Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect

by Knights, Sarah Catherine

  I click on ‘Next’ in disgust, and he’s the same – a very ordinary bloke with a balding pate, glasses and wonky teeth, who seems to be looking for a cross between Juliette Binoche and Carla Bruni, who just happens to be living in Stowchester.

  I have one more chance before I’m locked out – I click on someone who isn’t even trying to smile. He’s staring into the camera in bewilderment. He looks a bit like a mad professor and whoever took the photo hasn’t even bothered to check if it’s in focus first. I must be getting desperate.

  He’s 64. Likes reading, drinking fine wine and is looking for someone to enjoy country walks with. So far, so good. I read on and discover he’s looking for someone with a GSOH (well, I’ve got one of those, a good sense of humour – I must have, otherwise I wouldn’t be reading his profile). He’s looking for someone who likes ‘the good things in life’, who’s ‘tactile’ (that word again – this time, he wants to be groped, not the other way around) and who’s financially well-off. He doesn’t like animals and he wants someone of 48 - 55. I feel offended that he wouldn’t like Gaz – even more than the fact that he looks about 84, and wants someone of 48.

  If you don’t like animals, then I don’t like you. End of.

  I close the lap-top with an angry bang. If that’s internet dating, then you can stuff it where the sun don’t shine.

  There must be a better way of meeting people …

  *

  Hi Adam – don’t worry, this isn’t the start of interminable messages; I know you don’t particularly want to hear from me, but I thought I would just share my plans with you.

  Before I start, I hope you’re still having a brilliant time? I was with Laura recently and we looked at your photos together. I hear you’re going up to Byron soon?

  So … I’m resigning from the school tomorrow – in fact, I’m going for early retirement – hurray! I’ve just decided I’ve had enough. Being in close proximity to Dad and ‘her’ isn’t how I want to spend the rest of my life. I’ve had a lot of time to think … and I’ve realised I’ve got to ‘move on’ .

  Dad’s just been over here, suggesting that he buys me out of my half of the house and much to my surprise, I’ve decided to let him. I don’t feel any attachment to it now that you’ve all gone and I want to move to Bath. So … big changes.

  My other big news is that I’m going to visit Jane in Adelaide in March next year. No dates as yet, but I wanted to let you know. I hope you don't think I’m following you out there – Australia’s a big place. If you wanted to, you could come and visit. I’d pay for your fare on Virgin Blue or whatever. Jane hasn’t seen you since you were tiny, so it would be a good opportunity to meet up.

  You don’t have to make any decisions now, obviously, but just thought I’d tell you.

  Your mother is going to become a free spirit in her old age – I think they call oldies who wander around Oz with a caravan ‘Grey Nomads’. I’m not quite there yet, but my life seems to be unfolding in a new and hopefully, exciting way.

  Your sister is well – have you been in touch? She’s met someone, a barrister called Jed. They met here, in the pub, but he lives in London. She seems really keen and so does he. They’re going out all the time – I know, we’ve seen it all before, but this time, it feels different. Maybe wedding bells … it’s early days, but you never know!

  Love, Mum xxx

  *

  I make it all sound very light-hearted in my message to Adam, but when you came round last night and said you wanted to buy me out, I was heart-broken. I know that’s a hackneyed phrase, but I seriously felt as if my heart had broken in two. You were so distant, so cold – what’s happened to you? I feel as if I don’t know you any more, as if all the years we spent together have just been wiped away with the flick of a cloth. A smear on a mirror.

  Maybe I never knew you?

  Have you forgotten how excited we were when we bought this house? The agent told us about a house that had just come on the market and was ‘exactly what we were looking for’. He took us round straight away and do you remember the feeling we both had when we drew up outside it? We looked at each other – we were in the back of the agents’ car – and I mouthed at you – This is the ONE. You kissed me on the lips and when we got out of the car, we walked hand in hand towards the front door, Holly skipping in front of us.

