Age 7¼ – Peter Parker’s mum died, quite suddenly, and I was never really told how.
By age 8 I realised Peter Parker no longer smiled. I only saw his front teeth exposed when he played with his pet dog, Jake. Then he would laugh and giggle and occasionally, if he didn’t think anyone was watching, he’d do a sort of high-pitched excited scream. We lived next door to each other so I was always watching.
Age 8¾ – I made it my official life mission to make Peter Parker smile again because when he did, even for a second, he could light up a room. I etched my promise onto the bark of a tree and pricked my finger with a needle until it bled. As an 8-year-old that was the official way to make a life’s promise to oneself. The tree is still standing and I still have a tiny scar.
I was more or less constantly preoccupied by Peter until age 14. He was the man in my life, or at least the unsmiling boy in it. Then, just before my 15th birthday, his father sent him to an international school in Switzerland; the kind of school with no formal curriculum and a lofty focus on developing the individual. Peter didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t leave a note and I never heard from him again.
peter parker the adult is a handsome, expressionless man. He has thick dark hair, dark blue eyes and sports the complexion of an A-list Hollywood actress. His clothes are always ironed, he smells just the way you’d want your boyfriend to smell and has the ability to retain inordinate amounts of information. Grandma tells me that he completed a Physics degree in Switzerland, a Master’s degree in Paris and a PhD in America. He now specialises in the development of renewable sources of energy, and in handsome frowning.
peter parker’s favourite thing—dogs and any kind of physical challenge, including sit-ups.
peter parker’s favourite activity—running at high speed with a dog and any kind of physical challenge, including sit-ups.
mary the cleaner—68 years old
Mary the cleaner worked for my family for over 30 years. She was plump but not fat, rosy, but not red, jolly, but not funny. When drinking tea, in between sips, Mary always held her mug in both hands against her chest, as if warming her own breastbone.
‘Little Kate Winters! Look at you,’ she said as she opened the front door of her terraced house. ‘My goodness, don’t you look lovely? Just lovely,’ she said, pulling me inside. ‘You know it was just the other day your grandma told me you were back. I am so sorry things didn’t work out with Gabriel.’ She hung my coat over the banisters and turned to face me. ‘I remember the two of you at your grandma’s birthday. You were quite the smitten kittens. I was sure the next time I’d see you you’d have a trail of beautiful children running along behind you. How are you feeling about it all?’ she said, looking deep into my eyes. Now, even though I thought I was fine, and had turned up like a proper journalist with a Dictaphone and giant pack of chewing gum, a childlike lump appeared in my throat and my voice all but disappeared. Because adult women have the ability to reduce me to tears by uttering one simple harmless sentence … ‘How are you feeling?’ Mary looked startled as tears spurted unexpectedly from my eyes.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, you know it was just the same for our Laura,’ she said, patting me on the back. ‘She used to be with a lovely lass called Carly, who we all adored. Carly was into aromatherapy. Have you heard of it? Well, we were sure there’d be wedding bells and civil ceremonies any day. I bought a hat. But Laura messed it up as only Laura can and ran off with a fitness instructor called Tessa, who, excuse me, is terribly masculine and terribly rude. Well, what’s the point of being a bloody lesbian then setting up home with a woman who is the spits of a ruddy great man?’ And now Mary needed a hanky and a hug. Eventually we steered the conversation back onto Mary and my idea about Love-Stolen Dreams.
‘Well, it made me laugh when your grandma called the other morning, wanting to know about my deepest desires.’ Mary took a sip from a mug commemorating the marriage of Prince Charles to Princess Diana. ‘I felt like I was on one of those TV phone-ins!’ she said, pushing herself further back into her 1980s floral sofa. ‘And it’s not that I’m unhappy, Kate. I am very content. And I would never want Len to think otherwise, poor old bugger! It’s just your grandma’s such a pushy what-not. She wouldn’t get off the phone until I told her at least one unfulfilled dream or interest.’ Mary tutted good-naturedly before offering me a strawberry Quality Street. ‘And it’s silly that I even think about it. I don’t think about it. It’s nothing. Well, now I’ve gone and made it sound like something! Bloody Josephine! For the record I am happy watching a bit of Top Gear and sitting with Len while he fiddles with his cars, but, if I was going to spend the rest of my life “alone” as your grandma rather dramatically told me, then I suppose learning about cars would make me quite happy.’ She offered me another Quality Street. I took another Strawberry Cream.
