A man near the front asked a question about how to improve relationships. Frank appeared unruffled by the potential breadth of the subject. ‘In all relationships, whether it be with your colleagues, your mate or your children, you have to ask for what you need. When your own needs are met you can engage with others as a whole person.’ Half a dozen more hands flew into the air; Frank removed his suit jacket and placed it carefully on the back of a chair in the centre of the stage. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m ready for you.’ He walked to the edge of his platform and surveyed the crowd before choosing a young, swarthy-faced man to my left. He sweated and stuttered through a question hiding within it a potted life history, and Frank listened. Throughout the ramblings he remained inhumanly still, as if quietening all other senses in order to fully absorb the question. Yet I couldn’t help but notice that all the time it was being asked, Frank was looking at me.
I left the room feeling light headed. I’m not sure if it was the wine or the words or simply being in his presence for the first time, but I needed air and made a beeline for the door. The temperature had dropped dramatically and I pulled Bettina’s blazer around me protectively. I tried to give myself a pep talk, similar to the kind I would give my daughters when I saw signs of caving in – ‘the water’s not that cold’, I would say, or ‘do this and we can have ice cream’. The temptation to run down the steps and hail a cab felt physical, and I had to close my eyes and whisper, ‘I am worthy,’ several times before I could scrape together just enough confidence from the dregs within me to turn back towards the building. I walked straight into a chest; it was firm and smelled faintly of vanilla. I took a step backwards, too quickly; large hands grabbed my arms to steady me and stayed there long after I was. I didn’t do the thing, the shrug we do when we want to politely disengage from someone, because I was happy looking into his eyes – deep, smiling and questioning. Questions that made my face turn hot.
‘Steady there, girl,’ he said. The sort of comment that would usually make me roll my eyes and dismiss the man, except perhaps to refer to whilst drunkenly exalting my husband in comparison to other men. I didn’t roll my eyes; I kept them fixed. Fixed enough, I hoped, that they didn’t betray my thoughts. Frank removed his hands and placed them in his pockets. ‘Frank,’ he said. I giggled. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and a slim, silver lighter from within the packet. ‘I’m funny to you?’ he asked. If he was offended, he didn’t show it.
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s just, of course I know who you are.’ I gestured towards the building, as though it stood there only for him.
‘I never presume,’ Frank said. He held the cigarettes out towards me and I shook my head.
‘No, I mean, I don’t smoke. I did for a minute at college but I was never very good at it, and then my stepdad got emphysema and, you know, it didn’t seem right. I don’t mind if you do, though, I quite like the smell actually.’ In my head I screamed, ‘Stop talking, Alison. Just stop.’
He smiled and said, ‘Maybe you should,’ before balancing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it. As he inhaled, he watched me, and then he turned his head to allow a plume of smoke to float off into the evening. I examined his profile, which was strong and a little unforgiving. In fact, the only soft thing about him was his eyes, which made me want to climb in and take a nap.
‘What do you think?’ he said, and I swallowed. I was taken aback by his directness and offended that he would think it appropriate to proposition me, but only mildly – more because I knew I should be than out of genuine affront. ‘Of the book,’ he added when I failed to reply, and then I felt ashamed that I had thought he was coming on to me, and also that in the moment I realized he wasn’t, I felt a sharp prick of disappointment. The book was tucked in my bag; I glanced at it as if somehow, through the leather and detritus, it would telepathically inspire me to say something clever or at least witty.
‘You think it’s all bullshit, don’t you?’
‘No, not at all!’ I cried. I wanted to tell him how he had made me feel when I heard him speak, but I wasn’t sure myself. ‘I think it’s very profound, the things you write … well, think about … I think—’
‘I think you haven’t read it,’ he said. He narrowed his eyes, perhaps because of the smoke from his cigarette, perhaps attempting to peer into my disingenuous soul, and I shook my head guiltily.
