Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers (16 page)

I felt I had gone along with pretty well everything. The kids, the estate car, the move out of London and the commute – but still I was the bad guy.

It all came to a head one evening. She was always telling me I should be home in time to read the boys a story. I could make that on a Friday but the rest of the time it was not an option. While we were living in London, which incidentally is where I had wanted us to remain, I could be home by seven-thirty most of the time but with an hour and a half commute it just wasn't possible. Anyway, I had received an invitation to the preview of this really interesting exhibition and of course I hadn't been able to make it, rushing to catch the early train instead.

But this evening, at the end of a really tough week, I walked past the gallery and saw that it was the last day. I
decided to go in. I just thought, why the hell shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I spend some time on something just for me, nothing to do with work or Vicky or even the kids but just for me? I mean Vicky had ‘me' time every Wednesday night but apparently my ‘me' time was all day every day at work.

OK, so I'm getting whingey, but that's how I felt: hard done by and put-upon.

Anyway, this exhibition … one of the artists was actually there and we got talking and it turned out we both liked these two really obscure French cartoonists. I was really enjoying myself talking to this guy. I told him about my collection and he asked if I had any of his; I told him they were a little out of my league. Before I know it he's gone off to have a word with the gallery owner and then they come out and offer me one that I had been admiring for what amounted to half-price.

The train was packed, the carriage smelling of the usual mix of BO and cheese-and-onion Pringles but, as I stood there with this small package under my arm, I actually felt happy.

I continued to feel good right through the saga of how the boys were getting naughty, probably in protest at not seeing their father enough, and how the tumble dryer had broken down again, which was just perfect, wasn't it, with the weather being the way it was and Ben having started to wet the bed again, and did I have any idea how tough it could be being at home all day with young kids and no adult conversation or outside stimulants?

I did sympathise, I really did, which is partly why I had suggested she go back to work.

Anyway, we were about to eat and I brought in the picture to show her, and she lost it. How could I tell her to go back to
work because we needed the money and then go and spend a fortune on a bloody cartoon? And how come I had time to mooch around galleries but couldn't make it home in time to say goodnight to my own children?

I tried to explain that I had missed the train anyway – which was true, and that the picture was practically a gift.

‘And I thought you'd be pleased: you've always liked my cartoons.'

I tell you, she gave this complete pantomime-villain laugh, tossing her head and flashing her eyes.

‘Like them?! I can't stand them. Never could. God, if you want to know what I really think, they're a juvenile waste of space and money and if I had my way I'd get rid of every last one of them.' With that she leapt forward and grabbed the picture from my hands, smashing it against the edge of the sink, breaking the glass and gashing the actual paper.

I remember kneeling on the floor picking up the broken glass. Then I heard Eddie calling down to us, asking what was happening. The speed with which Vicky turned from gimlet-eyed harridan to soft mummy as she moved to the bottom of the stairs and called back that everything was fine, silly old Daddy had just dropped a glass was extraordinary. And I watched her, her broad back and low-slung arse in those goddamn awful corduroy trousers, and listened as she spilled out her convenient little lies. I thought, is that all she does, to all of us, lie? She turned back and walked right up to me, this triumphant little look on her face. I could count the flakes of dandruff at her temples, just where some grey was coming through. I took my picture and brought it with me up to the spare room.

Of course we didn't split over that. We muddled along for a while. Then I had an affair with a woman at work. It wasn't
that serious for either of us but Vicky found out. Some note of Sarah's in the pocket of my suit jacket, the usual cliché. Vicky confronted me and I realised that she wasn't actually that upset; if anything she seemed almost gratified. She stood there, arms folded across her chest, telling me what I was jeopardising: two fabulous boys, a great wife and mother, our beautiful home. Then she listed her conditions for forgiving me. I would make sure ‘the Trollop' left the office. I would have to start playing a ‘proper part' in family life and, when I pointed out that paying the mortgage and the school fees is playing quite a big part, she told me I was a bloody idiot if I thought that was what mattered in life. The list went on and I listened and then, when she'd finally finished, I went upstairs and packed my bags.

‘I FEEL SO ROOTLESS,' I said to Charlotte Jessop at our next session, ‘like a priest who's lost his faith. The framework to my entire existence is crumbling and I barely know who I am.' I brought out the printed version of the Internet interview and handed it to her. ‘I read this and I ask, who is this person?'