‘What do you mean you want to learn about cars? Like, you’d want to understand the different makes and models?’
‘Oh no dear, I’d want to learn how to take apart and put back together a combustion engine,’ she said, straightening out her flannel dress and cardi combo. ‘I’d want to train to be a mechanic.’ My half-chewed Strawberry Cream nearly fell from my mouth.
‘OK,’ I said, nodding my head. ‘Cool.’ Lots more head-nodding. ‘So, er, have you had any mechanical, combustion-type experiences so far …?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you, Kate,’ she said, tapping my knee, ‘I did do a little something about six months ago. There was an old part from one of Len’s cars and he was going to throw it out, but I knew it wasn’t broken. I was sure of it. So when Len went to work I took the part out the bin, took it apart, cleaned it up and put it back together. I gave it back to him and told him I’d got it from Jim at the scrapyard. Well, I never tell lies, Kate, but I was desperate to know if it worked. And it did! He put it in the car and it worked!’ Mary was squeezing her podgy hands together in her lap as if shaking her own hand with praise.
‘Wow! Mary, that’s amazing! You must be so proud!’
‘I felt on top of the world about it, Kate! Still do! It worked because I had fixed it. Can you imagine that? You see something broken and you put it back together, you fix it, with your own bare hands.’
For some reason the image of my own heart popped into my head, bright red, shattered on a stone floor. I saw hands picking up all the pieces, squeezing them back into shape like a plasticine toy. But all the pieces wouldn’t stick; they kept falling off and tumbling back to the floor, like overly floured pastry. I shoved another Quality Street in my mouth to fill the void.
‘So, Mary, how did you feel when you were actually working on the part?’
‘Well, I’m not sure if it’s like this for you, Kate, but normally I have a hundred things going on in my head. While I’m ironing the sheets I’m scanning the room looking for my next job, thinking about what’s in the fridge for dinner, wondering what time Len will be back from work. But when I sat at the kitchen table fixing that part I was completely into what I was doing. And that felt … peaceful. When I finished I felt this warmth, right here.’ She placed the palm of her hand against her breastbone and left it there for a few seconds. Then she picked up her mug of tea and rested it on the exact same spot. We both fell silent. My red plasticine heart was still in pieces on the imaginary floor in my mind’s eye.
‘Mary, do you think you might be interested in doing some kind of mechanics course with me? I could organise it all through work. And what goal do you think we should aim for? Would your dream be realised the first time someone pays you to fix a car or—?’
‘Well, I never!’ Mary flushed bright red. ‘Someone paying me to fix an engine!’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not possible, Little Kate. It’s a silly idea.’
‘Mary, if you find it hard to imagine yourself as a mechanic, why don’t you try visualising a version of yourself in a parallel universe, a Power Mary, who isn’t worried about what Len might think, or the kids, who only has herself to please? What would that Mary
be doing with her days? I bet she’d work on cars! Try it,’ I urged. ‘Close your eyes and imagine a Power Mary in an alternate universe.’ Mary looked at me suspiciously before good-naturedly closing her eyes. ‘What would Power Mary’s perfect car-related day be? How would it start?’
‘Well, I can’t do a thing before I have a cuppa so Power Mary would need to start her day the same way. Do they have tea in this universe?’
‘I think so.’
‘And she’d need her own toolbox, which would be nice, and somewhere to work.’
‘Where would that be?’
Mary kept her eyes closed, frowning with concentration.
‘Well, there are the arches down near Tessa’s gym. Power Mary could have an arch down there.’
‘And is Power Mary by herself or are there other people with her?’
‘Well, it would be nice to work with other people, wouldn’t it—maybe some other ladies? And Power Mary would need to stop for lunch because Len and I do like to eat together. But in the afternoon she could carry on, as long as she finished by four because I like to have dinner ready for when Len gets in. So Power Mary could go home, have a quick shower, put her overalls in the wash then make Len a nice stew, although if this is an alternate universe it would be lovely if Len could work a washing machine.’