  Don’t you remember the feeling we had when we stood in the hallway? That weird sense that we’d just walked into our ‘home’ – that atmosphere of welcome and calm?

  Holly loved ‘her’ room – it was already painted in pink – and then we showed her what would be ‘the bump’s’ room. We said hers was bigger because she was such a grown up girl and she kissed my stomach.

  The sale went through without any hitches and we moved in two months later. It was as if it was meant to be, we said …

  And now, you just casually want to buy me out. To replace me with a younger, better model.

  I know it’s the practical thing to do – I get it – you want a bigger place and all that – but … how could you carry on living here, knowing our past?

  You’ve got what you wanted – I’ve said I’ll go and you and she can live here, happily ever after.

  I’ll be gone from your life, out of your thoughts, your conscience, your heart.

  I hate you right now.

  *

  “So, have you done it?” says Lisa, in the staffroom, on the first day of term.

  “Yes, indeed I have. My letter should be sitting on his desk, as we speak. He came round a couple of nights ago to ‘talk’ but I didn’t tell him about my plans – he was too busy making his own. So, I hope it’s come as a massive shock – but probably not … I don’t think anything I do these days registers with him.”

  “Any more thoughts as to where you’ll go or what you’ll do?”

  “I’m moving to Bath …”

  “Really? What … definitely?”

  “Yup … I’ve even started looking … only on the internet, but it’s a start. I’ve got to finalise how much I’ll have to spend first, but I’ve got a ball park figure … you don’t get a lot in Bath for what I’ll have but … maybe I’ll start renting first and see what area I like.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. Try before you buy.”

  “It’s got to allow dogs …”

  “ … that might limit your choice a bit …”

  “I doubt I’ll be able to afford to live in Royal Crescent or Queen’s Square, but I’m sure I’ll find something nice,” I say, trying to convince myself.

  Being back at school is strangely comforting; I’m relieved to be back in a routine, with a reason to get up in the morning. The school holidays have been testing – I tried to impose my own little routine on myself by getting up most mornings and going to the pool for an early morning pound up and down the lanes. I feel a lot fitter for it – I must try to go after school, now I’m back.

  My new year seven’s are cute – a weird word to use for pupils, I know – but they seem so innocent, angelic even. They haven’t, as yet, had the edges rubbed off them at the ‘big’ school – they still have the childlike qualities of primary school, oozing from their sweet faces.

  I feel motherly towards them as they look at me with their big eyes, drinking in my every word – if only it lasted past the first term. By the Easter term, they’ll already be more knowing, more streetwise, more cunning. They won’t be trying to please me, they’ll be finding ways to wind me up and thinking up ever more inventive ways to avoid handing in their homework on time … by the end of the Summer term, they’ll be more like sweaty teenagers: chewing gum, texting under their desks and calling me names. By the beginning of year eight, they’ll be seasoned professionals: strutting around, shouting, terrorising the newbies. And so it goes on.

  With a sudden leap of my heart, I realise I won’t be there to see it all. I’ll have gone to that ‘other place’ where teachers become people again – never again will I have to pretend
that Tom’s Midnight Garden is the most fascinating book I’ve ever read … never again, will I have to sit in a staffroom full of people I’ve got little or nothing in common with … never again, will I have to negotiate my way through new government initiatives … or Ofsted inspections … or school plays … or parent/teacher nights (oh joy) … or assemblies … or teacher training days … or sit in the cafeteria eating with hundreds of noisy kids … or watch boring netball matches, just because I feel I should.

  Never again, will I have to watch Suzie Barton stride into the staffroom in her pristine white sports blouse and her short little shorts, with her long tanned legs, her blond pony tail swinging in a jolly, yet sexy way on her perfect little head … and never again, will I have to watch my effing husband mooning after her, along with all the other pathetic male staff, who seem to worship the ground she walks on.

  What is it with her? Is it the dimples in her cheeks, when she smiles? Her almond shaped green eyes? Her low, sexy laugh? Her long, beautifully waxed, brown legs? Her hair that shines like a shampoo advert? Her teeth, straight and white, like Cheryl Cole’s? Or is it all of the above?

