Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  ‘Good.’ She paused and took a bite of a chocolate biscuit. ‘I don’t see angels. I sense them. And I hear them.’ She grinned, displaying cocoa teeth. ‘A few weeks ago, I was reading this book. Crime Classification Manual. It’s mostly about serial killers. They fascinate me.’

  ‘Oh!’ I spluttered, adjusting expectations of John Grisham. ‘Not in a I-want-to-marry-you type way, I hope?’

  I hoped she mistook my blush for a fever. One of my most shameful episodes was suggesting to a depressed Manjit that he read a self-help book for men entitled Male Order. A perfectly respectable work, but aimed at the guy whose most profound introspection entails catching his reflection in his pint. Manjit had glanced at the cover and said, ‘I’ve read some Freud – he was a bit over the top – and Nietzsche – I think he was right about society – and Jung – I mean I take his side against Freud – but I was hoping for . . .’ he’d trailed off. I’d blushed, at my error of presuming that dialect reflects intelligence.

  Gloria shook her head, serious. ‘The nature of evil,’ she said. ‘Mostly, even the most depraved monsters don’t think of what they do as evil. They just think they’re pursuing their interests.’

  ‘What – murder, rape, needlepoint?’

  She smiled, in the way people do when they’re courtesy bound to acknowledge your feeble wit, but in a great rush to proceed with disclosure of their own genius. ‘Anyways. I lost the book. I looked everywhere. Under the bed – I specially remember looking there – in drawers, places I knew it wasn’t going to be. Couldn’t find it. And then’ – a glow lit her features and I feared I knew what was coming – ‘early one morning, I heard this voice, a tiny but clear as crystal voice that said “Look under the bed”. I opened my eyes with a snap and there was a feeling of a presence, but as I watched I could sense it fading. I went back to sleep, feeling incredibly peaceful, and when I woke up again, I looked under the bed—’

  ‘And there was the Crime Classification Manual,’ I interrupted, because I didn’t think I could bear to hear the punchline spoken in tones of hushed reverence. You’d think what with all the death, poverty, cruelty, torture and misery in the world, angels would have more important tasks to fulfil than to inform Gloria where she’d dropped her story book. I thought her angel was more likely to be her own memory, or possibly the tooth fairy, who must have a great deal of leisure time these days, what with all the advances in dental care.

  ‘Correct,’ purred Gloria. She took a great slurp of tea before saying so casually that she was halfway through the sentence before I caught up, ‘My cousin never recovered. Six years on, she’s still on anti-depressants, can’t have a relationship. She was seventeen when it happened. It was her first ti—’

  I sprang up. ‘Glor,’ I said. ‘This is the trouble with sharing. Your problems become public property. But, however much they’re picked over by others, they remain your problems. If I wanted to discuss it, you’d be one of the first people I’d come to, but I don’t. Do you mind?’

  Gloria shook her head. ‘I should of thought. The last thing you need is ear from me.’ She smiled, kindly. Gloria spoke her mind, so plain speaking didn’t offend her.

  The doorbell rang and I froze. ‘Don’t get it,’ I croaked. But Gloria was already in the hall. ‘If it’s a blonde man in his twenties, don’t get it, I’ll call the p—’

  ‘It’s a woman,’ bellowed Gloria. ‘Middle aged. Glamorous. Posh.’ She said it mockingly. Powsh.

  I heaved myself up, muttering about Jehovah’s Witnesses, and peered through the blind. ‘Mrs Mortimer!’ I yanked open the door. ‘Mrs Mortimer!’ – I’d always found it hard to call Nick’s mother ‘Lavinia’ – ‘Come in, how lovely to see you!’

  As I said these words, I did a mental run-through of the state of the house. Spotless. Then I realised I was in my pyjamas and there was a spinach stain on my crotch. ‘I’m so sorry for looking like this, I’ve been unwell, Gloria, could you possibly put the kettle on again, I’ll just go and change—’

  Gloria looked at me, then at Mrs Mortimer, plainly amused. But Mrs Mortimer cried, ‘Please, Holly, you’re fine as you are – unless you’re cold – it really doesn’t matter to me.’

  But it mattered to me, so I galloped up the stairs and changed. When I galloped back down, Gloria pointed to the lounge and did a quick mime show, pulling her mouth into a droop, curling her hands into fists and rubbing them under her eyes. Mrs Mortimer was crying?

