Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  There’s a thunderous response to that one that even I can hear, as the sound of Jake’s feet can be heard thumping along the landing and down the stairs. A second later my godson hurtles into the room and runs straight into his mum’s open arms. She wraps them round him tightly and lowers her head so her cheek rests on the top of his head. From somewhere inside this tight bundle I hear the quiet words, ‘Sorry, Mummy.’

  I’ve come away. Well, they were both crying and hugging and kissing and telling each other how much they loved each other, I felt like a bit of a gooseberry.

  There’s my car, parked outside my flat. If you look closer, you’ll see me still sitting inside, thinking. Talking to Sarah about Jake hasn’t really helped, to be honest. It was difficult to get all the information out of her that I wanted without actually telling her why I wanted it, and I had to drop the subject in the end. It’s frustrating, no one else knowing about it. Maybe I should have told her? I try and imagine what that would have been like.

  ‘Sarah, I’m pregnant.’

  ‘What did you s— No, not now, Jakey, Rachel’s trying to tell me something. You’re just going to have to wait a few moments. Because I said so. Well, go to your room then. I don’t care, Jake. Oh, all right, give it to me, I’ll do it for you. But this is the last time, all right? You mustn’t come and interrupt Mummy when she’s busy. Sorry, Rach, what were you saying?’

  Forget that. What if Jake weren’t there when I told her?

  ‘Sarah, I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Christ, Rachel, you’re not serious? What were you thinking of? You’re not married! In fact, you’re not even in a relationship at the moment, are you? Do you think it’s going to be easy? Because let me tell you, it’s hard enough doing it with a loving partner and husband to help and support you, let alone if you’re doing it alone . . .’

  No, maybe not. I need to speak to someone who won’t churn out all the things that are already worrying me; someone who’ll be sympathetic and kind, and maybe even help me put things into perspective; someone who’s a good listener and has got a lovely voice. Who on earth can I call?

  Only kidding. Of course it’s Hector I want to speak to. It’s such relief to be able to talk freely about it every so often. I haven’t spoken about the fact that I am pregnant to anyone since I last spoke to Hector, and it’s a heavy burden to think about and worry about every day without vocalizing it.

  I reach into my bag and pull out his little black mobile. He added his home number to the address book before giving it back to me at the café, so it’s easy this time to call. I select ‘Home’ from the menu and wait for it to connect. After it has rung twenty-five times, I accept that there’s no one there and disconnect. Dammit. I throw the phone down on to the passenger seat. I’m frowning again now, look. Hang on – it’s Saturday, but maybe he works weekends? I grab the phone again and select ‘Work’ from the address book this time. It rings three times before the answer phone starts. It’s Hector’s voice.

  ‘Hi, this is McCarthy Systems. I’m afraid the office is now closed but please call back Monday to Friday, 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. Alternatively, you can contact me on my mobile number, which is . . . 07904 . . .’

  I start. When I heard the answerphone I stopped listening properly, not intending to leave a message. But now I leap into action, seizing my handbag from the passenger seat, rummaging around one-handed for a pen, still clutching the phone with my other hand.

  ‘. . . 764 . . .’

  I’m rummaging so hard with my left hand and not holding the bag that eventually I chase it off my lap and it falls into the footwell, spilling the contents all over the floor.

  ‘. . . 659. Alternatively, you can leave a message and . . .’

  I lean forward as far as I dare to look at the floor, but it feels very funny to bend in the middle like that and I get a bit breathless. I can just see what looks like a blue Biro underneath the clutch pedal and I stretch my free hand forward, my fingertips just managing to touch the end and push it further away.

  ‘Arses arses ARSES ARSE!’ I shout in frustration as I repeatedly knock the pen further and further out of reach. I am really starting to pant now and eventually give up on the pen and sit back up. I’ve had to lean my head back against the headrest for a few moments, just to get my breath back.

