The Dolce Vita Divas

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Chapter One

I’d spent weeks getting everything ready and I was very excited. I had spent the last three Christmases at other people’s houses; this time my family were coming to me. I’d felt rather lost over the last few years after everything that had happened, things had not been as ordered or predictable as they used to be. This year it would be different.

I started buying presents in September and had wrapped and labelled them by October. I’d even found the packs of Christmas cards I’d bought in the January sales – for once I had not put them in a really safe place where I wouldn’t find them until I had bought some replacements – and I spent some dark November evenings in front of the fire, writing and addressing them. I’d even, in a particularly festive moment, waited until the new Christmas stamps were out so that I could finish off the job properly with a nod to the joys of the Yuletide season.

For the first time in many years, I could see that it was possible to organise my life but now perhaps to my own satisfaction, and not just worry about what my ex-husband Stephen would say or think or want.

I’d been stockpiling all the food my granddaughters liked, woken up at the crack of dawn to bag a Christmas delivery slot with the supermarket, and ordered two cases of wine from the man Stephen had always used. Which was, in retrospect, a step too far. Stephen had always been able to have meaningful, rather pompous, chats about wine and south-facing slopes with Mr Truman, whereas I would just pick out the nicest label. Still, it gave me a certain satisfaction to see the wine rack filled for once. How long twenty-four bottles would last was anyone’s guess. Knowing my lot, not long.

Going by the rather difficult atmosphere of their last visit, my daughter Sara would be looking for gin the moment she arrived while her husband Martin stood in the hall, wearing a Christmas sweater that was so subdued that it wouldn’t really count. He would be jingling the car keys in his pocket as though he wanted to be off again, waiting for the moment when he could make some acerbic comment about consumerism.

I could almost hear him. ‘ Very nice, Mrs Chandler,’ (he never would call me Joy as I’d suggested), ‘but don’t you think your decorations are a bit over the top ?’

And of course, this year, they definitely were.

Their twins, Poppy and Mia, would probably be head-down on their electronic devices, looking up only briefly to take in the fact that the car had stopped, and they had arrived at Grandma’s house, and then they would be off to the attic room to bag the best beds by the window before John and Vanessa arrived with their two daughters, Jasmine and Elizabeth, or Bunny as she was always known.

It had seemed a good idea to put their four beds in one room. When we were married, Stephen clung to the misty and completely false illusion that the four cousins would bond up there, enjoying some fun times together, that there would be laughter and the occasional midnight feast. Being more practical and having actually had a sister, I knew that it would just lead to shouting, thumping footsteps overhead at all hours, and a lot of plaintive cries of ‘ Mum, tell her…’ coming down the stairs. But, as always, Stephen would not be told.

During the bright days of summer, I liked to imagine the winter evenings as something warm and cosy, the curtains closed against the snowy landscape, the wood burner glowing, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, all that stuff. My daughter and son would be coming home again, bringing their families with them, all of us in good spirits, hugs and laughter, excited faces in the afternoon candlelight of the Christmas Day feast.

I don’t know why because it had never really been like that.

There had always been some drama or other, Martin – or rather Marty as he now wished to be called because he thought it made him sound cooler – my son-in-law, having to arrive late and leave early allegedly because of work. Vanessa, John’s wife worrying about some imagined ailment or danger to one of their daughters. And then Stephen stamping off to his study with a glass of whisky after lunch when our family had delighted him enough for one day, leaving me to sort out the carnage that was the rest of the house, before he saw it and blew a gasket.

That first Christmas after Stephen had left, Sara and her family had already booked to go skiing, and John had taken his lot to Centre Parcs. And to be honest it had been good to get away from their endless worrying about me.

Yes, I was apprehensive then about the future, about everything really. They had probably needed a break from me as well. Stephen had been such a dominating presence in all our lives and his departure had not been easy for any of us. I don’t think anyone believed I would be able to cope without him. I don’t think I had either, not at first. But there I was four years later, still standing, still managing.

