The One Before the One (19 page)

Dad goes the next day. There’s an alternative health trade fair in Guildford and Healing Horizons have a stand.

‘I won’t go,’ he says at breakfast. ‘Your mum will be there, Alexis, and this is where I should be, being a dad, looking after you two, not bloody waffling on about changing your life to people when I’ve no idea what’s happening in my daughters’ lives.’

Lexi and I both laugh, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just the childlike way he says it, like he thinks he has to completely turn over a new leaf, be ‘Superdad’ all of a sudden.

None of us can really change at the end of the day, I suppose. Dad will always be in cloud-cuckoo-land, a little wrapped up in himself, and maybe I’ll always be a bit spiky, not quite the open, charming book that Lexi is proving to be. Deep down, a part of me has always blamed Dad for my disastrous love life. But there’s only so long you can do that, isn’t there? Before you just bore yourself rigid and need to get on with things.

Perhaps I’ll always have a little gap that my father never quite filled. But he can’t fill it for me now, anyway, it’s too late. So I say:

‘Dad, go.’

Healing Horizons makes him happy, it makes him feel good, it’s filled his hole.

‘Yeah, Dad, don’t stay, please,’ says Lex, laughing. ‘I don’t think I can deal with any more hippy bonding, or breakdowns in KFC, or any more heart-to-hearts. I think I’ll be all right now.’

Dad sits there for a second, breaks the top of his egg off with his spoon. ‘Well, I know when I’m no longer needed,’ he says, eventually, then we all burst out laughing. ‘I’ll bugger off then. You’re on your own, kids.’

Dad’s gone and I have a little laugh to myself as I imagine him at his Healing Horizons stand, knowing yesterday he was a wreck in KFC. I go and lie down on my bed. I’m taking another day off, a personal day, and so is Lexi. I rang SCD yesterday and told them that we had some urgent family problems we had to sort, that we’d be in on Wednesday. I turn over, and that’s when I notice my notebook on the side table and pick it up.

It seems like an age away now since I first started writing the To Do list. Even the handwriting looks different in places, (the mad scribblings of an unhinged control freak, perhaps?).

I lie on my bed, listening to the soft cry of children playing somewhere in the distance, and I start to read, and it’s only as I do that I realize I’m smiling, the slightly knowing, slightly cringing smile of an adult reading their teenage diary entry.

Make something with quinoa.

Sort out photo albums (buy photo corners).

Get drippy tap fixed …

It’s like I’m not just remembering the stupid tasks I set myself, but the memories surrounding them. I remember the quinoa dinner, the way the hard little pellets stuck in my throat, the all-consuming fear I felt at the prospect of going to the barbecue and the desperation that Lexi came too. I wanted her to be a
human shield that day and that’s exactly what she was, it’s just I was so wrapped up in alcohol-fuelled humiliation that I didn’t even notice. Get drippy tap fixed … I remember that day too, the way the sun shone in through the kitchen window, the way Martin’s builder’s bum poked out from underneath the sink, making me feel uneasy that he was there in my house – which was once our house – helping me.

There’s a knock at my door, Lexi’s soft voice.

‘Hi. Can I come in?’

She opens the door. She looks drained from the previous day’s events. In her heart pyjamas, she sits on my bed and smiles at me.

‘What are you doing?’ she says.

I close the book.

‘Oh, just reading this rubbish,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing, really.’

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘What is it, can I see?’

‘It’s my To Do list,’ I say. ‘My brilliant To Do list!’

‘Read it,’ she says. ‘Go on, I’m interested.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’

She does and I do. I read bits of it aloud and it feels more ridiculous than ever.

‘Make something with quinoa.’

She smirks.

‘Oi!’ I say. ‘You promised you wouldn’t.’

‘Well, that was disgusting,’ she says, ‘truly revolting. What else is on there? Come on, this is fun!’

‘Go to art event …’

‘What, the pictures of soil?’

‘Yeah, that’ll be the one. Buy photo corners,’ I say.

‘I can’t believe you make lists about this stuff.’

Then, out of nowhere, I start to cry.

‘What’s wrong?’ she says.

‘Oh, I don’t know, I just really screwed up. You know, I did those photos the other night and I just ended up in tears.’

‘But why?’ she says and I lean my head on hers.

‘Because there were so many photos of us, Lex, you as a baby, me the mardy teenager, and I realized I’d wasted so much. When I should have been loving you, my cute little sister, I just resented you, I wished you weren’t there.’

