Swimming Lessons(80)

“Happy birthday, again,” Jonathan said, and we chinked glasses.

Over dinner we’d talked about how he was still single, how his writing was going, and how he had to get up at six the next morning to catch a flight to Addis Ababa. I told him about the death and burial of Annie and we’d raised our glasses to her memory. There was only one subject left now.

“You need to decide,” he said. “Take him back or get divorced and move out. That house has always felt like Gil’s to me, stuffed with his mother’s old furniture and all those books. I remember being surprised there was even room for you and the girls, when they came along.”

“That’s because your oversized body was always hanging off either end of the sofa.” We drank. A wash of nostalgia for those months when I was pregnant with Nan swept over me. “Not to London, though,” I said, imagining you with Louise at that very moment in the same city, in her bed, in her body. I banished the image. “I don’t think the children would be happy moving. Nan wants to go into nursing, and we couldn’t leave yet, anyway, not until after her exams, and God knows about Flora. I’d have to suggest the opposite and then she might do what I wanted. I had to pay Nan more than the going rate to get her to babysit her sister tonight.” I drank again.

“You could come and live with me.”

I choked on the wine I was swallowing. “But you don’t even have a house, Jonathan. You’ve been sleeping on people’s sofas for the whole of your life.”

“I do, in Ireland.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know.” He let go of his glass and rubbed both his hands through his hair so it stood up from his head. “Just that I want something better for you, that you deserve something better.”

“That’s what you’ve always said, but none of this is your fault. Everything that’s happened I’ve let happen. There’s no one else to blame except myself.”

“That’s not true and you know it. Gil had the affair,” Jonathan said. I glanced at him and then away. “Affairs,” he corrected. “And he chose to include that dedication; he wrote that book. Gil, always the risk taker.”

I stared at my glass, didn’t dare look him in the eye. “But I knew what he was like,” I said. “You warned me that first night at his party, remember?”

“Did I?” Jonathan waved his empty whiskey glass at the woman behind the bar. She clasped the top of her bodice and pulled it upwards with both hands; it didn’t move. She came over with another whiskey on a silver tray.

“If you can’t blame Gil,” Jonathan said, “then you should blame me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I reintroduced them, Gil and Louise. At a party he invited me to. I brought her along. They didn’t like each other much before that, did they? God, remember your wedding? I never thought the two of them would turn into something serious. He’s an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“I have to make myself stop thinking about them. What they’re doing, where they are.” I rolled the stem of my glass between my fingers. “It’s torture, even after all these months.”

“But Ingrid,” he said, and he reached out his hand to still mine. “He’s not with her anymore. I thought you’d heard.” I could see the shock on my face reflected in the surprise on his. “I haven’t seen him since we argued, but I spoke to Louise. She left him weeks ago. She told me she was going to phone you.”

What did I feel? Relief? And then futility, anger, Schadenfreude. I remembered the telephone call that Flora had refused to take. Louise and I haven’t spoken since you left. I blame her as much as I blame you, of course; but her betrayal is different, worse, perhaps. Louise has always been my voice of reason, or, if not that, a different opinion—someone who will question my choices, make me defend myself. Not only has Louise slept with you, had an affair, fallen in love (whatever its name)—she’s changed sides.

“So tell me about this house,” I said.

“I’ve been thinking of getting rid of the tenants from my mother’s old house and doing it up. Going back to Ireland to settle down. Maybe I can find a job teaching in a school or somewhere.”

“It’s about time. How old are you? Fifty-three?”

“Fifty-two. Bloody hell, how can I be fifty-two? I’m tired of travelling. You’d love the house. Plenty of space for the kids.”

“They’re fifteen and nine. It’s not space they want anymore. It’s time away from their mother.” I laughed.

“Well, there you are then.” He topped up my glass. “Bantry Bay is beautiful when it’s not raining. The house just needs some patching up, a lick or two of paint.”

“You should find yourself a wife.” We smiled.

“There’s nothing to keep you and the children in England. Just decide and come with me. You could make a garden and I could write.”

It sounded frighteningly familiar.

“You once told me to stay with Gil when I was thinking about leaving.”

Jonathan looked unbearably sad. “See, that’s why you should never listen to my advice. What do I know about what happens inside a marriage?”

“I sometimes think you know more about it than Gil and me, or at least you’re able to take a more objective view.” I cupped the side of his face with my hand. He closed his eyes, pressed his cheek against my palm, and the moment lengthened until he snapped his eyes open and pulled away from me.