The Good Divorce Guide. Cristina Odone
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‘What’s “almost”? Almost as in, he’s told you to pack your bags because the two of you are off to the Caribbean for a love-fest, or almost as in, your wishful thinking?’
‘Neither. The children keep saying that he looks miserable when he’s saying goodbye to them, and he keeps hanging about the house, and he keeps doing things to be helpful, like offering to look into my mum’s prescription and find out why it’s not working…’
Jill draws her chair closer to me. She looks stern. ‘This does not mean that he’s coming back, Rosie. It just shows Jonathan’s not a complete bastard. He loves the kids. He probably even loves you—in a kind of fraternal, protective way. But I see no proof of a change of mind.’
‘Jill, you’re always so negative,’ I burst out. Then, mindful of the ‘petal’ and ‘treasure’ on the other side of the hedge I lower my voice: ‘I bet you anything he comes back, apologises, and we start a whole new life together.’
I hang on to the vision of our family reunited. And when I come home from Mr Ahmed the dry cleaner’s to find Jonathan’s message on our voicemail, I’m convinced this is it. ‘Rosie. It’s me. Can I come by this afternoon? I’m unhappy…garble garble…’ The tape becomes indistinct but I am sure of the sentiment conveyed: Jonathan is unhappy and wants to return.
I run upstairs to check my makeup. I hear footsteps outside the bathroom: I’m tempted to ask Kat what she thinks of my dress—scoop neck, cotton, light blue; but I don’t want to get her hopes up.
‘Mu-um!’ It’s not Kat, it’s Freddy coming up the stairs. I lock the door: my nine-year-old still has only a nominal notion of privacy.
‘What?’ I try to keep my hand steady as I draw eyeliner on to my lid.
‘I’m just going over to the Vincents’ to play FIFA 08 with Oscar. Kat wants to come to see Molly.’
‘Off you go.’ For only a second I feel guilty that I’m allowing the children to miss one of their father’s visits. If my suspicions are right, though, today marks their father’s return. Just me and Jonathan, I think, and my heart thumps. I feel shockingly lust-filled when I think about my straying husband: maybe someone else needed to find him attractive before I could get excited about him again.
The door bell goes as I finish brushing my hair. I rush down and let Jonathan in. Except I can’t. The knob that is supposed to unclick stays rigid in my hand. I try desperately to turn it but nothing happens. It’s an American-style, button-in-the-middle knob that Jonathan had warned was lethal for small children. He’s been promising to change it from the day we moved in. My husband is coming back to me and I’m stuck in the loo!
The door bell rings again. ‘Jonathan! I’m just coming!’ I yell. But there’s nothing for it: the handle resists all attempts to turn it. ‘I can’t!’ I scream.
Helplessly I look around the bathroom for something with which to prise open the wooden door. Tweezers? Nail scissors? Razor? I try to poke the little button in the middle of the knob, but nothing gives. I look up at the skylight that is the only window. If I stand on the loo seat, and prise it open, I could shout out so that Jonathan (and anyone else in the street below) could hear me.
The door bell goes again, this time for longer. Then I hear my mobile ring next door: Jonathan obviously thinks I’ve forgotten our appointment. As if. I’m up on the loo seat, and I push open the skylight: ‘Jonathan!’ I call out.
‘Where are you?’ I hear from below.
‘Up here! In the loo! I’m locked in!’ I try to sound calm and in control, but you can’t when you’ve locked yourself into a 3 × 5 room with your maybe-on-again-husband waiting on the doorstep below.
‘Let me come in and see if I can let you out!’ Jonathan shouts up. ‘I’ve got the keys still!’
‘Thanks!’
I press my ear against the door and hear Jonathan’s familiar heavy steps climb the stairs.
‘Here I am. Now how are we going to get you out of here?’ Jonathan asks affectionately. He sounds like Christopher Robin talking to Pooh Bear. It’s the manner I know well. ‘How do you manage these scrapes?’ he asked when I, in a coat with rabbit-fur collar and cuffs, emerged from his HQ to find myself in the midst of a dozen placard-waving anti-fur demonstrators. Or ‘I’d better come home and see to this’ when I rang in a panic because I’d forgotten my house keys when I’d nipped out to buy some dill and was standing there in front of our locked door, with six guests arriving in ten minutes.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ I moan as on the other side of the door I hear my husband trying the knob. ‘I just locked it!’
‘We should have got rid of these stupid locks when we moved in,’ Jonathan grunts as he keeps working on the knob.
‘I know. Do you think you can get me out?’ I steal a look at the mirror: I’m a bit flushed, but the makeup is still in place.
‘Of course.’ Calm, confident, in charge: oh, how I’ve missed my husband. ‘I have to get into the bathroom come what may. I’ve got to get my electric razor back. I’ve been using disposables and they’re killing my face.’
My heart lurches. Surely he doesn’t need to take his electric razor if he’s coming back?
‘You said you were unhappy…’
‘Hmm?’ Sound of a screwdriver working at the knob. ‘Oh, I know what it was. Kat told me you were having problems sleeping…’ (Oh no, she shouldn’t lay on the guilt trip, I’m sure that’s counter-productive!) ‘…and I wanted to say that usually I’m unhappy with anyone taking sleeping pills, but if it’s only for a short period…’
‘Well, it has been’—Don’t sound bitter, I remind myself—‘a bit difficult.’
More rattling of the knob.
‘Bloody hell, this thing is difficult…’
I lean against the door, and feel as if I’m leaning against him. I’ll take you back, I whisper, I know we’re no longer in love but we’re so comfortable together.
‘Hmmm…? Did you say something…Hey!’ The door handle falls on to the floor and the door opens.
‘Bless you!’ I cry and spontaneously (well, almost) throw my arms around him.
‘No worries.’ Jonathan gently unclasps my hands to free himself. ‘I think, er…you’ll want a stiff drink after your captivity.’ His face lights up with a smile, but not for me: he goes straight to the electric razor in its vinyl case. ‘Perfect.’ He turns back to me, adopts a look of concern. ‘Kat’s right. You do look pale.’
It’s all I can do not to scream, ‘Because of this mad separation, you idiot!’ Instead I say lightly, ‘Let’s have a drink.’
He follows me down the stairs to the kitchen. I open the cupboard, get out the bottle of Famous Grouse. Jonathan leans against the counter. ‘Where are the kids?’
‘Vincents. As per usual.’
It’s as if he’d never gone, I think. As if this episode had never taken place, Linda never existed. Then I notice it: the big green canvas weekend bag he’d packed that dreadful night. It’s back! He’s brought his things back and we’re going to be together again. I sigh with relief.
Jonathan follows my eyes. ‘I’ve brought my bag. I need to get a few essentials. In fact, Rosie,’ he looks me in the eye, right hand warming the whisky in his glass, ‘it really makes no sense procrastinating about painful decisions: I’m going to consult a lawyer on Monday and seek a divorce.’
My face must have given me away because he reaches out to touch my hand. ‘Don’t look like that. I care for you very much, I always will. But Linda and I…it’s