I see Joyce eyeing me with pert anticipation. Her lips glisten as she licks them, then booms loudly, ‘Now, tell me. Did you bring a song?’
I titter, spitting out a bit of bread, then see everyone staring at me. I swallow the last chunk of baguette. It’s like swallowing a tennis ball.
As my gullet contracts to squeeze it down, I falter, ‘A song?’ and give another laugh.
Mungo looks to Fionnula with annoyance.
‘Oh God,’ she says, ‘did I not mention it? We always start the evening off with a song.’
‘I don’t know if you know this, but I am tone deaf,’ I proffer.
No one seems to be listening.
My mother would love this. I personally find it excruciating. Joyce is standing in the centre of the room, gripping the microphone on its stand, as Fionnula accompanies her on some sort of electric piano that Mungo and Sponge have dragged in from another room. There’s a little loud speaker underneath the piano, and Joyce is currently scatting incomprehensibly to ‘Love for Sale’.
I say ‘incomprehensibly’ because, with no respect to the actual tune, the lyrics now appear to be:
Boo baba da boo boo BOOOOO lo-wo-wo-wo-wo-oooove
Lover lover lover lover love love love LOVE
F-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f foooooooor
Ba ba ba ba dam. Ba ba ba ba dam. Ba ba ba ba d-d-d-d-dam.
Shhhh boo boo pee doop Pah! Sha-a-a-a-a-a-a-le
Poo!
Fionnula is circling her head and hitting any key she fancies on the piano from what I can tell. It’s not that she can’t play; she played beautifully when Mungo gave us his ‘Scarborough Fair’. Suddenly Fionnula lifts her hands dramatically from the keyboard and Joyce pulls a recorder from the folds of her kaftan and starts scatting with that too. In the middle of it, with no rhyme or reason, she stops, keeps the recorder at her mouth and her eyes tight shut, savouring the end of her performance.
I burst out clapping. ‘Oh God, that was gorgeous,’ I say, wondering why no one else is joining in. We all clapped Mungo and he was marginally more shit.
‘I’ve not finished,’ she hisses, not even opening her eyes.
‘Sorry!’ I gasp.
Lee gives me a look to say it’s all good, and then Joyce starts banging the recorder against various parts of her body rhythmically. Like she’s playing the spoons. I’ve never really ‘got’ playing the spoons, but at least there are two of them and they create some sort of percussive sound. This just sounds like someone hitting a piece of tubular plastic against their hip, arm and head, which actually is all she is doing. It’s not catchy, nor do I think it is clever, but Fionnula starts clapping along in ‘time’, and soon Mungo follows suit, and then Sponge starts clicking his fingers. I catch sight of Lee, who has tears in his eyes from stifling giggles, and I think, I don’t care if he’s into Japanese rope bondage – I’m sitting next to him at dinner.
Then suddenly Joyce has finished. I know this because she opens her eyes, grins proudly and curtsies. Sponge jumps to his feet, as does Mungo, and Fionnula stamps her feet on the floor like I’ve seen them do in orchestras after an amazing piano concerto or something. I decide it’s safe to clap now, so do, till my hands hurt.
I then have to sit through Sponge singing ‘Only You’ by Yazoo, a cappella. Halfway through he looks encouragingly at Fionnula and she joins in with some harmonies. Then he looks at Joyce and clicks his finger in her direction and she starts to – I am not making this up – beat-box. A sixty-year-old woman in a kaftan beat-boxing. I hope to God he’s not going to encourage me to do anything, but yes, he’s pointing at me. I’ve no idea what to do, so I just instinctively whistle. Not quite sure what I’m whistling, but I’m pretty sure it’s almost in tune. I think I might be harmonizing! Wow, it feels great. I feel so free . . . I feel—
Sponge does a hacking hand motion at his neck while glaring at me and I concede I might not be harmonizing but demonizing, so stop. I feel a bit disappointed, truth be told. I was starting to enjoy myself. I thought I had the music in me.
Then we have to sit through Lee frankly ruining, in my eyes, ‘Someone Like You’ by Adele. It’s awful, though Fionnula’s playing’s brilliant. Then something weird happens. I forget that he’s crap and begin to appreciate the feeling he’s putting into it. He might not be singing it, but he’s definitely feeling it. And that level of feeling permeates the room. And from nowhere I find myself trying not to cry. And failing. And I burst out crying and run from the room. The hall has many doors. I try a few and eventually find a small room with a toilet in it and hastily lock the door, ram the toilet seat down and hurl myself on it to have a good old bawl.