  Once my head clears, I wonder why I am trying to reach the damn thing with my fingers when I can drag it to within easy reach of my hands with my foot. What a complete arse. I lean over and pick it up, then redial the ‘Work’ number and jot the mobile number down on the flesh at the top of my thigh.

  It rings once, then his voice says breathlessly, ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’ Of course the number of the phone I am calling from is displayed on the handset Hector is holding, so he knew it was me as soon as his phone started ringing.

  ‘Good. I mean it’s good to hear from you. You all right?’

  I nod. ‘Fine. How are you?’

  ‘Never better. You’re not vomiting again, are you?’ He almost whispers this question, as if he’s talking about something illicit.

  ‘No,’ I whisper back, bringing the phone closer to my mouth. ‘It’s all right, I think that’s all stopped now.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But why are you whispering?’

  ‘You started it.’

  ‘Did I? Oh, yes, well, I’m not at home and I didn’t think all the other people here would particularly like to hear about your . . .’ he lowers his voice dramatically, ‘. . . internal lack of self-control.’

  I laugh. ‘That’s a very nice way of putting it. It sounds almost dignified.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? But no one here except me has been on the phone with you while you’ve been exploding, so I know exactly how undignified it was.’

  ‘Oh, no, please don’t remind me.’

  ‘Sorry. It was rather ungracious of me.’

  ‘It’s all right, we’re strangers, nothing you say can hurt me.’

  He chuckles and I hear the clatter of cutlery in the background.

  ‘Oh, Hector, I’m so sorry, I’ve rung you up in the middle of something. You’re having lunch—’ Oh my God. It occurs to me suddenly that he might be out with his wife, or girlfriend. I cover my mouth with my hand, wishing a big black silence would open up in the atmosphere and swallow up this conversation. Or maybe I could go back in time and not ring him. Actually, if I’ve got access to a time machine, I may as well go back to July and not shag Nick. But I would still like to find the mobile phone in Sainsbury’s. Then I could still meet Hector and not be pregnant.

  ‘Rachel, it’s absolutely fine. You’re not disturbing a thing, I promise. It’s more of a business meeting than a lunch, anyway. I am very glad to be distracted from it for a few minutes, especially by you.’

  There’s a giant silent ‘Whoops!’ bouncing along the line between us, and I get the sense that he’s biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut, as if he wishes he hadn’t said those final three words. But it’s out there now and I find I’m smiling because of it.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, um. Did you want to talk about . . .?’

  ‘The . . . the . . . er . . .’

  I can picture him nodding, that little crease between his eyebrows. ‘The . . . decision?’

  I expel a breath that I didn’t even know I was holding. It’s such a relief that he can put his finger straight on to the thing that’s on my mind, without me having to explain.

  ‘Yes. That’s it. The Decision.’

  ‘It still needs to be made, then?’

  I nod. ‘I just can’t . . . I don’t know if I could . . . how I would . . .’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘But then, if I don’t, if I . . . how will I ever . . . could I ever . . .?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s a real dilemma, both sides of which have got far, far-reaching consequences. But if you don’t make up your mind soon, it
will be decided for you, won’t it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just been to see a friend. Sarah – she’s got a little boy.’

  ‘Excellent idea. Did it help?’

  ‘Not remotely.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You know, she talks about him in this jokey way, as if she can’t wait to be rid of him, or she doesn’t like having him around. Lots of parents do that about their kids, don’t they? I hear it all the time at work, they pretend they’ve told the kids to go and play on the motorway, or they talk about longing for them to be eighteen so they can kick them out on their ears. But then she talks about this amazing love that she felt instantly the first time she ever laid eyes on him, like an electric shock or something, and that she knew right then in that second that she couldn’t ever live without him. But then she’s got this tosser of a husband, Glenn, and I think he’s having an affair, so she’s got—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, hold it right there. Did you say Sarah?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s my friend from school. I’ve known her since we were both about twelve.’

