by Anna Maxted
So I appreciate my beginner’s luck.
After six backbreaking weeks, my builders have replastered, re-plumbed, re-wired, and resuscitated my little flat. They have been masterminded by Terry who, in his own words, ‘runs a tight ship’. And my mother and I have spent at least thirty hours trawling Greater London in search of – as she puts it – ‘fitments’. While I am as skilled in sourcing glass bricks as I am at completing The Times Crossword – no, I won’t lie – any crossword, my mother has been astounding. She’s approached the flat refurbishment like a school project. She bought a pile of glossy interiors magazines, and ordered me to scour them and make notes. Every time I saw something I liked, she’d fill the Peugeot with petrol, and force me to plan a route. Equipped with a tape measure and a sketch of the kitchen and bathroom dimensions, she’d then speed to the relevant store and barter with its sales staff.
She has the business scruples of a kidney broker, and if a shop didn’t offer her a loss-making bargain, she’d walk out. (I’d already be out, having run into the street purple with mortification.) Personally I wouldn’t query the price of beads in a Moroccan flea market and would have forked out a premium for granite floor tiles without a squeak. My mother, however, would shout down God over the cost of a halo and shame Him into a discount.
I won’t say it hasn’t been stressful. Especially as Lizzy had assumed that the role of Assistant Foreperson would fall to her. I pacified her with a paint shopping trip and – while she struggled to accept that all purchases were to be made from Crown rather than Farrow & Ball – she accepted my mother’s superior involvement as widow’s compensation. This excuse to Lizzy was partially true.
Following her husband’s demise, my mother has a loose bunch of emotions rolling about that she needs to put somewhere. Until recently, she hasn’t been capable. But the key has been jiggling in the lock for the past month and it seems, finally, to have turned. The electronic transfer and its tumultuous aftermath has helped my mother realise – on some vague level – that if she keeps pushing me away I will eventually go. So yes, her interest in my flat is in her interest. But it would be more truthful to say that she understands I genuinely need her.
Consequently, for the first time in – at a rough estimate – twenty-six years, she has been humouring me. When I threw Elle Decoration on the floor and announced I was sick of stick women in Nicole Farhi flouncing around their cool empty homes, smirking over their solid oak chairs which they’d ‘picked up for two pounds each from a thrift store’ my mother rose to the challenge. Three days and twenty quid later – she handed me the receipt – I was the proud owner of two solid oak chairs. (She hadn’t bought more as there wasn’t enough room in the flat: ‘Aren’t I clever!’)
When I decided that multi-million-pound steel kitchen units were imperative or I’d be too embarrassed to invite people round, she consulted Living Etc. and suggested a visit to ‘The London Metal Centre – look, darling! They sell stainless steel sheeting from about five pounds per square foot! You stick it on top of that MFI cardboard stuff and it looks exactly the same!’ I caught Terry chortling to himself but I think he was secretly impressed.
I’m just thankful that she’s fizzing with energy. I’m determined not to think about how long it may or may not last. Mostly, I’m succeeding. So maybe I have changed too. I feel calmer. It’s as if I’ve had my nose pressed up against an abstract painting, fighting, panting, pushing for a brilliant view. But it’s only now when I step back that I can appreciate the picture. It’s an unexpected revelation and when I recall the incongruous sight of my mother in animated chat with Terry over architectural suppliers, I feel an airy flutter of delight.
I expect moving in to feel ceremonial, but though I carry Fatboy over the threshold, it doesn’t. Possibly because I possess only seven large items: two chairs, a table, a television, a bed, a dartboard, and a clothes rail, so it takes Luke and myself about seven minutes to hoick stuff up the creaky stairs and arrange it. Now the builders have gone the flat looks stark – in the same way that a pinhead looks stark. ‘Helen,’ says Luke, ‘this is so tidy for you!’
After Luke leaves – he has an urgent date with Gobbo and a PlayStation – I walk around from room to room (it takes me nine seconds) touching the yellow walls, sniffing the chalky newness, stroking my craftily crafted steel and MDF kitchen units. Then I boil water in my shiny new kettle – courtesy of my mother who inveigled it out of John Lewis as compensation for a faulty plug – make myself a coffee, sit on a chair, and look at the polished wood floor. Silence.
