Our House(14)

‘That makes sense,’ Bram said, and there was enough raw optimism in his tone for me to glance across at him.

‘You do understand we are separated?’ I said, struggling to keep the sharpness from my tone. ‘The divorce will happen, just not straight away. There’s no going back as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

Rowan watched, composed, thoughtful. ‘In some cases, a clean break in living arrangements is preferred. The way you’re choosing will inevitably bring a level of invasion of privacy because it’s not going to be practical to remove all traces of yourself every time you leave one property for the other. Are you certain that’s what you both want? Fiona?’

I breathed so deeply I filled every recess of my lungs, and then I pictured the boys’ faces, their Lawson curly heads, and I nodded.

Bram agreed with uncharacteristic earnestness. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said and his smile, unexpectedly self-conscious, made me remember why I’d loved him in the first place.

#VictimFi

@LydiaHilluk Sounds a bit hippy-dippy, this bird’s nest idea.

@DYeagernews @LydiaHilluk I think the opposite – it’s civilized, grown up. Sounds like it could work.

@LydiaHilluk @DYeagernews Well, it obviously didn’t, did it?





Bram, Word document

You know that great Smiths line from ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ about Caligula blushing? Well the thing Fi was proposing, a saint would have blushed. Seriously, not a day went by without there being some new article about divorced dads consigned to flat-sharing Bedlam, not a cat’s chance in hell of getting a new mortgage while they were still paying the old one. But Fi spared me this; she spared me all the miseries she had every right to inflict on me. Rather than exiling me, she was reintegrating me; rather than taking me to the cleaners, she was allowing current financial arrangements to stand.

She was doing what parents always say they’ll do but never get halfway to achieving: putting the kids first.

We drew up an agreement – non-binding, but important to her – and signed it. Of course, this is Fi we’re talking about and so there had to be some touchy-feely therapy attached. The counsellor had a low, filtered voice bordering on seductive. ‘Is there anything non-negotiable?’ she asked us. ‘Any no-nos?’

‘No new partners in the house,’ Fi said immediately. ‘Only in the flat. And no speeding, not with the kids in the car. He’s already got two sets of points on his licence. And no drinking on duty.’

‘What a charming portrait you paint of me,’ I joked. She had a point about my driving, but it seemed to me that the only difference between my drinking and hers was that her drinks were a prettier colour. She liked mint-green mojitos and ruby-red kir royales; weird gins made with rhubarb or blueberries or Christmas spices. They all went crazy for gin, the women of Trinity Avenue.

Still do, I’m guessing.

‘And you, Bram?’ Rowan said. ‘Any conditions?’

‘No conditions. Whatever Fi wants, I’m on board.’ And I meant it, I was being ‘authentic’. I didn’t even make any jokes about life jackets.

‘She’s a rare woman, is Fi,’ my mother said when I relayed the news. She’s always had a little insecurity around Fi and her family, with their middle-class attachments to thank you notes and regular theatre, their trips to the Dordogne – or at least she might have done if Fi hadn’t always been so kind and attentive to her. But the fact remained that she thought I’d done well. I’d married up – and now I was separating up too.

‘Don’t go spoiling this as well, Bram,’ she warned me, her gaze containing traces of both disapproval and indulgence. ‘You might not get another chance.’

There was a sense that the Lord had had mercy on me – for now.


‘Fi’s Story’ > 00:36:18

We agreed on Friday, 2nd of September as the first day of the new plan. It was the weekend before the start of the school year, which gave us very little time to find our ‘second residence’ (I thought of it like that, in quotation marks, as if it were artificial, somewhere I would never connect with in any real way).

But the project was charmed, it seemed, what with Bram never burning his bridges, at least not where his drinking buddies were concerned. He still had a pint now and then with the estate agent who’d sold us the house on Trinity Avenue and this agent knew of a studio rental in an apartment block that had gone up a few years ago on the western side of Alder Rise, an easy ten-minute walk down the Parade and across the park from our house. Bought as a-buy-to-let investment, the flat had since passed from tenant to tenant, evidently too small for people to want to stay longer than the minimum period.

The exterior was stylish enough. Designed in echo of the art deco building on the high street that had once housed the art school, it was sleek and white with steel window frames and curved terraces. Baby Deco, the agents called the block (in Alder Rise, even architecture was expressed in family metaphor).

Bram handled everything: negotiated the rent, checked and signed the contract, even made a trip to IKEA for the kitchen supplies we needed.

At a viewing together, I took the opportunity to remind him of my condition about other women. ‘You can do what you like here, but the house is off limits.’