‘Can I ask where we’re going?’
‘You should always ask where you’re going,’ says Patricia, ‘but I’m not telling you.’ Patricia and I weave through tourists in the Lanes as we walk; she seems to be giving me a guided tour of the city. ‘I got my engagement ring fixed in that jeweller’s. Phil gave me something that belonged to his mother; they got me a new stone and a new band and now it’s perfect … The empanadas there are literally to die for; I mean, you have to take a first-aider with you because it’s literally to die for.’
I feel like telling her that I’ve lived in Brighton almost my entire life and that if you tried to tell a Spaniard that the food in that restaurant was to die for, they’d probably kill you. I don’t say anything because I’m not sure that Patricia would care. I wonder what it takes to be so sure of yourself and if, after I have finished being mentored by her, I too will have this self-assurance.
Patricia leads me to a groyne on the seafront. A doughnut-shaped piece of art sits on the end of it and it is a place I have always loved. I harboured a secret hope that Alexander would ask me to marry him here, as it would be such a romantic spot for a proposal; perhaps hope is not lost. I say a silent prayer that Patricia won’t ruin the place for me. She leads me to the edge of the groyne. The wind crashes against us and I have to concentrate on staying upright.
‘OK,’ says Patricia, ‘let her go.’ I feel a little bit anxious; I mean, I really don’t know this woman. ‘Send everything you no longer need out to sea. Scream it into the surf and let it carry it all away.’ When I don’t react Patricia faces the water and shouts, ‘A belief in scarcity!’ She then turns and looks at me. After a couple of seconds I shout the same. ‘Very good, but you have to choose your own things and also you need to be about ten times louder.’
I think for a few seconds and then I shout, ‘Fear!’
‘Good,’ says Patricia.
‘Low self-worth!’
‘Yes. Good, good.’
I glance behind me. ‘People are looking,’ I say.
‘People will always be looking,’ says Patricia.
I exhale deeply and shout, ‘Disconnection from the world! A feeling of inadequacy! Alexander Eric Ross! Shame!’ I’m on a roll now. ‘Disorganization! Procrastination! Self-loathing! Unhealthy habits! Low motivation! Indecisiveness! Bullshit!’ I stop. I’m smiling. I feel free.
Patricia pats me on the shoulder. ‘Excellent. Now does that sound like a woman who doesn’t pay her debts?’
I promise Patricia that I will get her money to her as soon as I can, and she leaves me standing looking out to sea. I really want to be a woman without all those negative things – my biggest fear is that George thinks I’m already that woman. It would be nice to think he would love me and my flaws but I’ve tried that and it didn’t work out so well.
I lost my baby before the wedding. Not ‘lost’. Before my wedding day, my baby died. I remember the precise moment my symptoms shifted from ‘commonplace’ to ‘concerning’. Alexander said something along the lines of ‘what will be will be’, definitely something that belonged on an Instagram post and not in the mouth of my soon-to-be betrothed. The wedding day was a haze of pain, both physical and emotional; the only bit I really wanted was to fall asleep with my new husband but sadly I was unconscious before he made it up from the bar.
My parents sent us to the Algarve on honeymoon. The first morning we had tea and toast on our balcony overlooking the coast and I thought, I might be willing to try again, or at least to take the risk of looking forward and not back. Apparently, Alexander was thinking the same. He told me he’d been considering it for a while and he wanted to give birth to something big.
‘When we get home,’ he said, ‘I’m going to set up my own business.’ Alexander had been working for a small design company for years, but like every employee on the planet he thought he was ridiculously undervalued and woefully underpaid. I wasn’t sure it was the best idea; you can throw a stone in Brighton and hit a graphic designer. Also, new businesses and newborns don’t really mix.
‘It means you’re gonna have to hold the fort for a while,’ said Alexander. I agreed because sitting in that gentle morning light I didn’t know what that meant; I didn’t know that it meant a year of anxiety as I fell deeper into debt.
