by Anna Maxted
Alas, my latest embarrassment occurred this morning and as I’m no longer four and cute, the witnesses showed me no mercy. I’d eaten breakfast and was perfecting tonight’s persona in the bathroom mirror. I wasn’t sure how to present myself to Tom so I was experimenting. The bubbly: ‘Hiiii!’ and a sparky hello kiss on one cheek (‘mwa!’)? Or the more sophisticated: ‘How are you?’ accompanied by a closed mouth smile? Or possibly the sexily smouldering: ‘Hello, Tom,’ plus enigmatic twitch of the lips?
I was earnestly acting out these possibilities when I became aware of what I believe thriller writers call a Lurking Presence. I spun round and there at the bathroom door – which, in my enthusiasm, I’d forgotten to close – stood Luke and Marcus, stuffing their fists into their mouths to stifle their glee. ‘Piss off!’ I roared as they bent over laughing and lisping witticisms like, ‘How ’bout smearing ma lipstick!’ I slammed the door screeching ‘I did not say that!’ then sat on the toilet seat, head in hands, rocking back and forth, moaning ‘Nooooooo!’
My mortification reverberates throughout the morning, overshadowing my new efficiency resolution. I can’t concentrate on my work because I keep recalling their rapt faces, shuddering involuntarily and mewing ‘no!’ to myself. Finally I can bear it no longer and am forced to unburden myself to Lizzy. ‘I’ve got post-traumatic stress syndrome,’ I say grumpily, as Lizzy tries not to laugh.
‘Helen,’ she tinkles, ‘you mustn’t worry about tonight. Just be yourself!’
I roll my eyes and trundle back to my desk. The phone rings. I don’t want to answer in case it’s Tom cancelling but as Laetitia tuts and huffs if I let it ring more than twice, I snatch it up. ‘Hello?’ I sing. ‘Features desk!’ (This is an attempt to make myself seem a pacy, high-flying career woman instead of a risible, plodding bottom-feeder.) Sadly, my efforts are wasted as it’s my mother. What gripe now?
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say cautiously. ‘What’s up?’ I brace myself. Could it be Nana Flo has stripped my father’s wardrobe and packed all his clothes off to Oxfam? Or is she driving my mother madder with ‘If Onlys’? Might she be forcing her to watch The Antiques Roadshow? Or berating her as a spendthrift because she won’t buy tinned sausages?
‘I’m exhausted,’ she says petulantly.
It emerges that last night my mother felt sick and padded downstairs at 2 a.m. in search of some anti-nausea pills. She was rifling through the First Aid box when the kitchen door was thrown open – ‘I nearly died of fright!’ – and the pill bottle was whipped from her hands by a triumphant Nana Flo. Apparently, my grandmother quavered: ‘As long as I’m in this house there’ll be no more nonsense from you!’ I suspect my mother is both irritated and touched. She ends the conversation by saying stiffly, ‘I haven’t been taken out to dinner since our last wedding anniversary. Where are we going?’
I haven’t a clue but I say quickly, ‘There’s a Thai restaurant near Islington I thought would be nice. They do jasmine tea.’
My mother pauses. ‘That sounds nice,’ she says. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had Thai before.’
I whisper, ‘I’ll pick you and Nana up at eight,’ and put the phone down. I stare at my desk, and the front page of the Mirror blurs. I blink and it looms back into focus. I can’t be sure but in all the months we’ve chopped leeks together I don’t think my mother has ever expressed – pleasure is too strong a word – positivity at the prospect of my company. That said, this is the first time I’ve ever taken her out to dinner.
The afternoon drags by. Laetitia cripples it by ordering me to sort out the invoice file. Even though I am bored out of my skull I try to maintain an aura of zeal. Eventually Laetitia peers over her computer, regards me suspiciously, and says, ‘Helen, did they up your medication?’ She peals with laughter.
‘Ha ha,’ I say, unamused. Laetitia’s jokes are as rare as tax rebates and as funny as cancer. I wonder how I am going to uphold the work ethic charade when I intend to leave on the dot of six. (It is essential I reach home at six forty, in order to allow myself a moderate eighty minutes to beautify.)
