by Roxie Cooper
‘When I first met Matt, he seemed so …’ I glance around the room, searching for the right word. ‘Enthusiastic,’ I eventually settle on.
‘In what way?’
‘We were at a party in London. I didn’t want to go but my flatmate made me on this particular night. Matt came over to chat and he seemed really interested in me, I suppose. I needed that at the time.’
‘At the time?’
‘You know, when you’ve just graduated from university and don’t really know who you are. When you like anyone who takes an interest in you. You feel lost,’ I reply, smoothing out my tangerine-orange, silky dress.
‘Right,’ she says, nodding.
‘And, he was a bit older than me. I think I needed looking after at that point.’ I smile. ‘He made me feel safe.’
‘OK …’ she says slowly, sweeping some strands of cherry-red hair out of her face.
‘And as it happened he worked in software sales and was looking to move to another firm, so we were chatting about Dad’s company. I was saying how I could introduce him and maybe get him an interview …’
‘Right,’ she says abruptly. I always know there’s a point to be made when she clips something in that harsh manner.
‘Is Matt like your dad in any way, do you think?’
This is obviously a loaded question and I’m not really sure how to answer it. There’ll be a reason why she’s asking but I have no idea what it is. I’ve become so suspicious of her questions.
‘Like my dad? How do you mean?’
‘Do they share any characteristics?’ she asks.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, frowning. ‘Well, they both get on. But Matt is very charming like that. He makes it his business for people to like him. He always said his charm would make him rich one day.’
‘Hmm,’ Jane says, nodding momentarily with her eyes closed. I take the brief opportunity to stare at her amazing coiffed hair, which has been pinned up in the same black butterfly clip for every session I’ve seen her for.
‘And I suppose they’re both very work-orientated,’ I go on. ‘Dad’s always admired that about him.’
‘Anything else?’ she asks. ‘What would you say about them, emotionally?’
‘Emotionally? I’ve never thought of Matt being an emotional person. Or Dad. He used to be, but not since … well, you know. Matt’s quite closed with his emotions,’ I say, quietly.
‘Has he always been like that?’ she asks.
‘Yes. Well, I mean, not in the beginning. He was a bit open like most guys, I suppose. Said the stuff you need them to say …’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘You know – “You’re different to other girls” – and it didn’t take long before “I like you” turned into “I love you”,’ I tell her, remembering the euphoria of that honeymoon stage of a new relationship. The one where you stay up talking every night, desperate to learn everything about each other, a smile erupting across your face when you look at him, when he’s the first thing you think of when you wake up. The problem with this stage is that it isn’t real. In Matt’s case it lasted for about six months. By that time we were sharing a flat and he was working for my dad. We used to joke that he was the son Dad never had because they get on better than Matt and I do a lot of the time.
‘It moved quite quickly, I guess,’ I tell her.
‘How did he make you feel in the beginning?’
‘Wanted. Secure. Safe,’ I fire out.
‘And how does he make you feel now?’
‘I try to be a good wife, fulfil his expectations … but it never seems to be enough.’
‘Enough in what way?’ Jane asks.
‘Something’s always my fault, or he speaks to me as if I’m a child. I don’t really feel like it’s an equal partnership. We’re not really like a team. We’re sometimes more like …’
‘… father and daughter?’ Jane says.
‘Yes …’ I say, sighing. ‘You think I went for Matt as part of some kind of weird Freudian attraction because he was like my dad, don’t you?’
Jane smiles. ‘Is that what you think I think?’ This has become a game between us now. I second-guess what she thinks but I suspect she gains far more in terms of what’s going on in my head from what I suggest, so she wins either way. I laugh, because we both know this.
‘I think it’s highly likely there’s a relational pattern at play here, certainly,’ she says, shifting in her seat.
‘Relational pattern?’
‘When we are attracted to someone, there’s always a reason for it. It’s primarily physical, but there’s something subconscious too, like a radar that attracts you to that person.’
I’m captivated listening to this explanation, but at the same time, even as she’s explaining it, I’m wondering where the hell Jamie fits into it all.
‘So, where does the pattern bit fit in?’ I ask.
‘We all get into patterns, some more than others,’ Jane explains. ‘But you’ll probably find that all of your main relationship partners have something in common – and I wouldn’t be surprised if they share similarities with a parent. Your dad.’
This is all getting a bit too weird for me now.
‘Errm. OK … But why? How? What?’
‘You’re seeking approval from intimate partners who are similar to your dad, or who your father approves of. You think if you can get them to love you, approve of you, then, by proxy, your relationship with your father will be better, or healed. You had a very close relationship with your dad up until your mother died, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, swallowing hard. Just acknowledging the fact of it physically hurts.
‘And then he closed himself off emotionally and has never been the same since,’ she points out. ‘But you crave that close relationship back, don’t you?’
I sigh, looking up to the ceiling briefly in an attempt to stop the tears coming out.
‘More than anything,’ I admit.
‘So, you subconsciously chose a partner who is incapable of intimacy to effectively rewrite history.’
