Getting Over It

by Anna Maxted

  Lizzy pauses. ‘Yes, but what about you?’ she insists.

  I frown. ‘Have you been talking to your psychologist friend again?’ I say.

  ‘No!’ she says so fast I know it’s a lie.

  ‘Liz,’ I say, ‘I know this is hard for you to understand, but me and Dad, we were never that close. I know you mean well and please don’t take this the wrong way, but to be honest I don’t feel that much any more so it makes me uncomfortable when you keep asking. Do you see?’ There’s silence on the other end, so I assume she’s nodding.

  ‘Okay,’ she says finally, reluctantly. ‘But please talk to me if you need to!’

  I say, ‘okay okay’ and then ‘I wouldn’t chuck Adrian out of bed!’

  Lizzy giggles, and says, ‘Personally, I prefer Tom.’

  Delighted, I reply, ‘Oh do you indeed!’

  Lizzy says, ‘Yes, actually, I do. And I can see he’s quite in love with you!’ Bless her. Only Lizzy would dare to use the phrase ‘in love’ without irony. I do adore Lizzy but it amazes me how she manages to breeze along impervious to harsh reality and, furthermore, succeed at every turn. She’s a Jane Austen throwback, she really is.

  I tell Lizzy what happened. Partly because it’s so soul-cleansing to listen to her pretty rose-tinted view of the world instead of my ugly bog-coloured one. Her theory is that maybe Tom wanted to wait until he felt sure I was sure. Spare me. ‘But he’s a man!’ I squeal. ‘If they fancy you they do you!’

  Lizzy says ‘What!’ in a loud voice. She sounds severely agitated. ‘Do you truly believe,’ she snaps, ‘that you as a woman have no choice in the matter? That you’re a passive object? That all men are brutes? Or should be?’

  Brutes! Hang on a sec, she’s the girly one here. I didn’t cry at Sleepless in Seattle. ‘No,’ I say defensively, ‘you’re twisting my words. You’re being defensive.’ (This is an excellent ruse to win arguments, derived from an e-mail I was sent from someone in the advertising department. Other tips: Make up direct quotes. Say ‘You’re arguing against yourself.’ Or ‘Adolf Hitler voiced a similar sentiment.’)

  Infuriatingly, Lizzy doesn’t fall for it. She says calmly, ‘You are allergic to being treated with the respect you deserve.’ To prove her wrong I inform her that Tom is coming round in approximately twenty minutes, so there. ‘So you’d better stop talking nonsense and get off the phone then,’ she retorts cutely before saying goodbye. I replace the receiver and then I think, wait a minute, she rang me. I smile to myself. She’s learning.

  The doorbell rings and I freeze. He can’t be early. That’s cheating! I bite my lip in the hope it’ll swell into a fetching pout and, in kamikaze mindset, heave open the door. ‘Surprise!’ exclaims my mother, throwing her hands wide like the young Shirley Temple. Nana Flo lurks po-faced behind her. ‘Aren’t you going to invite us in?’ cries my mother, blind to the fact that my face has fallen about ninety foot.

  ‘Of course!’ I say, recalling my promise to Dr Collins and forcing a smile. ‘Come into the kitchen. Nana, would you like a cup of tea?’

  (In times of doubt I resort to clichés. It gives me time to think. Although when I rack my brain for inspiration it’s napping and won’t be disturbed.) I have just poured a cup of PG Tips for Nana, a camomile tea for my mother, and retrieved half a packet of biscuits from my room, when the doorbell rings again. ‘I wonder who that is!’ chirps my mother, who is very obviously still taking the pills.

  ‘I think it may be a friend of mine, Tom,’ I mutter.

  As I walk into the hall I can hear my mother squawking ‘Tom! Tom? Do I know Tom?’ and my grandmother growling, ‘Tim, Tom, who knows any more?’

  I squeeze the bridge of my nose between my fingertips, paste a smile to my face, and open the door. Tom is brandishing a wilting bunch of garish blue marigolds in what appears to be a doily. ‘Garage flowers!’ he declares, ‘the finest and the best!’

  I gasp and take them, exclaiming, ‘The rare and priceless turquoise marigold! You shouldn’t have!’

  He grins and says, ‘I pawned my Ferrari.’

  I reply sweetly, ‘Not your Ferrari poster?’

  He nods, and says ‘Don’t be too sad, my 911’s still on the wall!’

  I feel an inexplicable surge of joy and – before I have time to reconsider – step towards him and kiss him on the mouth. I am about to pull away but he wraps his arms around me and kisses me and so I close my eyes and kiss him back and my heart does a delirious dance and I feel the firm warmth of him pressed against me and ‘Helloo-ooo! Anybody there-ere!’

