Page 57 of A Midlife Marriage

Martin smiled. ‘Let him go.’

‘Of course.’ She nodded. Of course, she would let the most precious thing in the world go, and of course she wouldn’t have to hide how much it hurt, not in front of the only other person in the world, for whom Alex was equally precious.

‘Would you like to see inside?’ Martin said, as together they watched their son walk down the drive and disappear along the street.

It was exactlyas she might have imagined it. Cosy and tiny. Wood-panelling and blue plaid, a sink, a two-burner grill and mini-fridge. ‘And you’re really planning to drive this across Europe?’ Kay stood in the doorway.

‘Once it’s finished,’ he said.

‘How long will that take you?’

‘Well, I’m retiring next year, so ...’

‘You too?’ She smiled.

‘Me too.’

‘Where are you going to sleep?’

‘The table folds out. Here I’ll show you.’ He moved across to the table and unfolded it, laying the cushions from the bench as a mattress.

Still in the doorway, Kay stiffened.

‘I just like to lie here sometimes.’ And he stretched himself out on what was now a double sized bed. ‘Come over,’ he said, patting the empty cushion. ‘You can’t see it from there.’

‘See what?’ Her voice was terse. Alex had barely been gone five minutes. And this? This didn’t look liketalking.

Martin sat up. ‘I’m not going to try anything, Kay. Just come and lie down and then look up. I think you’ll like it.’

Cautious and tense, she inched over and sat down on the edge of the cushion.

‘Lie down,’ he said. ‘And then look up.’

So, she did, straight through the open sun-roof and up into a heaven of mauve twilight, where pinpricks of starlight shone, millions of years still in the vault. Where planets turned and turned. It made her think of another time, in Vegas, when she had sat and looked at the desert trying to imagine what life for her son would look like without her. Fine. It would look just fine.

‘Kay?’ Martin rolled onto his side.

‘I’m all right,’ she said, but she could feel the cold wetness of tears on her cheek. ‘Come here.’

Kay stiffened. She put a hand on his chest and held him away.

‘It’s just a cuddle,’ he said. ‘If you want one.’

She did. She really did, and because that was all she wanted, and it was all that was offered, she let her hand drop and allowed herself to relax into his arms.

PART III

40

The sun was strong, Helen’s neck pickled with heat, and her bra strap slipped under the flimsy chiffon of her dress. Straightening up, she blew the feather fascinator from her eyes and pushed the bike forward only for the wheel to jump as if it had hit brick. Ouch! The vibration of the impact stung her hands. She pushed again, but the bike didn’t move and suddenly, despite the heat, despite her itchy neck and damp back, she felt the coolness of Deja vu, that overwhelming oddity of living a moment she knew she had lived before.

Of course! She looked up. This rut in the road wasalwayswhere the bike had stuck. And never mind just once, she would have lived this moment hundreds of times. Months and years in which her belly would have been swollen with first Libby, and then Jack. When her front basket would have been loaded with nappies waiting to be filled, and vegetables waiting to be pureed. How strange then, she was thinking as she put the back of her hand to her brow, how odd to stumble across this younger version of herself, at a junction that never changed. A turning in the road where, at this time of the year blackberry brambles would always show pimples of reddish-green, and the greencanopy of the horse chestnut would always spread above her head. A place where the milestone stood, silently marking every version of Helen that had ever passed:London: seventeen miles.

Reading it, Helen smiled. If only she had access to a similar marker to measure her own life. How straightforward, for example, if she knew how many more Helens, she ran the risk of stumbling into? Or how many were left? Helen, the child, the teenager, the young woman, the new mother, the wife, the divorcee … Helen the grandmother? She was already there. Helen the adventurer? Was that over before it had even begun? Helen: mark seven… mark eight …

Tensing her arms, she gave a tremendous push forward and the front wheel jumped free. As it did, she swung one leg over the frame, pushed down on the pedal, flicked the battery power to maximum and breezed up the hill towards her old home, swift as Mary Poppins and her umbrella. How easy, she was thinking, as the wheels turned and her neck cooled in the breeze, how easy an electric bike would have made her life in those days of babies and vegetables.

As she reached the top, the ground flattened out. She slowed the bike down, brought it to a halt and dismounted. Who was she fooling? An electric bike wouldn’t have made a difference. The Helen who had schlepped home with a kilo of unwashed carrots, instead of buying a pureed jar, had also been the Helen who had insisted on using washable nappies. Insisted on packing a school lunch, insisted on organising, hosting, catering every birthday and every Christmas of a picture-perfect life, in a picture-perfect house. All to keep busy. So, so busy. And standing for a long moment to look back down the hill, Helen’s eyes narrowed, focusing on a point by the chestnut tree. As if she was still there, as if she could still be seen: the burdened young woman she had passed along the way.

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