Chapter 74
Rachel
It is not, as it transpires, one event or argument that leads Oliver and me to our eventual end. Rather, our demise resembles a thundercloud slowly fattening, a collection of resentments clinging to cold air, the threat of a final storm only ever moments away.
But for me, perhaps, there is one incident that stands out from the rest.
I come home from delivering a piece of work one afternoon to find Oliver red-faced on the landing, heaving a chest of drawers out of Emma’s bedroom. His grey T-shirt is blotched with sweat, and he is struggling for breath.
I put a hand on it, this precious chest that has held so many years of playsuits and vests and little pairs of tights, before the ripped jeans and sequinned tops, the secret diaries. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Making some extra room.’
‘For what?’ I say, wondering how much more space Oliver thinks two people need in a house that was already too big when three of us were living in it.
‘My golf clubs. The wine. All the shoes and clothes and handbags overflowing from your side of the wardrobe. Your canvases, and painting stuff—’
‘You can’t just . . . This is Emma’s bedroom.’ A tiny furnace begins to roar inside me as I regard him, sweating out his repressed emotions all over my daughter’s things.
Most of her furniture has vanished now, aside from her bed, which is loaded with boxes. Tessellations of rosy autumn light are gliding over the newly empty walls. Our voices echo where they never did before. Dust motes dance in the void he has created.
I think of Polly and Darren, and how sensitively they approached this, when their boys moved out. Discussing it as a family, packing the old stuff up together. Darren would never have done it behind Polly’s back.
‘Emma’s moving to London next summer,’ Oliver says slowly, deliberately. ‘She’s not coming home, Rachel.’
The burning sensation inside me becomes darker, more intense. Hot coals in my chest. These feelings do come, from time to time. Are they to do with my time of life? Or solely down to Oliver? I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s the former, but now I’m not so sure.
‘I was only saying it would have been nice if you had asked.’
He doesn’t reply, just turns his back and mutters something under his breath.
I don’t quite catch what it is, but it sounds very much like give me strength.
After this, it takes me three months to muster the courage to say what is in my heart. What has been in my heart for a long time, I think.
Christmas blurs by, and then it is January, and Oliver and I are still recovering from another whirlwind festive period filled with family logistics and Lawrence being awkward about his plans and invitations to corporate parties and rounds of drinks with neighbours and friends.
We are sitting in the car outside B as if he does have the energy to try.
Rain reverberates against the car roof, so hard it makes the metal vibrate.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘the idea you have in your head of the perfect relationship, the perfect family, the perfect life . . . it doesn’t exist. It never did.’
‘I never wanted perfection.’
‘Then what did you want?’
‘What we had, for a long time. Love. A good life together. Happiness.’
He raps his fingertips on the steering wheel and looks out of the window again. ‘So, what’s first on the list? Skydive? Fancy haircut? Saga singles holiday?’
‘No plans yet,’ I say quietly, ignoring his contempt.
He frowns. ‘Does Emma know?’
I swallow and nod. ‘Yes. But she loves you, Oliver. You’ve been her second dad, for almost her whole life. Nothing will ever change that.’
‘Is it worth us going back to the therapist—?’ he begins, then breaks off. A moment passes. ‘No. It probably isn’t.’
I feel a tiny flare of frustration at this. You were the one who decided therapy was a waste of time. You were the one who didn’t want to try.
Maybe I will say this to him, one day. But not today.
He starts the engine, then slides the gearstick into reverse before pausing. ‘You really think you ever gave me a fair shot, Rachel?’
‘For seventeen years? Yes, I think so.’
‘Ah. You mean you’ve served your time.’