‘Really,’ she says, flatly. It’s exactly the voice she used when I was sixteen and ranting about Thatcher or the miners or nuclear power.
‘Yes. I don’t think I’ll ever buy non-organic dairy stuff again.’
‘Do you think it tastes better?’ she asks, apparently missing the point entirely.
‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘Much better.’
The man in front of us is wearing Grunge! carpenter pants. I nudge her and whisper, ‘Grunge! We did the advertising for those. They’re everywhere now.’
The guy in front overhears me and turns around. ‘They’re great,’ he says. ‘I love these trousers.’
Mum smiles. ‘You must be very proud,’ she says, unconvincingly.
And I think, Am I? For in the end, despite the fact that we have convinced millions of men that they need two zips instead of one, the world clearly hasn’t shifted on its axis.
‘Yeah,’ I say, vaguely.
By the time we climb into our cab it has started to rain.
‘Does it always rain in London?’ Mum says. ‘Because it was lovely in Surrey when I left.’
‘It was lovely here too, Mum. The weather’s changing today – they said so on TV. It’s back to winter now.’
As (with the recent exception of couscous) Mum’s tastes rarely stretch to anything more exotic than French, I take her to a lovely little bistro in William Street: Terroirs. It’s a choice that thankfully meets with her immediate approval.
‘Gosh how lovely,’ she says. ‘Exactly like being in Paris.’
We both order leek soup followed by steak tartare for Mum and, because I don’t think I’ll be able to do beef or dairy for a while, fish for me.
And then, served with two jolly generous glasses of red wine, we sit and stare alternately at each other and at people hurrying past outside, and prepare ourselves for whatever is to come.
‘So other than the cow thing, you had a nice trip,’ Mum says.
‘Yes, I loved Cornwall. I even looked at a few properties down there, just to see.’
‘You wouldn’t move to Cornwall!’ she laughs.
‘Why not?’
‘How could you? With your job and your friends and . . .’
‘I’m not sure London’s working for me,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure it’s making me happy. Not deep down.’
Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ve taken a while to work that one out, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘Yes. Far too long.’
‘But Cornwall!’ she says. ‘It’s just so far!’
‘From you?’ I say. ‘From Surrey?’
‘From everywhere.’
‘It’s not far from Devon,’ I point out facetiously.
Mum frowns. ‘What’s in Devon?’
‘Well nothing. I just mean far from where? Far from what?’
‘The outer Hebrides aren’t far from the outer Hebrides,’ Mum says. ‘But it doesn’t mean that I’m going to move there anytime soon.’
‘That was my second choice actually,’ I say. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Yes, dear. Well don’t forget to send me a postcard.’
‘So what about you?’ I ask. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Oh everything’s fine.’
‘But you wanted to talk about something.’
‘Yes.’
‘Daughterly advice, you said.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
At that moment our soup arrives.
Once the waiter has retreated, I sip my soup and prompt her again. ‘So?’
‘This is very buttery. It’s good, but very buttery.’
‘Yes. So?’
‘I’m quite scared of you actually,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that strange?’
‘Scared of me?’
‘Yes. I feel like a child. I suppose I know you’re going to shout at me and get all irate, and I just don’t know if . . .’
‘Oh, Mum!’ I say, reaching to touch her hand, a hand she instantly withdraws. ‘I won’t. I’m just concerned about you, that’s all.’ I make a note to myself that I now really must not get irate.
‘Well you know what it’s about, I expect,’ she says.
‘Saddam,’ I say. ‘Adam.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Perfect,’ she says. ‘Better than ever.’
‘Then it’s about what . . . marriage again?’
Mum slurps her soup and then clears her throat. ‘Well yes. It’s the only practical solution to the problem.’
‘But you don’t marry someone as a practical—’
‘But I want to as well. I know you don’t believe that, but I do.’
‘Actually I do believe it,’ I say. ‘I’m just not sure that it’s—’
‘And he does too. And I know you think that he just sees me as a ticket, as a passport or something and I’m not stupid, I think that maybe that’s part of it too – probably, in fact. But I don’t care. It suits me.’
‘Right.’
‘So the question is, do we do a big proper wedding in spring, in, say March? Or a quick registry office thing with just the two of us in November.’
‘This November? I mean, it’s November next week,’ I point out.
‘Yes. But in December I’m off to Agadir for the winter. So it’ll be too late.’
I frown. ‘But if you’re off to Agadir then there’s no hurry anyway. There’s no problem to be solved, is there?’
‘So you think do it properly, in March.’
‘Mum, seriously . . . I don’t want to . . .’
‘No go on,’ she says.
‘Well . . . Look . . . I don’t . . . I’m not . . . particularly thrilled about it, you know that.’
‘Yes.’
‘But if you are going to get married, I can’t see how you can have a big wedding anyway. For one, he’s Muslim, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. Oh, I don’t mean a church wedding. I just mean with a guest list, and a reception afterwards.’
I realise that by providing me with two options, Mum has effectively circumvented any discussion about the desirability of the marriage itself. And I know her well enough to know that this will have been an entirely choreographed move.
