State We're In

by Parks, Adele

  Dean reached out instinctively and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear so he could see her face more clearly. She looked startled. ‘He isn’t the One, Jo.’

  ‘You don’t even believe in the One.’

  He didn’t, never had, but she needed cheering up. He didn’t like to see her this way. He paused and then offered, ‘I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Of me? How can you possibly be proud of me?’ Jo asked with obvious incredulity.

  ‘Two things. First calling off your wedding five years ago.’

  ‘But that was just stupid,’ Jo wailed.

  ‘I think it was brave. Most people would have gone ahead, but you didn’t because you believed in the One and you didn’t think it was him. Whether you are prepared to admit it now or not, at the time you wanted more.’

  ‘But I was wrong.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Maybe there is more. Maybe you’re right and I am wrong.’

  Jo moved her head a fraction, trying to bring that idea into focus. She had never considered the fact that calling off her wedding was brave. She thought of it as shameful, embarrassing and stupid, and other than that fraction of time – the moment before she did actually call it off – she’d never even thought her decision was justified. It was almost impossible to do so, considering the fallout: the expense to her parents, Martin’s pain and her own subsequent, endless disappointments.

  But looking around now, she saw a room full of jubilant guests ready to celebrate a marriage between two people who quite possibly (oh let’s face it, quite probably) were much better suited than she and Martin ever were. Maybe, just maybe she’d been right. She brightened a fraction and straightened her back a millimetre or two. ‘You said two things.’ She fished for another affirmation.

  ‘You didn’t screw up their wedding today. You came to your senses. Well done. You probably didn’t need me here to help you do the right thing.’

  ‘Maybe, but I am so glad you are here,’ replied Jo with her signature honesty that made him smile. Then she took hold of his hand, laced her fingers through his and squeezed. ‘What happened to your hand?’

  ‘I punched a wall.’

  ‘I see.’ Next, she gently brought his swollen and tender hand up to her mouth and kissed it. Her lips were hot and soft. They lingered. The gesture was one of infinite gratitude, and (although Dean couldn’t swear on this) maybe it was a gesture that hinted at a deeper fervour. She saw the surprise on his face. ‘I’m just staying in character,’ she explained.

  For the first time since they’d met, Dean was unsure whether she was telling the truth, but he didn’t get the chance to probe, because her phone beeped. She looked at it and sighed.

  ‘That’s my sister. It’s the fourth time she’s called today.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to pick up?’

  ‘What’s the point? I know what she’s going to say.’

  ‘I take it she’s against the whole hijack-the-wedding thing?’

  ‘Probably. I didn’t actually tell her what I was doing, although I suppose Mum’s filled her in by now, but no, I can’t imagine her thinking this is a good idea.’

  ‘Well, call her. Put her out of her misery. Tell her everything is OK. She’s just worried about you.’

  ‘I can’t make a call in here.’

  Dean glanced at his watch. ‘We have fifteen minutes before the wedding starts. Come on. Let’s go outside. You can call from there.’

  Outside the hotel there was a small gaggle of smokers, desperate for their last nicotine hit before the wedding service began. A tall, leggy blonde beamed at Dean, and threw an icy glance Jo’s way. Dean smiled back, and Jo rolled her eyes as she peeled away to make her call. The blonde was cute. Clearly she hadn’t so much as sniffed a carb for years; she had sharp cheekbones, and notably high tits pushing out of a slight frame, and Dean vaguely wondered whether that was a really good bra or surgery. Normally he’d be able to tell, but he didn’t stare for long enough today; his eyes were trained upon Jo. She was chattering into the phone. At first her face looked relieved, almost animated as she spoke, but then she suddenly stopped talking and her jaw fell limp, hung open. Her colour drained. Dean looked to the pavement, fully expecting her vibrancy to be pooled on the floor at her feet. She’d begun to shake.