  ‘And her husband is Glenn?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And the little boy is Jake?’

  ‘Yeah. I think he’s about five. Hang on, how did you know . . .?’

  ‘He’s six. In fact, it was his birthday last month.’

  I’ve always thought it was really comical the way that people in films take the phone off their ear and stare at it when they can’t make out what’s going on, almost as if the handset itself is faulty. I’m doing it though. The fact that this stranger whom I barely know and only met because he left his mobile phone at Sainsbury’s seems to know about Jake and Sarah and Glenn is incomprehensible. It’s as if some higher force has taken hold of the two opposite ends of my life and tied them together.

  ‘Rachel, are you still there? Rachel?’

  ‘Yeh, I’m here. Sorry, came over a bit X-Files for a moment.’

  ‘I’d like to have seen that.’

  ‘Ha ha. So, are you going to explain how you know all about my friends and their little boy? Are you stalking me?’

  ‘Hah! No, no, although I think that would be much more interesting than the truth, which is not very X-Files at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sarah is my sister-in-law. Jake is my nephew. Glenn McCarthy is my brother.’

  ‘Your . . .? So you’re . . .? Ohhhhh.’ I have heard of Glenn’s brother. Some self-employed arsehole who lauds it over Glenn the whole time. Sarah always invites him to Jake’s parties but I’ve never once seen him there. She pointed him out to me at the christening – ‘The elusive brother’ – but that was four or five years ago and I forgot about him almost instantly. He was of no interest to me. I hadn’t even remembered his name.

  ‘So you’re that Rachel,’ he’s saying, a broad smile in his voice.

  ‘What are you saying? What does that mean?’

  ‘I have heard all about you from Sarah. And from Glenn, come to think of it. Most of what he’s told me is true. I wonder how much of what Sarah told me is.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘Come on! I need to know what your preconceived opinion of me is.’

  He laughs lightly. ‘I have no preconceived opinion, Rachel. She’s said some mean things and some nice things, but I always make up my own mind about people.’

  ‘Hmm. So what did Glenn say then?’

  ‘Ah, now that would be breaking the gentlemen’s code. No chance.’

  ‘Ugh, you’re far too discreet. It’s infuriating.’

  ‘You, on the other hand, are delightfully outspoken. You mentioned Glenn having an affair?’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. Now tell me everything so that I can go and make Sarah a nice new pair of testicle earrings.’

  Chapter Nine

  AT THE OPPOSITE end of our town and the landmark spectrum to The Blooding we have a lovely park called Fieldwood Park, which has a small lake in it, a cricket pavilion and a rather posh restaurant. The dining area looks out on to the lake, where three or four swans slide about on the glassy water and willow trees bend over to take a look. The restaurant is called Madeleine’s and usually they get a bit sniffy about clients using mobile phones while eating.

  Hector is having lunch here with someone. They’re at one of the tables with the lake view, at the back of the restaurant. These are the best tables in the place. Hector’s just clicking off his mobile phone, smiling and frowning at the same time. Although he’s angry about his brother, he’s greatly enjoyed talking to me again – you can see that in his face. He doesn’t know yet that this is going to be one of the worst days of his life.

  The waiting staff know Hector well as he comes here a lot. They also know that he always leaves a generous tip, so after fighting over who would serve his table, they have refrained from giving him the ‘look’ when his phone rang, and actually stayed away from the table during the call in order to give him some privacy.

  His lunch companion is very elegantly dressed in cream and has impeccable manners, discreetly turning towards the window view of the lake and sipping tastefully on a white wine spritzer while Hector talks. Hector is evidently receiving some bad – or at least infuriating – news and his guest tries desperately not to overhear.

  Hector himself is conscious of how rude he is being to his guest, but he can’t help himself. He keeps his phone with him, switched on, at all times because of his mum, and when it rang nine minutes ago he picked it up, dreading to see his home number in the display. Instead, it showed his old mobile number, which informed him immediately who it was.