‘Look . . . Are you sure you want to marry him?’
‘Please don’t . . .’ she says.
I point the palms of my hands at her in a gesture of submission. ‘Hey, I’m just asking the question,’ I say. ‘It’s a question that needs to be asked.’
‘OK, then yes. I am.’
‘Why? Other than the visa business.’
‘Because I don’t want to lose him.’
‘Why don’t you want to lose him?’
‘Because . . . because I’ve been rattling around on my own for twenty years, and because, to use your words, it hasn’t been working for me.’
‘Right.’
‘Adam makes me happy,’ she says with a shrug. ‘And I didn’t think that could happen again . . . not really.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘And we can’t live together unless we get married. And I’m worried that if we don’t he’ll . . . you know . . .’
‘Leave you? Find someone else?’
‘Well, yes. Unless I move to Morocco permanently. But I don’t want to do that.’
‘I don’t want you to do that.’
By the end of lunch, by gently pointing out that the only people Mum could invite to a wedding would all also be friends of Dad’s, and that, human nature being what it is, most of them would be fairly uncomfortable about her new choice of partner, and by reminding her how chronically shy Saddam is, I have convinced her not only that a small private wedding is the way to go, but that there’s no reason why it can’t wait until spring.
But just as when I was a child I would cry for an ice cream for half an hour, and Mum would finally give in and say I could have a boiled sweet, and then proceed to produce one from her pocket, I can’t help but feel that I have been hoodwinke
d. I can’t help but feel that my negotiated compromise is exactly what she planned all along. She’s clever that way, my mum.
Nothing Gay About It
Before I have even closed the door of the surgery behind me, the secretary exclaims, ‘Oh, CC Kelly. Oh God! I was supposed to phone you.’
I push the door shut, and cross the marble floor to her desk. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Hello. Oh please don’t have a go at me, I’m having such a bad day. But I was meant to call you, wasn’t I? You wanted to see Doctor James.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s off sick, I’m afraid. I should have phoned. God Vic . . . Doctor Ynchausty is so gonna . . .’
And then the door to Victor’s office opens. ‘Yes? I’m going to what?’ he asks.
‘I’m so sorry, doctor,’ she says. She sounds like she might cry. ‘I was supposed to reschedule Ms Kelly to see Doctor James, and I did, but now you’re standing in, and . . .’
‘Well,’ Victor says, clearly irritated. He looks at me and shrugs and forces a smile. ‘Actually I only need to go through the blood tests with you anyway. What do you think?’
I shrug and nod. ‘Yeah. Might as well. Now I’m here.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ the secretary says as Victor ushers me into his office.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, giving her a sly wink.
I take a seat in front of his desk and Victor closes the door. ‘She is bloody useless though,’ he says.
‘Oh it’s fine,’ I say.
‘But it has all been very hectic. Moira has the flu and . . .’
‘Swine flu?’ I say.
‘Ah, you heard about that.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Actually, thinking about that, I think I’d rather see you.’
‘Flattery indeed,’ Victor says taking his seat. ‘So how have you been? I hear you were at the funeral.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well . . . Miserable with it all.’
‘Yes it’s awful. I never would have imagined he’d . . . Anyway. I missed it . . . the funeral that is. Things have been such a mess here . . . there are only two of us, so . . .’
‘Sure.’
‘But I made the wake.’
‘Oh!’ I say, surprised. ‘How was it?’
‘Fine. Sad. And happy. Wakes are strange.’
‘They are. And Darren’s mum?’
‘Fine. Upset.’
‘Sure,’ I say, a little shocked that she didn’t turn Victor away with the rest of us.
‘She can seem very hard . . . but she’s just suffering,’ Victor says. ‘She has a lot on her plate. More than you could know.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘You knew him well then? Darren?’
‘Oh yes, forever. Since we were kids. He was pretty much the first friend I made when we moved over here.’
‘Right.’
‘And the funeral? How was that?’
I think about it and decide to lie. There’s no point adding any extra pain if he wasn’t there to witness it. ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘Well, obviously not nice . . . It was . . .’
‘Appropriate?’ Victor says, fingering a chrome cube paperweight. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Anyway, enough, huh?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have to force myself to think about other things, otherwise . . .’ ‘I’m the same.’
‘So . . . Onto happier things. Your results,’ he says, unfolding three pages pulled from a folder. ‘These are all fine.’
‘Everything’s normal?’
‘Yes.’
‘So no explanation for the irregularity . . .’
‘None. I would guess it’s just a blip. Have you been feeling stressed? Or run down? Or depressed?’
‘A little.’
‘Well that’s probably it.’
‘So I’m not menopausal.’
‘No, as far as we can see, not at all.’
‘Good. Well, that’s a relief anyway.’
‘Yes. I’m sure.’ Victor slides one of the pages towards me across the desk and points at one of the figures. ‘You see that: AMH?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it’s more and more accepted that it’s a pretty good indicator . . . it drops off considerably a few years before the final period.’
