Page 38 of A Midlife Marriage

Her hand wentto her mouth, tears pricking at her eyes. What to do? What should she do?

The first thingshe did was shut and lock the kitchen door. The second thing she did was take the vibrator out of its box, which proved difficult because her hands were shaking. Hands that had written out solutions to equations that had baffled her contemporaries at university, and impressed hundreds, probably thousands of teenagers, hands that had held and nursed another life, hands that had peeled and chopped a million carrots, that had combed the hair of a dying woman, that had comforted, nourished, educated, shook now at the sight of this small white torpedo? It was so ridiculous that she laughed, but still her hands shook and now her legs did too. She was all sorts of things, all at once. Terrified, excited, highly amused … alive!

She checked the lock first on the kitchen door, then the front door and carrying the three boxes as carefully as if they were tiny people she went upstairs and laid them on her bed.

When was the last time,Helen had asked.

I don’t remember,she had said.

But she did. Oh, she did. Two weeks before Martin had left. Maybe he hadn’t known he was leaving, but she had. So yes,she remembered everything. The hard curve of his shoulder, the warmth of his skin, the familiar smell of him. Everything. Sixteen years then. That was how long, and she had meant what she had said to Caro and Helen. No one was coming into her home, while Alex had been so young. Celibacy had been a choice, that had grown into a lifestyle that she wasn’t unhappy with. Then again, she wasn’t sure she could say she was particularly happy either. She walked over to her bedroom window and looked out. The lawn was empty, cleared of all the scattered motorcycle pieces she had become accustomed to. Alex had moved on, losing interest in his latest hobby as quickly as he had become obsessed. It was a strength and a weakness, this ability of his to turn a corner and put out of mind what he had left behind. And now she was thinking of Mrs Newall’s garden, last year’s Maple leaves turning a slow black. It was time. She had to make a change. She had to try.

She pulled the curtains closed, took her clothes off, put her bathrobe on and picked up the torpedo. Pressing the button, the vibrator buzzed instantly into life. Kay jumped, her hands clumsy as paddles as she scrambled to switch it off. God it was noisy! There was no way she could … If Alex was. … Chewing on her lip, she hurried down the stairs and shut both the kitchen curtains and the living room curtains.

‘OK,’ she said, as back upstairs she looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror. ‘You gave birth to a nine-pound baby Kay, you can do this.’

Butyouch!The lubricant was freezing, and sloppy and it was every awful smear examination she’d ever had. Sticky and naked, clutching her torpedo like an Olympic torch she wobbled across to the airing cupboard, found a towel and laid it across her sheet. And then she started.

Slowly, very, very slowly … and carefully, because she was terrified and tentative and tense. And it hurt. God, it hurt! Itscraped and it was sore, but the vibration was gentle. With a little more lubricant, which didn’t feel so cold now, it began to feel something like OK.‘You can do this,’she whispered and eased it in further, and as she did her hips began to move. She pressed again, and the vibrations increased and because the soreness had subsided, she pressed a third time and the vibrations increased again, becoming powerfully insistent, setting in motion the beginning of a physical reaction that she remembered as if from a dream. A response that she couldn’t haven’t controlled, if she’d tried. She didn’t. She lay back, let her legs splay out and closed her eyes. It was pleasurable and it was easy and as the waves began, distant and small, her head tipped back, her arm splayed out and for the first time in sixteen years she surrendered herself to a pleasure she understood now was still a vital part of life.

25

Monday came and went. Helen’s day had been filled with the usual procession of fever and forms, sprains and sickness. And (not that she had been expecting anything), no word from Christian, or anyone at Stronger Together.The green cardigan had been taken out of the bin and hung back on the hook, and declining Tina’s offer of a Bakewell tart, Helen had escaped on her coffee break to sit in the sun and brood over lost opportunities.

Back home, leaning against the kitchen counter, she ate a Quiche Lorraine straight from the packet, poured a glass of wine and took it out to the balcony. The park was full of families and Helen was full of regret. Thursday evening had been fun, but Friday had been lost to a hangover that had her eating everything in the flat. Including a Christmas pudding, found at the back of the cupboard which she steamed in the microwave and ate with the curtains closed watchingPride and Prejudicefor the hundredth time.

