As I’m walking back to my desk Greg stands. He’s on a call but he does a series of stretches, as if he’s preparing for some sort of office-based sport. As I get closer his gestures become more involved; it’s almost like a dance. I wonder if he’s unstable – the secret lives of call centre workers, eh? Too late I see that the title of Greg’s contemporary piece is ‘the boss is coming, stay out of sight for a minute’ and the second I make it to my desk I am besieged by Bob.
Bob demands that I come to his office. I might be in serious trouble but I might not be as Bob demands everything. He manages to make every interaction feel aggressive; I swear even his sneezes are threatening. I don’t know why Bob feels the need to be so macho about everything – he’s tall, fit (on account of an apparent gym addiction) and he’s good-looking if you like that artificially bronze, extra-from-TOWIE vibe, but obviously something has gone awry at some point. Rumour has it he’s not even called Bob. He briefly dated Danielle in HR and after their break-up she revealed that he had chosen the name Bob because he ‘did not feel his given name suited his present mindset’. Bob vowed never to date within the organization again following this indiscretion. He told me so during my interview: ‘I don’t shit where I eat, so don’t get any ideas.’
Bob doesn’t invite me to sit, so I end up standing with my hands in front of me like a kid being called before the headmaster. Actually, these days I bet the kid would be allowed to sit down; we’re all so invested in children’s welfare and treating them with respect. Bob is not a bedfellow with respect, so he leaves me hovering. He tells me I have dropped 36.5 calls over the past forty-six minutes and wants to know why. I want to know how it’s possible to drop half a call but I’m not sure he would appreciate the question. I think about telling him the truth, saying, ‘My heart feels like it’s been ripped from my body and shredded on the fine side of the grater,’ but then I look at Bob’s impassive, possibly Botoxed face and say, ‘I’ve been bleeding for twenty days.’ Bob gives me the rest of the day off with strict instructions to ‘find something to plug that up’ by my next shift. I leave the office and head to Leanne’s house.
3
LEANNE OPENS HER front door. She’s wearing leggings covered in a brightly coloured geometric pattern and a long-sleeved top made out of shiny black material. ‘Not that you aren’t welcome,’ she says, ‘but this is a surprise.’ Leanne takes Fridays off to spend ‘quality time’ with the kids and catch up with what she calls ‘home admin’.
‘Are you busy?’ I ask. She pauses but says no.
‘I was just about to take Lucas out with the running buggy.’ Leanne heads to the kitchen and puts the kettle on, without needing to ask if this is the correct course of action.
I follow her and sit at the table. I start about twenty sentences in my head and go with, ‘It’s over.’ And then, ‘Oh God, it’s really over. It’s actually over.’
Leanne shoos her youngest, Lucas, from the room – she’s clearly desperate to protect her children from legitimate human emotions for a couple more years. When he’s safely out of earshot she says, ‘What has he done?’
‘It’s not him, it’s me!’ I slap my hand against my breastbone as if there’s another contender for the title of me.
‘What have you done?’ Leanne asks patiently.
‘I ended it. I had to end it. Jacqueline told me I should end it. Everyone knew it wasn’t working, everyone. Oh God. Oh God.’ Leanne stands up and pulls my head into her chest. I can feel my tears creating a damp patch on her top and I try and pull away but she just tightens her grip.
‘It’s OK,’ she whispers. ‘It’s OK.’ We stay there in silence, both waiting for my breathing to return to a steady rhythm. Eventually my pace matches hers; there’s something soothing about the synchronization of our exhalations. ‘Martha,’ says Leanne, ‘who’s Jacqueline?’
Leanne lets me hide within the bustle of her home. I follow her around like a puppy as she continues her daily routine. As we fold laundry and prep dinner, I play a canny game of avoidance – I avoid her gaze, I avoid my feelings, I avoid fourteen missed calls from my mother and a text message that says, ‘CALL ME NOW!!!’ After the fifteenth call, I text her: ‘I AM FINE. WITH LEANNE. PLEASE PUT MOSES TO BED.’ Then I turn my phone on silent. I know that if I hold my son I’ll crumble; he’ll have to watch his mother fall to pieces and won’t understand why. And in addition, I don’t need to hear ‘All the Ways Martha is an Epic Failure: Volume 78’ from my mother. Not today.
