by Carol Mason
I watch his thick, well-cut, attractively dishevelled hair, the slim line of his back in his crisp white dress shirt. I can still hear Charlie’s words that day in the bar when I first told them about him. Of course he wanted to buy you a drink at the pool! You’re young and lovely, and he was a million miles away from his wife and family!
I remember how the whole encounter felt sullied after that – illogically so. When I later learned that Joe had actually been separated for over a year when we met – not ‘still married’ – I took great delight in telling them. But it didn’t seem to change their minds. Their beliefs seemed cemented at that point.
I put it down to my theory that when people listen to your story, they’re secretly searching for a reflection of their own experience. If they can’t find it, then a part of them will be inclined to deny you yours. It’s a mixed-up survival instinct.
Oh well . . .
I tell him about Grace staying over tomorrow, Meredith’s text.
He looks a little puzzled at first. ‘That’s okay . . . I suppose. I mean . . . is it?’
‘Of course,’ I say.
He yawns and starts to unbutton his shirt. Watching him undress reminds me of the first time we were close, how I’d been dying to undo every single one of those buttons, and when the moment came, I’d never been so attuned to a man standing before me, to his skin as I peeled back the crisp cotton, to a heart beating beneath the palm of my hand – to my own need to have him possess me.
‘What?’
‘Nothing . . .’ I smile a little. ‘I just like watching you undress.’
His eyes slowly look me over. ‘Believe me, it’s mutual.’
Suddenly I don’t much care that my evening was a washout. Or what other people think.
I stand, reach for the hem of my top, and whip it off over my head. ‘Prove it, then.’
NINE
Grace is already there when I arrive at Oxford Circus, standing against a wall, head dipped, tinkering with her phone.
‘Hiya!’ I say.
She looks up like I’ve been there all along. ‘Hi.’
‘Do you want a sandwich or something before we get stuck into the shops?’ I try to sound like it’s a regular girls’ outing and I’m on board for a barrel of laughs.
‘I wouldn’t mind a hot chocolate.’
I was banking on being shot down so I’m disproportionately happy about this. ‘Let’s cross over then,’ I say. ‘There’s a Costa on Argyll Street.’
The queue at Costa is snaking out of the door. We tag on to the end. Grace returns to tinkering with her phone. When it’s our turn I order two hot chocolates and a raspberry almond square to share.
Once we’re seated, Grace shrugs off her long coat, sinks her face in the cloud of whipping cream, then comes back up and snaps selfies from various angles. I watch her zoom in, assess herself, smirk, and then post it to Snapchat. I’m about to tell her that I’m actually following her vlog, that I find her daily posts about healthy eating, fashion, streetbeats from Camden Market, the top of the Shard rather entertaining. But something about her self-absorption right now makes me reluctant to fuel it. Oh well! I decide if you can’t beat them, join them, so I settle for hauling out my own phone, taking a furtive picture of Grace pouting with her ‘moustache’ of whipped cream, and send it to Soph. A minute or two later she texts back three laughing emojis. Having fun?
Fun might be a stretch.
LOL. This is the bonding session, right?
Yup. It’s working a treat.
More laughing emojis.
After a bit, I hear Grace say, ‘Erm . . . Are you done yet? Can we go?’ She is staring at me like a teacher who has just cottoned on to the fact that I’m not paying attention in class.
We leave, cross back over the road again and enter the shop. ‘Do you want to look around a bit first?’ I ask.
‘Not really. Can we just do the return?’
We join the long line. Finally Grace slides the shirt across the counter and gets thirty pounds. ‘There’s your money.’
I stare at the notes. ‘I don’t want it back. Why don’t you pick something else with it?’
I’m waiting for her to say, But that means I’ll have to hang out you with even longer! But instead she says, ‘Cool.’
I conclude that it couldn’t possibly be anything other than sarcasm, but we wander off and peruse the racks. ‘What do you think of this?’ I ask, holding up a cute little white blouse. But when I glance over my shoulder I’m talking to thin air. She’s gone.
