by Parks, Adele
‘I’ll take a juice.’
They were swiftly furnished with their drinks and then Jo started to explain her situation in earnest. She told him about how she had once been very much in love with some guy called Martin; how this Martin guy had done all the things that women expected from a serious relationship: he’d been obsessed with his career, had duly been promoted and then had proposed with an impressive ring (Tiffany copy). She’d accepted. So far, so same. Then she gave details about the jitters that led to her calling off the marriage at the last minute. She told Dean that she now realised that this was ‘foolish’. He was amused at her word choice. It was either an understatement or a self-delusion; he found himself wondering which. She explained that despite focused attempts at dating numerous other men since, she’d never met anyone she liked as much as she’d liked Martin. Then she told Dean that three months ago Martin had sent her an invite to his wedding, which unbelievably she’d seen as a clear plea from her ex to be rescued and a cue for her to rekindle their relationship. So she’d decided to do this ‘brave and wonderful thing’ of flying to Chicago to stop his wedding.
Dean did not interrupt Jo throughout the telling of her story. She was loquacious as she talked of her determination to win back this guy, and her certainty was enthralling. She was sure that this was the most romantic and idealistic gesture she’d ever made in her life. He thought it must be the champagne talking; there wasn’t another reasonable explanation. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some starry-eyed virgin; quite the opposite,’ she assured him. Her eyes widened a fraction as she confessed this, as did those of the guy sitting behind her. Dean had a sudden image of this woman giving head; it wasn’t a conscious fantasy, it was just something that happened to him, fairly often. He found it difficult to think about women without thinking about sex, unless they were particularly unattractive women. ‘You see, I’ve finally realised that I’ve been getting this whole romance thing topsy-turvy.’
Topsy-turvy? She said gosh and topsy-turvy. Dean wondered whether she might also say ‘whoops-a-daisy’ or ‘goodness gracious me’; did she actually live in this century? Maybe it was a spoof, something for TV. Was there an elaborate hoax being played on him? He glanced around for cameras but couldn’t spot any. Cameras in a business-class cabin were unlikely – no doubt that would be some sort of infringement of privacy rights – but were they any more unlikely than this woman’s story?
‘You see, I thought romance was all about the big bang.’
‘Are we talking about the prevailing cosmological model that explains the early development of the universe?’
‘Er, no, we’re talking about chemistry.’
‘As I said.’
‘Sexual chemistry, not,’ she waved her hand dismissively, ‘not GCSE horror chemistry.’
‘I see.’
‘I thought you had to be wildly attracted to one another. I thought there had to be dramatic moments, a quickening of the pulse, then – ultimately – knickers and sense being thrown to the wind. I thought love was like in the poems, songs and films. There was none of that with Martin, and so I panicked.’
‘What was there with Martin?’
‘He’s tall, pleasant. We didn’t row much.’
‘But you no longer consider the quickening of the pulse as vital?’
‘Not really. I mean, I’ve had that with other guys since, quite a few others actually, and it never, ever lasts. Take you, for example.’
‘Me?’
‘Normally I’d be all flirtatious and ridiculous with you because you’re very much my usual type, you know, physically, but it wouldn’t work out.’
‘Really?’ Dean was used to being every woman’s type and so was not as interested in the flattery as he was in the fact that she was serving it up with a rebuttal.
‘No, it wouldn’t. I could write our story now, having known you for just half an hour.’
‘You could?’
‘Yup. If I hadn’t seen the light and realised that Martin is my One, I’d have behaved very differently on meeting you.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I’d have got drunk and slutty, rather than drunk and chatty. We’d have had hot, irresponsible sex. You’d think it was fun, I’d think it was love, until I realised the number you’d given me was for the local pet store.’
Dean had never actually given out the pet store’s number, but he’d once given his real estate agent’s number in an attempt to shake a persistent woman who he’d considered to be a transient lay; he could not fault Jo’s account.
‘I won’t make that mistake now, because I’ve realised that true love isn’t about quickening pulses or even the gorgeous butterflies and that sort of slackening in the bit below my stomach that has no decent name.’
