You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (18 page)

And
then I saw Oberon. He appeared from behind one of the columns, lit now from
above in a way that made me realise he’d been there all the time, the lichen
colours of his robes blending into the stone like camouflage, as long as he was
still. He wasn’t still now.

I
would have forgotten that it was Felix behind that mask, only the beauty with
which he moved was unmistakeable. There was a wild savagery to his dance, but
total control and effortless grace, too. The professional I’d been years before
marvelled at it – Felix’s ex-girlfriend felt a stabbing, familiar pulse of
desire so strong I could hardly bear it. He might have quit classical ballet, I
realised, but he’d acquired new skills and an amazing athletic ability I hadn’t
seen before. He moved between the pillars like a gymnast, seeming to ignore
gravity as his body moved sideways, perpendicular to the floor, upside down – and
then he ran, as if it were part of the choreography, towards me and swept me up
into his dance.

As
it had in my living room a few days before, my body remembered what to do. I
wasn’t as fit or as supple as I’d been, I was a stone heavier, I was wearing
Converse instead of pointe shoes. But I was dancing – dancing with Felix, and
it was heaven. He spun me and lifted me, and I followed his lead effortlessly,
as if we’d rehearsed this moment for weeks.

It
lasted just a minute or two – any longer would have killed me. But I realised a
small crowd had gathered round the clearing, watching in silent admiration. And when Oberon took my arm and ran with me away from our small
stage into the trees, I heard a brief smattering of applause - although that
might just have been my brain remembering the past as my body had done.

Once
again, we were alone in Oberon’s grotto, his fairy cave, dimly lit and drenched
in soft, strange music. Once again he covered my eyes and spoke his lines, and
took off his mask and kissed me. But the kiss this time was deeper and more
intense, and there was a moment when I reached up to touch his sweating face
with my fingertip, which I hadn’t been brave enough to do before. And then, for
one second so fleeting it might not have happened at all, he stopped being
Oberon and became Felix, and whispered, “Wait for me afterwards, Laura.”

In
a haze of happiness, I watched the finale from the steps of the palace, seeing
the lovers reunited in their natural order. I screamed my appreciation with the
rest of the audience as the choreographer and the creative director were
carried on to the stage on the shoulders of the cast, and I cried actual tears into
the woman next to me’s shoulder as we exchanged fervent hugs and said, “I can’t
believe it’s over!”

Everyone
flocked to the bar. I bought the woman I’d hugged a glass of fizz and a total
stranger bought me one, then someone else bought a round for a random group of
about ten of us who were exchanging breathless memories of what we’d seen and
what had happened to us.

Someone
nudged me and said, “Look! There’s Lysander,” and I realised that the cast were
starting to emerge, mingling with their fans, and that the man whose dance I’d
watched and admired when I saw the show with Zé was a household name, an actor
who’d been on the cover of
Hello
magazine and was properly famous.

I
noticed through my haze of prosecco and happiness that the crowd was beginning
to thin, and the woman I’d befriended said, “Oh no, chucking out time,” just
before a steward approached our little group and told us politely that it was
cast and VIPs only from now on, please, and could we make our way to the exit
over there, where we’d be able to collect our bags.

I
wanted to say, “No! Not me! I’m supposed to be here. Look, I have an
invitation.”

Then
I remembered that the precious pass to the after-show party was in my handbag,
which I’d checked in with my coat when I arrived. Fool! Anyway, there was
nothing to be done. I’d have to go home with everyone else.

Then,
suddenly, I felt a warm arm encircle my waist and smelled fresh soap and
shampoo, and Felix said, “Don’t sling Laura out, Marco, she’s with me.”

I
was woken the next morning by Jonathan singing ‘What shall we do with a grumpy
Owen?’ to the tune of ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor?’ It was one of
the collection of joke songs he’d made up when our son was a tiny baby and
wouldn’t sleep, and it brought back memories of lying in bed, exhausted, my
breasts sore from endless feeding, trying desperately to get the sleep Jonathan
said I should have while he took over on rocking and bouncing duty for a few
hours. I felt no less exhausted now.

