Page 6 of Textbook Romance

Kate shifts me a look, incredulous. ‘No, silly. We’d have to break into his flat and sprinkle them into his pants drawer. Or maybe we could send him anonymous tainted pants. We could send them to that cow who was your supposed friend, too. There are ways and means. I’ll ask for vicious blood-sucking crabs.’

I worry at how Kate has thought this through in such detail, but I also vibrate with laughter at my dear sister. Only a sibling would love you so ferociously and with such thought for how to seek revenge on your lying, cheating ratbag of a husband and his new lover. She pulls her hair into a bun, streaks of grey starting to colour her temples, her bright blue eyes matching mine. We sit together on this bench, around my faded garden table, remnants of cheese, charcuterie and wine corks littering the place. I re-arrange the blanket that covers our knees, looking up to watch as the sky starts to fade and the stars poke through. Kate leans over, lighting a candle on the table and using it to light up a cigarette.

‘Give me a bit,’ I ask her.

‘You always told me it was an awful habit,’ she tells me, scrunching up her face.

‘It is.’ Cigarettes always look unnatural on me. Maybe because I hold them with both hands carefully. I suck in the fumes and let them sit in my soul for a minute, hoping it might mask all that other emotion in there. Just one drag can’t hurt. I cough and hand it back to my sister. ‘I didn’t realise there were different types of crabs.’

‘I made that up. Actually, I don’t know. I’ll Google it.’

‘The problem there then is if Brian lets on and reports us to the police, they’ll look at your search history and then you’ll have to go down.’

‘I would do that for you, though. I would,’ she says, resting her head on my shoulder.

‘I know.’ I rest my head on hers and cling on to her for dear life. My wonderful Kate. The older sister and the one who came here when life started falling apart, when I told Brian to get out of our family home, and who ensured we all got through these disastrous few months. The one who removed all traces of my husband in this house, who said things to his face that I didn’t know how to, who picked up my children and held us close to let us know that even though our dynamic had changed, love was still there. She picks up a piece of salami and stuffs it into her mouth. The only problem now is that she has to go back to her life and work in Birmingham tomorrow. There was only so much living and working remotely she could do, plus her husband, Neil, told us her cats were starting to show symptoms of separation anxiety.

‘I always thought I’d be excellent in prison. I’d be like Paddington. I’d make jams and encourage rehabilitation through arts, crafts and baked goods.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘Or, more likely, be the one crocheting ropes to start prison breaks.’

‘That, too. I’d make crocheting street, you know?’

We both sit there, silently sipping at wine, looking out into my garden. Brian and I weren’t in the least bit green-fingered so it’s mostly lawn, whatever shrubs came with the house and some garden furniture that has seen better days, stuff that Brian didn’t want when he moved out. That happened three weeks ago. He rented a van. Kate keyed the van before he left because that’s what Kate needed to do. But it was a strange day of transactions and debate. He fought me for cereal bowls. I think that was the nadir of our breakdown, when he wanted just the three cereal bowls. What sort of animal breaks up a dining set like that? Who fights over the minutiae of life like that, like it’s important? I wish we’d done more with this garden. There’s an apple tree at the bottom that surprises me every year, yielding fruit even though I don’t really give it any care. I also need to sort Dylan’s broken goal that leans against the fence, maybe add something to attract birds and squirrels.

‘Can I say something?’ Kate says, tucking her feet under the blanket to make herself more comfortable. ‘There were things about him I never liked. I feel I can bring these things up now.’

‘Shoot,’ I say, taking a big gulp of wine.

‘He liked golf. I always think golf is for bores and twats.’ I clink her glass. ‘I also thought he needed better chinos, like a flat cut or something. There was a lot of bunching around the crotch area. Not that I was looking but sometimes it just looked like he was wearing a nappy.’

I giggle.

‘And I didn’t like how he got territorial over the barbeque in the summer. How he’d tuck a tea towel in his back pocket and then strut around with his tongs like he was Gordon fucking Ramsay, telling us about the marbling on his wagyu.’

I smile. The fact was, the kids used to tease him about that mercilessly. It became a family in-joke and a sort of pain stings through me to remember a time where we laughed off his preoccupation with the barbeque and the silly aprons he used to wear. I remember when Lottie strutted around the kitchen imitating him and he got grumpy and told us all to piss off, and we laughed even harder.

Kate senses my quiet and snuggles into me more. ‘His allergies were also annoying, the constant sniffing,’ she tells me. ‘He used to roll his eyes at me when I told him about local honey.’

I nod. ‘This is true. He was not one for alternative medicine.’

‘And he was just too fond of Liam Gallagher. Like, you’re allowed to like the man, he’s a quality musician, but it was bordering on fanatical.’

Kate proceeds to bellow out a really bad rendition of Wonderwall that makes a bird fall out of a neighbouring tree.

‘Someone’s tuneful tonight. Is that the Pinot?’

‘It’s my hate for him, flowing through me,’ she informs me.

I was never keen on Oasis. Sure, there were a few bangers there that I respected but it was all he played, and it made him look like some strange middle-aged fanboy. I always thought it a little hypocritical when he was a southerner, too. He should surely have an allegiance to Blur. I know I did.

‘I don’t think I can hear another Oasis song again,’ I tell my sister. ‘That makes me feel bad, though. My impending divorce is not their fault.’

Kate chuckles silently. ‘You and all your bloody empathy. Only you would feel bad for hating someone you’ve never even met.’

‘Stop Crying Your Heart Out…’

‘Exactly,’ Kate says.

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