You, Me and Him

by Alice Peterson

I ring Clarky and he finally answers. My heart jumps for joy. ‘No, sorry, J, I’ve got to get to work.’

  ‘Please, please, please. I’ll do anything if you can help me out just this once?’

  ‘No,’ he says, surprisingly firmly. ‘You can’t always rely on me, Josie.’

  You’re the only one I can rely on, I think to myself as I turn my phone off. There’s no other option. I have to go and collect George.

  *

  George and I enter the building through rotating glass doors but he stops dead when he’s a foot inside, gazing dreamily at the spiral staircase, the glass-walled offices with people working on their computers, the silver lifts with all their buttons. Everything is slick and polished and waiting to be explored. New places are like treasure chests to my son.

  When we make it to the front desk, the receptionist is on the telephone. She’s got mousy-coloured hair that’s cut into a sharp fringe and streaked with blonde. ‘I know. I said to him that unless he was prepared to make more of an effort …’ I stand waiting. When she puts down the phone she starts typing. I find myself coughing loudly.

  ‘Sorry, who are you?’ She’s still not looking at me.

  ‘Josie Greenwood, Gem Communications. I have a meeting with Mr Allen.’ I smile politely.

  ‘Right, take a seat. Sorry, what did you say your name was?’ she asks again, picking up the telephone.

  ‘Greenwood.’

  ‘Can you spell that?’

  ‘Green and then wood.’

  ‘And where are you from again?’

  ‘Planet Zog,’ I find myself saying.

  My son giggles.

  ‘Can you spell that?’

  Is she for real?

  Finally she looks at us. ‘Is he with you?’ George flicks an elastic band at her but luckily it misses. Where he got it from I don’t know. ‘Stop it,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Behave or you go back to school at once.’

  ‘But you’ve got a meeting. You can’t take me.’

  Damn it, he’s right. ‘I’m sorry. Can we start again? I’m from Gem Communications. I did ring Mr Allen to warn him I’d be bringing my son.’

  The receptionist rolls her eyes. ‘Mr Allen, Mrs Greenwood from Gem Communications is here to see you. She’s got her son with her.’

  George has seen the fish tank. ‘Wow, Mum, look at the fish! Look, this one’s all on his own, the others don’t like him. I’ll be your friend, I’m going to call you Gary.’

  My skin is burning with anxiety as I manage to make him sit down. There is silence for a second until George starts to spin his black leather chair round and round. ‘GEORGE! Sit still,’ I demand, grabbing the chair to try and make it stop. I hear a snap and a crunch. One of the springs must have broken.

  The receptionist stares at us icily. ‘Look, why don’t you build this?’ I suggest to him. ‘I’ve got your digger here. See if you can make it before my meeting ends.’ Thank God he starts to get out the coloured Lego pieces.

  Mr Allen, the Marketing Manager, comes to reception before I’ve had time to check that my designs are in order. He’s young, good-looking, dressed in jeans, trendy trainers and a smart white shirt that has been immaculately ironed and pressed. I shake hands with him. He’s wearing a smart gold watch which contrasts with the dark hair that sprouts from his wrist to either side of the strap. I apologise once more for bringing my son into work. ‘Call me Neil, please. Yes, don’t worry, a bit unconventional, but hey, we’ll let it pass just this once,’ he says with a wink. ‘Debbie, could you watch Mrs Greenwood’s son? Thanks.’

  Oh, lord. Oh, lord. I might as well have told her she was a silly cow. I’m scared that she’ll drown George in the fish tank.

  ‘No problem, I love kids,’ she says sweetly, blushing in front of Neil.

  I look at her sideways and she smiles.

  ‘We’ll be in the room opposite.’ We walk through the glass door and I shake hands with the Head of Communications, then the Publications Manager, and they’ve also brought in the copywriter. I feel unusually nervous as I open my portfolio and lay out my work on the long table in front of me, Gem Communications incorporated onto the top of every sheet, together with the logo of a sparkling ruby. I start my presentation.

