‘Ooh, we’re nearly the same height,’ she breathed into my hair.
‘It’s the shoes,’ I muttered. She held me at arm’s length and examined my feet.
‘You mean business,’ she said.
‘I do, Nush, I really do. I want to make this big.’ Now it was done, I found I did. A few months previously I would never have known you could start something with one intention and end with another entirely. ‘This all started with your vision, Nush.’
‘I know!’ she squealed; I don’t think either of us really believed we would get there. ‘I’m going to find Charlie. I want him to give a little speech. You too.’
‘Course, I’ll be out in a minute. Need to …’ I nodded towards the glasses in my hands.
‘Sure,’ said Nush. She grabbed one of the flutes, still half full of booze, and took it with her as she headed back into the throng. I carried the rest to the kitchen and stacked them in the industrial dishwasher. Afterwards, I used the counter for balance as I kicked off the shoes. They were ridiculous and a sharp pain had been tormenting my left sole all evening. I lifted my foot to rub it and watched a ladder race up the length of my inside leg. I tried to readjust my tights and only succeeded in widening the hole. As I grappled with my hosiery a loud, crisp clap startled me. I looked up and he clapped again. I kept hold of the counter to steady myself as he walked towards me, continuing his slow-motion applause. Frank stopped within touching distance.
‘What a performance,’ he said. ‘Was this all for me?’
42
HE SMILED, BUT it wasn’t a smile to be shared. ‘Dramatic as always.’ He didn’t say this the way he had in the past, laughing with me at my quirkiness and whimsy. His words were heavy and their weight left bruises. What left me even more tender was that I still wanted him to hold me. If he’d opened his arms and let me in, if I was given permission to put my cheek to his chest, I would have forgiven everything. ‘You can’t approach my family.’ When I had fantasized about the moment, I had never imagined he would say that, and after all he had done, it was me who felt ashamed.
‘I didn’t know where you were,’ I stammered. Each word an apology. ‘Why did you go?’ He grimaced. I wanted to know what he was feeling – disappointment? Disapproval? ‘I sat her down and confessed everything – it was the right thing to do.’ I thought of my note to Dylan; is it possible to do right when you’re so deep in the wrong?
‘She forgave me but said that if I saw you again, she would take my boy back to Brazil. I can’t sacrifice him for you, you understand that?’ I would never have expected him to. There were things that could be done – regular flights, school holidays – and we would have dealt with it together. There are always options, even if you don’t like them all.
‘But you’re seeing me now.’
‘For the last time.’
‘But you don’t love her,’ I whispered.
‘We’re married; I have love for her.’ I glanced at the door, afraid that someone would walk in to witness the scene of my greatest humiliation.
‘You said you knew at the wedding,’ I insisted. Hopeful, still hopeful, that something I could say would take him back to where we’d been.
‘Did I?’ He seemed weary. ‘I don’t know any more. I do love her, it’s a sort of love …’
‘Not like you love me?’ There. The question I should have asked long ago but didn’t think I needed to.
‘You’re very special,’ he said. ‘I mean that.’
‘So why didn’t you come? Why not at least say goodbye? Why run?’ I could hear the desperation in my voice and did nothing to try and curtail it.
‘Yes, the timing wasn’t great. I accept that, but I thought it best to have distance from the situation.’ His hand went to his pocket; I could see him toying with his lighter. ‘Fucking hell, she made it completely clear I couldn’t have any contact with you.’ I wasn’t sure what to believe. The woman who made tea and calmly requested I stop destroying her life didn’t seem like the type to make demands, but then again, I probably didn’t seem like the type to lie and cheat. ‘It looks good, the event. You did well.’ Him saying that, him seeing it, didn’t feel as good as I had anticipated. The feeling I used to have, that he was never bored with me and would always want more of me, was gone. I knew I was on borrowed time.
‘Your son is only a baby.’ I remembered how I was in the first months, aching and vulnerable.
