The woman looking back at me from the mirror was drop-dead gorgeous, even if on the shady side of forty. A lot of work by a whole team of people had gone into producing my appearance– hair, nails, frock, diamonds glittering in my ears - no detail or expense spared for an important political dinner.
The taffeta skirt of my new dress rustled against the silk of my lace-topped stockings as I sashayed downstairs and into the antique-filled living room of our Georgian London townhouse. Even to my jaded eyes, my husband looked so handsome in full evening dress, with his carefully maintained grey hair styled in a floppy Hugh Grant look. A “Silver Fox” as one of my friends had called him. He leaned against the marble fireplace, cut glass tumbler of whisky in one hand, and I smiled at him, anticipating admiration.
Henry took one look and frowned, saying, ‘Bloody hell, Francesca, I can’t take you out dressed like a tart with your tits on display. They’ll fall out or something, you’ll have to go and change.’
He turned away to refresh his drink, the conversation over from his point of view. Too deflated and stunned to argue, I was halfway back up the elegant staircase when my brain did something it’s never done before (but absolutely should have) and said, enough – fuck this shit. Up in our bedroom I kicked off the Jimmy Choo heels and let the beautiful dark blue dress drop to the floor, before climbing into bed in my undies (also silk, Parisian, wasted on Henry), and in a strange state of calm reached for the TV remote.
The doorbell rang, and from below Henry called, ‘Come on, woman, the Ministerial car is here.’
I didn’t move or answer, so he boiled up the stairs to find me watching a car chase film in bed.
‘What are you even thinking?’ he shouted, his face scarlet with the rage he was careful never to allow friends or colleagues to see. Only me. ‘Don’t you understand how important this dinner is to my career?’
‘Yes, I do because you’ve banged on about it long enough.’ I tried to maintain a cool exterior and calm voice, flicking through the channels in an attempt to control my shaking hands. ‘But the thing is I don’t care about the dinner or your career. I’m done.’
Henry stared at me like I’d lost the plot, unable to process the words coming out of my mouth. I added a few more for good measure.
‘I can’t, won’t, live this life anymore. You may as well get used to doing things by yourself. I’m leaving you.’
Where had this courage come from? I was proud of myself for standing up to him, instead of always giving way and allowing him to dictate our life.
Dear Henry completely lost it – not a pretty sight – his face and neck almost purple with fury against the white of his formal dress shirt. I even worried he might have a heart attack.
‘You ungrateful bitch, after everything I’ve done for you,’ he hissed, stepping closer, spite twisting his face. Another ring of the doorbell.
‘Just go, Henry.’ My ability to stay calm was fraying at the edges.
‘If this is an attempt to sabotage my career as some kind of petty revenge, you’re not getting away with it.’ His voice rose, becoming shrill. ‘I’ve worked too hard all these years, arse licking the right people, and now when I’m this close to everything I’ve dreamed of you decide to leave me?’
I stared back at him, stony-faced. ‘I should have done it years ago when you were first unfaithful. And how many times since?’
That shut him up. Henry ran one hand through his hair, messing up the elegant arrangement of his “cool as fuck” look. He spluttered a bit more but only managed to bluster, ‘Haven’t I been good to you, given you everything?’
Such a cliché. Next, he’d be saying I didn’t understand him.
I leaned back against the goose-down pillows. ‘Oh yes, everything except the love you promised me when we made our vows in church. I’m not a fool, Henry. Your current liaison has been going on for at least ten years. You don’t give a damn about me, as long as I turn up to be appropriately decorative as and when required, glad-handing the punters, the rising star political couple. I’m not going to do it anymore. End of story.’
Henry started shouting, but I turned up the TV volume and met his angry ranting about ingratitude and disloyalty in silence. Inside was a cold kernel of fear, though he’d never been violent towards me. His preferred methods of control were sarcasm and ugly moods that lasted days. The doorbell rang again, a longer more insistent ring this time, while I lay there pretending to be engrossed in a programme about lionesses in a matriarchal society. About then it began to register in his tiny brain that short of dragging me out of the bed he’d have to go to the dinner alone. With an uncanny resemblance to a kid having an epic tantrum he stormed out of the room, shouting back over his shoulder, ‘You’ll be sorry you did this!’
