Page 127 of Here One Moment

I can’t tell you exactly how I knew.

Sometimes you just do. Even if you have the intuition of a potato.

Chapter 102

The YouTuber death pushes Dom right over the edge, just like Eve knew it would.

“Eve, if the only way to keep you safe is to break up…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

They sit side by side on their couch. (They had two choices at IKEA, and of course they had chosen the more expensive one, because they are idiots. It already looks shabby and old.)

“You know it wouldn’t be a breakup like when we were at school,” says Eve. “It would be a divorce.”

He flinches at the word.

“We’d have to get lawyers. Expensive lawyers.”

She’s not sure that’s true. It’s not like they have any assets.

They slump silently on the couch, looking blankly at their phones.

Suddenly Eve puts down her phone. “So what if we do divorce, I marry someone else and he ends up killing me when I’m twenty-five? Did you think about that?”

It’s a very mean thing to say because he obviously has not thought about it. His face first goes white and then red.

Dom is a very strong boy, but she’s stronger.

Chapter 103

A divorce is like a death but without the comfort of a funeral or sympathy cards. No one brings you flowers, but even if your divorce is right because your marriage was wrong, it can feel like you are being slowly, painstakingly ripped in half.

Most studies of stress put divorce right up at the top, along with the death of a spouse, moving house, and a jail term. I’d find a jail term more stressful than moving house, but everyone is different.

David didn’t try to deny it when I asked him about Stella. He vaguely implied it was my fault because I wasn’t there when the couple fell off the balcony, which was traumatic (and also kind of my fault because I predicted it, although he didn’t say that out loud, of course). What else could they do but go to bed together?

He probably felt guilty and I definitely felt righteous. We were upset about the baby girl and embarrassed by our distress, so we never properly articulated our feelings of loss. It was only a photo, after all. We could still adopt a baby.

Of course you probably think the cheating was just a symptom of the rot at the heart of our marriage and perhaps you are right. Once, I said, “You don’t even like me, David,” and he looked horrified, as if I’d caught him out in something far worse than cheating. He said, “Well, do you like me, Cherry?” I’d never really thought about it. I know that conversation sounds so odd. Relationships can be very odd. How did we end up together? It’s a mystery.

Not really a mystery. It was sex. No need to overcomplicate things.

My in-laws tried to help, sharing stories of difficult times during their marriage. Auntie Pat suggested we go on a “Marriage Encounter” weekend, which is a popular program for married couples begun in Spain in the sixties by a Catholic priest. It would involve us going away with other couples and talking about feelings. We could think of nothing more horrific.

I shall not rehash the dying throes of our marriage: paperwork, admin, the canceling of our adoption, a division of assets, shouting, a vicious argument about the “good” saucepan. We kept having sex right until the end. We kept saying, “Last time.” It took quite a while for the last time to be the last time. In fact, he was living with Stella at the time. (I don’t feel guilty. She did it to me first.) (I do feel a little bit guilty.)

He’s still living with Stella. He’s a very successful, happily married cardiologist with children they presumably adopted or conceived through sperm donation, I can’t tell you for sure, and grandchildren. I’m just a little footnote in their life.

I called him when his mother died. She and I tried so hard to stay friends, but it was impossible because Michelle’s loyalty had to be to her son. She loved me but she loved her son more. Of course she did.

I forgave Stella for sleeping with my husband, but I never forgave her for stealing my in-laws.

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In the middle of all that, my mother died: far too young. As you know. An unnecessary death. But I’ve been over this. Grudges aren’t healthy.

It was a late afternoon in May, and Mum floated on a sea of morphine administered by Auntie Pat, who was haggard with exhaustion, barely able to stand upright, because she’d refused to let anyone else nurse her sister. An older, less self-absorbed version of me would have insisted I give her more respite. It’s on my list of lifetime regrets.

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