  ‘What we strive to do at Gem Communications is to help established or new organisations define, create and evolve their brand communications across different media. Design serves a purpose: to communicate clearly, engagingly, and above all distinctively. I love impact, contrast, colour, texture, but all of it has to be there for a reason – to express you and your objectives as a company.’ Neil nods appreciatively. ‘I’ve experimented with a couple of designs and concepts. First, if you want to go down the more traditional route, I’ve done a design in serif type. The background is in a timeless navy.’ I pin the logo to a large display board.

  ‘I quite like that,’ comments Neil, turning to the others. From the corner of my eye I glimpse George running past the door. I have an awful feeling I saw a fish in his hand.

  ‘However, if you wanted to go down the more contemporary route, reflected by a fresh colour palette, then I thought the logo could be in a cool blue rather than navy and in sans serif type.’ I show the two together to illustrate the contrast.

  ‘I’m not sure about the cool blue, it’s cold,’ Neil starts to say. ‘I don’t think it stands out enough. Shorter lifespan too.’

  ‘I have done a sample of colours.’ I hear a shriek. ‘If you could excuse me, for one second?’ I suggest as they are looking at the designs.

  I shut the door gently behind me before bolting down the corridor. ‘What are you doing? George!’ He’s sitting on the floor with a striped fish in his hands. He is trying to stroke it. ‘Look at it, Mum. Isn’t it sweet?’

  ‘George, it’s a fish!’

  ‘He’s called Gary. He has a name.’ The fish is slithering around in his hand.

  ‘Where’s Debbie gone?’

  ‘She said she wanted a ciggy or something.’

  ‘Put Gary back, NOW!’

  ‘The other fishes were picking on him, Mum. Pinching all his food.’

  I lunge forward to try and get hold of the fish but it is so slippery that I cannot grip it properly. ‘Back in the tank, now! He needs water. You’ll kill him.’

  ‘I don’t want to kill him …’

  I return to the meeting room. ‘We’re not sure either option really talks to us …’ Neil starts.

  George is now pressed up against the glass door. ‘Where’s the loo?’ he mouths desperately. He’s holding his crotch.

  ‘Excuse me, Josie?’ Neil is staring at me.

  ‘I’m sorry, I missed that point. Could you just run that by me again?’ I say desperately.

  ‘We were saying, we weren’t convinced either option really stood out enough,’ Neil repeats. ‘We want something more dynamic? Eye-catching?’

  I can see George’s pained face pressed against the glass. He’s hopping up and down in agony.

  ‘OK. Let’s consider the third option,’ I say, panicking like mad, ‘which I think you’re going to like. This will set you apart …’

  ‘MUM! I NEED THE LOO!’

  Everyone in the meeting room turns round and looks at George. I put down my design. ‘I’m so sorry, please excuse me.’

  ‘Fine.’ Neil folds his arms tightly.

  I run out of the room and grab George, leading him down the corridor. I am going to kill my son.

  *

  I’m driving George back to school ready to tell the headmaster exactly what I think of this lunchtime punishment. I’ve probably just lost Ruby a client; I might have lost my job, and all because of Ms Miles. ‘We’ll get back to you,’ Neil had said with a smile, showing me promptly to a door with a great big EXIT sign over it.

  ‘Why did you try and flush Jason’s hooded top down the loo?’

  ‘He made me.’

  ‘You could have said no.’

  ‘He said if I did it, I could play football in h
is team.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He said it was a joke or something. Ms Miles hates me. She calls me stupid.’

  Right, that’s it.

  I knock loudly on the headmaster’s door but don’t wait for a response. A thin man with fair hair sits behind a desk. ‘Er, hello,’ he says, ‘can I help?’ His office is small and tidy, each shelf completely filled with books.

  ‘Josie Greenwood. This is my son George whom apparently I have to collect every lunchtime now because you can’t cope.’ I sit down and cross my arms. ‘George, sit down.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘I mucked up THE MOST important meeting today because …’

  ‘Mrs Greenwood, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You run the school, don’t you?’ I begin to tell him about the hood incident.

  He holds up one thin hand like a human traffic indicator. He looks too insubstantial to run a fleapit, let alone a school. ‘I would like to talk to your son about this.’