And of course I know why. The lyrics are all about splitting up with someone, and then that someone has met someone else, and Adele, God love her, is wishing them all the best. Even if, on closer inspection, the lyrics make her sound a bit stalkery because she turned up out of the blue uninvited and . . .
Is Michael with Asmaa? He said he’d seen her, but he’s not with her. Maybe he’s lying. He didn’t deny seeing her. Do I wish them all the best like Adele does? I don’t know. I can’t even think straight. I can’t even get past the idea he has gone and then come back and been so odd and . . . My mind becomes overloaded with too many conflicting thoughts. It’s good he’s gone. We weren’t in a happy place, but I miss him. And now I’m sort of but not really seeing someone else. The father of one of my kids and . . . he’s a dirty old dog and I realize now I just want Michael. But he wasn’t good for me. He wasn’t. So why do I still want him?
I hear a sharp knock at the door. Then Mungo’s concerned voice: ‘Karen?’
‘Yes?’ I say, attempting an air of bright and breezy, but sounding just the wrong side of manic.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine! Yes! Won’t be long!’
‘We . . . thought we might eat.’
‘Brilliant. I’m starving.’
I rip off a few pieces of toilet paper and blow my nose.
Oh. So they don’t want me to sing.
Jesus. Was I that out of tune?
Fionnula’s Spinach Pie Recipe
Ingredients:
Flaky pastry
Oodles of spinach
A dash of nutmeg
Four zillion gallons of water
Method:
Make a pastry base.
Stick a load of spinach in it. Pour so much water into it that you create a hosepipe ban. (NB If you want a more right-on alternative, use instead the touchy-feely tears of a thousand bleeding-heart liberals, shed for all the injustices in this world. And possibly the next.)
Sprinkle with nutmeg.
Don’t even bother to cook it Serve it raw. Dare ya!
Well, that’s how it tastes to me. Everyone else here is groaning in ecstasy at the deliciousness of it. I have tasted more flavour in a dripping-wet sponge dusted with nutmeg. I’m not really joining in the conversation, which is drifting between the pros and cons of a new type of Percy Pig sweet they’ve brought out that has no gelatine in it, and the tragedy of Joyce’s former neighbour, who has never had an orgasm. I’m pushing my ‘pie’ round my plate disconsolately, my other hand resting in my lap, when Lee, sat to my left, reaches over and holds my hand.
I look at him, not alarmed per se, as it doesn’t feel intimidating.
He smiles and just goes, ‘Know you are loved.’
‘You don’t know me,’ I point out.
But he doesn’t care. ‘The universe knows you, and the universe loves you.’
I’m a bit gutted they don’t talk about Japanese rope bondage, or swinging. I’m even disappointed Lee hasn’t tried to broach the subject of our supposed shared background in naturism. For the rest of the evening the conversation is jovial but perennially middle-class and – I’m afraid to admit it – veering towards the dull.
It becomes clear that Sponge and Joyce are going to stay over as we sip some hand-blended coffee in the living room. I feel very relaxed and, al
though this might be the three glasses of wine over dinner talking, decide that Mungo’s a decent fella really. He just gets his rocks off by shagging people other than his wife. Mind you, she’s no better or worse. And she’s a very good pianist. At least they’re well matched.
Lee offers to share a cab home with me, as he’s going to Islington and claims it’s on the way. Before I’m allowed to leave, we have to do a group hug and thank the universe for our health and inner beauty. Joyce runs her fingers down my back and starts massaging the bone at the top of my bum, while Fionnula’s incanting on about all the energy she’s feeling. It makes me feel a bit queasy, bringing back memories of Shirelle, but before I know it, Fionnula’s saying, ‘And break the ring!’ and hands are removed and everyone steps apart.
Then, of course, I have to kiss everyone goodbye. Mungo is pragmatic with a quick rub of his beard, but Fionnula and Joyce linger a bit too long for my liking. As I head to the door with Lee, Sponge produces a piece of A4 paper.
‘I drew this when you were on the toilet. It’s a spirit who’s been with you twice this evening.’
I can’t look at it. That sort of thing might freak me out.
I bumble a goodbye and head out to the taxi with Lee. Again, he holds my hand all the way home. There’s nothing sexual in it. I just know he’s showing me his deep respect for the universe.