I waited until Charlotte had finished reading and then I said, ‘That's not me.'

‘It probably isn't,' the therapist said. ‘These kinds of interviews are famously misleading.'

‘No, I think, to be fair, I did say those things. I had to say something. I mean you can't say yes to an interview and have some poor journalist and a photographer with all that equipment slog halfway across London and then sit there and say nothing. So I said the things I would have said back when I was my old self; I had to because I really don't know who my new self is.'

‘Well, that's what we're here for, isn't it? To find out.'

‘You are quite sure I'm not mad, or say, psychotic?'

Charlotte Jessop just kept looking at me with a bright and interested expression, her neat head a little to one side.

Old shrink trick
, Coco said.
She's waiting for you to incriminate yourself further
.

‘I'm not am I, insane?'

‘You don't need to ask me,' Charlotte said.

‘Yes, I do. I absolutely need to ask you. I need reassurance.'

‘If you already know that my reply will be reassuring then why do you need to ask the question?'

Devilishly cunning
, Coco said.

I told him to remove his deerstalker hat.
Anyway, you should be wearing a red curly wig
.

I hate those wigs
, Coco said.
They're common
.

‘Are you talking to Coco now?'

‘Not
talking
exactly.'

Charlotte just nodded and made some notes in the file on her lap.

‘It's not schizophrenia, is it?'

‘No. However, we have made huge advances in the treatment of that condition.'

‘But I'm not schizophrenic?'

‘No, you're not.'

‘I'm sorry, I'm being very boring.'

‘You're not here to entertain me. You have an exaggerated need to apologise and to please. We need to look at that.'

‘I think I'm getting better, though, or worse, depending on which way you look at it. Sorry, I'm being muddled. Do you think I might need some medication?'

Coco's face had been looming, disembodied like the Cheshire cat's grin. At the word medication it shrank like a balloon when the air's been let out, rocketing across the room and hitting the door, where it bounced, ending up on the floor, a flat wizened version of itself.

‘We should see how we get along without it,' Charlotte Jessop said.

In the corner of the room a small gloved hand rose and made a V for victory sign.

While I waited to hear from Charlotte Jessop I decided to continue my search for happy couples myself. ‘Historical persons and hearsay don't count,' I explained to Bridget. ‘Perhaps I should advertise in the press: “Happily married? Call embittered romantic novelist on 0207 3526 ... etc etc.”'

‘I don't think Zoe is going to be fussy as to whom you chose as your examples, as long as they're real.' Pulling a face a bit like Coco's when he didn't wish to admit to feeling sad, she added, ‘I don't quite understand why she doesn't feel that her father and I would do.'

‘Oh children,' I said quickly. ‘Their worst fear is to emulate their parents.'

‘Do you think that's all it is?'

I nodded a bit too emphatically.

‘I'm sure of it.'

‘You could try Matilda.'

‘I don't know if that particular story would impress Angel-face. I mean Matilda's never made it a secret that she wasn't in love with Chris when they married.'

‘I know. Leonora.'

‘Leonora Baxendale?'

‘Walters now. And yes, I saw her and her husband at a party last Christmas. She couldn't stop telling me about her wonderful life.'

‘Won't she think it a bit odd if I call up out of the blue? “Hi, remember me, your old schoolfriend? I heard that you were happily married – care to talk about it?”'

‘Don't be silly. She'll be delighted to hear from you. She asked very fondly after you. You have to understand that since you became successful people are a bit shy of you.'

The thought was gratifying.

‘Do you reckon?'

‘Yes
. Let me give you her number.'

‘You really haven't changed much at all,' Leonora said after we hugged each other hello.

‘Neither have you,' I said, and it was a return nicety but a true one.

Her face, although showing a few lines around the eyes and lips, was still round and pretty and her cheeks still turned bright pink at the slightest provocation. These days her wide green eyes were not hidden beneath glasses and her thick straight hair was streaked blonde and cut short. Maybe her strong little body was a stone or so heavier, but you would always have known her from the girl she had been twenty years before.

‘Sit down.' Leonora gesticulated at the rose chintz sofa. ‘I'll bring us some tea.'