Then, after three labour intensive hours of arranging my duvet, moving four mugs and three plates from a high cupboard to a low cupboard, shoving forks into a drawer, lining up my murder collection in a row on the bedroom floor with piles of bricks as bookends, scrubbing the bath, bleaching the toilet, sweeping the floor, placing my blue toothbrush next to the sink, and making a list of items I need but can’t afford without a new credit card, I tire of homemaking and ring Lizzy.
I have pasted over my disappointment in Lizzy. She sensed my coolness and was palpably hurt. A week ago she said – in a stiff rehearsed voice that made me suspect she’d been brooding – ‘Helen, I do hope you don’t think that you can’t ring me any more just because I’m going out with Brian. We’re not one person. We don’t do everything together.’
I laughed guiltily and said, ‘Lizzy, of course I don’t think that. I’ve just been mad busy with the flat, that’s all.’
The pathos of this exchange stayed with me and I began to wonder if I’d been harsh. After all, I hadn’t presented Lizzy with the brutal facts so maybe it wasn’t fair to condemn her. Of course she would have wanted to help Tina if she’d known the truth. And – holier than thou considerations apart – I missed Lizzy. I missed her for the same reason I resented her. I wanted Miss Twinkletoes back in my life sprinkling fairydust. The next day I approached her at work and asked if she’d like the New World Gas Range cooker because it was rusting to dust and about to be dumped on the skip. She flung her arms around me like I’d offered her eternal life, and collected it that same evening. Amen.
Lizzy is thrilled at my call and bounces round clutching a bunch of daffodils and a sleek glass vase. The vase is beautiful – a warm burnished orange, like captured sunshine. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I squeak, ‘it completes the room!’
Lizzy beams. ‘It’s my pleasure! Now show me round!’ she exclaims. ‘I can hardly believe it’s the same flat. It’s so dinky!’ To my shame we spend the next two hours earnestly discussing glitter paint and sugar soap and sanding machines. I find myself gabbling desperately, incessantly – as if building a wall of words could prevent her from leaving. But at 6 p.m. Lizzy wrenches herself away (Brian’s aunt is throwing a houseboat party) and Fatboy and I are alone. The evening looms ahead like a dark tunnel.
I switch on the TV, am confronted by Songs Of Praise, switch it off, wonder if the flat is bigger than a Wendy house, flop on the bed, stare at the ceiling, spot a money spider in the corner, run into the kitchen to find a broom to poke it with, realise I don’t own a broom, run back, can’t see the spider, know it’s scuttling about the bedroom, suspect it’s pregnant and laying spider eggs, and start panicking. I am about to ring my mother when I remember that Vivienne has taken her to an organic health farm for the weekend. I slump back on the bed and feel miserable. When the phone rings I almost swoon with gratitude. ‘Hello?’ I whisper, hoping it isn’t a wrong number.
‘Babe?’ says a clipped voice.
‘Jasper!’ I squeal. ‘How are you!’
I am well aware that I sound inordinately keen. Unbeknown to Jasper my delight is nothing personal as I’d have greeted a BT salesperson with the same shrieky degree of elation. But Jasper being Jasper, he takes it personally.
‘Hey, steady there, Angelsweet!’ he exclaims.
As I believe any man who says the words ‘Hey, steady there, Angelsweet!’ without irony should kill himself instantly to dispel the shame, I ch
oke and pause before answering.
I say, ‘Hey yourself, Smug One! Do you want to come and see my new flat?’
There is a silence and I wonder if Jasper is going to cut me down – and it has been known – with a cry of, ‘I’m devastated Angelsweet! I’d adore to but alas I can’t! [ascending pitch as if asking a question] I’m escorting Monique the supermodel? The one with a Harvard doctorate? Who writes books on Jungian theory? to, hum! Paris? [he’d pronounce it ‘Paree’] for a night of pash at the Georges Cinq? What crippling timing!’
Instead, he replies, ‘Absolutely, Babe! Where are you? I’ll hop in a cab now.’
An hour later, Jasper and I are sitting at my table on my solid oak chairs, prodding at the remains of a Chinese takeaway. Jasper is wearing a blue-and-white baseball cap, which I cannot see the point of. Even so, he looks ravishing. I am explaining how laying tiles at a diagonal will give a feeling of space when I notice Jasper stifle a yawn. ‘Sorry,’ I say indignantly, ‘am I boring you?’
