The Reinvention of Martha Ross

by Charlene Allcott

  ‘No,’ I say. I feel ashamed now, now I am in her home, stealing her heat and her time. I really wanted someone to blame and Jacqueline, with her questions to answer questions and her exquisite soft furnishings, seemed like such a great choice.

  ‘I’m going to book you a cab,’ she says. ‘Will he need a seat?’ I shake my head. She picks up her phone and presses a button; obviously she has a cab firm on speed dial. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, to …’ She looks at me questioningly.

  ‘Windlesham Road,’ I say, and she repeats this.

  Then she puts the phone on her desk and says, ‘Have you been doing any work on yourself?’

  ‘Yes! Loads! I mean, I’ve been trying to …’

  ‘Have you been speaking to someone?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Well, that’s good and, Martha, sometimes progress doesn’t look neat and linear; it’s like a cut healing – at one stage it’s a nasty, ugly scab but that means things are getting better.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like things are getting better.’

  ‘It won’t always; you have to look for the good sometimes.’ She glances at Moses, nestled in her chair. ‘Look for it and if you can’t see it, create it, and if you can’t do that …’ She stops as if remembering something before continuing briskly. ‘In any case, there’s little in the world that can’t be undone. Tell him you were wrong and that you want to make another go of it.’ I think about this, about putting back together what has been unpicked, and I think there is quite a lot that can’t be undone actually.

  A man sticks his head round the door. He is older than Jacqueline but he’s attractive; certainly he was very attractive at one stage in his life, and something about the way he carries himself suggests he is still cruising on the fumes of this time.

  ‘Do we have guests, Jac?’ he says with a hint of mirth in his voice. Jacqueline excuses herself, which seems excessive given that she didn’t really invite me. Even though she shuts the door behind her I can make out the clipped sentences of a whispered argument. Odd words and phrases float into the room. ‘No … Never stops … Outrageous … One night … You always … Absolutely not …’ I’ve been looking to Jacqueline for answers but it seems she’s just as messed up as the rest of us.

  There’s silence and then some shuffling and then Jacqueline opens the door and says, ‘Your car’s here.’ She stands in the doorway and watches me climb in, holding Moses. I look at her before we pull away. Her face seems to say, ‘We’re not that different.’ Either that or, ‘Thank God that crazy bitch has gone.’

  Cara steals another piece of chorizo from the pile on the chopping board and chews it thoughtfully. ‘What’s this for again?’

  ‘It’s a celebration of life,’ I say. James is playing with some Lego on the floor with the boys and as I say this he looks up at me and smiles. ‘And a chance to say thank you to my beautiful friends. I’m recognizing the good in my life.’ I pinch one of Cara’s cheeks and she makes a gagging noise.

  ‘If you’re going to be pulling out that mushy shit, I’ll need to drink a lot more,’ she says.

  ‘I promise I will keep the mushy shit to the bare minimum,’ I say. Cara grabs another piece of chorizo. ‘If you stop eating the ingredients,’ I add. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful and lay the table.’ Cara rolls her eyes but she sets about creating a lovely dinner setting, even going into the garden to pick some holly to make a small centrepiece. Only an hour after the anticipated start time, Leanne, James, Cara, the kids and I sit down together to eat.

  ‘This must be when we say grace,’ says Cara in a sing-song voice.

  ‘Well, actually,’ I say, standing up, ‘I do sort of want to offer thanks.’ Six pairs of eyes are trained on me; I clear my throat. ‘I made this dinner to say thank you to you all. Leanne and James, obviously for putting me up, but all of you for helping me almost keep it together recently.’ Leanne smiles and Cara gives me a wink. ‘Not long ago,’ I continue, ‘with the help of my friends I wrote a list. A list of the things I thought I wanted.’ James looks at Leanne with furrowed eyebrows and she dismisses his silent question with a quick shake of her head. ‘What I failed to realize was all the wonderful things I already have. I have amazing friends, some of whom have beautiful children, and I have a man in my life who lights it up every day.’ I bend down and give Moses a kiss in the middle of his curls. ‘So, I want to write a new list. I want us to write it together. A list of all the things we’re happy to have in our lives. We’re not going to say grace; we’re going to give gratitude.’ I sit down. ‘Leanne, can you start?’

