‘I know,’ says Poppy, ‘he told me.’
‘He told you what?’ I ask.
‘Everything,’ she says. She makes a sweeping gesture with her hand as she says this, a gesture that is meant to represent the beginning and the end of my marriage and all the gruesome bits in between. Alexander never once spoke about the baby after we lost her. Except for one occasion when he mentioned that he had found some ‘stuff’ in a drawer (baby books and tiny clothes) and put it in a bag to take to the charity shop. Now he’s telling this flat-chested woman-child all the gory details. I should be angry, I should be outraged – instead, I cry. If there is a humiliation greater than crying in front of your soon-to-be ex-husband’s much younger, much hotter girlfriend in Bill’s cafe, I don’t want to know what it is. Poppy moves towards me and I look up sharply, giving her a gaze that I hope communicates in no uncertain terms that if she touches me I will remove all her fingers. It clearly reads this way or near enough because she recoils.
‘I’m gonna go,’ she says, pushing away from the table. She takes a few steps and then looks back and says, ‘Take care of yourself.’ I picture her and Alexander curling together like vines in bed tonight, expressing artificial concern for my well-being. I didn’t even get to slip in any details of George. If anyone was going to walk out it was going to be me, preferably after covering her with milkshake. Instead she gets to glide away like a model, leaving me to pay for her untouched hot chocolate with my eleven pounds sixty-three.
39
‘SHE’S SUCH A bitch,’ I tell Leanne when she’s home from work. Leanne continues to spiralize courgettes. ‘I suppose we knew she was a bitch but we didn’t know the levels; we didn’t understand the depths of her bitchiness.’ This doesn’t even raise a smirk from Leanne. ‘What’s wrong? Tough day at work?’ Leanne starts to crush garlic without answering me. ‘Coz, yunno, I’ve had a coffee with my husband’s mistress and you’re supposed to agree she’s a bitch. That’s like best friend 101.’
Leanne puts down the crusher and says, ‘It’s a waste of your energy focusing on her. You’ve had an afternoon to yourself. An afternoon that you could have spent doing something useful.’ Leanne gestures to the baking stuff still in the sink. ‘Instead you fill your time creating drama.’ Leanne and I once made a rule that we would always be honest with each other. It happened the morning after I drank too many blue WKDs and asked a boy on the bus to be my boyfriend; when he refused (repeatedly) I cried and then covered the seat and my new dress in blue vomit. The next morning, I chastised Leanne for not making clear to me that it was a terrible idea to proposition a stranger on the number 5 and we promised we’d offer each other honest counsel from that day forward; we pinky swore on it. But telling the truth doesn’t mean spewing negativity all over your friend, especially when that friend is processing the fact that her ex has a hot, young, new girlfriend.
‘I already have one mother,’ I tell Leanne, ‘I don’t need another one.’ Leanne washes her hands and doesn’t comment. I say her name to let her know the conversation is far from over. She stands across from me and places her palms flat on the island.
‘Maybe you do. We’re not kids any more – we have kids. The little scrapes you get yourself into are no longer cute.’ Her words sting, as was their intention. She looks at me pityingly and I decide it’s time that Leanne heard some truths of my own.
‘We can’t all be perfect, Leanne, and you know what, some of us don’t want to be. You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? Well, here’s something you haven’t figured out. We can see it, we can all see how hard you’re trying and how much you care what people think of you. It doesn’t look that perfect, it looks exhausting. It looks sad.’
Leanne curls her hands into fists before leaning forward and saying, ‘I’d rather be sad than a mess. I’d rather be someone my daughter can look up to.’
I rise from my stool. ‘Are you saying my son shouldn’t be proud of me? Are you really saying that?’
‘If the shoe fits,’ says Leanne.
I jab my forefinger on to the counter. I can feel the tenseness in my jaw as I say, ‘My son will be proud of me. Because I may be a mess; I may not have chrome doorknobs and Ocado deliveries and all the other shit you think is so important, but I’m a good person. I care about people. I’m a loyal friend.’
