Tristan produces a tobacco tin from his jacket pocket and starts to roll a joint.
Hannah tops up her Cognac and then says, addressing her sister, “You know I never say anything about you smoking around them.”
“Oh, here we go,” Jill says.
“But when you told me about the teddy bear.”
Tristan snorts, blowing tobacco over the table. “Look what you made me do,” he says.
“It’s not funny,” Hannah says. “I’m sorry, but it isn’t.”
“What’s this about?” Tristan asks, grinning.
“I told Hannah about how we smuggled our half a kilo of dope through customs in Aï’s old teddy bear,” Jill says.
“Oh,” Tristan says, grinning broadly. “That.”
Cliff runs his tongue across his teeth and represses a frown. The exaggerated quantity has, for him at least, given the game away.
“I can’t believe that you all think this is funny,” Hannah says, a wave of indignation rising within her. “It’s totally irresponsible. She could have ended up in prison. You all could have.”
“Better her than me,” Jill says with a shrug.
Hannah, wide-eyed, turns to Cliff for support. He reaches over and lays his hand upon hers, but she snatches it away, angry at his expression, a smirk.
“They’re winding you up,” he tells her quietly.
Hannah looks from one lamp-lit face to another, her mood quivering on a knife edge between anger and embarrassment. “Is that true?” she asks.
“Not at all,” Jill says, sounding aggressive now. “How else were we supposed to get it here?”
But Tristan, like Cliff, can sense that Hannah is on the verge of a serious upset. He glances at Jill and wonders if she doesn’t realise this, or simply doesn’t care. “Actually I picked it up from a mate in Lyon,” he tells Hannah. “We spent last night at my friend Pierre’s place.”
“Oh,” Hannah says. “Well...”
“And it wasn’t half a kilo. It was this,” he says, holding up a small brown lump the size of a toffee. “They don’t even arrest you for this anymore. They don’t even fine you.”
Hannah doubts this, but she isn’t sure enough to argue the point. She shakes her head and squints at Jill. “You’re horrible to me,” she says, half joking, half not. “You always were.”
Jill shrugs. “You’re so gullible, it’s irresistible,” she laughs. “As if Aï’ would bring a teddy bear!”
SIX
Luke – in a deckchair – has fallen asleep, so Cliff carries him to his room. It takes half an hour before Hannah realises that Cliff isn’t coming back either, that the fell asleep with Luke thing, which they both use to escape, when they need to, has happened.
Aïsha is off somewhere doing her thing, and all three remaining adults are tipsy on wine and then Cognac and now wine again. Tristan and Jill, in addition, are stoned.
The conversation is taking on the random nature it always does when marijuana is thrown into the mix. Avenues are explored then abandoned simply because two out of the three people here can’t remember what they were talking about.
Hannah remembers, but she doesn’t mind. She won’t go to bed yet. She’s enjoying sitting outside in this balmy Mediterranean evening, frogs croaking somewhere to the right, a thousand stars silent above their heads, clouds of exhaled smoke drifting above them.
“So are you seeing anyone at the moment?” she asks Tristan.
Jill finds this funny and snorts. Red wine drips from her nose.
Tristan, after a short delay, starts to laugh as well, and Hannah can’t work out whether he’s laughing at the wine dripping from Jill’s nose or her question.
“What?” she asks, amused, but confused, by their reaction. “What did I say?”
Jill blows her nose on a napkin and says, “God, that hurts. Do not snort wine. Jesus!”
“It’s not you, Hannah,” Tristan says. “It’s just, well, as they say on Facebook, it’s complicated.”
“I don’t use Facebook,” Hannah says. “Sorry.”
“He’s seeing three guys at once,” Jill tells her. “It is just the three, right?”
Tristan nods. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he tells Hannah.
“It is,” Jill laughs.
“OK, it is then,” Tristan says. “But it’s not as frenetic as it sounds then. Wolfgang – he’s the main one...”
“The main one!” Jill repeats, sniggering.