I accompany Leanne and Lucas to collect my god-daughter, Millie, from school. When she sees me at the gates she breaks into a spontaneous little tap dance and it is almost, but not quite, enough to lift my spirits. ‘Auntie Marfa!’ she cries when she reaches me. ‘The truth came out!’
‘It always does, beautiful,’ I say.
‘Look!’ Millie carefully extracts a wad of tissue from the pocket of her pink coat and unwraps it carefully to reveal a tiny, white tooth.
‘Well done, chicken,’ I say. ‘I’m so proud.’ I pull her into a hug. ‘I’m so, so proud of you.’ Millie wriggles out of my arms and carefully places her treasure back in her pocket.
When the kids are in bed and Leanne’s husband James is back from work and pottering about in that way only men can, it is no longer possible to avoid Leanne’s slightly overwhelming concern. She makes me tea and then seats me on her sofa, where she paints my nails a shade of pearly pink. This is a throwback to our teenage years, when we would spend Saturday evenings getting beautified for parties to which we would never receive invites. We speak very little as she carefully coats each fingernail, although she gently probes into some of the pertinent details: Do I need somewhere to stay? (No.) Do I have enough money? (I don’t know.) Do I need a good solicitor? (I hope not.) When she has finished she instructs me sternly not to smudge her work and then makes us both another brew.
‘Is this definite?’ she asks. I nod. ‘When did you know?’
‘Yesterday … Always,’ I say.
‘Will you go back to “Ketch”?’ Leanne asks. I am yet to give this thought but the answer arrives quickly.
‘No. No, I’m still Martha Ross. I want to have the same name as Moses.’ Also, I need the reminder – not of Alexander but that, at one time, I belonged to someone. Leanne sips her tea. I suspect she is filling her mouth to prevent further comment. ‘You can say it,’ I continue, ‘you can say whatever it is you’re thinking.’ For some reason, I think she’s going to admit she thought I was too fat for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
Without introduction, my friend Cara walks into the room and falls heavily on to the sofa. Leanne must have sent a text requesting back-up. ‘What do I need to fix?’ she asks.
‘How did you get in?’ asks Leanne. A bird tweets from within Cara’s bag and she ignores Leanne’s question, retrieves her phone and starts stabbing at it violently. Leanne narrows her eyes at Cara as we both watch her scarlet-tipped fingers move deftly across the phone face. When it’s apparent that Cara is oblivious to her silent judgement, Leanne switches back to concerned mode. She pats me on the thigh and tells Cara, ‘Everything’s under control. Martha’s had a shock. It’s over between her and Alexander.’ Cara puts her phone away, tucks her spike-heeled ankle boots up beside her and pushes the sunglasses she’s wearing on to her thick, inky head of hair.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ she says. ‘He’s a prick.’
‘That’s not helpful,’ says Leanne.
‘He is a bit of a prick,’ I whisper.
‘He’s a lot of a prick,’ says Cara. ‘He could very easily go by Alex, but he forces everyone to say two pointless, extra syllables. Do you need him hurt?’ she asks. ‘I know a guy in Rochester.’ I’m not sure if she’s serious. Leanne pushes Cara’s feet off the sofa cushions.
‘Martha doesn’t need anything like that,’ she says. ‘She needs some space and she needs us to listen and be here for her.’ Cara flares her nostrils and places her feet on the coffee
table. Leanne lets her eyes rest on them for a second and then asks, ‘What happened?’ And so, I tell them.
