‘You don’t need to be involved any more.’ She saw what I was doing before I did, trying to remain involved where I was no longer wanted. What did I think, that this was some madcap chick flick and we would launch a revenge plan that would play out to a sassy soundtrack? ‘In fact, why are you here?’
What could I say? I wanted to see him; as much as I hated him, I wanted him to make me feel the way he had. Instead I said, ‘I wanted to make sure you were aware.’
She picked up my untouched tea and poured it down the sink. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’ve done that. I’ve got to see to the baby now.’ The baby was silent. It was my cue to leave.
‘How old is he?’ I asked.
‘Seven months,’ she said. Like any mother, she couldn’t resist sharing, even with the enemy.
‘He’s very cute,’ I said.
‘He’s my world. I would do anything to protect him.’ Anything. Endure embarrassment and betrayal, accept less than she was worth. I stood, thanked her for the tea. She followed close behind me to the door; she wanted to be sure I was gone. Before I left, I asked her – I had to.
‘Will you tell him I was here?’
‘No,’ she said – not harshly. Unlike her husband, she was letting me down gently.
‘He’s not answering my calls,’ I admitted.
‘He won’t,’ she said. ‘He’s not here. He’s gone.’ That’s how quickly something can be over.
I was hungry. The morning drinking had ushered in an afternoon hangover. I found a kebab shop where the owner was setting up for the evening. I asked him what he could offer me and he pulled a greying burger from the glass case in front of him. As I waited for it to cook, its edges curling on the dirty grill, I thought about what Frank might be eating and where. I missed hearing about his day and telling him about mine. I felt bewildered and broken and, even though he was the cause of it, he was the only person I wanted to talk it through with. That thought alone made me want to scream or smash something; everything I had felt for Frank was stuck inside me with nowhere to go. The guy in the kebab shop offered me salad and sauces but I declined. I didn’t think I deserved it. I sat on a bench to eat. The grease coated my fingers and fell on to my jeans but I didn’t care. I wasn’t sure what I cared about any more; certainly not Dorothy Perkins denim.
37
AN AFFAIR GIVES you practice at being sneaky. Sonya said Frank was gone and I needed to know where. The next day I started sleuthing. During a phone call to Nush, under the guise of touching base, I quizzed her on her previous life as an exotic dancer. Never one to turn down an opportunity to talk about herself, Nush gladly told me about her turn around the pole. She said it was the only job she’d had where the girls were nice to each other – someone was always on hand to give you a tampon or some talcum powder (she didn’t clarify what the talcum powder was for). She told me she had to leave because it had started to make her dislike men; she began to understand the way they viewed women, and themselves, and what she came to know was pretty dark. I think I did a good job of sounding interested in Nush’s feminist awakening, but all I wanted was the name.
‘The Bang Bang,’ she said wistfully. ‘Why, do you want to go?’
‘Maybe. I’ll call you later.’ From the website the place looked decent – upmarket, inviting even. Of course, pictures lie. I wasn’t interested in spending an evening there; it was simply a step towards finding Frank. There was a number on the website and, after four attempts, the line was answered by a woman who managed to sound both hurried and bored.
‘Bang Bang, more bang for your buck.’
‘Can I speak to Anthony, please?’
‘Who?’
‘Anthony.’ She sighed.
‘Wrong number.’
‘It’s definitely the right place, he’s the owner.’
‘Oh, Tony. The pervy one.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Yeah, he doesn’t really come in.’ Silence. When I reached him, I would tell Anthony to invest in some customer-service training.
‘Do you think you could help me contact him?’ More silence. ‘Maybe you could find a number …’
‘Connie!’ There was some fumbling with the phone and a bit of whispering before another voice came on the line. ‘Zero, seven, seven—’ she barked.
‘Stop, wait!’ I dug around in my bag and, failing to find a pen, retrieved an eyeliner pencil from my make-up case. ‘OK, one more time.’ She reeled off the numbers in between smacks of gum chewing, and I scratched them on to my arm. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. When you speak to him, tell him he owes me a call.’
I still had no food or drink in the flat, so I took myself to a local Starbucks for the next part of the plan. I ordered an espresso even though I prefer milky drinks; the bitterness, the no-bullshit of a pure shot of coffee seemed appropriate. Anthony answered immediately. He was not a man to be flustered by an unknown number.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said after I greeted him.
‘It’s Alison.’
‘Alison who, my sweet?’
‘Frank’s Alison.’ I wanted to see if he corrected me. How far my disownment had spread.
‘Oh yes, poppet. How are you?’ His tone had shifted from predatory to paternal.
‘Good, great actually. Busy though, trying to get this show sorted.’
‘Ah, yes. I said I’d help with venues, didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ I said gratefully. I hadn’t planned what excuse I would use for calling him; I was no Josephine Baker.
‘Well, what capacity are you looking at?’
‘Oh.’ I scanned the cafe for inspiration but there was none to be found. ‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Seat-of-your-pants kind of girl.’
‘Hmm.’ It really was a marvel how he managed to make everything sound slightly rude. ‘I’m pretty open to spaces. Did you go to Frank’s last book launch? That was a great event.’