They are playing ’80s music. I hum along and wander around for a bit, but then start to feel hot, and parched from that hot chocolate. I text her, Where R U?
Just when my patience is starting to run out, I hear, ‘I’m going to try all this lot on.’ She is right behind me. I do a quick scan of the mountain of clothing in her arms – at this rate we’ll be here until next Christmas. Among the pile of dark stuff I spot a unique-looking electric green waistcoat with black polka dots.
‘That’s quite a haul,’ I say. ‘You’ll be bankrupt by the time you pay for all that!’
‘Who says I’m paying for it?’ she asks with a certain disdain.
That’s true. I suppose that’s what Joe is there for. It makes me think of my old Saturday job at the library when I was her age, and how I’d have to save for a month to afford a new pair of jeans. ‘Want me to come with you for a second opinion?’
I don’t get an answer but decide to follow anyway. She disappears inside the changing room. The music is grating now, and I am mega thirsty. I am starting to feel utterly drained when Joe’s text pops up.
Where are you? Still shopping?
Yup!
Hope she’s being nice?
Nope! She’s being a self-absorbed little madam. Of course! Having a fun time!
I saved you some dinner.
Thank you. Looking forward to coming home.
He sends a red heart.
Eventually, Grace emerges and I watch her hand back a few things to the attendant. I can’t see the green waistcoat, though. Perhaps she left it behind in the changing room.
‘You’re buying all that?’ I say, as she walks over to me with her arms full.
‘Nope. None of it.’
‘Oh . . . So why didn’t you give it back to the assistant then?’
‘Because back then I was still deciding.’
She walks off ahead. I watch her go over to where the mirrors are, and then she dumps the lot on the floor. ‘Okay, then. Let’s go.’
I feel like I should say something but right now I can’t be bothered. Outside, I’m so relieved to breathe fresh air. ‘Your dad’s saved us some dinner,’ I say, partly wishing we didn’t have to suffer through a long Tube ride home.
She gives me her best withering look. ‘Don’t get me wrong, this has been a blast. But I’m off to meet some friends now.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Does your dad know about this?’ I’m not sure if she should be wandering around town on her own.
‘Does he have to?’ she says. ‘I’m fourteen, not four.’
Before I can respond she sings, ‘Bye!’ in her famous Fuck off and drown in a ditch tone. I watch her stride off towards Tottenham Court Road. Some young lads turn and check her out as she passes.
‘It’s 8 p.m. and a school night!’ Joe says when I get back home. ‘You shouldn’t have let her just go off like that!’
I must look a little stunned. Joe has never really been short with me before. I feel like saying, How, exactly, was I supposed to stop her? Put her in a headlock? Instead I say, ‘She seemed to think she’s allowed. So how was I to know any different?’
He scowls. ‘Allowed? By whom?’ Then he adds, ‘Has she even done her homework? I mean, do you even know?’
I know he’s had a bad day. A deal he’s been working on for months was threatening to go sideways. He slept very little last night and was virtually monosyllabic over breakfast. But I don’t appreciate his ton
e. I bend over to scratch Mozart behind his ears.
‘Lauren,’ he says. When I look up, he is standing there gazing at me. ‘I just asked you a question.’
‘I have no idea,’ I say. I straighten up and meet his eyes. ‘I was at work all day . . .’ In case you hadn’t noticed. ‘Anyway, wouldn’t it have been her mother’s responsibility to ensure she’d done her homework before she met me?’
He seems momentarily lost for words, then says, ‘Whoever’s responsibility it is . . . she can’t just do whatever she damned wants. Not on a school night . . . You can’t just let her get her way all the time.’
Oh . . . I feel like saying. You mean like you do?
‘I’m going to get changed,’ I say.
As I walk to our bedroom, I’m completely mystified by his attitude. I can hear him muttering away under his breath. And then moments later, ‘Jesus Christ, Grace. You’re not responding to my damned texts. Call me back.’
I shut the door.
A few minutes later, as I’m getting into my tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt, I hear a tap.
‘Sorry,’ he says, popping his head around the door and giving me an apologetic raise of his brows. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you. I haven’t had the best day.’