  My mother’s brisk schoolmarm tone kills the moment stone dead and Tom and I spring guiltily apart. ‘Surprise visit from my mum and grandma,’ I explain hurriedly. Tom swoops and sucks gently, briefly, on my upper lip causing a lightning strike to the groin. I grasp his shoulder for balance and think, good grief! Show me the way!

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he murmurs. ‘Introduce me!’

  Dazed and grinning like the village idiot, I lead Tom into the kitchen and introduce him. ‘You took your time,’ says Nana, grouchily. ‘What lovely blue flowers!’ says my mother. I will her not to say anything akin to ‘Is this your boyfriend?’

  ‘Is this your boyfriend?’ she asks, eyes wide.

  ‘Tom and I are just good friends,’ I say, trying not to sound panicked.

  Tom says helpfully, ‘I’m Fatboy’s vet.’

  My mother ogles him and says, ‘I see.’

  Nana Flo says snappishly, ‘No need for it! In my day, a dog was a dog and that was that!’

  Tom says politely, ‘I see what you mean.’

  I say under my breath, ‘I’m glad someone does,’ then louder, ‘Tom, would you like a coffee and a biscuit?’

  My mother, who keeps staring at Tom, says in a loud show-offy voice, ‘Helen, haven’t you got something more substantial to offer him?’ I am tempted to say, ‘my body?’ to shut her up but the question is rhetorical. She adds, ‘You can’t expect young men to survive on biscuits’ – at which point Nana Flo joins the fray with – ‘A man needs a good solid meal inside him!’

  Whereas a woman, I presume, can survive on sweetness and light. A plausible supposition slowly dawns in my head. And although my dearest wish is that the pair of them vanish in a whiff of sulphur (at least until tomorrow) I say casually, ‘Mum, Nana. If I were to nip down to the corner shop to buy something nice for Tom to eat, would you like to join him, us, for supper?’

  Nana Flo speaks up so fast her false teeth nearly fly out of her mouth: ‘If you insist but don’t go to any trouble!’

  My mother says, ‘I don’t see why not. But no onions or red peppers. Onions and red peppers give me a migraine.’

  More like the incessant yapping of your own voice gives you a migraine, I think but don’t say. I turn to Tom who, to his credit, hasn’t run away. ‘Tom,’ I say, hardly daring to meet his eyes, ‘Would you like to come to the shop with me?’ There’s no way I’m leaving him to the mercy of the Munsters.

  Tom – and I can hear the mischief in his voice – says, ‘No no no, I’ll go to the shop, you stay here and keep your mother and grandmother company. It would be rude to leave them alone.’

  Nana Flo nods at this and mutters, ‘Quite right!’

  ‘I’ll see you to the door,’ I say acidly. As soon as we’re in the hall I try and whack him but he dodges me and, as he shuts the front door behind him, grins at me tauntingly, all teeth, like an ape.

  ‘Well brought up!’ remarks Nana Flo on my return, glancing at me dismissively as if to say ‘unlike you’. Please, I reply in my head, don’t put me off him.

  ‘Where’s that nice boy Luke?’ trills my mother. She’s insatiable!

  ‘I think he’s gone to work,’ I say.

  ‘What, on a Saturday night!’ she replies.

  ‘He works in a pub,’ I say. Nana Flo’s mouth shrinks in disapproval. ‘Luke works very hard,’ I say, irritated.

  ‘I dare say,’ says Nana.

  ‘I
do like Luke,’ purrs my mother, ‘he’s so charming.’ In her hormonally charged state I suspect she’d find Frankenstein’s monster charming and am wondering if I could bribe Luke to paint his face grey and stick a bolt in his neck to test this theory, when Marcus sweeps into the kitchen.

  He is wearing smart cream chinos, a yolk-yellow shirt, and his hair is as springy and bouffant as an expertly baked soufflé. (And, let me tell you, I should know.) His haughtiness turns to dismay on seeing my relatives. ‘Hello,’ he says awkwardly.

  Nana Flo peers at him. ‘Is this the one?’ she says loudly. The distress on my face is reflected on Marcus’s.

  ‘No, Luke is blond,’ I say desperately.

  But Nana is not to be deterred. ‘No!’ she bellows. ‘Is this the one who’s turning you out!’

  I say quickly: ‘He’s not turning me out! I’m glad to be going!’

  At this, my mother appears confused. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘but I thought you—’

  I interrupt her with the first piece of trivia I can think of: ‘Marcus is going out with Michelle, Mummy. You know Michelle.’

