I THOUGHT MARRIAGE was forever. I really did. I thought Luke and I would grow old and gray together. Or at least old. (I’m not intending to go gray, ever. Or wear those gross dresses with elastic waistbands.)
But we’re not going to grow old together. We’re not going to sit on benches together, or watch our grandchildren play. I’m not even going to make it past thirty with him. Our marriage has failed.
Every time I try to speak I think I’ll cry, so I’m not really speaking. Luckily there’s no one here to speak to. I’m in a private room at the Cavendish Hospital, which is where they brought me last night. If you want attention at a hospital, just arrive with a celebrity doctor in black tie. I’ve never seen so many nurses running around. First they thought I might be in labor, and then they thought I might have preeclampsia, but in the end they decided I was just a bit overtired and dehydrated. So they put me in this bed, with a saline drip. I should be going home today, after I’ve been checked out.
Luke stayed with me all night too. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him. So I pretended I was asleep, even this morning when he quietly said, “Becky? Are you awake?”
Now he’s gone off to take a shower and I’ve opened my eyes. It’s a really nice room, with soft green walls and even a little sofa. But who cares, when my life is over? What does anything matter anymore?
I know two out of three marriages fail, or whatever it is. But I honestly thought…
I thought we were…
Roughly, I brush a tear away. I’m not going to cry.
“Hello?” The door opens and a nurse pushes in a trolley. “Breakfast?”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice croaky, and I sit up as she plumps my pillows around me. I take a sip of tea and eat a piece of toast, just so the baby has something to keep it going. Then I check my reflection in my compact mirror. God, I look like crap. I’ve still got on the remnants of last night’s makeup, and my hair has frizzed from the rain. And the so-called “hydrating” drip has done nothing for my skin.
I look like a reject.
I gaze at myself, feeling bitter. It’s what happens to everyone. You get married and you think everything’s great, but all the time your husband was having an affair and then he leaves you for another woman with red swishy hair. I should have seen it coming. I never should have relaxed.
I gave that man the best years of my life, and now I’m tossed aside for a newer model.
Well, OK, I gave him a year and a half of my life. And she’s older than me. But still.
There’s another movement at the door and I stiffen. A moment later it opens and Luke cautiously makes his way in. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, I notice, and he’s cut himself shaving.
Good. I’m glad he did.
“You’re awake!” he says. “How are you feeling?”
I nod, clamping my lips together. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. I’m going to keep my dignity, even if it means I can only talk in monosyllables.
“You look better.” He sits down on the bed. “I was worried about you.”
Again I hear Venetia’s cool, assured voice: Luke’s just playing along to keep you happy. I look up and meet his gaze, willing him to give himself away, searching for some chink in his facade. But he’s putting on the best act I’ve ever seen. A concerned, loving husband at his wife’s bedside.
I’ve always known Luke was good at PR. It’s his job. It’s made him a millionaire. But I never realized he could be this good. I never knew he could be this…double-faced.
“Becky?” Now he’s searching my face. “Is everything OK?”
“No. It’s not.” There’s silence as I summon up all my strength. “Luke…I know.”
“You know?” Luke’s tone is easy but at once there’s a guarded look in his eyes. “Know what?”
“Don’t pretend, OK?” I swallow hard. “Venetia told me. She told me what’s been going on.”
“She told you?” Luke gets to his feet, his face aghast. “She had no right—” He breaks off and turns away. And I feel a sickening thud deep inside me. Everything is suddenly hurting. My head, my eyes, my limbs.
I hadn’t realized how hard I was clinging to a last shred of hope. That somehow Luke would sweep me up in his arms, explain everything away, and tell me he loved me. But the shred’s melted away. It’s all over.
“Maybe she thought I ought to know.” Somehow I muster tones of cutting sarcasm. “Maybe she thought I’d be interested!”
“Becky…I was trying to protect you.” Luke turns, and he looks genuinely miserable. “The baby. Your blood pressure.”
“So, when were you planning to tell me?”
“I don’t know.” Luke exhales, pacing to the window and back again. “After the baby. I was going to see how things…played out.”
“I see.”
Suddenly I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be dignified and grown-up. I want to yell and scream at him. I want to burst into sobs and throw things.
“Luke, please…just go.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about this. I’m tired.”
“Right.” He doesn’t move an inch. “Becky…”
“What?”
Luke rubs his face hard, as though trying to scrub away his problems. “I’m supposed to be going to Geneva. The De Savatier Investment Fund launch. It could not have come at a worst time. I can cancel….”
“Go. I’ll be fine.”
“Becky…”
“Go to Geneva.” I turn away and stare at the green hospital wall.
“We have to talk about this,” he perseveres. “I have to explain.”
No. No no no. I’m not listening to him tell me all about how he fell for Venetia, and he never meant to hurt me but he just couldn’t help himself, and he still sees me as a good friend.
I’d rather not know anything about it, ever.
“Luke, just leave me alone!” I spit it out without turning my head. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. And anyway, I’m supposed to stay calm for the baby. You’re not supposed to upset me.”
“Right. Fine. Well, I’ll go then.”
Luke sounds pretty upset himself now. Well, tough luck.
I’m aware of him walking across the room, his tread slow and reluctant.
“My mother’s in town,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’ve told her to leave you alone.”
“Fine,” I mumble into the pillow.
“I’ll see you when I get back. Should be around Friday lunchtime. OK?”
I don’t respond. What does he mean, he’ll see me? When he comes round to move all his stuff into Venetia’s flat? When he summons a meeting with his divorce lawyers?
There’s a long silence and I know Luke’s still there, waiting. But then, at last, I hear the door open and close, and the faint sound of his footsteps disappearing down the corridor.
I wait ten minutes before I lift my head. I feel surreal and kind of blurry, as though I’m in the middle of a dream. I can’t quite believe this is all really happening. I’m eight months pregnant and Luke’s having an affair with our obstetrician and our marriage is over.
Our marriage is over. I repeat the words to myself, but they don’t ring true. I can’t make them register. It seems only five minutes ago that we were on honeymoon, blissfully lazing on the beach. That we were dancing at our wedding in Mum’s back garden, me in Mum’s old frilly wedding dress and a lopsided flower garland. That a whole press conference was stopping still for him to pass me a twenty-quid note so I could buy a Denny and George scarf. Back in the days when I barely knew him, when he was the sexy mysterious Luke Brandon and I wasn’t even sure he knew my name.
I feel a wrenching pain deep inside, and all of a sudden tears are spilling onto my cheeks, and I’m burying my sobbing head in the sheets. How can he leave me? Hasn’t he enjoyed being married to me? Haven’t we had fun together?