  ‘I’m grateful to have this wonderful man beside me,’ says Leanne, and James drops his head coyly. ‘I’m grateful for every day we’ve spent together and every day we will spend together going forward.’ She looks at James until he looks back at her.

  ‘I’m not going to cry,’ he says, and Leanne laughs.

  ‘Your turn, babe,’ she says.

  ‘I’m grateful for all the laughter in this home,’ he says, ‘from my wonderful, crazy children and my wonderful wife and her crazy, wonderful friends.’ James looks to Millie.

  ‘I’m happy for Barbie and butterflies and Star Wars and pizza and Mummy and Daddy and sometimes Lucas, and I’m happy that Moses and Auntie Marf are having a sleepover and Grandma and sometimes Ruby but sometimes not because sometimes she takes the pink felt tips and—’

  ‘Honey, the food will get cold,’ says Leanne.

  ‘I’m happy for all the things,’ says Millie with a firm nod of her head.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ I say. After some coaxing, Lucas says he’s grateful for his scooter, and when asked what he loves, Moses simply says, ‘Horsey.’

  Cara says, ‘I’m grateful that you lot let me study how the normal live and, you know, it’s not so bad.’ I blow her a kiss and she points a warning finger at me.

  ‘I am grateful that I have everyone in this room together and for the realization that that may be enough.’ I raise my glass and everyone except Moses and Lucas follows suit. ‘To love and laughter and Barbie and butterflies and scooting and horses and normality and having enough,’ I say. ‘Let’s eat.’ Everyone takes a drink and starts the food.

  ‘Why is the pasta crunchy?’ asks Millie.

  As we’re clearing away the dinner plates the doorbell rings. Leanne is picking food out of Lucas’s hair and James is debating with Millie about the size of her dessert, so I go and answer it. He’s facing away from me when I open the door, so he doesn’t see my surprise. Greg turns around and puts his hands in his pockets. ‘Hey,’ he says casually.

  I laugh and ask, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Nothing. I mean, I just wanted to see if you were OK. I was driving by your mum’s and thought I’d stop in. She said you were here.’

  I lean against the door frame. ‘Yeah, I needed some space.’

  ‘So, everything’s OK?’ Greg says this intently, as if to make sure I understand it’s not just a platitude.

  ‘I’m really good. Thanks so much for checking, Greg.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says, ‘anytime.’

  ‘I’m doing a thing,’ I say, gesturing behind me.

  Greg takes a step back. ‘Oh, of course, sorry to interrupt. Better get back. I was just on my way home. See you.’

  He starts to walk down the path and I say, ‘No! Come in for a drink.’

  ‘Yep, you should totally come in,’ says Cara from behind me. She wedges herself in next to me and appraises Greg coolly. A small hand prizes my legs open and Millie’s head appears between them.

  ‘Come in! Auntie Marfa’s friend, come in!’ she shouts.

  Greg turns back and looks slightly afraid. ‘No, I’ll get off. Early start. See you soon, though,’ he says, and then gives me a little salute.

  I return to the kitchen, where the strawberries and ice cream are on the counter, and Cara follows me, stopping at the island to top up her wine glass.

  ‘Who w
as that?’ she asks.

  ‘Greg, from work,’ I say, indicating that she should pour me a glass.

  She does so and takes a sip of her own before saying, ‘Does that mean that the other boyfriend has been kicked to the kerb?’ She smiles into her wine glass and I narrow my eyes at her.

  ‘Nothing’s going on with Greg, he’s a …’ I pause and try to locate the right word. ‘Friend. But OK, I accept that I have to meet George, get to know him first before anything can be official. I haven’t even sent him a message today because I’m holding back a bit.’

  It’s kind of true. I want it to be true. Cara nods as one would to a small child who has finally accepted that the stove is hot.