As soon as we got back on British soil, Alexander Ross Design was born. To his credit, he made it work. He sought new clients with a determination I had never seen in him before; I took this to mean he was committed to building something for us. Almost exactly a year to the day after Alexander told me his plan, his business was turning a profit and he celebrated by buying a classic MG – soft top, two seats. Now it’s my turn. I’m going to create something out of nothing, and I may not have someone supporting me financially but I have someone behind me emotionally, which is priceless.
Marthashotbod: Just had an amazing session with my business mentor.
Undeterred83: Because you’re amazing.
23
HOWEVER QUIRKY I find Patricia to be, I respect what she is saying. I want to invest in myself, I’m desperate to create change, and desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s out of pure desperation that I offer to work a night shift. I hate them. The office is full of the lost and lonely, the people with no one who cares where they are at three in the morning. It’s like corporate purgatory. You get time and a half for working after ten but you pay for that with a little bit of your soul. You have to man the phones even when no one calls and the majority of the time no one does. When you do get a call the customer falls into one of two categories – drunk or mad.
My line is particularly quiet tonight. It leaves me alone with my thoughts, which is not always a fun place to be. When my phone rings I’m relieved. I ask how I can help and I mean it.
‘Where’s Darren?’ asks a woman.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Martha, I’ll be helping you today.’
‘Well, I don’t want you. I want Darren.’ Mad.
‘I’m not sure who you spoke to earlier but I’m sure I can help you.’ I hear some shuffling, after which the woman recites the customer hotline.
‘Is that the number?’ she asks.
‘Yes, it is,’ I say.
‘Well, it’s supposed to be Darren.’ She says this as if she has caught me out in a lie. ‘Can you get me him?’
‘What is it you would like to discuss?’ I ask.
‘None of your beeswax,’ snaps the woman. ‘Darren told me I could have all this stuff but I ain’t got no stuff.’
‘What were you expecting, Madam?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know – that’s why I need to talk to Darren. He told me with the gold plan I get all this stuff …’
‘Well, the stuff isn’t actually physical,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s not tangible stuff.’
‘Eh,’ says the woman, ‘you calling me a liar?’
‘Listen, lady,’ I say, ‘I don’t know what’s going on here but it feels like you’ve got more problems than your preferential customer plan.’
There is silence on the line and then the woman says, ‘I have half a mind to—’ I cut off the call. I have no desire to hear what she plans to do with her half a mind. When I’m angry I want to cry; it’s one of the traits I like least about myself. It’s so ineffective, and you end up communicating completely the wrong message. Often it results in an awkward hug with someone I hate.
I escape to the break room before the tears arrive. When Greg comes in shortly after me my head throbs with irritation. I really want to be alone but then he hands me a Twix and I soften. I’m probably more hangry than angry. I thank him and experience a brief moment of guilt about the chocolate’s impact on my diet before cramming both fingers in my mouth at the same time.
‘Yeah,’ says Greg, ‘You just had this kind of wild, low-sugar look in your eyes.’ I hope that my face tells him I’m not amused, because my mouth is too full of biscuit and caramel to speak. ‘And from what I understand chocolate sol
ves every female problem, right?’ I finish my mouthful.
‘With beliefs like that I can see why you’re divorced,’ I say.
Greg laughs. ‘That’s not why I’m divorced.’
‘Why then?’ I ask, popping the last bit of Twix in my mouth.
‘It’s a long story,’ says Greg. ‘We didn’t appreciate each other and wanted different things, et cetera, but the radio edit is she started shagging the guy upstairs.’
I make a noise like I’ve been punched in the gut. ‘That’s harsh, Greg.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he says, ‘I was there.’ Greg clocks my astonished expression and clarifies: ‘Not literally there but, you know, I experienced it. The weird thing is the long story is true too, but I don’t know if it happened before or after she … you know.’
I lean forward and pat Greg on the knee. ‘It’s obvious you wanted different things,’ I say. Greg smiles weakly at me. ‘She wanted to shag the dude upstairs and you didn’t want her to.’ There is a moment of silence before Greg collapses into laughter. Watching him makes me feel much less tired. ‘What about Lisa then?’ I ask, keeping my voice light, letting the words slip out quickly. I’ve seen them a couple of times having earnest-looking conferences in the hallways. When I walked past them once, Greg stopped and said hello, feigning politeness to keep their conversation under wraps. He never mentioned it afterwards and for some reason I hadn’t wanted to bring it up until now. Greg’s face grows serious. He’s quiet but I can tell he’s not being evasive, just seeking out the most honest response.