‘Are we talking front bottom?’ Dean asked with mock seriousness.
‘We are,’ she whispered back, her seriousness entirely for real.
Dean had only asked for verbal clarification so that he could clock the stunned reactions of the passengers around them, who were quite clearly listening in to their conversation. Jo seemed oblivious to anyone else; she was acting as though they were floating in a bubble. ‘What is love about then?’ he asked, showing more interest than he felt.
Only too happy to wax lyrical about her favourite subject, Jo replied, ‘The steady stuff. Duty, loyalty, decency and friendship.’ Dean doubted any of that lasted either. It was just as ephemeral as a quickening of the pulse, but he didn’t care enough to contradict her. ‘Do you know, my parents are celebrating their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary this very weekend. I look up to their relationship as a sort of nirvana.’ Jo smiled dreamily. Dean wondered if her parents had had lobotomies, or was there some other dark reason for them making it so far. Perhaps they were swingers, or simply pig-ugly and short of options. He doubted the latter; in fairness, this Jo woman – whilst obviously delusional – was a looker, he could give her that. ‘I suppose I do still believe in the dramatic side of romance that books and films do so well. You know, missed opportunities, painful goodbyes and lost chances, but only if finally, obviously, there’s the happy ending.’ She giggled briefly. ‘And I’m now going to have all of that with Martin.’ Dean thought there was a genuine danger that she’d clap her hands in excitement again. ‘Are you following?’
‘I’m not sure I am.’ He understood her argument but questioned her reason.
‘I just think that in the final analysis we all have a right to a happily-ever-after. Martin and I are fated. He’s my One. It’s quite simple really.’ She was flushed with her own rhetoric (that and the fact that during the telling she’d consumed quite a lot more champagne).
‘Wow,’ said Dean.
‘Romantic, huh?’ Jo drained her glass and immediately signalled for the flight attendant to bring her yet another. It was clear that following the spurting out of her dramatic confession, she was expecting some sort of seismic shift in Dean’s attitude, or maybe even coloured tickertape to be softly floating from the ceiling.
Dean considered. How could a woman grow up in the twenty-first century and believe that her best chance in life was finding some half-decent bloke to marry her, irrespective of the fact that he clearly bored her? Sometimes it was as though the last couple of hundred years had never happened. This woman was so blinkered.
‘So, let me get this right. If you’re successful, this will be the second time you’ve stopped this man getting married when he’s expecting to?’ pointed out Dean.
‘Erm, well …’ Jo hesitated. The imaginary tickertape settled on the floor in embarrassing puddles.
‘The second time you’ve humiliated him in front of all his friends and family?’
‘No, I’m—’
Dean didn’t let her finish. ‘The second time you’ve ruined what’s supposed to be the best day of his life?’
‘Put like that—’
‘Put like that, you sound like a totally selfish cow,’ said Dean flatly. He was fed up wit
h selfish people wrecking other people’s lives. He’d had enough of it. With those words he turned on his video screen, plugged in his headphones and then pressed the button that caused the barrier to rise between their two seats.
15
Eddie
I have no idea why my son came here. Funny that I knew him. My vision is going. His face swam before me, yet I knew him. But now he’s gone. Where? Why? Things are blurred.
My son. Those are words that I haven’t spun around my head for years. I can’t work him out. Haven’t the energy. Haven’t the time. Some might say that’s always been the case, and maybe it has, in a more philosophical sense, but the hard fact is, it’s the absolute cold truth now. I have days left on earth. Where’s he gone? Will he come back? He’s a fiery one. Difficult and angry. I was wondering whether this is what I want to do with the last days of my life. Really, what is the point of talking to the angry young man who I gave life to but not much else? But then I thought, it’s as good as anything else on offer. It’s not as though they are going to wheel in a chorus line of beauties for my entertainment, is it? And even if they did, I can barely raise a hand, let alone much else. What good would they be to me? But he’s flounced off. Like a woman.