  45

  IN THE MORNING I wake full of the warmth created by an evening earmarked as a great memory, but underneath the joy, anxiety begs for attention like a mosquito bite. Being with Áine was wonderful – maybe even necessary – but I realize that in spending the night with her I have betrayed George. And maybe not – maybe he’s the type of guy that might like his girlfriend indulging in that kind of experience – but it’s definitely too early to ask. That’s the problem with guidelines; no matter how comprehensive, they can never cover every eventuality. You’ll never get to, ‘If I accidentally have lesbian sex whilst trying to discover who I am, he will react in the following ways …’ I don’t think George will be keen, though; my list guy wouldn’t want to share me, and it just seems so very me to find something perfect and then fuck it up before I even get to experience it properly. I message him to say I want to talk but he doesn’t respond. As I wait for him to get back to me, I feel the cold finger of panic tap me on the shoulder. I need to know I can reach him, not just practically but emotionally.

  One summer Alexander had gone on a design course in Copenhagen. I remember when he told me he had been accepted, his voice growing more and more excited with each sentence. As his eagerness grew so did my terror; I was utterly convinced he was going to abandon me. My belief wasn’t that he would find someone else but something else – something better, more exciting, less me. I really wanted to go with him but he was insistent that if I went it was to be for myself; whichever way I tried to spin it I could not find a way to make that true. When he left I really thought he was leaving me for good and so when he called a few days later to say that he was miserable, perhaps the most miserable he had been in his life, I was moved to tears of unabashed joy.

  Alexander started to write me emails – long, meandering missives without purpose. He told me about the silly little occurrences of his days. He wrote a whole message about the museum he went to that had an entire wing dedicated to chairs; he told me that he was desperate for Marmite and related the crazy conversations that ensued when he tried to describe it to supermarket staff; he told me he had a pass to the theme park and that on some mornings it was so quiet he would have a whole rollercoaster to himself. He didn’t say much about the course itself; broad strokes about the content (stuff he knew) and the people (polite but boring). I wasn’t really interested anyway. I craved the minutiae, the things that if he didn’t share with me he would share with no one. They were so intimate that, although his emails contained no expressions of love, I considered them love letters.

  I want to write to George but I don’t have his email address so I send him a message through Linger, composing it first in the notes section of my phone.

  Marthashotbod: My friend’s husband has cancer. Leanne and I have been friends for ever and it’s so strange, really scary. I guess you know what that’s like. I’m scared for him obviously but it makes everything seem scary. Like you never know when something is going to end or start! I’m just really feeling like I want to hold on to things.

  It’s early. I’m getting ready for work. I should tell you I work in a call centre. It’s not what I wanted to do and it’s not what I want to do but it is what I do. It’s OK. I can do it. It feeds my kid, that’s the important thing. I’m looking for something bigger, not that I know what that is yet. I got a promotion at work and I should be really pleased. Anyone normal would be really pleased but I guess you know by now that I’m not normal. I’m starting to think that might not be a bad thing. I’m weird but I’m me.

  Anyway, holding on to things, it’s probably good. Like, I don’t really want this job but maybe I should hold on to it anyway. Maybe the secret is in the holding on but I held on to my marriage and maybe I shouldn’t have … I guess everything has a lesson? I suppose you found that out with Cass.

  When I was at the retreat they told me that I had to learn to sit with discomfort. I think I get it now: no matter what you do there’s gonna be hurt and pain and shit. You’ve got to love that as much as you love the good stuff. I think there’s good stuff here with you and me, I really do, even though we haven’t met yet! The other thing is though, you can’t really enjoy the good stuff unless you’re honest about the crap and I want you to know there’s a lot of crap. I’ve done some stuff I’m not proud of and I want to be able to share that stuff with the person I’m with. That’s why I’m writing to say that I really want to share that with you.

  I have a confession. Before I met you I wrote a list. On the list I put all the things I want in a man, not things I think I deserve – I promise I’m not a diva – but just the things that I think I might need. It’s important that you know that so much of what was on that list I see in you. You are my list and I want to be yours. So, let’s meet as soon as we can. Let’s start this, let’s be perfect for each other; let’s be imperfect for each other perfectly.

