You know when we were kids hanging out and someone’s parent would appear? You remember how we used to go kind of stiff and formal and pissed off all at the same time, exchanging glances and speaking of nothing in a stilted way? That’s how it was when I approached Lily and her group after those meetings. I felt like one of our parents and I understood how annoying it must have been for them, as if they actually gave a damn what we were talking about. One woman in particular really annoyed me. She was in her fifties, clumsy-looking, big-boned. She had lost all her hair but she never covered up. I half expected her to be wearing a badge with ‘Proud to have cancer’ on it. She was always talking and when I or anyone else appeared, anyone who wasn’t part of the group, she’d lower her voice and draw the others in; it was this kind of us against the world trip.
I said something about it to Lily as we drove back home one night and she turned on me with a look that said I was the enemy.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘it’s me. We’re on the same side, remember?’ I took my hand off the steering wheel and put it on her knee, giving it a pat. She drew away from my touch.
Then there were the times when she just wanted me to hold her and never let go.
‘If we stay here,’ she said as we lay in bed, just hugging each other, ‘maybe nothing, not even death, can find us.’
She would ask me, over and over again, if I loved her and I told her I did, more than ever. Then she wanted to know if I still fancied her.
That broke my heart because the truth was, I didn’t. Obviously I never told her that. I loved her so much it ached, but that love grew more and more like the love for a child or an ailing parent. Just the thought of sex with her made me feel like some kind of pervert. Maybe she sensed it because she let me off the hook, telling me she just wanted to be held. I could do that.
Then there were the jokes. She and her cancer friends all made brave little jokes about their illness, the way it made them look, the treatment, all of it. And I had to laugh although I didn’t find it funny. Friends would look at me with sympathy and say, ‘Of course you don’t find it funny: you’re losing her.’ But actually, the main reason I didn’t find it funny was because all their jokes had been done before, in the columns and blogs of all the other poor devils with cancer: ‘I never thought the day would come when I was named Slimmer of the Year.’ Or, ‘At least I will be saving on the waxing.’ I couldn’t do it, laugh and admire their guts.
We lived in Cancerland and I had to get out.
It was the usual sordid little fling. At a conference, to compound the cliché. She wasn’t even that pretty, but she was healthy. Everything about her, her wide hips and full breasts, her strong teeth and smooth skin and thick, glossy hair, exuded health. She prattled on about her plans for the future. She got pissed. Her jokes were not particularly funny but at least they weren’t brave. So I fucked her.
Lily died four weeks later. I didn’t tell her what had happened at that damn conference but I think she knew anyway.
The thing is, I’m not a bad guy. And I loved her. I really loved her. And that’s what haunts me as much as anything: is that all I’m capable of, the best I have to give? I loved her, she was dying and I betrayed her. I haven’t told many people, it’s not the kind of thing you advertise, after all, but those I have confided in tell me not to be so hard on myself. That it was just a physical outlet. That it had nothing to do with my feelings for Lily. But it did. It had everything to do with her. So now I never tell a woman that I love her. How can I?
Lance and I had stayed at the restaurant until every table but ours had been cleared and laid for lunch and the waiters had taken to checking their watches each time they caught our eyes.
‘We should go,’ I said. ‘They probably have a really early start.’
‘Relax, it’s their job,’ Lance said, but he agreed to leave.
He put me in a cab and watched and waved as it drove off.
Back home I went straight to my desk and switched on the computer. I had to work. Lily Cooper had died young. If I were to die tomorrow, did I want to leave behind unfulfilled wishes to wilt and die like flowers on my grave?
Who cares? Coco said. You’ll be dead.
