by Frances Pye
“And I suppose you’ll tell me the others do too. Haven’t you girls had enough of me?”
“That’s not how it was, you know that.”
“Well, fuck you. This time I get to decide what happens. Good-bye, Terry.”
And he turned and walked away.
For a moment, Terry was paralyzed, unable to move or speak. Then, as she saw him getting farther and farther away, she shouted after him, “I’m sorry. Sean, I’m sorry. Please. It just happened. I was going to tell you.”
He carried on walking.
“Sean! I love you,” Terry screamed, completely focused on his shrinking back, indifferent to the four o’clock, early rush-hour crowds hovering around, enjoying the unexpected entertainment.
But Sean paid her no attention. He marched out of the bus station. And Terry’s life.
seventy
Paul wasn’t sure how to feel when he discovered that Mark and Ben were at Ray’s. Determined not to go home, he’d taken refuge with Sally, meeting her after school and going back to her house with her. The two boys came as a complete surprise—he hadn’t known that Sean had kids. He’d never mentioned them. There was a part of him that was hurt—why hadn’t Sean confided in him about them? There was a part of him that was jealous of the boys—they had Sean for their dad. Something that he’d been hoping to get until he’d read the newspaper story and realized that there was no chance. There was a part of him that resented Sean for being taken in by his mam’s schemes. And a part of him that was desperate for reassurance that Sean did care for him, that it hadn’t all been a favor to Terry.
So when Sean arrived to collect the boys, Paul stayed in Sally’s room. He didn’t know what to do or how to act and so he hid, listening to the bustle downstairs as Mark and Ben greeted their father and the younger kids screamed for his attention.
A couple of minutes later, there was a knock on the door and Sean walked in.
“Don’t blame Sally. Babs told me. It’s time for tea.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Babs said she wasn’t expecting you.” Sean didn’t know what to do. He suspected Paul had run away from home over the newspaper story, but he couldn’t be sure. And if the boy didn’t know, it was up to his mother to decide what to tell him.
“No.”
“Does your mother know you’re here?”
“No.”
“Paul?”
“I read the story.”
“It must have been a shock.”
“I hate her.”
“No you don’t. You’re angry with her. But you don’t hate her.” Sean might be furious with Terry himself, might be sure he could never forgive her, but he didn’t want her son to suffer.
“Do.”
“Paul, she was only trying to help you. She doesn’t deserve hating.” Not by you anyway.
“Everything’s ruined.”
“No it’s not.”
“It is.”
“You and I can still be friends. If you want.”
“Can we? I thought you wouldn’t want to. I mean, the story said you only did it to help mam.”
“Yeah, well, they didn’t get it all right. They often don’t. Remember when they said Charlton was going to sign that Brazilian player? For twelve million pounds, wasn’t it? As if Charlton knew what twelve million looked like.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Maybe I met your mam cos of all this, but I knew no more about her and her mates’ scheme than you did.”
“You knew mam wanted you to be a friend to me.”
“Yes. I did. But that was all it was. What your mam wanted. I didn’t have to do it. Did I?”
“I guess not.” Paul desperately wanted to believe him, but the newspaper article had been a huge shock.
“I wouldn’t have introduced you to Ray and Sally and Babs if I hadn’t liked you, now would I?”
“No. No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” That did make sense to Paul. He may have been only a kid, but even he could see that Ray and his family were too special to Sean for him to mess around with them.
“Friends, then?”
“Yeah. Course. And you and mam?”
“One rule. I don’t want to talk about that. Or her. Ever. Okay?”
“I suppose.”
“Good. Now, come have some tea and then you’ve got to go home.”
“Don’t want to.”
“I know you don’t. But you can’t hide here forever.”
“Sally doesn’t mind.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t. But you need to sort this out. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
TERRY WAS huddled behind the old dark green velvet curtains that covered her front window, Minnie perched on an ancient leather ottoman beside her. She was looking out in the street, hoping to see some sign of Paul coming home. And hiding from the slew of reporters clustered around her door, hustling anyone who went in or came out. If this went on much longer, she was going to have to make major apologies to her neighbors.
She knew she’d be better off ignoring the press and retreating to her kitchen, but she couldn’t. She was desperately worried about Paul. The last she’d spoken to him, he was intending to come straight back after school, but it was already seven-thirty and there was no sign of him. Much as she wanted to believe that there was another explanation for his being late, she was convinced that he must have seen the story. And was terrified that he might not come home at all. Losing Sean had been bad enough. What if she lost Paul too? What if he never returned? You heard stories all the time about kids just disappearing, running away from home and never being seen again. What if Paul did that?
Terry knew she was overreacting. Paul was three hours late and here she was imagining him gone forever. But she couldn’t help it.
She wished she could cry. But the shock of the confrontation in the bus station and finding the tabloids encamped at her house and then her concern over Paul’s nonappearance had kept her tears at bay. They were there, she knew, like a flood just waiting to break through hastily erected sandbags. All it would take would be one more shock.