‘I’ve only really been in relationships. Even at school I didn’t do dates; I was committed. I’m not sure I know how to play the game. It’s not about my ex – honestly, I’m over it. It’s just that sometimes the idea of dating seems tiring.’ I smile, even though Greg isn’t looking at me as he speaks.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ I ask. ‘I brought in the posh instant.’
‘Yes, definitely,’ Greg says.
‘On another double shift?’
‘Bills to pay, yunno,’ he says with a tired smile.
I go and make us two milky coffees. As I make them I realize I don’t know how Greg takes his so I don’t put in any sugar. I tell Greg this as I hand him the mug and he insists he is ‘sweet enough’.
‘So how did you get over it?’ I ask, clutching my hands around my mug like I’m sitting beside a camp fire.
‘If I’m honest, I didn’t really,’ says Greg. ‘Maybe I won’t ever. It wasn’t even the sex. I mean, some guy putting his penis in my wife: not on my bucket list, obviously, but I think I could have dealt with that. It was all the lying; all the messages; all the bullshit that went with it.’ I nod. ‘She didn’t even tell me – he did. He came straight up to me one day when I was bringing in the shopping. I felt like such a prick. Her face when I confronted her. I almost laughed – she looked like a cartoon character, you know.’ Greg uses his index fingers to mime his eyes coming out on stalks. I laugh, and he smiles.
‘So you didn’t end it straight away?’
Greg takes a sip of coffee and shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t. My dad left when I was eight; I couldn’t do it to the girls.’
‘What changed?’ I ask.
‘Me,’ says Greg. We both drink our coffees in silence for a bit before Greg asks, ‘What’s happening with you?’
I wave my hand dismissively. ‘It was done before it was done.’ Greg nods. ‘I’m just looking to do it again and do it right this time.’
‘How will you know when it’s right?’ asks Greg.
‘When I can relax,’ I say. ‘When I know I have what I’ve been waiting for.’
‘Which is?’
‘Everything,’ I say.
‘Obviously,’ says Greg.
‘I mean all of it: the mixtapes, movies in bed, homemade soup when I’m ill and giving me his coat even when it’s not that cold, even when I’ve already got a coat on.’ Greg laughs but it’s not a ‘you’re hopeless, I’m so glad I’m more evolved than you’ laugh; I think it’s a laugh of recognition. ‘If I can’t have all that, I just want someone who would step in front of a train for me. You know, your standard to-hell-and-back, dragon-slaying stuff.’
‘You don’t want much then,’ says Greg, ‘just your standard dragon-slaying stuff.’
‘Right,’ I say, and he winks at me.
‘I know what you mean,’ says Greg. ‘You’d think we’d be more cynical after divorce.’
‘I’m not divorced yet,’ I say.
‘Aww, well maybe when it comes through you’ll wanna forget all this romance business. You’ll probably just want to stick all the men on an island and forget about us.’
‘Could I visit the island?’ I ask him. Greg grabs a flyer for the inter-office football team from the coffee table, screws it up and lobs it at my head. It bounces off and lands in my lap. I pick it up and raise my hand.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ says Greg. ‘You don’t know what you’re starting here.’ Before I retaliate, Anekwe, the IT supervisor, walks in.
‘Having fun?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows.
‘We’d better get back to work,’ I say. Greg has his back to Anekwe and makes a face at me. ‘Come on,’ I say, before pulling him up from his seat. ‘You can stop me from traumatizing any more customers.’
24
I ONLY MANAGE to grab a few hours of fitful sleep when I get back after the night shift before Mum walks in unannounced with my fractious toddler in her arms. She deposits my son on my stomach and says, ‘I know you’ve been working but, may I remind you, motherhood is a full-time job and I’ve got water aerobics.’ I grunt in response. Moses starts to smack me in the face so I sit up and give him my phone to play with.
