by Parks, Adele
This letter isn’t going to reveal anything astounding, don’t worry. It isn’t going to be a crass declaration of undying love (that would be ridiculous under the circumstance of me actually dying – under any circumstances, really). This letter is nothing more than a tip of the hat. A nod, a bow. Just don’t call for an encore.
I find myself quite alone when I’m penning this. It’s not an altogether surprising outcome, considering how I’ve lived my life and the choices I’ve made. I’m not asking for pity or anything mawkish like that. God forbid. I’ve done all right. I’ve had my fun. On the whole it’s worked out as I might have hoped. It’s just that I’ve been told to wrap things up. I wrote to my solicitor and to the funeral director, but there was extra paper left over. So I thought I’d write to you.
You see, lying here, waiting, I’ve had time to remember. I remembered that we burnt brightly. We did, didn’t we? For that short time. Least, that’s how I recall it. You made your choice and I respect that. I’m not trying to rake over old ground. I just wanted you to know that in amongst all this pain (and believe me, Clara, this bastard illness hurts like hell), I’ve thought of you – from time to time – over the last few months, and that has eased things. A little. I thought you might like to know that it is so.
That’s all, over and out. Sorry for the interruption.
Best,
Eddie
Tim hadn’t quite known what to think, beyond the fact that receiving a letter was so quaint nowadays; most people emailed. And a letter of this magnitude – a dying man’s letter – was off the scale.
‘You can’t be leaving me for him.’ He hadn’t known whether he was asking a question or making a statement.
‘Of course not.’
‘He’s dying, Clara. Eddie Taylor is dying.’ Tim said the name as he had always said it. Twenty-nine years hadn’t altered the tone; the four syllables were still spat out with a mix of frustration, envy, scorn and fear.
‘I understand that. I said I’m not leaving you for him. I could have done that a million years ago if I’d wanted to.’
‘Then why are you leaving?’
‘A million years ago,’ Clara had repeated, her vision blurring as a film of tears erupted, embarrassing and taunting her at once.
‘Then what’s your point?’
‘When he thinks of me, I ease his pain,’ she’d murmured. That was her point.
‘I read that.’
‘Isn’t that romantic?’
‘That’s a difficult question for me to answer as your husband. It’s a difficult question for you to ask me as a wife.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever eased your pain.’
‘In many ways you have. It’s different with us.’ Tim had coughed. The conversation was impossible to navigate.
‘Too different,’ Clara had stated baldly. What they had wasn’t enough. How had it taken her so long to admit as much to herself? ‘I won’t do this any more. I can’t.’
‘You knew what you were agreeing to.’
‘No I didn’t, not at first, not until we had three children, then what was I supposed to do?’
‘But in all fairness, I didn’t know for certain when we first married. I thought I could keep it under control. I thought it was a phase, something I might curb.’
‘Tim, you are a homosexual, not a drug addict or a gambler. It’s not something that should be curbed. You should be free to be who you are,’ Clara had snapped. She thought she ought to be free to be who she was as well.
‘I work in the City, Clara.’
‘Other gay men do too!’
‘Not old queers like me; young hotties. It’s different for them.’
‘No it’s not; at least it shouldn’t be. Times have changed.’ Clara had put down her glass, focusing all her energy on her husband.
‘I’m too old for change.’ He’d shaken his head forlornly.
‘I’m not! This is ridiculous. We are ridiculous. I’m a woman, not facial hair.’
Tim had been irritated by her weak attempt at humour. This wasn’t a moment for fun; it was in no way a laughing matter. He’d looked at his wife, carefully, and was struck (as he always was) by the beauty and symmetry of her features. She had always been a pleasure to look at, quite especially aesthetically pleasing. Neat, slim, not in any way excessive. It had been her trimness (of body and mind) that had attracted him. She had an aura of old-fashioned restraint that he appreciated, needed. He wished he’d been able to love her in the way a man was supposed to love his wife. It would have been so much more orderly. ‘My career aside, what will the children say? My parents? Our neighbours?’
‘I don’t care what they’ll say.’
‘But you’ve always cared.’
‘Then more fool me.’ Clara had held the letter close to her heart and started to gently rock backwards and forwards in her seat, as though she was nursing a child. Tim had had no idea why she was behaving like this.
‘Let me get this right. You’re leaving me as a consequence of Eddie Taylor being given three sheets of A4 notepaper, rather than two.’
‘Oh, Tim.’
‘You know he only wrote to you because there was extra paper!’ Tim rarely raised his voice, but anguish and humiliation had pushed him into new territory. ‘Our thirty-eight-year marriage is over because there was extra paper!’
Clara had stopped rocking, straightened her shoulders and responded to Tim’s outburst with her usual composure. ‘It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it,’ she’d commented with a tone that approached serenity.
