Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

repelled by her. ‘I thought the point was that you did not care about my welfare any more. That’s why you have left. You care about s… someone else’s.’

‘Of course I care.’

‘Oh, Nathan.’

‘You don’t have to live with someone to care about them.’

‘This is a pointless conversation.’

‘I know,’ he conceded miserably. Then his voice hardened. ‘I did try to explain yesterday.’

I saw this image of us both on skates, veering round a rink, neither of us reaching the point where we faced each other. I began to shiver again, but I managed to say, ‘I can’t talk any more.’

‘Wait… wait, Rose. We must discuss details. Money and things… You’ll need some.’

Nathan was neither mercenary nor ungenerous, but money always had to be dealt with first. That was how he was. Once that was done and discussed, he was free to deal with subtler considerations. Over the years I had worked out strategies to deal with it – one of the most successful being, if I was desperate, to ignore him. ‘Where are you at the moment?’

‘At Zeffano’s.’

It was the hotel used by the paper’s journalists when they had worked too late to go home.

‘Why aren’t you at… Minty’s?’

There was a short, pregnant silence. Parsley stalked into the bedroom, jumped on to my feet and treated me to one of her stares.

‘Minty isn’t quite ready to have her space invaded.’

More new language from Nathan. ‘Really?’

‘I respect her for that.’

I had the advantage over Nathan, for I was familiar with Minty’s vocabulary. She talked about freedom, space, non-commitment and sex-for-pleasure-not-love, in the way that Ianthe talked to me about duty and restraint.

Where had they been together? How often? Was it in the afternoons? Or that shadowy moment between work and home, what Mazarine would call the cinq a sept? The hours set aside for married lovers.

The questions choked me. How? Why? When? I wanted to know the details. I wanted chapter and verse, to feast on it like an insect on rotten fruit. But I did not wish Nathan to witness my need, or grant him the power to refuse to answer.

Instead, I said, ‘Nathan, the company won’t foot the bill for your love affairs.’

‘I know’

I thought of our years together: Nathan, encouraging and committed, ambitious, sometimes bad-tempered, mostly sweet; myself, eager to be settled, flustered by the arrival of children, perhaps a little unquestioning in the latter part of the marriage, a little too ready to accept that life had settled into a particular shape. All of that could change. In the breathing space that the departure of the children had left, all of that could – should have been examined. ‘Nathan, have you been so very unhappy? If you have I’m sorry, so sorry.’ The words were dragged from me. ‘I thought I made you happy.’

‘Oh, Rosie,’ he said, ‘you know how I loved you. From the moment I saw you on the plane.’

‘Then why?’

He said sadly, ‘You never loved me in the same way.’

‘That’s not true, you know it isn’t. Yes, I loved Hal but I loved you too. In the end much more, with a real love based on a real life. Remember all the things – all the things – twenty-five years… Nathan, listen to me, you’ve let your imaginings get in the way. We know each other too well to throw it away. I know romance dies. I know I’m not twenty-nine any more, and Minty is lovely. I understand…’ I made a huge effort. ‘It’s not too late.’

‘Look,’ Nathan cut me off, ‘about money. I won’t let you down.’

I believed that without question, but I clung to my pride. ‘I have a perfectly good job. If I have to, I can manage.’

He said, patiently, stubbornly, ‘For the time being I will contribute my half of the bills. I don’t want you worrying.’

I could not bear to hear any more. I knew I should be clever and search for a better, more sensible, resolution. Think again. For the children’s sake. For my sake. You will get over this, and I will forgive you. Maybe I should be asking, What have I done to you? Maybe I should be begging, Nathan, you must forgive me.

But the voice that usually issued from me – the one in which wives and mothers cajoled, bossed, teased, wooed, which might be snippy, tender and powerful – failed. It had fallen silent.

I dropped the receiver into the cradle and slumped back on the pillows. Sensing her opportunity, Parsley slid closer. I dropped my face into my hands. Talk money. Nathan’s kindness was unbearable. I had much, much rather that he had been cruel and angry. It was difficult enough, almost impossible, to absorb what had happened, let alone consider a salvage operation. But Nathan had. He had been working covertly and underground, his miner’s lamp shining on a rich, new seam.

I thought of Poppy, and of a glove being turned inside out, finger by finger.

At eight thirty I rang Vee, conscious that it was Saturday and the worst time of the day for her. Along with Mazarine, Vee was my oldest friend and all three of us had been at university together. ‘It’s Rose, Vee. I’m sorry to ring at this hour, but I had to talk to someone.’

‘Oh, Rose. Goodness. It’s ages since you’ve been in touch. Yes, of course. What’s wrong?’

‘Nathan has left me. He’s gone to live with my assistant.’

The cries of Annabel, seven, and Mark, five, were loud in the background. Vee’s voice veered into a shocked upper register: ‘You’re joking. When?’

‘Last night.’ A child’s wail punctuated this exchange and Vee shouted at it to be quiet, that Mummy was coming. ‘I’m sorry, Vee, this is the wrong time.’

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I can’t talk. There’s a taxi at the door for Luc and me, and the children are playing up. I’ll ring when I can.’

The exchange had exhausted me and I pulled the sheet over my head. If I was going to suffer – that is, more than I was at the moment, and there was no doubt that I would – I might as well do it properly and give myself up to grand and august pain.

But thoughts like tiny white-sailed boats skidded inconsequentially over the waters. I had to put out a note for the milkman. The gas bill was overdue. My passport needed renewing. I should ring the children – but I did not want to face them with the earthquake that had shaken their parents’ marriage. It was children who came to parents for help and advice, not the other way round.

I flipped back the sheet and struggled upright.

Poor Mum, he’s left her for a younger woman.

I began to weep, wildly, convulsed from head to foot, and went on until I retched with exhaustion. Eventually I crept into the bathroom, propped myself against the basin, and ran a bath. The toothpaste had been squeezed last by Nathan. As usual, he had not put the top back on.

Like a convalescent, shaky and unsure, I lowered myself into the water. I lay and looked at the shelf above me. Bath oil. Mouthwash. TCP. A spare soap – the pick’n’mix of family life.

I looked down at my partially submerged body. What did I expect to see? The gleaming bronze of a fountain nymph, whose lines flowed untouched and unmarked? My body had swelled in gestation. It had been stretched, ripped, sewn up. It had carried children, cradled them and, when the time had come, pushed them gently away. It had learnt to be endlessly busy, to snatch at repose, to guard its silences in the hot, crowded demands of the family. How could all this activity not be written into the flesh?

‘That’s what women are put on earth for.’ Ianthe was clear on the point. ‘There’s no more to be said. Take it or leave it, Rose.’ I remembered that she had been peeling away the brown, waxy skin from a boiled ham. ‘If you do what’s right, you won’t go wrong.’ Taking up the knife, she scored the fat, which had gone transparent with boiling, then stuck in cloves to make diamond patterns. ‘Raising children and keeping the family going brings its own reward.’

My skin was beginning to wrinkle. ‘Mum is a prune, Mum is a prune…’ That was Poppy, who used to climb into