Tempting Fate (14 page)

‘What am I going to do?’ Gabby says, over and over. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to get the local paper, you’re going to go to the noticeboard in the library, and you’re going
to go online and Google. You’re going to find yourself a divorce support group with a bloody good therapist leading the group. You’re going to find other women going through the same thing, because you cannot be alone through this. You will not be alone. My God, Gabby, if I have to come out there myself and help you through it, I will. Darling girl, you aren’t alone. I promise you.’

‘You’d really come out?’ Her mother has come to America three times in the last twenty years, the last of which was five years ago. It was much easier, she’d taken to saying, if they all came to London. Gabby would think: easier for whom? Although she never put up much of a fight as she did so love going home.

‘I would. I will. You just say the word and I’ll book my flight.’

Gabby lies in bed, her hands resting on her belly as she feels the baby do a lazy somersault. She moves her nightshirt aside and watches her stomach undulate, a knee or an elbow pushing out her skin, and despite all that has happened, despite wishing she could go back and do things differently, she cannot help but gasp with amazement that she is carrying another life inside her.

Today it feels as magical as it was with Olivia and Alanna – the miracle of a tiny person in her stomach – and for the first time, as the tears roll gently down her cheeks, she smiles, just a little.

This time, they are tears of wonder and joy.

Gabby has passed the big white church many times, but has never had any reason to go inside. She has always found it easier to say she is not a believer in organized religion than to offer up the truth, which is that she is slightly envious of people who have faith, religion, whatever it is you want to call it.

When she first arrived in the suburbs she looked in astonishment at the smartly dressed people teeming out of their houses on a Sunday.

‘Where are they all going?’ she asked Elliott.

He was amazed she genuinely didn’t know. ‘To church.’

No one she knew in London went to church, other than for weddings and, perhaps, christenings. She knew plenty of Jewish people who went to synagogue, but even then it was only for the major holidays, often only Yom Kippur.

When she was growing up Gabby had always wanted somewhere to go. Her parents didn’t believe in organized religion; they had decided it was the root of the world’s evils.

‘The only religion your father follows is that of the Liberal Intelligentsia,’ her mother would say with a
laugh if ever Gabby tried to question him. Her mother, having renounced Catholicism, had spent most of Gabby’s childhood trying Buddhism. There were various kinds. She tried the Nam Myoho Renge Kyo kind, which was said to manifest anything you should want; then she tried Zen Buddhism; then finally she tried to follow the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh, with his suggestions of daily Mindful Meditations.

Elliott would admit to being Episcopalian only if pushed. He too had religious confusion. It was one of the things they had always shared, always laughed about.

There is a white sign pasted up on the door with an arrow pointing upstairs to the church library. Gabby hesitates in the doorway, wanting suddenly to get back in her car, anxious about what a divorce support group might entail.

Perhaps she can sit quietly in the back and listen to the others. Perhaps pearls of wisdom will fall from the lips of the therapist who leads the group – Sally, who, incidentally, seemed lovely on the phone. Gabby hopes these pearls will instantaneously give her the peace and serenity she has been looking for, enabling her to leave silently, renewed.

As she is standing there another woman walks in, hesitating when she sees Gabby.

‘Are you here for the … support group?’ she asks, nervously smoothing her blonde ponytail.

‘The divorce support group?’ As if there would be
more than one support group meeting at this time, in this church.

The woman nods, and, relieved to have found strength in the power of two, they both walk up the stairs to push open the library door.

A couple of women who appear to know each other stand at one end by a large table with some leaflets on it, while others are dotted sporadically around the room. One is on a soft loveseat and others are perched on folding chairs that have been placed in a circle in the centre of the room.

Opposite the loveseat is a wing chair, in which sits a woman with glasses, grey hair and a warm smile.

‘Welcome,’ she says, standing up and coming over to greet the women. ‘I’m Sally.’

The woman Gabby came in with, with whom she feels an instant affinity, is Josephine. They move in unison towards two chairs, their heads together as they make small talk, establishing their bond. Where do they live, do they have children, is this their first group … ?

It is a disparate group of women, a group you would never put together. They age from early thirties to terribly sad late sixties. There is one gorgeous, glamorous, high-heeled and sexed-up girl, or woman – it is hard to tell for she is unlined and overly made-up – and the rest look much like Gabby: tired, weary, colourless.

After a few moments Sally calls the group together and suggests they make a start.

