A Year of Chasing Love Read online

  ‘No, Nathan, please don’t do that, it’ll only make things worse. It’s okay. What’s done is done.’

  There had been a pause in their discussion of more formal matters during which question after question chased around Olivia’s exhausted brain, causing her to feel slightly disorientated. There were just so many things she needed to say, a whole list of things she was desperate for the answers to: was he missing her just as much as she was missing him? Did he feel as though he’d lost a limb? Was he regretting his decision to end their marriage? Or was his life in Singapore so hectic that she barely breached his thoughts? But before she had slotted her brain into gear, Nathan had grasped the conversation baton, his tone softer, more hesitant.

  ‘I really didn’t want things to come to this – you know that, Liv – but we’ve spent less than six weeks in the whole of the last six months doing things as a couple. I know, I know, we’ve both been busy with work, me with my travel commitments after my promotion and you with your clients and then volunteering at Women’s Aid and the soup kitchen. We seem to have prioritised everything else but our relationship.’

  She heard the ragged intake of breath down the phone line and she knew Nathan was dragging his palm across his jawline, scratching at the blond stubble on his chin in that familiar gesture she loved as he contemplated his next sentence before he spoke. She knew him so well and it was clear he was finding the situation just as difficult as she was, a fact that only served to enhance her sadness and regret. However, she definitely wasn’t prepared for the next grenade he tossed into the melee of emotions that were circulating through her veins.

  ‘What it boils down to, Liv, is that I want a family. I thought that if you agreed to come out to Singapore with me, we could escape the London rat race for a while and work on taking the next step in our lives. Having children is the one thing I can’t compromise on. So, when you said you couldn’t join me over here, even for a couple of weeks, it seemed like as good a time as any to start the ball rolling. It’ll allow both of us to move on before it’s too late. But if it could have been any other way …’

  She had been shocked by the depth of feeling in his voice, and her heart performed a somersault of sorrow. She knew Nathan wanted a child, that it wasn’t only women who experienced the insistent tick of the biological clock. She wasn’t sure whether it had been something he had been contemplating for a while or whether the catalyst had been his approaching fortieth birthday or his best friend, Stefan, adding a third son to his growing brood and appointing him as godfather, but whatever it was, she hadn’t felt that same urgent tick-tock.

  Whenever the question of when they were going to start a family had come up, she had either changed the subject, or when that hadn’t worked, told Nathan she wasn’t ready or that she couldn’t afford to take the time away from her career right then. Over the years, she had grown to understand that she had to start working on the flaw in her make-up that demanded everything she did had to be perfect, and that the only way to do that was by giving it 100 per cent of her time and effort. How could she be an amazing mother and an accomplished lawyer?

  ‘There’s no panic to respond to the papers,’ Nathan had continued, clearly keen to bring their conversation back to more practical topics. ‘It’s not as though either of us are desperate for the decree nisi to be pronounced. I hope you don’t mind sorting out the sale of the apartment? Getting it valued and on the market? If it sells quickly, I’ll ask my dad or Dan to come over to collect my stuff, if you don’t mind boxing it up?’

  There would be no undignified squabbling over Royal Doulton ornaments or the Gordon Ramsay kitchen knives for them, thought Olivia ruefully, because there had been no Saturday afternoon saunters around the labyrinth of consumerism that was John Lewis.

  ‘Singapore is going to be my last overseas posting, Liv. I’ve negotiated with Andrew to co-work the head of legal post with Cordelia. Now that her children are both at uni she’s keen to start travelling again. There may be the occasional trip to Paris or Berlin, but essentially, I’ll be London-based, and I’ll start viewing properties in Guildford as soon as there’s an offer on the apartment.’

  When she heard the wobble in Nathan’s voice, Olivia’s throat had tightened as she battled to keep her own emotions in check. At the time, she had resolved not to mention her own, albeit enforced, sabbatical from Edwards & Co because she hadn’t wanted her surprise change in circumstances to influence their discussions in any way. They had said a swift goodbye, promising to keep each other informed of any important developments. When she’d ended the call, Olivia had never felt so bereft, so lonely, in her whole life and even sitting amongst the palm trees and the tropical gardens of Valletta, the pain was still there like a glowing ember refusing to be doused.

  She tipped her sunhat over her eyes and leaned back against the lounger, conjuring up an image of Nathan in her mind’s eye: an irresistible combination of sexy, charismatic and intelligent, coupled with a calm, attentive and generous character. She imagined him now, standing at his office window high above the Singapore skyline, running his fingers through his honey-blond hair, and a surge of sadness washed through her chest that he had been right – as a couple they’d become like a pair of rotating coracles, spun together for brief encounters before diverting onto their own preferred waterways.

  Unlike her, Nathan had never been in control of his emotions; he was always much more vocal in expressing his hopes and dreams, and in declaring his love for her. No matter how busy he was, he always made a point of putting others first in his thoughts and was much better at sticking to his work-life balance mantra. In fact, despite preparing for his trip to the Far East, he’d still managed to find the time to single-handedly organise his mother’s sixtieth birthday bash, whilst Olivia had barely been able to grace them with her presence, a situation that even now caused an uncomfortable feeling of shame. She knew Nathan was filled with regret that their lives together had unravelled and that the cavernous void between them had become unbreachable – not only had he lost his soulmate, he’d also lost the place he had called home.