‘No, no. I was away, I think. Has he given you the contact?’
‘No, he’s erm … He’s …’
‘Oh yeah, he’s off to Berlin, isn’t he? Berlin is fantastic, isn’t it? A hedonist’s dream.’
‘That’s right.’ So, I knew where he was and that I was so repulsive he had to flee the country to escape me. I chose not to ask Anthony any more details, deciding he probably wouldn’t tell me and might alert Frank to my enquiries. Also, I didn’t want him to know the truth. I wanted to suspend disbelief for a little more time, even with all the evidence of the illusion.
Frank had Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. All were business focused. Shots of his books or him looking earnest during talks. I had looked before, hidden under my covers and pored over the images when we couldn’t be together. Exploring them again, I could see they told me nothing – they represented the glossy shell that Frank offered the world. I found her amongst his followers; her pictures showed a vibrant, popular woman. She appeared comfortable with herself and like someone who appreciated every facet of life. Jemima’s photos did not represent the taciturn girl I’d encountered as Frank’s assistant. I had to set up an Instagram account to message her. I used my phone screensaver – an image of Chloe and me at the skate park – as my profile picture, so she would know I wasn’t a scammer. I sent her my number and asked her to call. It shouldn’t have surprised me that she did so within a few minutes. She was of the generation that viewed phones not as an accessory but as an extension of themselves.
‘He mugged you off?’ she asked when I picked up. I didn’t understand her words but I could read the sentiment. She knew that I had been disposed of – dumped, chucked, broken up with. Whatever the name, something violent and callous had occurred. I chose not to answer her question and instead asked where he was.
‘Gone. Berlin.’
‘Do you know why? I mean, what he’s doing?’
‘I don’t really care,’ she said, in a way that suggested it was true. ‘You shouldn’t either.’
‘Why not?
’ I asked, and the fear was immediate. Was I one of several women? Had they been laughing about me together? It was very possible this young woman knew more about my relationship than me.
‘Aw,’ she said. ‘He’s not worth it.’ She sounded softer then – sympathetic, the voice female friends use amongst themselves when they’re not too embarrassed to sound nurturing. ‘I get it. I reckon I can still hack his diary if you like. I’m not working for him any more, so fuck it.’ Course she got it; she was probably in the middle of her own heartbreak. She was at the age when these things were supposed to happen, when you were young enough to bounce back and the lessons you learned could inform the future you had ahead of you. I drank another coffee as I waited for her intel, but I knew the jittery feeling in my chest wasn’t from the caffeine. Jemima called me back with a succinct brief; she would have been a good assistant in some respects. Frank was in Berlin for two weeks to provide one-to-one corporate coaching. He was being paid big bucks to improve people’s lives and had gone out of his way to make sure I wouldn’t find him.
Next door to the coffee shop was a pizza restaurant, the kind that is dim even in daylight, and although the burger from the day before was still parked awkwardly in my gut, I went in. A sign at the entrance commanded that I wait for someone to seat me, and standing next to the podium I felt acutely alone. After several minutes I called out to a waiter who was arranging cutlery into little pots.
‘Do you need a table?’ he asked as he approached.
‘That’s why I’m waiting here.’ I pointed to the sign.
‘Right.’ He surveyed the empty room with a great deal of purpose. ‘What about there by the window?’ I shook my head. He gave an exaggerated frown. ‘One of those days. I’ve got what you need.’ He started to cross the room and I had nothing to do other than follow. We stopped in a corner, heavily saturated with smells and sounds from the kitchen. ‘I think it’s a booth day,’ said the waiter. I sat on one of the benches, the plastic covering groaning as I settled on it. ‘Have you eaten here before?’
‘No.’
‘’K. Plates and forks are over there, buffet is over there, pay at the till. It’s £6.99 at lunchtime.’ As he spoke, he gestured like an air steward highlighting the emergency exits.
‘Do you have a drinks menu?’
‘There’s a drinks machine by the plates.’
‘Do you have a wine list?’ He glanced towards the kitchen before sitting down opposite me.
‘No wine, no alcohol at all. The owner’s Muslim, or so he says. Personally, I think he’s pretending, to appeal to the local market, but then again I’m a sucker for a conspiracy theory. If you’re looking to feel out of it, go for the stuffed-crust mighty meaty. So much MSG, you’ll be flying.’
‘Thanks, I will,’ I said, but I didn’t move. The lad seemed happy about the brief distraction from the monotony of arranging cutlery. He removed his red cap, allowing a heap of dark curls to escape.
He rested his chin in his hands before saying, ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m training to be a psychic and you have a lot of negative energy hanging around you. Like here …’ He pointed to a space to the left of me. ‘And all up in here.’ He waved his hand in front of my face. I shifted away from him, although fully aware that any negative energy would be coming with me.