‘What? That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would anyone choose to be with someone who wasn’t good for them? Who rejected them, or was cold towards them or anything like that?’
Jane laughs. ‘Because it happens every day, Stephanie! And it keeps me in a job! It’s subconscious. Think of it as a blind spot. People can’t help it. But it happens, it’s called “repetition compulsion”. It’s the same reason women stay with men who abuse them – because it’s familiar to them. They’re usually acting out behaviour from the past, their childhoods, trying to get their partners to love them.’
I feel sick.
‘In your case, you believe the breakdown in the relationship between you and your dad resides with you, so you have coupled with Matt, a stand-in. But it won’t work because, ultimately, you have to repair the relationship with your dad directly.’
Jane lets this information sink in. She always delivers the killer lines delicately but with firmness. There’s always a brief silence afterwards which allows me time to gaze around the room and think about it for a few moments. It sounds uncomfortable, but it’s actually not. I suppose that’s the sign of a good relationship: being comfortable in each other’s silences.
‘And, Stephanie,’ she goes on, ‘that’s not your fault.’
I remain silent. I hear the words being spoken and they make sense – but, of course, I don’t believe them.
‘You were a child. You lost your mother, and in many ways you lost your father too. You were left to fend for yourself and your sister on your own. You are not responsible for the breakdown in your relationship. He was the adult. Don’t carry this on your shoulders. You’ve done it for long enough and you’ve more than paid the price.’
‘But I don’t know how to get that relationship back,’ I say, quietly.
‘You’ll find a way,’ she says confidently. ‘No relationship is ever damaged beyond repair.
You just have to find that thing which brings you back together. There’s always something. You’ll find it.’
I hope she’s right.
When Matt picks me up my thoughts are all over the place, so I could really have done without him bringing up the baby topic. After Jane’s bombshell revelation that I’ve somehow married my dad, I’m just not really in the mood for it.
‘I thought you’d fall pregnant really quickly,’ Matt says. ‘Do you think it’s because you drink? Maybe you should cut it out for a while.’
These conversations have become more frequent in the last six months. Matt’s frustration is becoming more present with every monthly period I have. It’s not like I’m doing anything to not get pregnant and I’ve been off the pill for ages, I take folic acid and regular-ish exercise, and I don’t actually drink excessively. At the age of twenty-eight I am not yet considered geriatric.
We have sex at the right time of the month, even if it is a little mechanical sometimes, with the intention to produce a child. We used to have quite good sex – it was passionate, the kind of sex which would be had in a car, at night, by the side of the road, or on the stairs of our flat in London, the second we walked through the door. There was an element of spontaneity about it. I liked that.
‘I don’t think that’s the problem, Matt. These things just take time. They can’t be rushed,’ I reply, firing out all the clichés.
‘Your sister fell pregnant inside three months of trying, didn’t she? Maybe there’s something wrong with you?’ he says. ‘Do you think we should see a specialist?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Matt,’ I reply, as we park on Ebony’s road. ‘Just be patient. These things can’t be rushed.’
He goes to say something else, but I get out of the car and wander away from him into my sister’s house. It’s Ebony’s twenty-sixth birthday party and she’s having quite the celebration. Because it’s Ebony, she isn’t content with it being a small, intimate family affair, and she has to ensure everyone knows how much money she has (or rather, how much her husband makes) so they’ve really pushed the boat out.
This garden party is all I’ve heard about for months. She was terrified it would rain (it hasn’t), or people wouldn’t turn up (they have) and she’s even hired a professional photographer to take ‘natural’ photographs of everyone having a great (presumably, natural-looking) time. There are games laid out for the kids on the lawn and a huge drinks table in the shade (staffed, of course). A DJ sets up under the gazebo, playing all the party classics. God knows where she got him from – he’s terrible.
‘Matty!’ Dad yells in Matt’s direction. They embrace in that kind of hug men do where they whack each other on the back, almost breaking each other’s spines in the process. I watch the pair of them in a completely different light now.
‘Hey, how did that deal with the firm in Birmingham go?’ Dad asks. ‘I heard you did a phenomenal presentation, as usual.’
There’s nothing I can really add to the gush-fest between these two so I just keep quiet. It’s like this all the bloody time. Nothing I say can ever compete with the shop talk or how marvellous Matt is. He’s like the son Dad never had. Clearly, Jane is right about this. I feel as if I spend my life trying to please both of them but constantly let both of them down.
‘Steph, your sister was looking for you. Something about blowing some balloons up …?’
Ahh. Right, yes.
By 6 p.m., the garden is heaving with Ebony’s friends. They’re all having a great time. Mind you, who wouldn’t? Free booze, fabulous hosts and an amazing setting in the countryside. The entire garden swells with the sound of chatter and occasional roaring laughter. The terrible DJ continues to play a selection of the greatest hits from the last thirty years. Women regret wearing heels, constantly having to yank themselves out of sinking into the grass. It’s easier to take their shoes off. I wore my wedges for this very reason.
