Life After Lunch

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘You know me,’ she said, ‘I never ring people at work, but on this occasion – can you talk, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, at the moment.’

  ‘I only want to ask one thing …’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Yes!’ I pictured the fist raised again, and couldn’t help laughing. It was exhilarating to have told her, and to be doing something – at last – of which she so wholeheartedly approved.

  ‘Congratulations!’ she squeaked. ‘ I consider this a major rite of passage! And are you feeling really, really good about it?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Typical! That is absolutely typical of you, Laura.’

  ‘And of most adulterous grandmothers, I should think.’

  She gave a gusty snort of exasperation. ‘Don’t give me that. You are an extremely attractive mature woman of independent mind and means—’

  ‘Means?’ Now it was my turn to squeak. ‘You’re always telling me that what I do is slave labour. Without Glyn I’d be on the checkout at Tesco’s before you could say knife!’

  ‘Oh, to hell with all that, it’s boring,’ said Susan. ‘What I want to know is—’

  I knew what she wanted to know, but was granted a stay of execution by the arrival of a client, whose dim, patient form I could make out through the frosted-glass panel of my door.

  ‘I’m afraid duty calls,’ I said.

  ‘Okay. How about lunch?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Friday at the Lotus House?’

  ‘You’re on.’

  My client was Mr Barker, the elderly gent who had been having a standoff with his daughter. He was a lot more cheerful.

  ‘I thought I should let you know that matters are much improved.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ I said. ‘Have you managed to sort things out?’

  ‘I told my son-in-law that I was seeking legal advice,’ said Mr Barker with a vengeful gleam in his eye. ‘And they’ve both been a lot more reasonable since.’

  We always advised against litigation where possible, but this appeared to be a fait accompli. ‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’

  He leaned forward confidentially. ‘I’ve reached the conclusion I’ve been a bit too soft all these years. My wife and I always believed we should put our children first – they were everything to us, our whole world. But now I think we did them a disservice. They grew up thinking the world owed them a living. It may be a bit late in the day, but my Marian needs to appreciate that I have my own life and my own difficulties. Would you agree with that?’

  For a moment I was being invested with the awful power and authority of the Person Behind the Desk. My word was about to be law. I gazed reflectively at the biro I was twiddling between my fingers.

  ‘I would, absolutely.’

  ‘Would it be impertinent to ask whether you’re a mother yourself?’

  ‘It wouldn’t, and I am.’

  ‘There comes a time, doesn’t there,’ said Mr Barker, ‘when your children have to accept that you’re an individual, and not simply a parent?’

  ‘There does.’ He was right, of course, but that didn’t stop me forming the view that Mr Barker was rather a frightful old man, and my heart was beginning to go out to the unfortunate Marian who couldn’t have been much younger than me. I thought of my own father and mother and sent up a silent Hallelujah.

  ‘I’m glad you agree with me.’ He got up. ‘And thank you for your time. I hope you didn’t mind me dropping in to chat?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I showed him to the door. ‘I’m pleased that it’s all worked out.’

  When he’d gone I sat at the desk and pondered for a moment. Who was I to judge prim and prissy, peppermint-scented, brilliantined, sock-suspender-wearing Mr Barker, after what I was up to?

  And why, when he was so patently right and I had no leg to stand on, did I find his attitude so depressing?

  Verity was the only person in when I got back at two. She was sitting in the kitchen wanly eating a bowl of porridge with golden syrup.

  ‘You look whacked,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to go back there tonight, do you?’

  ‘I don’t have to go at all,’ she said. ‘ I’m called.’

  There were times when I found her selflessness infuriating and when it seemed to me that Our Lord was being a bit of a bully, but I’d learnt how to frame the argument.

  ‘If you burn yourself out you’ll be no good to anyone.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m in no danger of that,’ she said, getting up and putting her bowl in the sink. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  ‘I’ll make it.’