Laetitia cuts short my dilemma at five thirty by grabbing her coat and walking out. None of that ‘goodbye, see you tomorrow’ nonsense. Laetitia is enviable – although personally I can’t stand her – in that she doesn’t give a toss about being liked. I don’t carry it off with the same conviction. Laetitia is liberated. I’m still struggling. For instance, I hate and despise Marcus but it matters to me that he hates and despises me back. And as for Jasper. I feel murderous but fond. He reminds me of Prince Philip. He’s a git but he can’t help himself. Though I haven’t heard from him (Jasper, not Prince Philip) since he moved in with Louisah, I need him to admire me. This puerile confetti swirls around my head until I unlock the flat door. Then I veto all thoughts of Jasper and Marcus and turn my attention to the Herculean task of washing and crafting my hair into a socially acceptable shape.
Tom rings the doorbell at 8.10. His timing is suspiciously perfect and I wonder if he arrived early and waited in his car. I feel a twitch of irritation – not too early, not too late, but just right. Like Goldilocks and the porridge. And she was a little prig. I bet Tom is one of those men who asks for the bill with a squiggle flourish of one hand and a flat palm of the other. Like Marcus. Oh! Enough about Marcus. Jasper, as I recall, raises a languid hand and the waitress comes running.
I walk to the door and pinch my arm to exorcise my silly frilly killjoy thoughts. What’s the matter with me? I hope Tom isn’t wearing anything frightening, like a waistcoat. I yank open the door to face my doom. Tom grins at me, and I sigh with relief and grin back. He’s wearing jeans, a khaki green shirt, a white T-shirt under that, and brown loafery shoes. In the old days I’d have made a mental note of each item and reported back to Tina so she could assess if he was cool or if I should run for the hills. But as Tina has silently relinquished the position of my personal fashion advisor and Tom looks ravishing, I don’t bother.
‘You look nice,’ says Tom, kissing me on the cheek. I think two things. A, did he practise his greeting in the mirror too? and B, I should damn well hope so after one and a half hours of preening, primping, and plucking. For which I have Lizzy to thank. This morning, after bleating the party line: ‘just be yourself’, she told me it might be wise to pluck my eyebrows. Her exact words: ‘Eyebrows are so important – they’re the clothes hanger on which you hang your face. If you don’t pay attention to your eyebrows you can apply as much make-up as you like and you’ll still look fuzzy. It’s a beauty basic . . .’
I took the hint, flicked through a copy of Glamour until I came across a pair of enviable eyebrows, then tried to copy them. I’m not sure I succeeded fully, but Tom says I look nice. It worked! ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘so do you.’ (Lizzy has also briefed me in the importance of accepting compliments: ‘If you don’t it’s insulting the person who gave it to you.’)
However she obviously didn’t brief Tom because he looks bashful, pulls at his shirt, and says jokily, ‘What, this old thing?’
I giggle. Suddenly, I’m tongue-tied. I say, ‘So er, come in, um, do you want a coffee or’ – I nearly say the immortal dollybird phrase ‘something stronger’ but manage to stop myself – ‘or a beer or something?’
Tom waves the plastic bag he’s carrying and says, ‘A client gave me a bottle of red this morning. We could open that if you like.’
I blurt, ‘What, a hamster went and bought you some Pinotage?’
Tom says mock-huffily, ‘No actually. It was the hamster’s Mummy.’
I realise I’m hovering, so I beckon Tom towards the kitchen. There’s a rattle as Fatboy beats it through the cat flap. Tom trots obediently along behind me. ‘So, how is your mum?’ he says dutifully.
‘She’s okay, thanks,’ I say, deciding that my mother is not going to hijack tonight.
‘Yeah?’ says Tom, encouragingly.
‘My Nan is looking after her,’ I say shortly as I uncork the wine and glug glug at least half of it in
to two huge green goblets. (I bought them specially as Marcus’s wine glasses are tiddly. In keeping with the rest of him, boom boom.) Then, being me, I break my vow immediately and tell Tom the Curious Tale of the Secret Granny Meetings.
‘I was seeing my mum three times a week. Why didn’t she tell me?’ I squeak, hating myself for caring.
Tom looks puzzled. ‘It’s a weird one,’ he says. ‘I might be wrong, but it sounds manipulative. A power thing.’
I am silent. I take a large slug of wine. Call me naive but to this second I’ve imagined that I’ve always done mostly as I pleased, despite my mother. But. Now Tom mentions it, the possibility dawns that I’ve always done as she’s pleased – and if I haven’t she’s brought me sharply to book by, ooh I don’t know, slicing her wrists.
