‘Not unless you want me arrested on the drive home.’
‘Get an Uber. What’s the point of having a weekend off from the kids if you don’t take advantage of it?’
I sit down and stretch out my legs, tilting my face into the sunshine. The Venezia really is one of the nicest restaurants in Brighton, perfectly situated above the beach with its romantic views across the water. I should come here more often.
I should do a lot of things more often.
A waiter brings me a glass of iced water, and we order: West Country mussels in white wine sauce for me, and black truffle ravioli for Chris, who is, irritatingly, still the same svelte size six she was when we were at school together. I know she takes no pleasure in it; her daughter, Alyssa, who’s in Bella’s class, inherited her father’s big bones and tips the scales at thirteen stone, and takes her mother’s supermodel figure as a personal insult.
‘So, I hear there was quite a post-performance show after the play,’ Chris says, as the waiter puts a basket of bread on the table between us. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t hang around now.’
I reach for a granary roll. ‘Bella’s hardly spoken to me all week. As if it was my fault her father turned up three hours late.’
I’m hurt more than I care to admit by Bella’s cold shoulder. I realise having your children hate you is part of the maternal job description, but until just a few months ago, Bella and I were always so close. These days, I’m lucky if she gives me the time of day. I don’t know why she started pulling away from me, but it’s coincided with a thawing in her relationship with Caz. Somehow, that woman is poisoning my own daughter against me.
The only good thing to come out of the miserable evening is that, for a few short hours at dinner, Andrew and I were able to take pride in our daughter together.
It’s one of the things no one ever tells you about divorce. The lack of money, the custody disputes, the pain of seeing your husband with another woman; those you expect. But there are so many other small, bitter losses, too. Bella was such a wanted child; a manifestation of love who could walk around, make jokes, do cartwheels and go to university. The joy of our shared parenthood was something I took for granted, until it was snatched away from me. Of course we’re both still proud of Bella, of course we still love her, but it’s something we have to do separately now. I know Andrew hates that as much as I do.
Chris forks up a mouthful of ravioli. ‘Are you around next week?’ she asks. ‘I’ve got tickets to Wimbledon. I was going to take Alyssa since Jeff’s working, but she thinks I’m trying to make a point about exercise again.’
‘I wish I could. But I’m trying to pick up some freelance work over the summer. I can’t afford to take time off.’
‘I thought summers off were one of the perks of teaching?’
‘I’m on contract. I don’t get anything in the summer unless I pick up some extra tutoring, which is almost impossible in my subject.’ I sigh. ‘I know I should’ve set something aside to tide us over, but there just hasn’t been a penny to spare.’
‘Can’t you go back to the Post? Surely they’ll use you, with your track record.’
‘It’s not that easy. Most of my contacts have moved on. The Post has got rid of a lot of their permanent positions, and replaced them with freelancers.’ I drop a mussel shell into the bowl by the side of my plate, and lick my fingers. ‘It would be different if I was living in London, but it’s a bit out of sight, out of mind. I’ve been pitching ideas, but it’s hard to get commissions when you’re not right there and the editors don’t know you. I’ve been out of the game since Tolly was born. Four years is a long time in this business.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Chris asks.
‘I should be able to pick up some work here and there, enough to keep the wolf from the door. Some of the magazines will use me as holiday cover. And one of the mothers on the PTA has offered me some PR work for the school.’
‘You hate PR!’
‘Yeah, well. Beggars can’t be choosers. There’s more money in PR than journalism these days.’
‘Can you just switch like that?’
‘I’ve done it before. It’s pretty much the same sort of work. You just ditch the impartiality in favour of whatever brand you’re promoting.’
‘Let me put out some feelers, then,’ Chris says thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I can put something your way.’
She insists on paying the bill when it comes, and even though it’s humiliating, I let her. We’ve been friends for thirty years, during which time our financial fortunes have fluctuated wildly. Our friendship is about much more than money. But I still hate not being able to pay my way. I’m forty-three, and I’ve been working for more than two decades. I should be able to pay for my own lunch.
Two fat raindrops land on the credit card slip as Chris hands it to the waiter. We glance upwards just as the sun abruptly disappears behind a large bank of ominous grey clouds.
‘Wimbledon week,’ Chris sighs. ‘Better get moving. The heavens are going to open any minute.’
Even as she says the words, a smattering of raindrops bounce off the esplanade, and then, in seconds, it really starts to come down. We give each other a quick hug, and Chris leaps into her Uber and I race down the street to my car, holding my straw bag over my head as an umbrella. It’s as effective as it sounds, and by the time I leap into the front seat, I’m drenched.
I put my ruined bag on the passenger seat and shake out the wet folds of my dress, wincing as I catch sight of myself in the rear-view mirror. My mascara has run, and my hair is plastered unflatteringly against my skull. Not that it matters; there will be no one to see me when I get home except Bagpuss.
The rest of the weekend stretches yawningly in front of me, a void of hours I will struggle to fill. This is something else no one ever tells you about divorce: the sheer loneliness. Before I had children, I relished my own company, and often spent an entire weekend happily alone, reading a good book or researching a story. But I have adjusted the contours of my life to fit Bella and Tolly, and now their absence is a physical ache.
I join the Saturday afternoon traffic on the way into town. Bella texted to ask me to drop off her laptop at her father’s house this morning; Taylor is coming over to work on a school project, and she’d left her computer at home.
Even on the fastest speed, my windscreen wipers struggle to keep up with the teeming rain, and I peer up at the lowering clouds as I pause at an intersection, chewing my lip anxiously. My kitchen roof started leaking last winter, and although my brother did a temporary patch job to see me through until I could afford to get it fixed properly, a downpour like this is seriously going to put it to the test. I should have had it repaired in the spring, but all the estimates ran into several thousand pounds. Money I simply don’t have.
Finally, there’s a gap in the traffic. I lift my foot off the brake, and with depressing predictability, the engine cuts out. With a sigh, I turn off the ignition and try again. Nothing.
A car beeps behind me, and I put on my hazards, trying again to turn the engine over. Absolutely nothing happens. I’m blocking traffic; I’ll have to call a garage out. God knows how much that’s going to cost.