‘Mary, that sounds so achievable.’
Mary opened her eyes.
‘Me working in a garage!’ she scoffed before gathering up the mugs and hurrying into the kitchen. ‘Why on earth would I learn to do this at my age?’ she said over the sound of frenzied washing up. ‘I am who I am, Kate. I have what I have and I am happy. What would poor Len think if I suddenly decided to copy his hobby after all these years? I’d feel like I was taking something from him.’ She came back into the lounge with two fresh cups of tea. ‘And what if I was better than him, Kate, which, I am not going to lie to you, would probably happen. Lord knows how any of our cars have kept working over the years. No, we are fine as we are. I was brought up to be grateful for what I have and what I have is this.’
‘Mary, have you even spoken to Len about this, or asked him if he would mind?’
‘Oh no dear. No, not at all.’ She opened the box of Quality Street. I found yet another Strawberry Cream in my mouth. It’s physically impossible to have too many strawberry Quality Streets. They don’t take up any space in your stomach, like popcorn and cheese and most kinds of chocolate. ‘No, I would never talk to my Len about this. Well, it really is lovely to see you again, Little Kate. Such a treat. And young Peter is back too. You are all back home again.’
‘Have you seen him?’ I asked, as casually as a World War II interrogation expert.
‘Oh, yes, he came straight round to see us when he got back. Such a lovely boy. He’s got a PhD from America—did you know that?’
‘No, I haven’t seen actual proof. So did he say how he was, what he’s been doing, why he got married, why he got divorced, why he came back?’ Cool as a cucumber.
‘Well, he told me about an art exhibition he’d been to recently. Oh, and he told me about his running shoes—did you know they’re made from recycled bottles? Such a clever boy,’ she mused, chewing on a toffee. ‘I remember the tears after he left for Switzerland.’ Mine not hers. ‘It was worse than when your pet cat Rupert died.’
‘Peter’s hardly like Rupert the cat, Mary. Rupert was loyal and communicative and didn’t leave without writing a note.’
Rupert can’t actually write. I was making a point.
‘Well, I always liked that Peter Parker. Truth be told, I would have loved it if he’d fallen for one of my girls. Such a lovely young man,’ she cooed, placing her mug against her breastbone.
The thought of Peter Parker falling for either Laura or Yvette made my own breastbone warm, but in more of an acidic lung-crushing way than a soul-completing spiritual way, so I sipped on my hot tea to distract myself, but it was slightly too hot so I burnt my own tongue, which had the intended effect.
quest | mary to train as a mechanic
when a rain cloud meets a rainbow
Sport in London is not something I know a great deal about. My normal form of exercise over the last few years has been snowboarding at high speed down a mountain behind Gabriel while he yelled, ‘I am in love with Kate. I love Kate!’ to whomever he passed before we’d disappear off piste, through a forest, down a secret snow path to a secluded chalet where we’d make love by an open fire before naming all the children we wanted to have while I crossed my fingers, and sometimes my toes, and hoped I’d just been impregnated by my future husband … or something like that.
So ‘conventional’ sports, involving gyms, training sessions, boot camps and clothes, were as unfamiliar to me as German men; in that they were both a bit foreign and both seemed unnecessarily formal. Someone who did know an awful lot about gyms, training sessions and being painfully over-formal was Peter smile-free Parker, the boy who never dialled. Grandma had called to inform me that Peter was an expert on everything to do with fitness; was a triathlete; an occasional marathon runner and, rather bizarrely, a dab hand on a trampoline. Grandma knew I needed help formulating fitness plans for True Love’s proposed Fat Camp and said Peter Parker was the only man who’d know how. With less than a week before Fat Camp was due to start and with no budget to hire a professional adviser, I had reluctantly called Peter Parker, at Grandma’s request, to ask for his sport-related assistance.