I’d spent last Christmas with Sara and Marty in Cheltenham and the one before that with John and Vanessa in nearby Worcester. That first solo year I had escaped for a week from all the outrage and family fussing to my sister Isabel’s place in Brittany where we had done a lot of loafing about on her sofa, eating chocolate, drinking Peartinis, thoroughly trashing Stephen and tearfully watching sentimental Christmas films. Plus, enjoying her annual Christmas party when all the neighbours and a lot of the customers from her husband’s bookshop had been round. After eight months of ploughing through all the legalese and paperwork after Stephen left, it had been a welcome change to be somewhere different, to meet some new people, even though it was sometimes so chaotic and noisy in Isabel’s house.

This year I was determined to do everything perfectly. To make it – dare I say it – magical.

‘Don’t go to any trouble,’ Sara had said, ‘just do as much as you feel comfortable with. And don’t worry, we’ll all muck in to help.’

My son had said much the same thing. ‘Don’t wear yourself out, Mum. We’re all quite capable of helping. Did I mention I think Jasmine’s going off meat? Well, everything except bacon sandwiches, she doesn’t seem to have a problem with those. I’ll let you know.’

It was the day before Christmas Eve, and I was ready for my guests to arrive. And I really was looking forward to it. The beds were all made up, I’d put flowers in the rooms and plenty of towels. I’d decorated the Christmas tree and in a spurt of unexpected enthusiasm got out all the other decorations, hoarded over the years, to cover every surface with little light-up houses, candles, and ornaments. Stephen hadn’t approved of a lot of them, he said it made the place look tacky, and it probably did but I didn’t have to worry about his opinion any longer.

I’d put a small Christmas tree in the attic bedroom for the girls and decorated the staircase, which looked marvellous with a swag of artificial greenery, some fairy lights, and festive ribbons and under the tree an exciting pile of presents all beautifully wrapped and decorated. Even Marty, who had once voiced the opinion that sticky tape was not needed on a properly wrapped gift, couldn’t fail to be impressed.

I went to open the fridge door, to have a last look at all the things in there. A very pleasing collection of lidded boxes neatly stacked up. I had even bought a pineapple, some goat’s cheese, and fresh figs, and I can’t stand any of those things. Then I went on to the pantry to admire the stocks of emergency gin and Baileys, and the monstrous turkey that had been soaking in brine and spices for two days.

I took a deep breath. Everything was ready and, courtesy of the big bowl of potpourri on the hall table, the house smelled of Yuletide cheer. I felt a little bubble of happiness and hope well up inside me. I’d been through some dark times over the last few years, but now perhaps I had got a grip of my life again, and I was ready to show it to my family.

* * *

My mobile rang. It was my daughter.

‘Sara! Merry Christmas Eve eve! I’ve just been looking around the house, and I think it looks great. Everything’s ready for tomorrow, I’ve even got that whisky Marty drinks and the pigs-in-blanket crisps the girls like. I can’t wait to see you all.’

There was a strange pause on the other end of the line. At last, my daughter spoke, her voice giving a funny little croak.

‘Is it okay if we come early?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m usually up by six anyway, so anytime really.’

‘I meant now,’ she said, rather brusque.

I was a bit startled for a moment. This was totally out of character. Sara and Marty were well known for their timetables and rigid adherence to them.

‘Now, yes of course. Is there a problem? What time will you get here?’

There was another little pause. ‘Actually, we’re outside.’

‘What? You daft thing… hang on a minute.’

I went to unlock the front door, wondering what on earth was happening and despite my festive frame of mind, feeling very uneasy.

Sara’s car, a fairly new, gigantic four by four, which apparently was necessary to ferry her daughters to school, friend’s houses and after school clubs, was parked at an untidy angle on the drive. Sara was sitting in the driving seat, her forehead on the steering wheel, and Poppy and Mia were peering out from the back. No one looked at all excited, happy, or Christmassy.

Sara got out, I could see she was in a bit of a state and had been crying.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Can we just get the girls inside,’ she muttered.

‘Where’s Marty?’ I looked into the car rather foolishly, as though he might be hiding in the passenger footwell for some reason.

‘Let’s just…’ Sara shook her head and shepherded her daughters into the house.