It
had been long after two when I got in, I remembered blearily. The house was
dark and silent, except for the cooker hood light, which someone had left on
for me. Jonathan must have paid Carmen and sent her home when he got back from
work. I took my make-up off, made a cup of tea and sat in near-darkness in the
kitchen, too wired to go to bed. Memories of the evening spun through my head –
dancing with Felix, with the famous actor who’d played Lysander, with a series
of faceless people taking in turns to wear Bottom’s donkey mask. Wandering
around the dark, empty set, wishing that it would come alive again with
characters and music. Walking home with Felix through the quiet streets and
saying good night to him outside our front door.

Saying
goodnight – that was all. We’d kissed each other on both cheeks, and he hugged
me close, and I thanked him again for inviting me. But that was all. Nothing
had happened for me to feel guilty about.

Yet
I felt guilty all the same. Guilty, hungover, and full of regret.

I
resisted the urge to pull the pillow over my head and try to go back to sleep.
Instead, I pulled my body out of bed – why was I aching all over? I felt like
I’d been hit by a bus, or been to a Pilates class or something. The room tilted
alarmingly as I stood up. I must have drunk far more than I’d realised. The
stairs felt strange under my feet as I walked down to the kitchen, as if the
height of their treads had been altered while I slept. The sunlight pouring
through the skylights hurt my eyes.

Jonathan
and Owen were perched on stools at the kitchen counter, which was splattered
with what looked like porridge.

Owen
said, “Mummy!” and stretched out his arms to be picked up.

“Look
at you, mucky face,” I kissed him.

“My
breakfast offering wasn’t up to standard,” Jonathan said, “and Jay Rayner here
expressed his disapproval by tipping it out of the bowl.”

“Well,
if you will serve him snail porridge,” I joked lamely. “Where are the girls?”

“Still
asleep,” Jonathan said. “You weren’t the only one who had a late night – I
could hear them chatting for ages after I went to bed. How was the party?”

“Okay,”
I said. “It was fun. It went on for ages.”

“So
I see,” Jonathan said, raising an eyebrow at my dishevelled appearance.
“Coffee?”

“Please.”
I sat down next to him, Owen on my lap, and took a healing sip.

Darcey
and Juniper came clattering down the stairs, Katy Perry playing tinnily on
Juniper’s mobile.

“Good
morning,” Juniper said.

“Mum,
please can I go to Juniper’s house to play? Zé says it’s okay.” I’d noticed
that Darcey was calling me Mummy less and less often. There’d come a point, I
realised, when she’d call me Mummy for the last time, and Mum would take over
for good, but because I wouldn’t know it was the last time I wouldn’t be able
to treasure it.

“If
she’s not still poorly… I’ll text her and check.”

Zé
replied saying she’d love to have Darcey for the day.

“Okay,
I’ll drive you both over once I’ve had a shower. What would you girls like for
breakfast? Toast? Porridge?”

“Nothing,
thank you,” Juniper said, so I gave up and handed them each a cereal bar.

“And
what shall we do? Picnic? Swimming?”

“I’m
afraid I have work to do,” Jonathan said.

I
opened my mouth to protest, to point out that he’d worked late every single
night that week, that it was Saturday, that surely he wanted to spend some time
with me and with his son. But what was the point? It would only lead to an
argument, which would be resolved in half an hour’s time by Jonathan going
upstairs with his laptop anyway.

A
few months ago, when I’d been working full time, the idea of a day alone with
my little boy would have felt like heaven. I’d make playdough or we’d blow
bubbles or I’d Google sensory play and make magical clouds out of flour and
Fairy Liquid, and generally behave like a model mum, straight out of
Junior
magazine.

(Although
in reality, of course, the day would be spent with me chasing my tail,
frantically catching up on housework with a toddler underfoot, stressed and
snappy.)

