Whatever Makes You Happy

by William Sutcliffe

  ‘Actually,’ said Julia, ‘I’m off. It was very nice to meet you.’

  With a small wave and a sympathetic smile, Julia walked away through the crowd, leaving Carol to her fate.

  ‘Well, isn’t this lovely?’ Carol said, clapping her hands together. ‘I do enjoy a good party.’

  Everyone seemed to be staring at her as if she was deranged.

  ‘Maybe we should go,’ said Matt.

  ‘OK, dear,’ said Carol.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Matt, to his group of friends, in the tone of voice you might use if your child had peed on a wedding cake.

  None of them spoke. They all seemed lost in private nightmares about their own mothers arriving unannounced at a party. If it could happen to Matt, it could happen to anyone. Matt was the kind of person you didn’t imagine having a mother at all, let alone one he’d see, or one who’d turn up in a public place.

  Matt grabbed Carol’s upper arm, citizen’s-arrest style, and walked her to the exit. Just short of the door, Matt froze, jolting Carol to a halt. ‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘It’s Mitzi Badminton.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Mitzi Badminton! Over there! Looking right at us.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Have you never read the fucking Evening Standard?’

  ‘I don’t believe I have.’

  ‘The gossip column! Mitzi Badminton!’

  ‘Is that a woman’s name?’

  ‘She’s coming towards us. Turn round. There must be a fire escape somewhere.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just come with me.’

  Matt tried to force them through the press of bodies, but progress was slow and circuitous. The second they hit a patch of clear space, Matt froze again. The permed and primped woman they seemed to be fleeing was again in front of them, approaching fast.

  In their last remaining private second, Matt whisper-shouted in Carol’s ear, ‘Don’t say ANYTHING!’ Then, almost seamlessly, his face contorted itself into a grin. ‘Mitzi!’ he said. ‘How lovely to see you!’

  They kissed, cheek on cheek, like old friends.

  ‘I could have sworn you were running away from me, Matt, you naughty boy.’

  ‘Now why on earth would I run away from a beauty like you, Mitzi?’

  ‘Search me. And who’s your friend?’

  ‘I’m Ca – ’

  ‘She’s Carol. High-powered lawyer who’s doing some work for us. Very hush-hush. Dynamite are involved, so I thought I’d bring her here to introduce her to some of the key players. But she’s not feeling well, so I was just showing her out.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Mizti, ‘cause I just got a little tip-off from Jemma at the door. Said that a woman had blagged her way in claiming to be your mother.’

  ‘Really? Well – people will say anything, won’t they? Amazing, isn’t it? Maybe I’ve got a stalker.’

  Mitzi turned to Carol.

  ‘Mrs Walker?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you Matt’s mother?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m a very high-powered lawyer. All my work is extremely hush-hush.’

  ‘So it’s just a coincidence that you’ve got the same surname?’

  ‘What? Oh, dammit. Blast.’

  ‘Mitzi,’ said Matt. ‘We’re old friends, aren’t we? Aren’t we? You wouldn’t print this, would you? I mean, who’s interested in this? She’s my mum. She’s staying over. She’s a little confused, if you know what I mean.’ Matt tapped his temple with an index finger. ‘I’m just doing what any loving son would do. You could damage my reputation. I’m just asking you to have a heart. Don’t trash me for trying to be decent.’

  ‘Bye, Matt. Lovely to see you,’ said Mitzi, blowing him a kiss and slipping away into the crowd.

  ‘What do you mean, confused?’ said Carol. ‘That’s very rude.’

  ‘Don’t. Say. Anything. That’s all I asked. I can’t believe what you’ve done. This is the worst night of my life.’

  ‘It’s not my fault you find me embarrassing.’

  ‘It is your fault. It’s your fault because you’re here when I told you not to come, for a very good reason, which is that this is my work. If I was a … brain surgeon, would you feel you could just barge into the operating theatre for a chat with my patients?’

  ‘But you’re not a brain surgeon. If you were a brain surgeon I wouldn’t be worried about you.’

  ‘I’m just saying it’s my work, and it’s not right for you to be here.’

  ‘You said it was a party.’

  ‘A party can be work. Why can’t you understand that?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t make sense. A party is a party and work is work. They’re opposites.’

  ‘People are watching. People are watching me argue with my mother like a child. How are you doing this to me? I’m going. If you want to share a cab, come now.’

  ‘I came on the bus. It’s very easy.’

  ‘Then get the bus. I’m going by cab.’

  ‘That’s a terrible waste of money.’

  ‘I’m leaving. Come if you want.’

  He left. She followed. The cab journey passed in silence.

  Helen and Paul

  now we’re arguing about it

  Helen woke late. By the time she had showered and dressed, the house appeared to be empty, though down in the kitchen she came across Andre in his dressing-gown, munching slowly through a bowl of muesli while reading the back of the packet with evident concentration.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, reluctantly drawing his eyes away from the finer points of Alpen’s heritage napkin-ring set offer.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Cereal’s there, bread and toaster’s there, jam, honey and stuff there, butter here. Cup of tea?’