Sean’s Saab drove up, on the opposite side of the street. And stopped. At the sound of the engine, Minnie jumped down from the ottoman and ran off to the front door, expecting to see her friend.
For a moment, nothing happened. Terry shivered. The car was just sitting there. She pulled back the curtains, hoping she’d get a better view if she wasn’t peering out through a thin slit. Hoping she’d be able to see what was happening inside the Saab. The streetlights were just bright enough for her to make out that there were four figures in the car. Sean, another adult-sized person in the front seat, and what looked like two young kids in the back. Could they be his boys? Had he found them at last? He had said today had been one of the best days of his life. Terry crossed her fingers in hope for him.
Then the passenger door opened. Slowly and very, very reluctantly, Paul got out and closed the door behind him. Terry slumped against the window, her breath frosting the glass. He was safe. Sean had brought him home. The reporters, seeing the boy in the street, left their posts and clustered round him, flashbulbs popping. Paul shrank back, his hands in front of his eyes. Terry knew she should go out there and help him but she was unable to move, riveted to the window while she waited to see what Sean was going to do.
The driver’s door opened and Sean got out. He walked around the car, waded into the pile of journalists, put his arm around Paul, and shepherded him toward the house. For the first time since the confrontation in the bus station, Terry felt a thin, small thread of hope. When he’d walked away from her that afternoon, it had been clear that he had no intention of ever seeing her again. But here he was. And though she tried to stop herself, to keep calm, she couldn’t help getting excited. He was coming to see her.
She watched as the two crossed the road, trailing press and photographers, and forced their way up the front ste
ps and out of Terry’s sight. She heard the fumble of Paul’s key in the lock and the front door slamming closed. They were in the house.
But then Sean’s tall figure reappeared, pushing his way back through the throng. He got into his car and seconds later drove off.
Terry leaned her head against the bitter, wintry glass. He hadn’t been coming to see her. He’d been dropping Paul off. He’d gotten out of the car to help her son across the street, to protect him from the press herd. And then he’d left. He hadn’t looked up at her, had he? Not even a brief glance. He hadn’t changed his mind at all. He’d meant every single word he’d said at the bus station. He wasn’t coming back.
PAUL FLICKED on the living room light.
“Turn it off.” Terry was still standing by the window, fighting for control. Only now, when she most wanted to be dry-eyed, were the tears that had been brewing all afternoon threatening to overwhelm her. Whatever else happened, she didn’t want Paul to see her cry. She was his mother, she couldn’t indulge herself in things like weeping.
Paul walked away from the wall and the switch.
“Please, Paul. Turn it off.”
“No. Why should I?”
“Because I asked?”
“Fuck you, Mam. Fuck you.”
“You saw it.” Terry struggled to speak, her unshed tears distorting her voice. Making her sound hard. And uncaring. “I’m sorry. You must have been upset.”
“Yeah. You sound sorry.”
“I am.”
“Right. And I’m Tom Cruise.”
“Very sorry.”
“That’s crap. Anyway, I can find my own fucking friends.”
“It wasn’t to get you a friend.”
“Then what the fuck was it?”
“To get you a father figure.”
“A father? I had a father. Remember? I knew him for two whole days. I sat and watched him die. Remember?”
“Of course I remember. I was there, Paul. And I know how much it hurt.”
“You don’t. You don’t know. If you did, you’d never have been with him. You’d never have chosen a drunk to have a kid with. You’d have found some sensible, sober bloke who’d not have died in front of me like that. Who’d be here.”
“Maybe I made a mistake with Finn, but I didn’t know that at the time. I didn’t mean it to be—”
“Who the fuck cares what you meant. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
Terry had just about managed to hold it together until that moment. But at the point in her life when she most needed support, everyone was against her. Lily wasn’t talking to her, Sean never wanted to see her again, and her son hated her. She gave up the struggle, slumped into an armchair, put her head in her hands, and wept.
Paul looked at her, unable to comprehend what was happening. His mother, his invulnerable, indomitable mother, crying? Through all the crises of his life, she had been there, strong, immovable, a constant, supportive presence. He’d seen her irritated, he’d seen her worried, he’d seen her angry, but he’d never seen her cry. And he couldn’t deal with it.
He rushed over to her, knelt at her side, and put his arms around her, tears pouring down his face also. “Mam. Mam, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I don’t hate you. I love you. It’ll all be all right. I promise. I promise.”
Terry, who felt that without Sean it would never be all right again, nonetheless let herself be comforted. Her son still loved her. That was something. No. That was a lot. And she couldn’t sit here weeping when he too was crying and needed her help and support. “I know, love. I know,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Really I am.”
seventy-one
Mara thought something had changed when she opened the door. The air felt different. More welcoming. Warmer. She walked in and saw the card, the box of chocolates, and the bottle of champagne standing on the coffee table. She rushed over and ripped open the card. It was an invitation to a housewarming party from Lily and Jules. Puzzled, not aware any of her friends were moving, she looked at the address on the card. Her address.
