Page 71 of One in Three

Chapter 15

Louise

It’s weird and unsettling to be in the house Andrew and Caz share. There are so many items I recognise, familiar things I lived with for more than a decade before Andrew took them with him in the divorce: the Syrian carpet we bought together, a painting of Bella aged six that I had a friend do for Andrew’s birthday one year, a pair of matching bronze figurines that used to be his mother’s.

But so much is different, too. Andrew has switched sides of the bed; his books and reading glasses and old-fashioned alarm clock are on the right bedside table now, instead of the left. Caz is clearly a bit of a neat-freak; there are none of the notes or magnets fixed to the fridge there used to be when Andrew and I lived together, and every counter in her sparkling modern kitchen is antiseptically clear. That must drive him mad; he used to hate it if I put away the coffee machine he used every day, or tidied his piles of newspapers into a drawer. He likes things within easy reach, to be surrounded by the familiar detritus of family life. Or he did.

I reclaim several of my favourite books from the shelves in the sitting room, and go into Kit’s bedroom to tuck them away in the bottom of my suitcase. I can’t bring myself to sleep in Andrew and Caz’s bedroom, so I’m using Kit’s, even though my feet hang off the end of his bed. I put a sweater across the books, and close the case. Andrew never reads: he won’t even miss them.

Ever since he and Caz married, I’ve been careful to avoid imagining their lives together. I didn’t want their relationship given flesh and substance. But now it’s unavoidable. I drift around the house when Bella and Tolly are at school, tormenting myself with the ordinary, domestic background of their marriage. There are photographs of the two of them together, or with Kit, everywhere. I wonder if they’re happy together, or if it’s all just for show.

‘He looks miserable to me,’ Min says, putting a photograph of the three of them at a ski resort back on the hall console. ‘Look at his eyes,’ she adds. ‘You can tell he’s hating every minute of it.’

He does detest being cold. ‘He always refused to go skiing when we were married,’ I say sourly. ‘But he’ll do it forher.’

She’s already on her way up the stairs. I follow her into Caz and Andrew’s bedroom, watching as she flings open the door to Caz’s huge walk-in wardrobe, shamelessly prying. ‘Jesus! I’ve never seen so many shoes. No wonder Andrew’s always pleading poverty.’

‘Wait till you see her sweaters.’ I pull open a row of drawers. ‘Look at them, all colour-coded. Cashmere,too. Not the cheap M&S kind, either, these are the real thing—’

‘Louise, what are you doing in this house?’ Min demands suddenly. ‘It’s fucked up. I’ve told you, I’ll give you the money for a hotel.’

‘I’m not taking your money.’

‘Fine. Put it on your credit card. Rob a bank if you have to. But you can’t stay here any longer. It’s nothealthy.’

I knew Min would take this the wrong way. ‘It’s not like Andrew and Caz are actuallyhere,’I point out. ‘The house sits empty most of the time.’

‘What are you going to do when it’s their weekend with the kids? Play piggy-in-the-middle?’

‘Bella’s going to take Tolly to London on the train, so Andrew and Caz don’t need to come down to Brighton till the kitchen’s finished. The three of us can stay here as long as we need to.’

I can feel judgement coming off her in waves. I understand how it looks from the outside, but it’s not like that. This is just a practical solution to a logistical problem, that’s all.

‘So how long is this going to go on for?’ Min asks, as we go back downstairs. ‘You’ve already been here a week, and your kitchen still looked like a war zone when I stopped to pick up your post.’

‘It looks worse than it is. The builder said he’d been done in a week or two.’

‘Builder time?’ Her expression softens. ‘Look, I get it. If it were Luke, I’d want to pick the scab, too.You can’t bear to see their life together, and you can’t bearnotto see it either. But it isn’t doing you any good, Lou. Why rip open old wounds? You need to be putting more distance between you, not less.’

She’s right: I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Andrew since the night of the storm. I thought I’d put this constant ache for him behind me, but after last Saturday, I feel as if I’ve gone right back to square one.

Min knows me too well. ‘This isn’t about the money, is it?’ she says presciently. ‘You can afford to stay at a B&B for a few weeks. What’s really going on?’

I can’t quite meet her eye.

‘Oh, my God,’ Min exclaims. ‘Yousleptwith him!’

‘No! It was just a kiss,’ I say quickly. ‘We got caught up in the moment, that’s all. Too much nostalgia and red wine. It won’t happen again,’ I add, more to myself than Min. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Swear to me, Min. You can’t breathe a word, not even to Mum.Especiallynot to Mum.’

‘Jesus, Lou. What were youthinking?’

I don’t have an answer for her. I’ve replayed that kiss a thousand times in the last few days, analysing it from every conceivable angle. I’m almost certain Andrew started it, but I was the one who put my hand on his shirtfront and told him to stay. Maybe I opened the door. Perhaps he thought Iwantedto be kissed. Something happened between us that night, we both felt it. Not that we talked about it afterwards, of course. We both pretended it hadn’t even happened.

I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t take a tiny bit ofguilty pleasure in turning the tables on the woman who stole my husband. But it doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. Andrew’s built a life and a family with Caz now; breaking them up would make me no better than she is. I’ve spent the last four years trying to get over Andrew. I can’t put myself through the misery and torture of those months when he vacillated back and forth between us again.

After Min leaves, I sit at the kitchen table and stare into space for a long time, mulling over what she’s said. There were any number of options I could’ve taken instead of moving into Andrew and Caz’s house. We could’ve squeezed into my parents’; I could have braved the builder’s dust, and stayed at the house and ordered takeaways for a few weeks. But I knew coming here would upset Caz, and drive a wedge between them.

I suddenly feel thoroughly ashamed of myself. I’ve been behaving like a spiteful teenager. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t do that kind of thing. I’vechangedsince Roger Lewison. I’m a mother now, a respected journalist. A university professor. As soon as the kitchen’s halfway liveable, I need to move out of here.

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