Leanne laughs and the sound shocks me. ‘Of course you’re a loyal friend!’ she cries. ‘If you weren’t you wouldn’t have anyone to clean up your little accidents.’
‘Fuck off, Leanne,’ I say. ‘I’ve never asked you to fix anything. All I’ve asked is for you to be there for me, to show a bit of interest. You barely listen to me these days.’
Leanne and I have fought before – there was the time she and Rebecca Grayson from the year above went to see Peter Andre in concert and didn’t even ask me; when she ditched my birthday celebrations for a first date with a bloke who only talked about World of Warcraft; and when she went to bed on my wedding night, when what I needed her to do was sit with me and hold my hand until I passed out, stone-cold drunk. Leanne covers her face with her hands and when she takes them away her expression is hard and unreadable.
‘I listen,’ says Leanne, ‘but I don’t know why I bother because you say the same things over and over again. And you don’t seem to want to hear any solutions. I’m here for you, I really am – may I remind you that you’re living in my house? – but when are you going to fucking start being there for yourself?’
I shake my head. She’s just being cruel. ‘What is this about?’ I ask. ‘It’s not all about me. I think it’s because, even if I’m fucking everything up, I’m trying to make changes. I’m moving, I’m not living the same boring life day after day until I die.’
Leanne just looks at me, her bright green eyes shining with anger, and then she starts to cry. I feel panicked. I was angry; I didn’t really mean to hurt her.
‘Martha,’ she says, as she drags her hands across her face. ‘James has cancer.’
I wait for the punchline. It doesn’t come.
‘What?’
‘He’s been diagnosed with prostate cancer.’
‘Oh, honey,’ I say. ‘Oh no. Oh, Lee … I hear that’s the best one to have, though.’ Leanne looks shocked and then starts to laugh and then I laugh and then we both start to cry. I grab her hands across the island and I don’t want to let go.
‘It is the best kind,’ she says eventually. ‘Everything should be OK, but it’s just the thought, the thought of being without him … I don’t know if I could do it.’
‘It won’t happen’, I say, ‘but if it did, of course you could do it.’
‘Yes, I know,’ says Leanne, ‘but I wouldn’t want to.’
I force Leanne to abandon the garlicky courgetti concoction and order pizza. When James comes in we are sitting on the bar stools next to the island eating it out of the box. When I see him and his little, smiling eyes, my own fill with tears.
‘Aw,’ says James, and then to Leanne, ‘you told her.’
‘I’m so sorry, James,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says James. ‘I’m dying, but then again, aren’t we all.’ He comes over to me and gives me a hug. I’ve never noticed before but James is the best hugger. He doesn’t just tentatively place his hands on your back; he really squeezes so that the air rushes out of your body and your feet leave the floor. When he releases me, I tell him that I will move out as soon as I can.
‘Don’t worry,’ says James as he lifts a slice of pizza from the box, ‘I like your influence.’
‘He will be having surgery soon, though,’ says Leanne, although she is looking at James.
‘I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible,’ I say. Then, after a pause: ‘When did you find out?’
James takes off his tie. ‘Martha, do you mind if we just … don’t. I’ve been with HR all afternoon. I want to be the man without cancer for a minute.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘In fact, why don’t you guys g
o out again tonight? They have sofas at the cinema on London Road; it’s so cosy.’
James shrugs. ‘That’ll probably take my mind off cancer.’ He looks at Leanne. ‘Fancy it?’
‘What’s a cinema again?’ she asks.
‘Dark place, no kids, snogging in the back,’ says James.
‘Definitely,’ says Leanne. ‘Thanks, Martha.’
‘Any time,’ I say, and I really mean it.
When James and Leanne have left in a taxi, I gather the children on to the sofa. I am not making the same mistake as last night; I am employing the support of a trusted friend – the television.
‘Today, kiddos, we are going to watch the greatest film known to man.’
‘Frozen?!’ shouts Millie.
‘No, better than that.’
‘Frozen 2?!’ shouts Millie. I ignore her.
‘It’s Mary Poppins!’
