Cristina Odone - The Good Divorce Guide

But then I look at my husband’s expression of pity. Ugh! I can’t bear the thought of him and Linda shaking their heads over my lonely disappointment. Hey, you! I feel like shouting, You don’t need to feel sorry for me. I can build a new life, find a new love. I breathe in deeply: if I need directions, I can get myself a sat nav. If I need help with prescriptions I can ring Jill. And I’ll always protect the children, Jonathan or no Jonathan.

I can do this. I toss my hair and stand up straight; yes, I can. I’m going to explode every prejudice, and turn all preconceived notions on their head. I’m going to think the unthinkable and do the impossible. I’m going for…

‘A good divorce!’ My voice rings with conviction. ‘We’ll make this a good divorce. A civilised split.’

‘The most civilised divorce in the annals of break-ups.’ Jonathan gives me a lopsided grin.

‘Pain-free.’

‘Humane.’

‘Generous-spirited.’

‘No one will be able to say that we traumatised our children, or ruined each other’s lives.’

‘Everyone will congratulate us on how brilliantly we’ve managed a difficult process.’

‘Ours will be the most constructive collaboration ever.’ Then, with a look of concern, ‘Hey, sweetheart’—Jonathan takes a tissue from the Kleenex box on the mirrored shelves above the toilet—‘you’re crying!’

What not to do when you’re considering a friendly divorce: tell anyone.

I’d prepared my speech, and repeated its promises of ‘civilised separation…mutually convenient arrangement…friendly division of spoils…best for the children…’

Somehow, though, nobody heard these reassuring pledges, and the reactions to my announcement are the same as if I’d said Jonathan and I were fighting to the bitter end, no holds barred, until no one was left standing and the children were covered in our blood.

Kat: ‘How can you DO that to us?! We’ll have to see a therapist for the rest of our lives!’

Freddy: ‘I’ll be like Justin! His parents are divorced and he says he spends every holiday in the car, going from one to the other!’

My mum: ‘What?! No…you can’t be…Oh my God!’

Otilya, our Polish daily: ‘My husband’—she pushes the mop across the kitchen floor—‘he divorce me for new girl too. She not pretty, she not clever, she not rich. I ask him, “What she have?”’ Otilya leans her bulky frame on her mop. ‘He say, “She not you.”’

Dr Casey bestows upon me the look he usually reserves for patients whose excessive use of Botox has frozen their face into a mask. ‘Chin up, my girl! You know what they say: better unaccompanied than shackled to a bad ‘un.’ And I overhear him telling Mrs S: ‘Do be gentle Lavinia—she is obviously near breaking point.’

Strolling down the stretch of Haverstock Hill where I normally shop feels like running a gauntlet these days.

Mr Parker, smoking outside Belsize Parker Estate Agents as usual, is always on the look out for me. ‘Ah, Mrs Martin, how are we doing?’

‘Wonderful, Mr Parker, thank you.’ I don’t want to stop.

‘I understand’—Mr Parker stubs his cigarette butt on the pavement—‘things have become more…permanent.’

Otilya and her big mouth.

‘Yes.’ I sound as casual as I can. ‘We are making it as sensible and friendly as possible.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Mr Parker’s pinstripe suit smells of nicotine, stale and fresh. ‘I went through a very hard time just after my own divorce…but’—here he beams again—‘I then met Mrs Parker, and now my life couldn’t be better.’

‘Hmmm…wonderful…’ I try to walk off, but Mr Parker keeps up with me until after a few paces I stop: I don’t want him following me home.

‘I just thought that you should know we have worked with a lot of couples through…difficult times.’ He gives a little cough. ‘Divorce means two households. Two properties. I could help.’

‘We already have our property—and Jonathan has—’ I begin.

‘There’s some wonderful flats out there,’ Mr Parker interrupts me, taking a step closer. I wince at the stench of cigarette; standing this close to him is like passive smoking. ‘Really wonderful, if you and Mr Martin wanted to downsize. You should consider two flats. Or maybe you and the children could look at a maisonette and he could stay in a flat—with his friend.’ I scowl and Mr Parker hurries on, ‘And even if the market is soft at the moment, I think we could get a good price for your house.’

‘Our house?!’

‘I know it’s a bit tired—you remember when I sold it to you ten years ago I warned you that the kitchen and bathrooms would need redoing—but it has those original features, and plenty of light, and people place a premium on high ceilings and a bit of outside space…’

‘Our house,’ I hiss, ‘is not for sale.’

Mr Parker stretches out his hands to reassure me. ‘No-no-no, Mrs Martin, this is just in case. What often happens is that the original home can be associated with…strain, stress…and a new environment is seen as conducive to a fresh start…’

‘Mr Parker, our home is full of very happy memories, for us and for the children.’ I sound glacial, and Mr Parker shrinks further into his suit. ‘Jonathan is adamant that we stay put.’

‘Of course, Mrs Martin.’ Mr Parker nods eagerly. ‘I saw him the other day. I thought I could help him get something nearby—you know, makes it convenient for visiting the children…He told me he’s already got something in Bayswater with his…er, he’s got a place already…still, it’s just a rental property. We may be able to convince him that there’s better investments to be made.’ Mr Parker won’t draw breath. ‘Divorce means you have to be so careful about money…and if they can be had at a good price, two homes can mean two very profitable ventures.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘There’s a maisonette around the corner from you, thirteen hundred square feet. At ?50,000, it’s a bargain.’

‘Mr Parker, I’m not interested; we’re not moving.’

‘Maybe you don’t like maisonettes?’ Mr Parker extracts his packet of Marlboros, taps them nervously with his left hand. ‘There’s a nice little mews house up at Belsize Village, spanking new interior, got a designer in who really gave it the wow factor and—’

‘We’re NOT moving!’ I can’t help shouting.

For a moment, Mr Parker looks properly cowed. But then he springs back to his salesman life-form: ‘I know this is probably not the right time, you’re still very raw, but I can tell you there’s a block of flats in St John’s Wood’—I start walking away, shaking my head—‘that would be just the ticket for you and the children. Nice and quiet, very safe and a lovely garden out back…’

Mr Ahmed, our dry cleaner, is not much better.

‘You washing Mr Martin shirts at home now? You try to do my job for me?’ Mr Ahmed throws his hands up in the air when I bring in only a silk blouse and my ancient woollen jacket.

‘Mr Martin no longer lives at home,’ I tell Mr Ahmed without looking at him. Behind him, Mrs Ahmed’s eyes grow round and she stops unfolding clothes.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mrs Martin…’ Mr Ahmed tugs one end of his thick grey moustache.

Mrs Ahmed draws up to the counter, a jumper in her hand. ‘These English men. No sense of family. The Queen’s children, look at them: they too, all divorced.’

‘It’s not quite like that.’ I find myself trying to defend Jonathan, and the Windsors, to our dry cleaner and his wife.

‘Tchtch!’ Mrs Ahmed shakes her head woefully, and her plump body beneath the red and yellow sari jiggles. ‘They want fun and new things all the time.’