When Life Gives You Lemons: The hilarious romantic comedy Read online

  But not any more, obviously. We actually do it tonight, for the first time since the Estelle revelations; there’s no hint of sciatica/lumbago or any mutterings that he has an early start in the morning. Whilst I feel a little weird and disconnected, it’s at least reassuring that we can still make it happen, and that it doesn’t feel completely abhorrent, which perhaps hints that there may be a future for us after all.

  I still love him, I suppose. It’s infuriating, really, how you can’t turn off your feelings for someone just because they’ve been to bed with someone else. It’s all still there, bubbling away beneath the surface layer of fury and hurt: my admiration for his commitment at work, and the way he is as a father – as caring and kind as I’d known he would be. I wish I could just hate him, but it’s not as simple as that. He’s still the man I fell in love with all those years ago, the one I’ve grown with, and the only person I had ever wanted to have children with. Plus, I suppose I still find him attractive, despite everything. He made a mistake and – God, how grown-up do I sound? – he’s contrite, and I think we can get over it. While I’ve been tempted to check his phone numerous times, I’ve managed not to so far.

  I mean, I have to be able to trust him again, don’t I? Or what’s the point?

  Chapter Eight

  Three weeks later: Wednesday, March 20

  After a full week of rain it has finally stopped. I have a day off work today. Dental appointment, plus I fancied a few hours to myself.

  Our house is empty and blissfully quiet, and as I glance out of the kitchen window, I notice how beautiful the garden looks. Our crocuses are blooming, purple and white with orangey centres, and the border at the bottom is filled with daffodils. I love our garden. It’s a little wild and untamed but things seem to pop up just where you’d want them to be. Izzy has her own little plot, where she’s tending winter pansies in every imaginable colour. After I’ve picked her up from school we potter about in the late afternoon sunshine, not talking much, just happy working side by side.

  My low-level worrying hasn’t gone away, and I still wake up in the night from time to time, my heart hammering in panic. However, that had been happening way before I found out about Estelle, and with a start, I realise I am beginning to feel almost normal again. At least, I can safely assume I am no longer on the brink of falling apart.

  I used to be of the opinion that, if someone had an affair, that was the marriage over, end of story. And now I’m not sure that’s the case. For one thing, it’s scary, the idea of being on my own at fifty-three. I don’t mean not having someone to drag the wheelie bins out, or to build flatpack. I don’t even mean financially (however tricky, I’m sure we would figure things out somehow). It’s more the idea of suddenly being single – alone – for the first time since I was twenty-seven years old. A tiny part of me thinks that might be thrilling, and that it might have the effect of actually making me twenty-seven again – vibrant, full of life and ambition, smooth of face and pert of arse, with adventures to be had. So, yes, that part seems alluring. But mostly, when I think of starting over as a single woman, I feel deeply sad and frankly terrified. I know it’s the life stage when we’re supposed to ‘give fewer fucks’; to feel emboldened and no longer care what anyone thinks. But is it really? If that’s meant to be the natural way of things, then there must have been some kind of malfunction because that hasn’t happened to me at all.

  That evening, after Andy has gone to bed, I sit outside on the back step, trying to hold on to the calmness I felt earlier when I was out in the garden with Izzy. In a small notebook I write a list titled ‘reasons to split’:

  Because I feel I should.

  Not sure I can ever trust him again.

  To punish him.

  That’s all I can dredge up.

  As for my ‘reasons not to split’ list, there are so many whirling around in my head – such as ‘Better for Izzy’, ‘Avoids upheaval’ and ‘Should try and rescue marriage rather than giving up’. But I don’t jot these down. Instead, I just write:

  Because I still love him.

  Friday, March 22

  During our quiet, unremarkable evening it hits me that something significant has happened. Izzy is asleep, which means we could be going over the whole Estelle thing yet again. But we are not.

  Instead, we are just catching up on each other’s days over dinner. Whilst Andy never goes into the ins and outs of his dealings with patients, he tells me about a woman who brought her three children along to her appointment today, and they all tucked into an extensive picnic of sandwiches, crisps and Mini Rolls on the waiting room floor. ‘No one had the heart to ask them to put it away,’ he says.

