The Divorce Club (4 page)

"You just missed our first session, but
that's okay. You can jump in on Thursday and I'll give you an hour
longer to set up a personal timetable."

Jamie hesitates. "I guess I can stand waiting
another forty-eight hours, but it'll be tough."

I gape at him. He must really want to get
that divorce. I'm wondering how bad things are at home. "If you
need to talk, just call me. We've run out of brochures, but here's
my number." I jot it down on a blue sticky note.

"So, if I wake up at three a.m. and feel like
hitting a wall or something, I know who to call." His expression is
dead serious.

"Yep, that'd be me." I smile, hoping he
wouldn't dream of calling me at that unholy hour.

"Thanks. I appreciate it." His lips stretch
into a lazy smile and a dimple appears on his right cheek. I avert
my gaze quickly before I look like an idiot staring at a stupid
dimple.

"Divorce can be a traumatic event in a
person's life. Even if you believe your world's crashing down on
you, we'll keep you grounded as you progress through the various
stages," I say in the hope I might cheer him up a bit. "See you in
two days then. We start at five p.m. Don't let the missus bug
you."

A frown crosses his forehead as he stands and
heads for the door. "I'll find my way out. Goodbye."

On the way home, I keep replaying the
conversation between Jamie and me in my head. I never figured a man
to want to join my club because men don't have difficulties
breaking up with their girlfriends or wives. They're the ones to
usually pack their bags and leave behind a mortgage and 2.4
children plus the dog and the bumped car. According to my
narrow-minded life view it should've been the missus standing in my
office. So, naturally, I'm nervous because I know I'm about to dab
into unknown territory here and soon explore the male way of
thinking.

I park my old VW in front of the house and
unlock the door, hoping Sam's already home for once and I don't
have to track down her location this evening.

"Sam?" My voice carries through the dark hall
as I switch on the lights. The clock in the living room ticks—the
only sound in the house. Mel had a point when she advised me to get
one of those GPS tracking devices. That'd save me lots of time and
money spent on calling Sam's friends since my beloved daughter
can't be bothered to pick up the phone.

With a sigh, I dial her number. A second
later, her phone rings somewhere upstairs. I follow the unnerving
Black Eyed Peas melody to the upper floor, knock on the door and
enter.

"What?" Sam asks. She's cowered underneath
her duvet; the curtains are drawn, bathing the room in
darkness.

"Are you all right?" I draw closer and put a
hand on what I assume to be her back.

"I'm fine." She doesn't sound okay. Her voice
is hoarse and choked like she's been crying for hours.

"Did anything happen?" I sit on the edge
because I'm worried now. A metropolitan city's not a good place to
raise a child. Hundreds of thoughts race through my head. Did
someone hurt or threaten her? Is she being bullied? Did the
boyfriend break up with her?

"I said I'm fine," Sam snaps.

I hesitate. The right thing to do would be to
get up and leave her alone until she's ready to talk about it, but
she might take that the wrong way and think I don't care.

"Come on." I push back the covers and grab
Sam's arm, pulling her gently to her feet. "I know something
that'll make you feel better."

"What?" She eyes me suspiciously.

"You'll see."

She follows me down to the kitchen and slumps
into a chair as I take out the chocolate chips and start stirring
them into a ready-made muffin dough. Sam doesn't say a word but I
can tell from the way she peers at the chocolate that she won't
complain.

"Want to help me?" I push the muffin tray
toward her and watch as she pours in the dough. "You know I'm here
for you, right?"

"I know, Mum."

"Whatever it is, I won't be angry because I
love you," I say. "And if anyone's threating to hurt you or me,
don't believe them. It's just a trick to reel you in and keep you
silent."

The dough spills over. Sam wipes it off with
her fingers and licks them clean. "You told me that a hundred
times. No one's threatening me."

"That's good." What else could it be? I
strain my brain to come up with more possibilities.

"I might fail math," Sam says.

"What?" I drop the spoon in my hand and gape
at her.

"You said you'd never be angry. Now prove
it."

