by Rachel Marks
I open my mouth to offer Mimi some bravado about having had too many threesomes to count, but then I say, ‘No. Looks far too complicated, to be fair. I think satisfying one woman’s needs at a time is enough work for me.’
‘Well, you’re certainly getting enough practice at it.’
‘I do not sleep with that many women.’
‘Oh, come off it. It’s got to be at least one a week. I’ve been watching you.’
I nod slowly and give Mimi a wink. ‘Tempted to get in on the action, aren’t you?’
‘Absolutely. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve always wanted a good STD.’
I wag my finger. ‘No glove, no love.’
She laughs, a genuine laugh that somehow makes me feel good about myself. ‘I’m actually seeing someone.’
‘Oh, do tell,’ I say, unwittingly adopting the vernacular of a gay best friend.
‘He’s called Liam. He’s in a band. I went to see him at this gig a couple of months ago and we got chatting afterwards.’
‘He sounds like a twat.’
‘Why?’
‘Blokes in bands are always twats.’
Mimi polishes a group of wine glasses. ‘I have to say I did worry about that at first but he seems pretty nice so far. It’s nothing serious but it’s fun for now. I don’t like to look too far ahead. Live in the moment and all that.’
‘Good attitude to have.’
Except if your ‘moment’ is anything like mine.
Mimi takes a tiny bow. ‘Thank you.’ Then she looks along the bar. One of the women from the group is standing at the end with her purse raised in her hand.
‘Better go and assist getting those ladies inebriated so they don’t have the horror of remembering you in the morning.’
‘So which one should I go for, do you reckon?’
Mimi nods her head towards the table of women. ‘Definitely the brunette. She’s been eyeing you up since she got in here.’
‘Ah, is that right? Clearly has great taste.’
‘I was thinking more “ desperate ”. Enjoy.’
I climb down off the bar stool and pick up my drink. ‘I will. Night, Mimi.’
‘Night, Noah.’
Then she goes to serve the buxom blonde of the group and, with a sinking heart, I slink over and position myself next to the eager brunette.
*
It turns out the brunette is called Hannah. We’re both fairly drunk so it all happens quickly (both the process of getting from the front door to the bedroom and, a little embarrassingly, the sex itself). The sex is mediocre at best (my fault) – she says she came but I’m not convinced. We chat a bit afterwards, not much. I find out she does admin for a recruitment company, she likes peanut butter mixed into her scrambled egg (random fact – don’t for the life of me know how we arrive at it), she tells me she’s never been married, no kids. I tell her I’m a teacher, that I like ketchup on my scrambled egg and I don’t tell her about the ex-wife or kids. And then she says she’s tired and turns away from me and I position myself safely on my side of the bed, adhering to the invisible line, and we both go to sleep.
*
In the middle of the night, I wake up sweating, my heart banging against the inside of my chest like a prisoner thumping his fists on the wall of his cell. It’s always Mum’s face and the same feeling, a desperate panic, a race against the clock, as if there’s a simple way to save her, but my hands are frozen and however hard I try to move them, they won’t do what I’m telling them to.
On automatic pilot, I reach for my phone on the bedside table and press on Kate’s name. As I listen to the dial tone, I notice the body in the bed beside me. It startles me at first and, in my still slightly drunken haze, it takes me a while to remember who it is. And when I do, I wonder if it should feel like a comfort – that, mid panic attack, I’m not entirely alone – but it doesn’t. It just makes the loneliness and the anxiety feel more intense.
‘Hello?’ As soon as I hear Kate’s voice on the other end of the line, sleepy and slurred, it’s like piercing a blood blister. Suddenly the pain seems to disperse and my heartbeat starts to slow.
‘Hey. It’s me. Noah,’ I whisper, gently manoeuvring myself out of bed and creeping along the corridor until I reach the lounge, where I slump on the sofa.
‘What time is it, Noah? Is everything OK?’
‘I’m fine. It’s late. I don’t know what time it is. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.’
