The Good Wife aka The Good Wife Strikes Back

‘I mourn the old you,’ he said, and added miserably, ‘I felt safe when you had only me to think about.’

That was as close as Will had ever come to admitting that his upbringing had laid a finger across his soul.

‘I love Chloe beyond words,’ he said, ‘but it is different.’

I thought of the rooms of the spirit, and of how I had moved from a familiar one into another, as yet strange and unexplored. ‘We change,’ I said, for I was beginning to understand better. ‘We can’t escape it.’

I must have slipped into a doze, for I started when Will asked, ‘Is it the not knowing me or what I did that’s worse?’

‘I think… I think it’s that you didn’t understand what I meant by us. Or, if you did… it didn’t stop you bringing Liz home. Into our home.’

‘I’m sorry, Fanny. Do you believe me? Please… believe me.’

‘Does it matter what I believe?’

‘And I’m sorry, too, for making you cynical. Cynicism’s the politician’s line.’ His hand journeyed over the space between us and came to rest on my thigh. ‘I imagined it would be different but it isn’t, and you get caught up in the Westminster round,’ he said. ‘That’s the trouble, and I know it’s affected me. That’s been a shock, Fanny. Finding out just how deep the cynicism is.’ The hand on my thigh grew heavy. ‘I’ve been wanting to tell you for some time.’

He shifted closer, wooing me with his own disappointments and frailties. I fought the impulse to cling to him and to weep until there were no tears left.

‘I need to know what you’re going to do. I’m not sure I can live with the suspicion that, every time you leave home, you might happen on another woman up in London.’

‘But you won’t have to.’

We must have slept for I awoke, stiff and feeling slightly sick. Chloe was practising her version of the dawn chorus and I stumbled out of bed and pulled on some clothes.

Sleepy and beautifully rosy, she cuddled against me and I carried her downstairs and fed her pureed banana and cereal. Frantic for some resolution, almost mad with exhaustion, I strapped her into the car and drove over to Ember House.

Alfredo swung Chloe up into his arms. ‘Beautiful.’

Chloe nuzzled his cheek. And what’s going on with you?’ he asked, over the small, fair head. ‘Don’t bother to lie. You have circles under your eyes, you’ve lost weight and the atmosphere between you and your husband could be cut with a knife.’

‘Can we go into the garden, Dad? Chloe needs a bit of fresh air.’

We walked at a snail’s pace across the lawn towards Madame Mop, a bad statue of a woman holding what looked like a bucket but my father was fond of her. I narrated the bare facts and set Chloe down to see if she could take a few rudimentary steps.

‘Bastard,’ he said, and that shocked me more than anything, for my father never swore.

Between us we balanced the tottering Chloe, who shrieked with delight at the novelty. ‘You’ll need a strong nerve, Francesca, and cleverness. You’ve been badly hurt and I dislike Will for that. Very much. But you’re not the first… or the last in such a situation.’

I listened to his beloved voice, which had seen me through childhood.

‘At the moment, you imagine it is the only thing. Indeed, it is the only thing you can think about. But it isn’t the only thing. The family matters, Francesca, very much.’ He paused. ‘It is a shock to discover that no one can expect serene and perfect happiness for always.’

‘How can I manage knowing it might happen again?’ I said.

‘It may. Or it may not. We can never know. Part of the risk.’

Chloe’s knees buckled and I bent down to pick her up. She crowed with delight and offered me a small dirty hand.

It was quiet in the garden, damp and cool. English weather. It was possible to think here.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I think I should get a replacement for Raoul.’

‘Are you sacking me?’

‘I think I am. It will release you. I think it would be better. In a few years’ time the picture will be different. Depending…’The last was delicately implied. Depending on the marriage, on Will’s career, on… other children.

‘I’m not giving up my work, Dad. I can’t. I don’t wish to.’

‘It’s a pity. But you must be reasonable and kind to yourself. Women are often not good at being kind to themselves. You have a lot to cope with. I’m getting older and I need more and more help, and you are not free to give it.’

That hurt. But my father knew what to say next. ‘Your work is not dead, Francesca,’ he said, ‘only dormant. You can keep your hand in, if you wish, in a minor way. You can keep practising and learning and storing up knowledge. You are lucky.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Listen to me, Francesca, you have to be clever about life. I wasn’t so clever, and I made mistakes. You have to put something together. I don’t know what it will be, and you need to concentrate your energies on Will.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I conceded.

Madame Mop had grown a garment of green lichen. I held Chloe up in front of her, and she made tiny mouse- like marks on the grey-green with her fingers. ‘Have you got a handkerchief, Dad?’

I wiped a protesting Chloe’s hands. ‘She’s exploring,’ said her grandfather fondly. ‘Bold and brave. When she’s old enough, I must get the tree-house repaired.’

Will was surrounded by the debris of fried bacon and toast when Chloe and I returned. ‘Thanks for letting me know where you were,’ he said. ‘It didn’t take much to guess.’ Then he added nastily, ‘I knew you’d run off to your father.’

I dropped the car keys on to the kitchen table. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Just that.’ He put his hands on the table and levered himself to his feet. ‘We might as well acknowledge it, Fanny. This is not going to work. I’ve made a big mistake. Let’s call it a day, pick up our lives and start again. I’ll make sure that you’re all right and we’ll share Chloe as best we can.’

The strange intimacy of the night had vanished, replaced by a brisk, decisive, politician’s blueprint for sensible arrangements and legal niceties. ‘OK?’ His eyebrows remained in a straight line. ‘That’s what you want?’

I felt faintness spread through my stomach and turn my knees as soft as butter. ‘I have to change Chloe,’ I said.

I bore her upstairs to her room and laid her on the changing mat, which was patterned with fat yellow teddy bears and, for some reason, bells. She was tired by her outing, and from the excitement of seeing her grandfather, and was scratchy and grizzly.

I cleaned and wiped and patted. When I had finished, I put her into her cot and turned on the musical mobile. The wretched tune tinkled and the ducks embarked on a stately, circular dance.

‘Gotcha,’ they seemed to say.

Chloe’s eyes drooped. I knelt down beside the cot. What was the truth? The truth was that now Chloe was here and well and safe, the luxury of choice had vanished. That was the deal with children. I knew. I knew about the chill of a child’s lonely incompleteness. I knew inside out their bewilderment and the nag of unanswered questions. A person has to choose. But that was mind candy. There was no choice. ‘I won’t leave your father,’ I told Chloe. ‘I can’t do that to you.’

Neither, I realized, could I do that to myself, for I loved Will. I hated what he’d done, but I loved him. I loved his passionate devotion to the idea of a better world; I loved the possibilities that beckoned in our future. I was not willing to give them up without a fight.

Chloe whimpered, and I stuck my finger through the bars and stroked her cheek. ‘Weeping Eros is the builder of cities,’ wrote a poet. I would weep and build my city too.

And rule it, and grow powerful.

I went downstairs to Will, who was waiting in the kitchen. As I entered, he turned slowly and I saw how beaten and tired he looked.

‘Fanny?’

‘I’ve decided to give up working with my father,’ I said. ‘We agreed it would be better.’

I crossed to the dresser and picked up the diary, which shed its snowfall of invitations and reminders.