As the months went by, it became clear that there was no pathway by which I could help him. He was impermeable to spirituality, religion and philosophy. Meditation, he said, was ‘bullshit’, and therapy was for ‘fucked-up New York Jews’. Yoga he could just about cope with, but only because he saw it as a type of keep-fit. Actually, sometimes, when I headed off to a class, he’d ask me what time I’d be back from ‘keep-fit’. I pretty soon gave up correcting him.
Even discussions about what effects Marge’s single parenting might have had on him were shut down with anger or reproach. Because, of course, if Ant was perfect, then his upbringing must, by extrapolation, have been utterly perfect too.
By the time we moved back to the house in Chislet, I was pretty sure that our relationship was over. Sure, I wanted to give him one last chance – wanted to see how things might evolve in more comfortable and familiar surroundings. But mainly I just wanted to be in my own home so that I’d have the power to tell him to leave.
Back home, things were even worse.
Joe hadn’t exactly left the place spotless, so for days Ant and I cleaned.
But there were stains on the walls that wouldn’t go, and there were dents in the carpet where a table had once stood. There was mould deep in the joints around the bath, and the door of one of the kitchen units was wonky. This lopsided door demonstrated, Ant claimed, everything one needed to know about Joe.
For months, I’d forbidden myself from letting my thoughts reach their natural conclusion, but on that Easter Tuesday, everything changed.
Ant was busy hand-washing all of the plates from one of the cupboards, ranting freely about how rubbish ‘Joe’s’ dishwasher was. Anything Ant didn’t like about the house he defined as being ‘Joe’s’. Anything that didn’t work properly was ‘Joe’s fault’, too.
‘I don’t know how you ever put up with him,’ he commented, and it was the final tug that made the veil slip.
I’d been in the process of cleaning the oven, but I now paused and looked up at him. I let myself hear what he was saying. I let myself see this stranger in my kitchen and accepted that I no longer found him attractive in any way.
I thought about Joe then, about how easy he’d been to live with, about how wonderful he’d always been with Ben. I thought about how clever and thoughtful and generous he was, how self-mocking, and modest, and open.
Without Ant even noticing, I walked to the hallway, grabbed my keys from the hall table and let myself out of the house.
I drove to Herne Bay seafront, where, feeling numb, I walked the full length of the beach.
It was a sunny day, but windy, and though the air temperature was low, there were mad British families with windbreaks doing their determined best to sunbathe.
At the far end of the beach, I sat down on the pebbles and rested my back against one of the wooden breakwaters.
Thinking about the situation I found myself in, I started to gently cry.
After a few minutes, I admitted to myself that I hadn’t really found myself in this situation at all. I’d quite knowingly made it happen, and so, feeling angry at myself, I began to cry more freely.
Finally, I listed everything I’d lost – no, everything I’d thrown away – and the tears began to roll down my cheeks in snotty waves of misery.
Eventually, I pulled myself together and made my way back along the beach to the car. A couple of people looked at me strangely, and I wondered if my make-up had run, or whether I was simply exuding angst.
Back at the car, I understood, from looking in the mirror, that it was the former. I had horrific panda eyes. So I wiped off what I could of my excess, blurry eyeshadow and then started to drive home. I needed to tell Ant that it was over, and I needed to tell him right now.
But as I drove into Chislet, I realised that Ant could wait. There was something else far more urgent that I needed to do, someone else I desperately needed to see first: my husband – the father of my son.
Fifteen
Heather
Amy was sobbing so hard that it was impossible to hear what she was saying.
It seems ridiculous, looking back on it, but the first thought, my very first thought, was that she had killed him. I’ve watched too much American TV, perhaps, but I imagined her having smashed a vase across Ant’s head – his body crumpled across the kitchen floor, blood leaking on to the tiles. It was a crazy idea, of course, and Joe didn’t react like someone might on hearing news of a murder. Instead, he wrapped Amy in his arms.
I was still frozen, peering around the corner, a voyeur struggling to hear. But Joe’s reassuring murmurs were too quiet and the only words I caught from Amy were ‘. . . all my fault’.
It crossed my mind that the kids were still at number 12 and I started to panic that one of them was hurt. Stepping into view, I asked what had happened. I thought, as I spoke, of Amy’s parents, and wondered if one of them had died.
Joe turned to look back at me. He frowned and gestured with one hand that I should leave them alone, and I started to withdraw, but then paused. ‘Just tell me,’ I said. ‘The kids. Are they OK?’
Joe glanced at me again, this time looking confused or maybe irritated. ‘Uh?’ he said, then, ‘Yes, yes. The kids are fine, Heather. They’re with Ant. But just . . . we need a minute here, OK?’
I returned to the kitchen and closed the door lazily. If you didn’t push it hard it always