  My mother shrugs and in a flat voice says, ‘Vaguely.’ (As she has known Michelle for the best part of two decades this is intended as a slight. As I haven’t told my mother about the Michelle/Marcus perfidy, I know it’s nothing personal. It’s just that Cecelia’s enthusiasm for young women is less than her enthusiasm for young men.) She gives Marcus a cursory glance, starts, then stares. She is staring at him like a miser staring at a pot of gold.

  Marcus pats his hair nervously and scratches his shin with the toe of his moccasin. ‘Well, I’d better—’ he begins, but my mother stops him.

  ‘Sit down!’ she orders. I stare at her in fury but she doesn’t notice. Marcus sits, stony faced. She pulls her chair towards his, and says suddenly, ‘Florence, doesn’t he remind you of Maurice?’

  ‘Nothing like!’ bleats Nana. Her eyes bore into Marcus, and then she looks away and back again and says, quietly, ‘nonsense.’ But she doesn’t take her eyes off him.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ shouts a voice, which turns out to be mine. The doorbell goes and I race to it.

  Tom lifts a heavy plastic bag and says, ‘I got some eggs. I was thinking of your Nan’s teeth.’

  I smile wanly and say, ‘Brilliant.’

  He frowns and mouths, ‘What’s up?’

  I clutch my forehead, roll my eyes, and say, ‘Don’t ask.’ We troop into the kitchen where Marcus and his hair are still trapped.

  My mother is grasping his wrist and exclaiming, ‘The mouth and eyes are identical, identical! Helen! It’s uncanny!’

  I keep my temper with difficulty. ‘No it is not uncanny,’ I say. ‘Please.’ My voice sounds shrill, panicked. She’s mad. Everyone reminds her of my father. Next it’ll be Fatboy. (‘They’ve got exactly the same appetite although’ – girlish tinkle – ‘your father didn’t have a tail!’)

  I am about to command her to free Marcus when Ivana flounces in. ‘Markee! Wher— Oh hello, Mrs Bradshaw! And Mrs Bradshaw Senior!’ she cries.

  ‘Hello,’ replies my mother dourly.

  Nana actually recoils. ‘Who are you?’ she says rudely.

  ‘I’m Michelle!’ says Michelle. ‘You remember me!’

  Nana scowls and says, ‘All young women look the same to me.’

  Michelle turns the full beam of her automated allure upon Tom. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ she husks, lashes lowered.

  ‘Tom,’ he says briskly, extending a hand, ‘I’m with Helen.’

  The smile dies on her lips, to be briefly resurrected as she spies the blue marigolds. ‘How sweet,’ she croons, ‘so the flowers must be from you! I’m always telling Markee that a gas station bouquet will do me fine but the angel insists on Paula Pryke!’ and in the next breath: ‘Markee darling, a black tea before we go out.’ Tom glances, amused, at me. Marcus leaps up gratefully.

  ‘Right,’ I say, ‘Mum, Nana, I’m making scrambled eggs. It’s that or nothing.’

  My mother pouts. ‘I can’t eat scrambled eggs!’ she cries. ‘You should know that! It’s too painful!’

  I say hurriedly, ‘Sorry, Mum, I’ll do omelettes instead, is that better for you?’ My mother nods regally.

  Michelle’s eyes bulge at the prospect of intrigue. ‘Why?’ she says breathlessly.

  ‘Scrambled eggs killed my father,’ I say tonelessly.

  ‘Woh!’ says Michelle. Her brain tries to assemble the clues and fails. ‘How?’ she gasps.

  My mother’s love of attention overcomes her dislike of Michelle and she embarks on the tragic tale. I start yanking pans out of drawers and Tom says, ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make the omelettes.’

  Marcus says coolly, ‘Not for us, we’re eating at the new Conran restaurant.’ Tom starts cracking eggs into a bowl. Tom has already been to the new Conran restaurant, which irks Marcus. He says rudely, ‘But you’re a vet!’ My jaw drops.

  Tom swallows a laugh and says, ‘I know! Can you believe it! My coat was the glossiest it’s been!’ Marcus scowls.

  I collapse into a chair. ‘What time’s your reservation? Shouldn’t you get going?’ I say to Michelle.

  She glances at her thin gold watch, ‘No rush,’ she says to me, and ‘Yes, go on!’ to my mother. I suppress a sigh. My neck is so tense it aches. By the time Tom starts placing omelettes in front of my mother and Nana, the tension has spread to my shoulders and jaw.

  Marcus hovers by the table. ‘Michelle,’ he says tightly, ‘we ought to set off.’

  Michelle sticks out her lower lip and says, ‘Five seconds, honey! Mrs Bradshaw’s at a really exciting bit!’

