‘Hi,’ I say to both. ‘Yeah, we’ve met,’ I say, addressing Anekwe.
‘Yes, you’re the girl that’s always flirting with that boy in the break room.’
‘Flirting? Boy?’ I say, as if these words have only just been introduced to my lexicon.
‘Yeah, this one.’ She thrusts her chin forward and I turn to see Greg dancing towards us, a sombrero on his head.
‘They’ve turned the boardroom into a disco and it’s carnage in there,’ he says. ‘I can get you in, though.’
‘It’s OK,’ says Anekwe. Hope and Helen shake their heads.
‘It’s you and me then, bud,’ he says.
I put down my drink as he takes my hand to lead me away. I manage to stop his trajectory towards the boardroom by dragging him behind the giant yucca next to the recycling bin.
‘I’ve had the shittiest day, Greg. I’m not in a disco mood.’
Greg removes his hat. ‘What happened? Is Moses OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s just …’ Greg watches me, his face willing to receive whatever I will say. ‘My marriage is over.’ I start to cry. I try to blink back the tears because it feels too much to be both ‘woman who cries at work’ and ‘woman who cries at parties’ simultaneously. Greg puts his arms round me and he does this kind of scooping thing so that I feel safe and supported, and I stop worrying about being a ‘woman who’ and focus on what I am, which is really sad.
After a minute or so, Greg releases me. He then holds me at arm’s length as if checking for injuries and says, ‘My diagnosis is not enough alcohol. I could be wrong but it would be a first.’ He leaves me by the plant for a bit and returns with four shots in hot pink, plastic shot glasses.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
Greg shrugs. ‘Dunno.’
‘I don’t know if I should,’ I say. ‘Alcohol is a depressant, right?’
Greg hands me two of the shots. ‘And that’s the beauty of divorce: it feels so shit, the only way is up!’
I can drink to that. We both throw our heads back and inhale the first shot; it’s definitely, probably tequila.
‘Anyway, there’s karaoke starting now – you’re gonna need a bit of a buzz on to watch Bob up there.’
‘Jesus, yes!’ I say, and raise my second tiny shot glass. Greg carefully taps his against mine before we drink. It’s definitely, probably vodka.
The boardroom is filling up fast and Greg snags us some space sitting on a table to the right of what I assume is a makeshift stage. An older man I don’t recognize is standing at the front, holding a microphone.
‘That’s Pete,’ whispers Greg. ‘He’s one of the accountants. He does karaoke at Paddy’s on Tuesdays.’
‘Welcome!’ says Pete. ‘And for your delight and deliberation we have Bob, head of customer caaaaaaare!’ Bob appears from somewhere within the crowd and whips the microphone out of Pete’s hand.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Can I just say, this has been an awesome year!’ Bob raises his arm to encourage audience participation, but the only result is someone in the back shouting, ‘Can someone tell my payslip!’
‘I, for one,’ Bob continues, ‘want each and every one of you to know that you have played a vital role in making a good company great!’ Bob does a semi-squat and makes a growling sound.
‘I don’t understand,’ I whisper to Greg. ‘Is that Tony the Tiger?’ Greg claps his hand over his mouth a little too late to stop his laughter escaping.
‘Anyway,’ says Bob, shooting a dark look in our direction, ‘I appreciate all of you. Except for you, Marina. Should you even be here? I mean, are you allowed in the building? Can someone deal with that … But for the rest of you, this one’s for you …’ Bob adopts a wide-legged stance, one that his trousers seem unqualified to accommodate, and bounces unsteadily to the introduction of ‘Sex On Fire’. As the song progresses it becomes clear that he has partially choreographed the whole thing; his voice is not too bad but he completely negates the impact of this by constantly thrusting and looking so pleased with himself. I cover my eyes with my hands.
‘I can’t watch,’ I whisper. Greg grabs my wrists from behind and pulls them away from my face. Bob holds his final pose for several seconds. I suspect in the version he had rehearsed in his head there would be applause. I’m not sure how Pete is as an accountant, but when it comes to karaoke he is a pro at covering up; he plays some jolly incidental music to mask the silence and starts some playful banter with the crowd. Bob leaves the stage and the room.