‘And mine’s fine?’
‘Yes, absolutely normal.’
‘So I have a few years.’
‘Yes. Well, probably. I have to tell you that it’s a little controversial to use it as an indicator. Because it’s quite recent science. And because it’s not one hundred per cent, as an indicator.’
‘I see.’
‘But generally speaking, yes. Generally speaking that would seem to indicate that you have at least five years fertility before you.’
‘Five years.’ I can barely contain my grin.
‘But beware . . . these things can be wrong. So the advice, if you want to have a baby, is obviously . . .’
‘Don’t hang around forever.’
‘Exactly. Because all of this hocus-pocus just comes down to probability in the end. You’re playing poker here and every year that goes by, the risk of your being called out increases. This shows that the probability that it will happen tomorrow is low. But it’s not impossible. And the odds clearly aren’t improving.’
‘OK, well, that’s clear, at least. Thanks.’
‘Have you advanced in your project?’
‘My project? Oh! Not really.’
‘Do you have a donor lined up? Because if not, I can give you some addresses.’
‘I . . .’
‘Perhaps you don’t want to discuss that with me. That’s fine, of course. I’ve done my bit here really, so . . .’
‘No, it’s fine. I have an idea, who I’m going to ask. But I haven’t . . .’
‘You know it’s not quite as simple as sticking the stuff in a turkey baster.’
‘I haven’t really looked into it that much yet.’
‘There are many things you need to think about and discuss, if not with me then with someone else.’
‘Yes.’
‘There are legal implications – without a disclaimer, for instance, you could go after the father for child support for instance . . . so that all needs to be clear.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘And there are health implications . . . screening for genetic diseases, and sexually transmissible diseases like hepatitis, syphilis and HIV.’
‘Of course . . . Look . . . I don’t really want to discuss it. If that’s all right. It does feel a bit weird. Because, well, I know you, and you know people I know and . . .’
‘Yes. Of course. Well. Look. I know this is delicate of course. So tell me to butt out if . . .’
‘Yes.’
I think but don’t say, Yes, butt out.
‘It’s just that, well . . . it’s not Mark, is it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Actually don’t tell me. But if you were thinking about asking Mark, then please don’t.’
‘I . . .’ But the conversation is so bizarre that words fail me.
‘It’s just that he can’t. I know that. And I shouldn’t tell you this, so of course it’s in the strictest confidence. But he can’t. Someone already asked him, a while back, and he was terribly upset that he couldn’t. And he’s so upset about Darren at the moment . . . it just wouldn’t be . . .’
‘Well it wasn’t Mark,’ I lie. ‘It’s someone you don’t know, so . . .’
‘Oh good. Then I’m sorry. And please forget I ever said anything. I don’t know why I thought . . . I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘And please don’t say anything to Mark.’
‘No, of course.’
‘Good. Thanks.’
‘So . . . I suppose I don’t need another appointment, do I? Seeing as everything is normal.’
‘No, sadly you don’t.’
‘Sadly?’
‘Oh, I just mean, with
Darren gone, I’m not likely to bump into you again, am I?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Maybe through Mark?’
Victor wrinkles his nose. ‘No, Darren was my, you know, contact with that little group.’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘So if you ever want to talk, or salsa a little . . .’
‘Right.’
‘You have my number.’
‘I do.’
‘Good, well . . .’
‘OK then.’ I cough and stand. ‘I pay the secretary, right?’
Victor wrinkles his nose. ‘Um, no charge for this one. The lab will probably mail you a bill though for the blood work.’
‘Right.’
‘Well, good luck then.’
‘Yes, thanks.’
Out on the street I’m feeling a swirl of conflicting emotions amidst a cacophony of different thoughts.
I’m stunningly relieved that everything’s OK, and, provisos apart, that I have maybe five years in which I can still conceive. And I’m worried about Mark, for the obvious reason he wouldn’t be able to donate sperm is HIV, but could he really be positive without my knowing? I suppose the answer is that of course he could, and of course he wouldn’t tell me. So I’m a little shocked to learn that despite having lived next door to him for five years and despite having worked with him for seven, I really don’t know him at all. But then, perhaps, like Darren announcing his imminent suicide, Mark has told me. Perhaps I just don’t listen.
And then I think about the bizarre tension as I left Victor’s office. It was almost like a date, almost like the lingering goodbye on a doorstep when you’re waiting to be invited to stay the night.
I suppose that, to Victor, I’m one of the remaining ripples from Darren’s life, and saying goodbye to me is saying goodbye to yet another sign that Darren once existed.
Perhaps I should have arranged to have a drink with him. But in truth I’m exhausted with thinking about Darren. And what else could we have talked about?
I reach the taxi rank and join the queue and pray that Norman won’t pop his head out of one of the taxis, which of course he doesn’t.
No, I don’t want to talk to Victor, and I don’t want to think about Darren, and I don’t even particularly want to face Mark at work. I think I must be all gayed out. In fact, right now, secretly, I would have to agree with Darren’s mother. There’s nothing gay about it.
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 35