‘It’s okay,’ I tell him.
‘It’s actually not okay. Not at all fair for me to take it out on you.’
We hold eyes. I am not going to correct him on that.
‘All I meant was, Grace can be a bit of a law unto herself, in case you hadn’t noticed. So sometimes . . . well, it’s perfectly okay for you to stand up to her.’
‘All right,’ I say, pleased, at least, that he’s just given me this green light. ‘I’ll be sure to keep that in mind in the future.’
TEN
My new yoga class is hard work, but I need it. Especially after my weekly one-hour Facetime with my parents in Spain, where all we talked about was Brexit. I reach forward, wrapping my hands around the soles of my feet, rest my cheek on my knees and try to breathe out from my stomach. The fan spins rapidly on the ceiling, cooling the hair on the back of my neck.
‘Great class!’ the woman next to me says, and I watch her as she deftly rolls up her yoga mat.
I reluctantly unfurl from my lovely position. ‘I definitely feel so much better than when I came in!’
‘Have you been coming here long? I haven’t seen you before, I don’t think.’
‘No,’ I tell her, admiring her perfectly honed figure in pink-and-purple Sweaty Betty leggings. She’s around Joe’s age, I’d say, with expertly highlighted red hair in a high pony tail, and the sort of dewy complexion that has less to do with a yoga session and more to do with the sort of make-up that should have its own repayment plan. ‘It’s actually my first time. I only moved to the area fairly recently. But I intend to come more regularly, if my shifts allow.’
She smiles. ‘What do you do?’
‘I work in a hospital.’
‘Oh! I truly admire nurses. Wouldn’t want to be one, but you guys do a great job . . .’ She holds out a hand. ‘I’m Lucy. I’ve been coming here a couple of years now. My sanity saver.’ We shake. She glances at our instructor, who is demonstrating an exercise to an older lady, correcting her form. ‘You should look out for Elena. She’s fantastic. I take all her classes if I can. I practically stalk her.’ She chuckles.
I tell her my name, thank her for the tip, and say that I’m sure I’ll see her again some time.
Outside, I feel a refreshment is in order, so I start off in the direction of the high street, relishing the rare treat of no work and the rest of the afternoon ahead of me to fill as I see fit. I’m just walking into the coffee shop when my phone rings.
Joe.
‘Hey, Lauren . . . What are you doing right this second?’
I can tell he’s not after idle chit chat. ‘Not much,’ I say. ‘I just finished a yoga class and am about to get a coffee.’
‘Sounds . . . wonderful.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, detecting something in his tone.
‘Oh . . . Nothing. Just in a bit of a bind. Been roped into a meeting across town so I can’t collect Toby from school. Shooting over there now. Traffic’s insane.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s fine. I’ll go and get him!’
We live in Hampstead Heath. Meredith lives in Primrose Hill. Toby goes to school in Chalk Farm – close enough, almost equidistant. It’s a pleasant enough walk on a nice day, or a shortish bus or car ride. Either way, I want to help.
‘I hate asking . . .’ He sounds like he truly does. ‘You were enjoying your day off.’
‘You’re not asking. I’m volunteering . . . I’ll pick him up and maybe take him to the park for a bit.’
‘Are you sure?’ he says, sounding uncomfortable.
‘Positive!’
‘It’s very kind of you. You’re amazing.’
‘This is true.’
He laughs.
I hear traffic, the blast of his horn, him swear under his breath. I look at my watch. Clearly I won’t have time for that coffee. ‘I’d better get going,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll pop back home quickly and let Mozart out for a pee.’
‘Thank you. You’re a life-saver.’ Then he adds, ‘Oh, if you’re taking Toby to the park, don’t forget his trainers.’
‘I won’t,’ I say.
‘Where’s Daddy?’ Toby asks, when he comes bulleting out of his classroom door and sees me. There is a second where his face falls and I try not to feel disappointed by his disappointment.
‘Daddy can’t make it so he sent me – if you’ll do me the honour of letting me escort you home.’
