I was shocked. Profoundly shocked. Over the weeks I’d come to terms with the fact that a whole world had been continuing somewhere without me; a world of Phil and Emma, Emma and Phil, and these visits of Emma’s to Phil’s family home only sketched in additional appalling detail. More grotesque background. But before, it was just the two of them. More people somehow gave the picture a density that I knew I was going to struggle to push against. It would be like holding back the tide to suggest that all four of these people had been wrong, had judged me unfairly, and that I was a perfectly pleasant human being. A doddle to be married to. Why should they all be mistaken? And yet it wasn’t true. It wasn’t fair. My breathing became laboured. I was a nice girl, surely? Not the girl in this picture?

I did try, though. To push. ‘He wanted out!’ I said shrilly, knowing my nostrils were flaring and my knuckles white as I gripped my handbag on my lap. ‘He only stayed for the children? Oh no, that was me! I was only there because I thought they were so young, so vulnerable.’ My throat filled with tears. I gulped them down. ‘I was the one who wanted to go – always!’

Even as I was protesting, part of my mind was wondering how often he’d heard this sort of thing. Sam, the divorce lawyer. Two people slugging it out unattractively, over children, money. But once I’d started, I felt compelled to finish.

‘I was the one who felt trapped. How dare he say he stayed with me for form’s sake! Out of duty! Ask my friends, ask anyone; they’ll all tell you. God, those bitches,’ I seethed. ‘I can’t believe my own in-laws, my children’s grandmother, their aunt, Aunt Cecilia – Christ!’ I could hear hysteria rising in my voice as I tumbled over my words.

‘I can see that’s very hard to reconcile.’

‘Very hard? Very hard!’

I wanted a cigarette badly and I hadn’t smoked for years. Instead, I twisted a strand of hair rapidly around my finger, another ancient method of restoring composure. I wondered what Phil had said to his mother and sister. Phil, who could do no wrong. Wondered if he’d told them I was a cold fish who gave him no comfort. Oh, I could picture the whole thing. Could see Phil taking Emma to Kent in her smocky white top, looking very different to the girl his mother and sister had met for lunch in London, a business lunch, to discuss their finances, in her power suit and heels.

‘You remember Emma?’ he’d have said, with no awkwardness. Phil didn’t do awkward; he had a towering sense of his own self-importance. His own entitlement. And Emma, with a bunch of flowers perhaps, would execute her practised, anxious smile.

‘Hello. How lovely to see you again. What a pretty house.’

Later, after coffee, Phil would confide in his mother, whilst Cecilia and Emma took a walk in the garden. This girl had brought some much-needed sunshine into his life. Much comfort. He’d never leave me, of course, never. He knew where his duty lay. But this was the real thing. True love. And Marjorie would nod, touch his hand. Her poor boy. Trapped in a loveless marriage. Of course, she’d always known it was a mistake. That dreadful father. She’d shudder. Whisky on his breath. That house, which she’d heard about from Phil. A slum, almost. Oh no, she wouldn’t condemn Phil. Instead, she’d say later to her daughter: poor boy, he deserves some happiness, and how like him to insist he can’t leave Poppy and the children. So little happened in Marjorie and Cecilia’s lives, I could see them thoroughly enjoying the subterfuge. Knowing something I didn’t; having a secret. It would exact a certain kind of revenge, which, let’s face it, was always best eaten cold. And they wanted revenge. They’d felt so robbed, you see, when we hadn’t gone to Kent to live, but had settled near my father instead. My friends. Their fury at the time had been unnerving.

‘But we assumed!’ Marjorie had spat at me in her immaculate kitchen, tight-lipped, spectacles glinting. ‘Cecilia and I had always assumed that you’d come here, to Ashford. That you’d stay near the village!’

And look after us, was what they meant.

But I’d put my foot down. And at the time I’d thought it the greatest expression of my fiancé’s love for me. The greatest capitulation, probably. One he’d immediately regretted.

‘Jesus,’ I muttered, only half to myself.

‘It certainly is a very unusual situation, I must say,’ Sam said uncomfortably.

I glanced up. Yes, of course it was. And as suddenly as the door to my fury had flown open, it slammed shut and another door gaped. Embarrassment. In it roared. This man, this lawyer, Sam Hetherington, didn’t know me. Not really. He didn’t know Marjorie or Cecilia, either. They could be quite delightful. They certainly had delightfully old-fashioned-sounding names. They could be sweet, gentle souls, sending anxious letters from Rose Cottage, the house on the letterhead. And I could be simply ghastly. With my powdered face and laddered tights. My overdone scent. My flirtatious manner. It seemed to me yet another door closed too. Softly, but firmly. Eyes glittering, I turned and stared out of the window at the day. It was still warm and clement, lovely for October, but the breeze through the open window seemed languid and heavy, whereas this morning it had been sweet with possibility.

‘And I’m afraid mother and daughter are also intending to make a claim. Join the ugly rush.’

I turned back to him. Nothing surprised me now. ‘Oh? On what basis?’ My voice came from elsewhere, detached.

‘On the basis that apparently your husband said he would provide for them in their dotage.’

‘They’re not in their dotage.’

‘No, but neither of them works, living as they do off your late father-in-law’s pension. But it wasn’t index-linked and is running out. Your husband knew that, and to that end intended to make a will which would be inclusive of them. That was why he’d gathered so much life insurance before he was killed.’

I regarded him steadily for a moment. This rang true. The only thing so far. Phil had gathered an unusual amount of life insurance. For a reason. I cleared my throat. ‘Do they have a case?’