  But would either of them really miss their pristine apartment on the top floor of the glass-and-steel building they had called home for the last five years? When had the beige walls of the high-rise dwelling ever reverberated with laughter? She prodded her memory but couldn’t recall a single instance. The Fitzgeralds were too busy to entertain, and their verbal exchanges had morphed into scattergun instructions before one of them rushed off to do something else with someone else.

  What had they been thinking? What dull lives they lived. No friends round for dinner, no nights out at the renowned London theatres, no sampling the sensational menus handwritten on blackboards by the latest celebrity chefs in the restaurants across the West End. When had she last laughed with abandon that hadn’t been instigated by overindulgence in prosecco?

  When their friends had found out about their impending divorce, there had been none of the usual trite soundbites that Olivia had so often heard uttered by her clients’ sympathetic companions who came to support them at their first consultation with a solicitor – a terrifying event in anyone’s life. ‘You’re much better off without him/her’ or ‘it’s probably for the best’, and ‘now you can move on, start afresh, be happy, take that longed-for holiday, pursue that interesting hobby, become vegan, take up fell-walking or sprint cycling or travel the Silk Road on horseback’.

  Olivia wondered idly whether Fiona Farnham had actually completed her challenge, made a new life for herself by stepping outside her comfort zone and learning how to rely on her own wits instead of her ex-husband’s credit card. She hoped so. She admired every single one of her clients who faced their imminent separation with stoic, or enthusiastic, determination to pursue their dreams, or simply just begin a new chapter of their lives; there were others who chose the route of bitter recriminations, making it their mission to challenge, argue, contest and rage over the most innate, inconsequential litt
le thing imaginable purely on a point of principle.

  ‘Can I get you another drink, madam?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, but could I have a sparkling water this time?’ She smiled at the friendly barman with the neon smile, but her thoughts remained at the far end of the memory superhighway.

  It had never ceased to amaze her what some people would do in the name of revenge. She thought of the case of the distressed spouse who cut off the sleeves of her adulterous husband’s Savile Row jackets, and another who paid for a steel band to play outside his ex’s window at 4 a.m. every morning, and then there was Rosemary Farrington, another of her ‘scorned’ clients who’d had to endure the indignity of watching her husband of thirty-five years frolicking with his new girlfriend, his former secretary, on the beaches of Barbados when their family had only ever enjoyed an annual break in a caravan in Cleethorpes.

  The story made Olivia smile now, twelve hundred miles away reclining on a sunbed in the gorgeous Maltese sunshine, but at the time she had been relieved that Rosemary had only told her about what she’d done to assuage the pain of separation during an interview afterwards, adamant that she had no regrets because the incident had forced her to seek much-needed counselling.

  Having found out that her husband’s affair with his secretary had been going on for over three years, Rosemary had decided to hit her philandering husband where it hurt the most: via his beloved scarlet Porsche 911 Cabriolet – a symbol of his supposed virility if ever there was one. Apparently, Geoff Farrington loved the car more than he had ever loved his family, so one Saturday night when he was out, allegedly celebrating a win at his golf club, Rosemary had carefully unpicked the leather upholstery of the passenger seat and placed a freshly smoked kipper inside before sewing it back up again. It was a few weeks before the stories started to filter through to her and when they did, the injection of satisfaction at his reaction went a long way towards helping her to move on.

  Yes, Olivia had seen it all.

  Clients instructing her in all seriousness to correspond with their former spouses over issues as diverse as who should get custody of their iguana, to who should be responsible for running the home-made gin stall at the local village fete, an annual institution that both parties had been an integral part of. One client, Francesca Barton, had even informed her that she had sat up at three in the morning – that ungodly hour when, Olivia now knew from her own experience, the pain of separation was almost too much to bear – plotting, in step-by-step detail, precisely how she would get away with her husband’s murder. Francesca had truly believed that she had thought about it for so long that she had come up with the perfect solution and had actually wanted Olivia to scrutinise her copious handwritten notes so that she could advise her – from a legal perspective – whether she had overlooked anything!

  Olivia remembered being completely horrified – not least because what her client had come up with had sounded plausible and achievable, although she had to admit that despite being a lawyer for over fifteen years, she was no expert in the field of criminal litigation. After Francesca had left with, she hoped, a very brusque professional warning ringing in her ears, Olivia had rushed downstairs to talk to her fellow partner, James Carter – rugby-toned and an astute advocate in the field of criminal defence. His sharp grey eyes had gleamed with interest as he contemplated a new dimension to his typical day in the local Magistrates’ Court where he usually dealt with a long line of punters who couldn’t come up with any more detailed a defence other than ‘it wasn’t me, mate’.

