H's parents were as bad in a different way (alcoholism, domestic violence etc).
The love story between him and me and the break up and the court stuff is so in depth I did not want to go back too far, but I might touch on it slightly. Actually, I've just looked at page 1 and I did mention our parents are divorced, here's an extract (it's a fairly mild extract that I don't mind putting on here):
when I was 14 and had gone to a village fete with my teenage boyfriend. We had sat on the grass, watching this competition for quite some time, and when it was time to leave, I couldn’t get up off the ground. My legs had gone like lead. My then boyfriend tried repeatedly to pull me up but he kept slipping so he called for Peter to help him. Peter grabbed onto my arms and tried to pull me up as well, and he too was having trouble. Then he lost his balance and fell on the ground next to me. We both started laughing, it seemed ridiculous. ‘What am I going to do?’, I asked, ‘I can’t stay down here forever.’ ‘Don’t worry’, he assured, ‘I can get you to stand up.’ His face was only inches from mine, and just at that moment, I was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him. I would have done if my boyfriend wasn’t behind us. Nonetheless, I forgot about this incident shortly afterwards and didn’t think of it again. Then 18 months later I went round to his mother’s house to bring fire wood for her coal fire. It was the Christmas of 1993. Because it was Christmas, I was wearing a very tight, black velvet party dress that hugged every curve on my body. When I took my jacket off to sit down, I saw his face light up when he looked at me, and he smiled. This was the first time he had ever paid any attention to my clothes, and I was secretly flattered by his smile. When I went into the kitchen to make people cups of tea, he followed me in and was very chatty and friendly. The next time I met him I was sweet 16, and just recovering from a break up with the teenage boyfriend, and having all the usual teenage puberty crises. He had got a job as a cab driver and he was employed to drive me to and from college each day. He was also older, more friendly, better looking than I remembered and he had a brand new car, which to a 16 year old is very attractive!
I was a bit wild at the time, a very strict vegan who wore tie-dyed clothes and had a different hat for everyday. I was involved in the live export protests of the 1990’s and I had an opinion on every subject imaginable, a very LOUD opinion. I wanted to save the world and what’s more, I actually believed I could. I think Peter liked this attitude. We talked about everything, the weather, my ex-boyfriend, our families, college. I really liked him, more than like, but he had a girlfriend, Zoe, who he had been with for 2 years. He was also 19 years old, which I thought was probably too mature to be interested in me.
I used to feel pangs of jealousy every time he mentioned her, and I’d secretly stare at his crotch when I thought he wasn’t looking, and then look the other way (!) I used to imagine what it might be like if he touched me, and then correct myself because these weren’t platonic feelings for my ‘friend’. He would hold my hand quite frequently, because we both had a minor disability, and he’d always open the car door for me when I got out, like a real gentleman. I was secretly turned on by his charm. I never thought anything would happen because in my childish inexperience I didn’t even realise he was interested in me, and because my ex-boyfriend had just left me, my parents had divorced and his parents had divorced, I was naturally cautious.
He started chatting for an hour before he dropped me home, inviting me for drinks, hugging me when I wanted to moan about my ex and holding my hand even when we were sitting down. I spent hours at my dresser, putting make-up on (the first time I had ever worn make-up!) and I STILL didn’t get it.
We had one of the coldest winter’s I remembered, that year, and it snowed heavily in March, heavy enough to build snowmen. It was very unusual for there to be so much snow that late in the season, and I and my college friends had great fun pelting each other with it. Once Pete had arrived to take me home, I threw a snowball at him and when he looked up, I fibbed and said it was his brother who had thrown it, so the two of them started pounding each other with snow, then Pete threw some at me. ‘You did it, didn’t you?’, he asked, hand poised, ready to take aim at me. ‘No!’, I said, ‘he did it, he did!’ ‘I don’t believe you’, he grinned, and I shrieked as I tried to get out of the firing line. He threw another snowball at me, which narrowly missed me, and ended up hitting my mother’s porch. I looked on in horror – oh my God – she would go ballistic. But before I had much time to contemplate this, he was running at me at full speed. ‘No, no, no!!’, I screamed, as he pushed me to the frozen ground. They don’t call it snow for nothing. I almost swore from the shock and then pulled him down too and we lay there laughing like idiots.
Then on my 17th birthday, he called me from a phone box in Somerset, saying he had broken up with his girlfriend that day and could he come round? I said yes, very quickly! When I arrived home from clothes shopping, he was waiting for me at the door. We sat listening to romantic music and holding hands, with my then step-father looking at us through the door and smiling. Even then, I knew I loved him but didn’t ‘twig’, even when he told me he’d left his girlfriend because of me. He would arrive as early as 7.30am just so we could spend all day together and we talked and talked and talked. We would just get in the car and go anywhere – anywhere away from our parents –all day together. One day we even drove all the way to Manchester as a joke! We wandered round Manchester, taking photographs, listening to classical music and laughing. On the way home we ate chips with curry sauce so hot it almost killed us! And had hysterics when I had to ring my mother and let her know where we were. ‘Oh, we’re just in Manchester, we might be a bit late home!’ On the drive home through the Derbyshire Dales his hand never let go of mine once, and then his fingers started stroking the palm of my hand, which I knew meant he secretly wanted me. An electric shiver ran down my back. I wondered if he could feel it too. Both of us were silent, fearing that speech would break the moment. We arrived back at his house and as we walked through the front door, he still didn’t let go of my hand. He walked to the bedroom to fetch something, and as we reached his bedroom door, I stopped. I could feel the sexual tension between us and knew if I followed him, I’d be ripping the clothes off his back. He apologised and looked awkward and we both stood there looking at each other, each knowing that something profound was happening, but neither one knowing what to do about it. There were no words, only truth. When I went home later that night, I knew that we were no longer ‘just friends’, even though nothing sexual had happened, we had shifted the balance, somehow.
See, in there somewhere it mentions divorce - but maybe I should elaborate, only I don't want my mother to think I blame her. We don't speak, but I don't want to hurt her all the same.
Jo.
PS: his name isn't Peter. I changed it for the book.
