It was shocking, his nerve. The sneaky, snidy, lying git! Oh, and she could just imagine the conversation he and Sabine would be having right now:
Darling, I feel so free now that I’ve finally told her!
You won’t regret it, Pete, I promise. Let me show you just how much I appreciate this . . .
Oh, baby, that’s good. That’s so good. That’s . . .
Josie got up unsteadily, not wanting to think about it any further. ‘Screw you, Sabine,’ she said. ‘You slag. What about sisterhood, eh? Never heard of that?’
Oh God! Please let me wake up from this! Please, please let this all be a horrible dream!
She wandered into the boys’ room and sat on the floor in the darkness, comforted by the sound of their breathing. She leaned her head against the rocket-papered wall. Surely Pete wouldn’t really be able to leave
them
? She knew that she couldn’t. There was no way she could walk out on her children, her own flesh and blood, to go off with another partner. How did anybody do that?
Toby stirred in the top bunk. ‘Ready, steady, go,’ he muttered drowsily, and Josie felt her body flood with love for him. Of
course
Pete would come back. Of
course
he would realize his mistake. Sex on tap with a lover just didn’t compare to seeing your child sleeping peacefully night after night, arms flung out on the pillow, lips slightly apart, long lashes resting on those perfect peachlike cheeks. Nobody would realistically turn their back on that, would they?
They would have to be mad. Desperate.
Or, of course, really, really in love . . .
Josie stumbled downstairs, not sure what to do with herself. There was no way she could sleep, not with Pete’s words still echoing around her head, not with the image of Lisa’s guilt-charged eyes on her. But . . . what, then? What did one do when the unimaginable happened?
Josie sat down at the kitchen table in the darkness. Their family table, where they ate their meals, where she’d sat for hours with the boys, making Play-Doh men and cutting out biscuits and painting frogs and all the rest of it. She pressed her cheek against its cool wooden surface and cried into its oaky knots and whirls. Would Pete take this table away if he and Sabine got a place together? He’d inherited it, after all, from some grandparent or other. It was his to take, wasn’t it?
Josie cradled her head. She couldn’t bear the thought of slaggy Sabine eating breakfast off this table. Mind you, she probably didn’t eat, full stop. She was probably whip-thin, all cheekbones and legs. She probably only used tables for having sex on.
Don’t. Don’t think about it.
What else would Pete take? The plasma-screen TV, his pride and joy? Surely he couldn’t survive long without that. The remote control was practically an extension of his right hand. He’d sit there, holding it lovingly throughout an entire programme, guarding it, practically. Oh, the TV would go with him, no question. She was surprised he hadn’t bundled it into the car when he’d left that evening. Video, DVD, stereo system . . . oh yeah. He’d have the lot. He’d leave Josie her
Friends
video boxed set to gather dust on the shelf, take everything else.
Mine,
mine, mine. Worked for it, earned the money, bought it, mine.
Josie was grateful for the chair beneath her, keeping her upright as she calculated his inventory. The chair – would he take three of the six? Half the cutlery? One of the armchairs? One of the matching walnut wardrobes? God, she hated the thought of it being filled with Sabine’s stuff. All gorgeous designer outfits, no doubt. She’d have a separate shoe rack, Josie guessed, for the sheer volume of sexy strappy shoes she owned, and . . .
Oh God! Why was this happening to her?
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there. Long enough to drink another large glass of wine, eat the rest of the chocolate biscuits and work her way through half a box of tissues anyway. Outside, the night seemed black-poster-paint dark, and she shivered as the stars wobbled smudgily through her tears. She dreaded it when Pete was away at night. Even though they had Christ knows how many security alarms and deadlocks everywhere, she hated lying there in bed alone, listening to a solitary car thrum by, or the wind gusting at the letterbox.
Well. Better get used to it, girl. Welcome to the future.
She stood up, swaying and holding on to the tabletop for support. God, she was horribly pissed. All the chocolate was making her teeth ache. She grabbed the phone and dialled his number. Time to tell her stupid, deceitful husband just what she thought of him.