  George tells him. It seems they know each other quite well already.

  ‘I see. And do you think your behaviour was acceptable?’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, Mr Phipps.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He made me do it.’

  ‘So, if I tell you to jump out of the window in my office, will you?’

  ‘George would jump off a skyscraper …’ I start, but Mr Phipps signals me to stop again. ‘Go on then, jump.’

  George starts to jog up and down on the spot in preparation. ‘I want to be a fireman when I grow up,’ he says. That’s the first I’ve heard of it. He starts to run but Mr Phipps puts out a surprisingly strong arm to halt him.

  ‘If you jump, you’ll hurt yourself. Consider the question before acting on it.’

  ‘He can’t,’ I cut in. ‘It’s a classic symptom of ADHD.’

  ‘George, why don’t you go to the computer room, play some games until your mother and I come and get you?’

  ‘I can play Hangman!’ He sprints out of the office.

  Mr Phipps turns to me. ‘I know George has ADHD. I see he’s on Action Plus and has been seen by an educational psychologist in the classroom.’

  Action Plus is when the school contacts outside agencies such as educational psychologists, behavioural specialists, occupational and speech therapists, to assess a particular child in order to determine if they need a statement of special educational needs. Typically George behaved like an angel when they brought an observer into the lesson to monitor him so they didn’t feel it necessary to assess him further, but the school had told me they’d continue to keep ‘a close eye on him’.

  ‘One of my friends’ brothers had ADHD,’ Mr Phipps continues. ‘Still has it. He has learnt to control his behaviour, and I’m sure it’s possible for George to do so too, but he needs to be shown how. He’s a bright boy. There are ways the school can help; practical things like making sure his desk faces a blank wall so there’s as little distraction as possible.’

  My anger starts to subside. ‘And teachers need to tap him when they want his attention, not shout like Ms Miles does.’

  ‘I agree with you that this lunchtime punishment is too disruptive. Also, I see George is behind on his reading and spelling. His handwriting is pretty poor too …’

  I sigh with frustration. ‘We’ve been waiting well over a year for an occupational therapist to get him splints.’

  ‘I would like to give him a few extra lessons after school, if it’s all right by you?’

  I smile. At last my son seems to have an ally at school and at least one tiny part of my day is being salvaged. ‘That’s more than all right. Extra lessons would be great, thank you.’

  *

  ‘Why is he watching television?’ is the first thing Finn calls out to me when he arrives home. He drops his case on the floor and starts to undo his tie. ‘I hope you gave George serious time-out, Josie? Don’t you realise your mother and I have more important things to do than pick you up from school, George?’ Finn is looking for the television remote. He slips a hand down the side of the sofa. No luck. ‘George, I’m talking to you.’

  His eyes are glued to the screen.

  ‘Finn, it’s been dealt with, OK?’ I take off my plastic apron featuring a picture of a barmaid with a huge cleavage. Granny gave it to Finn for Christmas.

  ‘He shouldn’t be allowed to watch anything tonight. He won’t learn what’s right or wrong that way.’

  ‘Finn, will you …’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be doing his homework?’

  ‘I’m trying to watch Star Trek, Dad. This is the good part.’

  Finn strides across the room and turns the television off, tripping on a piece of Lego in the process and twisting his ankle. ‘Oh, fuck!’

  ‘Finn!’ I shout.

  ‘Mum! You said I could watch this if I was good.’ George starts to cry.

  ‘That’s my whole point. You haven’t been good today, have you?’

  ‘But Mum said …’

  ‘How would you like it if someone flushed Baby down the loo? It is not acceptable behaviour. Do you understand?’

  ‘Finn, stop shouting,’ I demand. George runs past us both and upstairs to his bedroom, slamming the door.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, FUCK!’ shouts George.

  I shake my head. ‘Great. Now he knows the word fuck. We need to be consistent, Finn. It doesn’t help, you storming in here, undoing all the good work I’ve done. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong now.’

  ‘We don’t set enough boundaries. It’s your fault he does these things again and again …’

  ‘You bastard!’ I exhale furiously.

