Chapter Three
That night, I’d tossed and turned in bed believing I’d never get to sleep. Much to my surprise, I’d eventually fallen into a dreamless slumber.
What had seemed like seconds later, the alarm clock had awoken me. Its shrill call had catapulted me out of black nothingness. I’d lain there, back in the real world, contemplating whether to message my boss and throw a sickie.
After a couple of minutes, I’d rejected the idea. There was a need to offload. And who better to do that with than with my bestie and fellow colleague at Home and Hearth Estate Agents.
I’d met Lisa some ten years earlier when I’d first started working for the agency. She was basically the sister I’d never had. Lisa always listened to problems and gave sound advice. And, yes, I could have also confided in my parents who were – it went without saying – wonderful at sharing their wisdom and guidance. However, telling them about Robin’s thrusting hips and Samantha’s lack of pubes was one step too far. On the other hand, Lisa could be given a full account of the previous night’s debacle, right down to me nearly flattening Antonio Banderas.
Throughout our friendship, whenever life had thrown a curveball, Lisa had been a tower of strength. Obviously, I reciprocated when she encountered challenges. Over the years we’d worked our way through hundreds of tissues and thousands of chocolate biscuits. Naturally, when I’d told Lisa about walking in on Robin and Samantha, she’d been appalled.
Robin had contacted me later that day. He’d made sure that he was in his office in Sevenoaks while I was at work in Meopham and seated at my desk. Several miles were between us. Sensible man. By not coming into my office, he’d avoided me whacking him in the face with a property file. Equally, there was no risk of me picking up a ruler and poking out his eyeballs. Although, right now, a different pair of balls figured in my revenge fantasies. Samantha wasn’t exempt either. My mouth twisted at the thought of pinning her down and giving her new pubes – in blue biro.
Robin’s telephone conversation was businesslike.
‘Listen, Tilly. It takes two to tango.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I made a mistake, but the blame is with you.’
‘Eh?’
‘If you didn’t nag me so much, then I wouldn’t have strayed.’
‘Nag you?’ I hissed down the line. ‘As in please pick up your socks, please hang up your clothes, please – when you’ve used the loo – swizz the toilet bowl with the loo brush. Is that what you’re referring to?’
‘Spot on,’ he said, oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘So, if you could just see your way to stopping the nags, we can be reconciled in a heartbeat. Let’s start again in our marriage. I’ll book a nice holiday, eh? A getaway. Romantic, obviously. And look, Tilly. I know it hit you hard never having kids.’ His voice dropped an octave. Became persuasive. ‘But I’m willing to negotiate.’
I froze. My hand gripped the phone tightly. Lisa was staring at me, desperately trying to work out what Robin was saying at the other end of the line.
‘What do you mean?’ I whispered. ‘Negotiate as in… IVF?’
Lisa now looked like she’d swallowed a gobstopper.
Robin had played his trump card. A family. But, at forty-nine, surely I was too old to be considered for fertility treatment? But, then again, I’d never fully explored this avenue. Robin had always been dead against it. He’d made his feelings known on the subject long ago.
It’s God’s way, or no way…
Leave it to Mother Nature…
If it’s meant to be, it will be …
And all those other crappy phrases.
But now, Robin had my full attention. After all, these days, plenty of women were older mums. And where there was a will, there was a way. I was still having periods. Albeit a little spluttery of late. And – now I came to think about it – only last week there’d been an article in a woman’s magazine about a fifty-six-year-old female who’d given birth to her own grandson.
Omigod! Was this what Robin was suggesting? That we find a surrogate? I mentally shook my head. Cleared away the crowded thoughts.
‘Well?’ I prompted. ‘Are you talking about fertility treatment, or what?’
Lisa was now gaping at me, mouth open, but I ignored her. I was desperately trying to stay grounded. To not let my mind rush off to another place. A place I’d never dared go. But… too late.
There I was, patting my swollen tummy. A protective hand over my abdomen as I attended a prenatal appointment. A scan. The sonographer saying, “Congratulations, Mrs Jameson. You’re expecting a little girl.” A mini-Tilly. A tiny replica of me. Blonde. Blue-eyed.
Or maybe the sonographer would instead tell me a baby boy was on the way. A mini-Robin with chestnut hair, brown eyes – but more fun looking than my husband. Yes, this mini-Robin would have a Just William impish grin and a face full of freckles. Adorable. Too late I realised that my mind had taken me on a wild ride down Happy Ever After Street.