  ‘Mmm. Thanks.’

  ‘There’s a note for you from Paul.’

  Andre peeled a Post-it off the kitchen table and handed it to Helen.

  Sorry we argued. Come to lunch.

  My office. 1ish. I’ll take you somewhere nice.

  Paul

  xxx

  ‘He’s taking me to lunch,’ said Helen.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Somewhere nice,’ said Helen.

  ‘Good,’ said Andre. ‘Good. I have to dash. Sorry.’

  With that, he clattered up the stairs and disappeared. All the warmth she had created between them the day before seemed to have vanished. Helen had the distinct impression that Andre had been put under orders not to associate with her.

  ‘So,’ said Paul, as the waiter walked them to their table deep inside the ultra-fashionable City restaurant, which Paul had proudly told her was a converted abattoir, ‘how’s Clive?’

  This was a first. Helen wasn’t sure she had ever heard her husband’s name pass Paul’s lips. She would have liked to acknowledge this breakthrough with some effusive or fascinating response that would point out to Paul what he had been missing in the intervening years by not asking, but after a long think she failed to come up with anything better than, ‘He’s fine. Very well, actually.’

  ‘Good. And things are good at home?’

  ‘I’m very happy with him,’ said Helen, answering the question that Paul was obviously driving at but didn’t feel he could ask; the mutually understood subtext of her response being, ‘I’m not nearly as bored as you think I am.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Paul, in a tone of voice that immediately angered Helen. His insincerity was badly disguised, as if he was declaring himself not so much pleased that she was happy, but relieved that she was choosing to remain in denial about her husband’s failings.

  Paul, it had always been clear, found Clive unforgivably dull, and he rarely made any effort to conceal his dislike. Helen was never quite sure to what extent this was a natural oedipal reaction to a beloved mother’s second marriage, and to what extent it stemmed from the fact that Clive actually was, in all honesty, quite bland.

  ‘There’s mo
re to him than meets the eye. He’s a very decent man.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’

  ‘I’m happier now than I have been for years.’

  ‘Good. You seem it.’

  ‘Do I?’ Helen felt herself flushing. She loved compliments, was perhaps mildly addicted to them, and to get one from her son, of all people, was a delicious treat.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘I’m not. I … I don’t know. It’s just nice to hear.’

  Their starters arrived, and they ate for a while in silence before asking one another how their food was, each offering and declining a taste, then lapsing into silence again.

  ‘I’m sorry I attacked you last night,’ said Paul, eventually. ‘About Larry.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have. I was talking to Andre about it after, and … you know … he got me thinking, and I reckon I was probably a bit unfair.’

  ‘Well. Thank you.’

  This was unprecedented. A compliment and an apology. She wanted to fold her arms around him and kiss his neck. Was this really all it took? Was her visit already beginning to repair their relationship? Could she perhaps now dare to believe that the long-yearned-for détente between them might be on the brink of taking place? She had wanted this, ached for this, for so long that she had almost stopped believing it might actually be possible.

  ‘I mean, I can’t expect you to be neutral about him,’ said Paul.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And it’s really not my problem if you can’t let go. I have to just let you feel what you feel.’

  ‘What do you mean I can’t let go?’ said Helen, blinking as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘I’m just saying that’s the problem. That’s why it always turns into such an emotional issue.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I’m happily married to someone else.’

  ‘Er … OK.’

  ‘What do you mean, “OK”?’

  ‘Just OK. It doesn’t mean anything. If that’s the way you want to have it, fine.’

  ‘“If that’s the way I want to have it”? Why are you talking to me as if I’m some deluded imbecile?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I don’t want you to say anything. I do want you to stop patronising me.’ Helen’s cutlery was beginning to feel heavy in her hands.

  ‘I’m not patronising you. I’m trying to be nice. I’m apologising.’

  ‘Accusing me of having a sham marriage is nice, is it?’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to apologise and, as usual, you suddenly jump on a small point I’ve made in passing and make a huge scene about it, instead of listening to what I’m trying to say.’

  Helen slammed her fork on to the table, with a bang that silenced the tables around them. ‘This is what you always do!’ she said, her words coming out thin and high through her tight, dry throat. ‘Make some awful, dire accusation, then act as if I’m being hypersensitive for even noticing that you’ve said it. Then you think you can come over all innocent, and accuse me of being stupid and paranoid for not accepting that we’re actually having a conversation about something banal that you think you can use as a cover.’

  Paul spread his arms and gripped the corners of the table, his tendons bulging, his knuckles whitening. ‘What do you mean, a cover? I’m apologising. That’s what we’re here for. I’m making an effort and doing my best, and taking back what I said last night and telling you that I’m sorry. What more do you want? Or do you just want to pick up on some tiny observation that is obvious to me, and obvious to Andre within ten minutes of meeting you, and probably obvious to everyone who has ever met you except Clive.’

  ‘How can you say that? Who do you think you are? Why are you so determined to undermine me?’

  ‘Mum, if I was wrong you wouldn’t be so upset now, would you?’