  I realise it’s been a long time since he shared anything about his day, being generally ‘too tired’ to talk to me. As a result, I’d stopped asking. In turn, I tell him about the arrival of my boss’s Barbie pink ‘stability ball’, a kind of giant beach ball that Rose has taken to perching on, rather unstably, as an alternative to sitting on her chair (she hopes to strengthen her core whilst simultaneously dealing with China). Whilst it’s hardly scintillating as far as anecdotes go, at least we are communicating relatively normally, and are no longer so on edge with each other. Andy has finally stopped trying to stroke my hair when I’m stacking the dishwasher. I can now stand there folding up laundry without him lurking behind me, trying to kiss my neck. The mad flurry of affection was understandable. But the fact that it has eased off can only be a good thing, surely?

  I am starting to think that we really can get over this, and that Andy’s affair was one of those ‘blips’ people talk about. After all, most marriages tend to hit a crisis at some point or other, and I’ve read many times that it can actually make a couple stronger together, in the long run.

  So, this is where we are now; just a normal middle-aged couple hanging out together on a Friday night. It feels kind of right. Never mind Penny’s ‘tell him to sling his hook’ attitude. It’s my marriage, and my decision, and I can’t bear the thought of throwing it all away.

  Sunday, March 24

  True to his word – albeit a month on from when it was promised – Spencer has arrived for a visit home. Now the worst of the Estelle crisis seems to be over, it’s wonderful to see him. He fills our house with his big, loud laugh and extravagant stories about gigs he’s worked on, and I love it. He has brought his girlfriend, Millie, a sassy girl who can unearth a ratty old lime green satin bedspread in a charity shop and make a fabulous skirt out of it.

  She has a finely boned face and a mane of crinkly light brown hair. Izzy is transfixed – despite the fact that we’ve met her several times before – and trots around with her, chatting incessantly. As I look around at the five of us all here together in our sun-filled kitchen, it seems incredible that, barely more than a month ago, I was reading those awful texts in the garden.

  As usual, Spencer gave us hardly any notice that he was driving up to Glasgow. He just called from a service station to say he was on his way and would be here in an hour or so – and he didn’t even mention that Millie was with him. As we had little food in, I panicked; I like being able to put on a big feast when he’s here. ‘Just make your omelettes,’ he said, and so that’s what I’m doing (they’re his favourite anyway).

  ‘How’s the pellet business, Mum?’ he asks cheekily as I bring a huge bowl of home-made fat golden chips to the table, and we all sit down.

  ‘It’s completely thrilling,’ I reply with a smile.

  Spencer fixes me with a look. His blue eyes are bright behind his black-framed spectacles, and now I’m starting to wonder whether he’s noticed that something has happened since we saw him last.

  ‘You should get back into theatre again,’ he says. ‘Do something you love, Mum. You’re wasted in that place.’

  ‘Oh, you definitely should,’ Millie agrees. She is a performance artist who seems to do a bit of everything – dance, spoken word, poetry – and is a regular fixture at the Edinburgh Fringe. It astoun
ds me how together and confident she is at twenty years old.

  ‘Who says I don’t love what I do?’ I say with a smile, knowing there’s no point in explaining that, at my stage of life, manageable working hours are perhaps more valuable than what Spencer would term as ‘following your passion’. When does it happen, this decision to veer down the sensible route?

  ‘Can I show Millie my clothes?’ Izzy asks, the instant we’ve finished eating. She adores dressing up.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, my heart soaring as the two of them disappear together.

  Spencer picks out a few more chips from the bowl. ‘That was lovely, Mum. You make the best omelettes in the world.’

  ‘She does,’ Andy says. ‘I keep telling her that.’

  ‘All this praise!’ I remark as we clear the table. ‘It’s going to go to my head.’

  Andy grins at our son. ‘She still won’t tell me her secret method, even after all these years.’

  ‘If I did, I’d have to kill you,’ I remark.

  He chuckles and winds an arm around my waist, and I detect a hint of relief passing over Spencer’s face, as if he’s thinking, Oh, so they are okay after all.