She dashed over to the radiator that had been useless for nine months. It was hot. As was the other one in the room, those in the kitchen and upstairs in the bedrooms. Her friends had had her central heating mended for her.
She grabbed the phone and called Lily. Yes, the card had come from her and Jules, but this coup had her name written all over it. After two seconds she answered, as if she had been waiting for the call. “Feeling warmer, sweetie?”
“Lily, what have you done?”
“What we ought to have done ages ago. Ignored your pride and gone ahead regardless. Are you pleased?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. You shouldn’t have.”
“Yes we should. You were freezing your ass off in there.”
“It was twelve hundred pounds!”
“And well spent. I’d only have bought another unnecessary outfit with it.”
“Lily!”
“Seriously. How many designer dresses does a girl need? Much more fun to buy a handsome, chic heating system.”
“How am I ever going to pay you back?”
“You’re not. Sweetie, doing this has given me and Jules more pleasure than anything else in years.”
“It’s too much.”
“It’s not. We’re your friends. That’s what friends do.”
“I don’t…I can’t…” Mara couldn’t find words. To have a warm house. No more smoke in their eyes and throats, no more danger of being found out lighting illegal fires. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Someone was looking after me that day I saw your ad in Loot. I shouldn’t accept, I know I shouldn’t…but…thank you. Thank you so much.”
seventy-two
Lily walked down the stairs to the theme song from her sitcom. She smiled at the packed audience she could just glimpse beyond the bright lights before kissing the revered, pepper-and-salt-haired host and settling into a chair beside him.
Originally, she’d had no intention of replying to Clive’s story. She’d ignored his two other barbed attempts to humiliate her. And it had worked well. The other stories had sunk without a trace within a day or two.
But this time was different. First, her friends were involved and she felt a need to defend them. Pretending nothing had happened was fine if it was just her, but when Clive targeted poor, shocked Mara, whose life had just collapsed around her, she couldn’t stand around and do nothing. Second, this story felt as if it had legs. It wasn’t just another ten-a-penny tabloid tale of an overindulged celebrity behaving badly. It was new. And therefore wouldn’t be easily forgotten. For all Lily knew, sociologists were right now writing articles for the Times about the new trend in man/woman relationships. Third, this time she wanted to talk about what had happened. Because she’d realized that her offhand comment to Mara was true; she was genuinely proud of what they had tried to do. And finally, she’d had enough of Clive. She wanted to fight back, to take his territory out from beneath him. And stop him continuing to grub around for dirt on her.
She had first thought of calling another of the tabloids and giving them an exclusive. But then she’d remembered that she was booked to appear on the BBC’s flagship chat show the week after Clive’s story broke. She called the producer and applied a little pressure and they moved her forward seven days, bumping an over-the-hill actor, in town to promote his second autobiography. In truth, it hadn’t been hard; they’d been delighted to reschedule things in order to get her on-screen while the story was still fresh in people’s minds. They might have been public broadcasters, but they weren’t averse to a few ratings victories.
So there she was. Dressed top to toe in this season’s Prada, her hair newly cut, her face beautifully made up. Ready for battle.
The host sat down, pulling up the legs of his trousers to preserve the pleats. He cleared his throat and was off. “Lily James. You’ve been called our funniest and cleverest new comedienne, our best sitcom writer since John Cle
ese, the first series of your show We Can Work It Out was the surprise hit of last season. Why do you want to share your men with your friends?”
“Man, not men. We’d never done it before.”
“You don’t sound at all embarrassed about it.”
“I’m not. I’m proud. We tried something new.”
“That didn’t work.”
“It’s hard to get things right at the start. Give us a chance.”
“Does that mean you’re going to try again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’ll depend on my friends.”
“If you’re proud of it, why not tell the world?”
“I thought that’s what I was doing.”
“No. I mean why hide it in the first place? Why the need for a big exposé in the press?”
“Who wants the media dabbling around in their lives? Their business read by millions? Their celebrity harming their friends? Anyway, we didn’t hide anything. All we did was lead our lives as we chose.”
CLIVE WAS in the office, sitting with a group of other journalists and his editor, watching Lily on TV. The BBC had been promoting the show over and over again. Hinting at new revelations. Suggesting that Lily was about to spill all. It looked as if she were going to try and recover her reputation. A reputation Clive believed he had tarnished once and for all. Before the program started, he’d been absolutely sure that he’d beaten her. That because of him she’d now be forever known as the foolish, promiscuous woman who’d deliberately shared her man with her friends. He’d gotten his revenge. And it was sweet.
He’d gathered the group of colleagues and rivals together so they could see him enjoy his triumph. He’d been expecting to see Lily squirm. And to be able to revel in it. But she wasn’t squirming. She wasn’t squirming at all.
Instead, she was being candid, giving her reasons for the Sean episode, talking about her friends, their problems, comparing them to many other women in the same situations, at the same points in their lives, and talking about sharing men as if it were the most natural next step in the shifting balance between the sexes. The audience—and the famous host—were lapping it up.