So who is he, this son of mine? He’s a good-looking lad, I’ll give him that. He reminds me of myself, which I doubt he wants to hear. The truth hurts. Although I’d never have turned up at the deathbed of my estranged father, after nearly thirty years of silence. I’m not the sentimental sort. At least I don’t think I would have. I suppose it’s difficult to guess how you’d act in circumstances you’ve never experienced.
My father thought the sun shone out my arse. Would do anything for me. My mother is the same. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like without them. I wasn’t at my father’s side. He died of a heart attack at work. The messy bit all cleaned up by the time I got there. Never even saw his body; didn’t want to. Useless bodies. They let you down. My mother is still going. Well, to an extent. She’s in an assisted-living place. What will she make of outliving me? Gutted, she’ll be, obviously. I have an itch in my buttock but can’t move to do anything about it. I should have asked the lad to scratch it for me. Christ, I can only imagine how he’d have reacted to that. Sense of humour seems to have skipped a generation; that or he’s inherited his mother’s.
I thought maybe Dean came here because he thinks I have money, wants to cash in on a bob or two. Not unreasonable. But he asked the strangest things. Wanted to know if I followed football. I told him no. Not my sport. No doubt that cut off a line of small talk, but it was hardly the moment to start feigning a common interest. He seemed particularly agitated by my response, so despite the fact that it hurts to talk, I gave it a go, this conversation he so clearly wanted. ‘Do you?’ I asked. He looked up at me. It was a cold stare. Icy.
‘Not really. I used to watch it, on the TV, when I was a kid,’ he said.
Waste of a Saturday afternoon that. I told him. You should’ve been outside in the fresh air, I muttered. He looked like he wanted to punch me. Maybe he thought it was a bit late for me to be offering up parental advice, and he’d be right, it is. I wasn’t passing comment on him as such, more on the concept of watching sport on the box instead of getting out there and playing it. I’m not an observer. Not part of the audience. I’ve always been a doer.
‘What is your sport then?’ he asked.
‘Squash, when I was younger. Golf, up until about a year ago. I became too ill to manage a round.’
‘Not a team player, then,’ he commented with a sneer. The muscle on his cheek pulsed furiously. Still, I envy his angry vitality. Fury proves you’re alive.
‘Not as such, no.’
‘Not as such,’ he repeated bitterly, dropping his head in his hands. I understood what he meant by that, of course.
I wonder if my lad is stable. I was shocked to hear they’d been in care. That, I didn’t see coming. It can mess with your head, that can. Horrendous. Dean might be a violent man. I know nothing about him. But then there’s no point in worrying about it. What’s the worst that could happen? He could hold a pillow over my face and end the suffering three or four days earlier than expected. Bigger shame for him than me if he goes down that route. He’d end up in prison. Hope he doesn’t try to kill me, for that reason alone. My God, I feel protective of him. Get me.
I haven’t had many visitors since I came in here this time round. I don’t blame anyone for that. I was never much of a hospital visitor myself. Depressing bloody places. People came when I first got the diagnosis, when there was still hope. A few old boys I used to work with, way back when at the Beeb; we’ve kept in touch, sporadically. Only Ron had the sparkling career we all hankered after. The rest of us made do, made ends meet. Wrote comedy scripts for smaller and smaller channels, until reality TV murdered us all. After that, I wrote for radio and trade magazines, kept the challenging scripts hidden in the desk drawer, gathering dust. Still, I earned enough to drink whisky at the Groucho and to occasionally eat dinner at the Arts Club in Dover Street. That sort of thing. Good times. Good times. Can’t complain.
A couple of my ex-girlfriends popped by. Not her. Don’t expect it. She’ll have the letter by now. Not sure why I sent that. Not thinking straight. Some of the blokes from the golf club and their once-pretty wives came in. Well-meaning types. They brought newspapers and fruit. But this thing takes so long. People wanted me to get better. I couldn’t oblige. They’ve lost interest and I don’t blame them for that. I’ve never encouraged the sort of relationships where we held hands through the bad times. My usual response to bad times is a first-class ticket right the hell out of there, as my lad could no doubt testify. That’s why I resent that I was caught by something so slow. Like my visitors, I wanted to see a swift recovery, but failing that, I wish it would hurry up and kill me. The rediscovered son at least helped me pass the time. I wonder if he’s gone for something to eat?