‘No, Tilly,’ said Robin, bringing me abruptly back to the present. ‘IVF is way too stressful. I’m talking about adoption.’
I froze. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Adoption? I wasn’t sure I could go there. What… take some distraught new mother’s precious newborn? Wonder if she’d ever emotionally recover from giving up a piece of herself? Forever wonder what the story was behind her tears? Like… had she been abandoned by the child’s father? Left unsupported? Financially not been able to cobble together the money for a loaf of bread, never mind nappies and formula milk?
And then my mind jumped on a plane. Headed overseas. To orphanages. Babies and tots with tearstained cheeks, holding out their little arms as we approached their cots.
Will you be my new mummy and daddy? Mine were killed in war.
Robin and I scooping up two children. Four. No, six. Ten! Emulating Angelina Jolie and coming home with our very own rainbow family.
Ah, yes. There were we all were. Our readymade family walking hand in hand, once again in Happy Ever After Street.
‘Okay,’ I said tentatively. ‘You have my full attention. If you’re truly serious, then I’m open to the idea of starting again.’
Lisa now appeared to be choking on her own tongue.
‘Good,’ said Robin sounding relieved.
‘Have you an agency in mind?’ I ventured.
‘Agency?’ queried Robin in surprise. ‘I don’t think we need go through anything like that.’
Oh no. Not a black-market baby. I couldn’t do anything illegal.
‘I want everything above board, Robin,’ I asserted.
‘For what?’ he said in confusion.
‘The adoption, of course,’ I cried.
Had sex with Samantha addled his brain? And that was another thing. That woman would have to go. Robin must employ someone else. Preferably an old boot. A matronly female on the cusp of retirement. Preferably one with a whiskery chin. I could see such a person now. A Mrs Doubtfire type with spectacles. Iron grey hair. A penchant for bobbly cardigans. Long skirts to cover her varicose veins.
It wasn’t lost on me that Samantha looked something like me. We both had long blonde hair and blue eyes. However, I was a jaded version of her. These days there was a puffiness to my eyes and the start of a sag to the jawline. The major difference, of course, was the age gap. Samantha was twenty-nine to my forty-nine. Bitch.
But for now I’d have to park my issues over Sexy Samantha. Mrs Doubtfire could be employed in due course. All in good time. Currently there were more pressing matters to discuss. Like that of our future child.
‘Tilly,’ said Robin cautiously. ‘I think we’re at cross purposes.’
My brow furrowed. What could I possibly have misunderstood?
‘You said no to IVF, but yes to adoption,’ I pointed out.
Lisa was now heaving gusty sighs. She threw me a look that translated as this is going to end in tears.
Robin cleared his throat.
‘I’m talking about us adopting a dog.’
‘A dog?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘Yes,’ said Robin, his tone indicating he was currently talking to someone educationally challenged. ‘A dog. I thought we could start with a trip to Battersea.’
‘But… I thought you meant a child ,’ I croaked, my eyes brimming.
Lisa flashed me another look. One that said I knew it . She stood up. Made her way to the small staff kitchen at the rear of the office. In crisis, resort to biscuits and a brew.
‘No, Tilly,’ Robin tutted. ‘I’m not talking about a child. There’s been a misunderstanding.’
‘You can say that again,’ I snarled furiously, blinking away the tears.
‘So, are we both now on the same page?’
‘Yes, we’re talking about dogs.’
‘We are.’
‘In which case’ – I growled – ‘IF we get back together, I assume you’ll be getting rid of Samantha?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Robin spluttered. ‘Samantha is an excellent PA. Secretaries like her are scarcer than gold dust.’
For a moment I was too upset to speak. For one second there, I’d allowed myself to go down a path of new beginnings. Starting over with Robin. A later-in-life family. There had been no trust issues because Samantha hadn’t figured in this new future. Instead, I’d been offered a four-legged companion to keep me company while Robin continued to work late at the office alongside an attractive woman who had a bald vagina.
‘Thanks, Robin,’ I said, as Lisa returned. She set down a mug of steaming tea and a plate of bickies.
‘I’m glad you’ve seen sense,’ said Robin smugly. As well he might. It wasn’t every day a husband got away with porking his PA, telling the wife it was all her fault and that she should spend her evenings with a dog.
‘Rest assured that I’ve seen sense,’ I declared. I picked up a biscuit and took a savage bite. ‘This marriage’ – I announced, spraying crumbs across my keyboard – ‘is officially over.’