Your Roots Are Showing (43 page)
Lizzie decided to cut to the chase. “So, the two of you must’ve had, you know — a fling, at least?”
James shrugged. “I’m not saying it didn’t cross my mind,” he admitted. “It would’ve been so easy, and I was pretty hacked off, seeing you parading that dwarfish gardener around. But the bottom line is, Erin was wrong for me ten years ago, and she’s even more wrong for me now. To be honest, she gets on my bloody nerves! Look, Lizzie, it’s you I love. Only you.”
Tears suddenly filled Lizzie’s eyes. “And I love you,” she whispered. “So what the hell was it all about? Why did you want the divorce so much?”
James pressed his lips together pensively, then shrugged. “I was an idiot, that’s all. I thought you’d gone clean off me; you certainly showed all the signs. I mean, even apart from putting it in writing. When it came right down to it, you only ever seemed happy when you were with other people — flirting at parties, that sort of thing. Around me, you could barely raise a smile. I thought the best thing I could do was to just — let you go. You know, the grand gesture. Set you free.”
Lizzie shook her head fiercely. “Too bloody noble. I was
depressed
, James. Depressed with a big D. Officially depressed, in fact. Not just the baby blues. The baby purples and blacks and grays. Thundercloud stuff. I felt so miserable, it was scary. So — so then when we’d go out, I’d try to make up for it. I’d, sort of, overcompensate. Go a bit overboard, if you know what I mean. But I was never really
flirting
. Just — just trying to keep my end up.”
“What do you mean?”
Lizzie felt herself redden. “Look, James, you must’ve noticed that women are pretty much all over you most of the time? Well, I just — I suppose I wanted to show you that men were all over me too. So you wouldn’t, you know, suddenly wake up one day and realize you’d made a bit of a shoddy choice.”
He looked at her in wonder. “
What?
”
“I think — I think I was scared, the whole time we were married, that you’d suddenly see through me,” Lizzie explained. “I mean, I’m usually a little on the plump side, and — and so many girls are prettier. And I don’t know how to play bridge. Or golf. I can’t ride a horse. My parents never use fish forks. Your mum had to point out the proper way to sup soup. I — I’ll
never
be able to tell the difference between genuine Boulle marquetry and a machine-made reproduction.”
James gave a shout of laughter. “To hell with Boulle marquetry,” he said. “I’ll chuck it all in the bonfire on Guy Fawkes Day, if you like.”
Lizzie broke into a broad grin of her own. “If you really mean that, just shut up and kiss me.”
James was more than happy to shut up, it seemed. But after a delicious minute or two, Lizzie pulled back and said urgently, “James? You do know I’m different now, don’t you?”
“Of course I know,” James said. “You can run like the clappers. And you’re skinny as a whip. And you’ve finished your poems at last! Looks like taking a break from me did you nothing but good.” He pulled a wry face.
Lizzie shook her head. “No, it wasn’t you I needed a break from. It was me: my daily life, the way I thought I was — overweight, overwhelmed, the lot. Changing houses made me realize I could change
me
, that’s all. Oh, and by the way, I’m running the London marathon.”
“A
marathon
? Are you mad?”
“Yes, absolutely barking.”
“Oh, Lizzie. A marathon! The kids will be so proud.”
Lizzie grimaced. “Don’t count on it. They’ll be very disappointed if I don’t win.”
He laughed. “You’re right, they’re pretty harsh taskmasters. Better train hard.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to. But James, this whole separation thing — it’s made something crystal clear to me. The truth is, I don’t actually like living at Mill House. And if you don’t mind terribly, I don’t want to live there ever again. It’s a lovely place but — it doesn’t
fit
. So — so will you come with me to Glasgow?”
“Jesus, Lizzie, I’ll go anywhere in the world with you. We’ll sell Mill House, whatever you want.”
Her face lit up with pleasure. “Are you serious? Anywhere in the world? In that case, could we — could we maybe try to buy this house? Back Lane Cottage? I’m not really as keen on Glasgow as I’ve been making out, you see.”
He pulled her back into a hug. “Anywhere,” he whispered in her ear. “Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.”
She laughed against his chest. “Surely a man like you needs to check out a property a bit before he commits to buying it?” she teased. “For example, wouldn’t it be prudent to inspect the master bedroom?”
“Prudent?” he snorted. “More than prudent. Absolutely crucial. Come on!”
He grabbed her hand and they ran up the stairs straight into Lizzie’s room. With a flying leap, they landed on the rumpled bed.
It was such an indescribable relief to see him in her Sevenoaks bedroom, the scene of so many lonely and restless nights, that Lizzie felt tears prickle. Blinking them away, she snuggled up against him gratefully, and for some moments they simply lay close, holding on tight and murmuring silly, familiar things to each other. Then, just as the cozy snugness of it all was changing into something much more promising, James suddenly sat bolt upright, his head on one side, listening. “Ah, for crying in a bucket, is that the patter of little feet?”
And it was.
I
n spite of the fact that I always knew I wanted to be a writer, it took me quite a long time to find out what I wanted to write about. Growing up in South Africa, I wrote short stories with rather bleak themes — usually coming-of-age stuff involving abuse, divorce, racism, neglect, murder, terminal illness: all the things I’d never experienced and didn’t seem likely to, no matter how good it would have been for my craft.
As an adult here in the States, I worked as a journalist and wrote about tedious things like hospital information systems and diseases I’d never heard of. By then, I had more or less given up on the idea of being an “important” writer and thought I might pen something light on the side, perhaps an historical thriller. But as soon as I had children, my subject matter came to me quite naturally. I knew that I wanted to capture the kinds of things my friends talked about when they went out at night and had a glass or two of wine: the joys and woes of motherhood and marriage. I didn’t go through full-blown postpartum depression myself, but I’ve known several women who did, and I set out to write something uplifting about a topic that’s not covered very much.
Although I lived in the UK briefly, I now live in Connecticut with my husband and three children, aged six, eight, and ten.
Five Things
Not
to Expect When You Give Up “Work” to Be a Mum:
1 Don’t expect to read a book or chat on the phone or even have a lunch hour. Goofing off simply won’t be tolerated by your new boss. Your time, every minute of it, now belongs to somebody far more exacting than Donald Trump.
2 Don’t expect to become a better cook. The more time and energy you spend on preparing food, the more hostile will be its reception. Best to stick to scrambled eggs and macaroni.
3 Don’t expect to be able to follow current affairs en route to becoming a more stimulating dinner party guest. You won’t want your children overhearing that there’s been a bomb blast in Iraq, for one thing; for another, the politics of your PTA will seem far more gripping and relevant than anything going on nationally, never mind internationally.
4 Don’t expect to know what songs are playing on the radio. By the time you have leisure to listen to anything but the Wiggles, you’ll be saying things like, “This isn’t music; this is
noise
.”
5 Don’t expect to have the time to organize all your photos into albums. Yes, you’ll be taking so many pictures that you’ll barely have a moment to view them as a digital slide show, but no, you won’t be lingering over acid-free paper in the crafts store. You’ll be buying Play-Doh.