  Marcus slumps into the chair next to Tom. I can see Nana gazing at him. ‘Same height,’ she says, ‘I’ll give her that.’ Marcus smiles an unhappy smile. I grit my teeth.

  Tom winks at me. ‘Ketchup, anyone?’ he says.

  ‘Yuck,’ sings my mother.

  Nana shakes her head, ‘Not for me, dear.’

  Pardon. I don’t wish to be picky but I, her granddaughter, am rarely accorded the courtesy of being addressed by name whereas Tom, a man she didn’t know existed until an hour ago, is ‘dear’?

  ‘Helen,’ says Tom, ‘ketchup?’ I shake my head.

  ‘Just me then,’ he says cheerfully. He holds the bottle upside down, gives it a hefty whack on its bottom, and a large red gloop shoots through the air and lands ‘splat!’ on Marcus’s yellow shirt. ‘I am sorry,’ says Tom happily – as Marcus leaps up with a bellow of dismay – ‘can’t take me anywhere.’

  I clamp a hand over my mouth and swallow a bit of omelette faster than I meant to. Michelle’s mouth is a perfect scarlet O of dismay. My mother and grandmother gaze mesmerised at Marcus, as he shouts, ‘You idiot!’ at Tom.

  Michelle escorts him to the bedroom to change. ‘We are going to be so late!’ she spits at Tom on her way out.

  Nana Flo pats Tom’s hand – don’t tell me she fancies her chances too! ‘My word, what a fuss about nothing!’ she snaps. I grin weakly at Tom. Much as his ketchup trick makes me want to hug him, I feel unable to rise from my chair. Because at the moment Marcus’s mouth and eyes thinned in anger, a sickening jolt of perception hit. Why, how didn’t I see it before? It’s undeniable. Not so much the features as the posture, the temperament, the volatility. My father, the very image.

  I run to the toilet and throw up the omelette. I’ve only eaten two bites but I can’t stop retching.

  Chapter 27

  LIZZY ENDEARS HERSELF to me in many ways, but the sweetest thing she ever did (in my opinion) was to fall asleep bang in the middle of a romantic evening with her then boyfriend – before any actual banging had occurred. She’d just returned from a family holiday in France and the poor man was desperate to welcome her home in, as he termed it, ‘traditional fashion’.

  (‘That really put me off,’ confided Lizzy later.) He’d cooked a vegetarian dinner, lit scented candles, bought a bottle of non-alcoholic wine, washed t
he sheets, and – get this – sprinkled rose petals on the bed! He carried Lizzy upstairs, nipped into the bathroom to clean his teeth, and sprang back into the room to find his sweetheart unconscious on the pillow. ‘I was so tired I hadn’t even taken off my make-up!’ she exclaimed – expecting me to say, ‘Oh my gosh, that tired!’

  She added, ‘He was so sulky about it. It was the final straw. And I don’t like people tearing up flowers.’ As I said, the poor man. But I was impressed that Lizzy was so relaxed about the prospect of sex that she could conk out before her darling had even stripped off. I’m usually so chuffed to be considered I’m a human Martini – any time, anywhere. Or is that a Bounty bar?

  Anyhow, soon after I spew up my omelette, Michelle and Marcus vroom off in the RAV 4 for a showcase meal, and my mother and Nana Flo depart in the Peugeot to catch a Clint Eastwood film on Channel Five. Before she leaves, my mother tells me, ‘You needn’t bother coming round tomorrow, I’m going shopping with Vivvy!’ and my grandmother wags her finger at me and says, ‘You’re overexcited! You need an early night.’

  I nod and say, ‘Okay, Mum,’ and ‘Yes, Nana.’

  When they’ve gone I lean against the door and shudder at Tom. And the turncoat says, ‘I’m with Nana Flo!’ What is this, a conspiracy?

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ I lie. I’ve got to be fine. Tonight, I am blearily certain, we’re seeing some action! I should clean my teeth and floss. Tom suggests I lie on the sofa for a few minutes while he stacks the dishwasher. ‘Alright,’ I say, ‘but only as a favour.’

  I wake up four hours later when he carries me to bed.

  Never in my life did I imagine that exhaustion would overpower my libido. I feel drugged. I can’t even move a leg. ‘Stay,’ I murmur sleepily, as Tom lowers me on to the bed.

  ‘Here?’ he whispers.

  ‘Mm,’ I breathe.

  I lie unfetchingly limp as Tom wrestles off my boots. A dilute fear washes over me – what if he sniffs them? – but I’m too comatose to care. He leans close and whispers, ‘Can I undress you?’