Ring . . . Ring . . .
Answer it, you wanker.
Ring . . . Ring . . .
‘This is the voicemail for Peter Winter. Please leave a message after the tone.’
Josie licked her lips. Suddenly she felt very tired.
Beeeeep.
‘It’s Josie,’ she said. ‘Just phoning to tell you that . . .’
She stopped. She didn’t even know what to say.
She swayed; tried again. ‘To tell you that I really, really, REALLY hate you.’ She gazed out into the dark garden until her eyes lost focus. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this. I can’t believe you—’
Beeeeep.
‘Thank you for your message.’
Bloody hell. Even his mobile was against her. It was all a conspiracy.
Josie replaced the receiver. She put her solitary wine glass in the sink. The fridge was humming loudly, the clock ticking the minutes by. Time for bed. She was wrung out. She just didn’t want to be awake any more.
She hesitated by the front door before going upstairs. Usually Pete slid the bolts across before they went up to bed, a comforting
thunk, thunk
, locking them in from the night. That was his job, same as buying the wine, putting out the bins, washing the cars. Her fingers refused to push the bolts along tonight. What if he came back in a few hours, contrite and grovelling, and she’d locked him out?
She leaned against the door, struggling with the problem. Pete, just come back, she begged silently, feeling a headache begin to thump into life.
Please.
What would he be doing now? Had he gone to Sabine’s? A mate’s house? Was he driving round and round the M25, wondering what he could do to make things up to her?
She sighed after what seemed like an age, and peeled herself away from the door. She locked the mortice instead. That way he could still get into the house but she and the boys would be safe. She felt light-headed with relief that she’d done it, solved the problem by herself.
Before she went upstairs, she left Pete a note. For when he came back.
Gone to bed
, she wrote.
Curry in fridge if you want it. I taped
Match of the Day
for you. Josie x
‘Where’s Dad?’
Josie opened her eyes to see Toby two inches from her face. For a second it felt just like any other morning. Then everything came back to her with a horrible lurch.
Pete had gone. THUD.
Pete had left her. THUD.
Pete had fallen in love with somebody else.
Sabine.
THUD.
Josie put out a groggy arm to rub her son’s back. Whatever happened, she had to keep his world a safe place for as long as possible. ‘Um . . . he went to work early,’ she said. ‘Want to hop in for a cuddle?’
His eyes brightened, as she’d known they would. ‘Yeah!’
Josie held up the cover so that he could scramble in beside her, and put her arms around his wiry little body. He smelled of sleep and shampoo and innocence; the exact things that a four-year-old should smell of. She held him as his breathing slowed and he nestled into her. She felt as if her heart were breaking. How could she tell him? It would tip his whole life upside-down.
The world according to Toby was: Mum, Dad, Sam, running, jumping, climbing, bad jokes, farting in the bath, sausages and baked beans, strawberry Petits Filous, his battered blue teddy bear, Power Rangers, his fireman bike, chocolate buttons, Lego. Small things but important. They made up his universe, they defined him. Take away one of the pieces and it all fell apart. How was she going to do it to him?
Josie stroked his hair. The events of the night before seemed like a dream – or rather a nightmare. The worst losing-control nightmare possible – more terrifying than the exam-she-hadn’t-revised-for nightmare, or the no-clothes-in-public nightmare. It was worse, even, than the can’t-find-the-boys nightmare that made her wake in a pale sweat, heart thudding, eyes wide in fear, each time.
Josie. Pete. Even their names sounded wrong on their own. She’d been part of Josie-and-Pete, Pete-and-Josie for so many years. Who shall we invite for dinner? Oh, Emma-and-Will, Laura-and-Matthew. Josie-and-Pete.
Now she was just Josie. Or rather, Josie-and-the-boys. If Pete didn’t come back, she’d have to be everything to them, mum
and
dad. After Pete’s revelations, she couldn’t count on him for anything. She’d never trust another person again.
You think you know me? Boom! Wrong!
You think I meant all those promises we made, all those vows? Boom! Wrong!
Joke’s on you, Josie, you loser. You
fool.
