‘Whatever. Shall we order?’
It was late by the time we got home and Quin and I were both relaxed and giggly. It would have been so easy to say nothing.
But that would have been all kinds of sneaky.
‘Quin, tomorrow night I’m meeting Luke.’ I spoke quickly. ‘The way we split up, the reason, he sees it differently to how I do. It would be good to … untangle it.’
After several moments of silence, he asked, ‘Is something going on?’
‘Not the way you mean. But –’
‘What if you “untangle” that you still love him?’
‘That’s not going to happen. But I’m hoping to get some peace.’
‘Rach?’ His tone was surprisingly scornful. ‘Something you should know: your ex-husband is just a man. An ordinary man that, despite how he treated you, you’ve idealized. I’ve met him and I can tell you he’s not a French sauce that’s been reduced and reduced until it’s … fucking …’ He waved his hands, searching for the right phrase. ‘… food of the gods. And I’m better than cheesy fries from Jo Burger. A lot better. I know it. I wish you did.’
‘I should never have said that, Quin. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Please forgive me.’ I felt breathless. ‘Maybe it was what I thought in our early days. But it was mean and stupid and wrong. Things are different now.’
‘What way?’
‘Well, they are. Aren’t they?’
‘Yeah. Whatever. Can we go to sleep now?’
He turned his back to me, then switched out the light.
61
In the weeks and months after Yara’s death, I still went to NA meetings but nothing like as often. For the first time, they’d stopped giving me comfort. My loss was too huge; it had separated me out from everyone else and set me down on an island of one.
Everyone was as lovely as they’d always been, so supportive and encouraging. Over and over, they promised me that I could get through my loss without relapsing. But their fervour exhausted me. They didn’t – couldn’t – know how bad I felt so they had no right to tell me how to cope.
And if they knew I was taking tablets to help me sleep, they’d probably freak out, worrying that I might relapse.
My higher power had always been the meetings but I no longer believed. Not in anything, really.
Every morning Olga Mae, my sponsor, sent comforting recovery texts: Just for today and This too shall pass. But when they beeped onto my phone, all I felt was guilt.
Mia had taken to popping by at around six in the evening, bearing a box of heritage tomatoes or a punnet of blackberries left over from her day on the stall. It became another thing to dread – having to drag up words from my depths, to thank her for food I had no ability to eat. Eventually, I left Luke to deal with her.
Carlotta had urged us to try out self-help groups for bereaved parents, but I wanted to go to one that was only for women. However terrible Luke’s pain was – and I guessed it was appalling – mine, because of my corrosive shame, had to be worse. It was the most natural thing in the world to give birth to a healthy baby, and I’d failed. Maybe if I could talk to other women who’d failed in the same way, I’d get some comfort?
But when I tried explaining, Luke was hurt. Huffy, even. ‘You’re shutting me out, babe.’
I didn’t have to. We were already doing it to each other. I couldn’t take care of him and he couldn’t take care of me.
And as it happened, even in a group of bereaved mothers, I felt isolated. After only two sessions, I bowed out.
Claire’s way of showing support was to send links to stories of celebrities making shows of themselves. Two or three times a day, State of this eejit! would pop up on my phone. And to be fair, a couple of minutes reading about another person’s meltdown was distracting.
Anna visited most weekends, usually bearing expensive skincare – at times including some for Luke.
‘So this is a …’ Dutifully, Luke would read the box. ‘An overnight skin-cell renewal serum. That sounds … cool. Thanks, Anna.’ I’d watch him struggling to be light-hearted. ‘Next time you see me, I’ll look twenty years younger.’
‘And twenty times hotter!’ We’d all laugh awkwardly, then Luke would slide from the room.
Anna was the one who tentatively suggested that Luke and I might try to have another baby.
‘It’s too late,’ I said. ‘I’m forty already.’