I hear a voice in the background. Jerry’s. Kate whispers something to him and then I hear a ruffle of the covers and the sound of Kate getting out of bed. ‘Let me just put my dressing gown on. I’m just going to pop the phone on the side. One second.’
‘OK.’ It still makes me sick to think of her naked in bed with another man. And, like every emotion you feel in the middle of the night, it’s magnified to something that feels unbearable to cope with.
‘Right, I’m sorted now. Do you want to talk about it or do you just want me to sit on the other end of the line for a bit?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘OK.’
We sit in silence for a little while and I listen to her breathing, using its uniform rhythm to steady my own. As the heat from the panic gradually leaves my body, I find myself shivering, so I curl my body into the foetal position.
‘Do you think she’d be proud of me, Kate? If she were still alive?’
Kate’s answer is immediate. ‘Absolutely.’
‘But I’ve made nothing of myself. I’ve messed everything up.’
‘She’d be proud of the way you love our boys. And you’re a good person, Noah. You don’t always make the best decisions, but you are a good person. She’d be proud of that.’
Tears catch in my throat, the all-too-familiar regret making my stomach churn with a sense of panic. How could I have thrown someone so wonderful away?
‘Thank you.’
‘No problem. Now try to get some more sleep.’
‘I’ll try. And Kate?’ I hold my phone in front of me for a second and then bring it back to my ear, desperate to tell her how I still feel about her, but knowing that she’ll just dismiss it as me being silly, or worse, that she’ll ask me to keep my distance. ‘Nothing. Don’t worry. I’m sorry for waking you.’
‘It’s OK. You ready for me to go now?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be. Night, Kate.’
I put the phone down first so that I don’t have to listen to a dead line then head back to my bedroom and climb into bed, careful not to touch Hannah, and spend the night tossing and turning until morning comes around.
*
Usually when a girl stays the night (it turns out eighty per cent do, maybe eighty-five even) they don’t stay long in the morning, getting dressed quickly before letting themselves out. I should possibly be offended that they’re so desperate to get away from me, but I’m just glad to avoid the awkward small talk, knowing that neither of us is interested in what the other has to say because we’re never going to see each other again.
This morning when I wake up, Hannah’s not there and I’m hopeful she’s already gone home but then I notice her jeans on the floor beside the bed. I force myself to get up, grab some joggers and a T-shirt and follow the clinking sounds to the kitchen. Hannah’s put on the shirt I was wearing last night and is helping herself to cereal from the cupboard. On seeing me, she looks up and smiles, and with a sinking feeling in my stomach, I can tell from the look on her face that she is going to be one of the few girls who is looking for more. The type who doesn’t just stay for breakfast but suggests we meet for a drink after work.
‘I hope you don’t mind me grabbing some breakfast. I’m always ravenous in the morning and I wasn’t sure what time you’d wake up.’ Hannah holds up her bowl. ‘Do you want me to get you some?’
She looks so keen to please, so sweet, and she’s a pretty girl, even prettier without the heavy make-up she was wearing last night. I don’t
want to hurt her. I’m not like Jack or all those other twats who think it’s OK to string a girl along and then suddenly disappear. I try to make it as obvious as possible from the get-go that I am not relationship material. I never take girls out, I never see them more than once, I don’t feed them corny lines or make them promises I can’t keep. And most girls understand that because they met you in a bar and slept with you on the first night, it was never going to be anything serious. It was just sex. In my experience, most women are surprisingly on board with that. They’re not looking for anything else from me either, but there are just a few, like Hannah, who mistakenly believe they are going to meet Mr Right sitting in a dingy bar, on his own, drunk, and whose opening gambit is, ‘I was wondering if you wanted to come home with me.’
‘No, it’s fine. Thank you. I’ll grab something.’