I can’t help myself, though.
‘Fionnula says you do Japanese rope bondage.’
He snorts, entertained. ‘Oh, that!’
‘Yes, that!’ I chuckle too.
‘It doesn’t rule my life. It’s just something I’m into every now and again. A hobby. Like boating. Some weekends, if I’m not busy, and if I can find a willing partner.’
I give him a look that says, ‘That partner is not me.’
‘After my wife left me, I realized I’d not had a decent orgasm in years. I’d not explored my own body and my own sensations. I decided from now on I would, and I’m so glad I did. It’s not for everyone, and it’s a little bit selfish, but after sixteen years with that frigid cow, I thought I was ready for some me-time.’
I nod, kind of knowing what he means. Though I thought it was just women who had crap orgasms.
As we pull up outside my house, I kiss him gently on the cheek.
Well . . . I’m only trying to show him the universe loves him.
Meredith’s fast asleep on the couch. Her top is on inside out. It wasn’t earlier. Odd.
Once I climb into bed, I get the sketch out of my bag. It’s a pencil drawing of a woman, an attractive woman with a shaved head. Beautiful eyes. And I think Sponge is mad. He has drawn me a picture of Sinead O’Connor.
She’s not dead, is she?
I take out my phone and compose a text to Michael’s mum: Rita, sorry I’ve not been in touch. Lots to sort out. Promise I’ll speak soon. Sorry for being so rubbish. K xx
Almost immediately she replies: No worries. Whenever you’re ready. Rita xx
But I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.
EIGHTEEN
When the phone rings on Sunday morning, I half expect it to be Kevin calling to cancel our second ‘date’. I deserve it, for foreclosing on our first one at the Smiling Lion. When I pick up the receiver, though, it’s not him – it’s Dad.
‘Hiya, love. How you diddlin’?’
‘Oh, hiya, Dad. Yeah, diddlin’ all right, thanks.’
‘Is your mother there?’
‘Er, no.’
And silence.
‘Oh. Has she gone to the shops?’
‘Erm, yes. She’s gone to the shops for . . . you know . . . things.’
‘What, like a Sunday paper? Bacon?’
‘That is so spot on, Dad, because before she went, she said – and I’m quoting her word for word here – “Just nipping out for a Sunday paper and some bacon.”’
‘Right. I’ll try her mobile.’
Oh God. What if Jorgen Borgen answers? Danish people might do that, answer each other’s phones. I’ve never seen any of those Danish cop shows, but I bet they do it all the time as a matter of principle. Maybe in Denmark every mobile is identical or it’s a courteous tradition.
‘Yeah, you could do that, Dad, but I’ll make sure I tell her you called.’
Then it transpires that Dad wants to chat. He never wants to chat. Which Dad in the history of the world ever said anything other than ‘I’ll get your mother’ when you rang up? Oh, he’s on a roll this morning, asking about the weather, how I’m feeling, if I’ve seen much of my friends and what Wendy’s up to these days. Oh, he’s Chatty McFee of Chatsville today, but then I imagine he’s probably feeling lonely. He’s been on his own since Christmas. Which reminds me of something . . .
‘Dad, did you ever speak to Mum about what we were talking about the other day? You know, about her making up stuff about me going psycho?’
‘I don’t want to get into that right now, Karen.’
Odd. He did the other day. Then I wonder if he did actually speak to Mum and she managed to convince him that she was telling the truth and I was lying and I was always a pill bottle away from topping myself. I bet you that’s what she’s done. Something’s up because I can hear it in his voice. He’s being evasive (you can’t get more evasive than ‘I don’t want to get into that right now’), whereas the last time we spoke he was angry and upset. I can’t even remember how long ago that was. I know it was before Meredith moved in, but that feels like years ago now. It could only be as little as three weeks. I’m confused.
‘You don’t still think I’m completely mental, do you, Dad?’
He gives a nervous laugh. ‘As if,’ he says.
I’ve heard this particular ‘as if’ before, though. He says it when Penelope Keith comes on the telly and Mum and I wind him up and go, ‘There’s your girlfriend, Dad/Vern.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘You do. You so fancy her.’
‘Oh, as if.’
That’s how it sounds now – not like a denial but an admission.
He thinks I’m ker-azy!
‘Anyway, er . . . I’ll give your mother a ring and . . . well, I might come down and see you next week. Got a few days off.’
