So yes, it was entirely a function of my own neurotic attitude that I’d ended up so alone. All the same, within that context, Marge’s renewed presence in my life felt quite overwhelming.
The moving process had been horrendous, but worst of all, Dandy had gone missing on only our second day in the new house. I’d spent my evenings for the first two weeks wandering around the gardens and fields calling for him, but to no avail. Though neither Ant nor the girls seemed devastated about his disappearance, coming home to an empty house had really made me feel quite desolate.
Kerry had moved to Rome and my other friends had drifted away. Actually, by then, I no longer even thought of them as friends. Ant had been working on me for years, relentlessly encouraging me to spot their faults – and Lord knows, we all have plenty of those – while subtly suggesting that I’d overestimated their qualities. So without really noticing that it was an ongoing process, I’d ceased, one by one, to pursue them, and they’d all but vanished from my life.
Of course, I made acquaintances. There were women I came to know well enough to chat to at the school gates, and there were even some who’d pop round for a cup of tea, though it honestly didn’t happen that often. But the conversation was always superficial and invariably child-centric, and I came to believe that this suited me. Actually, I’d go further and say I came to believe that, what with human nature being so disappointing and all, ‘real’ friendships only led to pain and disillusionment. I thought that I was in control. I really believed that it was I who had decided to keep all that dangerous intimacy at bay.
What kept me going was the joyful existence of my daughters. Lucy and Sarah were clever, funny, and (most of the time) great fun to be with. In a nutshell, I loved them to bits.
Anthony wasn’t the world’s worst father to them, either. I suppose, looking back, I’d have to say that he used them to feel good about himself, and that perhaps isn’t the healthiest of ways for a father to behave. But I honestly don’t think that they were harmed by it.
‘Who’s the best daddy in the world?’ he would ask them as he swung them around the garden by their arms.
‘You are!’ they’d cry, their Pavlovian brainwashing complete.
‘And who loves you most in the whole wide world?’
‘You do!’ they’d shout, grinning from ear to ear.
If you’re going to manipulate your kids in order to massage your own ego, I suppose there are worse ways to do it.
Anthony met all our other needs, too, whether physical or financial. He was a good DIY buff around the house and a patient Lego builder with the girls. His business had done well, and though I never knew how much he earned, I could tell we weren’t short of a bob or two. I had a gold credit card that his bank account paid off every month – encouraged by Ant, I’d closed my own some years earlier – and this I used to buy pretty much anything we needed. As long as the stuff we ordered matched Ant’s tastes – dresses and heels for me (no trousers or flats), and trousers or long dresses for the girls (other than school uniform, no skirts) – he pretty much gave me free rein. The fridge was stacked, the house was warm and comfortable, and Lucy and Sarah were thriving.
There were frustrations, too; of course there were.
Being unable to drive, I was isolated living out in Chislet and sometimes I felt lonely. But the only time I ever suggested taking fresh lessons, Ant’s response – a burst of authentic laughter – convinced me more than words ever could what a silly idea that was.
On sunny days I’d take long walks around the edges of the furrowed fields – always half hoping to spot Dandy – and sometimes I’d even push as far as Herne Bay, where, at the sight of the sea, I could feel almost happy. On rainy ones I’d sit beside the range, losing myself in fictional worlds. Whether it was discovering a sunnier existence than my own, or reminding myself that there were far worse ones, reading invariably made me feel better.
Occasionally, none of this was enough. I’d set out on my walk and be overcome by a terrible desire to just keep on walking, to never turn back. I’d think of my mother and the dream. Go with the . . . what?! I’d wonder angrily. Maybe it had been your. Go with your desire? How far would I get before I collapsed? I wondered. How far can a person walk? Of course, I could walk to Herne Bay and get a train – silly me. Go with the train? Could her message have been that simple? But how far could I travel before the credit card got stopped? And would that be far enough to escape Anthony for ever?
And then the sun would dip behind a copse of trees and I’d remember it was time to pick the girls up pretty soon. I’d imagine them asking Ant where Mummy had gone or, if I took them with me, why we were poor now and living in a council flat with a pay-as-you-go meter.
And would they even choose me? If push came to shove, I seriously suspected they would not, that they’d choose, instead, the ‘best dad in the whole wide world’, the one who ‘loved them the most’, and the one with the six-figure income to pay for their every whim.
Our home life continued to grow more and more comfortable. A conservatory appeared at the rear of the house, so I’d sit and read in the warm afternoon sun. A