“Well, he is!” Tristan says. “But he lives in Berlin. So I only see him about once a month.”
“Right,” Hannah says, nodding knowingly.
“And Pete and Matt live in Staffordshire, so...”
“Both of them?”
“They’re a couple,” Tristan explains. “So...”
“Of course,” Hannah says as if this is the most natural thing in the world. Which she doesn’t think it is, of course. But she isn’t shocked either.
OK, maybe she is shocked a bit, but she isn’t surprised that she’s shocked. Tristan’s love life has always been devilishly complicated, which is precisely why she asked him the question. It’s another world, really, nothing to do with her world, but interesting all the same. She enjoys these windows into other worlds the same way she enjoys a good novel.
“Hannah thinks I’m a slag,” Jill says, then, pointing one finger at Tristan, “but you, are sommat else.”
Hannah smiles at her sister. “I have never said such a thing,” she says.
“You’ve thought it.”
“I haven’t.”
Jill shrugs. “I don’t care anyway.”
“So don’t any of you get jealous?” Hannah asks, turning back to Tristan. “I would have thought jealousy would be the main worry.”
“What? Generally? Or in bed?” Tristan asks.
“Either. Both,” Hannah says.
“Wolfie doesn’t know about the other two,” Jill says. “Tristan hasn’t told him.”
“No,” Tristan admits. “No, well, there would be no point, would there.”
“I see,” Hannah says, nodding and thinking about this. “And the couple? Presumably they’re immune to jealousy issues.”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Tristan says, lighting a fresh joint. “I mean, in bed, it gets dodgy sometimes. Obviously. You have to make an effort to make sure no one gets left out.”
“But someone always is left out,” Jill says. “That’s my experience, anyway.”
Hannah turns and narrows her eyes at her little sister in a comical fashion.
“I told you already,” Jill says. “When I was with Barry.”
“Oh, the swingers’ club.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you actually... you know...”
Hannah is interrupted by Tristan coughing, exhaling smoke and waving the joint randomly in Jill’s direction as he does so.
“What?” she asks, taking it from his grasp.
“S–” Tristan splutters, and Hannah realises that he is, in fact, laughing – doubled up with laughter in fact. “S– Sw– swingers.”
Jill, starting to laugh as well, asks again, “What, Tris’?”
Hannah tries to force a smile. She can sense that it’s an unconvincing smile, and this realisation makes her feel unexpectedly old, unexpectedly out of it, like a parent trying to ingratiate herself to her kid’s friends.
“S... Swingers!” Tristan gurgles, tears in his eyes now. “It’s just... It’s just such a weird word for it. God.”
“Swingers!” Jill repeats. She is laughing as well now.
Hannah shakes her head and pushes her chair back. “Right,” she says. “That’s enough for me.”
“Oh don’t go Han’,” Jill says. “We weren’t laughing at you.”
“No,” Tristan agrees, struggling to contain himself. “I didn’t mean. It’s not you. It’s just, sometimes, you suddenly realise how funny a word is, right? And Swing–” He cracks up laughing again.
Hannah smiles de
murely, circles the table, kisses her sister on the back of the head, runs a hand over Tristan’s shoulders as she passes him, and says, “I know. But it’s almost one. I’m shattered. Good night kids.”
It isn’t true though. She isn’t tired at all.
It’s just that with dope, as, apparently with threesomes, unless you participate, you at some point realise that you are just sitting on the sidelines.
Hannah checks on Luke. He’s snuggled up with his head squashed into a teddy-bear. He looks beautiful and angelic still. Hannah ineffectually repositions the quilt around him and wonders how much longer this can last. How long do they have before he becomes like Aïsha?
In their bedroom, Cliff is asleep, snoring lightly. She undresses and eases herself into the bed gently so as not to wake him. There have been times in the past when she has done the exact opposite in the very hope of waking him. But it’s been a few years if the truth be told.
She slides one hand down beneath the covers and caresses her inner thigh gently. It’s not a sexual caress, but it isn’t quite asexual either. From outside she can hear fresh peals of laughter.
