Putting Alice Back Together

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘Bed.’

  ‘It’s only nine o’clock.’

  ‘Business is done—it’s time for pleasure.’

  Twenty-Eight

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I shot out of bed and pulled on my dressing gown to cover me and then I went downstairs.

  I could see the light on under the door and I burst into the kitchen.

  Mum was ironing. She’d taken in ironing to pay for my music tuition and with Bonny’s wedding still needing to be paid off, she was busy, and worried and stressed.

  ‘Mum…’ I didn’t know how to start it, what to say, I mean what did I say? Not that I got a chance. ‘You know when we spoke about me going out with guys—’

  ‘I don’t even want to hear about it, Alice,’ she interrupted my pathetic attempt to tell her. ‘You’ve got plenty of time for all that.’

  ‘The thing is…’

  ‘Alice.’ Mum held up the iron. ‘Why do you think I’m standing here at one a.m. ironing?’

  I just stood there.

  ‘I have a shift tomorrow that starts at seven-thirty, so tell me why the hell do you think I’m ironing?’

  Still I stood there.

  ‘So you never have to.’

  And she went on and on about how this was the most vital time of my life, how everything was pinned on the next few months, how she never wanted me to be in her position. I was to forget about boys. I was to forget about everything apart from my exams. It was bad enough that I insisted on working at a burger bar. I was to buckle down with my music practice and she didn’t want to hear any arguments.

  It was hopeless, so I just stood there staring at her.

  Should I have said it? Should I have just blurted out the words—I’m pregnant?

  And then what?

  She’d understand?

  It really was hopeless.

  So I met up with Dad.

  I don’t blame Dad for leaving Mum—he married this fun-loving, sexy, sparkly thing (because she was pregnant, I’d heard him say in a row) and she just gave up when she had kids. Every picture tells a story and our photo album and the collection of pictures on the mantelpiece tell Mum and Dad’s. He got better looking as he got older; Mum got bigger and cared less. He had an affair when I was about five or six. I had just started school and I can remember the rows. He left for a while and Mum lost some weight and made an effort and they got back together again but it soon started to slide, or rather Mum did. When I was fifteen Dad moved out for good with—cliché upon cliché—Lucy, his young, blonde, thin and beautiful junior assistant.

  Everyone said Dad was a complete bastard—everyone except me. Bonny is Mum’s favourite and I guess I’m Dad’s and we could always talk. So I rang him up and he sounded delighted to hear from me, though he wasn’t keen on going to the Nag’s Head. He suggested a pub I’d never been to, but I got the bus and met him.

  ‘Hey there, baby girl.’ He grinned when I walked in, and when he went to get me a Coke he offered to slip in a Bacardi. It was a treat and made me feel grown-up, but today I said no. I knew it was bad for… well, I didn’t think much further than that.

  ‘I hope you’re not looking for money!’ He grinned. ‘Things are a bit tight at the moment, what with the wedding and everything…’

  Ah, the wedding—he wasn’t talking about Bonny’s because Lex and Mum had paid for that—no, he and Lucy were getting married in a few weeks in the Caribbean. My mother was furious—that he couldn’t afford to pay for his own daughter’s wedding, but was going to the Caribbean for his.

  ‘Why are you having such an expensive wedding, Dad?’

  ‘It’s not for me, Alice.’ He shook his head. ‘Lucy’s put up with a lot. I mean she’s had to go without while I’ve supported three kids and… well…’ Drone, drone, drone.

  You know, the trouble with divorce is you don’t know who to believe. See, if you listen to Mum, then Dad never gives her anything, or hardly anything, and even then only occasionally. That’s why she has to work so many jobs—that’s why she’s so skint. And if you listen to Dad, well, according to him, he pays Mum more than he has to. That said, Eleanor is married and Bonny was eighteen when he went, but Dad says he gives Mum a lot of help with me and that she got a brilliant divorce settlement—well, she got the house.

  But if you listen to Mum she got the bloody mortgage too.

  ‘Lucy deserves a decent wedding, and…’ He glanced down at my glass. ‘Do you want another drink?’

  I didn’t but I nodded. For the first time in weeks I didn’t even feel sick, just calmer, and safer too. I could talk to Dad. I watched as he chatted to the barmaid—he was born flirting, my dad. He looks like Bonny, and she’s a wild flirt too—and there he was chatting away to the barmaid and then glancing over to me, but he gave me a bright smile and brought over my drink. As he sat down I took a deep breath and braced myself to tell him.

  Dad spoke first, though.

  ‘It’s good you called because actually I’ve got something to tell you, Alice.’ I watched him swallow and sensed he was nervous, and I was too, because I didn’t want to hear about him, or his latest drama or scandal, and there always was one where Dad was concerned. For once I wanted to talk about me and my problems, not listen to his.

  ‘Lucy’s pregnant.’

  I could feel tears in my eyes as I took a gulp of my drink—he’d put in a Bacardi. ‘I don’t want you telling your mum yet—you know what she’s like. I just want to keep it quiet till after the wedding but, well, now you can see why Lucy needs a holiday.’

