What You Did

by Claire McGowan

  ‘Quite right too,’ said Callum. ‘Time she learned to appreciate a good vintage. Now, Jodi here, she still prefers a Chardonnay spritzer. She’s a lost cause. What have you there?’ He examined the bottle of Muscadet I’d bought, knowing Callum preferred French whites. ‘Supposed to be a good little vineyard, that one.’ I knew it was his way of saying sorry for needling me about the TV interview.

  ‘Where’s Jake?’ I asked Cassie.

  ‘Pitching his tent.’ Oh God, his tent. Another spurt of anxiety – was this going to work, or would it all fall apart?

  Jodi seemed to slump. ‘Can we take our bags up?’ A touch pointed, I thought. But there I went again, so tense I was seeing things that weren’t there. These were our friends. All of us together for the first time in years. Well, once Bill got here. Bill. My stomach tripped itself up in an odd nervy way, some very old echo in my blood.

  ‘Let’s do that now.’ I bent to pick up their wheelie-case, feeling something twinge in my back, and the passage of time suddenly left me dizzy. We’d been eighteen when we met, and now we were forty-three. Twenty-five years gone, lost like something dropping out of my pocket.

  ‘No sign of Bill yet?’ asked Jodi, lumbering up the stairs behind me.

  I’d nipped ahead to make sure Benji had actually tidied up the apple cores and Minecraft toys he usually left strewn behind him. I saw, to my surprise, that the door of his room was open, and no sign of Karen or her things. Had Mike forgotten she was going in there? ‘Not yet. He’s biking down, you know.’

  Callum came up behind us with the rest of the bags, puffing with the effort. ‘Classic Bill. And is it true the porn actress has given him the boot? The thigh-high boot?’

  ‘She’s not a porn actress, Callum, for God’s sake! She’s an artist. And yes, I think Bill and Astrid are no more.’

  ‘What a shame,’ said Jodi, looking round the room. ‘I really liked her when they came for our wedding. And we stayed with them out there once.’

  Bill hadn’t come to my wedding. Too expensive to travel from Sweden, he said. It still niggled at me that he’d made it for Callum and Jodi’s two years later. Even though I understood why.

  And then, just as I was thinking of him, a roar began on the edge of my hearing – a thrumming like a deep heartbeat – and Mike, shouting up from downstairs, yelled, ‘That’ll be Bill now.’ I looked out the window and saw the motorbike draw up the drive, the figure in leathers perched on top, and I recognised the set of his shoulders, the long lines of his back, and something inside me relaxed. Bill was here. We were all here, together, and the party could start.

  Chapter Five

  As the night slid forwards, and the bottles of wine were replaced on the table in rapid succession, I relaxed more and more. I’d served up the tagine, and although Jodi had said, ‘I do love Moroccan, so easy’, everyone seemed to enjoy it. Benji had thirds. He was being sweet, answering Jodi’s cutesy questions about school, and Cassie had even put her phone down and was chatting to Karen. Only Jake sat sullen, toying with his food and announcing a hitherto unmentioned vegetarianism. Poor Jake, his acne was awful. We’d taken Cassie to a private dermatologist at the first sign of hers, and here she was, smooth-skinned and perfect. Rich-girl skin. I imagined what my mother would say about that, and almost smiled. But I wasn’t thinking about Mum.

  ‘You see what I have to contend with,’ sighed Karen, watching Jake pick at his meal. ‘The teachers say he could be Oxbridge material, but he won’t even apply.’

  ‘Oh please. It’s sooo bourgeois,’ said Jake, sneering, and I tried not to smile, remembering how right-on we’d thought ourselves at that age. ‘It’s, like, a bastion of unearned privilege. No thanks.’

  Karen leaned towards Bill, who was facing partly away from the circle as always, rolling what I hoped was just a cigarette. ‘Maybe you could talk to him, Bill. You know, float the idea that he doesn’t have to be an evil lawyer or a banker just because he goes to a good university.’

  ‘You didn’t even pass,’ said Jake, snapping at his mother, and we all fell silent. The subject of Karen’s failed degree – such a shock, when she was the smartest of us all, except for maybe Bill – was still contentious.

  ‘What is it you do out there anyway, Bilbo?’ Callum changed the subject. ‘Cure herring, that sort of thing?’

