by John Marrs
I thought about the clothes in Mum’s wardrobe – timeless pieces that would still have looked fantastic on rails now, twenty years later. Well, maybe with a raised hem here or a belt there. Or an extra couple of buttons and a zip. Actually, there were a lot of her designs that could work as they were, I told myself. Then I had an idea.
I padded down the stairs in my dressing gown and slippers, spread out the silk fabric I’d been keeping for something special, and began to work from memory, borrowing some of my mum’s designs for inspiration.
And I continued like that for the next four weeks with different materials until I finished my three original pieces. Then I thanked my mum and went to bed, knackered but smiling.
4 February
Silence. Fifteen long, gut-wrenching minutes of it. I was so nervous my palms were sweating.
After presenting Margaret with a business suit, a pair of stirrup pants and a silk dress, my heart was in my throat as I watched her prod them, tug at their seams, hold them up to the light and shake them like she was trying to get the last drop of ketchup out of a bottle. Finally, she was done.
‘How quickly can you make another three?’ she asked. I wanted to grab her and squeeze her until her bun burst or her shoulder pads split.
With a couple of minor alterations, my outfits were on Fabien’s clothes rails by the end of the week. Every time I thought about what I’d accomplished, I broke into a huge, beaming smile. I crossed my fingers and hoped at least one of them might find a buyer.
I needn’t have worried. By the time I returned with more, the first three had already been snapped up. Margaret handed me a cheque for one hundred and forty pounds – the equivalent of two weeks’ supermarket work. If I hadn’t needed the money so badly, I’d have framed it and stuck it on the wall for the entire world to see.
28 March
Dividing my life between three jobs and three kids had worn me out.
I knew I could make so many more clothes if I had full days and not just a few snatched hours here and there. When I fell asleep at the sewing machine for the second time, I was ready to admit I wasn’t Wonder Woman.
Something had to give, so I took the plunge and handed my notice in at the supermarket, but as I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket, I kept ironing my neighbours’ clothes. And I saved a little money from each of Margaret’s payments to start refurnishing my home.
First I bought the children second-hand bikes. Then, gradually, I replaced the pieces of furniture I’d sold and started kitting out my sewing room. Soon, what was once the dining room became a space crammed with clothes rails, stacks of magazines, rolls of fabric, two mannequin torsos and multiple boxes containing bobbins of coloured cotton.
I thought back to a few months earlier, when I’d used that room to come up with ridiculous theories as to what could’ve happened to Simon. Now I was using it to leaf through borrowed library books on the modern history of clothing, from classics like Christian Dior and Guccio Gucci to newer stars.
As my ideas and inspirations flowed thick and fast, I began to realise that when Simon found his way home, I wouldn’t be the Kitty he used to know. I was moving in a new direction and becoming stronger, off my own back. While I was getting to know – and like – the new me, I felt guilty for thinking not all change was a bad thing.
2 April
In my dreams, Simon was only ever an outline of a man – a quiet blur hiding in the corners of rooms, watching me.
But that night, I saw his face. I stood by my bedroom window as the sun rose, watching his motionless body in the fields peering back at me. Eventually, he smiled, and I felt myself blush like I had the first time he looked at me, in English Lit class.
When he turned his back and walked away, I panicked and shouted for him, but he ignored me. I hammered on the glass with my fists, but he slipped into a speck of dust on the horizon. I screamed louder and louder until I woke myself up, then lay there, angry with him.
Suddenly Dougie’s face burst into my head with such uninvited speed, it made me jump.
For four years, I’d kept him at arm’s length, but I’d be a fool to think it was that easy. I’d always believed I could read people quite well, because the only way to stop myself from being burned by my mum’s acid tongue was to judge her flavour before approaching her.
Simon’s friends Steven and Roger were easy to pigeonhole and they hadn’t changed much as they’d grown from boys to men. But Dougie was different. When it was just the two of them, they’d been a lot more serious; with the others, Simon was one of the lads. I’d nicknamed him the Chameleon and quite liked that he’d change his colours to suit his environment without ever losing sight of who he was. Dougie, Steven, Roger and I were all just pieces of him.
But Simon had been more to Dougie than just his best friend, and he hadn’t exactly welcomed me with open arms once Simon invited me into his little gang. He wasn’t just a boy whose head hadn’t been turned by yucky girls. He genuinely couldn’t understand why his best friend had fallen for one.
And when once he caught me watching him watching Simon, while Simon remained oblivious to the both of us, his red face revealed what his words didn’t say. I was a little jealous of how close they were, and Dougie and I began playing childish games of one-upmanship. If I told him something Simon had said to me, he’d antagonise me with a ‘yeah, I already know’. And other times, in petty retaliation, I’d do the same. We’d compete for Simon’s attention.
I’d always regretted Simon and I’s first kiss. Not that it happened, but how and where. I instigated it in Dougie’s bedroom on purpose, aware that he was about to walk in and catch us. I kissed him because I wanted to, but I also knew that putting Dougie in his place, on his own territory, would end our rivalry.