You know those couples who are so perfect they look like performance art? Alexander and I were one of them. If you came for dinner, we would make two courses and offer you mid-priced wine and finish each other’s jokes and wave you goodbye at the door. Then it would be curtains down. Alexander would retreat to his office and I would hang out with my lover, Netflix. Slowly we spent less and less time with each other and soon, I was no longer sure I wanted to spend time with him at all. The saddest thing about a relationship that ends in this way is the nagging feeling that it could have been saved. It’s like when you move into a house and there’s a crack in the wall and you say, ‘How ugly, we’ll get that fixed right away,’ but of course you don’t. There are far more interesting things to do – tables to buy, prints to hang, housewarming parties to host. For a few weeks, your eyes fall upon that crack and you promise yourself you’ll address it but soon you grow accustomed to it. The crack becomes a part of the home; you don’t even see it any more. Except occasionally, in the middle of the night, you can’t sleep, and you think, I must deal with that crack. And then one day you’re standing in your living room with a bloke called Mike and he’s telling you that you have to give him five grand to stop your house from caving in. I don’t know who Mike is in this analogy but I do know that the house fell down.
‘I knew something was going on,’ says Leanne. ‘It was like you were getting smaller. He was extinguishing you. You’re so brave. I have so much admiration for you.’ I’m spared from saying anything by James walking into the room.
‘I thought you might need this,’ he says, and places three glasses and a bottle of wine on the coffee table before shuffling out backwards like some kind of geisha. I can tell Leanne is attempting not to beam with pride and I find myself resentful. Why does she think she can be so smug? I wouldn’t go out with James if he were the last man on earth. OK, if he were the last man I would but only because if he were the last man and willing to date me, I would officially be the hottest woman on the planet. Other than this unlikely scenario, he would be a no. He’s nice but wears terrible shoes and has too much gel in his hair and his mouth is too small for his face, which in my opinion gives him a slightly ratty appearance. It would be like being married to a devoted dormouse. Alexander is hot. Not movie-star hot, unless the movie was a low-budget, independent drama about a man reconnecting with his ailing father, but general-population hot. Cara leans forward and pours three large glasses of wine. She hands Leanne and me a glass each and then downs half of the third before topping it up again.
‘To freedom,’ says Cara, raising her drink. Leanne smacks her on the leg.
‘To hope,’ she says.
‘To the hope of freedom,’ I say, and we clink our glasses together.
‘What are you actually going to do, though?’ asks Leanne. I take a large mouthful of wine.
‘Find someone new,’ I say, ‘something better.’ Leanne places a hand on top of mine.
‘I think it’s a bit soon,’ she says.
‘It’s not soon enough,’ says Cara.
I can see Leanne gearing up to protest, so I say, ‘I’m ready, I deserve to be happy. I want what you have, Leanne.’
Leanne colours a little and sips her drink. ‘OK,’ she says, ‘what do you want? What wasn’t Alexander giving you?’ My mind is flooded with so many things – a kiss goodnight, a smile in the morning, a sense of safety.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. Leanne stands and walks over to her solid oak bookcase. She pulls a notepad and pen from one of the shelves.
‘If you’re not clear on exactly what you need, you will never get it,’ she says. Leanne sits back down and opens the pad to a clean page. ‘My business coach got me to do one for work but I don’t see why it wouldn’t be the same for a bloke.’
‘Totally did this last year,’ says Cara, ‘and the next day I met Rico.’
‘What was on your list?’ Leanne asks. Cara ticks the items off on her fingers: ‘Young, fun, not in town long and most importantly a really massive co—’
‘The universe will receive your message and manifest it for you,’ interrupts Leanne, turning her back on Cara’s mockery, ‘but you need to focus on what you want.’ Cara crosses her eyes as she tips her head and lets her tongue fall out of her mouth. Sometimes I think Leanne and Cara don’t like each other.
I met Leanne at school and we spent many Saturdays crying over Leonardo DiCaprio and perfecting our acne-camouflaging techniques. We drifted apart after university – Leanne worked hard, settled down quickly with James and pursued a parent-pleasing career path in accounting; I was mostly drunk. It was only when I was planning my wedding and realized that I couldn’t trust any of my drinking buddies to rock up to the right place on the right day that I reached out to her and asked her to be my bridesmaid, and we rekindled our friendship. She has taught me a lot about being a wife and a mother, mostly about the stuff I’m doing wrong.
Cara, I met at a temp job. I was an admin assistant and she was the receptionist, or at least I think she was, but I never saw her do any work. She left suddenly amid rumours (which she has never confirmed or denied) of a mysterious pay-out. Then one day she called to ask if I would accept a package that was arriving at the office for her. When she came to collect it (thirty minutes late) I asked her what was in the box; it was very large and had taken some effort to conceal.