18
Dean
Dean watched her materialise from the aeroplane toilet. The attractiveness of her face was almost cancelled out by the anxious expression she wore. Almost. And he felt mean. An old-fashioned emotion, something he usually only associated with Zoe and their occasional childhood tiffs. On the rare instance he had become exasperated with Zoe’s clinginess – and had tried to shake her off so that he could hang out with boys his own age and cause trouble, rather than be troubled with the responsibility of babysitting Zoe – he’d always found that any fun he was trying to have was hampered by the fact that he knew she’d be sat by the window, alone, waiting for his return. He generally felt too mean to really enjoy himself with his new friends and would invariably find himself returning early to keep Zoe company. He’d be greeted by her anxious face, which on spotting him would instantly light up with gratitude. This Jo woman looked similarly dazed and concerned, although for less cause, Dean reminded himself, and she wasn’t his sister; he didn’t have to try to transform her expression, it wasn’t his problem. He tried to swipe away the guilt that hovered irritatingly, like a gnat. Bloody hell, as if he wasn’t wrung out enough. He had plenty of his own crap to deal with; the last thing he needed right now was someone else to be concerned about.
Yet he found he was concerned about her.
Or interested in her.
One of the two.
He’d nudged her tit with his elbow and his cock had shuddered. How was that even possible under the circumstances? His personal upheaval and her obvious insanity ought to have immunised him to any lusty thoughts. He really didn’t want to go there. She had disaster zone written all over her.
Despite how it might appear, and despite what half of Chicago’s female population believed, Dean didn’t go out of his way to hurt women; he wasn’t some psycho misogynist. He did hurt them, of course, but that was because they didn’t listen to him. When he said he didn’t want to get involved, that he wasn’t looking for a relationship and definitely didn’t want a girlfriend, that was what he meant. But they rarely listened. Every woman thought she would be the one to change him, fix him, keep him. So inevitably they would try, fail and get hurt. But Dean did endeavour to treat women fairly. Coolly but fairly.
If this Jo had been some hard, gold-digging bitch, he might have been able to ignore her, but she wasn’t. She was delusional and misguided, but it was clear she meant no harm (althou
gh she was certainly going to do some). When she’d spoken about this Martin bloke, she hadn’t gone on about the lifestyle he could offer her, the size of his wage packet or flat; she’d used phrases like ‘meant to be’ and ‘fated’. She’d talked about finding her soulmate and all sorts of other rubbish. Despite himself, Dean was intrigued. Could anyone really believe that stuff? It was mental. He wondered whether he could save her from herself, if he put his mind to it. He liked a challenge. Anyway, he hadn’t been able to concentrate on a single word in the newspaper; his thoughts kept wandering; he kept thinking about Eddie Taylor and his grey skin and rasping breath. That was the absolute last thing he wanted. He decided that at the very least, this Jo woman would be a distraction. Once she sat down, he held up a packet of shortbread and a mini Twix finger.
‘Thought you might be hungry since I put you off your lunch.’ She glared at him, clearly not yet ready to relent. ‘You can have first pick,’ he encouraged. He was used to women being angry with him, and he was used to them forgiving him pretty quickly too.
He flashed his best grin and on cue she said, ‘I’ll have the shortbread.’ Sometimes he felt sorry for women; they were so predictable, so pliable, so malleable. He gently tossed the biscuits to her, but she muddled up the catch, trapping the treat between her right hand and left boob. The boob he’d nudged outside the loo. It was a good boob. They both were. He decided to pretend not to notice either the poor catch or the shapely tits. He stuffed the Twix bar into his mouth in one go, chewed, and then turned to this strangely frank but hugely imprudent woman. He was feeling oddly invigorated; mischievous to the point of delirious. Shock, probably.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s none of my business.’
She glared at him as she nibbled on her shortbread. He held her gaze until she softened. He’d decided it would take to the count of three. Before he got to two, she spoke. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, I was just making conversation,’ she said, as she swallowed the biscuit. Her eyes belied her pronouncement. Her confiding in him had been more than a conversation starter. It dawned on him that she needed support. He couldn’t approve of her nonsense, but he didn’t need to make her feel worse about her desperation. There was no glory in that.
‘Should we talk about something else?’ he offered. ‘Start over?’ She nodded eagerly, allowing her cute smile to shine through. ‘So tell me a bit about yourself,’ Dean said, meeting her smile with one of his own.
‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’
‘Anything, everything.’ She stared at him blankly, so he decided to give her some pointers. ‘Where do you live?’
‘London.’
‘Which part?’
‘North. Sort of. At the moment.’
‘Do you have a nice place?’ Jo shrugged but didn’t elaborate. ‘Do you flat-share?’ She moved her head slightly, but it was unclear whether she was nodding or shaking it. Exasperated, Dean asked, ‘Have you a window box you’d like to tell me about?’
‘What is this? Twenty questions?’
‘Why are you being so cagey all of a sudden?’
‘Why are you being so nosy all of a sudden?’
‘I’m just trying to make conversation.’
Recognising her own words, Jo relented. ‘OK, OK. Well, the truth is, I’m sort of in between flats.’ She sighed, and then added, ‘I sleep on my sister’s sofa.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘When Martin and I split, I rented a room off my friend, a lovely two-bedroom flat in Islington. It was great. We were fine for ages, then Charlotte moved her boyfriend in.’
‘Two is company, three’s a crowd.’
‘Exactly. Shortly after he moved in, he said he was going to start working from home. He said he’d have to convert the spare room into an office. When Charlotte first explained the situation to me, it took me a moment to understand. I actually said, “But we don’t have a spare room.”’
