by Freya North
Pip McCabe feels horribly, disastrously, helplessly bland. She wants to slump herself down in a self-pitying heap. Unfortunately, she chooses an old Space Hopper and thus has to do a fair bit of precarious balancing which makes her feel all the more ungainly. Lovely, attractive, bubbly June. A child. A fulfilling marriage. A mature relationship with an ex. A three-bedroom house. A spare room with memories she’s not embarrassed by. A skill with cake icing. Suddenly, Pip wants to be June.
Juli-bloody-ana. Pip had no idea. She’d’ve analysed her painstakingly had she known. She had assumed the slightly aloof, fabulously coutured slender woman was a mother of a party-goer. It hadn’t crossed Pip’s mind that she was in any way attached to Zac. She didn’t recognize Juliana as the woman Zac was with at the cinema that time. Not that she’d taken much notice. She hadn’t once stopped to wonder if Zac was seeing someone else more recently. Since they’d slept together. She hadn’t actually stopped to wonder what he was up to. If he was even happy or in good health. She’d confined him to a closed moment in time, locked him in a dim part of her mind – and hadn’t presumed reality to treat him any differently. She hadn’t bothered to consider that he might not be at the party on his own. That his life might well be a party. She hadn’t stopped to think that he’d be utterly capable of moving on, of inviting other women into his bed. Of forgetting all about Pip. Had Juliana been treated to cream tea and A Flock of Seagulls? A rather private teenagery side of Pip suddenly wondered petulantly whether Zac actually liked Juliana more than he’d ever liked her.
Sitting up there, she tried to stabilize herself on the Space Hopper whilst trying to kid herself she was stable in herself. To maintain a brooding melancholy was no mean feat, but her acrobatic abilities helped. Somehow, she felt diminished; in her mind’s eye she elongated, elevated and further beautified Juliana. She was sure, if she ventured downstairs, she’d confront a vamp of proportions to rival Elle MacPherson. No doubt embroiled with Zac in erotic kissing imbued with a healthy, rare mix of tenderness and desire. Pip even looked out of the window to see if there was a flat roof to jump on to, or a fire-escape to make her exit by. But she could hear the doorbell ringing, and the squawks and falsetto chattering of a growing number of six-year-olds.
I feel horribly uneasy. Like a child who does not want to perform. I feel very alone and rather small, by myself in this room, in this house. With all of them downstairs. I don’t want to be here! I want to go home! I want to do a disappearing act, not clown around in front of Zac. June. And Juli-bloody-ana.
If you weren’t so fiercely private, you could be on the phone now, to any of your friends and sisters. For comfort and support. Advice and a game plan. But they have no idea of your situation because you’ve fastidiously locked them out.
Zac and I ended badly. Things like that happen. All the time. But we can’t change that.
Yes, you can.
Whatever. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Look at the time. This is work. And with a bit of slap and a change of clothes, I can let Merry Martha take over for the afternoon and give myself a break.
Actually, Pip, you need to give yourself a hard time before you’ve earned a break.
Pip prevaricated over walking downstairs, finally making a very slow passage indeed towards her audience. She walked with the deliberation of someone trying not to damage eggshells, or of someone trying not to be damaged by a carpet of broken glass; as if every step had the potential to turn into a stumble, as if she was wearing incredibly high heels with a restrictive gown. Pip, however, was in motley and clumpy shoes. Every step, however slow or tiny, was bringing her nearer to a place she’d rather be far from, closer to a man she didn’t want to see again, to his new girlfriend who highlighted all her own inadequacies, to his ex-partner who symbolized all that she didn’t have and most likely never would have. For the first time in her professional life, Pip was dreading taking centre stage. She felt sure she was to be the laughing stock. It felt as though she was falling, falling flat and flailing and fast.
She’d applied her slap as meticulously as ever. Dressed herself carefully and festooned herself with the tricks of her trade. But for the first time in her career, Pip knew she had merely painted on a clown mask. She was simply wearing fancy dress. The notion was appalling.