Now,
though, once I’d dropped the girls off, I felt totally at a loose end. I looked
after the children on my own all week and now it was Saturday and I’d have to
do it all over again. I thought about sticking Owen in front of the telly – where,
I had to admit, he’d love nothing more than to spend the day – and getting out
my laptop and seeing if there was anything new on the Outnet. But guilt stopped
me – I was not only a rubbish mother, squandering my little boy’s childhood on
CBeebies, but I was a rubbish wife, too, resenting the time Jonathan spent
working to support us.

Firmly
suppressing my urge to look at shoes online, I took Owen and his scooter to the
library and chose a selection of suitable books. Then we went to play on the
swings and feed the ducks. The park on this glorious summer morning seemed to
be full of couples. Of course, there were people alone and families with
children too, but it was the couples I saw. Lounging on benches, one with their
head in the other’s lap; leaning over the balustrade looking at the river;
reclining on picnic blankets with bottles of cava and packets of crisps and an
air about them that said, “Once we’ve finished this, we’re off home for a
shag.”

Looking
at them, I remembered what it had been like when Jonathan and I were first
going out. I remembered how much fun we’d had together – going to restaurants,
art-house films, or galleries, or on mini-breaks to Paris or Prague, all of it
punctuated by endless sex. At first, I’d thought it was all a bit of fun, a
way to experience a life of luxury with a man who, inexplicably, seemed to
worship me. But after a while, I’d started longing for the evenings and weekends
I spent with Jonathan, missing him when I wasn’t with him, storing up snippets
of my day to recount to him, knowing what would make him laugh or what he could
give me advice about.

Then
he went away, to spend two weeks skiing with his brother. To my amazement, I
was bereft. I missed him – his companionship, his jokes, the sense of
effortless joy he brought to my life. I had to stop myself phoning him every
night to tell him what had happened at work, or what I’d read in the newspaper,
or what I’d like to do to him in bed. It had snuck up on me entirely
unexpectedly, but I couldn’t deny it – I was in love. I was subsumed by desire
and longing in a way I’d never thought I could be again.

I
forced myself to play it cool, not to contact Jonathan until he got back – and
even after I knew he had, I resolutely didn’t dial his number. Then he called
me, just two days after returning from Switzerland, and suggested we meet up on
a Sunday afternoon for a walk. The walk turned into a picnic – it was a perfect
spring day, and we lay on the grass like these couples were doing, watching the
sun move slowly over the leaves that shaded us, sipping wine and eating the
takeaway sushi Jonathan had brought.

I
was lying back on the grass, drowsy with contentment, loving having him back
with me, my mind just catching up with what my heart already knew, when he fed
me a piece of tuna and a diamond ring slid down the bamboo chopstick and landed
on my front teeth with an audible clack.

My
eyes snapped open. I reached up and lifted it up to the light, saw what it was,
and started to laugh.

“Epic
fail,” Jonathan said, laughing too. “Most inept proposal ever. That was meant
to be all classy and subtle. I was going to put the ring in the chopsticks and…
But, you know, will you?”

“Yes,”
I said, without the slightest hesitation. We never finished the sushi – we were
too eager to get home to his flat and consummate our engagement.

Laughing
at the memory, I grabbed Owen’s hand and said, “What shall we do now, Squidge?”

“Nice
cream?” Owen said hopefully.

I
hesitated. It was almost noon – if he had ice cream now, he wouldn’t eat his
lunch. But if he had ice cream now, I wouldn’t have to make lunch for him, and
go through the frustration of asking him whether he wanted his cucumber in sticks
or rings, and having him change his mind after I’d cut it up, and cry
inconsolably at my unreasonableness when I refused to start all over again with
new cucumber.

I
chose the path of least resistance, and when we got home Owen announced that he
was full, and I put him down for his nap.

Jonathan
was still working, hunched over his laptop in the spare bedroom, which had
rapidly deteriorated from the haven of gracious elegance I’d imagined into a
kind of man cave-cum-black hole, where boxes of still-unpacked toys fought for
floor space with bags of clothes I kept meaning to take to the charity shop or
flog on eBay, and Jonathan’s ever-growing collection of golf clubs. Looking at
the clutter made me cross, so I looked at Jonathan instead.