  34

  Jo

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Jo? I’ve been trying to reach you for twenty-four hours.’ Lisa’s accusatory tone runs down the line and spits out on to the Chicago streets. I look up to the sky. The clouds are clearing and there’s the smallest patch of blue sky appearing. I take a deep breath and flirt with the idea that maybe it’s going to turn out beautiful after all, despite my sister’s furious tone.

  ‘I’m in Chicago,’ I reveal.

  ‘At Martin’s wedding?’ She’s incredulous.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh God, Mum said you’d mentioned going over there, but I never thought you’d go through with it.’

  ‘Mum encouraged me to come here.’

  ‘Mum did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She probably wanted you out of the way.’

  I’m unsure as to what Lisa can possibly mean. I know I’m not always considered a veritable addition to family gatherings, but I don’t think my parents ever actively want me out of the way. I decide not to tackle Lisa but instead reassure her that I haven’t done anything crazy. ‘Anyway, look, it’s all been a bit of a storm in a teacup in the end. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Jo, I’m calling because—’

  ‘Don’t panic. There’s no need for everyone to get worked up. I can guess exactly why you are calling, but I’m not going to try to stop the wedding.’

  ‘No, actually, Jo—’

  ‘I think I got a bit carried away. You know? Sometimes, Lisa – and please don’t take this the wrong way – it’s hard for me. You’re so happy. Mark and Katie are so happy. Mum and Dad are celebrating yet another wedding anniversary this weekend. You guys all float around in a cloud of marital bliss and I’m left out. I haven’t pulled it off.’ I look up and glance around for Dean. I’m fully expecting him to be flirting with the buxom blonde who was eyeing him up as we came outside, but he’s staring right at me as though I’m interesting. I smile. He smiles. For a moment I lose sight of what I’m saying to Lisa. What was it? Something about being lonely, left out. I don’t feel quite so forlorn or isolated as his smile settles in my head and soul. I force myself back to the conversation with Lisa. ‘It’s not about the big day like people think it is. Because I worked on a bridal magazine, OK, maybe I did get a bit obsessed. They think that’s all I’m interested in, but it’s not.’

  ‘Jo—’

  ‘It’s more than that. I think I just panicked. I felt sad, a bit lonely.’

  ‘Jo—’

  ‘Simply put, I want what you guys have.’

  ‘Jo, shut up! Let me get a word in. Mum’s left Dad.’

  ‘What?’ I have to have misheard. Or misunderstood.

  ‘Mum has left Dad.’

  The world slows around me. It’s as though gravity has just been switched off. I float out of myself, but not in a happy, dreamlike state; rather, I feel I’ve lost any sense of order or control, my stomach is churning and my head is foggy. It simply doesn’t make sense. I cannot compute what she’s saying. I hear the words but they don’t fit together, I can’t understand them. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘She had an affair.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Years ago. But the guy wrote to her from his deathbed and all hell has broken loose.’

  ‘She had an affair?’

  ‘Get past that. What I’m telling you is that the guy she had an affair with wrote to her saying that simply remembering her broke through the pain of his cancer. Apparently she had this moment of awakening where she admitted to herself that Dad’s love has never been like that and that Dad’s love isn’t enough.’

  ‘Why not? What does she mean? Dad’s love is just f
ine,’ I stutter.

  ‘Well, apparently not. Jo, there’s something else …’ What more could there be? Lisa takes a deep breath; I can hear it all these miles away. My big sister is finding this difficult to articulate. She too thinks the world has tilted. ‘Dad is gay.’

  35

  Clara

  Clara returned to the hospital. It horrified her and fascinated her, in equal measures, that he still held the same dreadful power over her, but she could not keep away. This morning she had dressed in a hurry and taken a cab to the station to dash to London to be by his bedside. She was drinking him up. A thirsty woman after a drought. He was not the vital, vivacious man who had seduced her unequivocally, unreservedly, unconditionally. He had lost his looks, his health and any vague hope that they had a future together, however slight that chance might have been. They were all about pasts now, but still she could not do anything other than return to him. It used to be about her body. Back then. She used to ache for his touch; she’d felt actual pain if days went by and they could not find a way to be together. Her breasts ached, her groin ached. He’d soothe her; the relentless licking and kissing and having soothed whether it was in the back of a car, in a stranger’s office or on a bed in a discreet hotel. Now it was about her soul. She needed to understand this man who had shaped her life, because she still ached. The pain was no longer in her breasts or groin. The pain he caused her was in her head and her heart.