  The phone rings and I pick up. ‘Hi, Nicholas.’ It’s Finn’s father. ‘We’re fine, thanks.’

  ‘FUCK YOU!’ George shouts from upstairs followed by another slam of the door.

  ‘That noise?’ I say when Nicholas asks, appalled by my son’s language and ashamed by the example we set. ‘It’s the television.’

  Finn’s lying on the sofa, hitting his face repeatedly with a cushion. ‘He’s right here.’ I cover the mouthpiece. ‘Take it,’ I snap. I can smell the mince burning. I hurl the phone at him.

  ‘Josie!’ He sits up. ‘Hi, Dad. Yeah, we’re fine. It’s the television, I’ve just turned it off. Work’s good. Busy … George is fine … Josie’s great.’ Aren’t grown-ups full of bullshit?

  ‘Can you hang on a minute, Dad?’ He opens the front door. ‘Josie!’ I hear him call down the street. ‘Come back!’

  But I’m a long way away.

  With each step I take all I can hear is, ‘It’s your fault, your fault.’ How is it possible that one man can make me the happiest girl alive one moment and the most miserable the next?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘Where are you going with that bin?’ I stretched myself across Finn’s bed.

  ‘It’s the same as a “do not disturb” sign.’ He shoved it outside the door.

  ‘Do you put your bin out a lot?’

  ‘All the time.’ He started to laugh.

  I threw a pillow at him. ‘You’re so arrogant!’

  ‘But beneath it I’m a crumbling mess.’

  ‘The bedder could do with giving this room a clean,’ I suggested.

  ‘Well, mine is old and has congestive cardiac failure.’

  I turned to him. ‘In fact, why on earth should you have some poor man on his last legs cleaning up your rubbish?’

  ‘Fair enough, but I don’t let him. I give him a Jammie Dodger and we have a chat and a cup of tea.’ Finn circled the room with a hand. ‘Hence the delightful mess.’

  ‘You should clean it yourself. Do you put your bin out all the time?’ I couldn’t help asking again.

  ‘Why? Are you jealous?’

  I readjusted my position. Finn took my hand and rubbed each fingertip in turn gently. ‘Yes.’ I lifted my face to his and we kissed. Now that we had slept together I felt even closer to h
im. Why had I been frightened about my first time? With Finn it already felt familiar. ‘I wish we’d met at a different time,’ he started to say. ‘Things could have been a whole lot different. You’re eighteen, and I act like a twelve year old.’

  I feared where this was leading. Deep down I knew he was right. What was the point in starting a serious relationship when I was about to leave? It still hurt, though.

  ‘I think it’s better to be honest, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and no,’ I added. He was slipping away from me already.

  ‘I don’t regret anything, Josie.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I turned over onto my back.

  ‘All I’m trying to say, pretty inarticulately, is how much I’ve loved being with you.’ Already it was in the past tense and I hated it. ‘But we’re too young to be tied down. You’re going off travelling and …’ he paused for effect ‘… I’ll be here, studying.’

  I turned onto my side to face him. ‘You’re not leaving then?’

  ‘I’d be mad to give it up. I am in a good position and I do want to be a doctor. I need to start growing up, not constantly finding excuses to do the easy thing and run.’ He twisted a strand of my hair in his fingers and tucked it behind my ear. ‘Thanks for coming over last night and giving me some home truths. How did you become so wise so young?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I was still thinking about not being with him. ‘I wish you’d told me about your dad.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It was like I was rebelling against any kind of relationship, thinking they were all doomed like my parents’.’ Finn cleared his throat. ‘Tell me where you’re travelling? Imagine this,’ he touched my bare stomach and outlined a rough shape, ‘is a map of Europe.’ I reached for his hand and guided him to different places using the tip of his finger.

  *

  ‘So what happened with your parents?’ I asked. We were still in bed, sitting up, the duvet wrapped around us both, eating bacon and mayonnaise sandwiches. Finn grabbed a pillow and rested his back against it.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he warned me.

  ‘We have all day in bed, don’t we?’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ he smiled, discarding the food and leaning across to kiss me, ‘we could be doing something much more interesting.’ His hand was inside my T-shirt.