I get myself some cornflakes and make a coffee with the water Hannah has recently boiled. Then we go through to the lounge (I have no table to eat at – yes, I am still a child) and sit on opposite ends of the sofa with our breakfast. For a moment, neither of us speaks, focusing intently on the food we are spooning into our mouths, but then she stops, looks up at me and, as predicted, says, ‘Do you fancy doing something later? I finish work at six. We could go for a drink or some food or something?’
I consider which of my potential responses will cause her the least pain. It takes guts to ask someone out and I don’t want her to feel embarrassed but I don’t want to give her false hope either. ‘Look, Hannah, you are really lovely, but I’m just not looking for a relationship at the moment.’
She wipes at the droplet of milk that is currently trickling down her chin, her cheeks pinkening as if the rejection has slapped her round the face. ‘Well, no, nor am I particularly. I’m not saying we’re going to get married and have babies …’ (an awkward laugh) ‘… I’m just saying let’s spend a bit of time together, see if we get on.’
How can you tell someone gently that you know, just by the pitch of their voice, the fact they put your shirt on without asking, the feeling you had in the pit of your stomach when you woke up in the middle of the night next to them, that there will never be anything between you? And that even if they were, by chance, perfect for you in every way, you don’t want to test the water, to see if you can feel anything for anyone, that the thought of ever being in love again makes you want to run screaming as if being chased by a hitman who has you firmly in his sights?
‘I’m really sorry. It’s not you. I just don’t want to date anyone. It was just about sex. I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear.’
Hannah puts her bowl on the carpet, brings her knees to her chest and covers her bare legs with her arms. ‘Oh, OK. Well, perhaps I could just use your shower to freshen up then I’ll get out of your hair?’
The look on her face, a guilt-inducing mixture of disappointment and shame, makes me want to backtrack and say we can go for a drink after all, but it’d only be prolonging the inevitable. ‘Of course. Take all the time you need. I’ve got an early morning meeting so I’d better get ready and rush off. Help yourself to whatever you want though, and just pull the door to when you go.’
Hannah nods and I give her a kiss on the cheek then quickly get dressed and sprint out the door, feeling horrible and wishing I hadn’t gone home with her in the first place. I don’t even know why I do it. Do I actually enjoy the sex? I think sometimes you can feel so full to the brim with emptiness that you just need to feel something, anything, else. It seems strange to think you can be full of emptiness, but sometimes that’s how it feels, like it could spill over.
CHAPTER FIVE
Finn stands up off the bench and takes a step forward, holding up a yellow painting that I can just about make out is of a group of people. He loves yellow. He won’t use any other colour, regardless of what it is he is depicting. We have yellow Santas, yellow Superheroes, yellow monsters. Right now, Finn’s face is hidden behind the large piece of sugar paper as his teacher clicks her fingers in front of her to try to get his attention, but he begins to talk from behind the paper so no one can hear what he is saying.
‘Finn, pop your paper down, sweetheart,’ his teacher says in a hushed voice.
Gradually, Finn lowers the paper to reveal a slightly daunted-looking face. His eyes search the room and then he spots us, his face breaking out into a huge smile that makes my chest physically hurt.
He puts his paper into one hand and waves enthusiastically with the other. ‘Hi, Mummy and Daddy.’
A ripple of laughter travels along the rows of children and through the parents seated around the edge of the room. I look over to Gabe, who is grinning widely at his little brother.
‘Do you want to say your line now, Finn?’ his teacher asks softly.
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot.’ Finn gives an awkward little head wiggle. ‘In Bolt class, we have been painting pictures of ourselves and our family. This is me and Mummy and Jerry and Gabe.’
His teacher gives him a thumbs up and I force my mouth to adopt the position of a smile whilst trying to breathe normally, but it feels like my airways are constricting and I’m running out of oxygen.
Suddenly, there’s a hand on my knee, squeezing it gently, and my eyes trace along Kate’s arm and up to her shoulder, but I can’t bear to see the apologetic look in her eyes, the sympathy, as if she understands how it feels to be the other parent, the one always on the outside looking in. She’s the essential. I’m just an added extra.