‘First of all, I want to commend each and every one
of you,’ she looks at each of the women as she talks, her eyes slowly scanning the room, ‘for coming to this meeting. It is an incredibly brave thing to do, to bring out your pain in public, but sharing that pain with other women who are going through the same thing is ultimately the most healing thing you can do for yourself. So well done. All of you.’ She claps her hands and the room slowly joins in, a round of applause for each of them, none of whom feel remotely brave.

‘We’re going to meet, in this room, for the next eight weeks, and we’re going to get to know one another very well. I’d like each of you in this room to take what I call the privacy vow. We need this to be a safe space, a sacred space. We need to be able to trust that we can say anything we want in this room, to express our pain, our fears, our grief, and know that nothing we say will ever leave this room. I’m going to vow that I will not discuss anything in this room with anyone outside this room, ever. Nor will I discuss any of the members of this group, with any of the other members. And, finally, I will not divulge who the members of this group are. What you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here. Please, one by one, raise your hand after me and say, “I vow.” ’

Gabby turns to Josephine, wide-eyed, to see her expression reflected back at her. They give each other a small smile as Sally looks round the circle.

‘I vow.’

‘I vow.’

‘I vow,’ says Josephine.

‘I vow,’ says Gabby.

‘Perhaps we can all go round the room telling everyone our names and a little about our divorce. I’d like to start by saying I’m Sally, and I started my first divorce support group eight years ago when I went through my own divorce. I thought I had been very happily married for twenty-three years, except my then-husband claimed I was wrong.’ She smiles. ‘It wasn’t, as I thought, a happy marriage, but a terrible one.’ There is a ripple of laughter through the room, this story clearly resonating with more than one woman there. ‘It was, without question, the most painful thing I have ever been through. I could not believe that my husband, the man I had loved for most of my adult life, was one day a loving husband, and the next, a stranger.’ Another ripple as a wave of familiarity washes over the room. ‘I tried leaning on the women I thought of as my closest friends, but it was as if a chasm had developed between us. They didn’t know what to say, or how to help, or, in some cases, how to be there for me in any way, shape or form, because they’d never been divorced themselves. I tried not to blame them, but I felt abandoned, and betrayed.’

Several women are now nodding, two leaning forward at exactly the same time to pluck a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table, dabbing at the corners of their eyes.

‘As a therapist myself, I am, of course, a huge believer
in therapy, but I had been in therapy for years, and therapy alone couldn’t help my pain. I knew I needed to talk to other women who were going through what I was going through. I knew I could help them and, in doing so, I could help myself. I started this group not as a therapist but as a woman in pain, looking for help. The first group met here, in this library, on the tenth of October almost exactly eight years ago. The women who sat in a circle in this room are, today, amongst my closest friends.’ She smiles again. ‘And finally I have to tell you that there is life after divorce. I was married two years ago to the most wonderful man, a man who is, truly, my soulmate, my partner, in a way my prior husband never could have been. However much you feel your life is ending, I urge you to think of this as a new beginning. It won’t always be easy, but there is more joy and laughter and love to come, once you have worked through your pain and are open to it. Thank you.’

There is silence as the women digest what Sally has said, then she catches the eye of the woman sitting next to her, the gorgeous, glamorous, made-up woman, and gives her a small nod, indicating she should talk next.

‘Hi. I’m Michelle,’ she says, stretching out her legs and showing off high platform sandals and black toenails, an ankle bracelet glinting as she moves. ‘Wow. Where to begin.’ She gives a nervous laugh. ‘I have three beautiful children. Jason, who’s nine, and Emily, who’s six, and Alex, who is four. My … husband and
I met in high school. We’ve been together for ever, and he is the love of my life.’ Her voice cracks. ‘He has his own business, a chain of retail stores, and for the last few months they’ve been struggling, so he’s had to work like a crazy person to get the business back up and running again. Or at least, that’s what he said. While he was at work, I was doing everything. I kept a happy home for him, and raised the children. I’m a full-time, stay-at-home mom, and proud of it. I loved being a wife, and a mother, and I stepped in to pick up the slack during those months when he wasn’t home. Two months ago he came home from work and I could see something was wrong. I thought he was losing the business, but he said …’ Her voice cracks again. ‘He said he was leaving me. He was in love with this woman who works for him. Gina.’ She spits out her name. ‘His slutty twenty-five-year-old assistant, who I had given jewellery to!’

She looks around the room at the women, their faces all aghast.