She tries to imagine what it must be like alternating between three different lovers. She supposes that she could have done that. She supposes that she could have made different choices and been the kind of girl who had three different lovers. Or could she? Perhaps that stuff is pre-destined.
She wonders if they all kiss differently, if they all have different identifiable smells, different dick sizes, different shaped bums. She wonders if Tristan prefers making love to one of them over the others.
She wonders who, out of Tristan, Pete and, Mike? Was it Mike? Or Matt? – she wonders who does what to whom. She wonders if they all sleep together in the same bed afterwards, like some Mediaeval family snuggled together for warmth. That would feel nice, she reckons. Arms and legs everywhere. Lovely in winter. Maybe unbearably hot in summer.
She wonders if they snuggle up, or curl away, wonders who sleeps in the middle, or whether they take it in turns, or draw straws.
As she hovers on the edge of sleep she wonders if they have a big bed, a king sized bed, or a round bed, or a bed the size of a room, or a bed the size of the moon...
And then suddenly it is morning, and Luke is standing in the doorway, saying, “Mum? Mum? Are you awake? Mum?”
SEVEN
Luke
To want your child to remain innocent whilst toughening up enough to survive This Life is entirely contradictory, but, as far as I can tell, an almost-universal parental desire.
It’s a widely held belief that the reasons we parents mollycoddle our children are fundamentally selfish. But it’s not true. It’s not because we want them to stay infants, as playthings for ourselves – it’s because they’re so happy rollicking around in the Garden of Eden, we can’t bear for it to end. As adults, we know that life, once the apple of knowledge is bitten into, becomes so much more complicated, so much more fraught.
There’s something so simplistic, almost autistic, about Luke’s outlook still, about his lack of philosophical angst. It’s a wonderful thing to behold.
Perhaps this comes from Cliff. He certainly doesn’t seem too worried about the big questions of our time: ecology, politics, the planet... Nor does he seem overly concerned about the big questions of our lives: where do we come from, why are we here, what is the point... Perhaps it’s a fundamental difference between men and women.
Tristan doesn’t seem overly angst-ridden either as he hops from bed to bed. Like Cliff, his solutions to unhappiness all involve action verbs: buying something, going places, shagging more... We women spend so much time in our heads, passively thinking, worrying, hoping.
So perhaps Luke, like his father, will continue to leap out of bed of a morning, full of beans, will continue to fall asleep the second his head hits the pillow. I certainly pray (there’s another passive verb) that he’ll be happy, contented.
That maternal bond, of hope and fear, of love and terror is aching in intensity – it knows no equal. It’s a cliché, perhaps, but there is nothing I wouldn’t give for Luke to be happy, nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice to keep him safe.
Is that normal? Do all mothers feel the same? I have no idea, though I would guess so. Perhaps my bond with Luke is a bit stronger than “normal” because of what he represented in my own life.
My first pregnancy failed in the third month. She (it was a girl) would have been born in the midst of so much misery that, even at the time, it seemed a logical if heartbreaking outcome.
If she had lived, would I look at her today as I look at Luke? Or would I have forever seen her as the reason my life got stuck. I’m really not sure.
At the time I thought that it was my desire to break free, my resentment, specifically, at being held back, that had killed her.
By the time Luke came along I understood that there was nothing else to run to anyway, nowhere better to go.
Like a mirage at the end of a hot day, James had faded, leaving only Cliff and myself and a child-sized gap in our lives. So Luke felt like a second chance. Another chance at motherhood. Another chance for my marriage. Another chance to forget everything that had happened.
EIGHT
The pool hasn’t filled up. This is the important news flash for which Luke has woken her.
Hannah blinks to remove the sleep from her eyes and finally manages to focus on her son, standing in the doorway.
“It’s only up to here,” he says, pointing just below his knee.
“It’s filling though, is it?” Hannah asks.
“Yes, it’s filling. But I can’t swim in it.”