‘She meant your room?’
‘Yup.’ Jo shrugged. Something tightened in Dean’s gut; he empathised. There was nothing worse than that feeling of having nowhere to go; it chilled the core. ‘I quickly discovered that rents have rocketed since I struck my deal with Charlotte and my wages have somehow managed to remain exactly the same for the last few years. There’s a disparity. A disparity between what I earn and the rent landlords ask at the sort of place I’m prepared to live in.’
‘I see.’
‘My standards aren’t ridiculous,’ she assured him in a tone laced with panic and indignation. ‘Although I don’t want to share a bathroom, kitchen and sitting room with strangers, I accept I have to, but I do draw the line at sharing a bedroom with a stranger. Bunk beds, for goodness’ sake. I’m thirty-five, not five!’ She blushed. Dean guessed that she hadn’t meant to let her age slip out like that. She rushed on. ‘So, Lisa’s sofa is more attractive than bunk beds and Lisa’s sofa, notably, is free. But it’s only a temporary measure.’
‘Of course. How long have you been there?’
‘About five months.’
‘Oh.’
‘But it won’t be for ever.’
‘No.’
Jo sighed, then continued, ‘I’m not sure how much longer the arrangement will last, actually. I get the feeling that my brother-in-law, Henry, is finding it a tad irritating. He’s got into the habit of making me a cup of tea before I set off for work each morning.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yup, I thought he was being sweet too, at first, but last month he started circling ads for rooms to let in the local freebie newspaper and handing the paper over with the cuppa.’
‘Sharing can be fraught,’ said Dean sympathetically.
‘He was so snappy the other day because I’d used his razor to shave my legs, and yes, I realise I ought to try to remember to mention it if I use the last of the milk, but it’s not as though I put the empty carton back in the fridge. I just forget that the kids need milk for breakfast. I don’t have kids; I’ve never had to think that way. More’s the pity.’ She threw the last sentence towards the aisle and away from him so he let it drift.
Dean thought of his own home, a sleek loft apartment, full of what estate agents might call mod cons. More importantly, it boasted an abundance of privacy and space; he felt incredibly grateful. Suddenly, surprisingly, he wondered where his father had lived before he went into hospital. As a kid, he’d given a lot of thought to that sort of thing, but he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine anything like that for years. It was pointless, a dead end. Unbidden, an image of his father burst into his head. He was sitting alone and pitiful in a studio flat, towers of washing-up stacked precariously around the sink, an unmade bed in one corner and a small TV droning from another. He knew these types of flats. Intimately acquainted. He could picture the relentless browns and greys easily; he could smell the dust, damp and stale stranger sweat; he could hear the neighbours fighting through the paper-thin walls. He shoved the thought away and scrabbled around for the earlier vision of his father in France, indolent, ignorant, distant, but that image had collapsed, vanished. He tried to focus on this Jo woman instead.
‘The thing is, Lisa has this huge career, while Henry has a part-time position with the council; some administration job that fits around the kids. Consequently, Henry and I are seeing rather more of one another than either of us is used to. We’ve had to get to know each other’s quirks. It’s simply a period of readjustment.’ She was obviously trying to convince herself as much as him.
‘What quirks?’ Dean wanted to know.
‘I like to chat in the mornings, Henry is monosyllabic. I’m happy to eat my supper off a tray in front of the TV, but Henry strongly believes the family ought to sit around the table and make conversation. He’s kept supper hot for me on four different occasions when I’ve returned home later than anticipated. Although I don’t know why he bothers; the warm plate can’t do a thing to thaw the frosty atmosphere when I delay a meal.’
‘So
unds a bit of a nightmare.’
‘It can be. Of course, he’s always polite enough. I’m family and he’s a decent man, so I know I’m safe from out-and-out eviction, but …’ Dean fully understood why she broke off. She didn’t fit in. It wasn’t her home. That was uncomfortable. She rallied, and smiled again. At a glance it was convincing, but if anyone cared to look for longer than a fleeting second, it was obviously not one of her heartfelt smiles. He wondered whether anyone looked beyond; his experience had been that no one ever did. People wanted to accept what was easiest and most convenient, regardless of truth.
‘I’m sure they love having you to stay,’ he said, mustering cheer.
‘You think?’ She looked doubtful and grateful at the same time. ‘I’m well aware that it is my responsibility to fit in with their lifestyle and habits, so I haven’t once complained about my nephews and niece waking me up at six every morning, or the fact that they never watch anything decent on TV. I’ve been the third wheel to enough couples to receive the message loud and clear: single women have to adapt, single women have to accommodate.’
‘Right.’ Dean took a long, deep breath in. He thought she ought to as well. He decided he’d better change the subject; her sleeping arrangements were almost as depressing as her romantic aspirations. He went to the old favourite. ‘So, what do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a writer.’
‘Interesting.’ He beamed.
‘You?’
‘Advertising.’ He wouldn’t let her turn the conversation. ‘What sort of writer? Novelist? Journalist?’
‘Journalist.’
‘Newspapers?’
‘Magazines.’