And even though she had promised herself not to drink all week, here she was, Monday evening, starting again. But what else was there to do? The landscape of her evenings had changeddramatically. The peaks and troughs of family life, flattening out into this plateau, which she had to accept was probably going to be her home-screen for a long time now. Stronger Together,had obviously decided they were stronger without her (and who could blame them). So, what was she going to do?

‘What Do People Do All Day?’ she said out loud, and just hearing the words made her smile. When Jack was tiny, this had been his favourite book:What Do People Do All Day?It was a story populated by pigs with all the boy pigs wearing uniforms, and all the girl pigs baking pies, and although Helen had hated it, Jack had loved it. Sitting down, she stretched her legs out to the chair opposite and chuckled. She needed the sequel:What Do People Do All Evening?Because when the kids have grown and the pies have been baked and the uniforms put away, whatdopeople do? Join a yoga class in a draughty hall? Join a gym in a windowless building? Light candles and write poetry? In another age, she was thinking, she would have been surrounded by company, generations staying under the same roof. And if that wasn’t the case there would have been company to be had at the end of the street in a local tavern, or at least a chat over the garden fence with a neighbour. The only company she could expect for the next twelve hours was Netflix, or Instagram and the reality of her situation was suddenly so daunting, she put her glass down and leaned forward, chin in hands. This was not what she had envisaged divorce would be. The problem was, beyond vague dreams of a domestic space of her own, she hadn’t envisaged anything. Then again, what would she be doing had she stayed? Drinking wine in the kitchen while she waited for Lawrence to return from his run, or his ride?

She took a sip of wine. It tasted bitter as grapefruit, and in a fit of decision she took the glass to the sink and poured it away, turned and stared at her empty flat. At least Lawrence did things.! He always had. Becoming a father had barely alteredthe course of his life, whereas motherhood had changed every aspect of hers. And although there was no doubt it had given her a purpose; it had also given her an excuse. All those years of sitting on the beach guarding the sandwiches? They hadn’t been so much about sandwiches, as avoidance. The armchair-sized cushion Lawrence’s wage had provided, had allowed her to let the seasons turn and the years pass. So, what on earth was she going to do with the rest of her life?

‘You can start by unpacking, Helen,’ she said out loud. ‘And then you can stop talking to yourself.’ So, she did. She opened Spotify, connected her speaker and set about unpacking. An hour later, with three boxes emptied and a shelving unit filled, she sat down for a break and an obligatory scroll through Instagram. When she reached an ad forSeasons of Becominga coaching course for ‘middle-aged women, seeking a new direction’, she paused, reading through.Are you restless in your career? Do you feel curious about what else is possible?Long for change?It was disconcerting to understand how much her phone knew about her, but she was restless and she did long for change, and as she tapped the link and followed through, it was far more disconcerting for Helen to admit that the change she thought she had made, from being married to not being married, had changed the view from her kitchen sink and not much else.

But what had she expected? Backstage hands gliding new scenery into her life? A great package of an answer dropped from the sky? She took her reading glasses off, tapping the arm against her chin. It wasn’t far from the truth to say that she had lived her life this passively, waiting for one scene to end, before another began. And now here she was, more alone than she had been at any stage of her life, centre stage of an empty stage. She opened her phone again and read on. Through guided reflection and honest conversation,Seasons of Becoming,promised to‘guide her towards who she was now, not ten years ago’.Itpromisedrealignment, reinvention, rhythm.She got her bank card out and signed up. One hundred and fifty pounds lighter, but already that bit more, realigned, she followed the link and opened the first module, a video of a serene looking woman wearing neutral-coloured yoga clothing.

‘Find a quiet room,’the woman said (serenely). ‘And sit cross-legged on the floor, in a space where you won’t be disturbed.’

Easy-peasy. Helen pressed pause, plumped up the cushion on her armchair, settled back and pressed play.

‘It’s important that you sit on the floor and not a chair so that you can feel grounded in the moment.’

Frowning, she slid to the floor, used the cushion to prop her phone, wrestled her limbs into some kind of crossed leg position, and pressed play.

‘Close your eyes if it helps.’

It didn’t. How could she see the pause/play button?

‘Ask this one simple question.’

She took a deep breath.

‘What am I truly longing for at this time in my life?’

Was that it?

‘Listen without judgement.’

OK. She took another breath.Don’t judge, Helen. Don’t judge.

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