Cristina Odone - The Good Divorce Guide

‘Mrs Martin?’

I turn to find Mr Parker, the skinny little man who runs Belsize Parker Estate Agents. He stands, as usual, on the pavement outside his bright green office, Marlboro in one hand, mobile in the other.

‘How are we doing?’ He ends his call and stubs out his cigarette.

‘Fine, fine.’ I try to look like I’m in a hurry.

‘I heard’—Mr Parker’s eyes find his shoes, then my face again—‘about your circumstances…just wanted to offer my sincere sympathy.’

I wonder how news of our separation has reached the property world, but then I remember that Otilya cleans for Mrs Parker on Saturday mornings.

‘Yes. Well, it’s sad, but’—I try to look determined, independent, business-like—‘we need a bit of time to…’

‘I was just wondering if Mr Martin’s found something to rent?’ Mr Parker’s little eyes sparkle with hope. I notice that his pinstripe suit looks too big for him, as if it were a hand-me-down uniform that he, or his parents, were hoping he would grow into.

‘You’ll have to talk to him.’ I’m not going to find my husband a nice flat in which to nest, for goodness’ sake. ‘I’m off to fetch the children…’ I try to walk on, but Mr Parker is at my heels:

‘Nearby would be convenient, given the situation.’ He coughs and splutters, out of breath. You can’t smoke thirty a day and hope to keep up with a woman in a hurry. ‘And I’ve got a nice little flat that would be just the ticket.’

‘Do give Jonathan a ring,’ I call to Mr Parker over my shoulder.

He is at a trot now, still pitching: ‘Obviously I know this won’t be for long, he’s looking for a short-term let,’ he splutters behind me, ‘but they’re hard to come by these days, and I think I could get him a good deal.’

‘I’m sure he’d love to hear from you!’ I shout as I sprint for the gates to the low-bricked buildings of Belsize Tennis Club.

‘If you wouldn’t mind giving me his mobile number…’ I hear Mr Parker calling out as I enter the revolving doors before me. Before I can answer I’m being rotated into the warmth of the club.

The children let out a whoop when they hear who’s waiting at home for them.

‘Granny! Yippee!’ they chant as we stroll back home—unaware that I’ve short-circuited England’s Lane and Mr Parker’s agency by going the long way round. ‘Granny, hurrah!’

Jonathan’s mum lives too far away, and is too reserved, for the children to feel totally comfortable with her, but my parents (and since my father’s death, my mum) have always made them feel totally at ease. The criticism she cannot stop doling out to me is forgotten when it comes to her beloved grandchildren. I can do no right, they can do no wrong.

I let us in, and Kat and Freddy rush to the sitting room. As I watch the three figures wrapped in a hug, I smile to myself: yes, it was a good idea, Mum’s coming down.

‘Oh, my poor poor darlings,’ my mother sobs as she wraps her arms around both children simultaneously. ‘You are so precious…how awful for you to have to go through this! You’ll have to be brave and strong, my poor pets, no matter how difficult it is…’

So much for not traumatising the children.

Mother’s visit doesn’t get any better. She finds dust behind her cupboard and tells me that losing a husband is no excuse for becoming slovenly; sees Freddy glued to the telly and whispers to me that he’s retreating into a kinder world; and, after skimming through my copy of Good Housekeeping , begins, ‘Men need sex once a week, do you think that’s why…?’

‘Mu-um!’ I cry, exasperated.

On Monday, I receive a letter from the Marlborough Centre: they’re interviewing me next week for a place on the Counselling for Life course which starts in September. I study the letter, wondering if I should even attempt the interview at this point. Will my life become clearer over the next month? Do I commit to a course while holding down a job, reassuring the children, and trying to get my husband back? How can I think of helping others, even listening to them, when my own life is full of indecision?

‘What do you think?’ I ask my mum over tea and digestives.

‘For goodness’ sake, Rosie, what are you thinking of ?!’ Mum shakes her head. ‘You really need to concentrate now, put all your energy into getting Jonathan back home. You don’t have time for more work when your life is going down the plughole.’

Worse, on Wednesday when I come home from Dr Casey’s, I find her and our next-door neighbour, Carolyn Vincent, sitting in our kitchen having tea. Molly Vincent may sport black nail polish and three studs in her ear, but her mum is all Boden catalogue. Carolyn always manages to look pretty and peachy, with perfect creases on her trousers and nicely polished ballerinas and a girlish ponytail she swings over her shoulder when she wants to think things through.

‘Hullo,’ I say as I walk in on them.

Carolyn starts: ‘Hi, Rosie, how are you?’ She looks guilty and I can practically smell the pints of pity they have poured all over the subject of our s-p-l-i-t. Carolyn and Louis’s marital harmony is always on show—or at least within earshot, their cooings and tweet-tweets loud and clear beyond the wall that separates us.

‘Hullo, darling. Carolyn dropped by for a cup of tea.’ My mum looks totally unembarrassed.

‘Er…yes.’ Carolyn grows the colour of her beautifully cut pink linen dress. ‘Just seeing if the children wanted to come over for supper tonight. Louis is doing a barbecue.’

It’s a double whammy: first, Carolyn obviously suspects I no longer feed my children proper meals; second, she is letting me know that her husband hangs about the place lighting charcoal bricks and getting splattered by burgers and sausages while mine has made tracks with a sexy American.

‘That’s sweet of you, Carolyn, but I’ve bought lamb chops already,’ I lie.

Mum and Carolyn share a look of complicity.

‘Oh, and also…’ Carolyn begins, as she swings her blonde ponytail over her left shoulder and lowers her lids shyly, ‘I thought you might like to meet my friend Vanessa. She’s a brilliant therapist. Specialises in relationships and…sex.’

‘I thought’—my mother looks from Carolyn to me and back again—‘it sounded just the ticket. I mean, our subconscious does very weird things. And we all know how important bed is for the boys.’

‘Hmmm…’ I try to smile but my teeth feel set in stone—and misery. ‘I believe in therapy—though maybe it’s not the sex kind we need.’

‘Well, let me know if you change your mind. Louis and I just want to help.’ Carolyn sets down her mug, only half finished, and with a reproachful look makes for the back door: ‘Nice meeting you, Mrs Walters.’

‘A lovely girl.’ My mother watches Carolyn’s slender figure retreating across our garden. ‘And I like the look of him, too. You couldn’t hope for better neighbours, really.’ Then she turns to me. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary, how different marriages can be?’

In between such helpful comments we play Monopoly, Risk and Racing Demon, and Mum wastes a lot of time trying to teach the children bridge. We watch a DVD of High School Musical : Remix, sing along to the lyrics, and call in a pizza. The children relax, and the familiar routines of Mum’s stay—the questions about school which prompt her own, rather long-winded, reminiscences, the crossword, the Earl Grey tea and ginger biscuits for elevenses and 5 p.m., the insistence on a long walk after lunch—reassure them that all is as before. Almost.

Once the children are tucked up in bed, Mum and I sit reading in the living room.

‘Freddy’s such a star, did you see how he’s been running errands for me, fetching glasses, books, my crossword?’ Mum looks up from her Jeffrey Archer to smile at me. ‘And our little girl, she’s all grown up: do you realise what all that texting is about?’ I shake my head, no. ‘A boyfriend!’