‘Toys,’ she said. ‘You know, cock rings and such. You’re a superstar. I need them for tonight.’ She must’ve seen the shock in my eyes because she tutted and said, ‘Not for me, for the talent.’ The shock shifted to confusion and she sighed and said, ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’ And she did.
‘She’s right, you know,’ says Cara. ‘You’re not very good at focusing.’
‘Remember the novel?’ says Leanne.
‘Which one?’ says Cara, and they both snort-laugh simultaneously. I remember that even if they don’t like each other they are united in the cause of trying to prevent me from continually fucking up my life.
With the aid of another bottle of wine we pull together a list, the summation of my hopes and dreams and values in human man form. It takes some time and negotiation but an hour or so later we are confident we have succeeded.
The definitive, non-negotiable – approved by Leanne, Cara and the universe – perfect man for Martha Ross official guidelines:
1) Must have blue eyes and red hair. (I have always had a predilection for redheads and I once heard that this combination of features is one of the rarest in the world. This man needs to be one in a million.)
2) Must be intrigued by me. (I never really felt I held Alexander’s interest.)
3) Has to work for himself but not be in it to make money. He’s got to do something useful to society. He has to spend his free time doing something inspiring; not just inspiring but also worthy, e.g. deworming African orphans or similar. He can have little to no interest in developing strategies to excel at Championship Manager.
4) Must be spiritually aware. Not necessarily religious but have values and a belief system. He has to have done work on himself and be able to evidence that.
5) Must be close to his family. Not in a creepy way. He cannot under any circumstances live with his mother, but he must understand the importance of familial relationships (Alexander hates every last member of his family; Jacqueline had a field day with this).
6) Has to like kids, but can’t have kids. He can’t be childless because he can’t commit or has some huge flaw that has prevented anyone wanting to breed with him. He has to have a legitimate reason for not having become a father, preferably tragic.
7) Has to be confident in all senses of the word – socially confident, sexually confident but especially confident about the fact that he’s crazy about me.
8) Has to be tall, in exceptional health, has to like reading and long conversations.
9) Has to like a
nimals and will have a cat called Hendrix.
10) His name will be George.
Cara tries to talk me out of George. ‘George is a dead uncle name,’ she says. I like George, though. George is solid; he sounds reliable. ‘And why the cat thing?’ she asks. ‘You don’t even like your cat.’
‘I love my cat,’ I say. ‘As soon as I get a place for me and Moses, I’m gonna go get Moxie.’ I don’t love my cat that much – he’s cranky and he pisses under the sofa when it thunders – but I don’t see why Alexander should get everything. Leanne rips the page out carefully and hands it to me.
‘There he is,’ she says. I read it again. I already feel like I know him better than I know the man I married.
I didn’t need a list when I met Alexander. I saw him, and I knew. The first time we met we were at a party in a pub garden on the edge of town. A girl called Petra was leaving for a three-month trip around South America; I remember I almost didn’t go. I thought it was excessive to hold a party to mark such a short absence; I keep cheese in my fridge that long. As I walked into the room I whispered to myself, ‘Why am I here?’ And like an answer to my question, he fell into view. His sandy hair was longer then and when he laughed, as he was doing as I watched him, it fell forward, and he would push it back with his long, slender fingers. He had on black-rimmed glasses; somehow, I knew they were not prescription and this fact made him seem a little vulnerable. I asked three separate people who he was, and no one seemed to know. To my relief after about an hour Petra pulled him over. Embracing her role as fabulous hostess, she placed him in front of me.
‘Hey,’ she gushed, ‘you having fun?’ Without waiting for an answer, she patted Alexander on the shoulder. ‘This is Alexander, he was a freelancer on a project I did at work. He’s so much fun. Alexander, this is Martha,’ she said, grabbing my wrist to pull me closer. ‘We go way back. We were in the Scrabble club together at uni.’ As I silently thanked Petra for that little gem she rushed away to do more introductions.
The Reinvention of Martha Ross Page 2