‘She’d babysat our kids when we went away and I gave her jewellery to thank her! On top of money! It turns out they have been having an affair for almost a year, and he wants to reinvent himself with her. We live in a big, gorgeous house in Fairfield, which is on the market now, and the bastard is refusing to pay for anything. I’m trying to cook for people to make some extra cash but I have no idea what I’m going to do. The lawyer says he’ll have to disclose all his assets, but I know
my husband. If there is anything left in the business by the time we get to the divorce courts, he’ll have it wrapped and hidden so well even a forensic accountant won’t be able to find it. So here I am. Crying myself to sleep every night, then waking up two hours later and staying awake the rest of the night, worrying how I’m going to feed my children and where I’m going to live. The only good thing to have come of it is I’ve lost thirty pounds. Seriously. I’ve never been this size in my life.’ She smiles as Gabby mentally berates herself for judging. She thought this girl was one of the wealthy, entitled housewives, the kind of girl she crossed the room to avoid, but how wrong she was.

‘Thank you for sharing with us, Michelle,’ Sally says, looking at the next woman.

Four women later, Gabby has heard roughly the same story four times, but with slightly different scenery in each retelling. In every story the husband has unexpectedly left the wife; in every story the wife thought she had, if not the perfect marriage, then certainly one that was good enough. The women are angry, resentful, upset. They do not understand why this has happened to them. They do not know what they did to deserve this, other than be a wonderful wife, a faithful wife, a wife who bore their husband’s children and raised them well, kept beautiful homes.

And then it is Gabby’s turn.

‘I’m Gabby,’ she says quietly. ‘And, as you can hear, I’m English. As you can probably see, I’m also pregnant.
I am married to a wonderful man. Like many of you, I married the great love of my life. He is the kindest, funniest, greatest guy, and there was never any question in my mind that I would grow old and die with him. And I screwed it up. I made a mistake that threw everything I cared about into jeopardy, and I am so disgusted with myself I can barely even look at my reflection in the mirror. I wish I could sit here and say I have no idea why he left, but I know exactly why. And I don’t blame him. I just wish I could turn back the clock.’

The other women wait for her to carry on; they want to hear more, wonder what mistake she is talking about.

But Gabby is done. She turns her head to Josephine with a half-smile. ‘There’s nothing more I can say right now. Sorry.’

‘My turn?’ Josephine asks and Gabby shrugs apologetically. ‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’m Josephine and I left my husband. I married him seven years ago, thinking I was doing the right thing, even though I knew I didn’t love him, not in the way you’re supposed to love your husband. But I wanted kids, and love had always been so difficult for me, so when he came along and promised to take care of me, it felt like I’d been sent a knight in shining armour. I was a good girl; I was trained to say the right thing. When he asked me to marry him I thought it would be rude to say no. So we got married, and we had kids. Two boys. I adore them. My husband, who had been so incredibly charming, and wonderful, and gentle during the courtship, started to change. He became
aggressive and demanding. And so controlling. He’d tell me what I could and couldn’t eat, what I was and wasn’t allowed to wear. He’d put me down in front of friends, and scream at me about how incompetent I was. I had been so strong before I met him, and I started off fighting back, but after a while the fight went out of me and I just … gave up. He never hit me, not slapping, or punching, but when his rages were out of control he was terrifying, and often he’d push me into a wall, or shove me across a room.’

She is dispassionate as she talks, the story made even more powerful by her lack of emotion.

‘I used to lie in bed at night and dream about divorce, but I was too terrified to leave. I knew that if I ever said I wanted a divorce he’d fly into a rage so awful I couldn’t even begin to contemplate it. I thought I was stuck. I was terrified of what he would do. I could actually see him spitting with rage, “You want to leave? You leave. I’m keeping the house. And the boys.” When the boys leave for college, I thought, then I’ll go. When they’re protected and he has no power over me any more. But then –’ a small smile crosses her lips – ‘I met someone. Not an affair,’ she quickly explains. ‘He’s a friend. We’ve become very close. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to anyone before. He knows everything about me, and I know it was this friendship that gave me the strength to leave. It made me see that marriages don’t have to be filled with rage, and anger, and fear. It made me see that there are men out there that are kind. And
gentle. And loving.’ She sighs. ‘You know, the truth is I think I am a little bit in love with my friend. And he says he’s a little bit in love with me, but nothing’s happened. Nothing will happen,’ she says firmly. ‘We’ve agreed we are only ever going to be friends. But it’s his love that gave me the strength to leave. I started looking ahead to the future, to a future without my husband, rather than dwelling in the fear of anticipation that was based on the past. So now I’m on my own, and, remarkably, I am still in the family home, and I thought getting rid of my husband would be fantastic, and some of the time it is.’