State We're In

by Parks, Adele

  Dean became aware that the flight attendants were striding down the aisle collecting used glasses and headsets. Then the fasten seat belt sign came on, and as though it had actually instructed everyone to leap out of their seats, rather than the opposite, people all around him suddenly jerked into action. The middle-aged businessmen bounced in their seats, slipping their shoes back on, putting away laptops, copies of Time magazine and Sudoku puzzles. Other passengers rushed to the bathrooms and the captain’s voice came over the speaker system, informing them that they were now just twenty minutes from landing, that the temperature in Chicago was a surprising twenty-nine degrees and that the captain was aware that they had a choice of airlines and was gratified that they’d picked his. Dean stretched over to Jo and gently shook her awake.

  ‘We’re going to land. You have to put your seat up.’ She sat up suddenly, looking alarmed and befuddled. Dean wondered whether the enormity of what she was doing had finally sunk in.

  He realised he was mistaken when she said, ‘Gosh, I must look a mess. Was I snoring?’

  ‘No.’ She had been, very lightly, but he didn’t think she needed to know; he figured she had enough to worry about.

  ‘Well, that’s good. Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  She glanced nervously at the illuminated fasten seat belts sign. ‘Do you think I have time to go to the bathroom to freshen up? I bet I look a state.’

  ‘Not really. There’s a queue. The flight attendants are asking people to return to their seats. Anyway, you look fine. Better than you did when you boarded.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. I think.’

  ‘You’ve got some colour back in your cheeks.’ Without giving it any thought, he leant forward and gently, using his thumb, eased out the sleep that nestled in the corner of her right eye.

  ‘Thank you.’ She surprised him by bringing up her hand and rubbing his cheek robustly. ‘You have a crease where you’ve leant against the pillow,’ she said by way of explanation. He stared at her, startled but not affronted in any way. She stared back as though they were in a playground contest. But she lost because she blushed and turned away first.

  They both watched in silence as the plane pushed through the downy bank of clouds, and suddenly Dean could see the imposing Chicago skyline. Terra nova for Jo, home for him. The elephant-grey tarmac loomed up to meet them. The wheels banged on to the runway with one whack, two, and then a third, before they were pinned firmly and safely to the ground. Dean heard a round of applause being offered up from economy class; one or two passengers in club class joined in, Jo being among them, even though cheering the pilot was largely an American tradition. Dean wasn’t a nervous flyer so he hadn’t realised he was gripping his seat arm. He only became aware when Jo placed her hand over his and wriggled her fingers to thread in between his. She gave his hand a small squeeze.

  ‘It’s going to be OK,’ she said over the noise of the rushing wind and whirling engines.

  ‘You think.’ It was a statement rather than a question, but Jo nodded enthusiastically anyhow. It was odd; if he’d been a betting man, at the beginning of this flight he’d have bet that he’d be the one comforting her as they approached touchdown, not the other way round. She was a peculiar combination; so positive and therefore powerful, and yet so misguided and naive. Did she know what was making him nervous? Did she, with her blissful childhood, have any real idea? For a moment it seemed as though she did know that he needed reassurance, that by squeezing his hand she was telling him what he needed to hear – that everything would return to normal again now, the interruption could be forgotten and buried. He wouldn’t sink.

  After travelling at such a high speed for so many hours, it was strangely sobering and very frustrating that the plane crawled to the gate. Dean could see portable steps being wheeled out to meet them, and with an accuracy that surprised him every time, no matter how often he flew, the plane locked on to them like the attracting poles of a magnet. The engine stopped. The fasten seat belt sign went off. Passengers leapt up like athletes off the block competing for an Olympic medal, but Dean and Jo stayed still. Her hand still resting on his. Fingers intertwined. She smiled at him. He smiled back.

  ‘As a resident, I get to file through a slightly shorter customs queue than yours. So we probably won’t see each other the other side.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So we should say our goodbyes now.’ He didn’t know why he’d said that. What was he planning to do? Shake her hand? Shake some sense into her? Hug her?

  ‘It’s been wonderful flying with you, Dean Taylor.’

  ‘The pleasure was all mine, Jo Russell.’ As he said it, he was surprised to realise that he meant it; what he said to women and what he thought about them didn’t always tally as neatly, but he had needed her company more than he could have imagined. She was not just a distraction, but a comfort too. He’d been comforted by her optimism. Even though he didn’t share it, he found he was gratified to think that such hopefulness was out there in the world somewhere. Actually, he was surprised to find that he had remembered her surname; he often called women ‘babe’ or ‘doll’ to avoid the complication of having to remember names. They sat quietly for a moment, allowing all the other passengers to rush and tumble around them. ‘Good luck with, you know, everything.’ Dean couldn’t quite bring himself to wish her luck with her ridiculous plan; it was cruel to offer encouragement.

  ‘I’m sorry about the book dropping and the champagne dropping …’ She allowed her apologies to fade away.

  He shrugged. Glancing down at the stains. He’d forgotten all about her entrance. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘And I’m sorry about your dad.’

  ‘As I said, don’t worry about it.’

