The Good Divorce Guide. Cristina Odone
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Название: The Good Divorce Guide

Автор: Cristina Odone

Издательство: HarperCollins

Жанр: Зарубежный юмор

Серия:

isbn: 9780007343720

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ I say, and I don’t think I sound too bitter.

      ‘Thank goodness your father’s not here to see it.’ My mother is rustling through her weekend bag. ‘Here, I brought you this—’ She pulls out a brochure and hands it over. ‘I know it’s not really your age group, but an older man might be just the ticket. And I thought it might take your mind off things.’

      I look down at the glossy photos of a SAGA cruise around the Med.

      ‘Mu-um, I’m getting separated, not Alzheimer’s!’ I hand her back the brochure. I think ruefully of Jill’s comment about ‘the three stages of womanhood: “Aga, Saga, Gaga.”’

      ‘Well,’ my mother sniffs, ‘I found it very helpful when your father passed away.’

      ‘It’s not the same.’

      ‘No. Your father never chose to leave me.’

      In her eyes, clearly, I’m a reject, she’s a survivor.

      ‘You’ve got to protect those poor children.’ My mother follows me down to the kitchen. ‘I know you’re still…raw, but I hope you’re not going to take this lying down, Rosie.’

      I fill the kettle. ‘Mum, you’re just thinking in stereotypes…’

      But Mum interrupts, cocking her head to one side to look at me appraisingly: ‘You look as if you’ve put on weight. Do you think that’s why—’

      ‘Mu-um!’ I cry, exasperated.

      ‘Sorry, darling, didn’t mean to upset you.’

      Mum has never been one for diplomacy. When I was ten, miserable because my classmates were teasing me about my braces, Mum looked at the silver twin track that ran across my face and told me, ‘You do look dreadful, darling, but only for another two years.’ I catch sight of my reflection, distorted into a swollen shape on the shiny metallic microwave, and feel the tears sting: I do look dreadful.

      ‘You gave him the best years of your life.’ My mother shakes her head woefully.

      ‘I’ve still got a few left, Mum.’

      ‘They’re all the same’—Mum ignores me as she sips from her mug—‘these modern men. Not a thought about duties and responsibilities. It’s all about fun fun fun.’

      ‘That’s not fair on Jonathan.’

      ‘Fair? I don’t want to be fair. Is it fair for him to dump you when you’re nearly forty?’

      ‘He hasn’t dumped me,’ I protest. ‘Remember? The separation is my idea.’

      ‘What makes me spit is the thought of his having the pick of any woman he chooses, while you’ll be stuck with some broke divorc?or some Mama’s boy who’s not fit for anyone.’ Mum helps herself to the tin of biscuits. She starts to nibble a digestive. ‘Trust me,’ she says as she wipes the crumbs from the corners of her mouth, ‘it’s awful out there.’

      I wince at the thought of my mum experiencing ‘out there’—does she date? Did she try to find herself a lover after Daddy died? She has looked the same for as long as I can remember: a soft brown bob that frames her remarkably unlined face, brown eyes brought out with charcoal-grey eye shadow, a lipstick that is more wine-hued than scarlet red. Her clothes are always neat and feminine, not so much eye-catching as a perfect complement to her trim frame. She is still, I realise for the first time in years, attractive.

      ‘Now, the thing is not to traumatise the children,’ my mother is saying decisively as we retreat into the sitting room. ‘We really need to show them that you will all do fine without Daddy, and that no one’s cross with anyone, and no one’s playing the blame game.’ She settles in the armchair, and takes out her crossword. ‘We’ll reassure them with a cosy family weekend. You’ll see.’ She tucks her feet under her legs and starts nibbling on her pencil. ‘Two across: “Hellish time…seven letters…” Hmmm…Divorce?’

       Chapter 3

      I fetch the kids from the tennis club. Feeling guilty about Devon, Jonathan has enrolled them for expensive tennis lessons. He should feel guilty, because although it’s true, as I told Mum, that we’ve done our best to reassure the children that relations between us are good, they are showing signs of anxiety: Kat is texting furiously, day and night, and seems totally indifferent to everything around her; Freddy is still coming to my bed at dawn, and has to be led back to his room with whispered assurances of love and devotion. Both cling to me, whenever we’re together: Freddy holds on to my skirt, clutches my hands, and climbs on to my lap the moment I sit down; Kat watched an entire episode of Dr Who with her head on my shoulder.

      As I walk towards Haverstock Hill, I decide that I must enlist my mum’s aid, so that together we can drive home the point that our separation is not an act of hostility. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if I couldn’t turn Jonathan’s straying, and his guilt, to my advantage. Now that I’m being given time to review our marriage, I can think of a number of areas that need improving: Jonathan’s workaholism, his hours on the computer playing Mensa brain games, his obsession with files, drawers, and boxes, his horrendous taste in ties…Yes, if we use this time of separation wisely, we can improve our life together.

      Even the children will benefit from that. Meanwhile, Mum must help me cheer them up. We can take them to a movie, and maybe go for a meal at Gourmet Burger Kitchen, or that nice caf?in Regent’s Park. Mum can do the granny routine and ask about friends and we could plan her stay at Christmas—she comes up every year, staying into the New Year—so that they know that some things are going to stay the same.

      ‘Mrs Martin?’

      I turn to find Mr Parker, the skinny little man who runs Belsize Parker Estate Agents. He stands, as usual, on the pavement outside his bright green office, Marlboro in one hand, mobile in the other.

      ‘How are we doing?’ He ends his call and stubs out his cigarette.

      ‘Fine, fine.’ I try to look like I’m in a hurry.

      ‘I heard’—Mr Parker’s eyes find his shoes, then my face again—‘about your circumstances…just wanted to offer my sincere sympathy.’

      I wonder how news of our separation has reached the property world, but then I remember that Otilya cleans for Mrs Parker on Saturday mornings.

      ‘Yes. Well, it’s sad, but’—I try to look determined, independent, business-like—‘we need a bit of time to…’

      ‘I was just wondering if Mr Martin’s found something to rent?’ Mr Parker’s little eyes sparkle with hope. I notice that his pinstripe suit looks too big for him, as if it were a hand-me-down uniform that he, or his parents, were hoping he would grow into.

      ‘You’ll have to talk to him.’ I’m not going to find my husband a nice flat in which to nest, for goodness’ sake. ‘I’m off to fetch the children…’ I try to walk on, but Mr Parker is at my heels:

      ‘Nearby would be convenient, given the situation.’ He coughs and splutters, out of breath. You can’t smoke thirty a day and hope to keep СКАЧАТЬ