  Mum was going to freak.

  That was my first thought.

  Mum would go off when she found out about this.

  And then I thought about me, or rather how the hell could I tell him? How could I tell any of them?

  It was at that point I realised I couldn’t.

  Twenty-Nine

  It just got better. He had to go to a seminar in the morning, and I could have dozed and sat on the balcony, but I knew, because he’d said what time he’d finish, that he’d want to go to the beach. It was a humid day. I wouldn’t even make it to the water’s edge without my hair starting to curl.

  I also had visions of my mum sitting dressed from head to toe and miserable at the poolside as my dad, splashing in the water with his daughters, urged her to join in.

  I didn’t want to be that.

  So, when Hugh left, instead of dozing or lounging about, I showered, and redid what the woman at the beauty centre on Bonny’s birthday had done. I squeezed my hair dry with a towel and spread a palm full of Curls Rock through it that I had bought that day. I sat for close to an hour then I got up. I took a Valium as I saw my hair coil into ringlets, but instead of panicking I read Hugh’s trashy blockbuster and waited it out. At one, I ran my fingers through it as the hairdresser had done and twisted some curls into better shape and then I sat again with my heart in my mouth.

  And I waited.

  He was going to see me with curly hair.

  He didn’t really look at me as he careered into the room. I sat cringing inside as he pulled off his suit and pulled on board shorts. He was chatting away, desperate to get out into the sun…

  And then he turned around.

  ‘Jesus, Alice…’ He stood and I swallowed. I sat there, no doubt purple from head to foot, but I was pretending to read my book—pretending that I often looked like this, that I was used to this, that this was my holiday hair.

  He loved it.

  In fact, we didn’t get to the beach till four…

  Thirty

  It never moved when I played.

  The world moved on. Gus had left, my exams drew closer. Lex’s company gave him an extension, which meant he had a few more weeks, but it wasn’t a relief.

  Bonny just unleashed her fears more.

  She didn’t want to leave Mum.

  She didn’t want to go.

  Lex tried to help. He bought Bonny and Mum a week in France at the end of May with
his bonus money, as something to look forward to, except Bonny refused to look forward.

  She wanted to stay right where she was.

  The house was chaos. Dad was now married, and Mum was ironing like some Chinese laundry slave. I was handing out toys and asking people if they wanted fries and doing school and just getting on, I guess.

  My solace was practice.

  I still hated the lessons.

  I had my music teacher from school and the usual scurf-ridden vegan as an extra and I still sang in the choir but I couldn’t manage to get to choir practice.

  I was studying for English Lit and hated Macbeth—I hated it all.

  I just loved to play.

  And you must have liked to listen because you never once moved when I did.

  You were still and quiet as my fingers stroked that ebony. You let me be and I just flew.

  Music drenched me.

  I heard it, I played it, I felt it.

  It calmed and excited.

  I stared at my fingers sometimes, heard the sound that poured out, and couldn’t really believe that it came from within me.

  I was so lucky—I could read music—I just could, and some were stressing about that, but it was obvious to me.

  Yes, I hated the lessons and the theory but I did them, because then I got the reward.

  I got to play.

  I got to watch my fingers and hear it.

  And sometimes it happened.

  It.

  This sound that came if I let it.

  A sound that came from somewhere and was delivered through me and then moved beyond.

  A place where I could go and I know you went there too, because not once, not one single time as I sat at the piano, did I feel you move.

  You allowed me to forget.

  Thirty-One

  I can say, without doubt, it was the best weekend of my life.

  It wasn’t just that there was no phone, no mail.

  It wasn’t just the brilliant sex.

  It was more than I can begin to explain.

  Idyllic?

  No, because that sounds like it was a dream and it wasn’t—it was real and it was fun and it was us.

  Perfect?

  Yes, but it was more real than perfect—it didn’t have to be perfect to be perfect, so I don’t choose that word either.

  It was us.

  Us.

  Not Hugh.

  Not Alice.

  But this new person (I don’t think I can explain it, but I am trying) we became when we were together.

  Or maybe not a person—a version of us when we joined up.

  A better version of Hugh and of Alice.

  That’s the best I can do.

  Together we were a better version.

  I was. Certainly.

  I listened, I actually listened when he told me about Gemma. My hackles didn’t rise at the threat either. He loved her; they had been together for ages.

  Lived together.

  He had declined marriage—it wasn’t necessary, he said.

  Then she had started talking about babies.

  He knew they were in trouble because, yes, he had always wanted one day to have kids, but that meant for ever and he was wondering if he could do for ever with her.

  If that was it.

  And then a temporary position had come up in Glasgow—a junior consultant’s position for six months—and he had jumped. He hadn’t been sure it was bad enough to end it, but neither had he been sure it was good enough for life, but the offer had been withdrawn and then this maternity leave position had come up in Australia.

  Ten months to sort his shit out—to decide what he wanted with Gemma.

  But he had met me.

  And he was starting to wonder if this was actually it.