  I think I’ve answered my own question.

  It’s definitely time I was gone. Bring on Christmas.

  *

  I haven't heard from Adam for a few days; I think I’ve blown it by even suggesting we meet up. Then, my computer pings and I see, with relief, a new message from him:

  Hi Mum

  Just got back in from a surf at Manly with some of our new Aussie mates. The waves were awesome and the rip strong. Found myself right down the beach. My surfing is really coming on now. We spend hours out there – I’m not as good as Jake, but even he says I’m a lot better. We’ve been working hard too, waiting at tables. I’m actually enjoying it, which has surprised me. The cafe’s on the beach and half the tables are outside, so I’m in and out of the sun all day. I love this place. Neither of us want to come home, but at least I’ve got the grades and can go to uni if I want to.

  Adelaide sounds a cool idea – just what you need. Of course we’ll come if we can (and if you pay, ha ha). It would be great to see you and catch up with Aunty Jane and Marcus.

  You might be interested to hear that I’ve at last heard from Dad. He tried to explain things … it’s so difficult being in the middle of you two. I know I’ve had my differences with Dad in the past but somehow, being out here, and being away from home, has given me a different perspective. He seems to be genuinely in love with the woman.

  Anyway, I wrote back and we’ve kind of made peace with each other. Probably good that there are thousands of miles between us though – easier to feel benevolent at a distance, LOL. I feel I’m changing out here. I’ve realised that my parents are just humans after all – I never realised that before!

  Bath is a great idea. Go for it! When and if I ever come back to Pommyland, I’ll love visiting you there.

  Let me know when you’re coming out. Jake sends his love.

  We’re off out now – more clubbing to be done. Adam.

  I can’t get over how different he sounds. How can my little boy have changed so much in such a short time? He sounds mature, thoughtful and, dare I say it, adult? He loves working? I can’t believe it and the fact that he’s really nice about Adelaide too – it makes going out there even more enticing … to think I’ll see him again.

  *

  David’s reaction to my early retirement is as predicted; he offers to give me advice and help, but he’s detached and professional and I get the feeling he’s pleased to see the back of me. He says we must ‘have a talk’ (what, another one?) about finances. We must agree a price for my half of the house – Of course I will give you the going rate. Well, that’s very decent of you, Sir, I must say.

  I point out that I want sixty per cent of the value, for the inconvenience of having to move out of the family home and he doesn’t quibble. Perhaps Suzie will have something to say about that when he tells her but … it’s between him and me and that’s how it’s going to be. I’ve decided to stick up for myself and stop letting people walk all over me. He says he’ll have to speak to his solicitor and I say, of course, but that’s the deal if you want me to go.

  We’re in his office at the time and before opening the door to leave, I say quietly, “Otherwise, you can see me in court,” with a kind of benign smile on my face, and I glide through the door, feeling marvellous.

  There you go, David, I too can be assertive. I think it’s a pretty generous offer, considering what you’ve done to me.

  *

  I tell Gaz about our move – he doesn’t think much of it. He just stares from the comfort of the sofa and looks at me as if to say … Is there sea in Bath? The name sounds promising …

  He’s feeling pretty sorry for himself at the moment as, following on from the discovery of the lump, I took him to the vets today, after school. I know, I know, I should have gone before, but I was putting it off. If I didn’t take him, I wouldn’t have to face whatever the lump is.

  Along with all his other phobias, he absolutely detests going to the vets. The moment I pull up outside the building in the car, he knows where he’s going and starts cowering in the back seat. I have to pull him out and drag him across the car park. At the entrance, I have to haul him across the threshold and pull him in; he slides across the linoleum floor like a cartoon character – every ounce of his body weight pitched against mine. We must look pretty funny to an outsider. I get sympathetic little smiles from fellow humans in the waiting room – the other animals look impassively on.

  Having established that we’ve arrived – “Name?” says the receptionist.

