The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  I should explain, and I’m not being arrogant here but simply stating a fact, that I’ve never been short of male attention. Being petite, blonde and presentably turned-out seems to guarantee a certain degree of interest (a colleague once described me as looking like Kylie Minogue, if she’d spent her career working as an actuary. I’m not sure whether he intended it as a compliment). I find, though, that men invariably expect more than I’m prepared to give. Some want romantic love, a meeting of minds, a sharing of thoughts and feelings; others want veneration, deference, subservience. I’m not cut out for any of that kind of nonsense, which is why I was drawn to the listing in the newspaper. Here appeared to be a cultured man who wanted the companionship of the opposite sex with no hidden agenda. It would be like having an extramarital affair, but without the inconvenience of a husband back at home.

  After weighing the matter up for a week or so, I replied to the PO box number. A couple of days later, after a businesslike phone conversation in which we agreed to the rules of our encounter—no long-term commitment, no emotional investment, no invasion of personal privacy—I met Richard at a fashionable restaurant in Chelsea, where I happened to know it was a struggle to get a table. He turned out to be surprisingly good-looking, in an uncomplicated sort of way. Everything about him was orderly and well-proportioned: his nose was neither too big nor too small; his medium brown hair was neither too long nor too short; his build was neither muscular nor slight; his eyes (which held my gaze as an equal) were a modest hazel; his skin had a wholesome glow; he was taller than me, but not excessive in height. His way of dressing was equally orderly: crisply ironed cotton shirt, pale chinos, a navy blue blazer and the aforementioned polished brown brogues. His manners were impeccable without being ostentatious and his conversation was interesting. After offering to pay for my meal, he made no fuss, and showed no signs of irritation, when I insisted on paying my share.

  Richard informed me that he was a freelance arts critic and columnist, that he lived in Sussex and that he came up to London for one or two days each week. He said he was a busy man, dedicated to his interests and with no desire to be tied down by a family. He proposed that we meet every Wednesday evening, with the arrangements being made the Sunday before by phone. I told him I’d consider the matter carefully and let him know my decision. Two days later I called him to say I accepted his terms, on the understanding that either of us could terminate the relationship at any time with no questions being asked. The following Wednesday we went to see La Traviata at the English National Opera, and then went back to his room at a smart hotel, where things were more than satisfactory.

  As I say, that was over twelve years ago. I’m sure neither Richard nor I envisaged the arrangement lasting quite so long, but it suited our needs perfectly. I enjoyed the gallery openings, the first nights and exclusive restaurants to which Richard had access by virtue of his professional contacts. Richard enjoyed having a reliable companion at those venues and events. We both appreciated having an intimate “relationship” that in no way compromised our independence. The only downside for me was the financial cost; I insisted throughout on paying my way, other than when tickets were complimentary or for the hotel rooms that Richard would have had to book in any event. In addition, I had to have a wardrobe of evening clothes, shoes and handbags, which I might otherwise not have bothered with. Such expenses made saving difficult for me, but I decided that the benefits justified the financial outlay.

  Richard and I agreed early on that we wouldn’t ask questions about each other’s upbringing and family; the enjoyment of the time we spent together was the only thing that mattered. Because of his well-groomed appearance, his disciplined behavior and his precise, slightly old-fashioned manner of speaking, I formed the impression that he came from a military family—perhaps had been in the military himself. I hinted as much on a couple of occasions, and he didn’t deny it.

  I have no idea whether Richard saw other women during that time; I never asked as I didn’t consider it to be any of my business. Because I knew nothing of Richard’s intimate life outside our encounters, however, I insisted that it was he who employed the appropriate safeguards when we were together in his hotel room. I’d always assumed that such barrier methods were foolproof, but I’ve learned to my cost that they aren’t. Perhaps I should have made doubly certain that nothing of this nature could occur by also taking precautions myself, but I thought that, if I did so, I might become less vigilant about policing Richard’s obligation in the matter of personal protection. Anyway, something evidently went wrong, although I had no inkling at the time.