  Bill carried on rolling, placid, careful. He’d taken off his leathers and was in jeans and a jumper of some robust grey wool, despite the heat. He’d hardly changed at all in twenty years. Lanky, laconic, his brown hair a bit too long, though now it was streaked with grey. I’d made sure to sit on the other side of the table from him, because some part of my brain was thoroughly thrown by his presence, after all these years. Remembering that night. His hand on my face, his breath on my neck. But no, I wasn’t thinking about that either. ‘Bit of this, bit of that. Where we lived was sort of self-sufficient. I’d barter my labour for food, wood-chopping, driving, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sounds like a commune.’

  ‘I guess it was a bit.’

  ‘But tell me this. You and Miss Sweden are kaput, yes?’

  Jodi frowned at Callum. Be tactful. But Bill never rose to Callum’s banter, never had. In a strange way, they got on well. ‘Sadly, yes, we broke up a few months ago.’

  ‘How come, Bill?’ said Karen. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

  Bill smiled at her, the warm lopsided crease I remembered so well. There were always a few moments before he answered any question. I liked that. I liked the feeling he was thinking about what you’d said, considering it. ‘I don’t mind. She wanted us to have a child. Adopted, probably, though she thought it was worth giving IVF a whirl first.’

  ‘Hardly a whirl,’ said Jodi, rubbing her own belly. ‘Bloody expensive. Heartbreaking, too.’

  ‘I know. I told her that. Plus, as you know, she’s older than us. But anyway it didn’t matter because I don’t want kids, adopted or IVF or anything.’

  ‘Haven’t changed your mind then?’ said Callum, wiping his plate with sourdough. Across the table, I saw Cassie lift up her phone, bored by the conversation. Jake picked the vegetables from the tagine bowl.

  ‘Nope.’

  I remembered Bill at university, expounding on Malthusian population theory and global warming and the world our children were going to be born into. Of course, a lot of students say these things then change their minds, but I think I knew even then that Bill meant it. It was one of the reasons things had happened the way they did.

  ‘So what will you do?’ Karen asked. She’d changed into a low-cut black dress while I was out, so as she leaned forward I could see her cleavage, high and firm for a woman of forty-three. Of course, she hadn’t breastfed Jake. ‘Will you stay in Sweden? Can I have a cig, by the way?’

  Bill shrugged, passed over the rollie he’d been making, sparking it for her. I turned away; I didn’t like smoking in front of the kids. I was sure he had stronger stuff in his tin too, for once they’d gone to bed. ‘I don’t know. I thought I might stick around here. Go back up north, see the family and that. Bike about.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘Mate, I wish I had the time to do that. The bank have me by the short and curlies. I miss the kids all the time – and Ali, of course. It’s tough.’ He’d taken off the jumper Callum had mocked, but was still in his shorts and polo shirt – he’d tried to slope off and shower when I got back from the police station, at the worst possible time just when everyone was arriving, but I’d hissed that there was no need. And he’d put Bill and Karen in the wrong rooms. I reminded myself it didn’t matter, that having a full house all weekend was not his idea of fun. He was doing this for me, after all.

  Callum was saying, ‘Tell me about it. I looked into shared leave for when this little one comes’ – patting Jodi’s belly – ‘and I was summarily asked if Jodi had my balls in her handbag.’ I tutted, but Benji had his iPad out and hadn’t heard, I hoped. I’d have to send him to bed soon. Being together made the me
n regress, bantering and bawdy like schoolboys.

  ‘That’s terrible!’ I said. ‘And illegal.’

  ‘Yes, well, they’re not too sympathetic to this whole nappy-changing new-man thing. Looks like Jodi’ll be doing the lot.’

  ‘You’re giving up work?’ Karen raised her eyebrows. Jodi was a criminal lawyer, working with the very rich and very guilty. Her job had always defined her as much as her designer handbags and regular manicures.

  ‘For a while,’ she said, her hair falling over her face. ‘It just makes sense. We don’t want our baby raised by nannies. Not when we’ve fought so hard for this.’

  ‘But . . .’ Karen subsided. She flashed me a look – we’d discuss this later.

  ‘It’s bloody unfair,’ Callum continued. ‘It’s like we’re just sperm machines. Walking turkey basters.’ I saw Benji’s ears prick up at the word sperm.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re joining Fathers for Justice.’ Karen rolled her eyes.

