Chapter 68 Resignation
I’ve locked Stephen in the cellar. He’s upset but, in my defence, so am I. All he wants to do is talk about the divorce, which is really irritating me as he doesn’t know that I know about her, and he’s trying to tell me that we’ve just ‘drifted apart’.
Georgie clearly hasn’t told him about our meeting either, or my pregnancy, which either suggests that she’s scared that he’ll finish it, or that they’re not all that close, let alone suitable to live in the same house till death parts them.
At the moment, I can’t deal with Stephen, as I’ve got to focus on Nelly and her examinations; she must believe she got in on her own merit.
We’ve just completed one set of practice questions, when Nelly asks to go to the loo.
I hear Stephen, who clearly has no dignity, begging through the cellar door for his daughter to free him.
Bless her, she refuses, but I don’t realize this is only until he offers an inducement.
Minutes later, Stephen appears in the kitchen with a moustache drawn on his upper lip.
This was the cost of his freedom. Nelly thinks it’s hilarious and dashes upstairs in case I don’t find it funny.
She’s wrong, however. Stephen with a fake curly moustache paints the picture of this tinpot lothario extremely well.
‘You think that’s funny?’ he asks.
‘It is,’ I say. ‘I think it’s the curls. Humour is all in the detail.’
‘Not the bloody moustache, locking me in the cellar.’
‘Stephen, I know that when emotion is involved, you feel it gives you additional rights in the world, but it doesn’t.
A carrot with feelings is still a carrot.
I’m planning our future. It’s rather complex and, quite frankly, much easier to manage if you’re locked up and can’t spread your vile ideological nonsense about divorce. ’
‘I want to talk to you properly!’ he says, stooping unattractively.
‘I know you do. And I know what you’ll say. You’re going to say that you love me, but that you don’t love me like that any more, and you’re going to use the fact that I find accessing emotion hard to label me as cold and tell me you need space to find yourself. Am I right?’
‘No, Lalla,’ he says firmly, then goes quiet. ‘Well, yes, actually.’
‘Love doesn’t mean thrilling each other every day, Stephen. Love means committing to a future together, forming a shield against the world. Love is a plan, not a feeling.’
‘But without feeling, it’s all meaningless.’
‘Children, houses, and history are not meaningless. I’ve formed an attachment, and I don’t make attachments easily. And this is the thing, Stephen. I even feel affectionate towards you, which, given the amount of different things I have to balance, is an achievement.’
‘But that’s how my parents existed, Lalla – attached but without love. I want more.’
‘So did Oliver Twist, and he ended up with Bill Sykes, so watch what you wish for.’
‘I want love and affection,’ he says, banging the table dramatically.
‘You have Nathan for one,’ I say, ‘and your mother for the other.’
‘You know what I mean – romantic love.’
‘You want romance but you don’t want sex with me?’
‘I don’t want sex with you because there’s no romance,’ he says.
‘Are you sure that’s why?’
‘Yes,’ he lies.
‘Right. Romance. Certainly,’ I say. I go to the cupboard and take out two candles. Then go to the fridge and return with a bottle of wine. I light the candles as he shakes his head at me.
‘Now can we have sex?’ I say.
‘Lalla, that’s ridiculous. I want something real.’
‘Believe me, Stephen, being real is on my to-do list, and I will get to it when I can.’
‘I don’t want to be someone’s to-do list. I want to be someone’s priority.’
‘I can make you my priority, darling. Just give me the word.’ I throw a lighted candle at his head. Stephen flinches.
‘I want someone to love me.’
‘Good God, Stephen, you sound like the heroine of a Mills & Boon romance.’
‘We see things differently. We’ve gone as far as we can go,’ he says.
‘Then let’s agree a way forward,’ I say. ‘You get made partner, borrow some of Mummy’s money, we buy the Hampstead house, and if you give me the house and half your salary, ad infinitum, I’ll consider the balance paid and let you go.’
‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid,’ says Stephen, and he looks at the floor, which usually means he’s done something silly.
‘Why not?’ I say, stepping towards him and folding my arms.
‘I’ve left the bank,’ he says, stepping backwards.
‘What? When?’ I shout.
‘Today,’ he whimpers back.