‘No, I haven’t, and I probably won’t because I really don’t have the time to read; I probably haven’t read a whole book in eight years, and to be fair I usually think this sort of thing is really wanky, but you were not wanky, not even a little bit wanky, I promise.’ I gasped in horror at myself. He laughed then, deep and full. As soon as he was finished, I wanted to hear it again. I cursed myself for not being able to think of anything to say that might provoke it.
‘You’re pretty fucking authentic,’ he said, and I thought at first it might be a backhanded compliment or that he might have been mocking me in a way I felt men often did. As if my small stature reminded them of the power imbalance and inspired them to exploit it. ‘I could see it, even in there.’ He indicated to the hall. ‘You don’t hide who you are.’ This made me feel a little sick, because if I couldn’t hide it that meant the effect he was having on me would be clear. I wanted to distract him but also continue to intrigue him. I tried to think of something witty and charming, something that would market me as the woman he was suggesting that I was.
All I could muster was, ‘I try.’ I cringed that my communication skills, the skills that were supposed to be the basis for my career, had failed me. I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter because I didn’t even know this man and, of course, I was married.
‘No, you don’t try, it’s who you are, and let me tell you it’s a breath of fresh air,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ And I felt my spirits rise because he was suggesting the very thing I had wanted to do, but also because he was suggesting that he wanted to spend more time with me and I wanted him to want that, I wanted him to approve of me.
‘But your thing?’ I asked, gesturing at the building.
‘It’s good to play a little hard to get,’ he said, and then flicked his cigarette into the gutter.
‘I can’t,’ I said, with far more conviction than I felt. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone.’ He raised his eyebrow. ‘Not like that – a networking thing. I met someone who might be a potential client.’ Frank placed his hands back in his pockets.
‘Let’s make a deal. If you come for a drink with me, I’ll introduce you to someone who will be more use to you than whatever prick was trying it on with you tonight.’
‘But you don’t even know what I do.’
‘I know someone for everyone.’ And with that I was able to construct a reality in which going for a drink with Frank was good for my job, and what was good for my job was good for my family. Frank stepped down to the pavement without waiting for me to confirm I was coming, and when he turned back I thought for a second he was unsure. But then he said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Alison,’ I said, and he nodded once as if confirming that this was acceptable. I watched him walk for a couple of seconds before running to catch up.
5
FRANK HAD BARELY extended his arm before a black-cab driver made a sharp U-turn and pulled up beside him. I hung back on the pavement, still unsure about taking that last step. Then he held the car door open, without that self-deprecating flourish men sometimes do; it was clearly just what he did. I wondered if he still had a mother? Sisters? A daughter? And I forgot about my hesitation.
I love taking black cabs; it reminds me of one summer holiday when Mum and I took them everywhere. We would walk up to the high street and get a car all the way to Regent Street. Mum would take me to Hamleys for a new addition to my increasingly vast Barbie collection, before treating me to an overpriced burger in Covent Garden. Sometimes I’d ask for a Happy Meal, but Mum would shut this down firmly, saying, ‘Lunc
h is the most exciting meal of the day – breakfast is too early and after lunch there’s still time for some mischief.’ I didn’t know until later that Mum had uncovered Eddie’s affair with the ‘homely spinster’ next door earlier that summer; a few months draining the savings account was her ill-thought-out revenge. By autumn we were struggling for bus fare, and Mum and Eddie’s marriage disintegrated within a tornado of screaming and broken crockery, but none of that had diminished the thrill of a black-cab ride through the city.
The cabbie was one of the jovial, chatty types. Perhaps one of the last of his kind, all elongated East End vowels and enlightening local facts.
‘What you been doin’ at Regency ’all then? You know the Krays used to go to the cabaret there?’ Frank and I turned to each other and smiled. He slid his arm around my shoulders and, though I was still smiling, I felt my jaw tense. Frank turned to look at the driver in the rear-view mirror.
‘We just got married,’ he said. I tried and failed to mask my laughter with my hand. Frank retained his beatific expression.
‘Yeah?’ said the driver. I saw his eyes flit over me doubtfully.
