Page 30 of A Good Mother
Over the following week, Arty entranced Cris and thoroughly beguiled Willow. They soaked up his tales of derring-do and his views on the world, society, whatever subject arose, regardless of how out-there and opposed they were to Edmund’s.
It was like a breath of fresh air blew through their home each time he turned up, often when Edmund was out. And in between discussing the Middle East conflict and the Premier League, Robin felt Arty’s eyes on her whenever nobody was looking. She knew he was waiting, so was she; and when it happened Robin was ready.
Readier than she’d ever been in her life, for anything, ever.
They were in the garden, like garden proposals were their thing. The sun was about to set on a June day and even though she’d taken up a relaxed pose on the deckchair, every sinew in her body was taut.
Cris was practising his scales in the dining room; Willow was out with Gina; and Edmund was somewhere on the planet and thankfully not in Robin’s orbit. She and Arty were drinking gin and tonic, she gulped hers down, glad of the extra slug she’d added in the kitchen. After dispensing with the usual banalities they adhered to in company, Robin decided it was time she asked him the question. Not daring to look sideways she focused on the bluebells that jiggled in the evening breeze.
‘Why did you really come back? I need to know.’
Arty didn’t miss a beat. ‘For you. It was time.’
Panic and euphoria swept through Robin, another gulp, another question, she couldn’t stop now.
‘What do you mean? I’m still married, or have you conveniently forgotten that – like you forgot I existed for eighteen years?’
‘I’ve never forgotten you, Robin. Not for a year, a day; sometimes a minute but I had to let you go. It was wrong of me to ask you to elope, stupid. It finally dawned on me over the years that it was too much to expect from someone as wonderful as you.’
Robin kept her eyes on the bluebells as he continued.
‘But I still saw you in my dreams, and in my imagination. You were being a good wife and mother, not letting your parents down or bringing shame to their door and I didn’t begrudge you that for a minute because that’s what love is. Doing what’s best for someone even if it kills you inside. And it did, almost kill me, leaving you behind but I had to go. I simply couldn’t stay and watch you with him.’
Tears rolled down Robin’s cheeks and she didn’t swipe them away because they were a testament to how she felt in that moment, how his words had affected her. She wanted him to know that she felt the same. When Robin managed to speak, her voice betrayed her, anyway.
‘You were right, about all of it and if it’s any consolation for the mess we got ourselves into, I thought of you so much, even though I tried desperately not to.’ She sucked in a breath to steady herself. ‘But you still haven’t told me, why now. Why you think it’s time.’
He made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh before answering. ‘Coming from me, he of little faith in anything, this will sound hypocritical but when I got the email from Cris I saw it as a sign.’
He paused, turned to look, and she met his gaze and smiled before raising her eyebrows at his revelation.
‘And then, slowly, by reading between the lines I began to form a picture of your life, how it had turned out and as much as Cris is very sweet and loyal, he is somewhat naïve. And being a teacher for so long means I’m fluent in the language of teenagers.’
Robin’s tears continued to trickle, and when Arty lifted his hand as if to wipe them away her heart flipped but he faltered and for that she was glad, wary of being seen. Instead, he laid his hand on the arm of his chair, a millimetre from hers as she fought the urge to hook her little finger through his.
Instead she wondered out loud what Cris had said, ‘What on earth has my son been saying in those emails?’ She braved a longer glance at Arty who stroked her arm then removed his hand quickly before answering. His touch had burned a mark in her skin.
‘Nothing bad, especially not about you, which would be totally impossible. Cris adores you and so he should. He merely confirmed my fears about Edmund, that he had become the husband I expected, a carbon copy of our own father with a dollop of God on top. It made me sad. So, I came to rescue you.’
Robin held him in her glare. ‘And how exactly will you do that, considering also I haven’t actually sent out a flare or requested an intervention. And there’s still the matter of my wedding vows, and being a mother to my children, and I am not running off and abandoning them, now or ever.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about any of that. Mere details and nothing we can’t fathom as we go along and anyway, I have most of it worked out.’
Robin gasped because there it was, that irresistible confidence mingled with a sprinkling of arrogance, accompanied by a look of such mischief that it made you want to be part of the game. She stared, dumbfounded, and partly petrified of asking what he meant so Arty filled in the details for her.
‘I respect your limits, Robin. I admire you for every bit of who you are. So I will never ever ask you to leave Edmund, or your wonderful children or the life and village you seem to love. I will simply wait until you are ready, and even if you aren’t, ever, then I will take any snippets I can get, whatever morsel you can spare, whenever you can fit me in.’
Robin’s heart pounded. ‘That’s impossible. I couldn’t expect that of you; it’s cruel and unfair.’
Arty shook his head. ‘I disagree. I’ve done without you in my life for too long. My period of mourning is over, and Edmund has had his chance and blown it. So now it’s my turn, our chance to find a little bit of happiness in this bloody awful world.’
Robin bit her lip, forbidding the sob to escape because what Arty said was true. Edmund had his chance to love her like she needed to be loved. She’d been a good vicar’s wife, endured whatever the job title and marriage had thrown at her. She’d paid her penitence and if God didn’t think being married to a cold, dispassionate narcissist was enough then tough. He could send her to hell. She was probably going anyway so why not make it worth her while.
‘And what exactly are you suggesting, seeing as you live in France? Love letters straight from the heart. Do you think that will sustain us?’
‘I most certainly do not! I propose something far more thrilling and clandestine because if we’re going to do this, let’s do it properly and set the world, our hearts, and the bed on fire… like the last time.’
When Arty swivelled in his seat to look at her, into her, at all of her, Robin saw a mirror image of how she felt. Longing, and a love like she’d never known before and in that tiny capsule of time, only the two of them existed, counted.
