The Good Divorce Guide

‘No,’ I confess. Then, seeing Orlando’s dejected expression: ‘But everyone did say how marvellous it was.’ Orlando shakes his head forlornly over his glass of wine. ‘It’s me,’ I try to console him, ‘I’ve been going through a philistine patch lately.’

‘Nonsense, Rosie!’ Jill interrupts me. ‘You’re very artistic. She once made me a lovely Christmas card—a collage of wrapping paper, really striking.’ She sits beside me on the sofa, nudging me with her elbow. ‘And she studied Shakespeare, didn’t you, Rosie?’

‘Well, yes, but only for A Levels.’ My admission earns a furious scowl from Jill. And her elbow in my side.

‘Tell Rosie about Romeo and Juliet.’ Jill smiles encouragingly at Orlando.

‘It’s a fab adaptation.’ Orlando bobs up and down enthusiastically, and some long copper curls slip out of the neat ponytail. ‘We’ve got an all-male cast. So it’s homophobia not a family feud that keeps the lovers apart.’

‘How interesting…’ I try to imagine the balcony scene between Romeo and Jules? (Julian?) and fail to. David holds up the bottle, enquiring if I’d like some more. ‘Thanks, yes, it’s delicious.’ I might as well get drinking at this point.

‘Hmmm, lovely, vino.’ Orlando holds up his own glass for seconds.

‘You both like Sauvignon Blanc: you’ve got so much in common!’ Cringing at Jill’s indefatigable matchmaking, I try to draw away from her on the sofa, but she goes on, heedless: ‘Like—divorce.’

Orlando’s eyes grow wide and round and interested. ‘Really? You too? I’ve just come out of three horrible years of it.’

‘Marriage?’

‘No. Divorce court. The harpy was determined to get her mitts on the Hall and I wasn’t going to let it happen.’

‘Northlay Hall is Orlando’s ancestral pile,’ David explains. ‘Adam. In Wiltshire. Stunning.’

‘Once she landed a role on EastEnders she got ideas above her station,’ Orlando explains. Then, in a high-pitched whine, ‘“Orlando, if I can’t have you I want your house.”’ Now he lowers his voice back to normal, ‘“Look, Violet, it’s been in my family for centuries, it means nothing to you but everything to my father.”’ He switches to the high-pitched voice: ‘“It means a lot to me, too. It means I wouldn’t have to slog all day and all night.” “You’re being unreasonable!” “You’re being mean!” “I need closure!” “You need a shrink!”’

I watch, baffled, as Orlando alternates his wife’s voice with his own. When Jill goes to the kitchen to fetch some nibbles, I follow her.

‘Why didn’t you tell me to expect a ventriloquist show?’ I whisper, cross.

‘I wish you’d get into the spirit of it,’ Jill scolds me as she opens the bag of handmade potato crisps. ‘Orlando’s gorgeous.’

‘He’s also bitter about his divorce and horrid about his ex.’

‘Everyone’s bitter about their divorce.’

‘Not me, and not Jonathan.’

‘Your attitude to this divorce is just not healthy.’ She fills the square glass bowl with crisps. ‘Divorce is as close as two people can legally get to murdering one another.’

‘It’s not true, I don’t want bitterness, recriminations, huge maintenance…’

‘Stop!’ Jill drops the empty bag of crisps on the counter and puts the back of her hand against her forehead in a dramatic gesture. ‘Stop right there. No to huge maintenance? What’s the point of divorce then?’

‘I don’t want Jonathan suffering. He’s a good man. An excellent father. A better husband than most.’

‘You can’t be nice about your ex when you’re in the middle of a split. It’s perverse.’ She grabs my hand. ‘Now, get back in there and strut your stuff,’ she barks.

In the sitting room, alas, Orlando’s one-man show continues: ‘“You’re a harpy!” “You’re an idiot!” “May you rot in hell!” “May your scrotum itch you for seven years.”’

The worst, though, is next door. Carolyn Vincent cannot resist a few words of concern every time our paths cross: ‘Oh, poor you!’ she intones piously when she sees me struggling under the weight of carrier bags. ‘Do you want a hand?’ she calls out from her doorstep. And then, over her shoulder: ‘My love, will you help Rosie with her shopping?’ And husband Louis, a square-jawed and handsome knight in shining armour, materialises to help me with the bags.

‘Well done, angel.’ Carolyn rewards her husband with a big smack of a kiss, right on the doorstep for everyone to see.

Worse, it seems as if whenever I stand at my window, lost in thought and wondering about what life will bring next, I am subjected to a sighting of the happy couple hugging, kissing, rubbing noses (nothing seems beyond them). These little vignettes of marital harmony have me reaching for the curtain cord and longing to move to Nuneaton.