‘It was very quick,’ said Frank, giving my arm a squeeze. ‘Between us, my new wife needs a visa, but that’s secondary to the fact that we are completely and utterly in love.’ At this Frank turned back towards me and kissed the top of my head gently. If you could take that kiss in isolation, I would have completely believed that he loved me. It seemed the cab driver did because he accepted Bettina’s blazer as my big-day outfit.
‘Mazel tov!’ he shouted. Frank gave me another squeeze and I laughed again, but tried to make it seem like excitable giggles – which it was, to a degree. My days had become so predictable – work, homework, dinner, squabbles, Netflix – all fine, all the makings of a perfectly acceptable life, but don’t we all have moments, if not months, when we hope we could do better than acceptable? Rushing through the dark streets, the fabric of Frank’s expensive suit grazing my cheek, I felt like I was getting a glimpse into another world, a world that with one different turn in the road could have been mine.
The road we pulled up on was not what I was expecting; it looked more like the setting for a violent crime than a London hotspot. I had been anticipating a chic hotel bar and received a back alley. The driver was nonplussed and waved away Frank’s attempt to pay; ‘Thank me by living well,’ he said. I hugged my new husband around the waist as he pulled away – the driver’s generosity made me feel the need to offer him a believable portrayal of wedded bliss, and I couldn’t pretend it felt uncomfortable. As soon as the car was out of sight, Frank untangled himself from me and placed his hands in his pockets. I felt embarrassed by this for some reason, and tried to cover it with chatter.
‘That was mad! I can’t believe he bought it. As if we just got married and the visa thing!’ Frank shrugged. This wasn’t crazy for him; it was Friday. He knocked on what looked to be an abandoned shop front, and it was opened by a giant of a man with a severe haircut. It seemed to take him a moment to recognize Frank, but when he did his mouth moved into a wide grin. Despite his size it made him look childlike, particularly as he was missing one of his front teeth.
‘Frankie!’ he said, and pulled Frank towards him for a hug. Frank let himself be smothered before stepping aside to let me enter.
‘Alison, this is Carlos. Carlos, Alison.’
Carlos nodded his head and said, ‘Welcome to the club.’
At the end of the shabby hallway was another door, and going through it was like stepping into Narnia. The room beyond was in such sharp contrast to where we had come from, I had to check behind me to be sure. The tired hallway was still there, Carlos waving from the other end. It wasn’t a trick but it felt like magic.
‘This is where I come to find solace,’ said Frank, which made me feel that I could be part of bringing him comfort. Gentle house music murmured out of invisible speakers. Glass tables, brimming with champagne bottles, sat in front of glossy leather banquettes on which sat equally glossy patrons. As we moved across the room I saw a popular television actor in conversation with an infamously chaotic model and, forgetting I wasn’t there with one of my girlfriends, I grabbed Frank’s sleeve in excitement. He looked at me questioningly.
‘I-I have to go to the toilet.’
‘It’s next to the bar,’ he said. ‘I’ll be over there.’ Frank gestured to a dark corner of the room. I let go of him and scurried away. I berated myself for saying ‘toilet’; it was too descriptive but I wasn’t sure what alternative to use – ‘bathroom’ was very American, ‘loo’ a bit old lady. I settled on ‘ladies’. I decided the next time I needed to excuse myself, I would say that, and I knew then I would need to stay for an hour to allow the opportunity to arise.
The toilets were bigger than my living room and so clean it looked like they hadn’t been used all night, if ever. Just when I thought I couldn’t conceive of any more decadence I sat on the toilet and felt warmth spread through my thighs. It was heated! The seat was fucking heated! I was so shocked I almost forgot to pee. That moment was one I returned to again and again. I didn’t recognize it then but it was when I decided that Frank made the ordinary amazing.
As I washed my hands, my reflection brought me back down to earth. The line of gold-framed mirrors revealed a woman very much out of place with her surroundings. My face carried a sheen that was definitely more sweaty than the dewy I had been aiming for, and Bettina’s jacket was too proper for the rock-star vibe of the establishment. As I was trying to encourage some volume into my hair with my fingers, the model came out of one of the stalls.