Hearing the front door slam, I turned off the TV. My threat to leave had been no more than angry words, intended to hurt him after being told I looked like a tart. Now, out of nowhere, a voice in my head was going, “Why the hell not?” Unhappiness was something I’d become used to over many years, the unvarying background music to an outwardly successful and privileged life. I saw with new clarity that none of it was worth the price I’d paid. Slumping back against the pillows the understanding dropped into my brain that it was easy. I could just walk away: in fact, why hadn’t I done it sooner?
Ten minutes later I’d packed some essentials into a hard-shell suitcase and dressed in more sensible clothes - jeans topped with my favourite Chanel jacket. Then I left Henry, our Bayswater home, the constituency, all of it; boom, done. I don’t remember if I thought about it at all in that moment but must have imagined coming back later for the rest of my things. Any embryonic dreams of a new life didn’t include the possibility I’d never see them again.
***
On a tide of adrenalin, I drove my mini aimlessly through the streets while I tried to figure out where to go. A hotel just for a day or two? In the end, I headed to Felicity’s house, blithely confident that after her experience of a messy divorce, she’d understand and offer temporary refuge. I should have phoned first.
‘Um, Francesca, it’s not really convenient,’ she said, standing in the doorway of her pretty mews house wearing a designer top and Gucci loafers, looking at me and my suitcase doubtfully. ‘I’ve got a new boyfriend now, and he …’
‘It’s fine,’ I said stiffly, in that way you do when it isn’t. ‘I’ll go to a hotel then. Thanks anyway.’
‘No, wait,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘Sorry, please don’t be like that. You can stay tonight, of course you can. He isn’t here right now but when he comes back later tomorrow, you’ll have to make other arrangements.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, hitting planet reality with a thump and feeling about as welcome as a dog turd on the doorstep. ‘Only tonight, then I’ll find somewhere else.’
She didn’t engage in any more conversation, only showed me upstairs to a luxurious designer guest room. Lying there with Felicity’s French flax sheets cool against my skin, the first chill prickles of doubt began to creep in. Looming in front of me were the realities of life without the cushion of Henry’s inherited wealth. Sod it; I’d burned my bridges but would have my revenge on Henry for the wasted years somehow. Waking from tangled anxiety dreams I heard Felicity in the kitchen around 8.00 am so got dressed in yesterday’s clothes and went downstairs with my case, with every expectation of being asked to leave immediately.
She was making us pancakes for breakfast and gave me a wry smile.
‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry for the cool welcome last night. It was … unexpected, you do understand? This thing with Carlos is new and exciting ...’
‘And you don’t want a random friend in need messing things up. Awkward, right?’ I finished for her.
‘You must be thinking I’m crazy, taking up with a Spanish toyboy? I know it can’t last,’ she said, ‘but while it does, I’m making the most of it. He’s younger than me and the sex is so damn good, he does this thing …’
Such details were something I absolutely could not listen to. Putting down my coffee cup I groaned, ‘Felicity, don’t even go there. I’m practically a born-again virgin. It’s been so long I’ve forgotten what you do.’
‘A gorgeous woman like you? Don’t tell me Henry isn’t interested? He’d have to be completely numb in the trouser department.’
I stopped smiling and met her eyes across the table. Why pretend not to know Henry was gay? All our friends knew; most of them before I did.
‘You are kidding, right?’ I said. ‘OK, I may have been the absolute last person to work it out, but it was eventually obvious even to me that the wife and child thing was only window dressing for him. He’s been having an affair with his constituency agent for years.’
She’d put a plate of fluffy American-style pancakes on the table but got up to fiddle unnecessarily with a bottle of maple syrup. It was obvious she’d heard all the rumours: so much for being a good friend and taking the trouble to enlighten me.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘You knew then.’
When had she and I stopped being close friends, the kind who chat most days and tell each other everything? A taste of ashes in my mouth came with the sudden knowledge that it might have been my fault. When her own marriage spectacularly imploded the year before, I hadn’t always supported her the way I should have. Henry hadn’t wanted a tearful presence in our house at unexpected hours and insisted I kept her at arm’s length. Too late, I appreciated how desperate and lonely she must have been. Now our roles were reversed, and it was my turn to be the needy friend. Karma, I suppose. At least I’d worked out a kind of Plan while lying awake in the early morning.