Merry Martha hadn’t come through that afternoon. Pip was on her own. Surely, everyone would be able to see behind the painted smile. June wouldn’t have her money’s worth. Tom’s expectations and memories would be dashed. Only Juli-bloody-ana would be satisfied. This, however, was on the assumption that Pip had been important enough to Zac to be known of by his new girlfriend. Pip then supposed Zac probably didn’t give a shit. That she hadn’t been important enough for him to mention to his current girlfriend. Please God, then, let him not even care to watch her act. Pip was resigned to feeling lousy. For the next hour or so in a full house. As well as home alone later. And for God knows how long after that.
It’s interesting how one party, in one location, can mean so many different things to those who are there.
Without exception (apart from perhaps a small boy who threw up after one marshmallow too many), the children had a ball that afternoon; a stupendous, overexcited time of it.
Pip, though, loathed every moment. Pretending to be Merry Martha was as difficult as if she had chosen any other existing clown to impersonate. Usually, Martha simply took over Pip and the act tumbled along naturally. This afternoon, every joke, each trick, the lilt of her voice, every song and whistle, required immense strength of character combined with ten years of experience to pull off.
Zac felt supremely irritated – he felt denied the chance just to enjoy the festivities for Tom’s sake and on Tom’s level. He resented the fact that he had to consciously think about where he was looking. He really didn’t want to catch Pip’s eye. But he felt obliged to catch Juliana’s though he had no desire to do so. He didn’t want to answer when his ex-partner sidled up to him and said, ‘Cool clown – look how delighted Tom is!’ Ruth’s wink-wink-nudge-nudging was near-unbearable. When she elbowed him during an elaborate part of Pip’s act, he felt like shoving her back. Halfway across the room and out into the hallway. He hated himself for frequently checking his watch. He shouldn’t be wishing his son’s sixth birthday party would be over.
Juliana was plain bored. She found the noise level intolerable and the food stomach-turning. She found June disappointingly mumsy and her new husband good-looking but gormless. These people were not her type. Their life was not one she coveted. She was slightly put off Zac because of his inextricable links here. Tom didn’t interest her at all. She felt nothing towards him, really. He was a kid. What could you add to that?
June was exhausted and delighted – her happiness directly proportionate to the breadth and longevity of the youngsters’ smiles. She craved no acknowledgement for her organizational skills. She just wanted to witness their smiles and the excitable yacking. She wanted Tom to proclaim this day the best in his life.
Rob-Dad simply thought it was all rather jolly. He even managed to sneak off unnoticed every now and then to catch up on some lap or other of the Grand Prix.
Tom was in seventh heaven. Or sixth, rather. It was his special day and everyone was ensuring he didn’t forget it for a moment. The presents were fantastic! And look at all this stuff Mum’s done to eat! And almost best of all, the clown – his clown – in his own front room, with balloons and songs and brilliantly stupid tricks. Tom threw himself into the vortex of his party, letting the action and the affection revolve around him. It was the best day of his life. No, the very best day was the one when the bandages came off. This, then, was the second-best day of his life. And anyway, he was six now, near enough a big boy, he’d be growing out of his eczema soon, wouldn’t he.
Out of all the guests, of any age, it was perhaps Ruth who was enjoying the party the most because it delighted her on so many different levels. She adored her nephew, Tom, and it was wonderful to see him so brig
ht-eyed and his skin so good. She adored his father – her brother-in-law. And loved the house. And June’s cooking. And June. And what icing on the cake Juliana provided! Ample fodder for Ruth and June to nip off to the kitchen later for furtive bouts of analysis and general deconstruction. And if there was a cherry on the top, then the clown girl was it. Ruth didn’t know whether to watch Merry Martha perform, or to observe Billy and Tom’s pleasure in her act, or to scrutinize Zac’s reaction to her, or assess how much Juliana knew. Or should she just grab June’s elbow, haul her out to the kitchen and reveal all? Once she’d seen Billy and Tom’s jaw-dropped delight in the entertainer and had observed Zac shuffle uneasily, checking his watch for the umpteenth time; once she’d seen Juliana stifle yet another yawn and smirk at some of the soft furnishings in the house, Ruth grabbed June and mouthed, ‘Kitchen! Now!’
June couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.
‘Backtrack, backtrack!’ she demanded, rooting through a drawer for a bottle opener while tearing off the collar on a bottle of Semillon with her teeth. ‘You’re telling me that the clown and Zac have had some kind of fling?’
Ruth nodded.
‘Like, with dates?’ June tried to make sense.
Ruth nodded vigorously, grateful for a good glug of wine.
‘And sex?’ June asked, taking a swig direct from the bottle before filling a glass.
Ruth was wide-eyed, her head bobbing as though she was utterly drunk already.
‘My ex? Tom’s clown?’ June tried to fathom, downing wine as if it were juice. ‘Have had sex?’
Ruth grinned. ‘Yup, a couple of times, I think.’
‘How?’ June marvelled.
Ruth cocked an eyebrow. ‘I guess he put his willy in her—’
‘Yes, yes!’ June laughed. ‘But how on earth did my ex get it together with a clown? This clown. Or how in hell’s name did the clown come by my ex?’
Ruth shrugged. ‘I think it’s been quite some story,’ she said reflectively.
June paused for a moment. ‘Sounds like it.’ She took a contemplative sip. ‘Actually, I instinctively really like the clown,’ she said, ‘even more so now I’ve met Juliana. The Willowy One seems to me to be on the patronizing side of aloof – I can’t imagine sharing chocolate, wine and gossip with her. But I have a hunch Pip is much more on our wavelength.’
‘Snap,’ said Ruth. ‘Actually, I’ve watched Juliana cast all sorts of withering looks over your fixtures and fittings. Like she disapproves.’
‘There again,’ said June, ever the diplomat, ‘maybe she just has an awkward manner. Maybe she’s just shy? I mean, perhaps Zac really likes her. Though I can’t see what he sees in her – apart from the obvious!’
The two women looked at each other and then laughed.
‘But,’ June continued, ‘unfortunately, it seems that Pip is in Zac’s past tense.’
‘And he does seem incredibly tense,’ Ruth mused.
‘Right, thinking hats on,’ June said. ‘God, poor Philippa – she’ll be mortified when she finds out that I know. I was giving her all sorts of gory details upstairs.’
‘A clown and an accountant,’ Ruth declared. ‘Doesn’t look particularly promising on paper, does it?’
June considered this. ‘Agreed. Plus the fact that something has obviously gone awry,’ she reasoned. ‘Any ideas or info?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ruth replied, ‘I mean, Zac doesn’t really “do” details, does he?’
June chinked glasses with Ruth and they sipped their wine while they set their minds to scheming.
‘Well, for starters,’ June said with a sly lick of her lips, ‘we need to throw them together – I could always pretend not to have any cash and could my ex possibly pay the clown for services rendered?’
‘But wouldn’t they both be mortified?’ Ruth gasped.
June meant no malice. ‘My thinking is that if it’s an outside party making them feel awkward, then they’ll seek some kind of solace in each other,’ June revealed. ‘Perhaps. Sort of. I hope. You never know.’
‘Well, it’s worth a try,’ Ruth conceded, ‘it’ll get them alone and talking at any rate.’ They returned to the mêlée. Merry Martha was doing a handstand. June and Ruth looked at each other in triumph. They were on the right track. It wasn’t just the children who were trying to look up her skirt. Or was it down, from that angle? Ruth and June observed that the father of the birthday boy, whether subconsciously or otherwise, appeared to be gazing at her gusset, too.