Not sure what to do next, I opened the boot of the car which was packed with many bags, backpacks, and cases. And then I shut it again and followed Sara into the hallway.

‘Poppy, Mia, go up to your room and whatever…’ Sara said.

She sounded as though she was on the verge of tears again and I reached out to put an arm around her shoulders.

The twins did as they were told without any sort of discussion. This in itself was different. At fourteen years old, they were already skilled at arguing and pushing their mother’s buttons.

‘Hey, come on. What’s happened?’ I asked again.

Sara shut the front door. I followed her into the kitchen where she pulled out a chair and sat down with an ooof noise. And then she looked at me.

‘Marty’s not coming,’ she said at last.

I wiped away the ungracious thought of good, all he ever does is snipe and complain, and then realised we were talking about something serious.

‘I know we were supposed to be coming tomorrow, but to be honest, I couldn’t stay there a moment longer. I needed some space, some time away from it all, from the whole situation,’ Sara said, ‘and so did the girls.’

‘Away from what? What situation?’

Sara took a deep breath. ‘Oh God. I don’t know if I can… okay… deep breath… Marty has been having an affair. With his secretary, such a cliché. I’m embarrassed to say it.’

I felt the air being sucked out of my lungs.

‘Oh, Sara. Are you sure?’

Her lower lip wobbled, and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. ‘He’s gone to Zurich with her for Christmas. He took great pleasure in telling me they would be staying in some fancy hotel with a wonderful view of the mountains. So yes, pretty sure it’s not a business meeting.’

I took a deep breath, taking in the information.

I’d never really got on with Marty in all the fifteen years they had been married, but no one knows what makes one marriage work and another fail. I’d assumed everything was fine between them. Despite his arrogance and self-importance. And the way he never bothered to conceal his boredom when the conversation wasn’t centred around him. And the way he held his knife when he was eating.

One thing I did know, I certainly didn’t want him to treat my daughter like this.

‘Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Are the girls okay? Do they know?’

Sara waved her hands about in frustration.

‘Of course they know! When their father stamps out of the house with both the big suitcases, shouting “ this is all your fault. You’re a useless wife and a crap mother”, it rather gives the game away.’

What should I do next? What did people do in these circumstances?

‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

Sara pulled out a new tissue and blew her nose.

‘I’d rather have a stiff gin, actually,’ she said.

I looked at the clock. It was eleven thirty in the morning, perhaps a bit early? Never mind. Sara didn’t look as though she was in the mood for a cup of Yorkshire’s finest and a mince pie, and it was Christmas after all, when many nutritional rules go out of the window.

We sat there for a few minutes in silence, Sara slugging back the (very weak) gin and tonic I had made for her, me wiping the worktops down yet again while I waited for the kettle to boil. I suppose subliminally I was trying to wipe away these problems, too, and that was completely unrealistic.

‘So tell me about it,’ I said at last.

I knew I should be coming up with all sorts of good, motherly advice, saying the right things and giving some comfort, but just then all I could think about was how this was going to affect her and my granddaughters.

My mind was darting around to what might lie ahead. Custody battles. Legal fees. Court appearances. Which one of them would move out of their huge house. Sara had been a stay-at-home mother since the girls were born, how would she manage for money? Where would Marty live. What about the girls’ schooling. And how long did this sort of thing take anyway?

‘Things haven’t been great for a while,’ Sara said at last, having got the basic information out, she now wanted to talk. ‘I knew something was going on, but I had no proof and Marty said I was paranoid.’

‘Typical,’ I said, ‘trying to blame you.’

Even then I was aware I shouldn’t voice the many negative thoughts I’d harboured about Marty. They might, despite everything, resolve their differences and carry on with their marriage, and then everyone would know what I’d said, and I would be the problem.

No, this was not the moment to say what a narcissistic twat Marty was, how he had never been good enough for her, that he was nowhere near as clever as he thought he was, and she would be better off without him. I wouldn’t mention the way he had gradually got less attractive over the years as the habitual sneer on his face took over. How he had become expert on the casual put down, the snide comment, the impression that we as a family weren’t really good enough for him.

