Gabby has texted Claire a few times, receiving responses that are barely responses, their abruptness and detachment supposedly mitigated by an emoticon of a smiley face or a frown.
Cant. Frantic :(
Maybe tomorrow
Am good. Talk later! :)
But they don’t talk later. They don’t talk at all. Gabby has left voicemail messages on Claire’s mobile phone, thinking this would be a sure way to get hold of her, but they have not been returned.
There are other women Gabby could talk to, but none she trusts in the way she trusts Claire.
Never has she felt more alone than now, abandoned by her husband, daughter and best friend.
She examines her sideways reflection. She might have got away with saying she’s just put on weight, but anyone who knows would see she is pregnant. It isn’t just the weight, it’s the shape. Her breasts are full and heavy, her stomach extended in a way that can only suggest a baby. Mid-life weight gain is often around the belly, she
knows, but it is soft and fleshy, not low and firm as hers is.
Do people know? Gabby has no idea whether people are gossiping or not but she assumes they are, and at times like this she is aware of living in a very small town. All it takes is one person to tell another. Even though she trusts Claire not to speak, even now, she knows Olivia will not be able to hold it in. Olivia will have told a friend, who will have told her mother, who will have spread it around town.
Her phone has rung more of late. Not her mobile – anyone who really wants to get hold of her knows to call only her mobile phone for she never picks up the one at home – but the home phone has been ringing frequently, especially since school has begun again. She always lets it go to the machine and doesn’t bother listening, but occasionally she scrolls through the display to see the numbers that have called, noting that various women she knows only vaguely are phoning her. These are women who never ring her, but they are doubtless phoning under some pretext – would she like to help with the bake sale; does she have a piece of furniture she’d like to donate to the upcoming auction – because they are, in fact, just itching to find out what’s going on, to be able to go to school tomorrow and whisper excitedly that they know something no one else knows.
Gabby has to go to school today. It is the seventh-grade Poetry Café, and even though she would do almost anything to avoid being there she knows she must make the effort.
When they were tiny, in kindergarten and first grade, she made a decision, based largely on the fact she had a mother entirely uninterested in her school life, that she would go to everything.
While not very keen to be a room mother, or volunteer extensively, for years she has shown up for every reading, performance, concert.
In the early days Gabby needed to go, not just to see the girls perform, but to try to make herself part of the community. She has tried so hard to make herself fit in, and yet she still feels as though she has never quite managed it. She has copied the uniform of bootleg jeans and clogs, puffy vests, cute scarves. She has entered into conversations about babysitters and sports teams, dance classes and softball coaches – conversations she so often finds mindless – with an enthusiasm she doesn’t feel. She has grown accustomed to showing up to Saturday morning games with her collapsible chair and coffee in a portable mug, setting up the chair in a huddle of other mothers. She has become used to the gossipy chat being interrupted time and time again as, one by one, each mother puts the conversation on hold and screams words of encouragement when it is her daughter’s turn, paying attention to the group again only when the daughter goes back to the dugout, at which point the game is ignored again until another of the daughters is up.
Gabby has had to learn all the rules, the rules of the games as well as the social rules. From the outside, she looks and behaves like the other mothers; if you
ignore her accent, still so very English, she speaks like the others, uses the same language, the same cadences, but inside she knows she doesn’t belong.
Inside she knows she can dress, speak, pretend as much as she wants to, but you cannot take a girl from north-west London, drop her in suburban Connecticut and expect her to fit in.
None of which bothers her now. She is used to her life, loves her life, and only ever misses the sophistication and glamour of London when she – very occasionally – goes back there, but today she isn’t sure she is up to the pretence. Today she isn’t sure she can stand there and make small talk about softball, or gossip about coaches, or ask questions about how the house renovation is coming along.
Today she’d much rather stay at home and hide. If it wasn’t for Alanna, forgiving, loving, lovely Alanna, that is exactly what she would do. She is wearing yoga pants that are stretched to a shine over her burgeoning bump, with a long tunic-style T-shirt and a voluminous scarf that drapes round her neck and falls in generous folds, covering her torso in swathes of linen.
