by Anna Maxted
He is painfully aware of the unmacho nature of his obsession and – as I’ve repeatedly witnessed – part of his seduction routine is to starve himself for two days to make room for a staged ‘I’m a regular guy’ blowout in front of his intended. Sadly, as Michelle is a surprise bonus, he’s pitifully unprepared. He’ll eat his pizza so as not to appear unmanly, but every bite will be poison (and a five-minute IOU to the running machine). I chomp away happily and watch the lovebirds struggle.
‘That was really kind of you, Helen,’ says Luke with his mouth full.
‘My pleasure,’ I reply smugly, ruffling his hair.
Michelle pouts a small ‘pouff!’ indicating she’s stuffed after just two slices. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have chowed down that burger and fries on my way over,’ she sighs. Yeah right. She’d rather sew up her mouth.
Marcus gawks longingly at her cleavage. ‘So don’t you feel hungry?’ he murmurs coyly. I nearly regurgitate my pizza on the spot. All further attempts at sabotage fail.
Michelle is wearing sparkly gold sandals, which gives me the chance to exclaim, ‘I never noticed! You’ve got such long, elegant toes!’
Gratifyingly, Luke cranes his neck and cries, ‘Let’s see!’
Marcus also looks but – rats rats rats – his verdict is: ‘They’re stunning toes!’
Michelle squirms with victorious pleasure. Towards the end of Die Hard 2, she snuggles closer and closer to Marcus until she is practically sitting in his lap. Their conversation becomes increasingly whispery and secretive. At midnight, Luke announces he’s knackered and trundles off to his room. The deserter. I bid him a cold goodnight and remain stiffly, stubbornly in my chair. I’ll stay up till dawn to foil their lustful plans!
At ten past twelve Marcus and Michelle start snogging in front of me. I concede defeat and go to bed.
Chapter 17
DID YOU HAVE a nickname when you were little? When I asked my friends this question, nearly everyone said yes. Marcus denied it at first but later admitted that his adoring mother called him ‘Ver Likkle Chubbly’. Luke’s despairing parents dubbed him ‘Trouble’. Lizzy’s unofficial name was ‘Jellytot’. Michelle’s astute parents referred to their daughter as ‘Madam’. Tina’s mother re-christened her ‘The Squeak’. Laetitia’s parents – it goes without saying – stuck grimly to ‘Laetitia’. And my father? His nickname for me was ‘The Grinch’.
Never a great one for reading books in which no one dies, I forgot its origins and often skipped to infant school squawking a sophisticated home-made song to myself: ‘I’m the Grinch! Little Grinch!’ As I grew up, my father stopped calling me the Grinch and started calling me Helen. Only when scribbling my annual birthday card did he revert to the teasing familiarity of ‘Dear Grinch’. As signs of affection were rare in our house, I accorded ‘Dear Grinch’ the same degree of symbolism that most patriotic citizens reserve for their national flag. And then I found out.
I was in the pub with Tina one Friday, a few months before my father died, indulging in a fond whinge about Jasper. He’d dismissed The Divine Comedy (my favourite band) as ‘poncy shite’ and had forced me to listen – on my car stereo, mark you – to Daryl Hall and John Oates. Secretly I admired his nerve, if not his taste in music. Tina exclaimed nastily, ‘He’s a grinch, that one!’
I started and said, ‘A grinch? What do you mean by that?’
She gave me an odd look, ‘You know! Mean. Petty! Fun crushing!’
I smiled weakly and said, ‘Is that what grinch means?’
Tina hooted, ‘You’re having a laugh! Didn’t you have Dr Seuss in north London? The Cat In The Hat? How The Grinch Stole Christmas? No?’
I shook my head, muttered ‘No, no’ and ran to the bar to buy the next round. The next day I sped to the library and asked the librarian to help me find a children’s book. She smiled a collaborative smile.
And I discovered that a grinch was not – as I’d imagined – a cute, furry little love bundle but a spiteful, red-eyed, cave-dwelling creature with a heart ‘two sizes too small’. Sure, he turns into a sweetie at the end. But right up to the penultimate page, the Grinch is a vicious, ugly slimeball with no friends.
I didn’t want Tina to laugh at me again so I decided to share my life-shattering news with Lizzy. She’d give it the sober consideration it deserved. After my tenth bottle of Becks I boohooed out the shocking tale in a wetly incoherent ramble. And she laughed at me! ‘Helen,’ she tinkled, ‘it’s a pet name! I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it! It’s just a nice word, like . . . pumpkin! My dad still calls my sister Pumpkin – and she’s thirty-one and as thin as a whippet!’