  For once she didn’t insist but sat watching me. When I joined her with the coffee she said; ‘You know when Shona and I went to Walsingham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She bent her head, her curtains of ash-coloured hair falling down on either side of her cup. ‘ You’re going to think this sounds silly.’

  ‘I’m sure I shan’t.’

  ‘You remember I said I’d pray for everyone – I always do, but I said I’d offer up everyone to Our Lady.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Well,’ she looked up, her face damp from the steam, ‘I got a really strong feeling about Dad. That I ought to pray for him. That he needed special care.’

  ‘Really?’ I felt as if my conscience were being tickled with needles. ‘Why would that be, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘ But I wondered if you might … if there was anything you knew about … I mean, I’m not trying to pry, I don’t want to know what it is or anything, but if you do know of some reason you could tell God about it …’

  She was tremendously earnest, and very nearly overcome. I put my hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Darling,’ I said, ‘I don’t know of anything, honestly. Perhaps it was – you know – Dad’s turn to be top of the list.’

  She sniffed and smiled. ‘ Perhaps. He does always seem the last person to pray for because he’s so happy and cheerful. But that was it, in a way, I thought, what if there’s something terrible I don’t know …’ The tears slipped down her cheeks. I moved my chair round next to hers and hugged her.

  ‘There isn’t, I’m sure there isn’t.’

  She twisted her face to look into mine. ‘He hasn’t got … some ghastly illness, has he?’

  It seemed a measure of how low I’d sunk that I felt relieved. ‘No!’

  ‘If he was going to die, you would tell us?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s not.’

  Verity got up and fetched a square of paper towel, blowing her nose noisily and mopping her cheeks. Even so, when she sat down again her voice had an eggshell-crack in it.

  ‘It’s just that … I don’t know what I’d do without Dad.’

  I wasn’t going to ring Patrick, not this time. I found myself wondering what Susan would advise, and I was sure she would be against it. Experienced as she was, she believed strongly that the rules of the game, at which I was so dismally out of practice, did not change, and the way to play was hard to get. It was just about okay that I had played my bold, emancipated card by inviting myself the other day, because Patrick had trapped me into it and left me no option. But now was the time to be cool.

  I didn’t feel cool. I was hot, bothered and bewildered. To add to my confusion I’d been experiencing for the first time, and unmistakably, one or two hot flushes. Mother Nature had picked a fine time to set the alarm on the biological clock. On the women’s page I read that in the States hot flushes were being dubbed ‘power surges’ to help menopausal women towards a better self-image. I had never felt more English in my life.

  The phone took on a baleful identity. Wherever I was in the house I felt tethered to it. When it rang it tweaked my nerves so that they jangled hectically. When it was silent it seemed to be sulkily withholding what was in its power to give. I would have said it was like being young again, but I’d n
ever really been through this before. My boyfriends prior to Glyn were not such that it had been necessary to assume indifference. And Glyn had never been a gamesplayer. In the light of Patrick, I now saw that very clearly. With Glyn the phone had rung frequently, and it was always for me. I took it for granted.

  I was sure I was losing weight but was superstitious about getting on the scales. When I met Susan at the Lotus House she wasted no time in confirming my opinion.

  ‘My God, you’re a wraith!’ she cried with her usual understatement as we sat down at a window table. ‘House white do you? I’d ask what you’ve been up to if I didn’t already know!’

  I instinctively glanced around, but there were no familiar faces, either shocked or gleeful.

  ‘It’s anxiety, not exercise,’ I told her as she laid claim to the menu and surveyed it imperiously.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to spend ages choosing, shall we go for the special for two?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘But we’re going to have our drinks first, there’s absolutely no hurry and tons to talk about.’ Susan took fun seriously and liked to establish a timetable. As she took her first long, reviving swig her eyes glistened with pleasurable anticipation above the rim of her glass.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s really anything to add …’

  ‘Start big and then fill in the detail,’ she advised. ‘What’s he like?’ I opened my mouth. ‘I mean, of course, in bed.’

  I glanced round again. ‘ I know what you mean.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Look …’ I blushed with embarrassment. ‘I don’t have much to compare him with.’