I say slowly, ‘Do you think so?’
Tom scrutinises my face and says quickly, ‘I don’t know your mother, it’s just a guess.’
I pause. Then I say falteringly, ‘She does love to be the centre of attention. But maybe she just didn’t think. Or thought I wouldn’t be interested.’ Then I realise Tom and I have been sitting at the kitchen table discussing my attention-loving mother for a full twenty-eight minutes. Foiled again! ‘Anyway, enough about her,’ I say brightly. ‘Tell me about your parents.’
Tom shifts in his chair and says teasingly, ‘I’m not sure you want to know.’
I didn’t but now I’m intrigued: ‘Tell me!’ I say.
So he does. In about three seconds flat. Tom’s parents divorced when he was five. His mother re-married three years later and he regards his step-father as his real father. His mother is ‘a diamond’ and his stepfather is ‘a great bloke’. He doesn’t see ‘Mum’s first husband’. The way he says it, I know he doesn’t want to discuss it further.
‘Why?’ I gasp.
He shrugs and tells me that they never got on.
‘What!’ I exclaim. ‘Not even when you were four? What’s not to like!’ I see Tom’s discomfort and add quickly, ‘You don’t have to tell me.’
Tom laughs and says, ‘It’s nothing sinister! He just wasn’t too keen on kids. It wasn’t just me. He was the same with my brother and sister. Mum was, has always been I suppose, liberal. You know, all for girls playing with tractors and boys crying, and her husband was the opposite. Girls should wear pink and dress their dolls and boys should wear blue and dress as cowboys.’
I pour myself another vat of red. Tom has hardly touched his, but I top up his goblet anyway to make myself seem less of a wino. ‘So,’ I say – desperate to know the answer but aware I’m treading on Jerry Springerish ground – ‘did you like to’ – as the words form I remind myself that tactful restraint is of the essence – ‘wear pink then?’
I wince at my own crassness. Tom laughs. ‘And what if I did?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.
‘Nothing, nothing. Nothing at all,’ I blabber, thinking – I should have known. He’s gay. The nice ones always are. If they’re not married. Or both. I knew there was a catch. And now I’ve offended him. I am so preoccupied with my narrow, booze-confused train of thought that I don’t hear Tom’s next comment and have to ask him to repeat it. And it turns out that four-year-old Tom loved painting until the day his mother’s first husband snapped his brush in half and smacked him round the face and then he went off painting and hasn’t painted since.
‘That’s terrible!’ I gasp, the gothic tragedy of the situation intensifying in direct proportion to my alcohol consumption.
‘Not really,’ grins Tom. ‘My mother booted him out two days later, and we all lived happily ever after. Shall we go and get a pizza?’
I nod and say demurely: ‘We could even splash out and get two.’
We hail a cab to Pizza Express because Tom reckons there’s no way I can walk in those shoes and the conversation progresses to the certainty that Scooby Doo was much better off without that upstart Scrappy and that even if you can’t do an accurate impression of Scooby Doo – or indeed any other cartoon or TV character – the fact that you’ve devoted the valuable time and painstaking effort makes you worthy of much respect. Tom does a superb Scooby Doo which I force him to repeat about nine times. And he concedes that my Marge Simpson is second to none. My prowess wins me the last dough ball.
I notice that Tom doesn’t talk with his mouth full and when it’s time to pay (the staff start stacking chairs on tables) he doesn’t do an air-squiggle. We clatter noisily back to the flat and I know it’s going to be a good night.
Chapter 23
I’VE NEVER BELIEVED that what goes around comes around. To judge from personal experience, the Wheel of Fortune has a flat tyre. So I don’t entrust retribution to a medieval caprice. I implement it myself. This is why I recently tore a helpline number out of the News Of The World’s problem page and pinned it to Marcus’s noticeboard. As soon as he emerged from his room last Sunday morning, I scampered into the kitchen, drew up a chair, and feigned absorption in the Spectator. Marcus took one glance at my reading material and became instantly suspicious. Fifty seconds later he spotted the ‘Manhood Too Small?’ cutting, ripped it from the wall, and stuffed it in the bin.
