The D Word

Really unreasonable behaviour

‘For at least five years, I was asked to sleep in a different bedroom from my wife,” I read. “Though this was not my choice, I agreed because my estranged wife was insistent about this. It profoundly affected our intimate life and caused ongoing rows between us, in which she verbally abused me.” I turned the page, reading on.

“My wife formed a close relationship with her ex-boyfriend during the course of our marriage,” Richard had written. “It came to a head on a holiday to Spain, which I had taken in good faith, after a period of difficulty…”

Oh, you snake, I thought. Finally, the divorce papers had arrived, and I could see just how much Richard had enjoyed crafting his examples of my unreasonable behaviour. It was quite brilliantly done, as everything he said was fundamentally true, yet somehow he’d managed to paint himself as the bemused, decent husband, going out of his way to keep his cold, demanding wife happy, until she inexplicably threw herself into the arms of another man on Richard’s muchlonged-for holiday from his exhausting career. He deserved a Pulitzer for emotive reporting.

Reading on, I emerged from his tale of woe like Cruella deVil branching out from puppies into human relationships, while he was Joe Everyman, a hard-working, wellmeaning husband who only wanted happiness for all the folks in his life.

The worst thing was, the facts were all correct. It had been my suggestion to sleep in separate rooms, but due to his geeseherding snoring, not some crazed impulse to make him suffer alone through the long, lonely nights.

And as for the “close relationship” between me and James, Richard had been perfectly pally with him for years, too.

The verbal abuse was a low blow, though, given that all our rows had generally descended into

mutual verbal abuse. It wasn’t as if he’d cowered in the corner with his arms over his head, weeping “Please, I beg you, stop!” while I ranted. His usual method was to follow me round the house, soliloquising wildly about his rights, while I swore and slammed doors like a hungover teenager. Really, it was a miracle we’d lasted as long as we had.

I slammed the papers on to the kitchen table and thought about my options. Obviously I’d sign them – there was nothing I could feasibly object to, and I wanted to get the divorce over with as much as Richard did. But once that was in motion, and with the cottage sale going through, I had no plan at all.

For the past months, I’d been so busy fire-fighting day to day, and exploring the new relationship that was beginning with James while trying to sell the cottage, worrying about Tilda and grieving the death of my marriage – all while still trying to earn a living – that the future had seemed some nebulous cloud on the horizon. Now, I had to decide where I was moving to – I’d put James on hold to give me time to think, so moving in with him was out – and I needed to sort my finances out so Richard didn’t swoop in and somehow claim most of the money when the sale went through.

I found a pen, retrieved the papers, and signed them. And as I did so, I realised that there was one option I hadn’t considered.

‘I emerged from his tale of woe like Cruella devil branching out from puppies to humans’