‘Damn!’ I say.
‘Damn indeedy!’ says Greg.
‘Why would anyone do that?’ I ask him, just as Pete is saying, ‘Next up, we have Greg from customer care.’
49
GREG DOESN’T LOOK at me as he bounds towards the stage. Pete continues to read from a clipboard: ‘Greg says that he wants to dedicate this to someone he thinks is really hot and who he hopes will appreciate it, but he also says that it’s important that you know that he would rather stand in front of a train than do this. He says by the end of this song he will have been to hell and back and feel like he’s slayed a dragon. Whatever the heck that means.’
By this point Greg has taken position centre stage. He thanks Pete warmly as he is passed the mic and, whilst he keeps his eyes lowered for the entire introduction to Aerosmith’s ‘I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing’, when he sings the first line he looks up and directly at me. He is really, truly awful and he doesn’t get better. He literally murders every note of the ballad. Within the audience there is a small enclave of people from customer care who know and love Greg and cheer him on just for being him, but to everyone else he’s a dude who’s completely tone-deaf. Most of the crowd are laughing and the rest are jeering; the guys from IT start throwing Twiglets at him. The further into the song he gets, the higher and more fervent the notes become, and we all know that approaching is what should be a glorious crescendo. I can feel the anticipation in the room and I have to rescue him. Just before he reaches the end of the bridge I storm the stage, grab the microphone and kiss him, and as I do the backing track soars and the crowd erupts into cheers and applause. It’s all pretty dramatic.
Everyone is still cheering when we pull apart. I look at them all and they get louder. I lean in and whisper to Greg, ‘Shall we get out of here?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he says.
He guides me through the room; guys whack him on the back as we pass but he doesn’t stop or let go of my hand. We ignore the cries from people to stay as the lift doors close behind us, and as soon as it starts to move Greg is kissing me again. His hands feel like they have known my body my whole life; it feels safe and sexy at the same time, very sexy. I’m surprised by how pulled to him I feel, how my body responds so readily when I have only just realized how I feel about him – maybe it knew before me. The lift doors open and we both try to rearrange ourselves.
‘Evening,’ says Darryl, doing little to hide his amusement.
‘Night,’ we both mutter, as we scramble past him self-consciously.
Outside Greg tries to hail a taxi but several speed past him. As he raises his arm to try another one, I pull it down. ‘Let’s walk,’ I say. ‘We’re in no rush, right?’
Greg smiles. I’ve never noticed the dimple that appears in his left cheek when he does. ‘No,’ he says, ‘we’re not.’ Greg tells me he lives about fifteen minutes away. He fusses over me, making me reassure him several times that I can walk the distance in my boots.
‘These boots were made for walking,’ I tell him.
‘That was terrible,’ he says.
‘Not as terrible as your singing,’ I say.
‘What’s a man to do? I had to get your attention,’ he says.
I can’t really respond to that. I don’t know why I had never properly noticed Greg, right beside me all that time. I guess because with him it was easy, too easy. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my soul I had decided that if he accepted me, no questions asked, there must
be something wrong with him.
Greg’s place is on the top floor of a dilapidated building. As we climb the stairs he apologizes for the smell. ‘The people downstairs seem to eat the same fish stew every day.’ The flat itself is charming, a bachelor pad crossed with a fairy princess castle. The black leather sofa is strewn with fluffy pink pillows and a Bambi snow globe sits in the centre of the glass coffee table.
‘It’s nice,’ I say.
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ says Greg.
‘I know,’ I say. After taking off our coats we start kissing again, this time firmer, with more intent.
Greg stops and looks at me seriously and says, ‘Do you want a Spanish omelette?’ I smile and say yes. It’s nice watching him work and so I sit in silence as he chops the potatoes and seasons the eggs. Ten minutes later he places a perfectly browned slice in front of me and the first bite warms my stomach in the way that only true comfort food can.
‘This is really good,’ I say. ‘Who knew you were so good with your hands?’
