“Passive-aggressive men are angry at their mothers.” Her analyst crossed his legs the other way. He wore beige trousers. They annoyed her.
“That’s Harold all over,” replied Ros, upright in a large red leather low-backed chair, the kind that tipped you into its crevices and made it hard to feel in control. She always had the urge to sit cross-legged in it, like a child, but she always, too, wore a skirt when she came to London.
The room was sparse, not a comfortable place, no books or photographs, no sign of a personal life. Her analyst had his desk to lean on, she had nothing. He didn’t write much in her file anymore. It was open on the desk, his notes of six years placed neatly to the side. It would help if their chairs were the same height.
She’d kicked off by complaining about another email from Harold saying he was taking the girls skiing.
“And how are you coping?”
Ros shrugged. “Okay, I suppose. Freddy gave me a birthday card.”
“Who’s Freddy?”
“Scott’s son. I’ve been babysitting. Helping out. His wife’s a friend of mine. She’s in hospital.”
“And her son gave you a birthday card?”
“Made, actually. It was really sweet.”
Her analyst nodded. He was balding. That annoyed her, too.
“I don’t know why I told you that. It was just that I thought it was sweet. It made me feel good.”
“Did the girls give you anything?”
“Molly got me the Peaky Blinders box set and Issy made me a tea cosy, or a hat, it was hard to tell. I had friends round for dinner. It was fun.”
“But your friend’s son’s card meant more to you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you mentioned it first.”
“Because it came to mind first, that’s all.” She sipped her coffee.
“She’s a good friend, is she?”
“Sure. Her husband’s in the play.” Another sip.
“What part is he playing?”
“Opposite me, actually.” She laughed. “My husband.”
“And she’s in hospital?”
“I’m just standing in for her,” they’d spoken over each other. Ros ran her fingers through her hair. “In the play, I mean. I’m just standing in for her in the play. It’s her part, so...anyway, it’s fine.” She crossed her legs the other way. “What I mean is, it’s obviously not fine, she’s had a breakdown, she has psychiatric problems, but I wanted her to have the script.”
“In psychiatric hospital?”
“I just thought it would be something to look forward to.” She wished she’d never been. If Tessa said anything, she’d say she was making it up. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“Because you told me not to get involved in other people’s business.” She fiddled with the chin hair that had been irritating her since the waiting room.
“But she knows you’re babysitting?”
Ros put her cup on the floor. “I don’t see why I have to report every minute detail of everything I do to everyone. Anyway, nothing happened.”
He raised his eyebrows. They were neat. “What happened?”
The same fucking thing as always. If you’re fucking him, I don’t care…Why couldn’t she keep her head down? She was only trying to help. “Nothing. I told you. I don’t think she even recognized me.”
“Were you there last night?”
“At the hospital?”
“At her house.”
Ros nodded.
“And how does that make you feel?”
“It’s hard. He’s my friend.”
“I thought you said she was your friend.” The gentleness of her analyst’s voice made her want to hit him.
Ros picked up her cup again. “They’re both my friend.”
“Does he talk about his marriage with you?”
All last night, he’d talked about it. She hadn’t got home till one. She looked at her knuckles. She’d grazed them on the wall trying to put Crosby’s lead on. “It’s funny to be acting again. I mean, good, good to be doing it again. Weird. But, you know, it’s something isn’t it? I mean it’s not The Vaudeville, but I never thought I’d get the chance, Peter doesn’t want me to. He keeps telling me to get a proper job. No such thing as a free roof. He thinks I should retrain.”
“In what?”
“Anything.” He’d suggested dog-walking. She’d retorted that she hardly needed training for that. He’d said, why don’t you do it then? She could hardly control her own dogs. That’s why. He knew that. Her analyst looked at the clock, and Ros did too. Ten to three. Time played tricks on her here; there was always too much or too little.
Released to her car, she checked her face in the mirror, searching with her thumb for the chin hair. With the tweezers she kept in the car door, she plucked, and felt with her fingers for more. The rest of her looked okay. She ruffled her hair, snapped the sun visor back in place, and pulled onto Westbourne Grove.