‘Morning, baby,’ I say to Moses. At the same time the phone rings out an alert. I prize it from his fingers and he looks like he might cry so I get my laptop from the floor and put on Thomas the Tank Engine.
Undeterred83: Hey! How are you?
Marthashotbod: I’m OK.
Marthashotbod: Can we talk again? It’s important.
George tells me he’ll try me in half an hour, which leaves me with thirty long minutes to fill. I run a bath with loads of bubbles for me and Moses. I set Moses between my legs and as I do I notice the pedicure Leanne got me a month ago has grown out and chipped. I scoot down so that the warm water can start to work on the tension in my back.
‘Duck,’ says Moses. I forgot his bath toys. I give him a loofah sitting on the side of the tub.
‘Duck,’ I say. He looks at it, only slightly doubtful, before pushing it under the water.
‘Quack! Quack!’ he shouts as it bobs back up again. If only all men were so easy to please.
I was so anxious about becoming a mother. I probably spent more time on the internet researching childhood diseases than asleep that first year. It’s strange because the reality of babies is that they’re very easy. They need to be warm, they need to eat, and they need to be cuddled. Everything else is just frills, stuff to make you feel good. I wonder if things would have been different if I’d invested more time into what Alexander needed? I was so worried about whether I could be a mother, the most natural thing in the world, but a relationship with another adult I expected to just excel at. I believed it was my right to be in a happy marriage. I wanted a singing career, I wanted a baby, but I never believed it was guaranteed that I would have those things. A relationship, on the other hand – of course I would because, well, everybody gets that.
‘You have me,’ I told Moses. ‘Don’t assume you’ll get more than that unless you work really hard on being a really good person who deserves it.’ Moses tries to eat the loofah. ‘Don’t eat that,’ I say, and take it from him. He looks like he might cry so I give it back.
I pull myself out of the bath and dry off. When I’ve finished I look at myself in the full-length mirror. I have no memory of looking at my body and being happy with what I saw. I often hear women talking about thei
r favourite and least favourite parts of their bodies but I don’t have either; I hate it all just a little bit. I think I was one of the only women in the world to actually look forward to having a post-baby body – at least then I had an excuse. I put on Dad’s bathrobe and as I am lifting Moses out of the bath I hear my phone from the bedroom. I run down the stairs, clutching my son under my arm like a sandbag. In the kitchen, Dad is watching a programme about people trying to buy houses in Spain; I shove a dripping Moses in his lap.
‘Can you take him? I have a call,’ I say, and I don’t stop to hear his reaction. In my room, I fall on to my phone, convinced the ringing will stop as soon as my hand reaches it; when it doesn’t I’m surprised and I fumble as I try to take the call.
‘Hello?’ I hear George say.
‘Hi! Hi! Hello.’ My breathing is heavy; I hope it sounds sexy.
‘It’s good to hear your voice,’ he says.
‘You too.’ It feels like we’ve never been apart, rather than on two separate continents.
‘What was it you wanted?’
‘Oh yes, that.’ I sit on the bed. ‘This is the thing. I’m concerned you don’t realize … I mean … The thing is … I need you to know I’m a bit fucked up.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘No, but like, I mean … I’m worried you don’t understand I’m a mess. I mean I’m going through a divorce, I think.’
‘You were married?’
‘Well yes, exactly!’
‘Don’t worry – we all have stuff going on, just ask my therapist.’
I play with the cord of the dressing gown. ‘I know, it’s just … I’m not quite the person I want to be, maybe not the person you want to be with, if you want to be with me.’
George pauses. ‘I’m pretty sure I do,’ he says, and it feels like I’ve solved a riddle. I’ve done the one thing I’ve always avoided doing when getting to know a guy – told the truth.
‘As long as you know that things are kind of up in the air right now. I’m in transition at work. My ex isn’t great, he hasn’t really stepped up with childcare. He’s kinda left me to work things out. I’m doing all the hard work and nothing’s changed for him – he’s still got his work, he’s living in our flat, he still has my cat, for God’s sake.’ George doesn’t respond; maybe I got carried away with the honesty thing. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t offload on you like this.’
The Single Mum's Wish List Page 16