  ‘I think parental leave is a real issue,’ I said. ‘I wrote a piece just the other day and . . .’

  Mike groaned. ‘Please, babe. It’s too hot for feminism right now.’

  Karen tutted. Jodi said, soothingly, ‘Oh yes, tell us about the new career, Ali. It all came from the TV interview?’

  ‘Well, not really new of course.’ I’d been a journalist before having Cassie, for five years. ‘I wanted to do something with my time now the kids are older, and there was a vacancy on the trustee board of the Women’s Refuge here. So I joined, and then the chance came up to debate domestic violence on Channel 4, you know with that awful comedian, and no one else was free so I did it.’

  ‘And she wouldn’t put on lipstick for it, even though I like, begged her to,’ said Cassie, earning a small laugh.

  ‘Domestic violence, Al? Mikey here been knocking you around?’ Callum batted at his friend. I remembered now how drink made him bear-like, swatting at you with clumsy affectionate hands. ‘If he has, just say the word and I’ll kick his arse for you.’

  I saw that, across the table, Karen was trying to meet my eye, but I didn’t want to remind Callum why I knew so much about that topic, especially not with the kids here, so I pasted on a smile. ‘Ha, no. It seemed to go well anyway. Since then I’ve been getting back into features, opinion pieces mostly, lots of feminist stuff.’ Cassie gave a quiet groan. She thought my new-found career was unutterably embarrassing.

  ‘You want to watch it, Mikey, or she’ll be doing a Lorena Bobbit on you,’ said Callum. He caught Jodi’s look. ‘Only joking, Al. You’ve done brilliantly. Should get you in to give a talk to the office. We’re swamped in sexual harassment cases, it’s awful really.’

  ‘What percentage of them are you?’ I asked, to show I wasn’t a humourless feminist, earning a laugh from Mike, and another – rare and precious – from Bill. I felt myself relax a little more. We were having a good time. It was all fine. ‘Hey, do you guys realise it’s coming up for twenty-five years since we all met? Scary or what? A quarter century.’

  Jodi put a hand on Callum’s arm. ‘I almost forgot. Show them the picture I found clearing out. I was setting up the nursery and there was this whole shoebox full.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Callum fished out the iPad he’d stowed under his seat. ‘Look at this.’

  He passed round the little tablet and I was looking at our faces, but from twenty-five years ago. It was the night we’d all met, in the bar of our college at Oxford. Mike and Callum had already made friends in that easy way boys do, whether they’re four or forty. Both of them from private schools, living in the same corridor by virtue of their surnames Morris and Mackintosh. In the picture they were wearing Nikes and black jeans, Callum in a white polo shirt and Mike, trying to be a little cooler, in a Rolling Stones one. Callum still had the ruddy glow from his ‘gap summer’ in Greece.

  ‘Bit more hair back then, Cal,’ observed Karen, a tad bitchily. She passed it over to me to hold, returning to the cigarette she’d left burning on the edge of my expensive garden table. I wondered when she’d started smoking again.

  Karen and I were in the photo too, our arms around each other’s necks, drunken smiles on our fresh, badly made-up faces. We’d met earlier that day, standing in line in Boswell’s department store with toasters in our arms, me reeling with relief that Mum and Dad had left early to beat the traffic and I could unpack my room alone. 1993. A lifetime ago.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Mike, peering over my shoulder and tapping the iPad – ‘Fingers,’ Callum grumbled. ‘Oh.’

  There was silence as we realised who else was in the shot, in the background, her white-blonde hair rippling down her back, laughing at someone out of frame. Martha Rasby. Martha. Her name seemed to sit in my mouth like a stone. All these years later and I still couldn’t say it without wincing.

  ‘She was so beautiful, wasn’t she,’ said Jodi. ‘Such a shame.’ No one else said anything.

  ‘Time for bed, Benj,’ I said, as his head dropped forward. It was dark in the garden now, and Mike had lit citronella candles using Bill’s lighter, and the pool of light surrounded us, the shadows and rustles of the garden closing in. Just like that other night, so many years ago.

  ‘Mu-um.’ Despite his protests, he stood up willingly enough.

  ‘I’ll see him to bed and then I’ll bring out coffee, if anyone wants.’ I pushed myself to my feet, reluctantly, feeling the wine pull me down, like diving weights on my ankles.