Greg chuckles and puts a liberal serving of barbecue sauce on his own slice. ‘Well, Mum was always in the pub or sleeping off being down the pub; I had to feed the kids and I learned a handful of staples. Most of them are some variation of egg and potato. I didn’t even know this was called a Spanish omelette till I met my ex, so she gave me that at least.’
‘What about your dad?’ I ask. ‘Couldn’t he help?’
Greg snorts. ‘You’d have to find him to ask him, and if you did you’d have done better than me.’ He doesn’t say it angrily; it’s just a truth for him.
‘How are you such a good dad when you haven’t had one?’
‘I don’t know that I’m a good dad, I do my best. I do what feels right – what else can you do? And I love it. Don’t get me wrong, the girls do my head in sometimes. But even then I feel so lucky it’s my head they’re doing in.’
After we’ve filled our bellies, Greg pours us some wine. As we settle on the sofa to drink it he asks, ‘What about your fella? The one you’re seeing.’
‘I don’t know how much I’m seeing him.’
‘And the ex?’ asks Greg. ‘I don’t want to step on any toes and you seemed quite upset earlier.’ I put my legs across his lap and he gently strokes my shins as I speak.
‘No, no, it’s fine. I don’t know if I was upset about him, actually. To be honest he’s a bit of a tosser. I think I was upset about losing it, not him.’
‘It?’ asks Greg.
‘The knowing someone’s there, the having someone to call when you’re alone and pissed. Being able to go home and tell someone all the shitty little petty things that happened to you that day and they, like, have to listen, they’re contractually obliged. I’m just scared I’m not going to have that again.’
Greg pulls me on to his lap. ‘You can have that again,’ he says.
‘Yeah?’
‘You can have that again,’ he repeats, and he kisses me. When we stop, Greg says to me, ‘I want you to know that I want you to stay the night, and that doesn’t mean I want us to do anything – I mean, I do, I really do want us to do stuff – but we don’t have to. I mean, I want whatever you want.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say.
‘Cool,’ says Greg.
‘Shall we, then?’ I ask. Greg looks surprised. ‘Show me where the magic happens.’
Greg takes me to his bedroom. His bed is a mess and he hastily tries to pull up the covers. As he does I notice a photo frame on the table next to his bed, turned to face the wall. I brace myself before I pick it up; I’m prepared to see a picture of his ex and I want to be ready for her beauty. Instead the picture is of Greg and his girls – they look like they’ve been caught in the middle of a pile-on. I know it’s recent because Charlotte is smiling and I can clearly see the gap where her tooth had been.
Greg sits on the bed. ‘You OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say as I join him. ‘Why was this turned against the wall?’
He takes the frame from my hand and looks at the photo. ‘It’s a shit picture,’ he says. It is, to be honest; the shot is totally out of focus and they all look sweaty and red. ‘I just like to know it’s there.’
He puts the photo down on the other side of the bed and he’s still looking at it when I say, ‘I thought it was going to be a picture of your ex.’
Greg scoots closer to me so that our bodies are side by side and we can’t see each other’s faces. ‘Why would you think that?’ He bumps his leg against mine.
‘Something you should know – I can be a bit cynical.’
‘No!’ says Greg. ‘I seriously never noticed.’
I hear the smile in his voice and I shimmy down the mattress so I can look up at him. ‘So, what’s she like?’ I ask.
Greg sighs. ‘She’s a woman.’
I poke him in the leg with my finger. ‘Come on, indulge me,’ I say.
Greg lies down beside me. ‘OK, I don’t know … She’s a woman, she’s small. She’s really clean, she likes dark chocolate.’
‘What made you fall in love with her?’
Greg exhales loudly. ‘You know, I can’t remember. I’m sorry; that sounds like a cop-out but it’s true. I guess she was reliable. I’d never had that. My mum was such a mess and here was this girl, who was … She was together. I knew she’d look after any kids we had.’
‘And?’
‘And she did,’ he says. ‘I won’t lie, I picked a great mother. I just did a shitty job of picking a wife.’
