Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis

Praise for Robyn Harding

Unravelled

“
Unravelled
is a wonderful story of friendship and finding yourself. I loved it!”

—Carole Matthews, author of
Welcome to the Real World

and
With or Without You

“
Unravelled
never drops a stitch. An enjoyable read from beginning to end.”

—Mary Francis Moore, co-author of
The Bittergirls

“Escape into this quirky story of failed romance, friendship, and selfdiscovery—no knitting required!”

—Annabel Fitzsimmons, co-author of
The Bittergirls

“Funny and wholly engrossing…. You won’t be able to put it down.”

—Sarah Mlynowski, author of
Milkrun
and
Me Vs Me

“
Unravelled
is a zippy summer read that won’t let you drop any stitches as you flip through the pages.”

—Elle Canada

The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom

“[Robyn Harding] concocts a deft comic look at suburban marriage malaise and a surprising remedy—a friend’s murder that turns her into an unlikely sleuth; contender for best book title of the season.”

—Seattle Post-Intelligencer

“This hilarious tale of motherhood, marriage, murder and suburban lust is laugh-out-loud funny.”

—Tucson Citizen

“Ms. Harding creates characters and a story that will not be forgotten.”

—Coffeetimeromance.com

“Are you looking for something light, fun, and funny to finish your summer out? Look no further than this novel.
The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom
is a breezy Paige-turner, and you’ll want to share it with all your friends.”

—The Herald-Standard,
Pennsylvania

The Journal of Mortifying Moments

“Painfully funny … Harding is a skilled writer who is able to transcend and even exploit cliché. ...
The Journal of Mortifying Moments
is light fiction executed by a writer who knows her craft.”

—The Boston Globe

“Journal scores with Kerry’s laugh-out-loud tales of shame.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Kerry’s cringe-worthy worst memories are laugh-out-loud funny, and chick lit fans will applaud her honest efforts to break bad behavior patterns.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This is a big, big winner [that] should securely launch Harding on a long and happy career.”

—Kingston Observer

“Kerry’s quest to discover the secret to happiness adds up to a laugh-outloud comical read.”

—Chatelaine

PENGUIN CANADA

CHRONICLES OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS

ROBYN HARDING
is the author of
The Journal of Mortifying Moments, The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom,
and
Unravelled
. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with her husband and two children.

Also by Robyn Harding

The Journal of Mortifying Moments

The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom

Unravelled

Chronicles

Mid-Life

Crisis

PENGUIN CANADA

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published 2008

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

Copyright © Robyn Harding 2008

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in Canada.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Harding, Robyn

Chronicles of a mid-life crisis / Robyn Harding.

ISBN 978-0-14-305375-0

I. Title.

PS8615.A715C47 2008     C813’.6       C2008-901706-4

Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at
www.penguin.ca

Special and corporate bulk purchase rates available; please see
www.penguin.ca/corporatesales
or call 1-800-810-3104, ext. 477 or 474

For My Mom

Lucy

I SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT COMING
. That night, when I walked into the master bathroom and saw my husband dabbing his ring finger delicately around his left eye, I should have known. “What are you doing?” I asked, trying to keep the smirk out of my voice.

“Moisturizing,” came his curt reply.

It was a sign, obviously. But I was so trusting, so naive, that I actually thought it was sort of a good thing. Trent had never cared about his skin before, and I took this late-blooming interest in his epidermis as a sign of long-term maintenance, not vanity. The clothes were another clue.

“What are you wearing?” I asked, trying to keep the smirk out of my voice.

“They’re skinny-leg trousers,” he’d replied defensively. “They’re in fashion.”

In hindsight, it seems so obvious. What forty-three-year-old man would wear skinny-leg trousers unless he was in the throes of a severe mid-life crisis? But unfortunately, I still didn’t clue in. I thought a later-in-life sartorial bent was better than none at all—even if the pants did make him look as though he’d entered a Mick Jagger look-alike contest.

Unfortunately, these clues, so obvious in retrospect, have done nothing to prepare me. As I sit on the living room sofa facing Trent, I am completely blindsided by his words.

“It’s not that I don’t love you, Lucy. You’re a wonderful woman … really. It’s just that … I feel like I’ve missed out on a lot. We’ve been together for a long time now, and there’s still a lot I need to experience …
on my own
.”