At the end, the other classes filter back to their classrooms and parents are allowed to take photos of their little stars. Finn runs up to us and we both crouch down, Finn putting one arm around each of our necks, pulling us together in a circle.
‘You were amazing, little man. I’m so proud of you.’ I kiss him on the forehead and then Kate releases herself from his grip, stands up, picks him up and twirls him round. ‘You’re a superstar.’
Finn’s face beams. Kate is such a wonderfully natural mother. Always has been. So often, the nitty gritty of parenthood felt like such a challenge to me, but straight away Kate took it in her stride with a calmness and patience I was never capable of. Whereas I seemed to be constantly craving some time to myself (oh, how I wish I hadn’t now), Kate was happy to sit with the boys for hours when they couldn’t get to sleep or play game after game long after I’d got bored and walked away.
‘Mr Carlton, have you got a minute?’ It’s Finn’s teaching assistant – a short, stout woman with a kindness in her eyes that makes you feel you want her to take care of you, and a deep chuckle that suggests there’s a little more naughtiness to her than originally meets the eye. Like maybe underneath the mother-hen exterior, she has a bit of a penchant for the old Fifty Shades.
‘Sure. Is everything OK? Do you need my … Finn’s mum to join us?’
‘No, just you. Follow me. I just want to show you something quickly.’
She leads me into the classroom and rifles through a pile of paintings on the drying rack. I notice, reassuringly, that like mine, the classroom is a mess – books scattered across the floor, folders piled high on every surface, a wide variety of toys all thrown into one big muddled box in the corner.
‘Ah, here it is.’ She pulls out a large yellow painting and hands it to me. It’s almost identical to the one Finn showed in assembly, except there are only three people this time. ‘He was absolutely adamant that he be allowed to do two. He got in quite a state about it.’
I stare at the painting and bite my lip. At the bottom, an adult has written, ‘Me, Gabriel and Daddy’.
‘I just thought it was important that you saw it.’
I nod, wanting to envelop her in my arms, but instead I stand there motionless and no sound comes from my lips.
‘Anyway, I’ll let you get back to Finn.’
‘Can I keep this?’
‘Of course. It’s yours.’
‘Thank you. Really. Thank you so much.’
She places her hand between my shoulder
blades and then leads me back to the hall.
‘Everything OK?’ Kate says when she sees me return.
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘What’s that?’ She gestures to the rolled-up painting in my hand.
‘Oh, nothing. Just some ideas for my class.’
Kate draws her head back and narrows her eyes.
‘Probably a ploy to get some alone time with me. Haven’t you noticed that cheeky glint in her eyes whenever she’s talking to me?’ I joke, covering the true emotion I’m feeling with bravado.
Kate rolls her eyes. ‘Oh yeah, the Noah effect. I remember it well.’
We go and say our goodbyes to Finn (lots more cuddles and telling him how wonderful he was) and then watch him skip back to the classroom, holding hands with another boy from his class.
‘Sometimes I wonder how we made something so incredibly beautiful,’ Kate says, staring wistfully at Finn as he disappears out of the hall.
I put my mouth next to her ear. ‘I can tell you in detail how we made that one. I’ll never forget that saucy little rendezvous in the sand. In fact, my knee’s never quite been the same since.’
Kate elbows me in the side. ‘You know what I mean.’ Suddenly, a film of sadness seems to slide across her eyes like a cataract. ‘Our boys are so perfect. It must’ve been right for us to have babies together, mustn’t it?’
‘Of course it was right.’
‘But it didn’t turn out to be right. Us, I mean, in the long term.’
I nod, enough to acknowledge I understand what she means, but not enough to suggest I agree with her.
Then Kate shakes her body, like a dog coming out of a lake, as if she’s trying to shake off what it is she’s feeling, and I wish that she’d allow herself to consider it further – the idea that we’re meant to be. ‘Have you got to go straight back to school or do you have time for a coffee?’
‘It’s my prep time. I’m all yours until after lunch.’