The city felt like an ex-lover who claimed he’d hadn’t cared; the streets she knew so well carried on life without her. There, the school Molly had started at. There, the corner where Issy had lost her bike. That restaurant where Harold had taken her when she’d landed Casualty. The hair salon she’d gone to when Harold wouldn’t take her back. She wound through Shepherd’s Bush and swung left towards Hammersmith, grateful to leave it all behind. She and Harold had talked about moving to the country. They’d even driven down a few times, for weekends with Peter and Diane, but the thought of beginning again with him had been too much. She’d other plans back then. She’d believed in other things.
She resisted the urge to put on the music that would remind her. It would only make her sad. What a bastard he’d been. The whole thing had been one long fucking mess. Did they really think she’d make things up when there was so much to lose? Her best friend’s husband was the last man on earth she’d have wanted to have fall in love with her. It was him who’d seduced her, not the other way around. When she thought of the words he’d said to her, the hours they’d spent talking quietly off stage, gathering their things late at night, the bus rides home. She still had his texts and emails, the playlists she’d made. Jealous, that’s what Cara had been. She’d had everything; the perfect man, the perfect marriage, the only thing Ros had been better at was getting pregnant.
The hint of rain that had hung heavy all day became a downpour as she drew up at the lights in Roehampton. She hadn’t just lost her marriage, she’d lost her career, and a goddaughter, too. It was Cara who’d encouraged her to take the part for Christ’s sake, she’d said, you’d be doing me a favour, Ros. It’s just a play. Just a play. Just Three Sisters at The Young Vic. Just the same play they’d done in their final year at LAMDA, the part of Masha that Cara had wanted all her life. She’d missed out to Ros once, she wasn’t going through that again, joking, but not joking; they’d both gone up for it, and Cara had got it. She’d come round and sat on the sofa, contrite but pleased, not hiding it. She’d said sorry, I know you wanted it and Ros had replied I’m happy for you and she had been, of course she had. Harold had said jump into her grave as quick, would you? when three weeks into rehearsals, Cara had backed out; Ros gripped the wheel. Fuck him. It wasn’t her fault Cara’s confidence had gone. When she’d said are you sure you’re up to it? she’d only been trying to protect her; she’d known how fragile her best friend was.
Encased in metal, the engine purring, the heating on, Ros felt safe and warm as her thoughts turned to Scott. Last night had been a deepening of something, she wished she could put her finger on it. He’d opened to her like a parched man given water. When she’d arrived at his house, with a lasagne from Cook, garlic bread from Waitrose and a packet of frozen peas, he’d said, would it be weird if I went and had a bath? Sorry, I should have called, I’m knackered, don’t really feel like going out. And she’d said, don’t be ridiculous. I’m here to help. I’ll get the dinner on. Luckily she’d brought enough for all of them. She’d busied about the kitchen while he’d gone off upstairs, a wipe of the cooker, a sweep of the floor, crumbs from the counter dropped into the palm of her hand and when he’d come down, feet bare, hair wet, he’d changed into sweatpants and jumper. Over dinner she’d done impressions of Professor McGonagall and made Freddy peel with laughter, and after Scott had tucked his son up in bed, she’d stayed for another drink, and then another. When she’d finally looked at the clock, he’d said, there’s never a right time to leave and for a moment she’d thought he was talking about her. Poor Scott. She could see it in his eyes. She knew what trapped looked like.
She drew up outside the theatre with a screech, the windscreen wipers going full pelt and the tires throwing cascades of dirty water. The same car she’d hauled baby seats in and out of, the same car in which she’d rowed with Harold for the last time. Act normal she thought, running into rehearsals only half an hour late. It was what she’d told herself before.
"There’s never a right time to leave." Great line! Dangerous game, Ros is playing... One can't help but wonder how badly Tessa reacts to the betrayal once it actually happens...?
This is making me not want to go cheat on my wife.