If they don’t know she’s pregnant they might not necessarily guess today. Gabby takes a deep breath. She doesn’t have to do anything other than smile and be polite. And if Claire is there, which she undoubtedly will be, maybe they can grab a coffee afterwards. Perhaps when Claire sees Gabby at the Poetry Café she will be able to forgive her; perhaps she will be able to be a true friend still.
As usual, Gabby is late. She pops into the school office to sign in, then walks quickly down the hallway to the library. The homeroom teacher is talking, introducing the Language Arts project, as Gabby waves at the couple of women who look up to see who has come in.
In the front row is Claire. She does not turn round but Gabby can see her profile and would recognize her anywhere.
Next to her is Elliott.
Gabby is shaken. She takes a seat in the back row, her mind whirring. Why is Elliott here? He never comes to school events; he is always too busy with work to make it to anything. How did he even organize his schedule to be here, and why? This is her domain; it has always been her domain. She looks around the room at the handful of other fathers that are always there, fathers who work from home, who run their own hedge funds in town, who are on ‘gardening leave’, the ironic but oh-so-handy euphemism for being unemployed.
Elliott is not one of those fathers. Had this happened before she would have been delighted; nothing would have made her happier than Elliott turning up unexpectedly at an event at school. But now this feels
like a betrayal. She cannot take her eyes off the back of his head. He is her husband, the man she loves. He shouldn’t be sitting over there, so far away. If he is here, he should be by her side.
But the chasm between them is growing wider and wider, and she still struggles to understand how something so good can fall apart so quickly and so easily. It doesn’t make sense to her that everything they have built up over twenty years can be ruined by one moment of madness.
Claire turns and looks straight at Gabby, who smiles awkwardly and raises her hand in an almost-wave. Claire smiles in return, then turns back. Gabby watches to see if she will tell Elliott, and sure enough, a couple of minutes later, Claire tilts her head to Elliott’s and clearly tells him. Gabby knows this because his shoulders tense immediately, while hers sag in dismay.
Elliott has been avoiding her, and Olivia refuses to see her. Gabby drives Alanna back and forth to Claire’s house to stay with Elliott, never getting out of the car, texting Alanna from her position of safety if she needs to let her know she is outside. She asks Alanna if Dad is coming out, but Alanna always says no, and Gabby doesn’t want to put her in the middle, doesn’t want to ask Alanna to tell Elliott to come outside.
Nor can she walk up the garden path and into the house in the way she has done a million times before. This house is now surrounded by an invisible barrier that keeps Gabby out. Gabby isn’t the type to trample
on boundaries, to walk into homes where she knows she is unwanted. She has already pictured the look of shock and dismay on the faces of all of them should she have the temerity to walk into the kitchen.
No. That isn’t something Gabby will be doing.
Alanna steps up to the front of the class, a piece of white paper held firmly in her hands. Poised and confident, she reads a poem she has written about fall. Gabby’s heart threatens to burst with pride. Cheering and clapping, she has to physically restrain herself from jumping up and throwing her arms round her little girl.
As Alanna goes back to her seat Gabby catches Elliott staring at his daughter, and the expression on his face is exactly the same as on hers. Pride and love. An acknowledgment of the extraordinary girl they have created.
If only he would look at Gabby that way too.
Gabby is standing by the table that has been covered with paper plates of snacks: chocolate-chip cookies, cut-up chunks of cantaloupe, cheese sticks, grapes, chocolate brownies.
The children have raided the snack table, but Gabby is helping herself to the brownies. She would not normally allow herself to eat them but she is pregnant – although never, during her last two pregnancies, did she use that as an excuse to eat whatever she wanted. She
remembers being terrified of becoming a whale, of never being able to get rid of the excess weight.
This time round she doesn’t care. She’s a pregnant single mother, or at least it looks that way. If she can’t comfort herself with food, what hope is left?
She turns, chewing a mouthful of brownie, to find herself inches from Elliott, so achingly familiar and lovely it almost makes her burst into tears there and then. His twinkling blue eyes. The stubble that never goes away, even immediately after he shaves. His Barbour, the coat she bought him for his fortieth birthday, which smells of waxed cotton and of Elliott, and is so lived-in and loved it is now as soft as silk. All of him is hers. Was hers. His strong, masculine hands. His salt-and-pepper hair, as tousled as ever. She wants to reach up, as she always does, to tuck the stray bits back, but she no longer has that right.