As soon as he saw us, I wished I hadn’t been such a bitch. He looked so pitiful standing there with a tray of snacks and glasses of milk. The corners of his mouth unravelled and the light in his eyes paled. I’d won Simon’s heart, but trampled across Dougie’s.
That marked a turning point in Dougie and I’s relationship. We reached an unspoken understanding that while we could share Simon, I would always have the upper hand. And eventually we became unlikely friends in our own right.
Then, one night, many years later, everything changed.
7 April
I was exhausted defending an invisible man for so many months.
I’d abandoned chanting ‘Simon is not dead’ in the bathroom mirror, because in my heart of hearts, I’d begun to accept it might not be true. It came down to one single fact – he couldn’t have been gone for ten months without something having happened to him. And with no evidence telling me he was still alive, I reluctantly came to terms with Roger’s theory he’d most likely died in an accident the day he disappeared.
In the meantime, my children had come up with their own ideas.
‘Did Daddy commit soo-side?’ Robbie asked out of the blue on our way home from the park.
‘Who told you that?’ I replied.
He looked anxious. In truth, he’d been looking more and more anxious of late and it was starting to worry me. He’d often take himself into his dad’s garage-office and I’d hear him whispering to him about his day. I’d thought I was the only one who did that. I wasn’t sure if leaving him to chat to a memory was the best thing or not, but if it gave him the comfort his mummy obviously couldn’t, then maybe it wasn’t doing any harm.
‘What’s soo-side?’ asked Emily.
‘My friend Melanie says that when people are sad and they want to go to heaven, they commit soo-side,’ Robbie explained.
‘It’s called suicide,’ James chipped in before I could explain, ‘and it’s when people hurt themselves on purpose because they don’t want to be with their families anymore.’
‘No, Daddy didn’t commit suicide,’ I replied, unsure of how to end the conversation.
‘But how can you know that?’ asked James. It was clear this wasn’t th
e first time he’d given it thought.
‘Because Daddy had no reason to. People only do that when they don’t think they have any other choice. Daddy loved us too much.’
I hadn’t told another living soul, but it had crossed my mind that maybe he had. I mulled over everything that had happened with Billy and wondered if I’d been too wrapped up in myself to notice how badly it had affected him too. If I’d been a better wife, maybe I’d have noticed his sadness instead of wallowing in mine.
‘Well, this is what I think happened,’ I began softly. ‘The day that Daddy disappeared, I think he went out for one of his runs somewhere new. And I think he got lost, and then he had an accident. But because nobody knows where he went, we can’t find him.’
‘Shall we go and look for him again?’ asked Robbie.
‘I don’t think that will help. I don’t think he’s able to come back.’
I still couldn’t bring myself to say out loud that maybe he was dead.
We had arrived home, and Emily skipped over towards the swing in the garden.
‘Is he in heaven?’ Robbie continued.
I paused, hating myself for what I was about to say. ‘Yes,’ I said at last. ‘I think he might be.’
‘When will Daddy come back?’ yelled Emily from the swing.
‘I don’t think he will, sweetie.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, and frowned. ‘Push me really hard, Mummy.’
I began pushing her more gently than she’d expected, so she wriggled her legs backwards and forwards to gain more height. ‘Harder, Mummy. You’re not pushing hard enough!’
‘Why do you want to go so high?’
‘So I can kick God in the bum until he sends Daddy home.’
Good idea, I thought.
SIMON
Paris, twenty-four years earlier
10 January
I raised my head to look up at the publisher’s third-floor offices on Boulevard Haussmann, and fumbled nervously with the twenty thousand French francs crammed into my trouser pocket.
I felt a pang of disappointment in myself for being the man to have sold all that Pierre Chareau had written, sketched and then shipped to the Hôtel Près de la Côte for reasons unknown. But I’d done what was necessary to carry me forward.
It had taken four trains and two buses to reach Paris. My backpack contained very few personal belongings, to make room for the rarest items I’d rescued from the garbage. The rest I’d sent by post six weeks earlier to Madame Bernard, a publisher of art and historical work, to offer it for sale.
I had considered handing the collection to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, where it could be displayed alongside other notable works of famous French visionaries. But the next part of my journey would be expensive, and I was still more charity than charitable.
On my arrival, it took Madame Bernard several days to verify the authenticity of the most recent deliveries. But once deemed genuine, I was offered a fee and a percentage of future book sales, with a guarantee of anonymity.
I congratulated myself on requesting that the royalties be forwarded to an address in England. I doubted whether Darren Glasper’s family would ever know why they were receiving intermittent cheques from a Parisian publisher. But if it helped perpetuate the myth their deceased son had made a success of his all-too-brief travels, then it was worth every centime.
Darren and I had shared the desire to cast aside our past lives and start afresh on our own terms. So I knew he’d understand that, with him having no further need of his passport, I could make use of both it and his identity. If heaven existed, he’d be looking down on me with pride and egging me on.
With no permanent address or bank account, I, however, preferred to be paid in cash, and with the financial means to move forwards, my next stop was a travel agent to book a one-way flight.