‘People don’t talk about how fatherhood affects men. That was probably part of it, if I’m honest.’ Frank’s brow furrowed as he formulated his theory.
‘Are you honest? That’s what I’ve been asking myself over and over again. Were you lying to me about everything? It can’t all have been in my head.’ His left cheek twitched as he tried to conceal the truth yet again and pretend that he didn’t want to laugh.
‘You know, I didn’t realize how vulnerable you were at first,’ he said. He moved forward but stopped short of touching me. He removed his hand from his pocket and displayed his palms. ‘And then you had so much happening with work and your kids, and I wanted to be there for you.’ He spoke in a careful manner, like he was delivering one of his speeches and I, as the grateful audience, was expected to lap it up. No more. No way.
‘You are so full of shit! I don’t know how I didn’t see it.’ He did laugh then, although he didn’t convince me that he thought what I’d said was funny.
‘You saw what you wanted to see. You wanted to leave your husband so you constructed a … a story, and now you’re angry I’m not playing my part.’
‘This wasn’t a story!’ He stepped away from me and retrieved his cigarettes from the inside of his jacket. I was losing him again. ‘It wasn’t about leaving, it was about starting something.’ I jabbed a finger towards him. ‘I’ve got all the messages you sent me. I have evidence of the things you said.’
His jaw stiffened. ‘I thought maybe we could meet and have something to eat and put this to bed, but I can see that can’t happen. This has to be it, Alison. You were having problems, I wanted to be there for you, but we let things cross the line. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Sorry? Sorry!’ He backed away. ‘You’re a liar, you’re nothing but a liar.’ He shook his head, not in defence of himself but with pity for me. ‘You lied and lied.’
‘Goodbye, Alison,’ he said, before placing the cigarette between his lips.
‘No!’ I shouted. ‘You don’t walk away from me!’ But he did.
‘Alison?’ said Annie softly. It was so soon after he’d left that I knew she must have heard some of what had occurred, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. ‘They’re asking for you out there,’ she said. When I didn’t respond, she came towards me slowly and placed her hand under my chin to lift my face. ‘Are you OK? Can you speak?’ The event had been a success; I would soon discover it was the start of something big for me, but at that point I couldn’t see it. I didn’t believe in silver linings; there was no cosmic plan. Some things were just shit. Annie waited patiently for me to respond.
‘It’s all lies,’ I said.
I could smell myself. It’s not often that occurs. Sometimes you’re aware that it’s likely you might smell; that enough time has elapsed that it would certainly be beneficial to wash. But to be able to smell yourself and have that scent repulse you – that is very rare. I smelled unloved. I had been on the mattress for two days, my suitcase from Berlin still open on the floor next to me. I sent a few messages to say I was taking a couple of days to recover from the trip, and then let my phone die. I wanted to see my girls, I ached to hold them, but I didn’t think I could present this version of myself. Those times when I was a kid and Mum would leave for days, I assumed it was a choice motivated by selfishness, but perhaps she was hiding – from who she was and who she couldn’t be for me.
I smacked my hand against the multipack of crisps beside me; the packet crackled but there was no more crunch. I lay back down, confused as to what my next move should be. Having spen
t the last week making all the decisions, I couldn’t do it any more. I wouldn’t have responded to the thump at the door, but I thought it might be Henry with carbohydrates. It wasn’t. Carter looked me up and down as one would a pet with mange: kindness tinged with disgust.
‘One of your, um, neighbours let me in,’ he explained. I led him to the living room.
‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink or anything.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ he said. Carter opened his suit jacket before sitting gingerly on the sofa. ‘I’ll wait for you to get ready.’ I looked down at myself. I had on faded flannel maternity pyjama bottoms and a stretched, stained vest top. I returned to the bedroom and changed into my Cos suit, figuring if I was going to get fired, I might as well wear my best outfit.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I asked your contractor; his details were on file.’
‘Henry?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. There’s been a lot of contact following the show.’
‘Yes?’ My head swam with hypothetical complaints.