‘And that woman— that absolute— goes all out to get him. Blonde cow. Cosying up to me at the Christmas party, Marty telling me what a great support she was.’

‘She must have known he was married,’ I said.

‘Her sort never care about that. I hope she’s proud of herself, behaving like a tart. Latching on to someone else’s husband.’

I thought about also allocating an equal share of the blame to Marty, but this didn’t seem the right moment.

‘How long has this being going on? And how did you find out?’

Sara finished her drink and put the glass down on the kitchen table with a thump.

‘Years.’

‘So more than one, less than ten?’

‘About three if Marty is to be believed. Nothing would surprise me now. They went to that conference in Bracknell and one thing led to another. She led him on of course. He said she was a man eater, and he was weak…’

I fought down the mental image of some random blonde floozy taking bites out of Marty’s leg and focused back on the conversation.

‘Three years! And now he’s trying to say it’s her fault? And your fault! What about him?’

‘Nothing is ever Marty’s fault,’ Sara said bitterly. Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘And now it’s bloody Christmas. Hooray.’

Hmm. Not the sort of festive cheer I had been hoping for. Ridiculous thoughts crossed my mind. If Marty wasn’t coming I would have to rearrange the table, and I had too many crackers.

‘And the twins. They must be devastated. Have they said anything?’

‘Not much. Mia just shrugged and said all her friends’ parents are divorced and Poppy asked if she would still be able to go on school trips. And then Mia asked where we would be living, and I said I didn’t know. And that’s when I lost it and got everything into the car.’

I went to hug her, my heart filled with sorrow and sympathy and anger in equal parts.

‘I’m glad you did. I’ll do everything I can to help. I do understand. You know that.’

She hugged me back and cried into my cardigan, while within me, my anger against Marty railed into a black swirl, almost choking me.

‘Bastard,’ I said, unable to keep quiet any longer, ‘absolute bastard. How dare he. Just give me five minutes alone with him and this—’ I picked up the nearest object, which unfortunately was a cheese grater, ‘and I’ll sort him out, good and proper.’

Sara gave a shaky laugh and blew her nose.

‘I wouldn’t give much for his chances,’ she said.

‘No, nor would I.’

From upstairs there was a distant shout and a scream and Sara sighed.

‘I’d better go up to them. They were quiet as mice on the way over here, but we both know that won’t last. Bloody hell, it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Tidings of comfort and joy. Pour me another gin, would you?’

* * *

I had planned to walk round that afternoon to a neighbour’s house for a pre-Christmas get together and drinks. Obviously, I didn’t go. My house, while decorated to within an inch of its life and scented with cinnamon and oranges, was filled with tension. Sara was alternately crying and drinking gin, which didn’t help, while the twins skulked upstairs on their electronic devices, occasionally coming downstairs for snacks or to voice complaints about each other. No change there then.

After cobbling together an unplanned and unsatisfactory dinner (I’d planned a solitary feast of a newly opened tub of Celebrations and some white wine) we watched some dull documentary on television about an endangered snail, then a decades-old re-run of a comedy show. Sara talked all the way through, by turns morose and slightly intoxicated and then furiously angry, hissing insults and threats against the more delicate parts of Marty’s anatomy.

‘You need some time to get over the shock,’ I said soothingly, after first hiding her car keys in my handbag in case she was tempted to go back to her house and do something foolish.

I quickly realised that it would be better to keep my daughter calm and positive, rather than fire her up with my own anger and experiences and possibly send her back to the marital home to slash his expensive suits and ties in a blind rage.

‘Oh, Mum, I don’t know,’ she said, running her hand through her hair, ‘I’m sick at what he’s done, and equally sick wondering what to do next. Do I go to a solicitor? Should I go home and get the locks changed before he gets back?’

‘From what I know, I don’t think that would be wise.’

‘I don’t think I could bear it anyway. To be in that house, surrounded by all our stuff, knowing that he has been there with that— that trollop.’

‘He didn’t ?’

