by Anna Maxted
Finally I blurt, ‘How I feel is that I miss Dad.’
My mother claps her hands and exclaims triumphantly, ‘That’s how I feel!’
I conceal a smile. My mother is fifty-five and never going to change. Cliff is fifty years too late. I was going to add, ‘Yes, but you have the right. You loved each other,’ and see what – on the crest of her new empathy fad – she made of it. But I decide I’d be better off working out the answer for myself.
When the phone rings and I hear Luke’s voice at the other end of it I practically deafen him, such is my joy at being whisked from Fondant Fancy & Feelings Prison. ‘You sound pleased to hear from me,’ he says delightedly.
‘I am!’ I squeal. ‘How are you! I miss you!’
Luke says bashfully, ‘I miss you too. It’s not the same without you.’
I suggest, ‘It’s tidier?’
He laughs, ‘Much.’
I beam. ‘So what’s up?’ I say.
Luke pauses, ‘You heard about Michelle and Marcus?’
I reply, ‘Yeah! I don’t know who to feel more sorry for!’
Sounding surprised, Luke says, ‘So you’re not upset?’
My tone is shrill: ‘God, no!’ I squeal, pressing the tip of my nose to stop it growing.
I can hear the smile in Luke’s voice, ‘Great! So uh, how’s Tom?’
It’s my turn to pause. ‘I haven’t seen him since Sunday,’ I say shortly.
‘It’s only Tuesday!’ says Luke. ‘Give the man a chance!’
I feel obliged to set the record straight. ‘We’re not seeing each other,’ I say. ‘We fell out.’
Luke replies, ‘Oh. Well can you give us his number? I’m going out with the lads on Friday, thought I’d ask him along.’ I am divided between fascination (how is it possible to be so interested in football and so uninterested in human relations?) and admiration (so sweet natured yet so acutely insensitive – surely the pinnacle of self-preservation?).
‘Hang on,’ I say, plodding into the hall, emptying my bag on to the floor, and sifting through the rubble. Eventually I find my phone book. I read Luke out Tom’s number and try not to sound miserable.
‘So what you doing for Christmas?’ says Luke. His knack of hitting the nail on the head when it has a migraine is uncanny.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘How about you?’
Luke replies, ‘The usual. Going to my parents’ where there’ll be too much to drink and a monster family row.’
I say, ‘How lovely,’ and mean it.
Then I trot back into the kitchen where my mother is staring forlornly at the Battenburg. ‘Leave it, Mummy,’ I say, ‘I’ll clear it.’
She replies crossly, ‘You barely ate a thing! I’m going to wash my hair!’
I shout after her, ‘I’m taking some up to Nana! It won’t go to waste!’ I listen to myself. I sound about ninety. The sooner Nana moves out the better.
I knock timidly on her door. ‘Who is it?’ she shrills.
‘Fatboy!’ I feel like shrilling back, but don’t. ‘Helen!’ I bellow.
She shuffles to the door and pulls it open. ‘Yes?’ she demands.
I wave about the cake plate at nose level. ‘I brought you up some cake.’
She sticks out a hand and takes it. ‘Thank you,’ she says and tries to shut the door!
I stick my foot in the gap. ‘Nana,’ I say in a clear voice, ‘I know you’re busy but could I come in for a second?’
She shrugs and says, ‘If you must,’ and doesn’t open the door any wider.
I suck in my stomach and squeeze through. Her few clothes are neatly folded in a stiff battered suitcase which is lying open on the bed. Her purple thistle coat is hanging neatly over a chair. Nana herself sits in the chair and starts guzzling the cake. I notice that her swollen fingers are dry and cracked at the joints and suddenly I feel like crying. ‘Nana,’ I say in a rush, ‘I’m so sorry about my cat pilfering your lunch, and—’
She interrupts me: ‘I told your mother it was unhygienic to have that filthy creature in the house, but would she listen?’
Privately I think that letting sardines ‘air’ is marginally more unhygienic than Fatboy but – as I accept it’s unpleasant to have one’s lunch munched by an animal – I keep my opinion to myself. I apologise again. Then I say, ‘And Nana, please forgive me for reminding you about Grandpa, I didn’t mean to. And I do hope you’re not leaving because of it.’
Nana makes a noise in her throat and for a nasty second I think she’s choking to death on cake. When I realise it’s a gurgle of disdain, I’m relieved. For a couple to die, respectively, in smithereens and from cake would be too cruel. My grandmother says, ‘Not a day goes by when I don’t think of my Gerald.’