Jasper’s eyes widen and he drawls, ‘Babe, I could listen to you for ever.’ I tell him he’s a liar. He sighs.
‘What?’ I say, surprised that I’ve made an impact.
‘Oh nothing, Babe, rien.’
He shakes his head mournfully.
I snort. ‘If you’re resorting to French something is definitely up. What is it?’
Jasper leans on his elbows and says slowly, ‘I’d rather not say.’
Naturally, I am agog. ‘Jasper,’ I gasp, ‘you must tell me!’
I rack my brain to think of how to say this in French but there’s a large vacant space where the knowledge should be.
Jasper shifts in his chair and mutters, ‘It’s not fair.’
I clutch the sides of the table to stop myself flying at him and prising the secret out of his mouth manually. ‘Is it your job?’ I say.
‘NO!’ says Jasper in a loud voice. ‘God, no! The job’s A1!’
I try again. ‘Is it, uh, not being able to drive?’
Jasper looks piqued. He croaks, ‘Helen, you don’t think I’d care about a plebeian thing like that, do you?’
As I know from rifling through his bedside drawer that he’s failed his driving test at least six times (it’s why he’s constantly broke) I decide not to answer. I say, ‘hmm,’ and then, ‘Is it . . . Louisa?’
Jasper rakes his hand through his hair and leans back. I hold my breath. ‘In a word,’ he says.
At this point I realise a pool of saliva has collected in my mouth and if I don’t swallow instantly I’m going to drool like a basset hound. I gulp and squeak, ‘What happened?’
Jasper stretches his lips into a grimace and the tendons in his neck appear like tent ropes. Then he says, ‘She ah, wanted to get back together.’
My mouth drops. ‘No!’ I say. ‘What, what did you say?’
Jasper sighs again and says, ‘I said, if I could, I would. But it wouldn’t be fair on her.’ He stops. Then adds, ‘Because I’m keen on’ – he sighs – ‘someone else.’
I gaze at him and he blushes. And immediately I know that Jasper has a belated crush on me. My eyes are like gobstoppers. I try to keep my voice level. ‘Oh no!’ I squeak. ‘What did Louisa say to that?’ Jasper looks uncomfortable. ‘Well?’ I demand.
He says quietly, ‘Ah, I’d rather not say.’
I bang my fist on the table. ‘Come on!’ I bellow. ‘You can’t not tell me now!’ I force the details out of him. Although he doesn’t mention my name, he doesn’t need to. I watch his mouth as he talks. And as he relates the woeful tale of his ex-girlfriend’s unrequited love, I find myself wanting to kiss him.
I’m the same with jumpers. I was hovering by a black V-neck in Warehouse, fingering the material and wondering if it would itch, when a tall tanned woman sashayed over and plucked it from the shelf. Immediately I craved the V-neck like a nicotine addict craves a fag on a no-smoking flight. I tailed V-neck Woman around the shop, into the changing rooms, out of the changing rooms, and when she shot me a nasty look and dumped the jumper over a rail, I snatched it up and, trembling with excitement, bought it. I am the gullible materialist that advertisers dream about. I am indifferent to a person or a product until someone else wants it. Then, immediately, I want it more.
So when Jasper tells me that a week before Christmas Louisa gave him three months to move out because she couldn’t stand the agony of seeing his face and not being able to snog it, I exclaim, ‘Jass! Jass! I’ve had a brilliant idea! Until you find somewhere – why not stay at my place for a few days?’
Jasper stares at me as if Fatboy has spoken. ‘You can’t mean that?’ he says in an awed voice. I nod vigorously. Anything is better than living in poky isolation. His chiselled face breaks into a dimpled smile and he grabs my hand and kisses it. ‘Angelsweet,’ he murmurs, ‘you’re a shining star.’ And then, ‘Hey! I know! Why don’t you drive me to Kensington and we can get my things now! It’ll be fun!’
Though I cannot see how taxiing Jasper across London and lugging his gloomy ship paintings up my stairs will be fun, I can hardly refuse. As there is precisely nowhere to park in Kensington, I wait in the Toyota while Jasper fills it with his belongings. Clothes. Paintings. Stereo. And two hideous wicker chairs and a wicker coffee table. I blurt, ‘I thought the crap furniture belonged to your landlord!’