"Well, yeah." I need to play this cool and
keep my word because otherwise she might not trust me again. But
failing in school wasn't part of the deal when I made the offer.
"What happened? You said the last exam went just fine."

Sam shrugs. "I couldn't focus."

"Oh, Sam." I wrap my arms around her and pull
her close. She gives into my hug and presses her head against my
chest, first sobs rippling through her skinny body like a tremor.
Sam's always been proud of her good marks, but since her father and
I split up she's been having concentration issues. "It's okay.
We'll figure something out." A pang of guilt hits me full force.
Even though I know it's not my fault I can't stop thinking that
maybe I somehow provoked Greg's betrayal and our consequent
divorce.

Sam nods and pulls back. I wipe away her
tears and heat the oven, chirping as I work. "I can help you with
your revision. We'll work out a schedule to get you back on track.
Everything will be fine."

"You're right. Thanks, Mum." Sam places the
tray inside the oven and turns to face me. "How was your first day
at work?"

I feel the heat scorching my cheeks as
Jamie's image pops into my head. A crush's not going to happen, so
I push him to the back of my mind and start recalling the first
meeting, leaving out the juicy details. Fifteen minutes later, we
cuddle on the sofa with a plate full of chocolate chip muffins. I
should be cooking a proper dinner for my daughter, but I see Sam's
spark has returned and I don't want to spoil the mood. Time to put
the mother role aside and play friend.

***

I spend the next day trying to make sense of
Sam's curriculum. Three years of statistics at college and I can't
figure out a few simple mathematical formulas. Thank God for
Yahoo! Answers
. By the time Sam gets home from school my
head's throbbing. It's past nine when I can finally get to bed. The
phone rings as soon as I've switched off the lamp.

"What?" I press the receiver against my ear,
forgetting that I'm supposed to run a 24/7 hotline.

"I wanted to tell him tonight but I couldn't.
Instead, we had sex."

"Who's there?" I ask, straining to sit
up.

A short pause, then, "Oh, sorry, it's
Simone."

Simone, the redhead—I remember her, but I've
no idea what she's talking about. "Okay, slow down. Just tell me
what happened." Of course I wish she'd just say it's not important
and hang up so I can get back to sleep, but I can see I've no such
luck.

"We had a fight because I couldn't take him
pretending everything's fine," Simone says. "One word led to
another, and then we made up. It wasn't even bad. I'm so
confused."

"Stay away from him, keep your distance." I
try to make sense of her words through the splitting headache.
"Letting him get under your skin now's just going to cloud your
judgment."

"I know that. I wish I knew why I let it
happen."

It's called being horny, but it's not my job
to tell her that. "Don't blame yourself. It happens to the best of
us. Why don't we discuss it at tomorrow's meeting?"

"But I don't get it. Apart from putting on
weight, I did everything you advised. He said he knows I'm only
nagging because I'm so stressed out and then he went on to give me
a massage. I thought I didn't even fancy him any more," Simone
continues as though she didn't hear me.

I hug my pillow to my chest, imagining myself
sinking into it and getting some much needed sleep after hours of
fighting to make sense of some numbers. "You probably don't
now
, Simone, but you did in the past. It's only
understandable those memories will come back to haunt you. It
doesn't mean a thing. Now, if we could just—"

"But I
enjoyed
myself." She says the
word as though it's evil.

"Your body has urges that need to be taken
care of every now and then."

"With him?" Simone shouts. "That's just
wrong."

I'd like to point out that there's nothing
wrong with enjoying a romp with the hubby. Simone's attitude toward
her partner strikes me as odd, so I make a mental note to mention
that tomorrow—if she doesn't keep me up all night and I don't end
up too exhausted to even remember my name. "Just look at it as a
one-night stand. Men do it all the time, so why not women?"

"Have you ever had one?" Simone's question
takes me by surprise.

"Of course not," I say, realizing how
defensive I sound. "But I know a lot of people who did."

"Oh."

"Wait, I did once," I hurry to add. "When my
ex and I separated I relapsed, just like you." That's a lie. I
would've never let Greg back into my bed. Even the thought makes me
want to throw up, but if it helps Simone, then the sudden nausea in
the pit of my stomach's worth it.