  Tim had called her on her mobile several times since Thursday night. Of course she had taken his calls. They weren’t silly lovestruck kids who sulked with one another and played attention-grabbing games; they never had been. That was the point. He’d called to ask whether she was settled into the spa. It was a peculiar sort of break-up when the wife left details of her future accommodation with her ex, but Clara had felt it was the most polite thing to do; after all, Tim would be paying for the room. ‘It’s very nice, I’m quite comfortable. Thank you for asking,’ she’d assured him politely, and then, because there was an awkward silence, she added, ‘Much the same as all my other visits.’

  ‘Well, hardly.’ He’d sounded irritated.

  Clara had regretted her tactlessness. ‘No, I suppose you’re right, it’s not the same. Just the rooms are the same.’

  He’d suggested she eat a good supper and get some rest. He clearly thought she was suffering from some sort of mental instability, a breakdown. Like the other time. She wasn’t. She was very cool, calm and collected. When she tried to tell him as much, Tim became more panicked, not less, so she gave up and instead let him think she was out of her mind. He’d called again on Friday morning. He’d enquired as to whether she’d had a good night’s sleep. They talked about the scrambled eggs she’d had for breakfast; she’d commented that they were a little sloppy for her, more to his liking.

  ‘Perhaps next time you visit the spa, I’ll come with you,’ he’d suggested. ‘If you think it’s to my taste. We should probably be doing more together. Maybe that’s what’s at the root of this problem.’

  Clara did think that a husband and wife ought to do plenty of things as a couple – shared hobbies did have their merits – but indulging in mini manicures and pedicures together would only exasperate this particular situation, surely.

  Tim had called again when she was at Eddie’s hospital bedside. She’d taken the call and lied. She’d considered saying she was shopping but thought the hospital sounds might expose her, so she told him she was seeing her own doctor about the possibility of finding a counsellor. He’d believed her and supported her wholeheartedly. ‘I can come too, darling, if that’s what it takes.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She’d remained non-committal, quickly made her excuses and promised to call him back later.

  ‘Just like old times.’ Eddie rasped out his comment but still managed a sly grin.

  ‘How so?’ asked Clara as she switched off her phone and buried it deep in her handbag, out of sight, out of mind.

  ‘Me lying in bed, you lying to your husband.’

  Clara remembered the guilt and shame and her inability to fight it. ‘Not quite. For one, we weren’t plagued by mobile phones,’ she pointed out brightly.

  ‘True, it was easier to be bad then.’

  ‘Now it’s all tracked and traceable. I don’t know how anyone manages to have an affair nowadays.’ Clara jokingly pretended to sound outraged on behalf of the adulterers, but it was not what she believed. She liked to think of herself as a sort of accidental adulterer. Not someone who sought out trouble or got a kick out of the subterfuge and drama of an illicit affair. It had almost killed her.

  ‘I managed,’ Eddie informed her. So there were women after her. Before her. Probably running alongside her. Women other than his wife. Why did it still hurt? Not as much as it had, of course. Then it was agony, a ripping out of guts; now it was more of a sharp twinge akin to banging your funny bone. Not so funny.

  ‘You didn’t go back to your wife, then?’ Clara had often wondered.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or the children?’

  ‘Married again, had more children. Two girls.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s OK then.’ Clara could not quell her sarcasm; didn’t even want to.

  They fell into a miserable silence. There was nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the hospital: other visitors chatting, talking about the weather or who they might vote for on Saturday night’s latest talent show; the hum of the various machines that monitored and maintained; and his heavy breathing. Eddie broke the silence.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Clara. I know it’s not ideal, but it is what it is.’