‘I’m not sure the guy I picked was a great father or husband,’ I say.
Greg props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me. ‘That can’t be true,’ he says. ‘Look at you, you’re so amazing – there must have been some good in him.’ I try to think but I can only recall Alexander’s face in the cafe, the way he dismissed me and his obvious eagerness to get back to his new life with his new girl and forget about everything that we had.
‘You know, I think you’re right,’ I say. ‘I mean, he’s fine, he has his own business, he’s clever. I think he probably has a lot of good in him. I think maybe I just wasn’t the one to bring it out.’
‘Maybe,’ says Greg, ‘but also that wasn’t your job.’
‘Oh right, what was my job then?’
‘To be you.’ He kisses me. ‘That’s all I’ll ever want from you: for you to keep being you, and I want that for as long as you’ll let me hang around.’
‘Greg,’ I say, ‘I know you said we didn’t have to do anything, but I’ve got to tell you something …’ He watches me, his big brown eyes unblinking. ‘I want to.’
It’s strange that until this time I hadn’t realized that sex is a conversation. It can say ‘I hate you’ or ‘I need you’; it can be a shout or a whisper. With Greg everything feels so familiar but also really new and exhilarating. I am a little scared by how much I want to have sex with him, and not because I think it will make him like me more; because it will add another dimension to how we like each other. Greg explores every part of my body – the creases behind my knees and the tips of my elbows – and not because he has to, but because he wants to. I feel like what Greg is trying to say is, ‘I want to know you, all of you, because I like what I know already.’
Afterwards he pulls my back to him so that we’re spooning and every inch of our bodies is touching. I’ve heard people say that they fit together before and secretly judged them for being so pathetic, for trying to create something where there is nothing. Of course bodies fit together – that’s what they were built to do – but I understand now what they meant. The ease with which we lie together … it doesn’t feel like a compromise to be so close to him. I’m not, as I often have been in the past, biding my time until I can slip away and return to being just me. It feels like, why haven’t I been sleeping this way, with this person, the whole time? And so that’s what I do.
I wake up alone and I’m less disappointed than I thought I would be. What makes life hard is th
e constant unknowing. If I accept as fact that everyone is going to let me down, maybe things will be a little easier. I sit up in bed and consider whether to get dressed when Greg walks in, still in his boxer shorts. He is holding two mugs in his right hand. He bows gently from the waist as he holds them out so I can take one. ‘And the pièce de résistance,’ he says, pulling out a packet of chocolate chip cookies from behind his back, ‘biscuits, the good kind.’ He places them on my lap and then climbs in the bed beside me with his own tea.
‘I bet you give these to all the ladies,’ I say.
Greg blows on his drink before saying, ‘Nah, the last bird only got rich-teas.’ When I don’t respond he adds, ‘That was a joke; there was no last bird.’
‘I know, Greg,’ I say. We both drink our tea and Greg warms his feet on mine under the covers. ‘You got work?’ I ask him. He shakes his head. ‘So, what do you want to do today?’
Greg takes a long intake of breath and strokes his chin as if he is giving the question great thought; then he kisses me and his kiss answers many of my questions: Did he really mean everything he said? Is he happy I’m here? Will he still want me here tomorrow? His kiss tells me this is the beginning of something or the end of something, or perhaps that they are one and the same. I hear my phone offer up a notification from somewhere in the living room; I keep kissing Greg. I’ll get to it later, maybe.
Epilogue
One year later
THERE’S A CAFE around the corner from our home, a three-bedroom cottage a couple of roads back from the seafront. On Sundays when the girls are staying, Greg will often take the kids there for breakfast, leaving me to enjoy an hour of silence. It’s a necessity; I spend my weeks listening to the cute but chaotic compositions of the three-and four-year-olds who take my class, ‘Music with Martha’. I love it but even love can become overwhelming. Greg adores these breakfasts and when he gets back later in the day, without fail he tells me he’s going to reduce his hours at work and spend more time at home. I just smile and nod because I know he won’t.
The Reinvention of Martha Ross Page 30
