Cristina Odone - The Good Divorce Guide

‘I’m off to Paris.’ Jonathan’s voice sounds flat and expressionless as he follows me upstairs. ‘On Wednesday. A conference on folliculitis.’

‘Not hair transplants? Or hair restorers?’ I ask innocently, and turn to see Jonathan start nervously: he can’t decide if he’s been caught out or I’m simply teasing him.

‘No. Definitely folliculitis.’ My husband switches off the lights downstairs and climbs up after me. ‘Definitely.’

Until recently, being married to Jonathan was easy. When friends would mock marriage as outdated or unrealistic, I’d stick up for it as the best of all possible unions. ‘Married people are healthier, and happier, than singles,’ I’d quote the latest research. ‘Married people are less likely to end up in jail, commit suicide, or go bankrupt.’ I was the marriage merchant in a world of marriage break-ups.

But am I facing a marriage break-up of my own?

Lying beside my husband on the bed, his feet hot against my cold ones, I test my reaction to this evening’s revelation as if I were a doctor trying to find the source of pain in a patient’s body. My ego is shattered, my nerves shaken, my heart in upheaval. Worse, my conscience is uneasy: have I been taking Jonathan for granted? The children, changing and growing, present a constant challenge; did I see Jonathan as something settled, someone I’d figured out? In fact, I realise with a jolt, I haven’t thought about Jonathan for years. I’ve listened to him, I’ve distracted him when things were difficult at work, I’ve co-opted him in sorting out the children’s rows. But I haven’t really engaged with Jonathan in a long time now. I didn’t feel the need to—nor did he. We talk about Kat’s homework, Freddy’s football, my mum’s pension, his mum’s prescriptions, the rise in our heating bills, the fall in house prices. Not ever about us . Somehow, I thought it a subject best left untouched. Yes, I’ve been vaguely conscious of leading life against a backdrop of mild disappointment; but I put it down to working in Dr Casey’s practice, not to marrying Jonathan Martin.

Jonathan is snoring again: a low grumble, reassuring, utterly familiar in a terrifying new landscape. I venture alone into this alien world. I can see me, on my own, at a friend’s party. Me, on my own with the children on holiday in Devon. Me, without Jonathan, cooking in the kitchen, or listening to the Today programme, or swearing at the sat nav. Me, without my husband. I blink, stare at the dark shapes in our room. I won’t sleep tonight, I know. My failures keep thumping inside my head. It’s because I’m thirty-seven. It’s because I take off my makeup in front of him. It’s because I don’t know the periodic table, or why e = mc 2or who edits the BMJ . What is Jonathan’s affair about? Improving his sex life, or…or satisfying his yearning for the best mate? If this is not just about sweaty grunting sex, it could mean divorce. My children robbed of their father, me robbed of my companion, all of us robbed of our peace of mind.

No, I’m not going to stand by and watch my life being kicked around. I’m going to fight to keep my husband. I must act quickly.

Within twenty-four hours, I am sitting in L’Avventura, staring at Mimi, his personal trainer, over a basket of focaccia and a bottle of mineral water. I’ve asked her to lunch on the pretext of sounding her out about taking me on as a client. I would no more hire Mimi to teach me kickboxing than go back to being mousey-brown, but Mimi is my chief suspect. Mimi has been on the scene for months now. My husband has never been thin, but he’s also never shown the slightest interest in losing weight, building his pecs, or achieving his target working heart rate. As of last winter, though, we have been getting a constant stream of ‘Mimi says my body weight:muscle ratio needs improving…’ and ‘Mimi says I need to get my heart rate up three times a week minimum.’ I noticed that Jonathan had started weighing himself with an absurd regularity, and stealing glances at our bedroom mirror. More suspicious still, his sessions with Mimi never seemed to take place around our home, but rather, near the office in Harrow. It took me three months to arrange an accidentally-on-purpose meeting with the Australian fitness freak, and I didn’t like what I saw: slim, blonde, and extremely young.

Just his type. In fact I can’t think of many men who would deploy great physical exertion to get her out of their bed—even though she moves her lips when she reads the menu, and pronounces prosciutto ‘prosecutter’.

I have a plan.

‘Sometimes,’ I begin, ‘I think it’s such a miracle that Jonathan manages anything at all. I mean’—I look full of loving concern—‘I’m so worried he’ll end up getting like his father…it was a blessing he passed away when he did.’

‘His father?’ Mimi looks bewildered.

‘Jonathan puts on such a brave front. Especially considering he’s doped up to the eyeballs half the time.’

‘Doped up?’ The waiter brings Mimi five teeny ravioli on a rocket leaf. She doesn’t look at them.

‘Yes…he is so good about covering it up. The doctors are worried, though.’ I look mournful. ‘They’re scared it might be taking a turn for the worse.’

‘What?!’ Mimi looks gratifyingly frightened.

‘It’s been hard at times, especially because of the worry about the children. It’s genetic. The doctors say any child’—here I look intensely at Mimi—‘any child of Jonathan’s will be affected.’ I taste a forkful of risotto. ‘I think we’ve got it in time. I mean, Kat did try to throttle her guinea pig and there was the incident with Freddy biting his school friend, but…’ I lower my voice, ‘with the injections they’re getting, it should all stay under control.’

Mimi, food uneaten, shakes her head in disbelief. ‘He seems so normal…’ she mutters uncertainly. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly. It makes him hopeless at kickboxing.’ She crosses her arms on the tabletop and I notice a heavy gold charm bracelet. On a personal trainer’s salary? I shake my head sceptically. ‘It must be so difficult for you.’

‘It’s been hell.’ I shut my eyes as if the memory were too painful to bear.

How long has this affair been going on? I’ve been suspicious for about five months now—but it could have started even earlier. When I took the children to my mum’s for half-term? When Jonathan went to Glasgow for that conference on hair regeneration?

‘Poor you,’ Mimi whispers. ‘It must be hard to cope.’

‘It can all get a bit much.’ I nod, voice cracking with grief.

Mimi’s eyes are wide with sympathy. She leans across the table, puts her (beautifully manicured) hand on mine: ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.’

‘Yes…’ I whisper.

‘You’ve been very brave.’

‘I have to be.’ I shrug.

‘I won’t forget what you told me, Rosie.’ Mimi looks sincere—and shaken.

I breathe a sigh of relief: I’ve pulled it off. As I turn to ask the waiter for the bill, I spot Jonathan through the restaurant window. He’s across the street, sheltering beneath an umbrella with Linda, his American colleague. They’re looking at one another and suddenly he reaches to touch her face. It’s only a second—but I know immediately that I’ve been lunching the wrong woman.

I look away, and hold the tabletop to steady myself. I wasn’t expecting this. Mimi, yes: sweet, obvious, none too bright. Jonathan would have fun with her, and nothing more. But Linda? When Linda first arrived at the lab, Jonathan had said she was ‘impressive’. ‘She knows her stuff ‘: he’d sounded admiring. She knows her stuff and is tall, dark and handsome (if you like a red pout, double-D breasts and legs that go on for ever). American, and half my age (or just looks that way).