“It’s a good job we’re here for two weeks then, isn’t it,” Hannah says, becoming aware only now that the bed beside her is cold, that Cliff is already up.
“I wanted to swim today,” Luke says. “Dad says it’s gonna be really hot.”
“Well, you’ll just have to wait,” Hannah says. “Now go outside and play with Aïsha and let me wake up properly.”
By the time she has dozed off, woken up a second time, and dragged herself out to the patio, everyone is in the midst of breakfast. The sky is pure unadulterated blue, the light blinding, and already heat is radiating from the terracotta floor tiles.
“Hey, sleepy head,” Cliff says, smiling at her from across the table.
“What time is it?” Hannah asks, sitting down and reaching for the carton of orange juice. “I feel like I have been drugged or something.”
“I slipped some Rohypnol into your wine last night,” Tristan says.
“Um?” Hannah replies in a tone that expresses that though she doesn’t understand what he has said, she has understood that it was a throwaway line of no importance and requires no further explanation.
“Tristan’s taking us swimming,” Luke says.
Hannah sips her juice and nods at Tristan. “Really? That’s nice of you,” she tells him. She turns to Aïsha. “Are you going too?”
Aïsha nods, shrugs and rolls her eyes simultaneously. Heaven forbid that someone might catch her looking enthusiastic.
“It’s just that the pool’s still empty,” Tristan explains, “So I thought...”
“It’ll take days,” Cliff says. “I told you.”
“I’m saying nothing,” Jill says, and Hannah sees Cliff shoot a tiny glare at her. She could work out what that’s about if she concentrated upon it. She knows it’s within her grasp to remember, but she chooses not to.
“We can all go if you want,” Tristan says. “It’s only about an hour to the coast.”
Hannah vaguely raises one hand. “No,” she says. “No, it’ll be a few days before I’ll be willing to get in a car again.”
“That’s what I said,” Cliff agrees.
Hannah glances at Jill, busy picking the dried fruit out of her bowl of muesli – she says it contains sulphites or something – and wonders if she’s going with them or staying. But she doesn’t ask her yet, because how she phrases th
at question could influence Jill’s decision. So does she want Jill to go and leave her here alone with Cliff, or doesn’t she?
It might be nice. It happens so rarely these days. They would probably end up having sex. In fact they would definitely end up having sex. And therein lies the problem. Because it wouldn’t be two-bodies-passionately-drawn-together sex or even hey-babe-fancy-a-quicky sex. It would be this-is-what-we-do; it would be this-is-what-we-do-when-we-find-ourselves-alone sex.
It’s not that Hannah dislikes sex with Cliff. It varies on a scale between feeling mundane but OK to (occasionally) really rather nice. It’s just the predictability of everything that suffocates her, that inevitable unfolding of where it will happen and when it will happen and how it will happen. If Jill leaves with the others, Cliff will stand and round the table. He will nuzzle her hair, and then nuzzle her neck. And then he will slide one hand across her shoulder, down over her breast, and reach for her hand. He will say, “Come,” and she’ll smile and stand and follow him to the bedroom. Every move has been choreographed over the years. Nothing is left to chance. There are no surprises.
Jill, who Hannah now realises she has been staring at, says, “Well, I’m with you guys. I’m not moving a muscle today,” and Cliff catches Hannah’s eye and shrugs.
Even now, Hannah can’t decide if she feels disappointed or relieved.
Once the Jeep has gone, yesterday’s techno picking up exactly where it left off, the two sisters clear the breakfast table.
Jill makes an effort to contribute, but in that special way of hers which is more of a hindrance than a help. Jill’s ability to perform even the most mundane tasks in the least efficient way possible never ceases to astound Hannah. She often wonders how Jill has managed to raise her daughter at all. But manage, she has.
When Hannah has finished removing the unstable tower of dishes that Jill has piled up in the sink, she starts to empty and re-stack the dishwasher as Jill washes and dries, very slowly, a single mug.
The Half-Life Of Hannah (Hannah series Book 1) Page 3
