Kerry Fisher - The Island Escape

He gave my shoulder a friendly little squeeze, as though he was going to produce such a winning argument I couldn’t possibly refuse him.

I didn’t move and I didn’t reply.

Then the charm was gone. He leant over me, chest jutting, chin out.

‘Christ, you piss me off. You always think you know best. Sticking your bloody beak in where it’s not wanted. Telling me when I can see my wife. Just get her out here so I can talk to her.’

I had my hands on the wall barring the door. I concentrated my weight in my heels to stop my legs shaking. And then, praise the Lord, Jonathan arrived. ‘Everything all right?’

I wasn’t certain that Jonathan was the ideal peace negotiator, given that the two men had failed to bond at the hundreds of social occasions we’d shared over the years. Jonathan thought Scott was a knob and I was pretty sure that Scott had an equivalent anatomical description for Jonathan.

On the other hand, if Scott lost his temper, Jonathan’s ability to stay calm might avoid bloodshed, given my tendency towards the hotheaded end of the spectrum.

‘I need a little chat with Roberta.’ Now he was using a completely different tone, as though he’d popped round to borrow the latest Ian Rankin.

‘Sorry, mate. Go home and cool down. Talk about it tomorrow.’

‘Johnny, just get her out here for a minute, will you?’

Jonathan hated people calling him Johnny. He put his hand on the door and made a slight movement to close it. ‘Time to go. She’s not going to speak to you today.’

Scott stood with his hands on his hips. Builder’s hands. Great big shovels that could take the side of your face off with one swipe. He stepped forward to lean on the doorjamb.

Jonathan ushered me backwards. ‘You go in, Octavia. Scott and I will sort this out.’

Lamb and slaughter sprang to mind, but I darted behind him. Jonathan put his hand on Scott’s forearm. He must have heard me gulp. Scott shook him off but backed down the steps. ‘I bet you two love this. A big drama in your sad little lives. It’s pathetic. Forgot to say, I was really sorry to hear you got the push, Johnny, mate. Shame.’

Jonathan slammed the door shut, flicking the ‘v’s. I hugged him, weak with relief. He’d get another job. Scott would always be a wanker.

The arrival of New Year’s Eve made me want to take to my bed at eight o’clock until the need to look cheery about the coming year had passed. Octavia was impervious to my pleas to be left at home alone. I wasn’t sure I could dig out the brave face she’d expect: every time I thought about Scott, I wanted to rush back home and double-check we couldn’t resurrect all that love that I’d once thought could carry me anywhere.

But Octavia was determined to drag me to the party at Cher’s, my irreverent and exuberant neighbour. Cher had recognised a kindred rebelliousness in Octavia when I’d introduced them. Whenever Cher had a ‘bit of a knees-up’, Octavia was always on the invitation list. Which, right now, was not working in my favour. Since Alicia and I were still living at Octavia’s, waiting to be rehoused like tabby cats with one eye, doing our own thing was impossible.

I’d intended to move into a hotel straight after Christmas until I discovered that Scott had emptied our joint account. I kicked myself for not pre-empting it. I couldn’t believe our relationship – all that passion, all that deep and sustained effort – would become distilled down to pure finances.

Instead of blowing the little money I had squirrelled away in my own bank account on a hotel, Octavia convinced me to use it to rent a flat in the New Year. But the longer Alicia and I squashed into Immi’s bedroom, the more appealing patching things up with Scott appeared.

I hated myself for being so ungrateful. Octavia had tried to make me so welcome, jollying Jonathan along and giving meaningful stares to the kids. In a house already bursting at the seams, me wading in with several suitcases of belongings, hastily collected when I knew Scott was taking his mother to the airport, wasn’t ideal. Nor was the bathroom situation. If I didn’t get a bit more privacy for my ablutions soon, I’d be needing more than a bowl of prunes for breakfast. I wasn’t sure what was worse: Jonathan hovering around clearing his throat outside their only loo because I’d inadvertently taken his ‘slot’, or coming back later to find the seat was warm.

I knew we’d put a strain on Octavia’s festivities. I didn’t want to ruin her New Year as well. She refused to go to Cher’s without me. Cher herself had wasted no time in ringing to find out why she’d seen me going off in a police car. I didn’t have the energy to invent something, so I’d given her a sanitised version of the truth. She was outraged on my behalf and told me that Scott was ‘officially disinvited’. Eventually, I’d resigned myself to an evening of embarrassed shuffling while people fidgeted about for the right thing to say to a newly single woman.

Contrarily, even Jonathan was keen to party. Despite his oft-aired view that most of the people Scott and I mixed with were – in his words – ‘up their own arses’, he thought Cher’s husband, Patri, was a ‘top bloke’. Patri’s family had moved from Sardinia to Britain in the fifties, set up a successful café-deli chain over the ensuing decades, and had now diversified into a huge import-export business. But Patri, despite his love for sunglasses inside and a good Barolo, still called a spade a spade. As a host, he was second to none in the generosity stakes, which seemed to eradicate most of Jonathan’s chippiness about grand houses and the people who inhabited them.

Octavia adored Cher, even though she mocked her endlessly for being a footballer’s wife. Although she pretended to disapprove, Octavia loved the whole extravagance of Cher’s life, the cook, the housekeeper, the way Cher simply tipped her Pinot Grigio down the sink if she was in the mood for Chardonnay. Not for her a life of cling film and leftovers.

And if I’d ever thought I might be able to resist, Cher extending the invitation to Alicia made refusal impossible. Cher’s granddaughter, Loretta, was sixteen and Alicia’s epitome of cool, with her kohl-lined eyes, fake eyelashes and hair extensions right down to her behind. It was the first time Alicia’s face had shown anything other than indifference or worry since we’d left the restaurant on Christmas Day. I had no doubt that as an only child, she was also looking forward to a bit of time away from Octavia’s raucous trio, who were distinctly put out to be left at home with their grandmother.

So in the end, I put on the long jade dress Octavia had snatched up when we’d gone back to the house. I disguised the bags under my eyes with concealer and located a smile that threatened to wobble at any moment.

When the taxi drew up outside Casa Nostra – Patri’s little Mafia joke – I stared back at my old home next door. The lights were on in the drawing room. I wondered whether Scott was there. He refused to tell me what he was doing as ‘he was no longer married to me, it was none of my concern’. I just couldn’t cut myself off like that. I couldn’t imagine that a year from now we’d still be apart. Or that I’d never step through my front door again.

Alicia hooked her arm through mine. She looked over at our house, all spaniel-eyed. Scott never had much patience with her: he thought I’d spoilt her and was always telling her to ‘get real’. Alicia hadn’t asked about Scott once. All her questions had been related to how soon we could leave Octavia’s. I didn’t blame her for hankering after the peace and quiet of home but I couldn’t investigate her feelings right now, when I was barely holding myself together. Talk, yes. But now, no.