  Jodi shook her head. Her face was white in the dark. ‘I might go up to bed too, if no one minds. This little one is kicking me like a football.’

  ‘Want me to come, Jodes?’

  I thought Callum said it too quickly. As if he knew the reply would be, as it was, ‘Oh no, you stay. I’ll be asleep in minutes anyway.’

  ‘No coffee for me,’ said Karen, whose legs were propped on Bill’s chair, her bare feet brushing his thighs. ‘I’m quite enjoying this drunken haze. Reminds me of uni.’

  Mike agreed. ‘Leave it, Al. Benji can put himself to bed, he’s ten now.’

  ‘I need to check he does his teeth.’ Really, I wanted to make a start on clearing up. The mountain of dishes was daunting and I already knew I’d be hungover the next day.

  Cassie stood too. ‘I’m going up to bed too, Mum. Might watch a bit of Netflix.’

  ‘What about you, Jakey?’ I asked, trying to be kind. I knew how it was to be spotty and shy, to always feel left out.

  ‘I’m going to my tent.’

  Karen almost tutted. ‘Love, you won’t get any sleep. We’re going to be here for hours yet.’ Were we? It was nearly eleven.

  ‘Why don’t you chill in Mike’s office for a bit?’ I offered, knowing Cassie would roll her eyes at me saying chill. ‘Until your mum needs the bed, anyway. If you don’t mind, Karen?’

  ‘Oh,’ Karen said, her face lit in the cigarette glow. ‘Well, of course not. Good idea, Ali.’

  I followed Cassie in to the light of the kitchen, noticing Mike had left his jumper, his £200 Hugo Boss jumper, lying in a heap on the decking. I started to bend to pick it up, then stopped. It didn’t matter if jumpers were on the ground or if bedtime shifted a bit. I had to start relaxing, letting more things slide. I couldn’t work and keep the house perfect and the kids happy. I just couldn’t.

  Benji was climbing the stairs obediently and Cassie went to follow him. ‘You OK, darling?’ I called after her. I wondered why she didn’t want to stay up with Jake.

  Cassie’s eyes skipped over mine. Her phone was grasped in her hand. ‘Fine. Just didn’t want to listen to more about the glory days of Oxford.’ And she would likely not get to go now she hadn’t made the stream. Perhaps she’d taken that harder than I realised.

  ‘I know. You’ve been very tolerant, thank you. Goodnight, darling.’

  She went up the stairs, saying nothing in response. Wearily I started stacking the dishes, rinsing the pots. Mike hated me putting them in the dishwasher, but then I didn’t see him helping. I r
an a cloth over the worktops and put away some of the half-empty bottles of wine that sat about – why didn’t people finish one before opening another? – then took one of white and poured a splash into a clean glass. I loved these glasses. I’d found them in an antique shop – and I loved saying that as well, when people asked where they were from, felt it made me sound like someone with their life together – and adored the green glass stems and the way the old glass was full of small bubbles, turning everything to champagne. I sipped it slowly – too warm – looking out the window to where the four of them sat, wrapped in the candle glow, Karen and the guys, the edges of us dissolving in booze and darkness and nostalgia. Dangerous.

  ‘Need a hand?’ I jumped a little – Bill walked so softly I hadn’t heard him come in.

  ‘Oh! No, it’s OK. I’ll do the rest tomorrow.’

  ‘Coming back out?’ He ambled to the counter, lifted a bottle of red. ‘OK if I . . . ?’

  ‘Sure. You know, I might slip off to bed. It’s boring, but I’m beat. Difficult work thing today. Anyway, it’s starting to get cold.’ There were one too many excuses in there, I knew.

  Bill shifted, standing suddenly closer, so I could almost feel the hairs on my arm rise, his breath on my skin. ‘We could stay in here. Have a drink in the living room? It’s been ages since we talked.’

  ‘I know.’ I opened my mouth and shut it again. If I started to say some of the things I wanted to say to Bill, I might never stop.

  ‘Ali, I . . .’ I waited for him to finish the sentence, but he didn’t, and the silence started to feel powerful, like another person in the room. He put out his free hand, and touched my upper arm, as if holding me back to tell me something, but I hadn’t turned away, and he still didn’t say anything.