She looks at me with wide eyes. ‘You resented me?’ she says. ‘But I never felt that, Caroline, ever, not ever.’

‘Really?’ I say, in disbelief. ‘That never came across?’

‘Really,’ she says. ‘If you did, you made a fantastic job of hiding it.’

We lie on my bed and we say nothing for a while, then she says, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Oh God!’ I groan. ‘Am I going to like this?’

‘Let’s make a new one, a new Master list. You made one for me and now it’s your turn.’

I tear a page of A4 from the pad beside me and then, sitting on my bed, we make a new To Do list – this time, Lexi’s one for me. She writes – as I sit there, nodding my head – in her fat, teenage writing with the circles for Is.

No. 1: Stop stringing him along …

It occurs to me as I walk to meet Martin that evening that everywhere in Battersea holds fragments of us; the ashes of our relationship are scattered everywhere.

It’s been raining again; a sudden, summer downpour and even the way the clouds look – a giant, white mountain gliding like an iceberg to reveal new blue sky – reminds me of him, of Sundays together at home when the weather would clear up and the evening held new promise.

I loved those evenings, especially last summer, our last one together when I knew in my heart that Martin and I were not going to make it and rainy weekends holed up in the house could feel interminable. On those evenings, the post-shower sunshine was like a comfort blanket that I could snuggle under just that bit longer: just one more walk around the lake in Battersea Park. One more ice cream together at the café by the lake; one more Kir Royale at the Duke of Cambridge.

One more day before I tell him.

God, I’ve dragged this relationship out. It’s been like the last, painful days of a terminal illness sometimes: the last walk, the last summer, the last kiss. No matter how sure I was that he wasn’t the One, that I couldn’t marry him, I couldn’t end it
either. It was during those rainbows, the blasts of sunshine, that I got the fleeting rushes of hope – maybe, just maybe … before the light dimmed again and slid beneath a cloud.

But there’s to be no more maybes. No more wishful thinking or drunken sentimentality. Lexi’s right. You can’t keep people. They’re not to be collected, preserved like jams. Sooner or later, you have to let them go.

This is what I am on my way to do now and why I am filled with a new sense of promise – a different kind – the promise of release, of finally letting go.

Martin suggested meeting in the Duke but that didn’t feel right – too many good memories. So we’re meeting at the Latchmere on Battersea Park Road.

He’s one of only three people in there when I arrive, standing at the bar, one foot crossed over the other, arms folded, pint of bitter in hand. Body language closed.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say, breathless. ‘I set off, then it started spitting again and I’d forgotten my umbrella so I went back and—’

Martin blows air through his nose.

‘It’s default mode with you, isn’t it?’ There’s a snipe in his voice I’ve never heard before. ‘You’re not even late. I was early.’

‘Sorry.’

He wipes his brow with a shaky hand. ‘Whatever. Let’s just sit down.’

We take our drinks to a squishy brown leather sofa by the fireplace, me perching on the edge of the seat, my stomach clenched tight.

‘So, what is it you wanted to say?’ he asks, as if this is a business meeting and he wants to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. I search his face for signs of warmth but there are none. It’s in that moment that I know how much I’ve hurt him.

I clear my throat; this is even harder than I thought it was going to be.

‘I just wanted to say, I’m sorry.’

‘Right. For what?’ He narrows his eyes at me.

‘For lying to Lexi for starters, or at least for evading the truth. She’s been so mean to you and it’s all been because of me, because I wasn’t brave or big enough to just come clean.’

Martin pulls his chin back and purses his lips, as if, if he didn’t contort every muscle in his face and hold it tight, it might crumple. He might cry.

‘Why didn’t you just tell her?’

‘I was a coward, Martin, that’s why,’ I answer. ‘You know me …’

He says, ‘I thought I did.’ It makes me want to cry.

‘I was the big sister living in London, the achiever, the one who never fucked up or disappointed people, but I have disappointed you.’

‘Yes, you have.’

‘After everything that’s happened, me calling off the wedding, you moving out, the last thing you deserved was that. You deserved nothing but honesty …’

Martin moves nervously in his seat, his eyes shifting from side to side as if he’s scared of what he might be about to hear next.

‘Which is why I’ve decided to be honest with you. I mean
completely
honest. I have something to tell you, Martin.’