Jasper laughs and says, ‘Babe, these are original colonial pieces! Anyway I don’t know what you’re complaining about. They’ll look ace in your lounge!’ I am not so sure and my suspicion is confirmed when the chairs are in place. They hunch over the floor, each one like a preying mantis, and their mean scratchy wickerness dominates the room. Even though it’s great to have company, I feel cross.
I feel even crosser when Jasper snakes up behind me, grabs my hips, and whispers, ‘Hey Babe, what say we christen the flat?’
I sternly imprison his hands in mine and say with forced sweetness, ‘Sure, Jass. Only I should tell you I’m having a really heavy period. Whew, talk about a flow! Honestly, it’s like my uterus is being dragged out of me, so I’m warning you it’ll be very messy, like having sex in an abattoir, but I see you’ve brought your Egyptian cotton, we can lay it over the bed like an absorbent plaster to soak up the effluvia . . .’
Jasper sleeps on the lounge floor and doesn’t bother me again.
Chapter 39
I WAS ABOUT fourteen and walking down the road when a paunchy, wisp-haired, middle-aged man stopped me and said, ‘If you don’t mind me saying, that jumper doesn’t suit you.’ Taken aback I squeaked, ‘Oh! er, thanks for telling me.’ I ran home, stared in the mirror at me and my round shoulders in my red-and-white striped sweatshirt, and thought, ugh, yes the state of you.
It was a good few years before it occurred to me that an adult who stops a plump teenage stranger in the street to criticise her dress sense has got to be a thick chauvinist fruitcake. Then again, I had to ask myself – what the hell was I doing wearing a red-and-white striped sweatshirt? Did I work at a barber’s shop? Was I a pouting Lolitalike superwaif who could wear doll’s clothes and call it ironic kitsch? When I ventured out disguised as a comedy bollard did I have even a splash of self-awareness? No.
When I see my pristine white bath defiled by Jasper’s shaving stubble and my freshly tiled floor transformed into a penguin’s paddling pool and my big square mirror steamed up like a microwave door and realise there’s going to be no hot water for the fourth time this week and it’s only Thursday, I scowl and think in the last twelve years have I learned anything at all? Obviously not.
Although the last four days have been interesting. My romantic notions of living – as Jasper might say – à deux – were shot to pieces within minutes. In the foolish seconds preceding my rash invitation I fantasised about a host of cosy things. Changing the message on my new answer machine to ‘HelenanJasper aren’t in right now’. Filling my supermarket basket with Jasperish items like smoked venison and freshly squeezed OJ as well as Dime bars and cat litter. Snugg
ling up on the floorboards in front of Lethal Weapon. The edible scent of Egoiste lending a blast of masculinity to my bachelorette flat.
What was I thinking? The moment I saw those grubby wicker chairs polluting my territory I knew I’d made a mistake. I liked having an answer machine message all to myself. I didn’t want a dead Bambi in my fridge. I preferred watching Lethal Weapon on my own, especially as – unlike some people – I would never exclaim loudly at a crucial point, ‘This is preposterous, facile pap, let’s watch a decent film like Citizen Kane.’ And if I was that desperate for a masculine blast I could feed Fatboy a large helping of turkey & giblets pâté and await the stinky inevitable. What is it with me?
‘But I can’t tell him to leave,’ I bleat to Lizzy over lunch. ‘He’s got nowhere to go.’
Lizzy, who is carefully inspecting her green salad for slugs, says, ‘Really, Helen, I don’t know why you asked him in the first place. He’s a selfish man who, if you ask me, is emotionally constipated, and he’s not been nice to you.’
I poke my lasagne with a fork and think how prettily two-faced Lizzy is. I remember a time, not so very long ago, when she shared a flat with her psychologist friend in a stuccoed street in Camden. The shrink went away for a conference, returned two days later, and discovered – rather like Daddy Bear – that someone had been sleeping in his bed. It emerged that Lizzy had taken pity on the young homeless man who slept on a bench at the end of the road. She couldn’t understand why the shrink was annoyed. ‘But you weren’t using it!’ said Goldilocks. ‘And I was going to wash the sheets but I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.’