Lucas and Millie stare at me in silence. God, what is Leanne teaching these kids? I put the DVD in. They’re bored by the start of it and I have to admit there’s a lot of build-up so I fast-forward to when the adventure begins. Moses recognizes ‘Jolly Holiday’ from his previous exposure to Mary and starts to clap his hands. Lucas and Millie also get into the spirit of things and Millie makes a gallant effort to join in with the songs. I have loved Mary from the moment I met her; so strong and capable, and of course beautiful, but her beauty is the least interesting thing about her. We four snuggle up on the sofa and it seems I am not the only one entranced by her magic, but I forgot how long the film is and halfway through the children are sleeping. I carry them upstairs one by one. I take Millie last and as I lift her she wakes up.
‘I’m angry with you,’ she says.
‘Why, darling?’
‘You never did friendship bracelets.’
‘Oh, Millie,’ I say, ‘I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I just ’membered,’ Millie says, and smiles.
‘You silly sausage,’ I say, and tickle her. ‘How am I supposed to remember if you forgot?’
Millie curls up her body so that my fingers can’t reach her tummy. ‘It doesn’t matter if I didn’t ’member – you’re supposed to ’member cause you promised,’ she says.
I think about my wedding vows and say, ‘You know, I think you might be on to something there.’
Downstairs I watch the rest of the film. Usually it makes me really happy but I feel a little overwhelmed when Mary flies away. How can she leave so readily? How can she go like that when Bert is clearly so in love with her? I want a bit of Mary for myself, to be able to leave before everything turns to shit, or better yet, I want my own Mary – someone to work her magic and show me how to make myself happy. And then I realize that maybe I do have one.
40
‘IT’S CALLED “SORRY I’m a defensive, insecure cow who has never appreciated how much you’ve done for me”’ I tell Cara as I put a cocktail down in front of her.
‘Interesting name,’ she says.
‘It’s called “Sorry” for short,’ I say.
Cara takes a sip. ‘Mmmm, what’s in it?’ she asks.
‘Basically booze.’
‘I love it. And I’m sorry too.’
‘What for?’ I ask.
Cara puts her hand on my forearm. ‘If you want to have a fictional boyfriend by all means go ahead.’
I shake her hand off my arm. ‘You bitch,’ I say.
Cara shrugs and I have to laugh.
‘And Leanne told me you weren’t well,’ Cara says. She drops her head. ‘I should have come to the hospital. I can be … stubborn.’
I point at her and feign confusion. ‘You?’
‘Shut up,’ says Cara sharply. ‘Listen, I had to bite my tongue so much when you were with A-hole pretending to be happy. I’m not good at it and I don’t want you to do it again. The idea of you hiding in some virtual love affair makes me fucking angry and I don’t get angry about shit I don’t care about. I want you to show the world who you are. Open the door, shake those amazing tatas and say, “Look out, here I come!”’
‘You think my boobs are amazing?’ I ask, grabbing them.
‘Come on,’ says Cara, ‘you know you’ve got great baps.’
‘Well, no actually, I don’t. Don’t you think you could have mentioned that before?’ I look down at my chest. My left boob is definitely bigger than my right but I suppose they are pretty good in a lopsided kind of way.
‘They’re stuck on the front of your body; I didn’t think you’d need it pointed out to you. If you wait for someone to tell you how fabulous you are, you may be waiting for ever. Anyway, that’s enough talk about your tits. How are things going?’
‘Well, actually …’ I take a fortifying inhalation. ‘I wanted to ask if I could take up your offer to stay at the flat. If you’re still willing to let me and it’s still available?’
Cara takes a sip of her drink. ‘Of course it is. I was just waiting for you to come to your senses.’
I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. ‘How soon can I move in? It’s just there’s a situation at Leanne’s.’
‘Too much limescale in the kettle?’ asks Cara.
‘James has cancer,’ I say.
Cara puts down her drink. ‘Fuck. Fuuuuck. Fuck that. Fuck cancer. I mean, he’s a boring little fucker but he doesn’t deserve that.’
‘It’s pretty shit,’ I say.
