by Sarah Clarke
Hana smiles widely at Fiona’s answer; it seems that it’s not just him who’s warming to their newest member of staff.
‘Not to me either! I’m going to be 26 in March, and that’s nearly 30. Then it will be hairy ears and a flabby belly and my life will be officially over.’ Marco drowns his sorrows with another large gulp of prosecco before filling up everyone’s glasses again.
‘How old are you, Fiona, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Hana mirrors Fiona’s words but adds a playful smile. Ben’s pulse quickens, and he forces himself to look away.
‘I’m 47. So I was close to 30 when you were born. Don’t remember any hairy ears though.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Marco emphasises his point by fake-wiping his brow.
‘Do you remember turning 19?’ Ben realises with a start that he’s just spoken. Weird. He’s not usually the one to initiate conversations, especially not with questions like that.
‘I remember it very well.’ There’s a new edge to Fiona’s tone.
Hana picks up on it, leans forward. ‘Sounds like a story to me. Come on, lovely lady, spill.’
Ben watches Fiona pause for a moment, but whether that’s reluctance to tell them more, or just collecting the pieces of her story together, he’s not sure.
‘Nothing much to tell, just a fun night out.’ The sheepish smile. The slightly reddening cheeks. This is a side of Fiona that none of them have seen before. They wait, expectations rising.
‘I got lucky, I guess. My birthday was during London Fashion Week. So my boss got me tickets to Vivienne Westwood’s Prêt-à-Porter show. And, ah, the after party.’
‘Whoa, what? You got to meet Vivienne Westwood? That is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.’ As usual, Marco doesn’t hold back on expressing his awe, but Ben is quietly impressed too. He’s always been drawn to Vivienne Westwood’s eclectic outfits and mad range of colours.
‘Yeah, it was good. She’d won British Designer of the Year the year before, so her show was really popular. Loads of famous faces there too. I remember drinking too much champagne and babbling to Kate Moss about the acting career I was going to carve out for her.’
‘Oh mio Dio, you are such a dark horse, Fiona! Any more secrets you want to share with us?’ Marco is almost fizzing with excitement.
Ben watches Fiona’s face flush instantly; maybe she had a wilder past than any of them had given her credit for.
But Hana takes pity on her obvious embarrassment, steering the conversation in a different direction. ‘What did you do to have a boss who could get tickets like that?’
Fiona’s eyes dart in Ben’s direction before she answers, as though she wants his approval or something. He’s not sure why she would, but he throws her a look of encouragement anyway. It seems to work.
‘I was a theatrical agent. I started at the bottom, straight out of school.’
‘Proper job at 18?’ Ben can’t help asking. It’s like a light has flicked on.
‘I was impatient back then. Wanted my independence.’
‘And did you like it?’
‘The job or my independence? Actually, I liked both. Rented a tiny box room in a house-share in Clapham. It wasn’t exactly luxury – slugs in the shower room every morning – but my housemates were fun.’ A pause. ‘And it was good to be away from my parents.’
Ben’s mind wanders to his own mum and dad; their fondness for rules and impressive ability to drain the fucking life out of him. Could he do it? Finish school in the summer and just keep on walking? However annoying he finds his parents, Ben has always believed that he couldn’t survive without them. But perhaps that was just the narrative they wanted to push, to keep him reliant on them. Perhaps he has got the guts to do it. If Fiona did, why not him?
Chapter 22
Phoebe
The freezing December night takes my breath away as I step out onto the pavement and turn towards home, but it does little to dampen the warm glow inside me; I imagine my own combustion engine will keep me fired up tonight. Perhaps it was being asked to remember my nineteenth birthday like that, and my tiny room in that easy-going house-share. My life was so full of parties back then: bars, all-night clubbing, days spent exchanging outrageous stories with my housemates. But then I met Dan, and I was so head over heels in love that his request that I tone down my lifestyle was easy to agree to. I wonder how different my life might have been if I’d put up more resistance.
‘You heading home, Fiona?’