No. He can’t. I must stop him. He comes down here and he’ll know the extent of the Jorgen Borgen situation, and how I’ve lied to cover up for my mother by not saying anything. But then I realize that I’ll still come out of it quite well because at least he’ll know I didn’t lie to him about being psycho, and threatening to throw myself down the stairs all the time or eat a light supper of razor blades and quicklime. He’ll hate Mother for that and so mark her down as the Bad Guy and me down as the Goody. Bloody right too.
‘I’m . . . really busy with school. Not that it wouldn’t be nice to see you.’
‘Well, I’m sure we’ll sort something out. I’ll talk to your mother about it.’
‘Yeah. Good idea. Hope you get through to her.’
As soon as I’ve hung up I quickly phone Mum’s mobile and – hey presto – Jorgen Borgen answers. At least I think it’s Jorgen Borgen; he doesn’t sound particularly foreign to me. In fact he sounds a bit like Guy Ritchie, mockney-wise.
‘Hello?’ Actually, he’s got a lovely voice.
‘Hi. Is that Borgen?’
‘No, this is Jorgen.’
And I do, I actually say it.
‘Ah, good morgen, Jorgen. This is Karen, Val’s daughter?’
‘Oh, hi, Karen. I have heard so much about you. I hope you are good.’
‘Yeah, I’m great this morgen, dank you.’
I really could slap myself right now. I don’t even speak Danish, so I don’t even know if these are authentic Danish words. I’m guessing not.
‘Were you wanting to speak with Valerie?’
‘Yes, I would actually. Is she there?’
‘She is, Karen, but at the moment she is evacuating.’
I have no idea what this means.
‘Evacuating?’<
br />
‘Yes. On the toilet. As you know, your mother is regular, but she only evacuates twice a week, so . . . she may be some time.’
I did know this, but I usually care to pretend I don’t.
‘Right.’
I’m in no mood for my mother’s toy boy telling me so openly about the bowel movements of his sugar mummy. I beat about the bush no longer.
‘Well, can you tell her from me that my dad’s been on the phone?’ And for emphasis I add, ‘You know? Vernon? Her husband?’
‘I have not had the pleasure.’
‘And he’s wanting to speak to her and . . .’ I even do a dramatic pause ‘. . . he’s threatening to pay a visit next week.’
‘He evacuates infrequently too?’
‘No. Pay a visit. Come down to London.’
‘Oh. I am sorry. When your mother she says she is going to the bathroom, she describes it as “going to pay a visit”. Forgive me.’
‘No, it’s a bit more serious than that,’ I say in a contemptuous tone, hoping to shock him, and show I have little respect for him as he’s tearing my family apart. I didn’t actually realize I felt this way till the words came tumbling out, but now that I’ve used that tone, I feel immeasurably better. It’s a tone I use a lot at work, but in that sphere it rarely improves my mood.
‘Of course,’ Jorgen Borgen says with a humility that’s appealing. I almost feel sorry for him, till I remember. He’s shagging my mother. He is my age. He is not right in the bonce.
But then I remember. Wendy is dating a seventy-two-year-old. The world is on its head.
After hanging up, I try to work out if there are any seventy-two-year-olds out there who I could imagine going to bed with. I wonder if Rod Stewart is that old and decide he’s not. I Google Bruce Springsteen. In his sixties. I look up Mickey Rooney, shudder, then decide I was right first time.
The world is full of freaks, and I refuse to be one of them.
But then I think Paul McCartney: would I or wouldn’t I?
Well, he’s got a sparky personality, and he’s not exactly brassic.
I imagine Sir Paul and I having dinner at his favourite veggie restaurant somewhere fancy in Mayfair. We have spinach pie and it knocks spots off Fionnula’s mess. We drink vegan wine and I lose my inhibitions and my Oyster card so have to go and stay over on Sir Paul’s couch. (NB He is not married in this fantasy.) I curl up on the Terence Conran futon in his box room, but then there is a knock at the door. He comes in, looking down on me in his Deputy Dawg pyjamas. He opens his mouth and I wonder if he’s going to sing his bits to ‘Ebony and Ivory’, but instead he says, ‘Karen, I get dead lonely in that bed, you know. Don’t suppose you fancy bunkin in wirr us and making an old man dead happy?’
The Confusion of Karen Carpenter Page 20