I’m thankful – so I didn’t remind her! – but unsure of how to react. I’d like to ask her all about him but I’m scared of upsetting her. So (as per programming) I say, ‘I’m sorry.’
Nana replies, not unkindly, ‘That’s life and you have to face up to it. I make the best of things.’ She nods towards the door. I take this to indicate dismissal and head towards it. I don’t dare answer back but I wonder about what she says. Do you? I think.
My way of making the best of things is to run away from them. And I don’t care what anyone says – I stand by it as a basic human right. I wake up on Wednesday, become aware of a nasty sinking sensation inside, and remember that Tom and I aren’t shagging and I wish we were. I get to work and confess to Lizzy who says, ‘Call him then.’
I have a better idea: ‘Let’s get wasted!’ Lizzy pouts. ‘On orange juice!’ I add, knowing that the chance of getting Lizzy to put alcohol to lip is remote. ‘Wasted from a surfeit of vitamin C! Hooray!’ I exclaim, to tempt her and to stop myself sagging. Lizzy looks unconvinced so I say, ‘Brian’s in Hong Kong at the t’ai chi convention, you went to the gym yesterday, the day before, and probably the day before that. Too much exercise is bad for you! You’ll grind away your hip bones! Ugh! Think of the arthritis!’
I fold my arms and wait. ‘Did I tell you Michelle and Marcus are engaged?’ I say, in a sly bid to further my cause.
‘What! No! When? Ohmigod!’ says Lizzy. ‘Alright,’ she adds reluctantly, ‘but don’t think I don’t know it’s blackmail.’
I say, ‘That’s a double negative but good,’ and start plotting.
The prospect of luring Lizzy to drink is so uplifting that I’m inspired to call an estate agent. To my surprise Adam has two properties to show me. They’re both in Kentish Town and within my price range. One flat he describes as ‘well located for all the local amenities’. The other is ‘spacious and well positioned’. I tell him that I’m busy tonight but maybe tomorrow and he has a fit. ‘There’s lots of people viewing!’ he screams. ‘Are you serious about this or not! There’s nothing else around! They’ll disappear like that!’ I hear a snapping of fingers and suspect that Adam is what Michelle’s grandmother would call a ‘meshuggener’. But I agree to view the flats tonight anyway.
I break the news to Lizzy at six and she doesn’t mind at all. ‘It’ll be fun!’ she says. We take the tube to Adam’s office and announce ourselves. Adam is busy talking on the phone and gestures for us to sit down. Four minutes later he leaps up, manfully jangles a huge bunch of keys in our faces, and ogles Lizzy. I can tell he’s impressed by her, and she and I are knocked out by him too – or rather by his foul industrial strength aftershave. ‘It’s Joop!’ whispers Lizzy, when Adam goes to pick up his Mondeo, ‘but you’re not meant to put that much on.’
I wipe my stinging eyes and murmur, ‘You don’t say.’
A second later, a white banger with a dented passenger door swerves to a halt in front of us. We jump back to avoid losing our toes. ‘Lizzy, you can go in the front,’ I say sweetly but she demurs. So I get to sit next to Adam who – with his gelled French crop and gold signet ring and outsize ego – is speedily becoming irresistible. Joke. I shift my feet and try not to disturb the car’s delicate ecosystem of
cans, cartons, and copies of FHM. For lack of anything to say I bleat, ‘Oh dear! Your stereo’s been stolen.’
He replies, ‘Yeah, wank, innit?’ and lights up a fag.
Although it’s midwinter, he winds the window right down and clutches at the roof – presumably to stop it flying off. Happily for all concerned, Adam’s mobile phone rings. Adam spends the next ten minutes shouting stuff like: ‘Nah! Donna! Nice one! Yeah! Well stacked! The Harvester! Sorted!’ and I shiver in my coat and say to Lizzy, ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this.’
She coos, ‘Why not! It’s brilliant living on your own! I love it! Imagine! Not having to share a bathroom!’
I nod and say, ‘I suppose,’ then the car lurches to a halt and Adam jumps out.
Fifty-nine seconds later we are all sulkily hunched in the car again. I glower at Adam’s black leather shoes (each fetchingly adorned with a metal bar) and squeak, ‘Well located for all the local amenities! It’s above a fish and chip shop!’
Adam can’t see the problem. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, ‘for your money that’s whatchure gonna get around here. And you’ll never go hungry!’
I say suspiciously, ‘Does that mean the other is next door to an all-night petrol station?’