"You didn't fancy him any more either?"
Simone asks.

"Not one bit." This isn't a lie. I had to
force myself to even discuss the shopping list with him.

Simone laughs. "Wow. You've made me feel so
much better. See you tomorrow, then?"

"Looking forward to it." Fake enthusiasm
drips from my voice, but Simone's already hung up.

I snuggle under the duvet, ready to sink into
dreamland, when the phone beeps again. This time it's a text
message. Honestly, that 24/7 helpline wasn't my brightest idea. Mel
assured me no one would ever be that desperate to call, but I've
had my fair share of desperation in the last thirty-six hours.

Groaning, I retrieve the phone, knocking over
my tube of hand cream in the process, and open the message.

Hey gorgeous. Been thinking of u. U wearing
that black little number?

How does he know what I'm wearing? Unless
he's been watching me…A cold shudder runs down my spine as I peer
at the unknown number. What's worse than a creep? An anonymous one.
Any trace of sleep gone, I jump out of the bed and dash for the
window to check the curtains are indeed drawn. Then I realize the
wacko could be leering over an image of me this minute, so I cross
my arms over my chest, covering the bare skin exposed through the
sheer material. He could've sneaked in here and I'd never know. But
why am I even worried about myself when the creep could be
targeting my daughter all along while trying to divert my
attention?

I yank the door open and stomp down the hall
to Sam's room. She's already asleep, her breath coming in soft
heaps. I shake her arm gently.

"Sam? Are you awake?" She stirs and moans,
reminding me of the times I had to wake her up early as a child. "I
want you to sleep in my room tonight."

In the darkness I see her bright eyes
sparkle. "Mum, aren't you too old to be having nightmares?"

The alarm in her voice is obvious, so I smile
and infuse some fake cheeriness into my tone because there's no
point in frightening her. "No, sweetie. I just can't sleep, you
know, feeling a little bit lonely."

"Oh, okay. Just don't snore or steal the
covers." She gets up and accompanies me to my bedroom where I lock
the door even though I know that won't make me feel safe either.
Nothing could make me feel protected at this point, not even the
phone on the nightstand.

Sam's shallow breathing tells me she's fallen
asleep almost as soon as she hits the pillow. But for me, it's a
long night. I toss and turn, my gaze wandering from the door to the
window and then back to the door. It's amazing how a single text
message can turn a stable person into an obsessive lunatic. At
times, I wish I lived in the fifteen century when the word divorce
wasn't even invented yet and men were still men: cheating, yes, but
at least they knew how to protect their families. The one time we
were mugged on a street, Greg pushed me in front of him and
pretended to be invisible.

It's barely six when I give up hope on any
sleep and sneak down to the kitchen. By the time Sam joins me I've
prepared a full plate of steaming waffles. Sam wolfs down a couple,
then brushes her teeth and hurries out the door to catch the bus,
late as usual. I know it won't last much longer though because I've
seen her inspecting herself in the mirror as she sucks in her flat
tummy. In a year or two, when she's started counting calories, I'll
probably sell the waffle maker on eBay.

I pretend to spend the day spring-cleaning
the house, but in reality I'm checking for surveillance cameras and
bugs, any signs of a forced break-in or otherwise suspicious
indicators that the wacko with the text message was here recently.
But the locks still work and the windows show no damage. No clothes
or lingerie are missing, no pictures have been removed, and
nothing's suspect. I begin to relax, laughing at my paranoia and
the possible onset of obsessive-compulsive behavior. But I still
need to find out who sent the message. Maybe I gave a creep my
number and can't recall, or he found one of the leaflets
advertising the club and decided to play a prank on me. That I
might be wearing a black nightgown could've been just a lucky
guess. I've heard black lingerie's a bestseller this year. Feeling
much better now, I cook Sam's dinner and leave a note on the table
saying I'd be late tonight, then change and head out.

I arrive at the club with half an hour to
spare so I switch on all lights and brew coffee for the girls while
I set up the chairs in the middle of the room, adding one more for
our newest member. They arrive shortly after minus Mister Business
Exec.