I staggered to bed tear-stained and woke up feeling foolish. Lizzy, the voice of reason, had spoken. My father dubbed me the Grinch because it was a nice word. Nothing sinister. In fact, I should count my blessings – after an unfortunate accident during assembly Michelle (then aged four) spent the rest of her infant school life under the moniker ‘Stinky-Pooh Pants’. And that was just the teachers!
I’d blocked out the hurt when, a few days later, Lizzy approached. She hoped I didn’t mind but she’d been discussing grinches and pumpkins with a pyschologist friend and he’d said, ‘What these names mean is less important than how they make you feel.’ Had I thought of confronting my father? Certainly. Like I’d thought of painting myself green and running down Oxford Street butt-naked. I hate shrinks. Ferreting out issues where there are none. I shoved this irksome exchange to the back of my mind, where it stayed. Only occasionally does it drift back into consciousness.
Such as this morning when I wake from a restless sleep and cringe at what a fool I made of myself last week, trying to stop Marcus shagging Michelle. At times like these, I am the Grinch. Mean-spirited. Petty. Fun crushing. My father was right. Can’t confront him now though! Meanwhile, I haven’t seen bronzed hide nor coiffed hair of Michelle or Marcus. I presume he’s staying at her place. He always disappears after scoring. I swear he does it to convince his conquests he’s infatuated. One realisation about Marcus – his utter lack of spontaneity. Even Jasper had his spur of the moments, bless him. But Marcus’s every move is premeditated.
I wish them luck. I say this not because I’m nice suddenly but because I have a date with Tom tonight. Michelle is welcome to Marcus Microwilly. In all fairness, they’re beautifully suited. Long foodless days pounding the treadmill, steamy passionate bitching sessions, hours of mutual grooming, hot sizzling nights on twin sunbeds . . . It’s mid-afternoon and I am wondering if I’ll be invited to the wedding when the phone rings. Michelle!
I don’t say ‘Funny, I was just thinking about you,’ because nothing would please her more. ‘How are you?’ she squeals as if she hasn’t spoken to me for a decade.
‘Fine, how are you?’ I say cautiously.
‘Great, great. Honey, I have a favour to ask.’ Oh yes?
‘Oh yes?’
Michelle pauses, ‘It’s kind a good news and bad news. Marcus has asked me out. But I won’t go if you don’t want me to. I don’t want to upset you.’
Ooh she’s a pro. I keep my voice light, ‘Michelle, it’s great news. I’m so happy for you. And I can’t imagine why you think I should mind. Marcus is’ – I search for a searing phrase – ‘a small blip in my past. Small being the operative word!’
I can hardly believe my own daring, and neither can Michelle. She snaps, ‘God, you’re bitter,’ and bangs down the phone. I take a deep breath, inform Laetitia that I’m popping out for a double espresso, and I’ll be back in five minutes.
‘Get me an almond slice and a still mineral water,’ she shouts after me. ‘I’ll pay you after I’ve been to the bank.’ After I’ve been to the bank for you more like, I think. I rewind that last thought and brood on it.
Am I bitter? Of course I am! Who wouldn’t resent Laetitia’s infinite list of demeaning chores? I’m a journalist not a butler! In theory. And why am I even friends with Michelle? Because seventeen years ago we shared an interest in Japanes
e pencil cases and The Sound of Music? I am storming along the pavement, throbbing with rage, my face crunched into a scowl. I must look like a bull mastiff. I try to breathe through my nose, and relax the frown. Passers-by are regarding me warily and dodging out of my path. I see myself as they must see me and feel sick at heart. I don’t want to be like this . . . this bitter person.
I force my frenzied mind to calm, more pleasant subjects like Tom. Those eyes. His mouth. My heart starts racing again and I smile inside. Pathetic! But it worked. We are meeting tonight outside Covent Garden station at 8 p.m. (My mother – unwillingly placated by the promise of a day at a health farm – has relinquished a Monday night. A hard bargain as limited access to food panics me and I hate being prodded.) I’m wearing black trousers, black boots, and a grey V-neck top. For a change.
I purchase the almond slice, the mineral water, and – in my newfound spirit of zen – a double decaffeinated espresso. I hold the door open for a smart elderly man. The kind of man who makes my insides shrivel with pain because he didn’t die of a heart attack at fifty-nine.