  I crept into the lounge. Mrs Mortimer seemed perfectly composed – legs elegantly crossed, sheer tights – no, stockings, I bet – sleek high heels, a pencil skirt, white blouse, a smart caramel jacket and a silk scarf, tied at the neck. Her dark shiny hair was wound into a chignon. But I looked closely and underneath the Estee Lauder face her dark blue eyes were red and puffy.

  ‘Is it Nick?’ I blurted, before I could stop myself.

  Her head jerked. ‘Why, yes. Yes. It is Nick.’

  I dropped on the sofa, a jelly. I must have been jittery, because I was about to mouth the word ‘dead?’ when Mrs Mortimer cried, ‘Holly, we’ve made the most terrible mistake, and I’m desperate – I’m sure he’s told you – he didn’t talk to us for a month, and then about two weeks ago he finally agreed to see us, but he’s so cold and distant and I don’t know what to do, nor does Michael, and we, we thought that you might be able to help, speak to him, he’d listen to you, he still loves you, of course, and oh! we wouldn’t ask but we’re at our wits’ end, we’ve caused him such pain – quite, quite the opposite of what we intended – Michael would have come with me, but he’s, he’s too upset, oh Holly, surely you see why we didn’t tell Nick he was adopted until now?’

  I must have a masculine side, I can’t bear to see a beautiful woman in distress. More than anything, I wanted to nod my head. After a pause, I shook it.

  Mrs Mortimer put a hand to her mouth. ‘We didn’t want to rock the boat. We thought it would be better for him, not to know, to grow up confident, but, the last thing he said to me was that his whole life with us had been a deception. I knew this would happen, we should never have told him at all.’

  I couldn’t agree. I took a deep breath – I had never contradicted her before. ‘But Mrs Mortimer. Surely you can see that Nick had a right to know.’

  She sniffed delicately into a cotton handkerchief. ‘Lavinia, please. Holly, he was so hurtful. He said it made sense, that he’d always felt different – distant from us. He said he felt like a reject. Of course, I said he was special – he is special – I said he was special because we chose him. And then he said’ – she paused and swallowed – ‘he said “Yes, but only after I was unchosen by my real mother. So not that special after all.” He was so very angry, Holly. I’ve never seen him so angry. In fact, I’ve never seen him so anything.’

  I was silent. This is a terrible thing to say about someone you love, but Nick never struck me as a person who felt deeply. Mrs Mortimer wasn’t entirely right. He was distant from his parents, but only in the sense that even when he was twenty-nine they treated him like a child. But I’d never thought much of it. Very few of my peers had the warm and easy-going friendship that I had with my mum and dad. I’d presumed that Nick’s rather more formal attachment to Lavinia and Michael was linked to being an only child, and being raised in a more sophisticated household. The higher the class, the cooler the relationship, was what I’d presumed. I’d once asked Rachel if she enjoyed spending all her free time in this or that country house with a few friends and a great bunch of strangers. She’d replied, ‘I grew up in a house full of strangers, Nanny, the house-keeper – I’m used to it.’

  This made absolute sense to me. There was a ruthlessness about Rachel, which seemed to be derived from a rationing of love, and the consequent realisation that one can only depend on oneself. How close to your parents can you be if they pack you off to boarding school aged five?

  Nick’s upbringing wasn’t quite as rarified as Rachel’s but from what I could tell, it had similar ele
ments, with similar results. Mr and Mrs Mortimer had visited Issy with Nick and myself four months after Eden was born, and could hardly contain their horror. Even when Eden fell asleep, Issy wouldn’t put the baby down. She’d barely raised her eyes from her new heart’s desire. Lavinia mentioned that Nick had been bottle-fed, and wasn’t it super, because you could use the time to cook, make telephone calls and generally catch up with your chores. Issy had replied that she always maintained eye contact with Eden while breastfeeding – it was essential for healthy development of the Self – hadn’t Mrs Mortimer heard of ‘mirroring’?

  Plainly, Mrs Mortimer hadn’t. In the car home, her only comment was that she had never ‘pandered’ to Nick because she hadn’t wanted him to be a ‘lap baby’.