This is her husband, her man, her best friend. The man to whom she has told everything for twenty years, yet now she finds herself looking at him with no idea what to say.
Elliott clears his throat. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
There is an awkward silence.
‘You look good.’ She is lying, because in fact he looks terrible. His face is gaunt, his clothes are hanging off him.
‘I look terrible,’ he says.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. You look terrible. Can I
just …’ And she reaches up to tuck back his hair, except when he realizes what she’s doing he turns his head sharply, so she brushes the air and has to withdraw her hand, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘Just … your hair.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He brushes it back himself. ‘Alanna was good, wasn’t she?’
‘I was so proud.’ Gabby puts her hand on her heart. ‘Our little girl. Who knew she had such a talent for poetry? And performing!’
‘Who knew?’ echoes Elliott.
‘How did you get time off work?’
‘Harvey’s taking my patients while I’m here. I thought it best, while we figure things out, to be there for the kids. They need both of us. Especially now.’
Gabby tries to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘Elliott, can we talk? I know it’s been only a few weeks, and I know you may not be ready, but there’s stuff we have to figure out. I can’t keep driving Alanna back and forth, and I need to see Olivia.’
‘She doesn’t want to see you.’
‘I know. But I’m her mother. She and I have to work this out. Please, Elliott. Can we at least have coffee? Can we just sit down and talk about it?’
Elliott thinks, then nods. ‘Okay. Coffee.’
‘Do you want to come over after this?’
‘No!’ He is vehement. Nothing would cause him more pain right now than going back to the house he
no longer lives in, back to the life he has been forced to leave. ‘I’ll meet you at Starbucks on the Post Road. In an hour?’
Gabby, seeing a glimmer of hope, agrees. ‘Okay. An hour.’ She walks towards the door, turning, surprised, when she feels a hand on her arm. It is Claire.
‘How are you?’ Claire’s face is filled with sadness.
‘Pretty terrible. How are you?’
‘Okay. Fat. Emotional. Tired.’
‘How’s Elliott?’
‘You were just talking to him.’
‘I know, but you’re with him every night, Claire. How is he?’
Claire looks at her for a few seconds before shrugging. ‘He’s pretty terrible too. He cries at night. A lot. Sometimes I have to take him in my arms and hold him until he stops. Tim has tried to take him out with the boys for a drink, to take his mind off it, but he doesn’t want to do anything other than sit on the sofa and cry. He pretends to be okay until Olivia goes to bed, but then his pain just fills the house and –’
‘Oh God, Claire. Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because you asked, Gabby. I don’t know what to say. I’m trying so hard to forgive you, and I love you and Elliott so much, and … that’s why I’m struggling. I can’t see him in this kind of pain and get together with you and pretend I’m okay with all of it.’
‘I’m not asking you to pretend to be okay with all of
it. I don’t expect you to be okay with it. God, I’m not okay with it. I’m disgusted with myself. I am ashamed, and if I could think of anything in the world I could do to change it, I would. Jesus, Claire …’ Gabby fights to keep her voice low enough that it doesn’t project to everyone in the room. ‘If I could, do you not think I would turn back the clock? I’m twenty-five weeks pregnant and there is nothing I can do about it other than feel sick for ruining my life, everyone’s life, with one mistake. Sick. And disgusted. And the last thing I need is for my best friend to abandon me through this. The last thing I need is to feel judged, and hated, by you.’ Tears are now streaming down Gabby’s cheeks.
‘I could never hate you,’ whispers Claire. ‘I love you, but I can’t be there for both of you. It’s too draining. This isn’t my choice. It isn’t that I’ve chosen Elliott over you, but Elliott has chosen us, and I haven’t got the strength right now for both of you. I’m sorry. I know you won’t understand …’
‘You’re right,’ Gabby snaps, whirling as she prepares to leave the room. ‘I don’t understand.’
There is a table in the corner of Starbucks, by the window, which Gabby grabs, cradling her green tea as she looks out onto the Post Road, lulled into calm by the passing cars. She still can’t believe the conversation she had with Claire, can’t believe that, despite the way
Claire has decided to reframe it in her mind, Claire has chosen Elliott over Gabby.
And then there were none, she thinks.
She looks up to see Elliott approaching the table.