I turn back towards the café and nod. I’m getting used to my new name now, enjoying it even. It’s as though it symbolises the fresh start I’ve been given.
‘Is it far, where you live?’
I pause, a habit I’ve picked up every time he asks me a question. I can’t help wondering, will this answer be one clue too many? Is this the piece of information that makes the penny drop? And the more time I spend with him, the harder it gets because I start to relax, to forget the huge lie that sits between us.
I’m being stupid of course. No 3-year-old knows their grandparents’ address, let alone one who doesn’t even recognise their own mother. ‘Battersea. Just off Queenstown Road.’
He pauses now, and I watch him weigh up my response, as though he’s calculating the route in his head. I think about the first day I met him, his kamikaze mission in the park, and I wonder if he’s ever made his way to my part of Battersea. With the highest crime rate in Wandsworth, it would be a dangerous place to look for trouble.
‘I was thinking of stopping at the Anchor. For a beer.’
I look beyond him, but he’s on his own. Hana was meeting some girlfriends for a birthday night out and Marco had rushed off too, although he’d been much more tight-lipped about his destination. I’m not sure why he wants to keep his life away from Bittersweet so private, but it would be a bit hypocritical of me to push him on it.
‘Only, I spent all my money on that prosecco.’
It takes every ounce of effort to stop myself from grinning. Not only is he suggesting we have a drink together, he’s trying to sponge some cash off me. In this moment, I’ve never felt more like a parent. ‘I can buy you a beer,’ I say, the grin half seeping out.
As we walk inside the busy pub and Ben gestures towards a small table in the corner, his way of telling me he’ll wait there, I realise that I’m about to break the law. Ben isn’t 18 yet. Of course I’d had plenty of drinking experience by the time I was his age; progressing from bottles of cider in the park at 14 to JD and Coke once I looked old enough to be served, plus any concoction of booze from Flora’s extensive stash at home. But things are stricter now, and I feel a bit uncomfortable as the woman behind the bar asks for my order.
‘A pint of lager and a glass of merlot please.’ My voice sounds strained, but she doesn’t do more than glance at me, never mind check out who I’m with.
‘Anything else?’
‘Two packets of crisps.’ As usual, I’ve swapped lunch and dinner for grazing through a few leftovers in the café kitchen. Usually it satisfies my hunger, but the bubbles seem to have woken up my appetite this evening. ‘Salt and vinegar.’
I pick up the crisps and wine in one hand, and the pint of lager in the other. Ben has chosen a high table away from the wide TV screen and close to the window. The swaying silhouettes of half a dozen smokers on the other side cast an eerie shadow over him.
‘Your parents are okay with you going out on a school night?’ I can’t help asking as I slide onto the bar stool next to him.
‘It depends on their mood. Sometimes they’re in a “let’s wipe our hands of him” mood and me staying out makes them feel smug, like they’ve made the right decision.’
‘And other times?’
‘They get all protective; knights in shining armour coming to rescue me for the millionth time. Then they feel like failures when I don’t play along, so get pissed off. It’s a circular thing, I guess.’
‘And how do you see it?’
‘See what?’
‘Bad boy or victim?’
‘Both. Neither. I don’t know. I’m a crap son though, I know that.’ He picks up a beer mat and starts peeling the top layer off. It’s an intricate process, lifting the thin section of paper without ripping it.
‘Maybe you should stop being so down on yourself.’
‘You don’t know me, not really.’
That stings a bit, but I shrug it off. ‘I work with you three days a week. I know you some.’
‘I’m different at work.’ He’s lifted the layer of paper halfway across the beer mat. I watch him pause; decide what to do. Take pleasure in his achievement, or continue to peel and risk failure? ‘I’m happier there,’ he continues.
‘And how do you feel at home?’ I try to say it casually, but it hits a nerve.
He turns the bar mat over and rips it in half. ‘Angry. Trapped. Suffocated. God knows why I’m telling you this.’
‘Guilty. Confused. Scared.’ I want him to know I understand.
‘Yes, that too,’ he whispers, the bar mat forgotten.