  Not that Nick was incapable of love. Throughout our time together, I never doubted he loved me. But I’d presumed that Nick loved on a different level to most people. That was why the vehemence of his emotion when I ended the engagement was such a shock. Certainly, there was an element of wanting what he couldn’t have. But it seemed that he’d genuinely loved me more than I’d realised. He just hadn’t shown it with the freedom that some people would. And now, now, perhaps I could understand why. His first experience was abandonment by the woman who should have adored and protected him the most. Why would you ever trust or dare to love openly after that?

  Mrs Mortimer might say that this was nonsense, Nick hadn’t known he was adopted until she’d told him. But – and I’d stake my life on it – Issy would say that, subconsciously or not, of course he’d known. After all, he’d been there, hadn’t he?

  I looked at Mrs Mortimer and said, ‘Lavinia, I’ll go and see him now.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Nick, when I rang the doorbell. Funny to say it, but for the first time since I’d known him, he looked like his mother’s son. He was wearing a shirt and tie, smart trousers and a blazer, as if he were going to an interview. I preferred his Johnny Depp dress sense but I wasn’t going to mention it. Even his hair was neat. No doubt Bo would think this was her work.

  I smiled at him. ‘Sorry about the last time we spoke. I wanted to see how you were doing.’

  He gazed at me, suspicious. ‘You’ve lost weight. It doesn’t suit you.’

  I nodded at him. ‘I fully intend to put it all back on again. Anyway, speak for yourself. If you’re not careful you’ll end up like Bo.’

  I watched Nick trying not to smile. A source of great amusement to us both was the discovery – Manjit was useless at keeping secrets – that Bo’s knees were so bony she had to sleep with a pillow between her legs. Nick had said, ‘Well, that’s her excuse!’

  ‘I suppose we should discuss selling the house,’ he said, finally. ‘Instruct a devious estate agent not like Claudia. Come in.’

  He made me a non-instant coffee without being asked. And added milk and two sugars. I looked around Bo’s kitchen and wondered how she afforded it. Her taste was chintzy, but expensive. Her home seemed to belong to an older person. Nick tiptoed around it like a much disciplined bull in a china shop. His blazer hung loose on his shoulders and I wanted to hug him.

  ‘How you doing, Nicky?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Badly.’

  He put the coffee on Bo’s pine table, murmured a little ‘uh’ to himself, and shoved a mat under the mug. It was like observing a tiger in captivity.

  ‘Nick. Why don’t we get out of here? Go for a walk?’

  His mouth twitched. ‘If you like.’

  I drove us to Ally Pally. Alexandra Park, for those of you not familiar with it. Big. Green. Views across London. Not the best views, or the best parts of London, but exhilarating all the same. Nick and I sat on a bench and kicked our feet. I wanted to hold his hand but I wasn’t sure I should, so I didn’t. I waited, picking out far off chimneys and tower blocks, full of people going about their lives.

  ‘I want to find my birth mother.’

  I started. Birth mother. Not a term I was even familiar with.

  ‘Really? How do you go about doing that?’

  Oh God, I wanted to say, are you sure that’s a good idea? I couldn’t, of course, say anything of the sort – he would have taken it the wrong way. But this woman had already proved herself unreliable. Nick was not in a fit state to be rejected again.

  ‘You don’t think I should.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Hol, I can tell.’

  He drew up his knees, and circled them with his arms.

  I tried to engage my brain before speaking. ‘I understand why you want to find her – not knowing who your mother is, it must be like part of your soul is missing – but just be careful, that’s all. She might be desperate to see you again – she should be – but, well, it’s best to have your guard up. Not to go in there, expecting a, a fairy-tale ending.’

  Nick rested his head on his knees, and smiled grimly. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Isn’t that how most fairy-tales begin? With an abandoned baby? I might turn out to be a prince.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s not what you said the last time we spoke.’

  I bent to pick a blade of grass and Nick said, ‘A dog’s probably pissed on that.’

  I retracted my hand.

  ‘Anyway, Hol, what have you got against happy endings all of a sudden? I thought they were your life’s work.’

  I felt a black doom engulf me. I heard myself say in a voice of ice, ‘I don’t believe in them any more.’

  The two of us see-sawed off each other. If he was gloomy, I was cheerful. Now it was his turn. He looked at me and grinned his old sloppy smile. ‘But you ended our engagement, Holly.’