I hold out my hand but he clasps his behind his back.
‘I thought Daddy was coming!’
‘I thought we could go to the park. Maybe get an ice cream after!’
His eyes widen and I sense the possibility of a meltdown subsiding. ‘Can we? The one with the swings? Not the one with the birds and the ducks! And can I have chocolate ice cream once we’re done?’
‘Of course. Would you like a little snack now? Are you hungry? I brought you something.’ When I’d popped back home to let the dog out, I cut up some grapes and grabbed a banana. But, in my hurry, I now realise I completely forgot his trainers.
‘I can wait. We can eat after we play. If that’s okay. Then I’ll be hungry because I’ll have worked up an appetite. Mummy says I’m always hungry because I burn a lot of nenergy.’ We start walking and he reaches up, and his warm little hand finds mine.
‘It’s good to burn nenergy,’ I tell him, and give his hand a little squeeze.
There’s no one in the park. Toby dashes straight to the swings. ‘Will you push me higher and higher and higher so I go over the bars?’
‘Hmm . . .’ I hurry after him. ‘That’s not a very good idea.’
He climbs on to a seat. I stand behind him, and give him a gentle push. His legs flail out, his feet moving like he’s pedalling a bicycle.
‘I want to go over and over and have the ground be upside down like I’m flying.’
‘That would be impossible, Toby. Swings aren’t designed that way.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s just . . . It’s part of the design mechanism.’
‘What’s a designmcinizm?’
I smile. ‘It’s just the way things are meant to be built. You can’t go over the bars because then the park wouldn’t be safe. Children would hurt themselves.’
‘Byron hates swings because he fell and cracked his head.’
‘Who’s Byron?’ I ask. Joe tells me that Toby has a lot of friends but a great many of them are imaginary.
‘Byron is my friend. Byron has an egg on his head.’
‘An egg?’
‘Because he fell off the swings!’
‘Ah! A bump the size of an egg.’
‘Mummy says it’s an egg.’
‘Well, whatever it is, I hope he heals soon.’
‘If I j
umped from all the way up here would I get an egg on my head like Byron?’
A shiver trickles down my spine at the thought of him jumping. Or falling. Or hurting himself in any way. ‘Yes. And it would be very painful. So that’s why you’re not going to jump.’
‘But what if I WANT to? To see if I can fly?’
‘Can we not talk about jumping, please, Toby? Can we talk about something else?’
‘What else?’ The swing returns to my hands, and he lies back, almost horizontal, looking up at the sky. ‘Would I tip upside down when I went over the bars, do you think?’
‘I have no idea, Toby.’ This conversation is wearing thin.
‘I don’t really want to go on the slide because it’s so small. Not like the one at the waterpark that Daddy takes me to.’
‘Did your mummy go with you to the waterpark too?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says. ‘She never comes. Because, you see, Daddy can take me all by himself, so that’s why she doesn’t need to come.’ There’s a lull, then he says, ‘Will you come next time we go?’
‘I’d like that!’ I say. ‘I also think we should go now. It’s getting really cold and damp.’
‘What does damp mean?’
‘Damp is when it’s not raining, but it’s not sunny either. You’re not warm, but you’re not wet. But the air feels heavy, like you’re extra aware of it. Like it can get through your clothing and go straight to your bones.’
‘I’m not cold! And I’m not damp.’
‘Good for you, Toby.’
‘It’s cold where Daddy lives in Chicago. It’s really cold there.’
‘Have you been to Chicago, Toby?’
‘When I was very small. But I don’t remember. But I remember it was very cold there.’
‘Well, maybe you have to go in the summer when it’s nice and warm.’
‘Mummy hates going to Chicago. But Daddy had a girlfriend and that’s why Mummy left him so Mummy won’t go to Chicago anymore.’
The blood freezes in my veins. The swing returns to me but my arms can’t push. I can’t move. ‘Who told you that Daddy had a girlfriend, Toby?’
‘Grace told me,’ he says.
I watch his little body move away from me, and then towards me again. The swing, without me pushing it, gradually slows.