I was hoping for histrionics but instead he leant heavily against the sink, folded his brawny arms, and stared at me in menacing silence. Although I knew this was an intimidatory technique he’d filched from a Robert De Niro film, it worked. I was starting to squirm when Michelle marched in, cake-faced and big-haired, mewling for black coffee. I legged it, puffing with relief. But I puffed too soon. Because Marcus too is the live and let die type. And he chose to wreak his grim revenge on Tuesday evening.
Tom and I had stumbled into the flat, squabbling over the relative merits of Cadbury’s and Galaxy chocolate when I clapped eyes on the least welcome sight I’d seen since Fatboy’s last puke (from a shelf, as it happens).
Marcus, sitting at his oak veneer table, flicking through the latest issue of Musclebound and sipping a banana milkshake. I stopped dead in shock, elation shrivelling. Tom veered to a halt behind me. Marcus smiled like a shark. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said in a portentous tone, ‘so this is Tom.’ I half expected him to cackle and add, ‘Hello, my pretty!’ I was petrified.
‘Tom,’ I said trying to sound calm, ‘this is my landlord Marcus.’
Tom, the innocent, grinned and said, ‘Hi!’
I – the guilty – twisted my hands and said, ‘Marcus, you’re up late.’
Marcus smiled another hammerhead smile. ‘Couldn’t sleep. But hey’ – spreading his hands wide helplessly – ‘everything’s for a purpose! Now I can chinwag with you two.’ Chinwag. What is he, an eighty-year-old woman? He continued, ‘I’ve heard all about you, Tom.’
What! No he hasn’t! I looked at Marcus in horror, ‘I don’t think I’ve mentioned Tom to you,’ I said. The edge in my voice made Tom glance at me.
Marcus laughed. ‘Playing coy,’ he chortled, nodding at Tom. ‘She always does this with her men! Every week!’
This was serious. I blurted: ‘Marcus, stop teasing. Please!’
The please hurt and Marcus knew it. He gazed at me blankly for a second before adding, ‘Only this morning she was in the bathroom, practis—’
Tom and I interrupted him at the same time. Tom began: ‘I’m not sure I want to—’ but I spoke loudest: ‘Marcus, much as I’d love to stay and chat over your Turns And Bums magazine, I’m feeling exhausted and I’ve got to get up in, oh, five and a half hours’ time, so, Tom’s just about to leave so ah, say goodbye to Tom.’
I manhandled Tom out of the kitchen. What else could I do? Wrestle him into my bedroom? Although I’ll admit that until Marcus made me sound like a slapper, that was the plan. ‘My men’ indeed! As I steered Tom into the hall I whispered, ‘Sorry about him, he must have OD’d on the steroids. He pops them like Smarties.’ This was – as far as I know – a lie, but I was desperate.
Tom replied solemnly, ‘Must have.’ He paused, then said, ‘Hyper, isn’t he?’
I no
dded vigorously, ‘God, yes.’ There was another awkward pause during which I cursed Marcus to hell. He must have had tuition from Michelle. Not that he needed it.
I smiled stiffly at Tom and said, ‘Well, thanks. It was really nice to see you.’
Tom smiled back, ‘And you. I enjoyed it.’ Pause three. ‘I’d better go. I’ll give you a ring, sometime.’
Sometime? That means never. ‘Definitely,’ I said, drooping.
Tom bent and kissed me swiftly on the cheek. Miles away from my mouth – practically on my ear. I kissed him back, feasting miserably on the scent of his aftershave, and waved him out of the door. Then I went straight to bed, pulling the duvet over my head to block out the sound of Marcus whistling the Pretty Woman theme tune.
Lizzy refuses to believe that anything is amiss. ‘I’m sure Tom realised Marcus was joking,’ she says, making me want to strangle her.
‘He said I bring home a different man each week!’ I shriek. ‘That’s not a joke! That’s libel.’
Laetitia, who is listening, snaps, ‘Slander! Unless it’s true. Rah ha ha!’
I smile sweetly at her and curl my hands into claws under my desk. One day, when I am rich and successful, I will sponsor a tarantula at London Zoo and name it Laetitia Stokes. I confide this ambition to Tina who is in a rare sunny mood and says brightly, ‘I bet it only costs a tenner, you could do it tomorrow.’
This cheers me up so when Laetitia pops out for a cigarette, I ring London Zoo and am put through to lifewatch membership and adoption enquiries. To my dismay, a ‘whole tarantula’ costs £70 although I can have shares in one for £35. I’ll save up.
‘And could I name it?’ I ask slyly.