I look into his eyes, my eyes, and the connection is so powerful that I can’t believe he doesn’t feel it too. Is this the moment? Is this when I tell him who I really am? Let the whole story roll out: Dan, his baby sister. How sorry I am. But the moment goes when he speaks first.
‘Damaged goods. That’s me.’
His voice is small, and I imagine him at 5 years old, stood on the doorstep of that immaculate house, three perfect strangers beckoning him inside. ‘It must have been hard, the adoption.’
Then he laughs. A horrible, guttural sound that I wish I could un-hear. ‘I was damaged a long time before that.’
I take a moment to think about what to say next. I could stop this conversation now; change the subject. We could talk about Hana – I can see how much he likes her – or I could share my suspicions about Marco. But instead, like an addict after another fix, I delve in deeper. ‘Why? What happened before you were adopted?’
‘I lived with this foster woman. Lizzie. She meant well, I think. Took in anyone the council asked her to. I don’t remember much to be honest, except being scared all the time. Too many kids. Too much shouting.’
‘That must have been horrible for you.’ Guilt stabs at me.
‘I was glad to get out.’
‘And your real mum? Do you remember her?’ We could be anywhere right now. The pub, the smokers outside. None of it exists for me anymore.
‘Real mum?’ he scoffs. ‘Do you mean the woman who left me when I was 3 years old? No. Nothing. I used to try, when I was younger and more pathetic. Close my eyes and hope I could remember something. But then fat Lizzie would waddle into view and that would be it, back in that house full of angry teenagers. I’d probably fit right in now,’ he adds with a bitter smirk.
‘And do you think you would you ever look for her?’ My voice falters, but I have to know.
‘What would be the point? I have a mother. A perfectly reasonable one who has put up with my shit for over twelve years. And she still annoys the hell out of me. How do you reckon I’d get on with a psycho mum?’
‘Psycho?’ He means me. That’s what he thinks of me.
‘She went nuts apparently. My dad died and she went crazy, that’s all I know. And do you know what the worst thing is?’
I don’t have a voice anymore. I sit and wait.
‘I reckon my own fucked-up head is down to her.’
*
I offered to buy another round. What else could I do? I needed some space, but I couldn’t just walk out, leave him there with those dark thoughts. There’s a queue now and I’m grateful. I replay those words in my mind. He thinks I’m crazy. He thinks I made him crazy. How can I ever tell him who I really am now?
I order Ben another beer but choose Coke for me. My judgement is already being tested; I can’t risk alcohol adding an extra layer of confusion. As the barman pours the drinks, I turn to look at my son. He’s opened one of the crisp packets and is slowly working his way through it. Chewing methodically, one crisp at a time.
I turn back to the bar and try to concentrate on the positives. I’m different at work. I’m happier there. He did say those words. Of course Hana will be the main reason for that; first love is a powerful thing. But perhaps I play a part too. He has chosen to confide in me after all. Why am I so desperate to replace our friendship with a mother-child relationship anyway? It’s not like I’ve got a great record with mine. Flora might want me to tell him the truth, but she’s got no right to force me. She stood by and watched while he was taken away; surely she can understand that she owes me her silence now?
I walk to the table and set the glasses down. Maybe I can’t retrieve what we had, but I can enjoy what we have now.
‘I’m thinking of leaving home, like you did.’
‘Sorry?’ I’m too lost in my own thoughts to keep up with his.
‘After my A-levels. Get a job, my own place.’
I think about the sheltered childhood he’s had: the private school, comfortable home, plenty of cash to throw around. I’m not sure he’d find the real world an easy place to survive in, but equally I don’t want to patronise him. It was the route I took after all.
‘If that’s what you want, you should do it.’
‘But?’ So he’s heard the but in my voice.
‘I think you need to live in the moment more. Stop planning, stop questioning yourself. You say you’re crazy, and when I first met you, I might have agreed.’ I smile at him, to lessen the impact of my words, and it’s a relief when he smiles back. ‘But now I know you better, I don’t see a crazy person anymore.’
‘What do you see?’