‘Y’all right?’ she slurred. I smiled. I should not have felt star-stuck; I was a working woman and this was a girl who, in unfortunate circumstances, was young enough to be my daughter. Still, seeing her beside me and not on the pages of a Sunday supplement was jarring. I had to fight the urge to touch her minuscule bum.
‘You not hot?’ The model sniffed a few times after she spoke, drawing my attention to her nose, on the right nostril of which was a stark white globule. I indicated to the area by gesturing to my own, and she turned to the mirror and dragged the back of her hand across her face before giggling and thanking me. As she did, she eyed my jacket suspiciously. ‘You must be hot,’ she said, pulling at one of the lapels. It shifted to reveal some of my jam attack from earlier in the day. ‘Oh fuck,’ she said. I was grateful she appreciated the severity of the situation. ‘I know.’ She grabbed at the hem of the camisole she was wearing and pulled it off over her head. She held it towards me and, when my face failed to register understanding, she said, ‘Have it. You’re a six, right?’ If I could bottle a moment, it would be that one.
‘I can’t,’ I spluttered.
‘You have to – what is that, blood?’
‘Jam.’ Her frown told me it didn’t make a difference.
‘Come on,’ she said, growing impatient with me, ‘get over yourself.’ And I wanted to. I wanted to rise above myself and reveal a much stronger, more powerful version of me – why not start with a vest? ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I look good in this.’ She adjusted her black lacy bralet and ran a palm across her exposed stomach. She would look good wearing faecal matter, so that seemed beside the point. I took the camisole and placed it next to the sink. I thought for a second about retreating to a stall and then decided, what the hell? Nothing about the night was going to be normal. I stripped down to my bra, swallowed the self-consciousness I felt about revealing my scarred mum-tum, and wiggled into the top. It was close-fitting but looked sexy rather than restrictive. The model instigated a high five and I slapped my hand against hers. She left and I threw the jammy shirt in the bin.
At the table, Frank had a bottle of cognac and two glasses in front of him.
‘I thought you’d done a runner,’ he said, and for the first time that evening I saw a glimpse of vulnerability in him. It was nice; it made him seem more youthful and helped me relax. ‘You changed.’
‘I got a bit hot,’ I said.
‘That you did,’ said Frank. He said it coolly, without any indication through his tone or expression that he was saying something improper, and I sometimes wonder if my biggest mistake was my reaction to this. I could have squashed the moment with a joke or a question, batted back any suggestion of sex with a comment about my dear husband, but I chose not to. I held his gaze – two, three seconds longer than would be natural. Those few seconds were a choice.
‘You know who you remind me of?’ asked Frank, after he had poured us both drinks.
‘Jessica Chastain? I sometimes get that, although I can’t see it myself.’
‘I don’t know who that is,’ said Frank.
‘She was in The Help, but you might not have seen that one. It’s a bit of a chick flick, and she’s blonde in that and I think it’s the hair mainly, why people say—’
‘No, not her, whoever she is,’ interrupted Frank. ‘Holly Collins.’
‘What was she in?’ I asked, cringing at my ignorance.
‘She’s not an actress. Not that I know of anyway. We went to school together.’ He was leaning in, the scent of his aftershave muddled with the alcohol. ‘She was my first proper girlfriend. We didn’t move in the same circles – it was obvious she would be better suited to someone more academic – but I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She’s probably the reason I didn’t get any GCSEs. I basically hunted her down. It was her smile, like she was hiding something. That’s why you remind me of her.’ I took a sip of my drink in an attempt to hide said smile. I rarely have neat spirits – only at Christmas time and in dire emergencies – but rather than the burning sensation I usually experienced, I tasted something sweet and earthy that slipped down my throat and sent warmth racing through my chest.
‘You don’t strike me as someone who chases,’ I said. This was my honest assessment: that things and people came to him.
‘I do, when I think they’re worth it.’ That beat again, a silence to allow his audience to feast on all the hidden meanings. I took another sip and the action felt slow, my awareness of his scrutiny impeding natural movement.
More Than a Mum Page 4