I decided now was the time to try my hand at the crime novel I had been thinking about for some time:
Mr Zimmerman’s Holiday
The last thing he was heard saying before he disappeared was, ‘It’s good to be alive.’ Spring had arrived overnight and on the early-morning streets people blinked against the unaccustomed sunlight as they peeled off their winter layers, everyone but Morris Zimmerman, that is. Mr Zimmerman in his white shirt, discreet tie and heavy wool three-piece suit stepped out of his immaculate front garden at nine o’clock precisely and turned left towards his studio on a nearby street, the same as he did every weekday morning. No one had ever seen Morris Zimmerman out and about in anything other than a woollen three-piece suit, and if you knocked on his door, at any time at all, he always answered the door dressed in that same way. If you visited his studio there he’d be in front of his easel, brush and palette in hand, still in his three-piece suit, so when you thought about it, it seemed nothing short of a miracle that there was never the merest speck of paint on the dark cloth. Neighbours speculated that he even wore his suit to bed but as Mrs Zimmerman had died over twenty years ago there was no decent way of finding out if this was true. That was why, at first, none of his friends and neighbours put two and two together when the news came that a body had been found wearing Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew sunlight was flooding my desk and my phone was ringing.
It was John Sterling.
‘How’s the book going?’
‘The book? Oh the book.’ Inwardly I was cursing Angie Bliss. ‘Still very much at the ideas stage, I’m afraid. There’s been so much going on lately. I don’t know if you’ve seen but I’ve caused a bit of an upset lately.’
‘The – my books are rubbish – statement.’ He chuckled.
I sighed.
‘I didn’t actually say that; the newspaper made it up. Then again, I did say something very similar.’ He seemed to be waiting for me to continue speaking so I asked how he was.
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘And how is Melanie?’
‘Melanie? I’m sure she’s fine.’ Which was an odd way to speak about one’s partner, I thought. ‘I feel our meeting was cut short the other week,’ he said finally. ‘I thought I’d check to see if you needed some more information, but if you’ve dropped the idea …’
‘That’s really kind. And I might well pick it up again. In which case I would love to take you up on your offer.’
‘Great,’ John Sterling said. ‘I look forward to it.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
John
‘BREAK THE CYCLE, THAT’S the trick.’ Angie Bliss handed John an ordinary rubber band. ‘Put it on your left wrist,’ she ordered. ‘No, I’m serious, put it on.’ As he did what he was told she leant over his arm and said, ‘You’re lucky you’re not hairy.’
‘Am I? Right. Now what do I do?’
‘It’s simple. Every time an obsessive thought enters your mind you snap the band.’
‘I snap the band?’
She leant forward again and took his wrist.
‘You snap the band – like this.’ She inserted her finger between his skin and the band, pulled it out and let go. ‘Snap,’ she said, her voice husky.
John looked at the red band.
‘I’ll give it a go,’ he said. ‘I just need this whole thing sorted out. I’ve wasted enough time. I’ve got my daughter staying this week. I want to be able to focus on enjoying my time with her.’
‘Lovely. And how about Rebecca Finch? Have you seen her lately?’
‘I spoke to her on the telephone – last night, as it happens. I told her that I would be happy to help should she require any further informa
tion.’
‘She’s a very attractive woman, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose she is.’
‘What do you mean you suppose she is?’
John frowned.
‘I haven’t really thought about it. I’m helping her with her research, not asking her for a date. You really think this rubber-band business is going to help?’
‘You’ll have to work at it,’ the therapist said. ‘As I’m sure Rupert would have told you, this is a long process. Now, I know I’ve asked you this before, but there’s no harm in a little reiteration, is there? What would you say your ideal woman was like?’
‘Ideal woman? I don’t know that I have one.’
‘Try. There is a point to all this, I assure you. You do want to get on top of this OCD thing?’
‘Of course I do. But I don’t see what that has to do with my ideal woman.’
‘I don’t know if Rupert ever explained this to you, but for therapy to work there has to be trust. So trust me. Tell me, what is she like, your ideal mate?’
John raised his hands in resignation and sat back in his chair.
‘Lively,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘Energetic, interested.’
‘Excellent.’ The therapist nodded in approval and John began to feel as if he were answering a quiz rather than giving his opinion.
