Page 49 of The Christmas Letter

She opened two beers – the light stuff – and held one out to him. He took a sip more for something to do than because he really wanted one. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. He’d never thought he’d be the type to get divorced. If there even was a type. But he’d assumed he’d keep following the right trajectory – he’d landed the right sort of job, was successful in his career, made a good salary, lived in London in a nice flat. It was all supposed to lead on from that – marriage, kids, move out to the suburbs. Not the most exciting of lives, maybe, but secure, and comfortable, and you couldn’t ask for more than that, could you? But now . . . He no longer felt the gut punch he’d experienced at first, but he was still a bit lost, unsure what to do or where to go from here.

Was this how his mum had felt, after his dad’s death? This, times a million? He knew she’d felt lost, because even after they’d moved to the other side of Devon, she’d had this sort of . . . vacant look about her. He’d catch her sometimes in the kitchen, with the fridge door open or the tap on, just staring, as the fridge started beeping or the water ran so hot it turned scalding, and he’d have to snap her out of it.

He had a memory, then, of the night itself. Of waiting downstairs, nervously twisting his tie – one that had been bought just for this occasion – and wondering if they were going to be late. He’d heard his mum’s voice upstairs.

‘Come on, Richard, you knew we had to leave at six.’

‘I’m ready, I’m ready.’

‘You’re not. We’ll just go without you.’

‘Of course you’re not going without me – I want to see Jack play.’

Emma had come into the hallway then, her grey hair all curly in the way she did it for, as she put it, ‘occasions that are worth the effort’. She’d winked at him. ‘Ready, my boy?’

‘Umm . . .’

She’d waved a hand. ‘Course you are. You were born ready.’

His dad’s voice had got a bit louder. ‘Where are my damn keys?’ There was a pause. ‘Come on, Rose, where are my keys?’

Emma’s smile had turned a bit fixed then. ‘I’ll just go up and chivvy them along, shall I?’

It had been the school concert – he’d been learning the trumpet, which he’d later given up when he and his mum moved house. He’d never really been that into it, but his dad had loved the idea that he would be a ‘performer’ one day, so he’d stuck with it for a bit.

‘What would you have played, Richard?’ his mum had asked once, with raised eyebrows.

His dad had grinned. ‘The triangle.’ It had made his mum laugh, and his dad had swooped in, across their little kitchen, and twirled her around. ‘You’d have liked being married to a musician, wouldn’t you? Much more glamorous.’

‘I’d prefer a bit of help with the washing-up – I’m not a glamorous sort of person.’

‘How about a glass of wine instead?’ His dad had winked at Jack, who was hovering in the doorway, wanting a biscuit but unsure as to whether he’d be told off for asking.

‘Jack? Are you listening?’ Vanessa was staring at the side of his face.

He cleared his throat. ‘No. Sorry. I am now.’ He needed to stop doing that. He’d been thinking about the crash, and his dad, more and more since Holly had shown up in March. He hadn’t called Emma, though. He didn’t know how to get hold of her, even if he wanted to. Actually, that wasn’t true – he could text Holly and ask for Emma’s number. He was sure she’d be only too delighted to give it to him. But what would he say? He’d meant what he said to Holly – you couldn’t just kiss and make up after this length of time, after something like that. He’d dealt with what had happened, had moved on from it as best he could. But that didn’t change the fact that things would have been different, if Emma hadn’t been driving that day. And it didn’t change the fact that she’d not been there for him, after it had happened.

‘So,’ Vanessa said, ‘I’ve been trying to figure out a way to say this.’

Jack studied her face for clues. He knew that face so well – knew the dimple that would wink out when she smiled, the one she hated but which he’d told her was cute; he knew the frown lines that would pull together when she scowled, the slight pigmentation on her forehead, which she’d spent a goddamn fortune trying to get rid of, no matter how many times he’d told her that no one noticed it but her. Right now, though, he didn’t know what she was thinking. Maybe he’d never known what she was thinking, in fact – after all, he’d never even suspected that she was cheating on him.

‘Say what?’ he asked eventually.

She took a sip of her beer. ‘That I’m sorry.’

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. It didn’t sound to him like that should have taken much figuring out.

‘I realised I never said it,’ she continued.

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘You didn’t.’

‘Well, I am. Sorry, that is. I’m sorry for my part in it.’

‘You’ve waited until now to say that?’ He frowned. ‘And what do you mean, your part in it? You slept with someone else, Vanessa. It was all your part.’

‘I did do that. But I did not destroy our marriage single-handedly.’

‘I’m not sure I need to hear this.’