Not that the Vincents are unkind. Carolyn is constantly inviting us over for a ‘kitchen supper’, or tea, or Sunday lunch.

Into the bright yellow kitchen we troop. Carolyn, in a pretty pale blue Cath Kidston apron, stands at her stove, stirring some delicious but non-fattening sauce. Louis springs up from the table where he was reading out loud, presumably for Carolyn’s amusement, the Daily Mail Richard Kay gossip column.

‘Hullo! Carolyn, Rosie and the children are here!’ He offers me a glass of Bordeaux, and an expression of condolence fills his face.

‘Kat, Freddy, will you fetch the children?’ Carolyn turns from the Aga, wooden spoon in hand, a perfect homemaker’s smile on her face. ‘It’s supper time. And wash hands.’ Then, when Kat and Freddy are no longer in earshot, ‘They’re being so braaaave, you must be so prooooouuuud.’

At table, Molly immediately sits beside me. She has not, I’ve noticed, been seeking my advice lately: she has obviously drawn her own conclusions about my ability to navigate emotional life. Louis, on my other side, keeps my glass and plate filled and makes kind suggestions like, ‘You will let me know if I can do anything, won’t you? DIY, dig you out of the snow, cart down any heavy rubbish…’

Worst of all is watching Carolyn and him perform a perfect duet as they move back and forth from kitchen table to sink, from stove to dishwasher, enviably in synch with every step and look. Were Jonathan and I ever like that?

‘Sweetpea, will you pour me a glass of water? Thanks, darling one. Rosie, are you and Jon…’ Carolyn stops in her tracks, flushes, gives a little embarrassed cough, then resumes, ‘er, I mean, are you going off somewhere nice before term starts?’

‘Nah,’ Freddy answers before I can.

‘We aren’t either,’ Molly scowls. ‘Dad just wants to be near a golf course so he can disappear for hours. Holidays are supposed to be, like, spent with the family all together and…’ A look from her parents sends her into manic backpedalling: ‘I mean, er…Actually who needs fathers on holidays?’

The children and I seek refuge in Carolyn’s tender roast chicken and comforting mash. We eat silently, leaving our hosts to find another subject of conversation.

‘Mum, did you get Oliver’s birthday present?’ Freddy asks me.

‘Oliver?…’ I ask blankly, wondering in a panic who Oliver could be and when this shock birthday party is to be held.

‘Oh, Mu-um!’ Freddy groans. ‘I to-old you!’

‘Well, your mum has had a lot on her plate,’ Carolyn says hurriedly. Then, trying to turn the conversation away from odious comparisons: ‘Oh, Kat, that is the prettiest pendant!’ Carolyn smiles. ‘Matches your eyes.’

‘Dad gave it to me,’ Kat sighs. ‘Hush money, I suppose.’

Chapter 5 (#ulink_53ee578b-d66d-55af-84c6-843d0f0016f4)

Babette Pagorsky’s smile casts the soft and comforting glow of a child’s night light. I feel as if I am sitting on Kat’s or Freddy’s bed, waiting for them to fall asleep. ‘What brings you here?’ Babette asks in her deep man’s voice. I’m brought back to reality. I’m not with my children in their cosy bedrooms but with my soon to be ex-husband in a marriage counsellor’s room. In the month between Babette making her assessment of us, during which she asked a million questions—how had we met, what did we do for a living, where did we live, how many children, and when had our ‘problem’ arisen?—and her managing to slot us into her busy schedule for our first appointment, Jonathan and I have started proceedings on our friendly divorce.

‘So,’ Babette repeats as she looks across to us, ‘what brings you here?’

Jonathan and I sit side by side (but at least two feet apart) on a capable brown leather sofa. Babette sits in a squat armchair across an Oriental carpet from us. The room, painted the palest shade of green, looks elegant rather than cosy: antiques and silver ornaments, silk throw cushions, and two lamps on side tables rather than overhead lights. It’s brilliant sunshine outside, but heavy green curtains are drawn against all that.

Babette had already briefed me over the telephone about the ‘counselling process’: we could have several joint sessions and then, if desired, we could meet with Babette one on one. Every case, she’d warned, is different, and she could give me no guarantees, or even time frames.

Jonathan looks at Babette. I look at Babette. Babette smiles at both of us. She is an elegant plump woman, in her fifties, with soft dark hair and eyes. She has a colourful silk scarf draped over her shoulders, in the continental fashion.

Jonathan clears his throat. ‘We’re getting divorced, and want to make it as painless as possible.’