If things had been different today would have been my thirtieth wedding anniversary. It seems inconceivable that I’m old enough to have been in a relationship with anyone for that length of time – more than half my life. Or it would have, if it had lasted this long. Five years ago I was sitting on my sofa when on a whim I pressed call on my husband’s phone and got a woman rather than the man whose name had flashed up in the message and confirmed my suspicions that the relationship he claimed was over, wasn’t. It’s sad. A heaving, mostly dormant, volcano of sadness that now and then erupts, though it’s been quiet for a while. But anniversaries will stir things up. And there’s the temptation, sometimes irresistable, to torture myself with thoughts like – we would have been married thirty years, but they probably have their own anniversary that goes back a lot further than the end of our marriage. I could track that too, since I know it was his birthday and he’d gone to Switzerland, and his conscience pocket dialled me from the airport as he was walking with her and talking. But those thoughts, those memories don’t do anyone any good and it’s best to leave the past in the past. I know that some of my sorrow is for the loss of a dream, the loss of the fantasy of the ‘us’ my husband and I saw ourselves as for many of those years. We were a unit. An unequal unit, to be sure, and one that in the end broke down and couldn’t or wouldn’t be fixed, like an obsolete appliance which you could still get parts for if you bothered, but decide to chuck out because it’s cheaper to buy a new one, a better one. I do still find myself wondering how it all happened, how it all went wrong, and how it can possibly be the case that we are not together any more when he was my life for much of it. But then days go past, weeks go past, months go past and I hardly think of him, and now when he’s in the house seeing the kids, I find him awkward and in the way – an inconvenience in this home we built together and which he left me with, discarding it at the same time as me. I don’t see his ghost anywhere, or if I do it’s a benign one that just flits in and out and doesn’t rip my heart out with it. I don’t cry anymore when I remember something poignant because I don’t remember anything poignant that often. The new reality has swept the old fantasy away and my life at home is mine, shared with someone else lately, and together we have rituals and habits that we’re building which have superceded the old ones, and are in some way better, more satisfying than before in my married life. I miss things, of course, but they are becoming harder and harder to recall, and when I do I remember all the things I don’t miss.
But nevertheless I had a tear in my eye this morning as I visited the past for a few seconds and remembered the man who I worshiped and adored and who also, for a time, worshiped and adored me. He didn’t listen to me, or engage much with me, but being a revered object still has its pleasures. I wanted so much from him but it was like squeezing fruit after its already been through the press – there just wasn’t enough juice left for me, it all went on his work, his quiet contemplation, and latterly his girlfriend. I’m still sorry we couldn’t make it work.
However,if I hadn’t pressed dial on his mobile phone, would we have weathered the infidelity and gone on, and the affair petered out, or would it have been years more of agony that had already, by then, brought me to my knees? I’ll never know. What I do know is that I wouldn’t have gone to Brazil, twice. I wouldn’t have gone to Syria and seen it in all its beauty before the war broke out. I wouldn’t have swum naked in Croatia, or paddled in hot springs in Turkey. I wouldn’t have heard a pair of cuckoos calling to each other from a shoulder high field of rape on a May day in the countryside, or watched oyster catchers paddle on a river estuary, or seen flocks of red emperors and painted ladies in a walled garden in Sussex. I wouldn’t have seen a magnificent sunset in Dorset, or heard Patti Smith live in a field, or tramped for four hours through Britain’s only temperate rain forest in Lyme Regis. I wouldn’t have spent a fabulous weekend in Paris, or had a birthday party thrown for me in New York. I wouldn’t have danced with gay abandon with seven handsome gay men at two weddings, had my hair put up and my make up done by a professional, flown on a private plane several times, and be soon looking forward to a helicopter ride. I wouldn’t have had the special time alone with my eldest daughter after her father left, or my younger son when he came back from travelling and brought his girlfriend home to live with me. I wouldn’t have the good relationship I now have with my youngest daughter which has been transformed from mutual snarling to friendship. I wouldn’t have three little cats, or a new bed, or the job I’m doing now. I wouldn’t have Julian, younger, handsome, slim and kind, living with me and peeling an orange for me every night. I wouldn’t be a Chelsea season ticket holder, and be exhilarated at the last match of the season. I wouldn’t have driven round Puglia and practiced my Italian. I wouldn’t be the me I am now, and I like that me a whole lot better than the old me. And I like the life that comes with it.
I should be celebrating instead five years of emancipation. I used to sit on the bus with my hands clasped, holding my own hand, thinking - it doesn't matter if he's gone, because I'm here. I didn't believe it at the time, but I do now. I'm here and I'm okay. Better than okay. I'm pretty damn fine.
And so here’s to it. If I drank, I'd raise a glass to it.
But nevertheless I had a tear in my eye this morning as I visited the past for a few seconds and remembered the man who I worshiped and adored and who also, for a time, worshiped and adored me. He didn’t listen to me, or engage much with me, but being a revered object still has its pleasures. I wanted so much from him but it was like squeezing fruit after its already been through the press – there just wasn’t enough juice left for me, it all went on his work, his quiet contemplation, and latterly his girlfriend. I’m still sorry we couldn’t make it work.
However,if I hadn’t pressed dial on his mobile phone, would we have weathered the infidelity and gone on, and the affair petered out, or would it have been years more of agony that had already, by then, brought me to my knees? I’ll never know. What I do know is that I wouldn’t have gone to Brazil, twice. I wouldn’t have gone to Syria and seen it in all its beauty before the war broke out. I wouldn’t have swum naked in Croatia, or paddled in hot springs in Turkey. I wouldn’t have heard a pair of cuckoos calling to each other from a shoulder high field of rape on a May day in the countryside, or watched oyster catchers paddle on a river estuary, or seen flocks of red emperors and painted ladies in a walled garden in Sussex. I wouldn’t have seen a magnificent sunset in Dorset, or heard Patti Smith live in a field, or tramped for four hours through Britain’s only temperate rain forest in Lyme Regis. I wouldn’t have spent a fabulous weekend in Paris, or had a birthday party thrown for me in New York. I wouldn’t have danced with gay abandon with seven handsome gay men at two weddings, had my hair put up and my make up done by a professional, flown on a private plane several times, and be soon looking forward to a helicopter ride. I wouldn’t have had the special time alone with my eldest daughter after her father left, or my younger son when he came back from travelling and brought his girlfriend home to live with me. I wouldn’t have the good relationship I now have with my youngest daughter which has been transformed from mutual snarling to friendship. I wouldn’t have three little cats, or a new bed, or the job I’m doing now. I wouldn’t have Julian, younger, handsome, slim and kind, living with me and peeling an orange for me every night. I wouldn’t be a Chelsea season ticket holder, and be exhilarated at the last match of the season. I wouldn’t have driven round Puglia and practiced my Italian. I wouldn’t be the me I am now, and I like that me a whole lot better than the old me. And I like the life that comes with it.
I should be celebrating instead five years of emancipation. I used to sit on the bus with my hands clasped, holding my own hand, thinking - it doesn't matter if he's gone, because I'm here. I didn't believe it at the time, but I do now. I'm here and I'm okay. Better than okay. I'm pretty damn fine.
And so here’s to it. If I drank, I'd raise a glass to it.