It’s not personal. It’s not his fault. It’s not personal. I bite back the swell of resentment and force a smile. The man winks and says in a cut-glass accent, ‘You’re so kind!’ I beam, and look away fast as my eyes fill with stupid tears. I’m kind. I bask in the glow of a stranger’s praise as I puff up the stairs to Girltime. Maybe, if Tom could see me now, I wouldn’t disappoint him.
I march back to the office and recognise the tone of my phone ringing. Laetitia, of course, is reading the Daily Mail and ignoring it. Please don’t let it be Tom cancelling. ‘Hello?’ I say fearfully, snatching up the receiver.
‘Helen!’ says a quavering voice, ‘it’s Vivienne! And I’m afraid, I’m sorry to tell you, oh it’s shocking news—’
My voice is hoarse with terror: ‘Tellmenow!’
Vivienne wobbles out five words before bursting into tears: ‘Your mother’s slit her wrists.’
Chapter 18
ONCE, AGED SIX, I was walloped and sent to bed at 5.30 p.m. for saying in front of Michelle’s mother, ‘Daddy, isn’t it true we can’t pay our mortgage?’ Admittedly I didn’t actually know what a mortgage was, but it was an impressive phrase I’d overheard somewhere and was desperate to use. I was also accustomed to my mother – never a great listener – absent-mindedly agreeing with everything I said even if it was a humungous fib.
Alas, Mrs Arnold’s eyes lit up like Beelzebub’s and my father blamed me for what he predicted as the certain ruin of his financial reputation. As I snivelled myself to sleep I prayed that my father and my mother – who hadn’t dared tiptoe upstairs to console me – would die in a tornado. At that moment I considered Orphan Annie the most glamorous creature in the world and wished fervently that I were her. Miss Hanigan was a pleasure compared to my evil parents! Scrubbing floors would be a privilege! The delight of being made to sleep on a bunk bed! And I’d get to sing ‘It’s a Hard Knock Life!’ in an American accent.
But twenty years later being an orphan patently doesn’t appeal to me quite so much because when Vivienne tells me that my mother has slit her wrists, my legs go numb and I sink to the floor with a moan that Lizzy later terms – in a whisper of hushed awe – ‘feral, primeval, chilling, like a wild animal writhing in pain’.
As the most savage noise ever heard in the Girltime office is Laetitia snarling because the Dunkin’ Donuts assistant put too much milk in her tea, my impression of a tiger with earache gets noticed. Lizzy and Laetitia leap towards me, crying, ‘What’s wrong?’ Their faces are indistinct as if we’re underwater and it’s hard to breathe and I gasp to the blurriness, oh please not my mother not my mum oh please don’t take my mummy oh God not her too, and my head swims and I choke the words oh please not my mummy over and over until they form a seamless shroud that shields me from reality.
Meanwhile, the receiver dangles, faint hysterical squeaks emanating from it. Lizzy snatches up the phone while Laetitia takes this – perfect – opportunity to slap me hard and stingingly across the face. By the time I’ve said ‘Ouch,’ and glared at her, Lizzy is crouching and gripping my trembly, clammy hands.
‘Helen,’ she says in a clear, firm voice, looking straight into my dazed eyes. ‘Your mother is okay. She’s not dead. Okay? Can you hear me, she’s fine.’
I stare helplessly at Lizzy. I don’t understand. I feel like a five-year-old. ‘She’s slit her wrists,’ I say doubtfully.
‘Only superficial cuts,’ insists Lizzy in the kind of loud, emphatic voice my father used to use when addressing foreigners. ‘Grazes. Vivienne was phoning from the hospital, they’re in Casualty but it’s not serious. Your mother is fine, she’s fine, okay?’
I nod and say, ‘Okay.’
I am shaking like an elderly poodle in a cold bath. I don’t know what to do. Happily, Lizzy makes an executive decision: ‘I’ll call you a cab to the hospital right now. Won’t I, Laetitia?’ she adds.
Laetitia – who doubtless relieved some long pent-up tension with the slap – nods once and says, ‘Absolutely.’
Lizzy helps me to a chair and sits me down. She rushes to the kitchen, returns with a bag of brown sugar, and tips at least half into my double decaff espresso. ‘Drink that,’ she orders.
‘You wouldn’t,’ I grumble, and take an obedient sip.