Just as the words are about to leave my mouth –
the relief.
God. Why didn’t I just do this before? I’ve been so scared of cutting all my ties, burning all my bridges, I’ve been so selfish and disingenuous. If I’d have just told him this sooner – when he asked me in the Duke all those weeks ago, it would have given him the message loud and clear.

‘I’m seeing someone’, I say, finally.

Martin looks as if he’s going to throw up.

‘How long?’ he says.

‘Six months,’ I say.

‘
Six months.
Who?’

‘Toby.’

‘What?’
This time it’s almost a whisper. ‘Toby, who you work with? Toby Delaney, who I’ve met?’ I nod my head slowly. ‘But he’s
married.’

‘Yes.’ For some reason, the enormity of this fact hadn’t struck me. It was secondary to me. Surely the fact I was seeing someone was the main thing? Oh, but no. Martin’s looking at me as if for the first time – and not in a good way – as if the last fourteen years have meant nothing, because I am not the woman he thought I was.

‘He’s
married,
Caroline.’

‘I know.’

‘He has a
wife.
Who you have met, I believe?’

‘Yes, and she’s lovely.’

‘So you’ve been having an affair with someone else’s husband? With a married man? You, of all people?’

‘Well yes, but …’ I don’t know what to say. It hadn’t occurred to me that the fact he was married would be an issue,
the
issue. I hadn’t thought that would be the thing he would focus on or even care about really. But there’s a look on Martin’s face, his lip is curling, his nostrils flared. Disgust. He’s disgusted with me! This is the man who’s always thought I could do no wrong, who has put me on a pedestal, his Caro, and now? ‘You’ve disappointed me.’

He says it so quietly.

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, you’ve disappointed me. I’m shocked, actually. Of all the people in all the world …’ He’s shaking his head, he can’t take this in.

‘Martin, I didn’t mean it to happen, for God’s sake. I never
meant to fall for a married man, I didn’t mean to fall in love …’

‘You’re in
love
with him?’ He blinks hard at me.

‘Yes. I mean, I was, I am …’

‘Jesus Christ, Caroline.’

I am crying now.

‘I should have told you earlier, I should have told you ages ago when it started but I – I just couldn’t. And I was so confused and such a mess and kept thinking I could stop it, but I couldn’t. I know it’s wrong but I just couldn’t help myself.’

Surely this isn’t fair? He’s overreacting? I feel like I’ve committed the most heinous crime in the world. Like I’ve murdered someone, for God’s sake. He doesn’t say anything, he just frowns at me – that look again – like I’m a stranger, like he never really knew me at all. It makes me feel dirty and ashamed and heartbroken. I have lost him.

‘I tried to stop.’ I’m sobbing now. ‘I tried to do the right thing but I couldn’t help my feelings, Martin.’

He gives a cruel laugh.

‘You know what?’ he says. ‘I’m pretty sick of your feelings. The way
you
feel. Women think they can get away with anything. They think they can hurt people and sleep with who they want and fall in love with whoever they want because of their feelings, because, oh, they’re
emotional.’
He gives a sarcastic little shake of his head. ‘But what about what is
right?
And what about my feelings? You know, this whole thing, the calling off the wedding, this whole year stringing me along?’

‘Stringing you along?’

‘Yes. Stringing me along. Don’t pretend you didn’t know what you were doing. It’s all been about your feelings, Caroline. All about you.’

I put my face in my hands.

‘I know, I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, I feel so guilty,’ he starts. ‘Oh, it’s such a shame it didn’t work out. Oh, wouldn’t it be great if it could work out? Maybe I hadn’t had long enough to get my head around the idea of getting married, even though we’d been together for
fourteen
years. Maybe, just maybe? And I believed you – you gave me hope. I still
hoped,
don’t you get it? I listened to what you said and I thought maybe, too. I thought it was just a matter of time before you came round, that it was all worth fighting for.’

‘I’m so sorry, Martin …’ I reach out and put my hand on his arm but he moves it away.

‘I even tried to move on,’ he says, ‘but you wouldn’t let me. I had a chance with Polly and I blew it because of you – I pushed her away. You called me up when Lexi went missing, you seemed so jealous of Polly – I mean, why were you so jealous about Polly if you don’t love me any more?’

Because I
was
jealous. It’s not that simple, Martin. It’s just not that simple.

‘I took all those signs and I thought they meant something, but really it was all about your guilt and your regrets and you, you, you, when you had no intention of getting back together with me, when all the time you were shagging a married man!’