  Olivia reached out to take a sip of her San Pellegrino with a twist of lemon, rolling an ice cube around her mouth as she continued her introspection on her professional career. Over the years, she had heard some heart-breaking stories, some truly inspiring stories, and stories of women, and men, who, after a long and unhappy marriage, had gone on to find love. Like Tina, who had never been allowed to own a pet due to her husband’s aversion to animals of any kind, who after her divorce met a fellow dog-walker in a local park and was now living her dream parading her prize-winning Lhasa Apso at shows across the country.

  Whilst at Edwards & Co she had listened to bereft clients for hours, offering sympathy, tissues and endless cups of sugared tea. Some clients thanked her profusely, treated her as a friend and asked for advice beyond the realms of what a competent solicitor could offer, later sending flowers and cards in grateful thanks. Others, of course, couldn’t wait to end of their consultations, seeing her as the ‘bad guy’ who was responsible for helping to end a marriage they had hoped would last forever. She hoped that her involvement had offered a modicum of solace to someone buried under the avalanche of emotion, and that she had in some small way eased their passage into a new phase of their lives.

  However, in order to do these things properly, she had to work long hours and put a great deal of herself into her work, which inevitably meant that the other areas of her life suffered. She had neglected her friends and her family, she knew that, and the great irony was that she had been living in a world filled with stories that weren’t her own. Now look at her, on an enforced sabbatical, in Malta of all places, doing everything she could not to think about the scattered remnants of her marriage, wondering what to do with herself when all she’d ever known was the hurly-burly of a high-octane environment where people depended on her for their very sanity.

  What was she going to do to keep hers?

  Katrina had suggested she started a blog, wrote about her experiences. But she couldn’t do that; there was the confidentiality thing to start with, and how would writing help her to keep a grip on her sanity? However, there was another reason she had balked at Katrina’s suggestion to write about her life at the coalface of matrimonial disharmony, whether with wicked humour or searing realism, and that was because she still felt raw and vulnerable about what had happened, and her natural instinct was not to brazen it out but to run away and hide – which was probably why she was sitting on a sunbed in a hotel in Valletta on the pretext of collecting evidence for a project for her oldest friend.

  What would people’s reactions be when they read about a self-confessed workaholic and the winner of the Top Divorce Lawyer accolade being served with her own divorce petition? That it served her right? That an intelligent woman like her should have at least had an inkling that something like that was about to happen? That to be successful a marriage needs work from both its participants and they had no sympathy for what happened to her?

  Or would they empathise? All she was doing was trying her best to help her clients during what were often very difficult and painful circumstances – like a surgeon who wants to do as many life-saving operations as possible but in the process forgets that he has a family at home waiting to have supper with him or a bedtime story read to them. What a choice to have to make!

  No, she wouldn’t write a blog. She had no desire to poke her head above the parapet and have rotten fruit thrown in her face. She might be a coward for thinking that, but she had no wish to embarrass her family – none of what had happened was their fault. In fact, the last time she had seen her mum, she had actually warned her, gently but firmly, that it might be time to think about cutting down on the hours she spent at work and to take some ‘me-time’ for the sake of her mental health.

  However, what would she do if she did? She had no hobbies because she had no time to pursue them – unless she was allowed to count drinking wine at Harvey’s with other exhausted and disconsolate professionals, all pasty-faced from lack of sunlight and their bad diet choices of grabbing a takeaway on the way home because there was never anything in the fridge.

  To this day, Katrina still teased her about the time she had invited her to her flat one Saturday night so Olivia could surprise her with a home-cooked meal. Of course, she’d worked all day at the office, but had promised faithfully she would be back home by eight o’clock and they had celebrated the fact that she was only fifteen minutes late – carrying takeout. Katrina had suggeste
d they keep the food warm in the oven whilst they set the table and had howled with laughter when she’d discovered that, even after living in her top-floor flat for over two years, there were still polystyrene blocks in the oven.

  After that indignity, Olivia had had no intention of going on to confess that neither she nor Nathan had the first idea how the dishwasher worked because it was such a hi-tech, multi-functional model that only a person with a degree in physics would be able to master the controls without ploughing through the instruction booklet – a weighty tome that could have been a sequel to War and Peace. Who had the time? Anyway, as neither she nor Nathan cooked at home – either dining out or eating takeaway – they didn’t have many dishes to wash and it was never an issue.

  She thought about the dinner parties she and Nathan had attended at their friends’ homes, those Saturday nights sometimes the only time they would actually sit down for a meal together, and she mourned the fact that she wouldn’t be doing that for a while now. When they had found out about their impending divorce, every one of their friends without exception had expressed their heartfelt sympathy, their sadness at the surprising news, and most agonising of all, that of all the couples they knew they had thought that Olivia and Nathan would be the one to stay the course.

  Sadly, it wasn’t to be, and all she could do now was move forward, pursue her own challenges and weave new stories into the tapestry of her life. And yet sorrow threaded its gloomy tendrils through her heart and tightened the cord, because, despite everything that had happened over the last six weeks, she still loved Nathan.

  Chapter 8