Elegance and Innocence: 2-Book Collection. Kathleen Tessaro

for several months.

      Then one spring afternoon, I noticed my mother wearing it while she and my dad washed the car. My father was Hoovering the interior, all his attention on the task in hand, and my mother was emptying out a pail of dirty, black water. To anyone else they looked like a normal couple engaging in a traditional Sunday afternoon chore. But I saw a different picture.

      My mother had given up. The Year of Silence had failed. My father probably didn’t even notice she’d nicked the jumper, he was so intent on completing his list of things to do. But she was back to stealing what she could from him; moments of companionship and the intimacy of the jumper.

      She was right; it didn’t belong to me. Things you have to steal never do.

      Now the sun is setting outside. I sit up on my bed and blow my nose. When I open my bedroom door there, neatly folded on the floor, is the navy blue jumper.

      Stepping over it, I walk into the living room where Colin and Ria are watching a late night chat show about royal impersonators. Colin mutes the sound and they both look up at me.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I begin. ‘You were right about the … the jumper thing … it isn’t helping.’ I’m staring at my shoes. I’ve never had to apologize as an adult for having a temper tantrum before. It’s much harder and more humbling than I thought. ‘The truth is, I’m not very good at being on my own …’ Even as I say it, this seems like the understatement of the year. ‘I don’t really know how to … you know, do it.’

      For a moment, I think they’re going to laugh. And then Colin reaches out and takes my hand.

      ‘None of us do. But you’re not alone, Ouise. We’re here and we’ve been where you are now. Two years ago when Alan left me, all I wanted to do was open a vein.’

      ‘And believe it or not, I was actually engaged at one time,’ Ria adds quietly.

      I look at her in surprise. Tiny, capable, emotionally concise, Ria seems above the messy realm of failed relationships. ‘And what did you do when it was over?’ I ask. It’s almost impossible to imagine her wading through the same histrionic wreckage I’m having such difficulty navigating.

      She smiles at Col. ‘I cried, like you. And then I came here, like you. I knew Colin through a friend of a friend and when Alan left, he needed a housemate. The rest is history.’

      Colin gives my hand a little squeeze. ‘Welcome to Mother Riley’s Home for Wayward Women. It gets better, kid. Believe me. The trick is to stay in the game long enough to be around when the good stuff starts happening again. You’ll see. Suit up and show up. Even if you feel like the whole world can see that you’re made of little pieces, badly glued together.’

      Ria nods. ‘And, when in doubt, bathe.’

      And so, in the absence of any direction of my own, I take their advice.

      Ria runs me a tub with lavender oil in it while Colin grills us up some sausages and mashes potatoes. He and Ria argue over which CD to listen to (the Goldberg Variations vs. Massive Club Hits Volume 2) and the Bach wins, but only on account of me being suicidal. Colin sets the table with the mismatched silverware and china his favourite grandmother left him when she died. And while I bathe, Ria makes my bed with the pretty linen sheets she offered earlier and even begins to hang up some of my clothes. When I emerge, freshly scrubbed in my bathrobe, they both applaud.

      That night the bed seems softer and more comfortable than before, the street outside more tranquil. Moonlight shines through the narrow slats of the Venetian blind, forming little rectangles of pale light on the carpet, and the gentle rustling of the wind through the leaves is the only sound to be heard. I fall into a heavy sleep, no doubt induced by the potent combination of a hot bath and sausages, and when I wake up, I feel oddly refreshed, despite the constant, aching heaviness in my heart. After ironing a shirt, I put on a clean trouser suit and catch the bus into work with Colin on time. I may still feel like a hollow shell but at least I don’t look like one.

      A week later, I post the jumper back to my husband with a brief note.

      I took this by mistake. Sorry for the inconvenience.

      As comforting as it’s been, I don’t want it any more.

      After all, it never really belonged to me.

      I sit, very deliberately, on the edge of the daybed in my therapist’s office. She’s upped my sessions since I left my husband and the last few times I’ve simply refused to engage in the conversation about lying down. I’ve decided there’s nothing wrong with wanting to sit up and am tired of wasting sessions talking about it. I find my decision liberating but there are consequences, ripples in the dynamic of the relationship that all have to do with status.

      Mrs P closes the door and sits down. She waits for me to lie down and I don’t. I smile at her but she doesn’t smile back. Instead, she looks at my shoes.

      ‘Those shoes are very high,’ she says. I’m wearing the pair of black suede T-bar shoes from Bertie. They are high, but also very sexy.

      ‘Yes, that’s true.’

      She can’t take her eyes off these shoes. I cross my legs and one foot dangles elegantly, making my ankle seem fragile and tiny. I love it, but Mrs P seems disturbed.

      ‘They must be very hard to walk in,’ she adds.

      ‘They’re fine once you get used to them, not nearly as treacherous as they seem. But no, they’re not really walking shoes,’ I laugh. Her smile is tense. Why are we talking about shoes?

      Of course, I can’t help but look at her shoes now. They’re from Marks and Spencer’s, the kind you try on while you’re nipping in to buy pre-shelled peas. They’re flat and beige with a crêpe sole. She catches my eye and shifts her legs defensively.

      ‘Your fashion sense has changed dramatically,’ she concludes.

      ‘I think that’s a good thing.’

      She peers at me over her glasses.

      ‘I’m dressing more like a confident woman,’ I explain.

      ‘And how does a confident woman dress?’ Her voice is challenging.

      ‘Like she knows she’s a woman and she likes it. Like she expects people to notice her.’ I smooth a crease out of my suit skirt. ‘Also, I have a more demanding job now,’ I remind her, ‘and I’m required to look a bit more professional.’

      ‘Yes.’ She nods her head, but gives the impression of being somehow unconvinced. What am I trying to convince her of?

      ‘So why didn’t you dress “like a confident woman” before?’

      ‘Because I wasn’t confident, I suppose. And there was no one there to notice anyway.’ We’ve been down this road before and I don’t like it. Automatically my eyes scan around for the tissues. There they are on the faux mahogany coffee table; all I need to do is reach across. How handy. Do they teach that at psychiatry school – where to place the tissues? If they’re too close, is that considered enabling?

      ‘What about your husband?’ She’s staring at me but I can’t decipher the look. It’s neither kind nor indifferent. I feel a mass of pressure building in my chest, tearing at my throat. I swallow, breathe, and then I say it, out loud to another person for the first time.

      ‘My husband is gay.’

      It comes out sounding like a very mundane fact, like I’ve said ‘I’ll have some chips.’ This strikes me as odd and I find myself flashing her this funny, little smile, a kind of awkward half smirk. I know it’s inappropriate, but knowing that only seems to fuel it. I try to will the corner of my mouth down with some success but it pops up again, this time accompanied by a little fart of a laugh. My hand shoots up instantly to cover my mouth but it’s too late. The smirk explodes into a fit of giggles, hysterical and oddly hyena-like.

      Mrs P stares at me impassively. She reminds me