‘In my opinion, no. You, as the wife and mother of his children, have rightly inherited his sole estate, as, I might add, most wives do.’

‘But they’ll fight it? I mean, if I refuse?’

‘Oh, they’ll fight it.’

‘Then we’ll fight back.’ Yesterday I’d have willingly given them some. But not now. Not when they’d so publicly humiliated me. ‘Write back and tell them so immediately. Tell them I won’t part with a penny.’

He made a quiescent face. ‘Could do, but that’s a fairly aggressive step. And you want to avoid slugging it out, particularly in court, which is heinously expensive. Although it might, eventually, be inevitable.’

Court. A vision of me trembling in the dock of an oak-panelled Old Bailey sprang to mind. Twelve stony-faced men and women staring accusingly at me. Cecilia and Marjorie in the gallery, weirdly wearing the hats they’d worn at my wedding, complete with quivering bird on Marjorie’s, except it was no longer a peacock, but a bird of prey. Their barrister, a hatchet-faced man, was cross-examining me: ‘Were you a good wife, Mrs Shilling? Were you?’ Silence. The judge reached for his black cap.

‘Right,’ I said miserably. ‘So … what would you advise?’

The fight had gone out of me and I felt like writing out a cheque. Three, actually. One to each of them. Emma, Marjorie and Cecilia. Oh no, four. I probably owed Sam too. Just leave me alone.

‘I would advise doing nothing at this stage and see whether they proceed. They haven’t actually issued proceedings, just written a couple of letters. Let’s see if it’s all hot air.’

‘Yes. Fine,’ I agreed.

I liked doing nothing. I was a big wait-and-see girl. My entire married life, it occurred to me, had been like that. Wait and see what happens. It might not be so bad. It was. Always. Why did divorce get such a bad name? Surely what I’d done was as bad? This ghastly acceptance? Surely it would have been braver to leave? Something small and hard and angry formed within me. I needed it to grow. I needed to take a steer on my life, that much was clear. I couldn’t let these Shillings walk all over me. I had to see them off, not just pathetically scramble clear of them occasionally, as I had done for years, dodging their blows.

‘Cup of tea?’ Sam asked quietly. I obviously looked very shocked.

‘Please.’

This small kindness touched me, and as he went to the door to ask Janice if she wouldn’t mind, I had to blink very hard.

He came back and sat down again; said one or two comforting things about people making threats all the time, and whilst it sounded dramatic, it was quite another thing to employ a solicitor, which they hadn’t yet done. Hadn’t put money where their mouths were. And anyway, even if lawyers were involved, it was often sorted out via correspondence.

‘I won’t have to see them?’ I asked, my voice coming from somewhere distant as Janice came in with the tea.

‘Not unless it goes to court, but we’ve already decided to try to avoid that at all costs.’

I nodded. Sipped my tea as he chatted, leaning forward with his arms on his desk. He offered me a biscuit, which I took but couldn’t eat, and even though I felt numb, a bit other-worldly, I couldn’t help noticing the elbow of his suit was very worn. The right one, the telephone-propping one, and the handle of his black case beside his chair was broken and tied with binder twine. Phil wouldn’t have been seen dead in a jacket like that or with a tatty briefcase, and I thought how much I liked Sam for it; and for somehow knowing I’d needed tea and a chat before I took to the high street.

Finally, when it became apparent that I couldn’t decently, or even indecently, take up any more of his time, that I’d been in his office for a good forty minutes and we both knew his next appointment had been sitting outside a while because Janice had popped in and told us so, I got to my feet. I felt warmer from the tea, if a little trembly.

‘You going to be all right?’ It was said briskly, but there was no doubting the concern. God, he was nice. But then most people were, weren’t they? I’d just been unlucky.

‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you. And thank you for your advice.’

It was a shame I saw him surreptitiously consult his watch as he walked me to the door. He smiled and we said goodbye.

Outside in the street, something made me glance back up at his building, my eyes finding his window on the second floor. But if I was expecting to see him standing there watching me go down the street, hands in pockets, a wistful expression on his face, I was disappointed.




14

‘I can’t believe it.’ Angie’s mouth, painted fuchsia pink, dropped open in disbelief. She left it there for dramatic emphasis.

‘I know. Neither can I. Well, no, I can, actually,’ I said miserably.

‘But what sort of man does that?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Ropes his entire family into his extramarital affair and asks them to conspire against his wife!’

‘Phil,’ I said quietly. ‘A Phil sort of man.’

‘And – and what sort of family,’ she blinked, ‘agrees! Colludes with their son? And his mistress? Gives the relationship their seal of approval!’

I squirmed. ‘Marjorie and Cecilia,’ I said mechanically, noticing Jennie wasn’t saying anything.

She had her back to us. Strapped into a long white pinny at her Aga, she was stirring a vast vat of boeuf bourguignon ready to be put into Tupperware dishes and thence local freezers. Angie and I were at her kitchen table. Angie had popped in to retrieve a pashmina she’d lent and wanted to wear to a charity luncheon. She’d found me, pale, hunched and in mid-flow to Jennie. Naturally the story had to be retold. And I would, of course, have told Angie eventually, but there was a definite hierarchy. I might have waited until I was more poised. No chance of that now. And Angie’s incredulity was hard to bear, reflecting, as I felt it did ineluctably, on me. Jennie too had been shocked, but she could believe it. She knew Phil, and she knew Marjorie and Cecilia.