‘Which one is it?’ she asks.
‘Prostate.’
‘That’s the best kind,’ she says.
‘That’s what I said.’ We both sit in quiet contemplation. I wonder if Cara’s thinking what I’m thinking: that we’re too young for our friends’ husbands to be dying.
‘How’s Leanne?’ asks Cara.
‘She’s doing OK. To be honest, she seems a lot less uptight than usual.’
‘Well, she couldn’t get any more uptight.’
‘That’s mean,’ I say.
‘That’s honest,’ says Cara.
‘It’s not necessary to be honest all the time.’
‘No, it’s not, but I am,’ says Cara. ‘It’s my thing. And – honestly – you need to get laid so why are you messin’ about with this fantasy guy?’
‘He’s not a fantasy, he’s so real it’s untrue. And he’s back in about five weeks.’
‘What’s so real about him?’ asks Cara.
‘I’m not going to tell you because you will mock me,’ I reply sternly.
‘I promise I won’t mock you,’ she says.
I take another deep breath. ‘You know the list we wrote, the one to the universe?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘The universe answered and sent me George.’ Cara doesn’t react. ‘I don’t just mean a guy called George, I mean everything on the list. It’s him. I mean all the things I asked for in one man. And I know it sounds crazy and it feels crazy but, you know, good crazy. I even tried to ignore it myself because it seemed so mental. You know I went on that date with Tom, and it was awful, and then I thought, what the hell, because George really is everything, everything I ever wanted. I’ve barely thought about Alexander because it’s like I let go of what I didn’t need and created space for what I did.’ Cara sits in silence.
‘The thing is, I think it’s been better this way because George has been in Africa and we’ve got to know each other and we haven’t let sex or expectations get in the way. We’ve established that we can trust one another and that’s what I was missing the whole time I was married – trust.’ Cara remains perfectly still. I look up to the sky. ‘Fine, go on then,’ I say, and Cara collapses into giggles.
When she has recovered she says, ‘Let me get this straight: you’re in love with a dude you’ve never met, who says whatever you want to hear, and he’s in Africa.’
‘Yes.’
‘One word – catfish.’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘He’s not African and I think that might be a bit racist, by the way. He’s from Brighton, he’s just
working out there.’
‘Fine,’ says Cara. ‘You’ve got a boyfriend. You’ve got a boyfriend that lives in the internet. I’m very happy for you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘I just want you to have what you want. I get my kicks from flesh-and-blood guys but if virtual is your thing, I’m behind you every step of the way. I will totally attend your Skype wedding.’
‘You know I hate you.’
‘I do,’ says Cara sweetly. ‘Look, you can move in whenever you want. I’m going away next week, then I’m back for a few days, and after that I’m in Stockholm.’
‘Where are you going next week?’
Cara pauses to have some of her drink. As she does, something very odd happens; a band of colour rises up her neck. It takes a few seconds for me to comprehend that Cara is blushing.
‘I’m going to see Rico.’
‘In Brazil? But you hate the heat!’
Cara shrugs. ‘Sometimes we do crazy things for love.’
I clap my hands over my heart. ‘Oh my God, you love him!’
‘Jesus Christ, don’t wet your pants. I don’t know if I love him yet, but I like him a lot and I think it might be worth going out there to, I don’t know, investigate some stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Mainly his penis, granted, but to see if I can handle being with someone for an extended period of time, I guess.’ I can’t believe that Cara has met a guy she’s willing to let her hair frizz for. ‘OK, we’re done with that. So, the flat.’
I really want to push for more details but I know it’s pointless. ‘I’ll try and sort myself out for next week. How much is the rent?’
‘I’ll get you the keys. The rent is free for the first three months.’
‘No, Car,’ I say, ‘I can’t do that.’
‘You can and you will. Your payment to me will be getting on with your life, because I can’t always be the one with the stories at cocktail hour – it’s exhausting.’
‘No, it’s not right—’
‘What’s not right is you pussying about in a shit marriage for years and never doing anything for yourself. What about this business?’
The Reinvention of Martha Ross Page 25