‘Well,’ I said, pushing my empty plate away with a bright and resolute “better get on with it” smile. ‘Henry will soon figure out this is more than a hissy fit because I won’t be going back to repent of my sins.’
‘Ah I see,’ Felicity smiled knowingly. ‘You’re serious about this.’
‘Yes, so swift and direct action is required and there are some things I need to get from your local high street this morning. I don’t want to leave my suitcase visible in the mini, so can it stay here in your hall? Then I’ll come back to collect my stuff and be out of your way.’
‘No problem, I’ve got nothing on this morning, so you go shopping,’ she said, with an enthusiasm which had been absent the night before. ‘Then you can tell me the whole story about what happened with Henry and how you came to leave.’
Felicity’s smart suburb included several high-end shops for the comfortably off residents of her upmarket London suburb. Suppressing all feelings of guilt at spending Henry’s money, I put the joint credit card to good use and swiftly acquired a fancy new phone and an equally top of the range laptop. These were the basic necessities of a new life, continuing the small-scale editing and proofreading business I ran to give me something real to do. It wouldn’t bring in enough to live on so the bottom line was that I’d need to get a job. Knowing this brought out all the demons of fear and doubt as I walked back to the house. Could I even do this; would anyone employ me? I hadn’t had a proper job in years (constituency work or sitting on committees didn’t count), not since Justin’s birth.
Back at Felicity’s, an appreciative grin spread across her face at the sight of my purchases. I laughed with her; it was going to be OK - her enthusiasm for giving Henry the finger helped to banish my immediate doubts. She even helped me take the laptop and phone out of the packaging so I could put everything into one suitcase and be able to carry it all.
‘I’ll get rid of these boxes for you,’ she said. ‘They can go out with my recycling later, but right now I want to hear everything.’
Over coffee, I related the unsavoury story of my unexpected rebellion; the line that had finally been crossed after twenty years. When I got to the part about Henry’s impotent fury, she cackled.
‘God, Frankie, I can so picture his face, wish I’d been a fly on the wall. He always was a pompous arse, and it serves him right.’
‘I am going to make him pay, drag him through the divorce courts unless he co-operates to protect his precious reputation. You know, I lay awake last night remembering how it used to be love’s young dream, for me at least. Justin was the best thing to come out of it, but he’s an adult now and all I can see is that the twenty-plus years invested in Henry’s career was a total waste of my youth.’
‘No, Frankie, stop right there,’ insisted Felicity. ‘Don’t go chucking out the good stuff along with the bad – though I did the same at first. My therapist says every experience helps form the person we become, and one day you’ll even be grateful for all of it – especially in the new independent life you’re planning.’ She grinned at me. ‘I can recommend life after divorce.’
‘I’ll take encouragement from your example then, but can I impose on you for an hour or so longer?’ I asked, getting up to put the Emma Bridgewater mugs in the dishwasher. ‘Coming back from the shops I spotted a sign for a room in a shared house. It’s not far from here, so I called the number and I’ve got an appointment to view it in half an hour. Can you hang onto my stuff while I go and see the place?’
‘A shared house? Francesca, no, you’d hate it.’
She was right, and the houses nearer the shops were smaller and less desirable, but cheaper. I planned to take the car wanting to look like someone who could afford a decent address.
‘I have to start somewhere, and it won’t be for long - only until I can negotiate a generous divorce settlement from Henry.’
The mini was parked down the street from the house, shaded by a Beech tree from the summer sun. As I walked towards it my head began to explode with excitement and possibility, as I indulged in visions of my new life as an independent woman.
A Police car was double parked on the street, the dayglo yellow and blue of the checked sides looking thoroughly out of place in this conservation area where tasteful, heritage colours were a requirement. Two officers were pointing in my direction as I drew level with the mini, and they got out, clearly intent on speaking to me. My absolute first thought was for my son. He’d had a terrible accident, been attacked, stabbed or something. I braced myself for what must be coming.
‘Mrs Wilton?’ enquired one.
‘What’s happened, oh God, is he all right?’
‘Don’t give us any of your bullshit,’ said the other. ‘Francesca Wilton, I am arresting you on suspicion of arson. Do you understand?’