‘Zac,’ June whispered, sidling up to him, ‘would you mind awfully paying the clown? Rob and I are out of cash – we spent it all at Sainsbury’s.’ Zac regarded June. Utter horror zigzagged across his brow and made a gaping aperture of his mouth. ‘Thanks so much,’ June said artlessly, squeezing his arm, ‘much appreciated.’ Still Zac looked appalled. ‘You do have cash, don’t you?’ June asked with contrived innocence. Zac baulked and frowned and couldn’t say a word but he checked his wallet and there were obviously enough twenty-pound notes for the fee. ‘You’re a star,’ June said. ‘I’ll pay you back. I’ve asked the clown to stay for tea, too.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Please please please don’t let her stay for tea.
Zac was practically choking on birthday cake.
Please please please let me be able to leave without bumping into him.
Pip was taking her make-up off as quickly, if not as thoroughly, as she could. Stay for tea? Not likely!
She descended the stairs to the hallway as noiselessly as possible. Which was a stupid thing to do, really, as it meant that no one heard her and therefore no one knew she wanted to go and needed to be paid. She gave a little cough. But the racket coming from the kitchen was such that even a fully voiced ‘hullo’ from the hallway would have gone unheard. Pip felt down and defeated.
If I had less pride and more dignity, maybe I’d just go without being paid. Fuck it, they can send a cheque in the post.
But wouldn’t you be more noticeable by your disappearance? Wouldn’t they wonder why?
Oh great. Just great. Fucking marvellous. This is all I need.
‘Hi,’ says the Willowy One, emerging from the guest WC in the hall.
The One in Jeans, with hair jutting this way and that, traces of make-up clinging here and there, simply raises her hand in a humble wave.
Juliana looks a little puzzled. ‘You OK?’
‘Just dandy,’ Pip replies flatly, trying not to notice the extraordinary length of the woman’s legs, nor how flawless her complexion or fine her bust, trying to turn deaf ears to the description ‘sultry vamp’ which is in her mind. ‘Just getting ready to go home,’ Pip says. This is good enough for Juliana who returns to the party. It is of some consolation to Pip, however puerile, that Juliana has left a noticeable smell in the guest cloakroom.
‘That clown is hovering by the front door,’ Juliana tells June.
‘Tell Zac, will you?’ June asks Juliana.
‘That clown is hovering by the front door,’ Juliana tells Zac.
Zac tries to catch June’s eye but his ex-partner is deep in conversation with Ruth. He looks at Juliana. She looks bored. Suddenly, he feels strongly that even if she is bored, she shouldn’t show it. It is Tom’s birthday, for Christ’s sake. His son, after all. Zac leaves the kitchen.
Pip is standing by the front door, taking an inordinate interest in a fairly nondescript brass finger-plate. Zac clears his throat. She turns and stares before her eyes dart this way and that. He looks pissed off and she feels uncomfortable.
‘You all right?’ he asks perfunctorily. ‘Juliana said you looked like you were loitering.’
‘I’m fine!’ Pip says. ‘Juliana was coming out of the loo as I came downstairs.’
An awkward silence ensues. It saddens Pip who suddenly remembers vividly the daft phone calls she’s shared with this man. The ease at which they’ve bantered late at night or over tea. How kind he was when she was sobbing on the bench near his o
ffice. The delight he’s taken in her work. Snogging in his car. The fact that he does breakfast in bed. Of his own accord. With excellent coffee. That he decants milk from carton to china. She glances across at him, a sensation welling inside her that could very well spill into an audible apology if only she’d let it. But she sees that he’s fidgeting and so she finds it easier to tell herself that he’d rather she bugger off than do declarations.
‘I’m just going,’ she says, tipping her head and trying to smile in a gentle way. ‘Please say “goodbye” to Tom. He looks so well – his skin has improved dramatically since I last saw him. And thank June – she’s great.’
Zac nods – his son and ex-partner are great. He leans against the wall, hands in pockets, one leg bent nonchalantly. But his easy posture belies his discomfort. He hasn’t made eye contact with Pip. He’s spoken to the top of her head, the middle of her T-shirt, her shoes, a dent in the front door just to the right of her. He takes out his wallet. ‘June’s out of cash,’ he says quietly.