Martin never uses words like shagging and it sounds faintly ridiculous.

We sit in silence. In the whole time we have known one another, we have never been lost for words. My heart is beating, my skin crawling with self-loathing. I’ve been so stupid and self-absorbed, so plain inconsiderate of his feelings. All the time I thought I was just feeling those feelings – the guilt, the regret, and the jealousy I felt towards Polly – I was actually speaking them aloud. I was transferring it all to him and, all the time, he was reading into everything I said.

Martin sighs.

‘Look, Caroline,’ he says. His tone is softer now, more like his normal one. ‘I don’t blame you for dumping me, for calling off the wedding. It hurt like hell but that’s just life – there’s no right and wrong in falling out of love with someone. It just is. But having an affair with a married man? I simply cannot believe …’

‘I know. I know what you’re going to say.’

‘The number of times we’ve talked about your mother,’ he says, more fatherly now. ‘How it destroyed her life,
your
childhood. How you lost your dad because of an affair, how you saw your mum lose all her confidence in life and in men.’

I squeeze my eyes shut. He is right. So right.

‘That’s what happens when people let their feelings rule everything – that’s all I’m saying, really. And I’m no model of perfection. I know I can be a fastidious bore and probably patronising at times, but I really believe that sometimes, no matter how much you don’t want to, you just have to do the right thing, even if that’s not necessarily the right thing for you.’

We leave the pub after one drink. We’ve said everything there is to say and this wasn’t a social occasion. The air is cool and damp after the rain; you can almost detect the faint, smokiness of autumn threatening to arrive.

We stand outside, me with my arms folded, Martin with his hands in his pockets.

‘’Bye then,’ I say.

‘Yeah, ’bye, Caro,’ says Martin.

He goes to kiss me on the cheek but I interrupt him. ‘Look, can I just say …’

‘Do you have to?’ he says, not unkindly. ‘Because, to be honest, I’m not sure I want to hear it.’

I look at him. His face is open and kind, not even a flicker of malice. A little piece of me will always love you, I think.

‘Okay,’ I say to him. ‘Okay, I know.’

And then I kiss him, lingering slightly too long on his cheek and then I walk away and I don’t look back.

I don’t feel like going home immediately, so I take a little detour down Albert Bridge Road. It’s lined with trees in their height of summer fullness, the tall, redbrick mansion blocks glowing under a fingernail moon.

I close my eyes and inhale the scent from the park on my right, which is shrouded in eerie darkness now, at this time of night.

‘
I can’t believe you
.’ I say it out loud to myself. I can’t believe how you could have got it so wrong. Fucked up so monumentally.

I’ve spent my whole life resisting being sucked under by love, shadow boxing rather than being hit in the face because I was scared of the pain, and then I choose to do it with a married man. I surrender everything for someone I can never have and who probably never wanted me. Not really.

In some deluded way, I thought that telling Martin I was seeing someone would be all very big of me. It would give him the message it was never going to happen between us. I never considered that him being appalled that I was seeing a married man would overshadow any sort of effort to ‘do the right thing’ by me. If both Lexi and Martin think sleeping with someone else’s husband is so wrong then maybe they’re right. No, they
are
right. The question is, can I even pull myself away?

I turn left down Prince Albert Street towards home. It’s surprisingly quiet this close to the river side of Battersea at this time of night, just the faint coo of a wood pigeon and the odd, half-hearted rev of a black-cab’s engine as it trundles down the deserted streets.

I’ll just pop into the Spar, I think, buy a pint of milk so I
can have a cup of tea when I get home, but just as I am going in, I hear a familiar voice.

‘Hey, Caroline.’

I notice the shoes first: grubby, red Converse, the laces undone. I look up. It’s Wayne, wearing the oily, out-of-shape jumper and carrying a loaf of white bread and a Spar plastic bag.

‘Hi,’ I say. There are those eyes again: such an unusual pale-green colour flecked with black. I self-consciously put my hand to my face – this is the last person I want to see when I’m looking like crap, my head too full of Martin to have a polite conversation.

‘So what are you …?’ We both start to say then laugh, nervously.

‘I just met a friend at the Latchmere.’

He peers at me, concerned.

‘Are you all right?’ he says.

‘Yes, I’m fine, anyway, um … Wine?’ I say, indicating the bag he’s holding, which is clinking now, next to his leg. ‘Quiet night in?’