Fortunately the cab arrives within minutes and rescues me from Turkish coffee hell. Lizzy, who has packed my diary and other debris into my bag, helps me into the cab. But first, she sweeps me to her in a warm, solid hug, and says, ‘It’s going to be okay, I know it. And . . .’ – she pushes me back a little to look at me – ‘Oh Helen, I’ve been a neglectful friend. I—’
I stare at her, confused. ‘Lizzy, don’t be mad! You’re a great friend. All that wasted reiki! I’m the bad friend.’
I’m thinking of t’ai chi and pointy feet but Lizzy is shaking her head, ‘No, Helen. I should have looked after you more. I could see you, festering, and I should have said something but I didn’t want to—’
Festering? Bring back ‘racoon’, all is forgiven! ‘Lizzy,’ I say, ‘I’m honestly fine, I just had a shock about my mother but, as you say, she’s okay, she’s not hurt. And I’d better rush.’
Lizzy seems reluctant to let go of me. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ she says. I shake my head. ‘Be kind to yourself,’ she says, giving me a little shake.
I sit in the cab. Kind. That word again. I’d like to be kind. Although, when I see my mother I am going to kill her. How dare she pull a stunt like this, the selfish cow! My heart pounds with the terror of it and I lean back and grip the seat. Jesus, what possessed her?
When I run into A & E it’s déjà vu, it’s Groundhog Day meets Amityville, it’s that vomitous, surreal whirl of impending doom all over again. It doesn’t help that Casualty stinks of wee. Stinks! I look wildly around and see – oh thank God – my mother and Vivienne huddled in a corner surrounded by people who look as if they’ve been there for years. Vivienne’s bright orange fake fur coat (she bought it after being attacked in Islington while wearing her mink) shines out amid the drab defeatism like a bad taste beacon.
I bound towards my mother and my anger dissipates as I see her weary chalk-white face. She is wrapped in a grey blanket. Grey, I decide, is all very well on the catwalk as a clever foil to your skinny wealth and muted sophistication, but it is shit shit shit in hospitals and funeral parlours because it’s for real – all shabby poverty and lacklustre hopelessness.
‘Helen!’ whimpers my mother. Her spindly wrists are wrapped in makeshift dressings. I bend and hug her tight. Vivienne swiftly vacates her seat so I can get a better hold. My mother sobs in my arms and I rock her like a baby.
‘Oh Mummy, promise me, never never, terrible, Daddy would be furious, you know I’m here, what would I do? okay, looking after you.’ While this isn’t exactly a coherent sentence, it makes perfect sense to my mother who nods and sniffs and burrows closer to my chest. I glance pas
t my mother at Vivienne who I can tell is gagging for a Marlboro Light. I indicate with my eyes to the exit. ‘I’ll join you in a sec,’ I mouth. She draws her orange coat around her, smiles tensely, and teeters off.
My heart twists as my mother bawls silently, her fingers digging weakly into my lap. I wait and wait, hug and hug, until the crying subsides and try not to think that I could have avoided this by meeting Tom on a Thursday. Then I say sensible things like, ‘How long have you been here?’ and ‘Do you want a hot drink?’ and ‘Is the pain bearable?’ She answers, respectively, ‘Ages,’ and ‘Had one,’ and ‘Not too bad.’ When I suspect she has no more tears left, I ask her if she minds if I see how Vivienne is. ‘It must have been a shock for her too,’ I say gravely.
My mother nods dumbly and looks at the floor. ‘I’ll be back almost immediately,’ I say, ‘so stay right there and don’t move. Promise promise?’
My mother recognises the phrase I’d squeak while bargaining for treats when I was five and we were a family. She manages a sad smile and replies, ‘Promise promise.’ I kiss her on the forehead, and run off to find Vivienne.
Vivienne sits on a wooden bench and lights what I suspect is her fortieth fag of the day. She breathes the smoke slowly, lovingly out of her nostrils before speaking. ‘She knew I was coming round at four thirty, after school and my Italian class. We were going out for coffee. Oh God, it was frightening. I think she’d only just done it.’ Vivienne’s scarlet mouth trembles.
‘I rang the doorbell, and she didn’t answer. I rang again. Still no answer. I thought she must have been held up at school. I was just turning away to go and wait in the Jag when she opened the door. She looked as weak as water and so pale – like a Scotch person!’ – Vivienne is so agitated that my wince at her blithe prejudice goes unnoticed as she rattles on – ‘She held out her wrists, said “look what I’ve done” and burst into tears. It was horrific. She’d used a pretty blunt razor blade – she’d pushed it backwards and forwards, but not thank God, deep.