  23

  Jo

  I watch Dean’s back as he melts into the crowds that are heading for the residents’ queue, then join the significantly longer, more higgledy-piggledy non-residents’ line. I am continually jostled and urged forward and so I can’t let my eyes linger on the sad and ridiculously handsome man for as long as I might have liked. I mentally shake myself. OK, what I have to do is think in terms of practicalities. I need to make this happen with Martin, to make it work. This is my big chance. This is my last chance. I must formulate a plan.

  First I have to check into a hotel. Thank goodness Dean suggested one, or else I wouldn’t know where to start. Wasn’t that thoughtful of him? How far away will it be? I wonder. I bet it’s gorgeous; he is clearly a man who values style. Is the hotel likely to be somewhere near the wedding venue? I hope so. Next I’ll need clothes for tomorrow. I haven’t packed much at all. Whatever came to hand first, without really thinking it through. So I have sleepwear, toiletries, jeans and clean knickers, but I’ll need more than jeans and clean knickers to lure Martin away from his new fiancée. Although, arguably, if that is all I wear when I confront him, then I might be at an advantage. He’s always been a breast man.

  Having had my passport and visa waiver stamped, I wander through to baggage collection. I stand on tiptoes and crane my neck. I tell myself I’m not hoping to spot Dean, but I don’t believe me when a wave of disappointment washes through me as I register that there’s no sign of him. He obviously cleared customs before me, and as he had carry-on luggage, he wouldn’t have had to hang around this noisy hall. He’s probably halfway home by now.

  I’ll never see him again.

  The thought strikes me like a blow. Suddenly I feel sick and tired and lost. I feel my sanguine confidence begin to drain. Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, I mentally chastise myself. This is idiotic. So I’ll never see Dean again. So what? He was an incident. That’s all. We shared a few hours and that will be it because Chicago is an enormous city and there’s no chance that I’ll simply bump into him. I shouldn’t even want to. How many people live here? Dean mentioned a figure. Was it two and a half million? So, not a hope in hell of ever seeing him again.

  Suddenly the thought
of Chicago looming, huge and unknown, is not so much exciting as intimidating. I feel coldly isolated and more solitary than I felt at Heathrow. Heathrow was fun. That side of the Atlantic I had shops and hope, and blind faith. Where has that gone to? It isn’t just because this airport is new and strange to me; the truth is, I miss him.

  I miss Dean. It is ridiculous but true.

  I wish I’d asked for his mobile number or an email address. It would have been sensible to have a contact here in this unfamiliar city. Sensible and comforting. And something more. Something I cannot examine, admit to or even consider.

  I spot my bag trundling around the conveyor belt and sweep it up. I thrust out my chin, a physical and mental act of defiance that makes me feel an iota stronger and more sure. Enough of this wishing and hoping and dreaming; I have been doing that for years, to no avail. It’s time to get real, to get serious. To be practical. I need to focus on getting into the city, on checking into the hotel, on buying clothes and on Martin. I have to put one foot in front of the other and do what I’ve promised myself I am here to do.

  Yet I can’t quite imagine what is next, not clearly, not any more. I can’t quite imagine Martin’s face, not clearly.

  Not any more.

  All I see is Dean. Dean’s reluctant smile, Dean’s tanned hands. I can hear Dean’s funny and clever quips echoing through my head. He has a strange way of looking at the world. Slightly savage, slightly damaged. Is that because he’s losing his dad, or is there more? What is the deal with him and his father? I’d have liked to have the time to find out, but it needed coaxing. I’d have liked to make things better. Just a tiny bit. If I could. I remember his laugh. The big one. The real one. It’s brave and occasional and brilliant. I can smell his cologne.

  I walk through the corridor that leads landside and cross my fingers that there’ll be a bus into the city; my hundred and fifty dollars cash won’t go far if I have to pay for a cab. I have to stop thinking about Dean. Think about Martin. Yet I keep hearing Dean’s voice, repeating my name. Jo. Jo. It strains above the noise of airport greetings, clanking trolleys and the endless bustle of countless busy people dashing across the polished tiles.

  Jo! The tone is persistent, insistent. In fact so persistent and insistent it doesn’t sound as though it’s in my head; it sounds real. I turn to where the voice is coming from. And there he is. Like a great big smile. Dean. He waves to me from the glass doors that lead outside to the taxi rank.

  ‘Jo, do you want to share a ride? I can drop you off at the hotel,’ he yells.

  As my eyes land on him, rest on him, I suddenly feel wrapped in certainty and strength again. I fight down tears of relief. With him by my side I am sure I can do anything, anything at all, including destroying a wedding. I hurry towards him. Towards his smile and the sense that he’ll look after things, sort things out. I beam at him and he beams back. I’m surrounded by fresh air, a welcome change after the plane and the endless corridors of air-conditioning, and I tell myself that what I’m feeling is all about relief and friendship and nothing to do with falling in love.

  ‘I thought you’d be long gone.’

  ‘I started to worry that you wouldn’t be able to find the hotel. Or that maybe there wouldn’t be rooms and you’d need somewhere else.’ He shrugs, trying to downplay his thoughtfulness.