‘That’s not possible,’ I insist. ‘You were about to be made partner.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he says, edging for the door as I pick up the vegetable knife.
‘Josh Krill recommended you for partner,’ I say, and point the knife at him.
‘I don’t know where you heard that, but he didn’t, Lalla. He actually did the opposite and gave me the worst reference I’ve ever seen. They let me read it, and I thought, enough is enough.’
‘He did what?’
He stares at me and suddenly starts to cry, which makes it hard to stab him. Even a flesh wound would feel a little vicious.
‘OK, I’ll stop threatening you, but what have you done?’ I say.
‘Resigned,’ he said.
‘You cheating bastard!’ I shout. Stephen thinks I’m talking about him and cowers.
‘I don’t want to do this any more,’ he says, like the fatigued victim of a melodrama.
‘You need to go and beg for your job back, right away,’ I say, approaching him.
‘I don’t want that job. I want a different life, Lalla. My mum says she’ll support me.’
‘Your mother? Is that wise, Stephen? You really should be weaned by now.’
‘It’s a short-term thing, while I re-think. I might have a go at craft beer brewing.’
‘And who’s going to pay the mortgage?’ I say.
‘We’ll sell and downsize. We can get two flats.’
‘And Hampstead?’
‘It was never going to happen, Lalla. It’s your delusion.
’ ‘Women are forever being told that their dreams are delusions, Stephen. You’re not taking my dream away from me.
So grow up and get your fucking job back!
’ I feel a sudden jolt, like someone’s plugged in an electric current.
I lean back against the counter. The only way that I might get a settlement from this now seemingly imminent divorce is if no one finds out that I’m already married.
If they do, I’ll be left living with Hollis in Meadow Estate with urine-stained doormats, surrounded by dog faeces and youths in hoodies.
‘Don’t panic,’ he says. ‘We’ve also got savings. We can survive until the divorce.’
‘We don’t have any savings,’ I inform him.
‘We have two hundred thousand.’
‘I used that for the deposit on the house,’ I say. He is about to shout, but he just puts his hands on his head and makes a moaning sound. ‘Non-returnable, I’m afraid. It’s a sellers’ market in Hampstead.’
‘You forged my signature?’
‘I just used your phone. It’s all digital these days. On the bright side, if you return to work, ask your mother for your inheritance, and we sell this place, we can still achieve Hampstead and nothing is lost. Never say never, Stephen.’
Stephen stands and walks to the window. He looks out and shakes his head. Without turning around he says, ‘I’m in love with someone else.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I say.
‘Lalla, I’m sorry, but I am.’
I stare at him and he stares at me. There are tears in his eyes. I think about my ten-point plan and feel a sense of sadness that it’s failed.
‘What is love, Stephen? The dopamine hit you get from having a sordid affair and lying to your family, or is it this unique piquant feeling that is always here and curiously pleasurable and painful at the same time – Nelly, Nathan, me, us?’
‘It’s not like that. It’s someone I’ve known a long, long time.’
‘Look, I know about your sad reunion with Georgie, but that’s not love, that’s the only delusion here. You’re escaping into the past. And tomorrow is Nelly’s test, so today we must stop being selfish and think about her, OK?’
‘We can’t afford Adams,’ he says. ‘She can’t go.’
‘Take that back, you useless, cowardly fuck,’ I shout, as I jab the knife at him.
‘We can’t afford it!’ he shouts back, and foolishly grabs my arm. ‘You’ve even fucked up our savings. The gravy train is over, Lalla!’
‘It’s not about money, it’s her future,’ I shout. He tells me to drop the knife. I switch it to my free hand and scowl at him. I’m better at this than he is. He’s now screaming at me, but my pulse remains slow. I pull my arm back, and I’m about to thrust the knife into his leg when my phone rings.
I stop, glance across, and look at the number. It’s the doctor who wants to discuss my fertility test results. I look up at the clock. Surprisingly, they’re right on time. That doesn’t bode well. Bad news always arrives promptly.
‘Sorry, Stephen, I’ve got to take this,’ I say, put the knife down, and take my phone. At which point, Stephen, who is quite cross at being nearly stabbed, throws a vase on the kitchen floor. He can be so childish sometimes.