seemed to be left. A companionship maybe? Someone to sit alongside and watch the latest Netflix with? If that was what she was willing to settle for. Her head moved in tiny side-to-side shakes, involuntary movements as if her body was stepping up to persuade her mind. After Kaveh? After everything Cyprus had revealed about herself? No. It wasn’t enough and this much she knew like a desert knows rain. Her marriage had been a cushion. A great soft armchair that she had sat in for so long, bits of herself had gotten lost, like pennies between the folds. Cyprus had made all that clear and the only thing she was unclear about, as she sat watching fat raindrops hit the windscreen, was if this new awareness, the understanding that she had been equally complicit in the breakdown of her marriage, should make her feel guilty, or sad? She didn’t know, she just knew that it was true. And because she couldn’t tell Lawrence any of this, but because she had been married to him for twenty-five years and shared two children with him, she reached out and covered his hand with hers. ‘I’m not scared any more,’ she said. ‘And I do want a divorce.’
Lawrence nodded. ‘I know you do.’ He looked down at their joined hands, one wedding band on top of the other. ‘I won’t stand in your way.’
Her fingers squeezed his. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and wondered at how alive she felt, her heart strangely vibrant with this kaleidoscope of emotion.
‘But I want to ask you one thing? Can you wait until after Libby’s graduation?’
The question surprised Helen. ‘Wait for what?’
‘Before we start with all the practical stuff.’
She frowned as she looked down at their joined hands. Practical stuff? She hadn’t given any of that a thought. An idea revealed itself, clear as the sun breaking through cloud. Lawrence was already there. In the space of twenty minutes, he’d both resigned himself and begun preparing himself. How different they were! And how much she could learn from him. Box it up, put it away, move on. She looked up. ‘Will you stay in the house?’
Lawrence frowned. ‘Maybe.’
‘I think it would be good for the kids.’
‘Do you?’ He leaned over the steering wheel. ‘I’m not so sure. It would feel very different.’
Helen turned and looked at their house. The home they had bought right at the beginning of the marriage. Of course, it would feel different without her. As far as Libby and Jack (and Lawrence) were concerned, she and the house were integral. This house, as a home, was her creation. So what had she imagined would happen? That she would sneak out one morning, a photo album under her arm, suitcase wheeling behind? She bit down on her lip; this was the brutal reality of divorce. Never mind that Libby had already to all intents and purposes left home, never mind that Jack would soon be doing the same. It was going to be hard. For everyone. So on this, she knew that Lawrence was right. Practicalities must wait.
‘Of course, Libby must have this summer,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Of course.’ And as she spoke the front door opened and there was Jack, standing on the step, his face drained. For the first time since she’d come home from Cyprus he didn’t look away when she met his eye.
Something was wrong.
‘Just don’t go off the handle, Mum. Promise?’ Jack stood one step higher than his mother, hands pressed together as if in prayer. He was wearing the shorts he’d slept in and a t-shirt fresh from the floor.
Helen looked at him. Just don’t go off the handle, Mum. That was the longest sentence he’d deigned to say to her in weeks. ‘I won’t go off the handle,’ she said and moved forward to pass because she knew what and whom he was trying to protect.
He cut her off. ‘Promise?’
Helen held his eye a long moment, then looked past him into the gloom of the hallway. By the kitchen door a bulky dark shape had been propped up against the wall. Libby’s rucksack. Something about the sad, slack shape of it confirmed in Helen all the nagging fears that had tiptoed around the edge of her mind these last couple of weeks. Libby was home. Libby, who, right now, should be up to her eyeballs in parties celebrating the end of her finals, thus completing an education process that had spanned a decade and cost a fortune. And Jack’s policeman act wasn’t about protecting himself. He was here for his sister. Her face softened as she turned back to him. ‘I promise,’ she said. Then, ‘Where is she?’
‘In the living room.’
Gravel scrunched behind as Lawrence caught up. ‘What’s going on?’
Helen nodded at the rucksack. ‘Libby’s home.’
Lawrence peered into the hall. ‘I thought… She wasn’t due back yet.’
‘No,’ Helen sighed. ‘Not yet.’ It was clear by the tone of his voice that he didn't suspect a thing.
He moved to pass her, but from behind it was Jack who stopped him. ‘Let Mum go first,’ he said and turned to look at Helen. ‘I think it’s better if you go first.’