I’ve never been any good at day drinking. It always goes straight to my head and I’m envious of people who can do it. The idea of drinking champagne in the sun appeals to me greatly, but it’s like pouring poison down my throat. However, on this occasion, it feels like a good idea. I think it was Matt stressing me out with his pregnancy questions.
There are loads of people I don’t know from Ebony’s new social circle. In other words, the parents she’s trying to get in with from the local private school. Despite the fact that Jude is only one, she’s wasting no time in diving head first into this entire scene. We both went to the school Jude will be going to and have seen, first-hand, the power one can wield from being in the right circle. Mum was never interested in any of it. Everyone loved her and wanted her in their circle, but she was just lovely to everyone and never participated in any of the bitching. She had far too much class for any of that.
Ebony introduces me to various parents, all of whom are jiggling infants on their hips, trying to bribe them into stop screaming bloody murder with organic sugar-free treats or wiping gooey crap off their faces. It’s not the most encouraging advert for parenthood. I absolutely adore my nephew, but other people’s babies are not as cute to me.
It’s a beautiful hot day. The music has everyone in a good mood. It even gets me jigging at one point. I’ve never been able to resist ‘Crazy in Love’ by Beyonce, so can’t resist swinging my hips and singing the chorus when it comes on.
‘Steph, calm down,’ Matt whispers, placing a firm hand on the small of my back.
‘What? I’m only having fun.’
‘People are looking …’
‘So? It’s a bloody party, Matt!’ And I sigh, suddenly feeling embarrassed and stupid even though I know I shouldn’t.
‘How long do we have to stay here anyway?’ he asks, swigging back the dregs of his champagne glass.
‘Well it’s Ebony’s party, so until it’s finished, I’d imagine.’
Matt sighs, looking at his watch. He made a great fuss before coming out because it was so hot and he didn’t want to wear anything smart.
‘Right, I’m gonna have to get pissed then,’ he declares walking off to get a beer, leaving me alone.
Casting my eyes around the garden and watching everyone laughing, having a brilliant time, my mind suddenly turns to Jamie. I can’t help but think that he probably doesn’t have to get drunk to spend time with his wife’s family.
CHAPTER 10
Saturday 10 October 2009
Jamie
It’s uncharacteristically sunny and warm for an October weekend. It’s more like a day in May, when you can just get away with a T-shirt and wear sunglasses without looking like a dick. But the light gives it away as being autumn and it’s like looking at the world through an orange filter.
I think about Stephanie on the way down to Heathwood Hall in the car. I also think about Helen and our plans for the future. The two are so tragically incompatible and I know I have to end this before it goes any further. The lies have already started. ‘I’m just going to see friends from university’ proved to be a complex web of anxiety, having to think of people she has heard me mention before but doesn’t know well enough to talk to.
I shouldn’t be doing this. And I am going to stop.
We meet mid-afternoon. We booked our rooms way in advance so there was absolutely no chance of a repeat of last time. Stephanie is staying in her usual room and I have a single.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Dobson! Lovely to see you here again,’ Avril the receptionist sings at me as I approach the desk.
‘Hello! Thank you, hope you’re well?’ I ask, not sure whether to be alarmed that she recognises me.
‘Fabulous,’ she trills, handing my key over. ‘Room Thirty-three. Up the stairs, turn right.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I reply, picking my black weekend bag up and turning around to head off to my room.
‘Miss Carpenter is already here,’ she announces as I walk off.
‘Well, hello you!’ Stephanie says, opening the door.
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I can’t help but lunge towards her with the biggest hug. I wrap my arms around her waist and she grips on to my shoulders with such force that I don’t want to let go. My face sinks into her hair, the faint scent of which I breathe in. We don’t say a word. By the time we let go all we can do is look at each other and giggle, like two schoolkids who have just had a first snog.
‘So great to see you, Steph!’ I gush. And it is. She looks beautiful. I think about her so much throughout the year that it hardly seems real when we’re in the same room.
She fiddles with the sleeves of her jumper before putting her hands on her hips as we chat about the journey here. In contrast to the intimate embrace we had only moments ago, we now stand metres apart, like people who barely know each other.
And that’s the problem.
We don’t know what we are. We’re not actually anything.
‘Listen,’ I say, like an excited child, ‘I had an idea. Let’s do something different. It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s go for a walk to the next village and find a proper pub for some food and drinks then come back here later. What do you think?’
‘Sounds great to me,’ she says. ‘Let me just change into my flat boots.’
‘You brought more than one kind of boot?’ I ask, aghast.
‘I’m a woman, Jamie,’ she says, laughing.
Hours later, we’ve walked miles, built up an appetite and are sitting in the corner of a beautiful country pub in the village of Busby Hawkton. I’ve never been here before but it’s very quaint, the kind of place people come for a weekend lunch or to have a wander around the village pond, feeding the ducks with their kids. The views from the benches outside are alone worth the trek here. I do like places like this but I don’t think I could live in one. Stephanie lives in a village like this and she loves it, but I’d find it too claustrophobic and I don’t know … perfect? I quite like my world slightly chaotic and messy; I don’t think I could handle the perfectly trimmed hedges and flower beds, village politics and gossip.