  George responds almost immediately.

  Undeterred83: Well, I’m just about to go on safari, so meeting soon might be hard lol. I’ll be in touch.

  I stare at the message for some time. I guess I hope if I stare at it long enough it will make me feel what I want to feel, but it doesn’t; nothing he says to me ever will. Nothing any man ever says to me will.

  I want to break something. I tear through my bag until I find the list and every word on it now seems to be taunting me. I rip it to shreds in a frenzy, making the pieces smaller and smaller until my fingers hurt. The resulting pile of scraps doesn’t quell my anger and so I pull them into my cupped hands and carry them downstairs. The only available receptacle is Leanne’s huge Le Creuset casserole dish. I throw the pieces in and then drag through the kitchen drawers for a match. I find a packet, procured from an Indian restaurant, light one and throw it in. The pitiful flame it creates is deeply unsatisfying, so I run to the booze cabinet and pull out some brandy to use as an accelerant. It works; it works a little too well. The resulting flames shoot a couple of feet out of the pot and I am engulfed in fear – not of the danger but of Leanne’s reaction if I burn her house down. I grab the pot and practically lob it in the sink. Then I throw on the tap as far as it will go. The fire is extinguished and I fall to the floor, sweat and relief pouring from my body. I’m still sitting there when my phone rings, up in the bedroom. I panic that if my accidental bonfire hasn’t woken up the whole house, my jarring ringtone will. I fly up the stairs and somehow manage to reach it before the voicemail kicks in. Unbelievably, after everything, his is the only voice I want to hear.

  ‘Sorry it’s so early. Is now an OK time?’ asks Alexander.

  ‘It’s the perfect time,’ I say.

  46

  ‘CAN WE MEET today?’ Alexander asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Let’s meet tonight at the cafe on the corner. Eight OK?’

  I remember how lovely it is to have a cafe on a corner that needs no further specification.

  After work I take Moses to Mum’s and ask her to have him. I think she may be able to say no to me but she won’t be able to resist him. She’s steelier then I give her credit for, though. She leads us through to the kitchen in silence and when I ask if she will have Moses overnight she says, ‘You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to have him, no questions asked.’ I put Moses on the floor and he immediately
runs from the room, returning a few seconds later with his little dump truck, which he settles down to play with. I sit at the kitchen table.

  ‘OK, ask away,’ I say.

  Mum continues to stand by the kitchen counter. ‘Where are you going to live?’ she asks. ‘You can’t stay at Leanne’s for ever.’

  ‘Cara’s given us her flat for a bit while she’s out of the country.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘I’ve got a new contract at work. And a promotion.’

  Mum sits down. It’s the first time in my life I’ve had answers and I think we’re both a little in shock.

  ‘Am I too hard on you?’ asks Mum.

  I’m stunned. How can she be asking me a question that I’ve been screaming the answer to my entire life? I sit up in my chair and speak very clearly; I want to make sure that every word I say is heard.

  ‘Mum, you’re absolutely too hard on me.’

  Mum straightens a place mat so that it runs in line with the edge of the table.

  ‘When I was pregnant with you, I ate four oranges every day. I think I read an article somewhere about it. I drove your dad mad, making sure we had them in. It’s not like it is now, when you can get whatever you want, whenever. I drank so much water. You know how much you pee when you’re pregnant anyway. Those days, you could have a little drink when you were expecting. Not me, not a drop passed my lips.’

  ‘I get it, Mum, you’re a saint,’ I say, slumping down in my seat.

  ‘No, no,’ says Mum, holding out her hand to ask for more time. ‘No, not a saint: scared. I had lost two babies – I wasn’t going to let you go and I was going to do everything in my power to make sure you were perfect, and you were. They said I mollycoddled you, that you were going to be spoiled. I don’t think I put you down for two years. I didn’t care.’ Mum looks past me, towards the hall. ‘I don’t mean to push you; I am just so scared for you and you’ve always been such a timid child. I need to know that you’re tough enough to keep yourself safe when I’m not here, when I can’t be here.’