Adam is impressed. ‘Howge know?’ he says.
‘East Finchley’s nice,’ says Lizzy comfortingly, as Adam races off. ‘Maybe you could look there?’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘It’s too near my mother,’ I say. ‘Let’s find somewhere to sit.’
Fifteen minutes later we are perched at a table in front of a bottle of red. I am glugging and Lizzy – having been persuaded ‘just this once’ – is sipping. She is keen to hear the inevitable tale of Marcus and Michelle and shrieks, ‘No!’ whenever I try to skip bits. We empty the wine bottle extremely fast. Or as Lizzy says – after two small glasses – ‘fasht’. She’s a cheap date, I’ll say that much. I order a second bottle and Lizzy hiccoughs. ‘I never do thish in the week!’ she giggles.
‘You never do it at the weekends either!’ I say.
The conversation veers on to Christmas. I announce that I’m doing ‘bugger all’ and Lizzy says she’s ‘helping out at a koup sitchen’. We hoot with laughter. ‘Wow. Good for you. But doesn’t it make you sad?’ I say when we calm down.
‘No,’ says Lizzy, ‘ish great. Ish uplifting! Ish what Christmas ish all about!’
I pour us each another glass. ‘What – hassling the homeless so you feel smug and avoid your family?’ I say. Lizzy looks dumbfounded so I add hastily, ‘Only joking, but aren’t you seeing Brian?’
Cue an hour-long ramble about Brian, during which Lizzy orders another bottle and I think ‘but Brian’s so old’. ‘But Brian’s so old!’ I declare and I clap my hand over my mouth.
Lizzy smacks me playfully on the arm and yells, ‘I heard you! He’s not old! Well he’s older but sho what!’
I shriek, ‘But it’s like going out with your dad!’
Fortunately Lizzy chooses to find this funny rather than slap my face. She whacks the table, peals with laughter, and squeals, ‘He’s nothing like my dad! You freaky! He’s older but sho what!’
Possibly the volume of alcohol swishing round my insides has pickled my brain because I feel unable to contest this assertion. ‘Yeah! Sho what!’ I repeat.
Lizzy takes a gulp of wine and tosses her hair back from her face and giggles, ‘You’re funny! You’re in denial! That’s what my shycol, shycol, that’s what my friend says!’
Lizzy is so busy flicking shiny hair and trying to pronounce the word ‘psychologist’, she doesn’t notice my startled expression.
‘About what?’ I say, the laughter dying in my throat.
‘I don’t know!’ she roars, lolling in her seat. ‘Tom probly!’ she sniggers.
I snigger too and shout ‘Cak!’ Then we snigger at the word ‘cak’. I’m reluctant to stop laughing so I wheeze, ‘But he, but he—’ Lizzy teetle-heetles and gasps, ‘puts his hand up’ – we chorus together: ‘dogs’ bottoms!’
And then I say something that seems like a good idea when I say it. I suggest we go to Tom’s favourite bar. ‘He lives near here! It’s just down the road!’ I say.
‘If ish just down the road,’ says Lizzy, ‘lesh go!’ We pay and totter out. ‘My legsh are like rubber!’ sings Lizzy as we lurch along clutching each other for support.
‘You don’t have to shout,’ I bellow, ‘I’m right next to you!’ When you catch yourself thinking ‘I’m dull when I’m pissed’ when you’re pissed there’s no doubt you are very dull when pissed. ‘This is it!’ I exclaim. ‘Let’s look in the windows.’
Lizzy is already jumping up and down. She looks like Zebedee in a wig. ‘I can’t shee!’ she complains. ‘Lesh go in!’ and with that she boots open the door and yanks me in.
My life falls off a cliff and splinters in a second. We see Tom. Tom is grasping the hand of an elegant woman. Lizzy shouts, ‘There he ish!’ and falls over. Everyone in the pub, including Tom and the woman, stares at us. I become instantly sober and pull Lizzy off the floor. She uses one hand to stop wobbling, the other to point, and roars, ‘Helen doeshn’t like you any more Tom cosh you put your hand up dogs’ bottomsh!’
It is small consolation that as I hurl Lizzy and myself out the door, everyone in Tom’s local is staring at Tom.