  “Mine or his?” I say.

  “His will do,” she says, in a rather deprecating tone.

  “Gaz McCarthy,” I say. She gives a knowing little smirk.

  What’s wrong with that? He’s part of this family, he deserves a surname.

  He then sits, shivering and shaking at my feet, slobbering spittle on the floor, as he whines and pants. He keeps getting up and flopping down with as much exasperation as he can muster.

  When his name is eventually called by the vet, who comes out of his room looking like a doctor in a white coat, Gaz is positively suicidal and tries to make a dash for the door that will get him out of the building. He nearly pulls me over, with his sheer determination to make a quick exit; everyone laughs in the waiting room and then we walk slowly back to the other door of ‘doom’.

  “And how can we help you today?” he says, as Gaz and I stand against the closed door, both of us now anxious and wanting to vacate the premises.

  “Well, I was stroking him recently and I noticed a lump … just here.”

  The vet approaches Gaz, who tries to hide behind my legs. “Sorry, he won’t bite you or anything, but he really hates vets … a bit like me with dentists,” I laugh, nervously.

  “Come on, old chap, I’m not going to hurt you,” says the vet, gently running his hand down his back.

  Well, you sure as hell look as if you might, says Gaz to me.

  “Have you noticed any other lumps or bumps?”

  “No, I don’t think so …”

  “Did it appear suddenly … has it changed?”

  “I’m really sorry … I’m not sure …”

  “Don’t worry … let me just lift him up onto the table,” he says and up Gaz goes, onto a shiny topped table, where he stands looking vulnerable and bewildered.

  The vet slowly runs his hands all over his body, pushing and rotating his hands, not saying a thing. He takes his temperature and Gaz looks at me as if to say Can there be anything more more humiliating than having some random person put that up my …

  “Have you noticed a change in his behaviour … eating, walking … urinating?”

  “No, not really.”

  I try to reassure him, whispering, “It’s alright, you’ll be okay.” But there’s something about the vet’s face that’s worrying me and I begin to feel that
it’s not all right, at all. The vet opens Gaz’ mouth and looks at his teeth, lifts his ear flaps and examines his ear canals.

  You have to admit, Gaz, he’s being very thorough.

  “Well?” I say, quietly. “What do you think?”

  He doesn’t answer at first; he lifts Gaz back down to the floor and then says, “Well, I’d like you to bring him in tomorrow, for a biopsy. His temperature is raised and I don’t like the look of the lump.”

  My heart falls to my feet. I had been so hoping for a different answer.

  “Oh,” I say, and bend down to hug Gaz, hot tears squeezing through my eyelids. I stay down there rather longer than I should, hoping to dry my tears on Gaz’ black coat, but I fail miserably.

  “Don’t worry, yet, Mrs McCarthy … it may be nothing. It’s always good to be sure.”

  He ushers me out and we make the appointment with the receptionist. I have to bring him in the morning, before school.

  Gaz virtually runs to the door – I’m the one skidding on the linoleum this time, as we shoot through the door into the fresh air and freedom. We both breathe deeply and we get back into the car with relief. I take him for a little tootle around the rec, on my way home and as he sniffs his way around the periphery, I watch him with a heavy heart and a love that only a dog-lover can understand.

  I sit on the bench and reflect on the things that have happened since that fateful day. I feel pleased with myself … that I haven’t let David defeat me. I’ve risen above the situation and started, slowly, to build a life for myself after marriage. As Gaz waddles towards me and nudges my arm with his nose, I wonder what he has in store tomorrow. Should I tell David about it? Would he care? He doesn’t appear to show any interest in Gaz any more, so I decide he’s lost the right to know what’s going on. “Let’s go home, old bean,” I say, putting on his lead and standing up. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  He looks up at me with his hazel brown eyes, so trusting, so loving and we walk off to get in the car, to go home.

  *

  I drop him off the next morning and as the nurse leads him away, he looks back at me as if he is being led away to the guillotine.