I had tried not to bother myself with thoughts about Peter after bumping into him that day at Pepperpots. Actually, we hadn’t so much bumped into each other as I had bumped into a chair, tripping backwards at the sound of his voice, landing on my arse and righting myself by completing a slow and wobbly backwards roll. It was an odd and impromptu display of adult amateur gymnastics, finished up with some stuttering nonsense that my mouth wanted to contribute. Something along the lines of,
‘Hi, Peter, it’s been a long … you just … where did you … why … you didn’t ever …’ Then I fiddled with my hair before muttering, ‘You could have called.’
‘What did you say, darling?’ my grandma had bellowed as she absolutely can’t bear mumbling. Personally I think she’s going a bit deaf but she won’t hear of it, excuse the pun. She even accused Michael Parkinson of being a mumbler the other day, at his book launch, and they don’t come more eloquent and enunciated than Parky.
‘I said he could have called, Grandma!’ I yelled back. Then, because I’d raised my voice for her benefit, I continued at that level for Peter. ‘It’s been fifteen years, Peter! Fifteen years! You didn’t call! You didn’t write—you didn’t even tell me where I could find you.’
Peter had looked at me blankly as if what I’d actually been doing was pointing at his foot and saying, ‘That’s a shoe, Peter! That’s a shoe, that’s a shoe, that’s a shoe!’ rather than having formed a coherent question about the premature and rather dramatic end to our intense childhood friendship. Although in his defence I had just done a backwards roll.
‘Well, I’ve always considered Switzerland to be very insular,’ Grandma had continued, nodding her head reassuringly at Peter. ‘I can’t imagine that I’d keep in touch with anyone if I moved there.’ She smiled affectionately, gently squeezing his arm.
‘It is very secluded,’ Peter confirmed, eyes fixed to the floor.
‘Oh, of course!’ I’d said, slapping my own forehead. ‘Silly me! That’s why it’s a tax haven! Because there are no phones, or computers, or pens to write letters, or even post offices to buy stamps. Rich people literally disappear there like dropping into a landlocked Bermuda Triangle, and they never resurface. I admit I tried the same thing with the Inland Revenue but the bastards just turned up at my office anyway. “I’m Swiss,” I told them. “I don’t do contact. I’m a landlocked island of secrets,” but they made me pay my taxes and they made me do it by handwritten bloody post!’ What on earth was I talking about?
‘Goodness, Kate, you are getting very shouty.
Not all of us can be Anne bloody Frank.’
‘I’m not asking him to get under the floorboards and write me a diary, Grandma! Peter, you totally disappeared!
‘He was in Switzerland, darling. You knew he was in Switzerland. Isn’t the boy allowed to educate himself? And I don’t know why everyone is obsessed with communication these days,’ Grandma had said wearily, sitting herself down. ‘Social media, they call it. I don’t think it’s social at all. I think it’s nice to be quiet and peaceful and left alone to do one’s studies. I imagine that’s what Switzerland must be like.’
‘I’m not on Facebook,’ Peter offered, quite randomly, before reaching over and gently taking his jacket from my hands.
‘Well, of course you’re not on Facebook, Peter, or I would have found yo …’ My voice petered out as I revealed myself to be a bit of a creepy Internet stalker. Peter had stared at me blankly. I’d stared back. He’d practically trebled in attractiveness since the last time I’d seen him. I was fifty shades of grey in comparison to him and I’m not referring to the literary equivalent of soft porn. I’m referring to the drab colourless mist that doesn’t even feature on a rainbow. Peter Parker was a bloody great rainbow and I was the grimacing, unwelcome rain cloud in the distance. Switzerland must be the aesthetic equivalent of Lourdes.
‘Would anyone like a herbal tea?’ Grandma had asked. ‘I’ve got some lovely fresh mint we could use.’
‘Grandma!’ I yelled, for the second time that evening, before storming off towards the front door with such force I looked as if I were wading through imaginary syrup or performing dramatic high-elbowed mime.
‘I’d love a mint tea,’ Peter had said as I yanked open the front door. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had fresh mint,’ he said with flat-toned enthusiasm as the door had slammed shut behind me, narrowly missing Federico, who’d pelted after me like an abandoned child.
Love Is a Thief Page 4