  ‘I’ll tell Glyn that when next I see him.’

  ‘No, no, I mean generally. I’ve been faithful for twenty-five years. Longer if you count the run-up.’

  Susan grimaced happily. ‘I can see this is going to be a two-bottle job. Mind if I smoke? It helps me concentrate.’

  I entertained a bizarre picture of Susan monitoring our activities like a judge at a skating competition – 5.4 for technical merit, 5.0 for artistic impression … Once again I reminded myself to preserve a discreet distance. Feeling that a display of initiative might be the best form of defence, I began speaking as she lit her cigarette.

  ‘First, I enjoyed it. I expected to be shy’ – Susan’s eyebrows shot up and her chin lifted in a silent laugh – ‘ but I wasn’t. I didn’t have time to be. He was extremely – to the point.’

  This time the laugh wasn’t silent but a peal of amiable derision. ‘I’ve never heard it called that before! So you like a bit of manhandling, do you, Mrs Lewis?’

  ‘He wasn’t rough,’ I protested, trying to be clear. ‘There was no … pain. But he made no bones about wanting to get on with it. He was, sort of …’ I sought the word as Susan grinned witchily, ‘boisterous.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. Nice body? Well hung?’

  I winced and turned the wince into an anxious little smile for the benefit of the waiter come to take our order.

  When he’d gone she said, ‘You haven’t answered the question.’

  ‘He’s not in such good shape as Glyn, but then I get the impression he doesn’t care much what he looks like.’

  ‘Arrogant sod. And there were you looking soignée beyond belief in that amazing new outfit. I bet he never said how nice you looked.’

  ‘I don’t think he was interested in my clothes,’ I said with a certain quiet pride.

  Susan looked approving. ‘ Right, fair enough. So he fancies you absolutely rotten.’

  ‘Ferociously was the word he used.’

  ‘Excellent! And you weren’t shy, and you weren’t put off by all this rumbustious roll-in-the-hay stuff, in fact you really went for it.’

  ‘I didn’t have time to think. I was taken over.’

  ‘‘‘His rough hands tore at the flimsy fabric of your blouse,’’ etc …’ suggested Susan.

  ‘Not quite that, but along those lines …’ I began to laugh again.

  ‘I bet …’ Susan joined in and soon we were convulsed by immature giggles. I believe I was slightly hysterical.

  She did, of course, want to know more about Patrick, but I managed to stick to my guns.

  ‘Why are you being so coy about him?’ she asked. ‘Is he in line for the throne or something? Are you honour-bound to discretion?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘I know, he’s a world-famous movie star.’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  She leaned forward. ‘Or do you think I might go after him?’

  This hypothesis had the advantage of being a lot simpler than the truth. ‘ You might very well. Who knows?’

  She screeched with mirth. ‘Come on! For one thing I don’t care for all this rough-hands-and-perspiration stuff – I’m not that desperate, yet. I still like a bit of flash. And for another, and much more importantly, you’re my friend, I wouldn’t dream, ever, of doing the dirty on you, and you ought to know that.’

  ‘I do, of course, I was joking.’

  ‘And now – aren’t you going to ask about me?’ she enquired, blithely overlooking the fact that I had scarcely been permitted a single unsolicited remark in the past hour. ‘ Or are you so head over heels in lust that you haven’t a thought to spare for a poor lonely soul who hasn’t seen winkle in months?’

  ‘I’m sorry. How are you, Susan?’

  ‘Bearing up, thank you. Consumed with envy, of course. But Simon and Richard are threatening a strawberry lunch on the first Sunday in July, and I’ve decided that might be just the occasion to begin a great new love affair.’

  ‘Have you?’ I was back in prompt-only mode.

  They give the most wonderful parties, and the great thing about them is they don’t give a toss about duty or paying back – their guests are handpicked for beauty, wit and beddability. No marks awarded for long service,’ she added, handily overlooking the fact that she herself had known Simon for the best part of twenty years. ‘Mind you,’ she added, redeeming herself at a stroke, ‘that said, I’m quite sure you and Glyn will be on the guest list.’