‘Yes. It seems it was very successful.’ Not everything is as it seems, I thought.
‘I wanted to check in with you, see when you would be ready to come back. It would be good to ride the wave.’ I always thought ‘ready’ was a simple concept but it required a great deal of reflection – the ability to accurately predict what was to come and competently assess whether you had the resources to withstand it. I wasn’t even ready to decide if I was ready. Carter made an awkward motion, his hand jerking forward as he moved the rest of his body away from me. I thought perhaps he was in pain; it seemed in line with my run of misfortune for him to have a heart attack and die on the threadbare floor. However, he stayed upright and breathing, and simply patted his extended hand very lightly on my shoulder. His attempt to offer support when it was so unnatural to him made me feel immensely grateful. ‘Come back,’ he said. I could tell he wasn’t particularly committed to the request, but it was enough. He wanted me, wanted me enough to navigate the grimy streets of East London and to sit in my squalid living room and uncomfortably pat my arm. It wasn’t much but it was more than I could have hoped for.
‘I need one more day,’ I told him. He stood up without comment and rebuttoned his jacket. I grabbed his hand and he stared down at my fingers in horror. ‘Thank you. For coming and for giving me a chance.’ Carter wriggled free. He removed his glasses and cleaned the already sparkling lenses with a little grey cloth he drew from his blazer pocket.
As he worked in tiny circles around the glass he said, ‘I didn’t give you anything. You created the opportunity.’ He replaced his specs. I noticed that he looked better with them – they gave his face structure; without them he had a certain vulnerability that was distracting, like a reverse Clark Kent. I wondered how long he had worn glasses, whether he had been teased in the playground as a result of his sub-par vision. Of course, he hadn’t come into existence completely intimidating and incredibly stylish; he had had his own journey, one that had probably involved hardships and betrayals, and he had overcome those the way I was beginning to hope I could move past my own.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said. I felt the urge to salute but resisted it.
43
WHEN CARTER LEFT, I sat on the floor with my laptop and tried to make my mental to-do list physical. It was long. There were items that had been languishing in the crevices of my mind for years – take Chloe to the theatre, clean out the cupboard under the stairs, find peace of mind. I knew I couldn’t let myself feel overwhelmed or wait to be rescued from it all. I had no choice but to deal with each thing one by one. I started with the last thing I had itemized – visit Dad.
It was Mum who answered the door.
‘You’re finally here,’ she said. I chose not to defend myself. What I had to give would have to be enough. ‘He’s in the living room.’ She had a defeated air. I went through, guarding myself against what I might find. The scene looked the same as the last time I was there: Dad in his smart trousers, craning towards daytime television, like time moved differently for him and me; perhaps it did. When he saw me, he rose from his chair without comment and shuffled to the kitchen. Moments later, I heard his ancient kettle struggle to life. Mum and I settled on the sofa. She was very still and seemed sober; it was unnerving.
‘He looks fine,’ I whispered.
‘He’s not,’ she said. ‘See if he comes back with tea or gravy or worse.’ I couldn’t imagine what could be worse than gravy in a mug.
‘Is everything sorted with what’s-his-name?’ she said in a low tone. I couldn’t be sure which ‘his’ she was referencing, but if sorted meant over then the answer was yes to both. I said yes, and she looked relieved. I grabbed her hand, comforted by the fact that, however hapless she was, some maternal instinct had seeped through. ‘You’ll be able to come on Sundays then?’ I understood that the instinct wasn’t maternal but self-preservation, and for once I didn’t resent her for it because I knew what it meant to get lost in your own needs.
‘Dad?’ I called. There was no response. I left Mum on the sofa and walked quietly to the kitchen. Eddie was wiping down the counter top. He looked the same as always but I felt nervous – something about the way he was moving the cloth, pushing it repeatedly along the grouting where the Formica met the tiles, was unnatural. ‘I think the water’s boiled.’ Without comment, he pressed the switch on the kettle and it gurgled back into action. ‘Dad, are you eating? Is Mum coming to see you every day?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. I recognized the way he said it, hoping the swiftness of the words would make up for the conviction they lacked. I pulled open his fridge; inside, a cucumber sat in a puddle of its own juice and the milk was crowned with a disc of yellowing curd. I dumped the whole bottle in the bin, flinching as I heard the plastic thud on the bottom of the bagless surface.