  I ignored the teasing tone.

  ‘Nick, believe me. It wasn’t that.’

  He frowned. ‘What was it then?’

  I told him. And as I did, I started to wonder why the hell I hadn’t told him before.

  Chapter 29

  I’VE NEVER SEEN a person physically fine, yet in so much pain. One moment he’d rock in agony, the next, he’d moan like an animal. Then he’d spring from the bench, pace in no particular direction, dig his fists into his eyes and say, ‘Ah, Christ, Jesus Christ.’ I found myself in the peculiar position of having to comfort him. Tears streamed as he gasped, ‘I’m so sorry Hol, I let you down, I’ll kill him for you, I’ll fucking do him, he’ll die, the bastard, he’ll pay for this, I swear it.’

  I stroked his hair, and he cried in my lap, hugging my hips and muttering, ‘Oh Holly, Holly, how could he?’

  ‘Don’t, Nick, you’ll make me cry too,’ I said. I wasn’t going to say, It’s alright, because it wasn’t. ‘It’s a nice idea in theory, but I don’t really want you going to prison for killing Stuart.’

  He sat up suddenly, white faced. ‘It’s my fault. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have—’

  ‘Nick, don’t be ridiculous.’

  He shook his head. His face crumpled again, but he clenched his teeth and gained control. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a strangulated voice. ‘You should be the one making a scene, not me. I don’t mean to steal your grief. I – God, Holly – what you mean to me, I just’ – he clutched the portion of shirt over his heart – ‘the pain, I wish I could take it from you, ah, God, I should have been there, to protect you, to think . . . I heard you with him, in the kitchen, and I thought, I’m so stupid, I thought, ah, Hol, I wish I could take your pain—’ his voice cracked.

  I felt a corresponding pang in my own chest. ‘Thank you. I know you do.’

  I understood what he meant because sometimes I felt his misery as if it were my own. Although that means something wonderful, it’s not entirely practical. You feel twice as much love but you end up feeling twice as much hurt, and it can bounce back, to and fro, forever. I was well aware of this as we sat there – that while baring my soul to Nick gave me some sort of peace, it had equal potential to give me some sort of hell. I didn’t want to sit here for the rest of the day regurgitating. I felt I’d rather get Caroline to fax him my statement.<
br />
  Anyhow, Issy says that, despite Oprah and Jerry Springer, merely talking about a trauma is not always healthy. Talking is only worthwhile if, at the same time, you’re processing the horror, coming to terms with it. If not you merely nurture it until it becomes larger like a tumour in your head and lodges there, no longer your past but your hideous present. I certainly hadn’t ‘come to terms’ with it, a phrase surely conceived by an idiot. I’d made some mental progress through talking to Caroline (about three inches). But now, thanks to the CPS I was back to – not square one – square two, maybe.

  And it wasn’t as if I was short of new problems. I was wondering if I should tell Nick about Claudia and Camille’s suspicions of Stuart and their little plan, when he grasped my hands.

  ‘Hol,’ he said. ‘I’m being selfish. Tell me, tell me what you want. What can I do to help you?’

  I smiled into his eyes. It’s rare that you hear a man admit to being selfish – I felt I should reward him for good behaviour. ‘There is one tiny thing.’ I explained about Stuart threatening to sue me.

  Nick didn’t have the sort of face that turns purple, but if he’d been a puce sort of guy, at that moment he’d have gone blueberry. ‘What?’ he roared. He quickly lowered his voice. ‘You should tell Caroline immediately,’ he said. ‘But you know what? Like he’d dare. This is bullshit, Holly. He’s trying to terrorise you. If he sues, he draws attention to himself and what he’s done. I really don’t think you have to worry about this, it would be an insane move on his part. If he persists, tell him you welcome the action. Tell him you can’t wait to tell everyone what he did, that you’ll enjoy it. If you want, I’ll ring him – or better still, I’ll consult Dad.’

  Michael Mortimer was a senior partner at a blue chip London law firm, Mortimer Valancourt. They even sounded like avenging knights. Stuart’s little outfit was a joke by comparison.

  I blinked. ‘I thought you were barely speaking to him.’

  Nick’s face was a scowl. ‘I think this is slightly more important than my little strop, don’t you?’