  Izzy bounces back into the kitchen wearing a flamboyant outfit the girls have put together: yellow top, red trousers, pea green feather boa and more jewellery than I’d have thought it was possible to pile onto a seven-year-old child.

  ‘So you let Millie help you choose what to wear and not your own mother?’ I tease her, taking pictures with my phone.

  ‘Yeah, but Millie knows about fashion.’ She giggles.

  ‘Penny does too. But you won’t let her pick your outfits either.’

  Izzy grins slyly. ‘Penny said the f-word,’ she announces, at which Spencer feigns shock.

  ‘Did she? That’s outrageous! What was that all about?’

  She looks at me. ‘What was it, Mum? She didn’t want to put cheese in the soup?’

  ‘My God, Izzy, that was weeks ago …’ Of course, kids never forget when an adult does something they shouldn’t. They file it away for future reference and delight in bringing it up.

  ‘Is cheese in soup a thing?’ Spencer muses, when I tell him the story.

  ‘Of course it is,’ I exclaim, in mock outrage. ‘Tomato soup needs cheese.’

  ‘It’s kind of retro,’ Andy adds, ‘but yeah, it really works. You should try it, Spence. But it’s got to be cheap Cheddar—’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, Dad.’ He grins and turns to me. ‘So, how is the lovely Penny?’

  ‘She’s doing great.’

  ‘Still seeing that musician guy on the boat?’ He means Hamish, with the velvet jackets, cravats and a great bouffe of silvery hair, who has the kind of voice that ‘carries’ (i.e. he always talks as if he’s making a public speech).

  ‘He says he’s a composer,’ I reply with a smile, ‘and yes, she is, although I don’t know how serious it is …’

  ‘He’s quite a bit younger than her, isn’t he?’ Andy remarks. I’m surprised he’s even picked up on that. Before the Estelle business he was never interested in my friends.

  ‘Um, yes. He’s in his early sixties, I think.’

  ‘That’s not young,’ Izzy splutters.

  ‘It’s all relative,’ Spencer says loftily, patting her arm. He turns to me. ‘Well, give her my love, won’t you?’ As Spencer and Millie get ready to leave, I try not to show my disappointment that they’re not staying overnight. However, the prospect of a gig in Edinburgh is clearly irresistible, and with a flurry of hugs and kisses, they’re off.

  ‘Wasn’t that lovely?’ I remark.

  Andy nods, looking a little deflated now. ‘It was.’

  ‘But I wish they’d stayed a bit longer.’

  ‘Me too.’ He wipes down the table and looks around the kitchen, as if unsure of what to do next. Izzy has disappeared off to her room.

  ‘It’s great that he has his own full life, though,’ I add. ‘I’m proud of him, aren’t you?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Oh, yeah, of course I am.’ There’s a slight catch to his voice. He seemed particularly sorry to see Spencer go tonight, and I can’t quite work out why. Yes, the visit was brief, but that’s hardly unusual. We are used to him bowling up, all singing and dancing, then scooting off before we’ve had chance to fully appreciate him being home with us again.

  While Andy loads the dishwasher I go upstairs to run Izzy’s bath and sit chatting to her while she soaks in the bubbles. I read to her in her room – a couple of chapters of The Twits, which has her in giggles – then tuck her in and kiss her goodnight.

  ‘Did you enjoy seeing Spence and Millie?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’ She grins. ‘I love Millie.’

  I smile and squeeze her hand. ‘I do too. She’s a great girl.’

  ‘Spence loves her, doesn’t he?’

  Something seems to clench inside me. ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure he does. It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?’

  She nods. ‘Yeah.’ A pause. ‘Will they get married?’

  ‘Oh, darling, I don’t know about that. We’ll have to see, won’t we? But they’re a bit young for that right now.’

  I stand up and smooth back the fine hair from her lightly freckled pale face. ‘I wish I had a sister,’ she adds.

  ‘Like Millie you mean? A big sister?’

  She nods.

  ‘Oh, honey, you have Spencer, though, don’t you? You’re lucky.’

  She seems to be considering this, and her expression turns solemn. ‘You don’t have anyone.’

