The Marriage Act(61)

‘Who’s Will?’

‘That MP’s son. He’s in a couple of my art history lectures at uni. Nice guy, not like his mum by all accounts. Do we have any hummus?’

‘Second shelf down next to the carrot sticks. Why, what have you heard about her?’

‘He rarely mentions her as they had some massive falling out, but rumour has it they have an agreement. She pays his tuition fees and he shows up when she needs to wheel the family out for public events.’

Corrine didn’t have the opportunity to ask anything else before the kitchen door swung open. Mother and daughter turned to find a red-faced Mitchell.

‘Can you give us a moment,’ he growled at Freya.

She shrugged, offered her mum a ‘Good luck’ eyebrow raise, and left with a plate of snacks.

Mitchell closed the door behind her and waited until he heard her footsteps climbing the stairs.

‘What the hell is this?’ he continued, thrusting a tablet towards his wife’s face.

‘It looks like an iPad. Why, what do you think it is?’

‘This legal document bullshit from your lawyer claiming you’re applying for a fast-track Level Three divorce “on the grounds of domestic abuse”.’

‘If you already know, why are you asking me?’

‘I have never laid a finger on you in twenty-five years of marriage.’

‘Haven’t you?’ asked Corrine with mock innocence.

‘You know fine well I haven’t!’

‘Well, I have date-stamped photographic evidence that I’ve twice been injured and, to the best of my recollection, you were the cause.’

‘What the hell are you talking about woman? Call your solicitor now and retract it.’

‘No, Mitchell, I don’t think I will.’

Mitchell waited for her to break but Corrine wouldn’t be bending today, or ever again. Eventually he nodded his head slowly. ‘Okay, Corrine. If you really want to play this game, then let’s play. But by the time I have finished with you, you’ll be begging me to give our marriage a second chance.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘You might be losing your looks but you’ve not lost your hearing. Yes, I am threatening you. And you had better be listening.’

Corrine stood firm. Then, to Mitchell’s confusion, she allowed a shallow smile to spread across her face.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘Remind me, how long have we been Upmarried for?’

‘A little over six months.’

‘So the grace period is over.’

‘Yes.’

Corrine nodded and Mitchell followed her eyes as they made their way to the wall and towards the Audite sensor. ‘So now that I’ve made this legal claim against you, we are already on Level Three and there’s every possibility this conversation is being recorded to use in court as evidence? Either from up there or on this lovely little gadget I’ve been made to wear?’ She raised her wrist to her face and jiggled a Smart bracelet.

Mitchell’s face reddened again. He opened his mouth to reply but he was hamstrung. He narrowed his eyes so tightly that Corrine could barely locate his irises. And, to her satisfaction, he stormed out of the kitchen more incensed than when he’d arrived.





46


Arthur




Arthur clipped the last of the dying forget-me-not plants from the borders of his garden with his secateurs. It was the end of the year’s second bloom and he tipped them from a bucket into the recycling bin then hung up his gardening equipment on wall hooks inside the garage.

Next, he removed a tarpaulin cover from his and June’s beloved old VW campervan, took a step back and gave it the once-over. The last time they had taken it out on the road was the day he’d realized that something was askew with his wife. They had driven to Stowe gardens, a familiar location to them when their dog Oscar was alive, and they’d travel the county searching for interesting places to walk him. But this particular day, June had no recollection of ever visiting it before. Arthur had showed her photographs on his phone of their last trip but her failing memory had only served to upset her. They’d returned home in silence. An official diagnosis was made by a dementia specialist a fortnight later. June had never taken a seat in the vehicle again.

Arthur made his way back into the house then slowly trudged up the staircase and into the bedroom he shared in life, and death, with his wife. He stretched himself across the bed and let his gaze absorb a magnificent sunset from the window. It bathed the room in warm oranges, rich reds and glowing yellows. He stared at the sun for as long as it took his eyes to grow sore. Then he snapped the lids tight and followed the colourful spots on the inside of his eyelids as they floated lazily like paraffin wax inside a lava lamp. Sometimes, when he did this, he imagined that he was lying on a white, Mediterranean beach like those he and June had visited on their winter holidays. Arthur had yet to experience the end of a day as beautiful as those in the Balearic Islands.

He stretched his arm across the bed, as if holding it around someone.

‘Do you remember that bed and breakfast we stayed at in Formentera?’ he asked.

‘The one with more cockroaches than guests? Oh yes,’ June chuckled. ‘You can’t blame me because you booked that one.’