flashed me a look that said everything. She wanted to know where her baby was. The counsellor gave her a sympathetic look and my ex-wife reciprocated. It was neatly done. I’ve said before that my ex-wife was better than me at most things and faking it was one of them. She just seems to get into part immediately. She should have been an actress, although having another one in the house would have been unbearable. My ex-wife has given command performances the like of which I’ve never seen, most recently in front of the judge when she took everything I had, and in bed, when she put Delilah and Dido and Cleopatra to shame. Later, she told me with great relish that she’d faked every orgasm I thought she’d had. I believed her. It seemed scarcely plausible that I came anywhere near Caesar’s greatness. I think it annoys her, though, that I’ve seen her naked and been with her. She can’t take that away from me. Or maybe that, too, was an act, and the seven years, or however many it was, were a dream.
Despite her tiredness, my wife looked pretty that morning. She was wearing a summer dress that fell to her calves, all tidied in the middle with a red belt. When we were together, I know a lot of men fancied her. I know this because she told me. They would chat her up at parties we threw and wink improprieties across the dinner table. She didn’t like lying to me and holding it back. I appreciated this a lot. I knew they must be doing something because I was doing it with their wives. My wife wouldn’t have appreciated that, but maybe she knew that, too. Maybe she was doing it; she was just more discrete. When you’re young, all that stuff seems perfectly acceptable. It’s what you’re meant to do. When you’re middle-aged, it just seems seedy - or worse, sad. Now we’re separated, they all have the chance, of course, but I know they won’t take it. The magic has gone. A single mother with a child is a whole different balls game.
‘I know this is really traumatic for you. I’ve dealt with many cases like this and I want you to know that there is no right or wrong way to feel. You just have to focus on what you can do. I’m here for you. We’re all here for you. The vast majority of the time, these things resolve quickly and end well.’
The hobbit was doing well, too; far more pro-active than I’d expected.
‘You think she’ll be okay?’
My wife was reaching across to her, clutching at anything.
The hobbit paused, measuring her words out carefully. ‘I hope so.’
My wife looked at me. ‘Have they heard anything?’
I shook my head.
‘I can’t bear this, you know. I think I’m dying.’
The hobbit asked us if she wanted her to go; she could come back in a bit. My wife nodded. She didn’t want an audience.
I never understood that about her, how she could function so well without one. There has been nothing in my life without public approval, without the slow handclap of strangers. Ambition has been an albatross round my neck, and fame and wealth my white whale. Only my little girl lifted them from me. She gave me joy, and only that, I know, because she put me back in the spotlight. Even now I can feel its glare and I hate myself for what I’ve done.
When the hobbit had gone, my wife put her head in her hands and sobbed. I knew I should have done something - put my arms round her, comforted her - but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I was thinking of all the command performances she’d given in her time, and my little girl, and how I couldn’t fake it at all.
11
It’s time to come clean. I hate my ex-wife. I hate what she did to me. I know people will say it’s all my fault and I deserve it after all the things I’ve done, but they don’t see the things she did to me. Especially her women friends. They huddle together and gossip about me; or at least they did when it all happened. Now, I’m just part of the past, one of those mistakes you learn from. Their disapproving looks have
Despite her tiredness, my wife looked pretty that morning. She was wearing a summer dress that fell to her calves, all tidied in the middle with a red belt. When we were together, I know a lot of men fancied her. I know this because she told me. They would chat her up at parties we threw and wink improprieties across the dinner table. She didn’t like lying to me and holding it back. I appreciated this a lot. I knew they must be doing something because I was doing it with their wives. My wife wouldn’t have appreciated that, but maybe she knew that, too. Maybe she was doing it; she was just more discrete. When you’re young, all that stuff seems perfectly acceptable. It’s what you’re meant to do. When you’re middle-aged, it just seems seedy - or worse, sad. Now we’re separated, they all have the chance, of course, but I know they won’t take it. The magic has gone. A single mother with a child is a whole different balls game.
‘I know this is really traumatic for you. I’ve dealt with many cases like this and I want you to know that there is no right or wrong way to feel. You just have to focus on what you can do. I’m here for you. We’re all here for you. The vast majority of the time, these things resolve quickly and end well.’
The hobbit was doing well, too; far more pro-active than I’d expected.
‘You think she’ll be okay?’
My wife was reaching across to her, clutching at anything.
The hobbit paused, measuring her words out carefully. ‘I hope so.’
My wife looked at me. ‘Have they heard anything?’
I shook my head.
‘I can’t bear this, you know. I think I’m dying.’
The hobbit asked us if she wanted her to go; she could come back in a bit. My wife nodded. She didn’t want an audience.
I never understood that about her, how she could function so well without one. There has been nothing in my life without public approval, without the slow handclap of strangers. Ambition has been an albatross round my neck, and fame and wealth my white whale. Only my little girl lifted them from me. She gave me joy, and only that, I know, because she put me back in the spotlight. Even now I can feel its glare and I hate myself for what I’ve done.
When the hobbit had gone, my wife put her head in her hands and sobbed. I knew I should have done something - put my arms round her, comforted her - but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I was thinking of all the command performances she’d given in her time, and my little girl, and how I couldn’t fake it at all.
11
It’s time to come clean. I hate my ex-wife. I hate what she did to me. I know people will say it’s all my fault and I deserve it after all the things I’ve done, but they don’t see the things she did to me. Especially her women friends. They huddle together and gossip about me; or at least they did when it all happened. Now, I’m just part of the past, one of those mistakes you learn from. Their disapproving looks have
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