  We talked and we learnt and we grew.

  I popped a few pills, but really (comparatively) not that many. We had some drinks, but it felt normal rather than necessary.

  And we laughed so many times.

  I laughed.

  If I close my eyes this second, I can see me, waist high in the waves with Hugh, bracing myself to body surf and then falling and then rising out of the ocean. My hair is everywhere, salt water coming out of my nose. I’m gagging and choking and then laughing. He is holding my shoulder as I cough and then laugh and then he is laughing too.

  I could never forget it.

  I remember it, the same way I remember to breathe—sometimes it hurts to breathe, sometimes I have to think to do it, sometimes it happens naturally, but still I do it, just as for ever I will remember that moment.

  If I get to be old, when I’m mad and can’t remember my name and there is nothing else left, I will be content if all I have is that memory.

  I never want to lose it.

  Me, waist high in the waves with Hugh, bracing myself to body surf and then falling and then rising out of the ocean. My hair is everywhere, salt water coming out of my nose. I’m gagging and choking and then laughing. He is holding my shoulder as I cough and then laugh and then he is laughing too.

  Sorry to repeat, but it’s what I do with it.

  It’s my one clean, perfect memory.

  Thirty-Two

  Planes don’t just crash.

  Planes don’t just fall out of the sky for no reason.

  Even if it seems instant (and I hope for those souls it happens to that it is) there is generally a moment.

  Where it drops.

  Where it veers.

  Where that bell pings too many times.

  The oxygen masks fall down.

  The captain says something.

  I watch the shows and it says the same thing over and over—that there was a series of incidents.

  Errors made.

  It can be callous acts unnoticed, or pay cuts that left bags unchecked, or lack of experience that meant a four-inch bolt should have been six inches. Then there’s computer errors and fatigue and fuel wastage and taking off on reduced thrust to save costs… and the more the crash investigators look, the more it seems obvious, the more it seems blazingly clear this was going to happen.

  We tut and shake our heads and are furious on those souls’ behalf (while mightily relieved it’s not us).

  We console ourselves that they will learn from this.

  That flying will now be safer.

  That the same mistakes will not be made.

  But they are.

  Over and over they are.

  And that’s just flying.

  I’m talking about living and that’s more complicated than aviation.

  So, of course, of course, there were signs and warnings.

  You read this and it’s obvious, it’s so obvious I should have seen them.

  Guess what?

  I could.

  I had set the timer, knew the bomb was about to go off, but I had changed my mind and I wanted to somehow defuse it.

  That weekend, I thought I had.

  I almost thought I had.

  I can’t tell you Hugh’s story.

  I do not know when the warning light pinged on for him—I don’t know what happened to alert him, I just know something did.

  I wasn’t expecting it.

  As I said, we were, for want of a word, close to perfect.

  There was nothing major (apart from euphoria) and nothing trivial (well, I found out I like Earl Grey tea).

  We were ticking all boxes after my perfect memory and then we got back to our towels and our place on the beach and his phone must have got sand in it ‘cos it wasn’t working.

  He didn’t freak or curse or anything really. He sat down on his towel and turned it on and off and then pulled it out of its case and blew into the little thingy that joins it to the charger in case there was sand in there.

  And he could surely do that at the hotel.

  The knot was starting in my stomach and I wanted to go back to the hotel.

  And he was sitting on the sand, blowing into a phone, and I really wan
ted to go back to the hotel.

  Or rather my make-up bag, which was in the bathroom.

  So, finally, finally we headed back and I was happy to leave him sitting on the bed playing with the phone, except he followed me into the shower. I really wasn’t in the mood and neither was he because he went back to his beloved phone. I got to my make-up bag and the tiny glitch was over.

  But Hugh was minus a phone—I just didn’t see it coming, didn’t realise that there was so much riding on that four-inch bolt that should have been six.

  We were getting the red-eye in the morning at 05.50 hours and we both had to be at work at nine, Hugh preferably by eight (or seven if he could possibly make it).

  We made good time. We were in the flat before eight and as I walked in I could see the phone in the hall blinking rapidly.

  Hugh didn’t notice.

  He downed a coffee.

  Brushed his teeth.

  Kissed me.

  ‘Can I ask a favour?’

  ‘Sure.’ I was a bit unsettled. The bloody answering-machine was like a strobe light flashing and I imagined all the debt messages.

  ‘Can you buy me a phone in your lunch break?’ He quickly kissed my frown. ‘Just a cheap one—any one…’

  ‘Sure.’

  He went then and, I have to say, the little break had left me calmer because I was brave enough to check my messages, to see what they were threatening now.

  There were none from the credit-card people, which should have cheered me up, but it didn’t.

  There were about ten from Gemma.

  She couldn’t get him on his mobile: she needed to talk to him.

  Could he just pick up the phone?

  Hugh, please pick up the phone.

  Hugh, don’t do this.

  It was then that my warning light pinged on.

  I just can’t believe how quickly it happened after that.

  How something so good rapidly turned so very bad.