  The manifestation of my current predicament began in what I understand to be the usual way: missed period, metallic tang in my mouth and then, a couple of weeks later, the onset of debilitating nausea and sickness. As soon as I found myself retching into the toilet bowl one lunchtime at work I knew without a doubt that I was pregnant. I took a test later that day, which confirmed the fact. With the tester stick lying on the table in front of me, and with hands that I couldn’t stop from shaking, I picked up my mobile and sent a text message to Richard to inform him that it was over. I immediately received a reply, and an exchange of messages ensued:

  Richard: This is completely out of the blue, Susan. I suggest we discuss it when we see each other next Wednesday. Shall we meet for drinks before the concert?

  Me: There’s nothing to discuss. We agreed at the start that either of us could end the arrangement when it no longer suited us, and that’s what I’m doing.

  Richard: That was years ago. Don’t you think I deserve an explanation?

  Me: That wasn’t part of our agreement.

  Richard: Just meet me next Wednesday and we’ll thrash this out. I had no idea you were unhappy.

  Me: I’m not unhappy. Thank you for twelve pleasant years and good luck for the future. All the best. Susan.

  * * *

  My mobile phone rang half a dozen times during the following hour, but I let it go straight to voice mail. Eventually, there was one further exchange of text messages:

  Me: Please stop ringing this number. There’s nothing to be gained by further dialogue.

  Richard: Fine. But don’t expect me to be here when you change your mind.

  You might wonder why, since I had no wish to have a baby and no moral or ethical objections to abortion, I was so quick to sever my connection with Richard. I could easily have carried on seeing him as normal, perhaps passing the morning sickness off as a stomach bug, while I organized the termination of the pregnancy. The truth is I felt angry with him. He had done this to me; it was because of my association with him that I was in this invidious position. It’s a simple biological fact that the woman pays the price while the man gets away scot-free. In addition, I was keen to avoid any possibility of our falling into the clichéd roles adopted by people in cases of unplanned, unwanted pregnancies; the needy, vulnerable woman and the cold, disdainful lover. I could imagine the scene being played out: I tell Richard I’m pregnant; he assumes I’ve done it deliberately because I want a baby or some kind of permanence to our relationship; I try to convince him that it’s the last thing on earth I’d want to happen; he offers gallantly to pay for the termination and accompany me to the clinic; I seethe with anger at his condescension and pity. No, much better to end it cleanly and swiftly.

  * * *

  I thought I’d successfully dispatched Richard, perhaps with a scintilla of regret on my part for the loss of our Wednesday evenings, but it wasn’t quite over yet.

  “Richard, this is harassment,” I told him firmly, as he stood on my doorstep. “Please remove your foot and go away.”

  “Not until you’ve heard what I’ve got to say. Let me in and we’ll sort this out.”

  I wavered. We might as well get this over and done with, I thought. I stood aside and let him enter.

  “Well?” I asked, once he was ensconced in my sitting room.
/>
  “Susan, the time we’ve spent together has been very valuable to me,” he began. “It was only when I received your text message that I realized what an established part of my life our Wednesday evenings have become. I understand why you sent it. You want something beyond what we currently have, some guarantee that you won’t be alone as you enter middle age. I didn’t think I’d be able to make a commitment, but if not doing so means I’m going to forfeit our time together, then I’m prepared to give you what you want. Susan, I’d like to propose that you sell your flat and buy an apartment in a more central location, somewhere at the heart of things, within walking distance of the places we enjoy. I’ll undertake to stay with you on Wednesday and Thursday nights, and spend the rest of the week in Sussex. I can’t see any reason why this shouldn’t be our new long-term arrangement.”