‘Oh yes, he did. When the twins and I went for two weeks to Cornwall, and he was going to join us three days late because he had so much work on . And then he went back early too. When we got back, I found a pair of knickers under the bed that I didn’t recognise. He fobbed me off with some nonsense about me having a bad memory, but yesterday he admitted she’d been there. Why did he need to tell me that? I think she did it on purpose, like some old dog marking its territory.’ Her expression hardened, ‘She’s welcome to him. I knew they weren’t mine; they were from John Lewis. When did I ever buy knickers from there? M&S is the limit of my extravagance. Do you know, not once in all the years we were married, did he put the loo seat down? Or empty the dishwasher. Or bring me breakfast in bed. Even when I was pregnant. God, I was a fool, putting up with it.’

‘You need a good night’s sleep,’ I said in my best soothing voice, ‘you need time to think calmly what’s best for you and the girls.’

Sara’s lower lip wobbled. ‘All I wanted to do was get here, back to this house. I was always so happy here when I was growing up. Everything feels right here. It’s like a sanctuary. So organised and tidy. Nothing ever went wrong here.’

For a moment I thought back, remembering the reality of her shouting matches with her brother, towering piles of dirty crockery and mildewing food under her bed, disagreements with her father about what constituted a suitable outfit, the sulking that sometimes went on for days.

I reached over and stroked her hair.

‘Well, this was your home when you were little, we had a lot of happy times, didn’t we? You can always come here,’ I said.

She started to cry again. ‘Thanks, Mum. You’re the best mum ever, have I told you that?’

‘No, not that I can remember.’

Actually, at that moment I could only remember Sara at fifteen shouting at me that I was useless and didn’t understand what it was like to be young. Still, at least she had a different perspective now, which was reassuring.

She gave a shaky laugh. ‘I ought to go to bed. It’s nearly midnight. I should go up to the girls again, and see they are okay.’

She picked her phone up and scrolled through it for a moment.

‘Don’t text him,’ I said, in my best retired schoolteacher’s voice.

‘I already have, several times. Telling him exactly what I think of him. He hasn’t replied. I’ve got a good mind to?—’

I held out my hand. ‘Give it to me. Just until the morning.’

It was like being in charge of the fifth form again.

‘Mobile phones in this box until the end of the lesson.’

She hesitated and then handed it over with a sulky expression.

‘Oh, okay then. What time are John and the Stepford wife getting here tomorrow?’

‘Lunchtime. And don’t be nasty. Just because Vanessa is a bit fussy about things. He says he has an important announcement, he was very secretive, said that he had some news.’

‘Knowing John, another promotion, a fatter salary, a bigger house, a faster car. Life’s very unfair sometimes. How can my younger brother, who took three attempts to pass GCSE maths, be running a finance company?’

I didn’t like to say that I’d thought the same thing over the years. John was intelligent and charming, but he had been known to count on his fingers until he left university and as far as I could see had no obvious ability with organising anything. It was a good job Vanessa was in charge of that household or he would have gone to work in his pyjamas.

‘Look, go to bed, I’ll clear up here. Try and get a good night’s sleep.’

Sara hauled herself up and stood swaying for a moment as the gin, the warmth from the wood burner and the turmoil of the last twenty-four hours took effect.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said, ‘I meant what I said, I do feel better when I’m here, I feel safer. I already feel more able to cope with things. Is that daft at my age?’

‘Not at all,’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘Go to bed, and don’t forget to brush your teeth.’

She gave a little laugh at that, and went off, her footsteps heavy on the stairs as she went back to what had once been her childhood room.

I turned off the lamps and then sat for a moment in the flickering light from the fire.

Poor Sara. I could see how devastated she was, and yet there was a part of me that remained unsurprised by her news.

Stephen, very early on in their relationship, had once voiced the opinion that Marty had it within him to be untrustworthy and at the time I had disagreed. But it seemed that he had been right. Well, in light of what had happened, he should know. It was a good job he wasn’t around to nod wisely and tell us all he was spot-on yet again.

‘You see, Joy? I told you. You wouldn’t listen.’

I cleared away the glasses and the half empty bottle of gin. There were some paracetamol in the kitchen drawer, and I took them out and left them helpfully by the side of the kettle.