  On the way home I marvelled that Susan seemed to see no contradiction in spurring me on to adultery in one breath, and speaking kindly of my husband in the next.

  As usual, my responsibilities and commitments had formed a reception committee back at Alderswick Avenue, and were waiting, lips pursed and fingers drumming.

  The first to greet me was Verity, with the news that Glyn had succumbed to Josh’s bug and was upstairs dying by numbers.

  ‘I didn’t know whether to call the doctor,’ she said.

  ‘Good heavens no,’ I responded bracingly, ‘it’s only a touch of flu.’

  ‘Older people get these things worse, though,’ she reminded me, adding reproachfully, ‘It’s not as if Dad’s ever ill. He’s not exactly a hypochondriac.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ I admitted. ‘ I’ll go up and see him right away.’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Perhaps this was what the message was about …’

  ‘Message?’ I glanced involuntarily in the direction of the office.

  ‘Yes, from Our Lady. About Dad.’

  ‘Yes!’ A providential straw of this size was definitely to be clutched rather than sniffed at. ‘Of course – this would be it. He was probably hatching the bug at about that time.’

  Verity smiled luminously. ‘ That’s what I thought. I’m going out now if you’re sure you’ll be all right.’

  I supposed it was natural for siblings to polarize, but watching Verity go I did wish that she and Becca could exchange a little of those qualities which each had in abundance. I knew it was an unworthy thought, but if Becca had a smidgin of Verity’s humility she might not have been a single parent, and if Verity had a fraction of Becca’s savvy, she might also have a man.

  Glyn, red-cheeked and hollow-eyed, lay comatose in bed with the
Guys ’ n’ Dolls address book open and face down on the duvet next to him and Kaleidoscope burbling unheeded from the clock-radio. By the radio on the table were a bottle of water, a packet of paracetamol and the mobile phone.

  I kissed him, and he felt hot.

  ‘Have you taken your temperature?’

  ‘Don’t need to … I can’t remember when I last felt this doggy.’

  ‘Poor old you. Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘No thanks. Ver’s been doing her Florence Nightingale number.’

  ‘She’s worried about you.’

  ‘I’m worried about me. I’ve got things to do.’

  I got up and began changing. ‘Well, just face it, you won’t be doing any of them today.’

  Glyn gave a small grunt of acquiescence and his eyelids dropped again. When I’d changed I asked, ‘Do you want the radio on, or do you want to sleep properly?’

  ‘Leave it on …’ I picked up the phone. ‘I’m confiscating this.’ Another grunt. As I went out of the door he said, ‘Oh … Liam

  rang.’

  I felt a familiar churning in the stomach at the thought of Sinead’s

  father, a highly strung Irishman. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘A lot. He didn’t feel he could carry on – but then neither did

  I so I wasn’t the most sympathetic audience in the world.’

  ‘Best thing probably,’ I said with fake cheeriness. ‘ Did you refer

  him to Becca?’

  ‘He’d been trying her – she wasn’t there. Surprise, surprise …’

  Glyn smiled dozily as I went out of the door. He seemed rather

  to admire Becca’s ability to evade those scenes which didn’t suit

  her.

  I felt sorry for Liam. Neither of Becca’s children’s fathers was in regular contact with his offspring, but whereas the lovely Roberto was like a child himself, only too happy to leave the rearing of Amos to someone else and to be a sporadic source of presents and treats, Liam was a confused and melancholy Celt who longed for something more.

  He was honest enough to admit that it would never have worked, and he hadn’t the means – he was a picture-framer – to support a family. The trouble was that he was still in love with Becca. His emotional importunings were an acute embarrassment to both children and an annoyance to Becca, who was brutally honest about her own feelings. When an opening presented itself I always tried to put in a word on his behalf, but with marked lack of success. In fact I suspected that my well-meaning representations did more harm than good.