‘Can you train to be a psychic?’ I asked. ‘I thought you either had it or you didn’t.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You can train to be anything – the mind is amazing. And I’m learning under Eliza McCreadie. She’s one of the best. I moved to London to work with her. Well, that’s not actually true – I moved to London coz my mum kicked me out, you know? I guess she couldn’t handle how fabulous I am. I kinda knew this guy who lived in Tottenham – well, I thought I did, but it turns out I totally didn’t and he was into pretending to be a baby, you know, nappies and shit, like literally shit, and I was like, you do you, boo, but I’m not ready to be a parent. Then I met Eliza. She was eating scrambled eggs in Polo at like three in the morning, and she sort of took me under her wing.’ I wanted to hug him; he wasn’t that much older than Ruby, and he genuinely believed that his diabolical circumstances were chapters of a lifelong adventure. And then I felt like crying because I wanted to be able to do the same. ‘Babe, babe, let me make you a plate.’ He replaced his cap and darted off towards the buffet table. I watched him load up potato skins and chicken wings, and marvelled at his willingness to show me kindness when I had offered nothing in return. Frank made me see that a stranger could alter the course of your life, but a trainee psychic helped me to understand that it’s up to you to rewrite your story. I slipped out, leaving a twenty on the table; I knew what I wanted my story to be and also how it could lead me back to Frank.
As I headed to the tube, I glanced at a woman walking alongside me. I felt a wave of pity but then realized the woman was my reflection. Ignoring the steady foot traffic, I studied myself in the window of a bank. If this was how I presented myself to the world, it was no wonder he left me.
I went into Cos, a shop I had never entered because I thought it too grown-up for me. Obviously, I was an adult with the debts and stretch marks to prove it, but I had never achieved the sense of accomplishment I assumed came with being a proper grown-up lady; the mannequins in Cos looked like they knew what they were doing and how to get things done. I found a raw-silk blazer and matching trousers in my size; I didn’t recognize what I saw in the changing-room mirror. Perhaps I had got it wrong. Maybe you didn’t acquire the clothes after you had learned how to navigate life successfully; perhaps the clothes came first. That’s what I was hoping for. After paying, I asked the woman at the counter if I could go back to the changing room and put the suit on.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Big day?’ The biggest.
When I walked into the office, Bettina stood and clapped.
‘I knew this time would come,’ she said as I reached my desk.
‘I’ll take it as a compliment.’
‘You should, because it is one. You look amazing. I thought you were sick.’
‘Thank you.’ From Bettina it meant something. I appreciated being around someone who meant what they said. ‘I’m fine. I’m glad I caught you. I want to take you for a drink tonight.’ Bettina held the hem of my blazer and rubbed the material between her thumb and forefinger.
‘I’m certainly not going to argue with that.’
‘It can be a celebration.’
‘Of what?’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘You’re already married, and you’re not stupid enough to have got yourself up the duff again. You’re not leaving me, are you? You can’t. Shit, this is why the bullshit illness and the fancy get-up.’
‘No.’ I grabbed her forearms. ‘I promise I’m not leaving. In fact, I want to spend a lot more time together. I want to ask you to work with me on the art show, on a lot of other projects going forward. I want us to form a kind of division.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m good and you’re amazing, and because I don’t want us to get stuck and then become disposable.’ Bettina squinted at me.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, Alison? You have this wild look in your eyes.’
‘I’m fine. I will be fine. I know what I’ve got to do.’ Bettina pulled away from me; she looked a little afraid. ‘I’m fine. I promise. Wait for me, I won’t be long.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To give the performance of my life.’
Carter did an actual double take.
‘Alison?’ he asked, as if he doubted it was me.
I wanted to say, ‘It’s just a suit – underneath it all I’m the same,’ but instead I said, ‘I want to try something different.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Carter, and he was. He was leaning forward, his energy completely focused.
‘Anoushka doesn’t want an event, she wants a career, and I think we can be the people to launch it. Rather than doing a one-off show, I want to help her
do a series of showcases highlighting up-and-coming artists. We’ll create a team around her and provide a full package of communications and marketing support. We’ll be making art accessible to a whole new generation, and introducing new artists to the world on a much larger scale.’ My palms were sweating. I wiped them on my new trousers.
‘To the world?’ Carter coughed, but I could see the smile it was trying to conceal. Part of me wanted to retreat, the part that felt she was wobbling away on a life raft, constantly waiting for the sea to overturn her. But another part of me was willing to plough forward, the part of me that didn’t care how much she lost because so much had already been taken away from her. Frank gave me that.
‘To the world. The first show will be a presentation of the work of the artist Charlie X. The real stage will be social media, but the actual event will take place in ten days in Berlin.’ Carter rubbed the back of his neck. He did this when he was thinking; he had never done it much when talking to me.
‘That sounds like a lot to pull off in such a short timescale.’
‘I can do it, but I’ll need a team.’
‘I can’t spare people at such short notice.’
‘I’ll take Bettina and I’ve already sourced a freelancer.’ He looked surprised by my forthrightness and I was a little surprised too.
‘And you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine. I’m great.’
‘But your husband said …’
‘It comes and goes, and now it’s gone.’ Carter returned to his laptop.
‘OK, look, get me a brief tonight and I’ll sign off. I’m impressed with your ambition, Alison.’ I stood up and smoothed down my blazer.
‘I always say go big or go home,’ I said. Although I never say that and I no longer had a home to go to.
More Than a Mum Page 26