  I laugh dryly. ‘No brothers or sisters, you mean? Yes, you’re right there, but it’s okay, you know. It’s what I’m used to, and I have you guys. You’re my family. So I’m very lucky too.’

  I turn to her bedroom door as Andy appears, having come up to say goodnight to Izzy too. It’s all so ordinary, I muse as he hugs her. Just a dad saying goodnight to his daughter. A month ago, I thought my marriage was over and now here we are, still together, still a family.

  It’s true, what I said to Izzy just then. I do feel very lucky indeed.

  Early hours of Monday, March 25

  When terrible things happen you sometimes have the weirdest thoughts. You don’t think about big things. You think about trivial details, like: I could have taken the time to explain why my omelettes are so good. If Andy had really wanted to know, I could have gone into the importance of the right kind of frying pan (i.e. a really good non-stick one), the fact that you don’t need much butter – a small knob will suffice – and that the pan must be smokingly hot before the beaten eggs are tipped in.

  I might also have mentioned, had he been genuinely interested, that as soon as it starts to set, the eggy mixture should be dragged to the centre with a spatula, and the pan tipped and swirled, so the omelette cooks as quickly as possible: speed is of the essence. But the truth is, Andy’s interest was faked.

  He didn’t give a stuff about my omelettes, and nor was he telling the truth when he’d vowed that all communications with Estelle Lang had stopped. They’ve been in touch the whole time and, he’s so sorry, he tells me now, as he hurriedly packs a bag, but they are in love and he needs to be with her.

  And that’s why he is leaving me.

  Part Two

  After

  Chapter Nine

  Four months later: Saturday, July 20

  The rice is nearly cooked, my very own four-foot-tall, gap-toothed TV chef says with a flourish of her wooden spoon, and now we’re adding the pine kernels, the salt and the sugar to the frying pan and giving it a big stir … Izzy looks up with a smile. Since her father left another milk tooth has gone. The sugar, she adds, as though sensing my note of surprise, makes it nicer to eat. Now, we’re adding some, uh … She picks up a clump of greenery and frowns at it. Basil?

  ‘Dill,’ I prompt her.

  We add the dill and the parsley and cinnamon, uh … nearly forgot the raisins!

  Who’d have thought that my daughter would acqua
int herself with such exotic ingredients? On this bright summer’s afternoon she is rustling up the Turkish stuffed tomatoes she first made at Maeve’s a few months ago. She has become mad about cooking and taken to demonstrating dishes to me in her one-woman cookery ‘show’ here in our kitchen. We have ventured far and wide, food-wise, with Thai, Caribbean and even Russian dishes featuring on Izzy Cooks! One time she rustled up a spicy Indonesian salad – ‘It’s called gado-gado!’ she announced – which involved covering most of our kitchen with smashed-up peanuts but was, admittedly, so delicious I didn’t really mind the mess. These culinary delights have almost made up for the fact that I haven’t managed to get it together to book a summer holiday for us this year.

  Sunshine is managing to beam in through the grubby window. Izzy’s hair is tied back neatly beneath the chef’s hat we made from white cardboard, and she’s wearing the polka dot apron Penny whizzed up for her on her sewing machine. As there’s no production team here, sourcing ingredients has been keeping me busy. Left to my own devices, I’m what might be described as a ‘basic cook’. I’d never imagined that Medjool dates and preserved lemons would ever put in an appearance in this house, or that the phrase ‘We’re out of polenta!’ would fall from my seven-year-old’s mouth. This new project is ruining me financially and the clearing up afterwards is colossal. But at least Izzy’s having fun, making these mad, exotic feasts.

  While Izzy Cooks! is a fairly new project, lots of things haven’t changed since her father moved out. Obviously, Izzy was shocked and upset when we told her (‘Mum and I will still be really good friends,’ Andy explained, twisting his hands together as he sat hunched on the sofa). There were plenty of tears and for a while, she took to coming into my room at night and snuggling into bed with me. But she seems to have accepted how things are. And now, well into the summer holidays – school broke up at the end of June – she is generally back to her sunny, happy self, as if everything is normal.