‘Hi. Sorry I’m a bit late.’ He sits down as Gabby jumps up.
‘Let me get you something,’ she blurts, in a reversal of their roles, for Elliott would always be the one to get coffee, or food, or anything, while Gabby and the girls sat at the table.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘You must have something. Tea? I’m drinking green tea. It’s good. You’ll like it.’
‘Okay,’ he acquiesces. ‘Sure.’
She goes to the counter to place the order, knowing this would never happen if they were still a couple. Elliott would automatically order the tea, pulling his wallet from his pocket to pay for it. Back at the table she sets down his mug and sits.
‘Thanks. I just came from the realtor’s office.’ Elliott takes a sip of his tea. ‘That’s why I was late. They’re going to phone you to make an appointment to come and value the house.’
Gabby stares at him. ‘What?’
‘I thought it would make sense to sell the house, and even though they don’t recommend putting it on the market until the spring, I’d like to have an idea of what it’s worth.’
‘Why would we sell the house?’
Elliott snorts. ‘Gabby, if we’re not together, we each need money for our separate homes, and the only place that money’s going to come from is the house. This is the most practical solution.’
Gabby’s heart is pounding. ‘If we’re not together. But what if we are? What if we are able to work through this? What if we get back together, but we’ve lost our home? Elliott, you and I both love the house; think of all the work we put into it. We can’t sell our house.’ There is an urgency to her voice.
‘Gabby,’ he says quietly, ‘I don’t think there’s anything to work through.’
She makes an effort to calm her voice, even though her body is jittery with panic. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’re pregnant with a baby by another man. That’s it. It’s done.’
‘You want to divorce me?’ Of course deep down she knew that this was the way things were going, but they haven’t mentioned the D word before and she thought, hoped, that as long as it wasn’t mentioned then getting back together was always a possibility.
Elliott stares at the table, grimacing with discomfort and pain, unable to believe he is sitting inches from his wife and having this discussion with her, the woman he thought he would spend the rest of his life with, the woman he imagined growing old with, a woman so perfect for him he has never, not for a second, even thought about anyone else.
‘No,’ he says, looking up at her, wincing as he speaks. ‘I don’t want to divorce you. But you’ve left me no other choice.’
Gabby holds it in until she is in her car. She holds it in until she turns onto Center Street. She holds it in until she finds a quiet spot on the side of an empty street at the edge of town, where she parks, hides her head in her hands, and howls.
Putting her head back she screams at the roof of the car, pounding the steering wheel until, exhausted, she just lays her forehead on the wheel and sobs, moaning in pain.
Her mobile phone rings. Maybe it’s Elliott. It must be Elliott. He must be phoning to say he made a terrible mistake; he’s thought things through and he can’t throw away twenty years of marriage like this. Frantically she roots through her handbag, pulling out the crap that mysteriously makes its way into all her bags – tissues, earplugs, leaflets, more leaflets, tampons with torn wrappers, hair bands – until she finds the phone.
It isn’t Elliott. It’s her mum.
‘Darling!’ Natasha trills down the phone. ‘I haven’t heard from you for ages. I just turned to your father earlier and said, “Have you heard from our naughty daughter recently?” And he said, “Not for months.” So I decided to call! How are you? And how are my gorgeous granddaughters?’
‘Hi, Mum.’ Gabby’s voice is reedy and thin, despite her attempt to disguise her tears. ‘We’re good.’
‘You don’t sound good, darling. You sound terrible. What’s the matter? Do you have a cold?’
Gabby has never turned to her mother in her life. Her mother, who was there for everyone else, who took in strangers and helped them sort out their lives, is the very last person Gabby would ever think to turn in a crisis.
She rarely thinks to call them, and they, she assumes, are too wrapped up in their own worlds to call her. She loves her parents, naturally, but when people talk of their support systems, their families, Gabby has always known that the only support system to whom she would turn is her family of choice: Elliott, the girls, Claire.
Now that support system has broken down, and the only person that’s left is the woman on the end of the phone right now.
‘I don’t have a cold.’ Gabby can feel herself starting to break down. ‘Elliott’s left me.’
Natasha doesn’t say a word of interruption, just lets her daughter tell her the whole story. She asks questions when necessary, prompts Gabby when needed, but there is no judgement in her voice, only kindness, compassion and love.