The Good Divorce Guide. Cristina Odone

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СКАЧАТЬ for the cottage back in February, that I changed my office days from Tuesday to Wednesday and that your mum not mine was hoping to come at Easter. You’ve been sleepwalking for months now. Sleeping with her and walking away from us.’

      ‘That’s not true.’

      ‘Are you going to lie about this as well?’

      ‘Am I’—Jonathan is suddenly furious—‘supposed to spend £00 an hour to listen to your insults?’

      ‘No, the insults are free,’ I shoot back.

      We both take a deep breath, look away, then back to one another. Somewhere a clock chimes: 5.30. We’ve been with Babette Pagorsky only half an hour and already we’re getting hot and cross and forgetting all about our good divorce.

      ‘This is not very constructive,’ Jonathan says in a meek, low voice.

      From her chair across the room, Babette shakes her dark head wisely. ‘I think airing issues like this is always constructive. You can see what you need to work on.’ She folds her hands neatly in her capable lap. ‘Look at the way you’re sitting!’ She raises both hands in our direction. ‘What does this say about you?’

      I look down at my arms, and then at Jonathan’s, crossed protectively over our respective chests.

      ‘Oh dear.’ I feel miserable.

      ‘Defensive,’ Jonathan mutters, with a half-smile of recognition.

      ‘Yes. That’s a good word: “defensive”.’ Babette nods. ‘Why are you defensive with one another?’

      Silence. I squirm on the sofa.

      ‘I feel uncomfortable,’ I manage to say. I do: this room is suddenly oppressive, with its plump inquisitor, subtle lighting and drawn curtains. I had wanted to study Babette Pagorsky and take some tips from her counselling style. I had planned to learn from her, professionally even more than personally. Instead, I’m finding the whole exercise intimidating, as if someone were pinning me down in order to examine me carefully. Counselling may lead to a better understanding, but getting there is awfully painful. Am I going to be capable of guiding someone else through this process? Am I going to be capable of doing anything at all, after more gruelling sessions like this one?’

      ‘You feel uncomfortable,’ Babette is repeating my words. ‘Uncomfortable because of Jonathan, or because of this meeting, or…?’ Babette’s gaze rests on me. Why does every sentence of hers hang in the air?

      ‘Well…’ I feel at a loss. I’m out of synch with everyone these days. I keep mistaking people’s intentions: the driver of the Chrysler Grand Voyager in front of me was not turning left, as I presumed, but trying to park; Lech the plumber was not trying it on as he pressed against me in the tiny guest loo—just trying to manoeuvre his way to answer his mobile; Dr Casey was not cross with me when, as I sloped in late after taking Kat to the dentist, he asked me what time I thought it was—he’d simply forgotten his glasses on Mrs S’s desk and couldn’t see his watch.

      ‘I’m not feeling my usual self,’ I explain to Babette. ‘Awkward.’

      ‘When did you start feeling awkward in Jonathan’s presence?’

      Was it when he explained to Kat and me that Prada came from praeda, the Latin word for loot, and she and I burst into disrespectful giggles? Was it that night at the dinner party of some old school chum of his, when he wouldn’t laugh at my joke about how do you recognise a blonde at a car wash? (Answer: She’s the one on her bicycle.) Was it when he told me that he really didn’t want my shepherd’s pie for supper and that actually, if he was being truthful, he’d never liked it…

      ‘I don’t know,’ I answer, eyes picking out the vine-and-flower pattern on the carpet.

      Babette turns to Jonathan. ‘Can you see why Rosie might feel uncomfortable with you?’

      ‘It’s not me. It’s that’—Jonathan moves forward on the sofa—‘from the first, Rosie has never fitted in my world. Do you remember when I took you to our office party?’

      I wince at the memory of the wine-soaked Christmas party, when Jonathan’s ‘team’, as he likes to call his colleagues, stood about stiffly under festoons of holly and mistletoe, looking awkward and impervious to seasonal cheer. The conversation moved from what mead did to our ancestors’ liver to whether the side-effects of Rollowart warranted an FDA ban. At ten o’clock, just as I thought it would be perfectly acceptable for me to ask Jonathan if we could go home, I was cornered by some bearded professorial type banging on about how German pharmaceutical companies were beating British ones in R&D. After 35-45 minutes of his monotonous monologue, and after four glasses of Rioja, I yawned: ‘What about some party games to liven this lot up? Sardines? Charades?’ The prof gave me a vicious look and turned on his heels. A moment later, Jonathan came up, ashen-faced: ‘What did you say to Emory Watson? He’s my new boss. He organised tonight.’

      Why would I wish to fit into this world? I ask myself now. Eggheads, formulae, labs, white smocks and smoking glass vials: Jonathan’s work has always struck me as an extended chemistry class. And I never did do well at chemistry.

      ‘The children,’ Babette interrupts my musings, ‘how are they taking your separation?’

      Again we answer in chorus:

      Him: ‘They’re fine.’

      Me: ‘They’re gutted.’

      ‘Explain.’ Babette turns her gentle smile on me.

      ‘They’—I gulp, cross my arms again—‘seem in a daze. They don’t believe that their father is really leaving. They keep asking me if there is something we can do to get him back.’

      ‘Rosie, they are perfectly fine when they’re with me,’ Jonathan interrupts, scarlet with indignation. ‘Honestly, Dr…er, Mrs Pagorsky. They are quite old enough to take on board that grown-ups can change their mind about whom they want to spend the rest of their life with.’

      The rest of their life. Till death us do part. I can almost hear the officious vicar at St Swithin’s intoning those words in the flower-filled church near Castle Cary where we were married. It had seemed so certain back then, among family, well-wishers and lilies. My father had had tears in his eyes, as did Jonathan’s parents. My mum had spent most of her time elbowing her sister Margaret, trying to direct her attention to the groom’s pews, where not one (’not one!’ she would repeat later at the reception, fuelled by a few glasses of champagne, to anyone who would listen) of the women wore a proper hat. But even Mum had proclaimed us a perfect couple, that perfect spring day. ‘They’re just so much in love,’ she had sighed, dabbing prettily at her eye with a white hanky.

      ‘People change. They grow apart…’ I listen to Jonathan’s platitudes, watch him shrug off our twelve-year-old marriage as if it was the wrong beach towel. ‘I’m not the only one who knows we need to move on. Rosie’s heart hasn’t been in this for years.’

      ‘Maybe not, but I’m not the one sneaking around with a lover from work!’ I jump up from the sofa, grab my handbag.

      ‘I wasn’t sneaking around! I was going to tell you everything!’ Jonathan jumps up too.

      ‘Only once I caught you!’ I try to stomp off, but Jonathan grabs СКАЧАТЬ