‘Was it gravy?’ called Mum. I went back through to the hallway without acknowledging her. The door to the spare room was shut, as it always was, and I eased it open. Although it was stale with lack of use, the double bed was neatly made with navy-blue sheets, and there was a pile of clean towels on a folding chair in the corner.
‘Dad!’ I shouted as I returned to the living room. He came to the doorway of the kitchen and waited unsteadily. ‘Can I move in for a while? Dylan and I have been having problems and I need somewhere to stay.’ I didn’t say that he also needed me and that being there might be a start in repaying him for rescuing me from my childhood, but I could tell from his posture, the way his shoulders settled and he relaxed his head against the frame, that he knew this – some things don’t have to be said out loud.
I borrowed Eddie’s car, so I could move in immediately. I wanted to be out of the flat both physically and emotionally. I drove back and packed up the suitcase, and when I left I posted the keys through the letterbox.
On the way back to Eddie’s, I took a detour to Islington and pulled in across the road from Bettina’s flat. Her curtains were open and I could see shadows from her designer candles flickering on the cream walls. I called the radio show, and had to listen to twenty minutes of anniversary messages and Phil Collins before a comforting voice told me I was ‘on the air with Late Evening Love Songs’.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, looking back to the window. I hoped she was listening.
‘What’s your message and name your song,’ said Larry.
‘This is Alison. I don’t want a love song really, well, not that sort of love, but I really do love the person I’m playing this for. She’s someone who’s always there for me; sees the best parts of me and accepts the not-so-good bits but expects better – that’s a kind of love. And it’s the kind of love we sometimes take for granted, and we don’t say it enough or sometimes ever, because we’re scared or we’re stupid or we’ve been conditioned or whatever—’
‘You know it’s a four-hour show,’ said Larry.
‘Yes, sorry. I want to play this song fo
r Bettina, Betty, because we haven’t known each other that long and we don’t tell each other everything, but we’re there for each other every day and I want her to know how much that means to me. And I’m parked outside her house, so if she can forgive me, I’d love to see her, but I totally get if she doesn’t want to.’
‘Your song?’
‘Yes. Sorry. Can I have “You Can Call Me Al”.’
‘Coming right up.’
I turned off the radio, and when I looked back outside, Bettina was standing in the window, and I could tell by the way her body was shaking that she was laughing. I got out of the car and threw my hands up in defeat. She stepped away from the glass and reappeared a minute later downstairs. I felt shy as she came over and braced myself for whatever snarky observation she would throw at me, but it didn’t come. Instead, she pulled my head into her neck and squeezed.
‘I love you too, you complete doughnut. When you’re a single girl about town, having a good female friend is massively important. You mean a lot to me, lady, and that …’ She separated from me to ensure I could see the sincerity in her face. ‘That was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.’
‘Yeah, it was my Say Anything moment.’
‘Say what?’
I groaned. ‘Have you seen any films?’
Bettina flipped her hair over her shoulder. ‘Do you want to come up and have some food? I’ve got leftover risotto.’
‘I can’t. I’m moving. In with my dad.’ I held my hand up to delay the expression of shock on her face. ‘I need to get back.’
‘OK, yeah, but what happened with the man?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. I really do want to know. I want to know everything. Immediately.’
‘I need to get back,’ I said again, but then I stayed for another half-hour, not noticing as the temperature dropped and the lights dimmed in the homes around us. It was like the end of an amazing date, but without all the questions about whether they’re good enough or if you can really trust them, because I knew she was and that I could. When I tried to explain how Frank had beguiled me, she didn’t interject the way I had anticipated she would.
More Than a Mum Page 30