  Richard’s uneasiness had dissipated, and he had a beneficent smile on his face. We’d really only ever seen each other in the rosy glow of a candle or a bedside lamp, under the dimmed lights of an auditorium or bar. Sitting on my sofa at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, he looked incongruous, like a fine old master hung in a modern gallery. He was someone accustomed to organizing his life exactly the way it suited him—using his decorous manners and his modest good looks to charm people when needed—and it clearly hadn’t occurred to him that I wouldn’t be won over by his petition. I couldn’t help but laugh at his misplaced self-assurance. My anger with Richard ebbed away. I knew that the forthcoming scene wouldn’t play out in the way I’d dreaded. It was I who held the cards. I might be pregnant, but I wasn’t vulnerable.

  “Well, Richard,” I said. “That’s a lovely idea. But obviously it’ll have to be an apartment with a garden, for the baby that’s on its way. And a decent size, too, to accommodate the prams, cots and whatnot that we’re going to need. How much does a central apartment with a garden cost? I’ll have to give up my job, of course, but I’m sure you’ll be more than happy to pay the mortgage, and support me and the child. And we won’t be able to go out in the evening anymore, because the cost of babysitters in London is astronomical. But don’t worry, when we’re together we can just cozy up on the sofa in front of the television and order takeaways. We’ll have each other—at least, we will for two nights a week—and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  Richard’s face was a picture. As I was speaking, his eyebrows rose higher and higher, and one corner of his mouth began to twitch. Sweat broke out on his forehead, despite the coolness of the day, and his normally glowing complexion turned a sickly yellow.

  “What, you’re pregnant?” he managed to stutter.

  “Got it,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have an urgent email to send. Let me see you to the door.”

  Wordlessly, and with a stunned expression, Richard allowed himself to be led along the hallway. I opened the front door and stood aside to let him pass. He turned as if to say something to me, but then changed his mind. Reaching the front path, he turned again.

  “You’re not going to... I mean you wouldn’t actually want to...”

  “Goodbye, Richard,” I said and closed the door.

  And, although it’s as much of a surprise to me as it would be to anyone who knows me, I think I am going to; I think I actually do want to.

  6

  Another visit to Birmingham, but this one very different from the last. It was odd to think that only a short time ago I was debilitated by morning sickness and the inevitable reverberations following the death of a close family member. As far as my physical condition was concerned, I was almost back to normal. Emotionally—well, I was on the up. Having dealt with Richard and made a decision about the pregnancy, I could address my mind to securing what was rightfully due to me. Sitting there in the reception area of Brinkworth & Bates, I was fired up and ready for battle.

  I know some people think of me as a difficult woman, but they would have to agree that I never set out to be rude to anyone, with the possible exception of Edward, who deserves it. In fact, I pride myself on my good manners: I relinquish my seat for the elderly on public transport, often prompting feelings of shame in those who are younger and fitter; I’m meticulous about sending thank-you messages when I receive gifts, however ill-chosen they might be; I never push into a queue, even if people are obviously queuing in the wrong direction; and so on. I admit, though, that I don’t believe in pussyfooting around. Ambiguity, at best, leads to misunderstanding and embarrassment; at worst, gives others the opportunity to take advantage of any vulnerability they sense on your part. I could tell that I would have to be dogged when it came to Mr. Brinkworth.

  I’d sent the solicitor an email demanding details of the circumstances surrounding my mother’s will so that I could establish the exact extent of Edward’s involvement, but he hadn’t had the courtesy even to acknowledge receipt, let alone address its contents. I’d discovered, however, that, as an interim measure, I could ask the court to block the grant of probate that Mr. Brinkworth would need in order to deal with the estate. Although the resultant delay would inconvenience me as well as Edward, I had no doubt that I’d be able to hold out longer than my brother, whose income is somewhere between unpredictable and nonexistent.