Chapter 32
ONE OF MY most useful habits is blaming other people. Giving yourself a hard time is so tedious and I’m sure it weakens your immune system. But sadly, when I wake up dribbling on Lizzy’s bony designer sofa at 7 a.m. and wince through the tragedy of last night, there is no denying that the Dog’s Bottom Disaster is entirely my fault. Alcohol and lunacy aside, what possessed me? What’s it to me if Lizzy drinks cranberry juice? Aren’t I big and bad and ugly enough to get drunk on my own? And what was I on to suggest we ferret around Tom’s pub? What must he think of me? Why did I do it? Am I mad? Have I no shame? What a prat. I’m coming down with a cold.
I stare out of Lizzy’s bay window, watch the pale winter sun glisten on the Thames, and wonder how long Tom has been seeing the woman. Even the fact that my fears and cynicism are justified can’t console me. If I was Tom I’d be seeing her too. She looked sharp, glamorous, and together. As opposed to blunt, berkish, and cracking up. I feel a lump of pain heavy inside me but I’m too tired to fight it. Anguish washes over me and I let it. I’m defeated. I contemplate emigration to New Zealand then clench my teeth and hiss defiantly, ‘So what!’ Might as well be a man about it. When Lizzy shuffles into the airy lounge wearing a white towelling robe and a woeful expression, I’m picking my nose.
I can tell she’s revving up for a long apology. I hold up a hand. ‘Don’t!’ I say. ‘It was my fault. And you were very funny.’
Lizzy doesn’t smile. She looks near to tears. She blurts, ‘I can visit him at work and explain! I will visit him! I—’
I interrupt: ‘No you won’t! Jesus, that’ll make it even even worse!’
Lizzy strikes a Madonnaish pose (and I don’t mean the Material Girl, I mean Christ’s mother) and lifts the back of her hand to her smooth forehead. She’s incredible. Even hangover chic suits her. ‘I can’t believe what I did!’ she wails. ‘I don’t drink! I’m not like that! I feel terrible! I’m going to have to detox!’
I giggle nervously – I’ve led the Virgin Mary astray – and wheedle, ‘But Lizzy, you only had four glasses – in your whole life! You go into detox when you’re drinking vodka for breakfast!’
Lizzy perches her small behind on a large glass-top table and patiently details the difference between detoxing in a drying out clinic and detoxing on a three-day juice diet. The drying out clinic sounds jollier and I silently vow that if I ever find myself eating raw cauliflower for lunch and six dried apricots as ‘a treat’ I’ll turn to drink immediately in order to increase my self-esteem.
Lizzy plods mopily into the kitchen and makes a peppermint tea for her and a double espresso for me. She is distraught at having to ski
p breakfast (‘the most important meal of the day’) because she feels nauseous, but tries to be brave. I refuse her offer of a shower and/or low-sugar muesli and collapse on the bottom-bruising sofa again until Lizzy suggests we leave for work. ‘I think you should pull a sickie,’ I say, studying her fashionably wan face.
‘I couldn’t!’ she whispers, as if her chrome halogen lamp is bugged.
I shrug, retrieve my mobile, and ring my mother.
‘Yes?’ she says in a bleary voice.
‘Mum? It’s Helen!’ I say. ‘I stayed at Lizzy’s last night.’
She sounds confused, ‘So?’
I pause then say, ‘Well I didn’t want you to worry, I thought you might be wondering where I was.’
She replies, ‘Oh! Oh. I hadn’t noticed. I dropped Florence home yesterday. I was very tired so I went to bed early. I was sleeping. You woke me up.’
At this point I lose the will to continue the conversation. I say, ‘Mum, it’s practically midday. Will you feed Fatboy when you do eventually get up?’ She says yes and cuts off.
‘Is she okay?’ enquires Lizzy.
‘She’s lazy is what she is,’ I say.
Lizzy doesn’t know how to respond so she changes the subject. ‘I wonder if Tina will be in today,’ she tinkles. I am silent so she adds, ‘Do you think she’s okay?’
I bark, ‘Don’t know, don’t care.’
Lizzy sighs and says, ‘I know she was terribly rude to you but I’m sure she was sickening for something – she wasn’t in yesterday. If she’s not in today I’ll ring her.’
I nod. I’m not sure what to think about Tina. I know this much: she isn’t sadistic like Michelle. I decide that if she grovels I’ll forgive her. She’s as chippy as a French fry but she’s ultimately a true friend and I don’t want to lose her. Although what she said stung, I’m trying to rationalise it. Possibly I am a raging hypocrite. But I can’t help what I feel. Even if it doesn’t make sense and is more of a surprise to me than anyone. At least Tina was ranting – I’d have been more upset if she’d said it while in control. Maybe I’ll ring her later.
