I’d sat and listened and nodded, and during the silences, which were long, I’d simply waited. I hadn’t said anything, partly because, as was typical, Ant hadn’t asked me for my opinion anyway. But everything he’d said had struck me, for once, as true. It was rare that he spoke so honestly. Things had never been right between us. He wasn’t really happy, anyone could see that. And things would have been horrifically awkward had he stayed on at the villa with Joe and Amy present.
The only question he’d asked was if I wanted to fly home with him that afternoon – if he could manage to change all our tickets – or if I wanted to stay on for a bit and make the most of the time alone ‘to think about things’.
I’d said, ‘Whatever you think is best,’ and he’d replied, ‘OK, then, we’ll do that,’ and I hadn’t known which of the two options he meant until he was gone.
Right then, beneath the olive tree, despite the trauma of it all, and despite the difficulties of staying there with Joe, and even despite the fact that I was going to have to lie to the kids again, I found myself feeling relieved.
Travelling home with Ant right then would have been traumatic. But perhaps worst of all would have been finding ourselves back together in the middle of the life we’d built. The momentum of our lives, I was sure, would have taken over, carrying us beyond this crisis and on through middle age and retirement and ultimately to death. And neither of us would ever have had the courage to ever question anything again.
I was surprised to have had this thought – it wasn’t, logically speaking, what I’d expected of myself. It reminded me a little of when I’d found out I was pregnant, how I’d been convinced that I would be horrified, then that I should feel horrified, only finally managing to accept that what I was really feeling was joy.
Of course, there was no joy to be found that day. But I was feeling a bit relieved – and what was that sensation deep down, that butterfly just behind my heart?
When life is awful, it’s a terrible thing to live without hope. There’s nothing worse than to believe that nothing will ever change – that every day will continue to be like every other.
And as scary as it might be to peer into the abyss of the unknown – and as a financially dependent mother with two children, it was truly terrifying – it’s a very different kind of feeling to hopelessness, precisely because it isn’t hopeless at all. It’s fear, it’s dread, it’s terror, but sprinkled with the stardust of hope born of an infinite number of possible futures.
Half an hour later, Joe appeared in the doorway, blinking in the sunlight.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
I nodded vaguely.
‘Drink?’
I raised my full glass by way of reply. I was so lost in my thoughts that speech seemed difficult.
A minute later, he returned with a can of Coke and sat opposite. ‘So, how are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Hot,’ I said, to avoid the complexity of answering the question honestly.
‘Huh,’ Joe said. ‘Me too. Ben’s still fast asleep. I’m assuming your two are as well?’
I nodded. ‘It took them ages to get off.’
‘Ben too,’ Joe said.
‘They pick up on things.’
‘They pick up on everything,’ Joe said, sipping at his Coke. ‘Have you thought what you’re going to tell them? Because they’re bound to ask what’s going on.’
I shrugged and shook my head. ‘Maybe the same as last time. Or something similar. Malaga. Tickets . . . something like that.’
‘That will only work for so long. I mean, if Ant’s gone home . . .’
‘Maybe Daddy had to go home for work. They’re used to him working all the time.’
‘Will they mind about cutting the holiday short, do you think?’ Joe asked. ‘Will they give you hell?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘I’m not sure they have that much understanding of how long we’re supposed to be here, really. We had to cut our holiday short last year because of . . . stuff . . . the weather, mainly. And they didn’t seem to mind much then.’
‘Right,’ Joe said. ‘Good.’
‘But I’m not sure I’m going to, actually.’
‘You’re not sure you’re going to what?’
‘Cut it short. I think I might just book us into a hotel if I can find one. I could do with the time alone. And I do love a bit of sunshine, so . . .’
‘You’re not, you know . . . having doubts, are you?’ Joe asked.
‘About my marriage?’
‘Yeah.’
I laughed sourly. ‘Honestly?’ I said.
‘Honestly.’
‘I’ve been having doubts since the day we met.’ I was shocked at the phrase I’d just uttered. I’d never let myself think it that clearly before, let alone express it out loud.
‘Oh,’ Joe said. ‘Wow.’
I sighed. ‘It is what it is,’ I said. ‘Actually, I hate it when people say that, don’t you? It means nothing, does it?’
‘Amy said you—’ Joe started. But there was a sudden shriek of ‘Dad!’ from indoors. ‘Sounds like someone’s awake,’ he said, standing.
We did our best to keep the kids entertained all afternoon and on into the evening, splashing around in the pool and involving them in the preparation of dinner – more pasta with some vegetables and a sauce made out of tasteless vegan ‘cream’.
‘It’s a good job she’s bringing the car back tomorrow,’ Joe said, while we were stacking the dishwasher. ‘I think they’re going to get a bit stir-crazy otherwise.’
‘Do you know what time she’s arriving?’ I asked. ‘Because if you need us to leave right away, well, it might be complicated