  Let’s pause a moment and go back nine minutes. I want to show you the moment when the phone rang and he saw that number in the window. Here he is, elbows on the table, nodding as his companion is talking. He glances up and smiles as a young waitress sashays past. Then – there – the phone in his jacket pocket rings and he reaches in and pulls it out. Focus on his face – anxiety, dread, maybe even fear. But now it’s in his hand and he can see the display and – look at that! His brow smoothes, he smiles, excuses himself hurriedly and turns away from the table, flicking open the phone eagerly. The fact is, he had intended to leave all calls, except any from his mum, until after his lunch. His pleasure at seeing that number in the display drove the plan completely from his mind.

  So now he’s finished the call. He stares down at the now silent phone in his hand for a few seconds, as if it is something very precious, then puts it away in his jacket pocket. His companion turns back from the window at last.

  ‘Everything all right?,’ says Rupert de Witter, putting his glass down on the table.

  Hector nods, then shakes his head. ‘Brilliant and fucking awful at the same time.’

  ‘That sounds interesting. Care to elaborate?’

  ‘I just found out from someone that my brother is an arsehole.’

  Rupert smiles. ‘Which is clearly the bad news. So I’m guessing it’s the person who told you that’s the brilliant part?’

  Hector nods. ‘Oh yes, my friend. I’ll tell you all about it one day. In the mean time, can we get on with the business, please? I feel a pressing need to pay a family visit this afternoon.’

  ‘Fine with me. I can get a round of golf in if we’re quick.’

  From this moment on, you can see that Hector has become quite distracted. He’s frowning a lot, so must be thinking about what I have just told him about his brother. When he’s not frowning, he’s smiling to himself, though, and looking thoughtful, perhaps remembering the conversation he’s just had with me? Perhaps really pleased that I’ve called him again? Perhaps delighted with the way his business transaction with Rupert de Witter is working out?

  Twenty minutes later and they’re shaking hands in the car park before parting company – Rupert to the driving range for a
quick eighteen holes, Hector to the bypass to tear his brother a new hole.

  He looks furious and is driving far too fast, particularly as he is not concentrating properly on the road. Every so often, he gets an image of Sarah on her knees cleaning, and Glenn mysteriously absent, supposedly working overtime, which makes the blood in his head start pounding and his eyesight go all blurry, and he squints and snarls through the windscreen, banging his hands against the wheel.

  He’s talking now. His muttering starts off quietly, then gets louder as he becomes more animated.

  ‘You’re a selfish, mean, dirty little low-life, Glenn McCarthy. You’re scum. You’re the lowest, vilest, filthiest, spineless little belly-crawler who doesn’t deserve to have a wife and son and be loved like that. Ugh, you little shit. You shit, you shit.’ A moped suddenly appears in the road ahead, having pulled out of a side road directly in front of Hector’s speeding car. His eyes widen and he stamps on the brake, then yanks the wheel violently to the right, skidding on to the oncoming carriageway. He struggles to regain control of the car as it swerves to the left and right, the tyres squealing on the tarmac, and he braces himself as the large shape of a parked lorry looms up very fast towards him. He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around his head, tensed for impact.

  The smash doesn’t come. After a second or two, he lowers his arms and looks around. His car has come to a standstill close to the middle of the road, at a ninety-degree angle to his original direction. To his left, the parked lorry is intact, a man standing on the pavement next to it looking white and horrified. Hector raises his hand to the man to indicate that he’s all right, releasing a pent-up breath as he does so.

  A sudden tapping on the driver’s window startles Hector and he looks up. There’s a youth standing there in a crash helmet, visor still down, indicating for Hector to put the window down. This is evidently the careless moped rider who had so nearly been knocked over. Hector presses the window button, feeling a tremor in his hand. As the window reaches the bottom, the moped owner raises the visor and Hector can see that it’s not a youth at all, but an elderly lady.