Cristina Odone - The Good Divorce Guide

Comforting wealthy women whose faces have turned to stone, or lips to balloons, is a far cry from the cutting-edge work among drug addicts I once dreamt of. But Dr Casey is an amiable man: ‘Top o’ the morning!’ he cries cheerily in a cod Irish accent as he steps into his elegant offices. The women who flock to him stir my protective instincts. I manage to remember their names and most of their family members’, and for this they are grateful and praise me to Dr Casey, who winks at me, pleased; and to Mrs Stevens, who sniffs, unimpressed. Despite Mrs S’s best efforts, the hours are flexible and my tasks not too onerous. Getting to Hans Crescent after the school run takes twenty-five minutes max by tube.

Only Jill, now a GP, expressed disapproval of my decision to work for Dr Casey’s practice: ‘Why be with that old fraud? What about all the good work you were going to do? All those kids you were going to help?’

‘Working here suits me right now. It’s easy.’

‘Since when is easy best?’ Jill scoffed.

‘If I have to commit full time to a demanding job, I can’t look after the children, the house and Jonathan.’

‘Jonathan shouldn’t need looking after!’ Jill shook her head crossly. ‘You’ve got a gift for listening—you shouldn’t limit yourself to hearing about botched lip jobs.’

‘Oh, Jill!’ I cried, stung. ‘It’s not like I’m a paid-up member of the ladies-who-lunch club.’

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit dangerous to dumb down? I mean, I know I shouldn’t say this, but what if you and Jonathan ever split up?’

From across the room, Mrs Stevens is watching me, so I pretend to look through Mrs Morrow’s file—she’s overdue for her Botox appointment, it’s more than four months since the last one—while steeling myself for the difficult campaign to keep my marriage from collapsing.

After work, I go to Tesco’s. I come home lugging three carrier bags that would break a donkey’s back. I’m slightly out of breath as I make my way to our large kitchen. The appliances are ancient and the wooden table scarred, but I love this room with its Aga, bay window and white tiles. Jonathan prides himself on his gourmet cooking—‘the fastest way to relax outside the bedroom’ he always tells me—and sets great store by the Magimix, the collection of Le Creuset casserole dishes and Sabatier knives, plus a whole alphabet of glass jars of exotic herbs. I enjoy watching him frown as he takes up a pinch of this, a dash of that, mixing ingredients as if they were solutions in his lab. On weekends he takes over the kitchen to produce succulent cassoulet, or Thai coconut soup, or spicy salmon tartare. Weeknights are mine, though, and I cook my hearty if less sophisticated favourites. Jonathan is usually kind about my efforts—though he can’t resist sharing a tip or two: ‘That cauliflower cheese hits the spot, Rosie. But have you tried sprinkling it with breadcrumbs before you take it out of the oven?’

‘Mu-um!’ Freddy calls out from upstairs. ‘I need you to help me glue my Viking ship!’

‘Where’s the please?’ I shoot back. Even while contemplating your husband’s adultery, manners matter. ‘Let me get supper going and then I’ll help you.’

‘Mu-um,’ Kat looks over the banister, ‘Molly’s here. She needs advice.’ Molly’s head pops up beside her. Molly Vincent lives next door but can be found here most afternoons, munching biscuits and telling us about her difficulties with her boyfriend, her teachers and her mum. ‘What should I do , Rosie?’ she always moans, picking at the chipped black polish on her nails. At twelve, she’s the same age as Kat—but mercifully my daughter seems about five years younger. Carolyn Vincent is always apologetic about her daughter ‘bending your ear,’ but I don’t mind—or rather, I didn’t. Now I wonder if I should confess that I’m in no position to advise anyone about how to lead their lives.

‘I’d love to, girls, but Molly’s mum just texted me that she wants Molly over for supper now.’

‘Oooooooooh noooooooo!’ Molly’s dramatic disappointment is followed by her sloping down the stairs, with Kat disappearing back into her room before I can ask her to give me a hand in putting away the groceries.

‘Bye bye, Kat. Bye, Rosie. Goodbye, Mr Martin!’ Molly waves over her shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Goodbye.’ Jonathan, sunk into his favourite armchair, doesn’t look up from his paper. Then, to me, ‘Hullo!’ The sight of my treacherous husband infuriates me: he sits there, waiting for me to cook, pour him our 6.30 glass of wine, chit-chat as if nothing was going on. I start unpacking, slamming doors, banging drawers shut.

‘A hell of a day…’ Jonathan comes into the kitchen.

When did we stop greeting each other with a kiss? He takes a bottle of Rioja from the wine rack he and Freddy built for my birthday present last year. ‘I think old Bill really is getting past it. He was practically snoring during the CostDrug presentation.’ My husband shakes his head over such a lapse. ‘What’s for supper?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s NOT for supper,’ I burst out, as I slap the haddock fillets on to a baking tin. ‘Hot volcanic sex!’

Jonathan blinks at me, mouth open. ‘Wh-wh-wh-what…?’

‘You heard.’ I stare at him across the table where we have shared meals, card games and late-night discussions about us, the children, our friends, the world.

‘You’ve been spying on me!’

‘You’ve been cheating on me!’

I wonder if the children can hear us upstairs. But Kat is bound to be glued to her mobile, and I can hear the rhythmic thud of Freddy’s computer game. So I let rip: ‘You thought you had it all worked out, didn’t you? Me here, her there—you would have kept the whole thing going for years if I hadn’t caught you out!’ My voice breaks, but I go on: ‘How could you? Sex with someone in the office—it’s so…squalid!’

Jonathan looks as if he’s about to shout back, but then he breathes in deeply and issues a slow sigh. ‘It’s not squalid. She’s not squalid. She’s beautiful, she’s kind, she’s…clever.’

The word hits me and I jump back, as if it had been a splatter of grease from a frying pan.

Jonathan sees my reaction and looks pained. He draws nearer, and starts to put his hand out towards mine, before letting it fall. ‘I’m sorry. I know this hurts. You deserve better.’ He shakes his head. ‘We’ve been working side by side for a year. She’s been involved in the hair follicle regeneration project. It was bound to happen.’

‘Bound to happen? You’re shameless!’

‘Stop it, Rosie.’ Jonathan speaks quietly, patiently, the embarrassed husband of a fishwife from the backstreets of Naples.

‘How long has it been going on for?’

‘I…’ Jonathan looks sheepish. ‘I realised she was interested in everything I was interested in back in January. But’—here he looks proud of himself—‘it didn’t start until three months ago.’

‘You’ve lied to me!’

‘I was going to tell you,’ Jonathan replies quietly as he sits on the bar stool at the counter.

‘What? That you’ve been cheating on me?’ I’m standing, hands on hips. ‘That you don’t love me any more?’

‘Don’t pretend you love me any more,’ he snaps back.

I gasp. ‘How can you say that?!’

My husband looks at me unblinking: ‘It’s true.’

I swallow hard. I look away from the man in front of me. Do I love him? Of course I do. Don’t I? What else has kept me by his side for twelve years? I’ve given him two children and given up a job. I’ve put up with his parents’ dislike and his colleagues’ condescension. I’ve put up with his constant sharing of such riveting facts as an elephant defecates twenty kilos a day and the longest river in China is the Yangtze. I’ve reassured him when he thought his colleagues were being promoted above him, supported him when he had to work 24/7, cheered him on when he was ready to give up on his great invention, or buying this house, or building Freddy’s Lego castle. For twelve years I’ve worn pastel blue because it’s his favourite colour and Diorella because it’s his favourite scent. If that’s not love, what is?