New York, USA
4 February
While everyone else slept soundly around us in designated bunkbeds, the girl and I silently made love in hers.
I’d placed the palm of my hand against the breezeblock wall to stop the bed’s metal frame from rocking against it. The other was held over her mouth to mask from the slumbering masses her groans while she climaxed. It wasn’t long before I joined her, then allowed my limp body to flop to her side.
Her name had already escaped me, but it didn’t matter as she’d made plans to leave for Chicago in the morning. I pulled on my underwear and went to give her a polite peck on the cheek, but she had already fallen into a drunken sleep.
The day after bidding adieu to Paris, my alter ego Darren Glasper had landed in New York.
The ignorant often look upon America as a modern country lacking history or culture. What I saw was a continent littered with small pockets of culture in every person, in every building and on every street. Just because no one creed, religion or class stood prouder than any other didn’t mean a whole nation was lacking in essence.
And what better country in which to begin again than one at whose gateway stood a landmark with broken chains at her feet and a torch to light my way forward?
In the Lower Manhattan Youth Hostel, I lived the life of a teenager trapped in a thirty-three-year-old man’s body. My days lacked routine; spontaneity was the only call I answered to. I aspired to throw myself at every new sensation I chanced upon, and that included the opposite sex. As teenagers, my friends had experimented with any girls who’d indulge them. But Catherine was the only one I’d ever been intimate with. And by marrying the first girl I’d fallen for, there was so much I’d missed out on.
The hostel’s arteries constantly pumped with fresh young blood. I enjoyed the company of women, and brief dalliances and one-night stands meant there was no risk of them urging me to take things further or trying to get to know me. I needed to connect with people physically, but rarely for long and never emotionally. For just enough time to remind myself I could still connect, even if it was only expressed through empty, near-anonymous sexual acts with like-minded partners.
And it happened anywhere, from restaurant toilets to alleyways, dormitories full of sleeping people to an underpass in Central Park. I had no filter for shame and few boundaries. I had many wasted years to catch up on, and sex without emotion brought immediate gratification. New York was the city that never slept, and I had every intention of following suit.
I reached my bunkbed on the other side of the dorm, zipped myself up in my sleeping bag and thought back to my first kiss.
I’d never told Catherine it wasn’t with her.
21 February
I’d already walked the length of the Brooklyn Bridge once that day. On my return, I paused and leaned against the sidewalk railings to stare across the vast expanse of the East River.
I thought back to when I was eleven, and Dougie and I spent an afternoon on a long bike ride into town, eventually reaching Abington Park. Feeling mischievous, we stuffed decaying elm tree leaves, and a stack of discarded Mercury & Herald newspapers dumped by a lazy paperboy, into an overflow pipe leading from an adjacent stream. Finally, when our masterpiece of modern engineering was complete, we waited patiently for a watery wrath to sweep over the town once the stream burst its banks. It was, however, an overly ambitious plan, and after an hour, Northampton was still as dry as a bone.
Bored, I’d leaned back on my elbows on the grass and closed my eyes. Suddenly, something soft gently pressed itself against my lips. It remained there momentarily as I puzzled over whether I was awake or midway between sleep and consciousness. I opened my eyes to find Dougie’s lips upon mine.
He withdrew them as quickly as they’d been planted. He stared at me with eyes so wide they appeared to have developed a life of their own, beyond his control. We remained motionless, one taking in the action and the other waiting for the reaction.
‘Sorry,’ he finally blurted out, before picking up his bike and cycling away as fast as his gangly legs could pedal.
I remained rooted to the grass, bewildered. Boys didn
’t kiss boys: boys kissed girls. If a boy kissed a boy, he was queer. All I knew about homosexuality was that queers were to be feared and, if found, given a good kicking. They were dirty old men who sat alone in cinemas waiting to touch young lads if the opportunity arose. Or they ended up in prison for doing filthy things to each other that I didn’t really understand.
I was at a loss as to how I should respond, so I hurried through the consequences of confiding in someone else. Should I tell my father or Roger what had happened? Or would they think I was a queer too, for not knocking his block off? I didn’t want to be found guilty by association. And if others knew, I wouldn’t be allowed to play with Dougie again, to spend time at his house and be a part of his family. I didn’t want to be the one to blame for sending my best friend to jail. So, because I had more to lose than him, I kept quiet.
The next morning, I stopped at Dougie’s house as normal to walk with him to school.
‘Come on, we’re going to be late,’ I said.
He looked at me – confounded, I’m sure, that I’d gone anywhere near him again. And as we walked briskly down the High Street, from the corner of my eye I kept seeing his mouth opening and words forming, before sentences evaporated into nothing. Eventually, he spoke.
‘The other day . . .’ he began.
‘Forget about it.’
‘Have you told—’
‘Of course not. Now hurry up, or we’ll get detention.’
It was the last time the subject was ever touched on. But it didn’t mean I ever forgot.
My second first kiss was with Catherine, not long after. As we sat together on Dougie’s bed reading an interview with David Bowie in Melody Maker magazine, she leaned over without warning, cupped her hand under my chin, pulled my face close to hers and kissed me.