  ‘I’d have managed,’ I lie. I doubt I would have, but I don’t want to appear too pathetic. Dean doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘And this wedding you’re going to. This non-wedding.’ He rakes his fingers through his hair; he looks uncomfortable. Unsure. ‘I wondered whether you brought anything with you to wear.’

  ‘No, no, I haven’t. I was just thinking about that.’

  ‘And whether you knew where to go to shop.’

  ‘No clue.’

  ‘I could help with that,’ offers Dean with another shrug. ‘I could show you where my sister likes to shop when she comes to visit me.’

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘This doesn’t mean I’m endorsing what you are doing.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I think what you are doing is suicide.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I just want you to look your best as you are going to your death.’ He grins.

  Without over-thinking it, I rush at him, fling my arms around him and pull him into a tight hug. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  More cautiously, he pats my back and mutters, ‘No biggie.’

  24

  Eddie

  I recognise her the moment she walks in, which is a miracle, because my vision is letting me down and, well, it’s been forever. Some might make something of that. There isn’t anything to make of it. I recognise her because she hasn’t changed. Inevitably, there are a few more lines around her eyes, the skin underneath her jaw has slackened a fraction and she is perhaps three or four pounds heavier – she carries it all on her stomach. But on the plus side, her clothes are even posher than they were – and they were always refined, a cut above. She’s wearing white linen trousers and a thin woollen navy top, probably cashmere, I’d guess. The top wafts gently around her as she walks towards me, caressing her shoulders, hips, breasts. Her hair is a little longer than I remember, softer, feathered. She used to wear it in the Purdey style, inspired by The New Avengers; she had the cheekbones and the endless legs to carry it off. There were a lot of Joanna Lumley wannabes back then. Clara was one of the few who was convincing.

  Yes, not bad at all. She has that air. The air of a woman who was once something in the seventies; awake and aware, desirable when we really knew how to desire. If you’ve once had it, you’re forever conscious of it. Some wear their past glory with bitter disappointment that they’re so far from their triumphant conquests now, others with blithe ignorance that this is the case. She wears hers with a quiet dignity; about her is just a whispered hint that she was once fabulous and is now a woman who is not bad for her age. She has definitely aged better than anyone else I know; certainly better than I have. I’m jabbed by a lawless spike of admiration mixed with miserable anger that this should be the case. The moment I see her, I realise that this is what I wanted. Her here. One last time. What I’ve secretly hoped for ever since I sent the letter. But in the instant I realise as much, I am infused with another thought: I wish she hadn’t come.

  It would have been better if she’d remembered me as I was.

  I’m not usually one for feeling sorry for myself, but this reunion – this stroll down memory lane, or whatever we’re going to do – would be a damn sight easier if that bloody catheter wasn’t so prominent. She can see my piss. Who wants that? No one. Not after what we were.

  The bloke in the bed opposite hears her shoes clip-clattering through the ward and strains to sit up for a better look. It’s obvious he doesn’t get enough; he’s a shadow of a man. I’ve seen his wife. She’s big, bespectacled and bossy. She comes here with bags of grapes and her cheap magazines, hair perpetually tied back in a greasy ponytail. She gobbles the grapes while reading the gossip and lecturing him about cutting back on cigarettes. I’ve never seen her offer him the fruit. I think he’s going to have another stroke when he clocks Clara. He beams like an idiot. I gave her that. Before me she was pretty. After me she was noticed. She was more.

  ‘Hello, Eddie.’

  There’s pity in her eyes, shining where longing, lust and hate have been. I try to ignore it because it’s embarrassing. The last thing I want to see. ‘Well hello, sweetheart.’ I try for the old confident swagger in my tone; it’s swallowed because I haven’t breath to spare. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  She sits down. Back straight, head up. ‘Has it? Suddenly it seems like yesterday.’ She smiles.

  And there it is. Bang. The same smile. Slow; starts on one side of her mouth, the right side. At once provocative, teasing and true.

  And I know the facts. I’m a dying old bastard. She’s someone else’s wife who, despite expensive haircuts and make-up and what not, has
seen better days as well. But her smile hasn’t changed. It’s all still there in her smile.

  And fuck, this woman loves me.

  25

  Dean

  Dean had often shopped with women. It was something he did with flair, as he had plenty of style and plenty of cash. He liked dressing women up, watching them become what they secretly hoped they could be: their best selves. He saw it as a hobby, a little like other people viewed interior decorating. Women, on the whole, appreciated his generosity and were happy enough to be indulged, so he often brought dates shopping. The expeditions were normally missions: a performance, a ritual.

  Foreplay.

  Dean’s shopping party with Jo was a completely different experience. Of course she wasn’t his date, so there was no question that he should pick up the tab, but the main difference was that she viewed shopping as an opportunity for fun, not a killer hunt. Despite their time constraints, she gamely tried on the most beautiful and ugly pieces in each shop, ‘Just to see.’ She had clear opinions of her own and she saw potential in pieces that he might have overlooked. Besides, she looked pretty good in almost everything (with the exception of the green cheesecloth maxi dress, which really was hideous), and so it was simply a pleasure to see her emerge from the changing room, grinning and giggling.