Over You (16 page)

‘No,’ Josie said hurriedly, before Emma spun off into a duvet count. ‘No, I think we need to stay put. I haven’t told the boys anything yet.’

‘Of course not, no,’ Emma said. There was a silence. ‘Have you spoken to him since he . . . you know, since he went?’

‘No,’ Josie replied. ‘I’m half expecting him to walk through the door any moment, tell me it was all a mistake and . . .’ Her voice trailed away. Pathetic, wasn’t it? ‘Or phone,’ she added miserably. ‘I’ve tried his mobile but it’s off. I left a drunken message the other night when I was . . .’ She forced a laugh. ‘When I was feeling a bit sorry for myself.’

‘Babe, you’ve got every right to feel sorry for yourself,’ Emma said. She leaned over the table and took Josie’s hand in her own. ‘What’s he thinking of? The wanker!’ She blushed to her hairline. ‘Sorry – shouldn’t say that. But honestly, it’s mad. What’s he playing at?’

Josie shrugged. She felt so tired, she could barely follow the conversation any more.

‘Well, you two need to sit down properly and talk,’ Emma went on, a firmness coming into her voice. ‘If you think you can handle it, I reckon you should try calling him again. Talk it through. You can’t leave things as they are: you’ll go mad, wondering where he is, what he’s thinking.’

‘Yes,’ Josie said, feeling her treacherous eyes well and dampen all over again. The tears plopped on to her croissant, glistening on the pastry.

‘It’s a seven-year itch, mid-life crisis, that’s what this is,’ Emma said in a hearty, practical sort of a way, as if she were trying to convince herself as well as Josie. ‘Although why he couldn’t just get a new car . . . Anyway. He’s probably just flipped out, freaking about turning forty in a few years. It’s what men
do
, isn’t it?’ She bit into her croissant with sudden force. ‘Call him. He probably feels a right plonker, saying all that stuff. He’s probably thinking of ways to make it up to you. Well, you tell him from me – Tiffany should do it.’

Josie laughed feebly. She knew Emma was trying to make her feel better, but jewellery was about a million miles from where she was right now. Who cared about jewellery anyway? Who cared about
stuff
? It was all landfill at the end of the day.

Emma was warming to her theme. ‘Tiffany, an early summer holiday, and some new shoes. Sod it, a whole summer wardrobe. He owes you big-time for this.’

Josie blew her nose. ‘He does,’ she said. ‘But do you know what? I’d take him back like a shot, without any of that lot. I just want him back.’ A tear rolled down her cheek and splashed into her cup. ‘Oh, Em,’ she said, her chin trembling. ‘I just want him
back
!’

It was hard work, being dumped. Exhausting. Josie felt as if she’d been through the wringer over and again. Living it was bad enough, but having to talk about it, having to
tell
people about it . . . it made it all horribly real and immediate, every time. When she got back from the café there was a message from her mum on the answer-phone, and Josie cringed. How was she going to tell her parents about this? They’d been married for
ever
, coming up to forty years. Jesus. They would be devastated.

She picked up the phone and pressed the call button, then put it straight back on its base. No. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her mum just yet. The whole thing might blow over, like Emma had said. Pete might still come back, not with a rock from Tiffany, nothing that extreme, but he still might reappear. He
would
reappear, he had to. So what was the point of putting her mum through such misery, if it all came good tomorrow?

She made another coffee instead and washed her hair. There was dandruff flaking all along her parting, she’d noticed that morning. Dandruff! Where had that come from? She hadn’t had dandruff since she’d been an acne-splattered teenager. Her scalp itched and felt tight as she blow-dried her hair, and white speckles of skin fell softly like snow on to the wooden floorboards in the bedroom. God! She’d have to get that sorted before Pete came home. He hated things like that. Hairy armpits, pimples, dandruff – he thought they were all gross. She’d never get him back if she let herself go.

She gazed into the mirror anxiously. Her face seemed to be falling apart too. Her skin was dry and red around her mouth and above her eyes, however much moisturizer she pressed into it. What next? Would her hair start falling out as well? Would her internal organs start packing up one by one?