I stare at him, speechless. Despite the skin care and new pants, I still can’t believe my husband is leaving me.

“We don’t need to look at this as an ending,” he continues. “Let’s look at this as an opportunity to explore who we are as individuals. I want you to take this time to really find out who you are, too.”

“I know who I am!” I snap. “I’m your wife! I’m Samantha’s mother! I’m forty years old, I’m a Libra, and I’m a props buyer for the film industry!”

He looks at me with pity. “Is that all?”

I shriek, “Is that not enough?”

“I didn’t mean the question so literally. I want you to find out who you are on a deeper level, Luce. I just … it’s hard to explain.”

“Who is she?” I growl. All this finding himself shit is so transparent. “Is it someone at work? Some twenty-five-year-old at the gym? Who is it? Tell me!”

“This isn’t about anyone else. It’s about us. We haven’t really been connected for years now, Lucy. We work, we co-parent, we pay the mortgage together, but we’re not together, not like we used to be.”

“It’s called life, Trent,” I fire back. “It’s called raising a family.”

“Well, that’s not the way I want to live my life. I want more— for you and for me.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake! “Fine! Have your mid-life crisis. Pack your clothes and get the hell out!”

Slowly, without looking back, he leaves the living room and moves to the staircase. His posture, the slump of his shoulders, says: I tried, but there’s no reasoning with her. I hear him ascending the stairs, moving deliberately to our bedroom and retrieving his suitcase from the closet. I hear the dull thud as he places it on the bed, unzips it, and begins filling it with his fashionable pants and skin care products.

I always assumed I’d have a much more dramatic reaction to my husband’s desertion. Not that I’d ever given it much thought, but I’d considered myself the type to slap him, throw dishes, or, potentially, light him on fire. Instead I just sit, still and quiet, on the leather sofa as I listen to my husband preparing to leave me. Other than a slight nausea, I am completely numb.

It seems like hours, but eventually he reappears. He has left his suitcase by the front door. Hesitantly, he approaches me, a piece of paper in his hand. “I’ll be staying at the Sutton Place Hotel until I get an apartment sorted out. Here’s the number.”

I look at the piece of paper he’s proffering. “Why would I need the number?”

“Just in case Samantha wants to talk to me.”

“I hope you plan on explaining to her why you’re leaving us.”

“Well …” He rubs at the stubble on his chin, a sure sign that he’s nervous. “I was thinking it might be better coming from you. I mean, you two are so close …”

“Ha!” I give a humorless laugh. “Nice try.” Since my daughter turned fifteen,
close
is not the word I’d choose to describe our relationship. Something along the lines of
tense, strained
, or even
fraught
would be more appropriate. “I’m not doing your dirty work for you. You can tell her how you want to find yourself on your own.”

He puffs out his cheeks and lets out a sigh. “Fine. If that’s the way you want to be.”

This prompts the emergence of the dish-throwing, firelighting lunatic I knew lurked inside me. “Get out! Get out, you selfish bastard!” I scream, grabbing the remote control off the coffee table and hurling it at him. “I can’t believe I gave you eighteen years of my life just to have you throw them down the goddamn toilet!”

When Trent has scurried out of the house under a hail of remotes, books, and shoes, I collapse on the sofa. Hot tears of anger, disappointment, and loss course down my cheeks. Snot runs unwiped from my nose and a significant amount of saliva coats my face. I sob, I wail, I pound the couch cushions. It is an emotional breakdown entirely befitting the situation. The man I have loved since I was twenty-two years old has just walked out on me. Of course, our marriage hasn’t been perfect—or even particularly pleasant for the last three years or so—but still!

I allow myself this unfettered wallowing for forty-five minutes. I could easily have continued for at least another half hour, but my daughter will be home from the mall soon and I don’t want her to see me like this. It’s not my duty to explain her father’s abandonment, and if she sees me covered in all manner of mucus she’s going to figure out that something’s wrong. Shuffling to the bathroom, I wipe my face with a cloth dampened in cool water. I still look pretty rough, but given that my daughter rarely looks at me anymore, she’s unlikely to notice. This thought threatens to set me off again, but I compose myself just in time. I hear Samantha’s key in the front door.