  Helen’s eyes began to fill with tears. She stood, turned and rushed towards the door of the restaurant, then, after a few steps, turned again, scanned the room and dashed for the toilets, grabbing her handbag as she went.

  Paul finished his starter, eating less out of hunger than because it was the only dignified course of action he could think of, when sitting in a restaurant being stared at by every other luncher, all of them presumably thinking he was some kind of sadist, stalker or blackmailer. He wanted to stand up and announce to the room that she was the sadist; she was the one tormenting him, and she’d been doing it all his life. Her tears were just another of her weapons.

  He was calm in the face of her histrionics not because he was callous, but simply because he’d been in this position too many times before to find it upsetting. Larry had dealt with her wild moods in the same way. You just had to wait for them to pass and hope that something better would come along soon. Helen went through more emotions in a day than Paul experienced in a month, and as a result he never took any of them too seriously. Watching her tantrums sometimes felt to Paul like observing a building site from a high balcony, the violent crashes, screeches and bangs rendered quaint and scenic by distance.

  After a while, as the stares abated he began to rather enjoy his meal. By the time Helen returned, Paul was already tucking into his main course, while Helen’s sat untouched across the table.

  If she had stayed in the toilet long enough, would he have eaten hers, she wondered, as she watched him happily chomp away at his braised shin of veal as if nothing was wrong. Wearing a fresh coat of foundation and eye-liner, she felt in a position to make a new start, telling herself that Paul’s aggression and her weakness had been wiped away and discarded along with the old smudged and smeared make-up.

  She sat and took a couple of mouthfuls of her tepid pumpkin and wild mushroom tortellini, which was the only thing she’d been able to find on the menu that didn’t appear to be made out of the parts of animals left behind after the supermarkets have taken the edible bits.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Apology accepted.’

  ‘Great,’ said Paul. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now how about we just leave Larry and Clive off the agenda, and try to enjoy the rest of our meal?’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  ‘My feelings, or lack of them, towards those two men is none of your business,’ asserted Helen.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And you have no place speculating as to what I may or may not feel or think.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Specially when your speculations are wildly inaccurate and deeply hurtful.’

  ‘Is this off the agenda as in we’re not going to talk about them, or off the agenda as in you’re going to spend the rest of the meal banging on about it?’

  ‘Sorry. Subject closed.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  They ate on, in a silence that grew long enough for both of them to begin to wonder if they were chewing too loudly.

  ‘Maybe there is one more thing,’ said Paul, eventually. ‘I mean, now we’re arguing about it, perhaps we should just get it all over with. Lance the boil.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re arguing about it. I thought we’d stopped.’

  ‘Well …’ said Paul, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘But what were you going to say?’

  ‘It’s just …’

  ‘What?’ said Helen.

  ‘I mean, it’s none of my business. And it’s got nothing to do with me. But I know that if I don’t tell you and you find out from someone else, you’ll be angry with me for not telling you. I’ve been putting it off because I thought you might not react so well, but now we’ve been going through this kind of area, maybe we should just get it out of the way and move on.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘It’s no big deal, really. I just felt funny not telling you. Not that it’s anything to do with you.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘It’s Larry. I don’t think I ever mentioned that he’s h
ad a baby. With Belinda.’

  Helen swallowed her mouthful of tortellini, which went down as easily as a spanner.

  ‘A baby? When?’

  ‘Ooh, a few months ago. About a year.’

  ‘A year?’

  ‘Yeah. Ish.’

  ‘What kind? I mean, a boy?’

  ‘Yes. Jake.’

  ‘Have you met it? Him.’

  ‘Of course. Lots of times. He’s my half brother.’

  ‘It’s sick! A baby that age should be your son, not your brother. It’s gross. Because of that man’s … lechery … because he doesn’t know when to stop, our family’s going to turn into some kind of freak show.’

  ‘Let’s not argue. I just thought I should tell you.’

  ‘You thought you should tell me? Is that why you waited a year?’

  ‘Mum, the more of a scene you make, the more it explains why I was right to not tell you.’

  ‘Am I making a scene?’

  ‘You’re building up to it. I know the signs.’

  ‘Well, this has been a lovely meal, and thank you very much, but I’m afraid I don’t think I’m in the mood for dessert, and I really must dash. But thank you so much. Really. Don’t get up. No, no. Don’t.’

  Helen stood and, steadying herself against the table as if she suddenly didn’t trust her balance, gave Paul a peck on the cheek and walked out. Something in the stiffness of her gait, and the strange, flustered slowness with which she left, gave Paul the impression that she was using all her physical and emotional strength just to get out of the restaurant.

  Paul didn’t go after her. It was clear that whatever it was she intended to do next, she wanted to undertake it alone.

  a rougher game than you wanted

  Helen didn’t have any idea where she was going, other than out of that restaurant. All she knew was that she didn’t want anyone to see her absorbing this news. Her reaction, whatever it might be, was private. Above all, she didn’t want Paul to see her tears, which began to mist her vision the minute the air of the street hit her face.