She felt cold and clammy under the bedclothes, and rested her chin against Toby’s head for comfort. Monday morning, and all over the country mothers like her were making breakfast, sorting out school lunches and PE kits, finding shoes, going through the routine of just another ordinary day . . .
Not in this house. The rules had changed, the outlines of life shifted. She’d never woken up and had to think about single parenthood or maintenance payments before. Had never opened her eyes and felt sick with worry that she was going to ruin her children’s lives, break their hearts.
She could almost visualize a ghostly image of herself pulling on her dressing gown, carrying Toby downstairs, his arms tightly around the back of her neck, into the kitchen. The ghostly Josie flicked on the radio, changing it as usual from Radio 5 back to Radio 1, put on the kettle, made Weetabix for Toby, hugged Sam, who was trailing through the door bleary-eyed, and sat him on his chair . . .
She could almost hear her down there, that other self of hers, humming along with the radio, chattering to the boys about everything and nothing. Did you sleep well? What did you dream about? It’s sunny, isn’t it? What would you like to do today?
She shut her eyes, feeling hopeless. Why had she never appreciated the normality of it all before? Why had she ever been so keen to leave it all behind for a weekend in London?
The hours stretched emptily ahead of her. It wasn’t a playgroup day today. Somehow or other she had to fill the time with stuff, things to do to keep the boys busy, but she couldn’t think of a single idea. She just wanted to pull the duvet over her head and stay there all day.
Josie felt a sick ache spread through her as she thought about Pete. Was he waking up with Sabine, their sheets rucked up over their naked bodies after a night of liberated passion?
Was he whistling as he showered, another hard-on springing into life?
Maybe he was making Sabine a coffee – she probably drank it black, and skipped breakfast, Josie thought glumly. And then later he’d be dressing for work, driving a different, new way to the office, singing along to a CD with a smile on his face . . .
He should be with
her
right now, Josie, spooned the length of her, arm slung across her body, breathing into the back of her neck. That was where he
should
be. Even if one of the boys crept into their bed, he liked to slide a hand up her belly, still pretending to be asleep, until his fingers just brushed the underside of her breast. He knew it drove her crazy – knew she wouldn’t do anything saucy with Toby or Sam nearby – but he still tried it on, every single time.
Nobody would ever touch her like that again, Josie thought miserably. She’d be a dried-up old spinster, a lonely husk of an ex-wife. Those same breasts, that same belly, they’d wither and pouch and sag, with nobody ever seeing them again.
She remembered with a wrench all the times she’d pushed his hands off her. ‘Not tonight, darling.’
‘Not this morning, babe.’
‘Oh Pete, I’m trying to sleep’ . . .
She’d give anything to have him back. Even sex on tap, whenever he wanted it. Anything.
He would come back, though, wouldn’t he? Surely he would come back!
Josie stroked Toby’s hair, glad he couldn’t see the grief on her face. Whatever happened, the boys had to come first. She’d make it up to them by becoming their whole world, if that’s what it took.
But it wasn’t just the parenting she’d have to do alone, was it? It was the works. The mortgage and bills – Pete had always taken care of those. And the house . . . would he want to sell up? It was a joint mortgage, but there was no way she could pay it on her own. She hadn’t worked for the last four years. And Pete would need somewhere to live, wouldn’t he? What if he wanted to sell the house and buy himself a new flat with his share of the proceeds? He’d be perfectly entitled to.
Ripples of dread spread queasily through her. She’d have to put the boys in full-time nursery and get a job, so she could afford the payments on some squalid little bedsit for her and them, miles out of the catchment areas for all the good primary schools. They’d have to rent somewhere, and she’d be back to the days of complaining to anonymous landlords about unreliable boilers and damp patches; lying in bed listening to the
clack-clack
of other people’s feet walking above her head, the muffled shouts of other people’s arguments, other people’s sex. She’d thought those days had long gone, but now she was staring them full in the face again, only this time with two huge boy-shaped responsibilities, too. Oh Christ. Had it really come to this? What was she going to do? What was she going to
do?