‘Do you need me to arrange your funeral?’ he asked.
‘I thought you prided yourself on being a charmer,’ I rasped back.
‘I never said that.’
‘You never had to. I recognise it.’ I tried to laugh, but Dean bristled.
‘Well, do you need me to plan the funeral? Do you need money?’
Funny that he should have asked me the very question I’d been thinking about asking him. I assured him it was all done. I’ve arranged everything, paid for everything. I’ve kept it simple. Breathlessly, I added, ‘What’s the point of a big party if I’m not there to get drunk?’
‘Thoughtful,’ he snarled sarcastically.
I raised my eyebrows at him. Actually, I thought arranging the funeral was thoughtful; who wants the trouble of all that? I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t sure I could still fill a room. Don’t want his pity, can’t expect it. Besides, truthfully, he has the measure of me. I am selfish. Always have been. Always will be. No point making a song and dance or trying to deny what’s as plain as the nose on a face. ‘I spent my money as I made it,’ I told him. ‘Never borrowed, never lent. Didn’t own a house, preferred to rent, but there’s some savings. What there is, you can divide between the four of you. I’ve made a will.’
‘I don’t want your money.’
‘Well, give it away then. Give it to a bloody cats’ home.’ He didn’t seem to register that even before his surprise visit I’d done my bit to look out for him and his sister. Treated them just like the other two, even though I was with the other two until they were almost teenagers. ‘Whatever, I don’t care. Don’t burn it, though. That’s criminal.’
Then he lost it. ‘I tell you what’s criminal. Me being here, right at the end. You wanting me to know you now, after all this time. So when you do … go, I’ll be left wondering.’ He didn’t shout; it was the other sort of anger, the barely contained type. More vicious that, because it explodes in the end.
That sort of thing is exactly why I didn’t ever fancy one of those surprise family
reunions that you see on TV. Full of recriminations and reproaches. I can’t be bothered with his incessant chorus of outrage. He sounded like a seagull. Never liked seagulls. Or any birds. Or nature, come to that. I like cities, noise, dirt, industry, vehicles. I pause in that thought process. I’m going off track. What was I thinking before? Oh yes. What was he whingeing about? I didn’t ask him to get to know me. I don’t want that particularly. I’m just passing time. I could as easily lie here thinking about people I’ve worked with, money I’ve wasted, people I’ve fucked and fucked over, but he turned up, didn’t he. It was a bit of company. I tried to lighten the atmosphere. I said to him, ‘Hey, lad, haven’t you heard the saying better late than never?’
He glared at me. Looked right at me, right through me. I thought he was trying to read my mind. I stared back, trying to fix my face into an expression of openness. Here’s the thing. I know Dean sees me as some furtive, guarded villain, but I’m not that. Really I’m not. It’s true I’ve had my share of secrets; what man hasn’t? Not every woman I’ve slept with has necessarily been totally aware of every other woman in my life at the time. It’s sometimes been a bit complicated, but I’ve never hidden anything big. I walked out on Diane, yes, but I left her a forwarding address, in case she wanted to get in touch with me. She never did. So the next time I moved, I might have forgotten to keep her up to date with my new address details. I wasn’t trying to hide from her or anyone. I was just on the move a lot. I’m an open book. I’m straightforward. Some people go as far as to say I’m shallow. Lots have, actually. Women in particular have yelled that charge at me on countless occasions over the years. But I say, what’s so great about being deep? It’s just another word for the self-obsessed, or the depressed, or the academic elite who like to think they are more than the rest of us. I’m easy-going. Easily pleased. I don’t worry about things. If that makes me shallow, then shoot me. Honestly, I wish to God someone would shoot me. I ache in every single bone in my body. This is hell.