  ‘So where is your second wife?’ Clara looked around the hospital ward as though she imagined the second wife might suddenly materialise from behind a plastic curtain or from under one of the beds.

  ‘Divorced me.’

  ‘Because? Same old same old?’ Clara hated herself for being part of this long list of women. She could see them in her head, all too clearly. They were trailing through the room in nothing other than tiny panties, the way they had trailed through Eddie Taylor’s life: plump women, thin women, young women, mature women, sane women, insane women, black, white and golden-hued women. She felt undignified. She was sure she ought to be too old to be jealous.

  ‘No. Not another woman, as it happens. Money. Difference of opinion.’ Eddie pointed towards the water jug. Clara jumped up and poured; she tried to hand him the plastic beaker the moment before she realised he wasn’t able to take it from her. Helpless. She sat on the bed, carefully cradled his head in her left hand and guided the cup to his lips. His skin was hot. Her fingers tingled. She eased him back down, put the cup back on the bedside cabinet but did not move off the bed. Refreshed, Eddie was able to finish his sentence. ‘I had none. She wanted some. She worked out I was never going to be a big Hollywood screenplay writer. I used up my ambition quite early on.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Clara wasn’t sorry. This divorce seemed less grubby in comparison to the first one and she was irrationally relieved that the list of women she imagined he’d entranced was not, after all, infinite. ‘Are you on good terms with your children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Well, the boy …’ Eddie looked momentarily confused. Clara wondered whether he might have forgotten his son’s name. Was that the result of his illness or his carelessness?

  ‘Dean,’ she prompted helpfully, because she remembered all the details.

  ‘He came here.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘Not really. He came to tell me how angry he is. He came because he’s fucked up.’ Eddie’s breath was so laboured that Clara wasn’t sure he’d said that Dean had fucked up or that Eddie had fucked up. It hardly mattered; the two things were one and the same in Clara’s mind. ‘Angry, cynical. More cynical than I ever was. Alone. What about you? How are your kids?’

  Clara felt her nose prickl
e; it took her a moment to realise she was fighting tears. She didn’t want to indulge in outward shows of emotion; she always preferred to resist them. Usually she was refined to the point of restrained, but this was the first time Eddie Taylor had ever mentioned her children or asked after their well-being.

  ‘Oh, they are fine. Wonderful.’

  ‘Grown-up?’

  ‘Yes. All grown.’

  ‘University and such?’ He waved his hand to suggest his enquiry was to encompass all possible accolades children could achieve.

  ‘Yes. My eldest went to Cambridge, middle one went to Leeds and my son went to Bristol.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Two of them are married. Happily so.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Oh no, she’s a romantic.’ Clara and Eddie shared a conspiratorial glance; he raised an eyebrow at her joke. They used to tell one another that marriage was no harbour for passion or romance; they’d believed it was only available outside the sanctified union. It was a bit of a sad joke if you thought about it. ‘Seriously, I think I ruined her. Overprotected her. She isn’t very realistic when it comes to relationships.’ Clara could not stop herself confiding her fear to Eddie. Jo was on her mind.

  ‘Who is?’ He shot her another look, saying more. Yes, thought Clara, Eddie Taylor was not very realistic when it came to relationships either. His cynicism and aloof detachment hadn’t immunised him; he’d simply suffered from another strain of the unreality that her daughter suffered from. Jo was too romantic, too hopeful; she believed entirely in total perfection and expected to find it in everyone she met. For this reason she gave herself fully and was often exposed or hurt. Eddie did not expect to find a glimmer of the good stuff in anyone; he did not expect to have to offer it up. Clara thought that, by contrast, she was realistic. She was the queen of compromise and make-do. ‘Glad it worked out for you,’ said Eddie. He probably meant it, too.

  ‘Oh yes, they’re all fine. It’s worked out for them. My husband’s gay, though,’ she added.