  It’s a matter of constant frustration to me that I don’t have a private office at work, which is clearly unjust given my level of experience and expertise; in my public-sector department, only those with managerial responsibilities have the honor of an office to themselves. Strangely, whenever I’ve applied for a supervisory role, I’ve been passed over. I’ve been told that that isn’t where my talents lie, and I must acknowledge that there’s no one else in the organization who’s as conscientious as I am in analyzing complex data. The consequence of my not having my own office is that my colleagues can hear every word I say when I make a personal phone call at work. Whenever I chased Mr. Brinkworth for a response to my email, therefore, I had to take my mobile phone into the corridor by the lavatories; a very sorry way to conduct an important conversation.

  Eventually, the solicitor allowed my call to be put through to him.

  “Miss Green,” he began, “you must try to understand that I’m not acting for you in this matter. Neither am I acting for your brother. Let me explain to you—my sole duty is to deal with your mother’s estate in accordance with her wishes. To engage in lengthy telephone conversations or correspondence with you would simply incur unnecessary legal costs, which, as executor, I have an obligation not to do.”

  Mr. Brinkworth spoke slowly and deliberately, as though I might have difficulty following what he was saying, and I could sense that he had to restrain himself from adding “dear” to the end of his speech. I know the type very well. Mr. Brinkworth had almost certainly been educated at some minor public school, which overpriced, second-rate education had succeeded only in endowing him with the belief that he was entitled to deference from those less expensively educated. Unable to secure that deference in his everyday life, he’d qualified as a solicitor so that he could set up his own firm and rule it like the potentate of a tin-pot realm. I had no doubt that he treated his secretaries like his personal harem, and his female clients like imbecilic children.

  “Well, you should understand, Mr. Brinkworth,” I said, “that I won’t take this lying down. I have a very strong suspicion that my brother plotted this whole thing to get his hands on my mother’s property, and you share at least some of the guilt for allowing her to put her name to something which didn’t reflect her true wishes.”

  “This nonsense will get us nowhere. I’m aware that you’ve taken the misguided step of blocking me from dealing with the estate, so, in an effort to move things forward, I’m prepared to agree to a meeting with you. For the sake of transparency, your brother should also be present. I shall clarify any issues which you’re struggling to grasp, after which I would expect you to remove the block and allow me to carry on with my job.”

 
I was more than happy with the prospect of thrashing the matter out in person, and the necessary arrangements were made.

  * * *

  It was now a quarter past two; the meeting with Mr. Brinkworth had been scheduled for two o’clock. I arrived at the solicitors’ offices on the dot, despite the fact that I’d traveled almost a hundred miles by underground and train that morning. There was no sign, however, of Edward, who only had to saunter along a few streets or take a five-minute cab ride if that proved to be too much exertion for him. On inquiring with the receptionist, I was told that the meeting couldn’t begin until my brother had arrived. I expect he’d got so drunk or stoned the night before that he had no idea what day it was. I hadn’t seen Edward since the fiasco of our mother’s funeral, and I had no wish to do so that day. It appeared, however, that his presence would need to be secured. I tried calling the family house, but after a few rings the answering machine cut in. It sickened me to hear on the recording not my mother’s courteous greeting, but Edward’s would-be-hilarious gibberish backed by raucous laughter. I left a message requesting that he make his way to the solicitors’ offices without delay. I may not have put it in quite such polite terms.

  * * *

  In the intervening days between my phone conversation with Mr. Brinkworth and our meeting I’d turned my attention to the antenatal rigmarole. I don’t believe in seeking medical advice other than when absolutely necessary, preferring instead to research and treat any minor ailments I might have. Hence, other than when I registered with a general practitioner sometime in my late twenties, I hadn’t had cause to visit my local surgery, and couldn’t even recall its location. I was aware, though, of the necessity to notify the medical profession of my condition, and so left work early on the pretext of a dental appointment. The surgery turned out to be a tatty, converted, pre-war house, with frayed bottle green carpet, pale yellow walls and maroon gloss-work. Obviously, it was hazardous to have carpet on the floor, rather than a covering that could be disinfected, a matter that someone really should raise with the senior partner of the practice.