big things

When big things happen, life speeds up. It’s Thursday today. The skip is coming. My neighbour is going to witness our signatures to the document that puts this not so delightful house into my sole name. My husband is going to hand deliver our petition for divorce to a solicitor, along with our financial agreement. It will be checked over, then sent to the court, where a decree nisi will hopefully be pronounced.

I still haven’t looked up that word. I keep meaning to – to see if it means anything else. Never heard nisi used in any other context. The language in all those forms is fascinating. A prayer, for example; that’s the part at the end of the divorce form, which is called the petition. They conjure up images in my head that really shouldn’t be there – me going round all my friends, asking them to sign underneath where it says “please oh please let this divorce go through without a hitch so this person can breathe again” – and then we’ll all sit together in my sitting room, looking at the place where he took the antique mirror off the wall, with our fingers crossed, or hands together (according to preference), hoping it works. Perhaps I ought to get some champagne in case we do - or maybe champagne is too frivolous. Which drink would be more suitable? I’ll have to think.

By Sunday the skip will be gone, and the mirror, and all the boxes to be posted back to the States – and my husband too. The only thing left will be the hideous sixteenth century Spanish table in the study. It is far too big and ugly, but he says it is worth a fortune and looks just right there, so he is leaving it as a present and it is pointless starting an argument about, so I am biting my lip and planning to call the nearest auction house first thing on Tuesday. It ought to go somewhere it will be appreciated, and I will donate the proceeds to something suitable – maybe Zachy, who had the bailiffs in last week. Then he’ll be able to afford to send me my painting, which will cover the gap over the fireplace where the antique mirror hung. We are not doing too badly. He has lost his temper only once, and I am trying to be as patient as possible.

Last Saturday, I dropped the last of my sons at the station and drove home dreading the conversation. I felt as if at least two continents were draped over my shoulders. It was a tacit arrangement. The first time the house would be empty since my return.

We’d done the exam results, the party, the washing, ironing, packing – one son back to university, one off to the seaside – then – the conversation – the result of my silent week of solitary contemplation. Don’t laugh. He actually wouldn’t have minded in the slightest – at least that was what he said. I told him about the smack and he said “good for you! You deserved a nice break” Then he said he had been kind of hoping I’d slept with him too. I didn’t say anything. That was serious. This isn’t. Well – okay – it is serious, but not in the same way.

Telling someone who can be unpredictable that you want a divorce is daunting. I’d been dreading it. That drive back home was horrible. Scary. Opening the front door, deep breath, got to be done, sit down in the conservatory, arrange face, and take what’s coming. How bad can it be? Not very, as it turned out to my relief. I said I wished I could give him a different answer, but that I knew he wanted honesty above all.

He said he’d already realised – I didn’t need to be sad. We’d do it amicably. He’d spent the past ten days with his tax accountants and a solicitor. I wasn’t to worry. We’d do it fast. He had a plan worked out already. I would divorce him for unreasonable behaviour – the I Want It Now option. “Oh god, but I’d have to write horrible things about you then.” “No it’s okay – I’ll make them up for you, then you won’t feel so bad.”

It’s funny to think that the prospect of living with me for one minute longer than necessary is so abhorrent to him, he is happy – more than happy - to throw shedloads of money at me so as to ensure a quick ending. Do you know, I am worth one million, three hundred and eighty-seven dollars and thirty cents (at today’s exchange rates) to scurry away from? I think that must make me officially very irritating, if there is a scale for things like that.

I didn’t ask, haggle – anything. It sounds quite generous to me under the circumstances. Should keep me in apples for a while don’t you think? It includes this lovely house, and the prospect of a blank page this time next year, when I can sell up and think of something exciting to do and somewhere interesting to do it. I have a few ideas already.