He didn’t look away and in the moment that passed between them, Helen sensed her son’s surrender. She was still his mother and she was going to be allowed to retain the role. She felt a tender relief, nodded, turned to go, paused, then turned back to Jack and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
From the open doorway, the living room at first seemed empty. The coffee table still held its pile of good intentions, exactly as she’d left them: Brain Training, Sudoko for Beginners, The Fast Diet . And the elegant straight spines of her dining room chairs were undisturbed. The only thing that seemed to move in the room was a column of dust motes dancing across the French windows. Then, from the furthest corner of the furthest settee, a tiny voice said, I’m here. Helen turned. There was Libby, curled into the corner of the chesterfield, cushions propped around her for all the world like a toddler’s play-fort. She was almost completely obscured by shadow, which was, Helen understood, the point.
She dropped her handbag on the nearest armchair, walked over and sat down on the far edge of the settee, careful to leave a large space between them. She didn’t speak.
The clock ticked, the dust motes danced and as Libby lay with her face half hidden, Helen ran through every dreadful explanation possible for Libby's unscheduled return home.
Libby was pregnant (laughably unlikely).
Libby had been raped (unbearable, unlikely, but possible).
Libby had been caught cheating and thrown out (impossible).
Libby had had some sort of breakdown (Helen’s greatest fear and most likely of all. Didn’t she take to her room for two days when she failed her Brownies crafting badge?).
‘Libby,’ she murmured and inched her hand across to her daughter. Her sweet, serious daughter who had been born with an expression of consternation that had never quite left. Libby, who would quite happily have carried the world, never noticing how her own back was breaking. What on earth would have caused her to come home so unexpectedly like this?
Libby looked up. Her face was covered with red and white splodges, like she’d been tie-dyed. ‘I have to tell you something,’ she croaked.
Helen shuffled closer. ‘OK,’ she murmured and put her arm across her daughter’s shoulders, and as she did, she saw.
Option Number One.
Which was laughably unlikely.
So laughably unlikely, she laughed. Libby? Pregnant?
‘I’m pregnant,’ Libby said, and she wasn’t laughing.
Helen pulled back. Not only was Libby pregnant, she was heavily pregnant. Huge. Now they were arm’s length away, looking back at each other in shock and confusion and, from Libby’s side of the chasm, terrible fear.
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ Great tears fell down Libby’s cheeks. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
Lips tight, head tight, fists tight, Helen nodded – tightly.
‘It doesn’t mean I won’t finish,’ Libby blurted. ‘I’ve deferred. I’ll still finish, I promise.’
Helen brought her hand to her mouth and pressed it there. ‘You didn't take your finals?’ she managed.
Libby looked down at her stomach, one trailing tear on her cheek. She brushed it off with the back of her hand. ‘I couldn’t concentrate, Mum. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t do it.’
‘Oh.’ It was the only sound she could manage. She sat looking at her daughter. The clock, as ever, ticked, and in the kitchen a tap was turned on. Moments passed. Slowly Helen set her mouth free to let her hand rest at her chin. ‘When…’ she started and the word stuck, yanked back by a mob of panicked thoughts. Never mind that when . How about another when. Like, when was the last time she’d seen her daughter? And why hadn’t she noticed? And shouldn’t she have known? Or was this her fault for not being there? For going to Cyprus? And what about a who … ‘ When…’ She forced the sound out. ‘When is it due?’
‘September,’ Libby whispered.
Weeks away! Not trusting herself to speak, Helen took Libby’s hand and squeezed it. It was cold and stiff with fear. Her child. Her beautiful, bright child, who hadn’t even started yet, who was still a child herself… There was so much she wanted to say, nearly all of it beginning with why? … But before she could get any further, she saw Libby’s bottom lip break into a tremble and she knew what was coming. Like the distant rumble of an avalanche she could read these signs from the grave. Any mother could.
‘ Oh, Mum ,’ Libby wailed and threw herself against Helen’s shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she cried, snot and tears once again, soaking Helen’s blouse.
Helen leaned back and opened herself up, one hand patting Libby’s hair, the other holding her hand. ‘It’s OK,' she whispered and felt the wetness of her own tears. ‘Everything’s going to be OK.’
Was it? What had Lawrence just said? Give her the summer? She would, of course she would. And the autumn and the spring that followed and the summer after that. As long as Libby needed… Still, it was there, the thought that she couldn’t help thinking. When? When was she, Helen, going to get her summer?