My son, I want to say. But I don’t of course. ‘I see Ben. I don’t question you, or rate you, or compare you. It’s just you.’
For a tiny moment, I see his eyes glisten with excess moisture. Then they’re gone, hidden by the bottom of his pint glass as he throws his head back and takes gulp after gulp. I wait patiently, watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down, until the glass is empty and he finally makes eye contact again. Only this time the mask is back.
‘Thanks for the beers. I better get back.’
‘Yes, me too.’ I say it for his benefit, but actually I’m relieved. I need some space to think about what I’ve found out tonight, what he thinks about me. It’s awkward between us all of a sudden as we shuffle around collecting our coats and bags. I consider pretending I have a train to catch so that I can rush off, save him the embarrassment of saying goodbye. But I’ve lied to him enough already. So we walk out together in silence, and then just mumble a quick goodnight before heading towards our very different homes.
Chapter 23
Ben
‘Where’s the ham?’ Ben’s head has been pounding all day after last night’s mix of beer and cheap prosecco, and he’s still got to work a full shift tonight. He needs to find some energy from somewhere, and he reckons a few slices of salty processed meat will do the job.
‘Oh, I threw it away. There’s plenty of cheese.’
‘I don’t want cheese.’
Lucy looks up from the drawings currently spread across the kitchen table; a client is hell bent on converting a disused car park into an office block and she’s trying to figure out how on earth it’s going to work. ‘Well tough, because this house is now vegetarian.’
‘What?’ Ben knows Rosie’s been banging on about giving up meat lately; she watched some film on climate change and then declared she could never eat another farting thing. But her pledge has only served to make him a more enthusiastic meat-eater.
‘Well, Rosie’s taken the leap and we thought it would be nice to join her; show some solidarity.’
‘But I like ham. And bacon. And chicken.’
‘We all have to make sacrifices, Ben. The planet isn’t going to save itself.’
‘And how is throwing it in the bin going to help the planet? You’re just creating rubbish when I could h
ave eaten it.’ Ben watches the reaction on Lucy’s face, the realisation slowly creeping in. ‘God, you’re so stupid.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that.’ Part hurt, part warning. But Ben doesn’t care about either of those right now.
‘Did you not think about checking with me first? Or am I not important enough for that?’
‘Ben, why do you always have to make things a competition?’
‘Me making things a competition? Are you fucking serious?’
‘Can’t we just do something positive without you throwing a tantrum? You’re nearly 18, Ben. When are you going to grow up?’
Ben expects these kinds of jibes from his father, but his mum has always been on his side, more or less. It looks like both his parents are running out of patience with him now. Well fine, screw them. ‘When I move out of here probably,’ he shouts. ‘And I get to make my own decisions.’
‘Oh, I’ll get some bloody ham if it’s that important to you.’ Lucy returns to her drawings, dismissing him. But that just makes him more furious. Why does she always get to set the agenda?
‘Don’t turn your back on me!’ Ben pulls at her shoulder, not with much force, but enough to twist her around. The sudden movement knocks her off balance and she reaches out with her arms. The back of her hand connects with a glass of pomegranate juice on the table, and it crashes over, releasing a torrent of dark red liquid across the drawings.
‘Ben, you idiot!’ Lucy yanks her arm free and rushes into the kitchen for a cloth. ‘Help me clear it up!’
But Ben can’t move. He just stands there, rigid with fear.
‘God, you’re useless.’ Lucy lays sheets of kitchen roll over the drawings. ‘Why do you have to cause such a drama over nothing anyway?’
Ben stares at the table, mesmerised; the white paper turning blood-red as the juice seeps through.
‘If you’re not going to help, just go, Ben, okay?’
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He backs out of the room, grabs his jacket and rucksack, and slams the front door behind him. What the fuck was that about? She’s right: he is useless. Tears are threatening to fall, and he can’t let that happen. He could go to the park, find a way to get it knocked out of him there. But he’s been trying to kick that habit since the knife crime lecture at school. Maybe he can walk it off, that’s what those do-good websites advise anyway.