Two coffees later, with clean hair and half a tube of the boys’ E45 sunk into her face, she finally plucked up the courage to pick up the phone. Like Emma said, she and Pete needed to talk. And if he was too chicken-shit to face up to the responsibility, then it was down to her to arrange a crisis meeting. She’d win him back. She’d
woo
him back. Hell, she knew the buttons to press with her own husband. Sabine would be no match for
her
.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Winter’s out of the office for a few days,’ his secretary, Sara, said, picking up the call. ‘May I take a message?’

‘Oh!’ Josie blurted out in surprise. Taken a few days off? ‘Well, where
is
he?’

There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Josie, is that you?’ Sara asked in confusion.

Josie coughed, embarrassed, her cheeks flooding with colour. ‘No,’ she replied, trying to disguise her voice with a huskiness that wasn’t usually there. Her eye fell on a
Star Wars
video box that was on the sofa next to her. ‘No, this is . . . Leia. Leia . . . Lucas. I’ll call back next week.’

She banged the phone down and stared unseeingly out of the window. Where was he? What was he doing? Why wasn’t he at work?

She punched the sofa, suddenly furious with him. He’d gone away with Sabine for a shagging holiday, she just knew it. Right now, right this minute, while she was sitting here, Pete and Sabine would be strolling down the Ramblas in Barcelona together, or snogging in a Venetian gondala, or sunbathing on a Greek island . . .

‘You can afford to take
her
somewhere exciting then,’ she said aloud. No wonder he had blanched at her idea of an exotic trip away. His credit card was already maxed out, she guessed, paying for this little jaunt with Sabine.

With a deep breath she tried his mobile, but the call went straight through to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message – she’d only end up ranting like a maniac – and sent a text instead.

She sat quite still in the middle of the sofa holding the phone in case he texted her straight back, but nothing happened. She leaned back heavily and her eye fell upon the painting that hung above the mantelpiece. Pete’s wedding present to her – the very picture she’d been staring at when they’d first met. It had been a symbol of love back then. Now she could hardly bear to look at it.

He phoned on the Friday. Finally. She was going out of her mind with worry by then. She couldn’t believe he’d actually let the best part of a week go by without contacting her at all. Not even one little call to say good-night to the boys, or a text to say that he was still alive. Nothing.

God knew how she’d got through the week single-handedly. She’d busied herself every day, doing the usual sociable things with the boys and her friends on automatic pilot, but all anyone wanted to talk to her about had been Pete walking out. She was getting sick of the sympathetic expressions her friends pulled, their hearty reassurances, their offers of help. She was sick, too, of her own voice saying that she was sure it would all work out. She wasn’t sure about anything any more.

The boys were asking a lot of questions now. She was certain they’d guessed something was wrong. Sam kept flicking anxious little glances her way, his eyes troubled, and Toby was doing a lot of kicking. Sam had even wet the bed on Thursday night, something he hadn’t done for months. Oh, they knew something was up, all right. But what was she supposed to tell them? She didn’t even know what was happening herself.

As each day ticked through the minutes and hours, she felt as if she was dying inside, like a neglected plant. Every morning she told herself that this would be the day that he’d ring, or come round. And then, as the hours slipped away without the phone ringing or the doorbell’s chime, she slowly lost her conviction all over again. He wasn’t coming back after all. He wasn’t going to phone.

On Friday, she woke up feeling sick with misery. The weekend loomed ahead of her and she was dreading it. Weekends had always been their precious family days, where they all went swimming together, or to the park, or took the bikes out. But now the weekend seemed like the loneliest time of all. Her friends would be busy doing their own family things, she knew. There was no gym club, no playgroup, no coffee mornings.

And then the phone trilled on Friday afternoon, and at last it was Pete. The relief she felt when she heard his voice quickly gave way to trepidation. Was he ringing to say he was coming back? Or not?

‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Sorry I haven’t called,’ he went on, without waiting for her answer. ‘I’ve been away. How are the boys?’

‘All right,’ she replied, her mouth dry. She’d thought up so many things she wanted to say to him since he’d gone – some imploring, some bitter, some practical – but in an instant they disappeared from her mind, leaving her disarmingly blank. ‘They miss you,’ she said. Understatement of the year, she thought miserably. From Wednesday onwards, they’d asked when he was coming back home every half an hour on average. The weight of having to reply, ‘I’m not sure,’ again and again, like a jammed CD, had been like the most excruciating kind of torture.

He sighed down the line. ‘I miss them,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if I could see them tomorrow? Take them out somewhere?’

Josie felt panicked by the question. The hand that wasn’t holding the phone stole around her middle as if for comfort. ‘Do you mean . . .’ She licked her lips. ‘Do you mean, without me?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Without you.’

Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. ‘Is
she
going to be there?’

‘No,’ he replied, and she thought she might keel over with relief. She didn’t want Sabine to get her filthy paws on the boys. They were Josie’s. Sabine had already stolen Pete. She wasn’t going to let—

‘Not tomorrow, anyway,’ Pete went on, and Josie stiffened. ‘Plenty of time for that. There’s no rush, is there?’

Josie clenched her fists. ‘No,’ she managed to say. ‘No rush.’ She swallowed hard, as if there were a painful, solid blockage in her throat. ‘We need to talk, though. You and me, I mean. Because I don’t think we should just give up on . . . us. Could we maybe . . . try again?’

There was an agonizing pause. ‘Josie . . .’ he began, and then stopped. ‘Let’s just give each other some space now, yeah?’

She bit her lip. ‘What did I do wrong?’ she asked, brokenly. ‘I thought we were happy together.’ And then she was crying again. ‘I thought we were happy,’ she sobbed.

‘We were.’ His voice was softer suddenly. ‘But don’t you see? It had changed. We’d grown apart, hadn’t we?’

‘No,’ she said, tears rolling down her face. ‘I
don’t
see. I thought everything was fine.’

He hesitated. ‘But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because I wasn’t fine. I felt . . . trapped.’

She put a hand up to her face, unable to speak. Thank God the boys were out in the garden and not able to see any of this.
Mummy Loses the Plot
(Part One). Part Two:
Mummy’s Nervous Breakdown
, coming soon!

‘Look, I’ll talk to the boys tomorrow, OK?’ Pete said, not waiting for a reply. ‘That’s the most important thing.’

‘Yes,’ she said dully. So important that he’d waited all week to get in touch with her. They could have been in hospital beds for all he’d known. ‘What . . . what will you tell them?’

Again, that hesitation. Not long – a few seconds, tops – but long enough for Josie’s mind to be rushing with panicky thoughts.

Sorry, boys, but I don’t love Mummy any more.

Hey, kids, I’m getting married again!

Guess what? Me and Auntie Sabine are going to have a new baby soon – would you like a brother or a sister?

‘Just that I won’t be coming back to live with you – with them. That we’re separating, I guess. God, I don’t know. It’s really difficult.’

Josie was holding herself so tightly she could hardly breathe. It sounded so final. It sounded so . . . painful. ‘Do you have to tell them that?’ she burst out, with a sob in her voice. ‘It sounds like it’s over, like we’re never going to get back together again.’

‘But Josie, that’s what I’m trying to say,’ he replied. ‘We’re not.’

Josie couldn’t take her eyes off the clock. Two o’clock, Pete had said he’d be here, and the boys had been in a state of great excitement since breakfast. It was two-thirty now, and the excitement was waning fast. Toby was kicking the sofa and throwing all the cushions off, his eyebrows hooded over his eyes. Sam was banging about upstairs, noisier than was strictly necessary.

‘You said he’d be here by now,’ Toby muttered, glaring at her as if it was her fault.

Josie reached out for him but he dodged away, not wanting to be comforted. ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll be here soon,’ she said lamely. ‘Shall we read a story while we wait?’