‘And pretty would be nice,’ he said.
‘Personally I’ve always had a weakness for freckles.’
‘Freckles?’
‘Freckles. Not all over, perhaps, but a becoming sprinkle across the nose and maybe some on the forearms and a tiny little bit on the decolletage. As for age, I don’t know about you but I always think it’s so much more impressive to see a successful man with a woman his own age at his side, an interesting-looking woman as opposed to some pretty-pretty bimbo.’
‘I can’t see why she can’t be interesting-looking and pretty.’ John realised he sounded as if he were negotiating.
‘Well, yes, yes, it’s not impossible. Depending of course what you define as pretty. Now what about noses? The most attractive woman I’ve seen for many a day has what I’d call a proper nose. Not one of those cosmetic-surgery teensy-weensy things.
‘A big nose?’
‘I did not say big. I said proper. How about hair?’
‘Hair is good.’
‘We won’t get anywhere if you won’t take this seriously. Hair?’
‘Blonde, I suppose.’
A small frown appeared on the therapist’s alabaster brow.
‘Are you sure? You don’t think light-brown, for example?’
‘Brown hair can obviously be …’
‘I didn’t say brown’ – the therapist’s tone was sharp – ‘I said light-brown.’
‘The hair colour really doesn’t matter that much,’ John said.
Angie Bliss relaxed and continued.
‘Long?’
John nodded.
‘Long’s all right. Short’s all right too.’
‘Thick, shiny and wavy?’
‘Obviously all of that would be very nice.’
‘Of course it would be. And we don’t like small button noses?’
‘Don’t we?’
‘No. We like noses with character. And eyebrows. Proper eyebrows.’
John looked at the therapist’s nose and wondered if perfection came under the heading of character.
He said, ‘She should be independent.’
‘Career woman?’
‘I think so. Someone with her own life, her own interests, although not a lawyer, preferably.’
‘Absolutely,’ the therapist said. ‘Opposites, that’s what one wants.’
‘Yes, complementary but different. And I’d like her to have children of her own. One of the problems with Melanie was that she didn’t understand that Susannah was a priority. So definitely someone who has children.’
‘Or someone who has lots of experience with children, many godchildren, for example. Yes, that would be the best of all worlds. She will have the experience and temperament to deal with your daughter, she will understand your child’s needs but she won’t be preoccupied with her own offspring. Perfect.’
‘I suppose that could work. If there really is someone like that.’
‘Trust me, there is. So, you want someone who’s maternal yet career-minded, sharp and independent yet kind and feminine with pretty, light-brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles. Self-reliant but affectionate, and you said energetic. Personally I think someone who’s happy in their own company, doing nothing, just being, is very attractive.’
‘I suppose so,’ John said again. ‘But I still don’t see what this exercise has to do with OCD.’
‘You wouldn’t. That’s why I’m the therapist and you’re not. And please remember why you sought help from professionals in the first place.’
‘Because my ex-girlfriend told me to.’
‘What are you, a man or a hen-pecked wimp?’ She paused for a moment and then, as if she had had a sudden inspiration, her brow cleared and she told him, ‘Anyway, quite apart from all of this, the latest research shows that a supportive spouse is key to conquering OCD.’ She leant across and patted him on the knee. ‘But we’ll get there, don’t you worry.’
In preparation for Susannah’s visit John went to Hamley’s to get the latest Barbie doll. Last time his daughter had stayed the night he had incurred his ex-wife’s wrath by getting the Barbie Floral Vanity Unit. It had been unpacked and assembled ready for Susanna’s arrival when Lydia, marching ahead to her daughter’s room, had taken one look at the toy and hissed, ‘Could I have a word?’ While their daughter rushed over to the pink plastic furniture, Lydia told John that he was out of order, spoiling the child, trying to buy her affection, attempting to outdo Lydia and Adrian … The accusations had got shriller and Susannah, roused from her play of dabbing imaginary blusher on her peach cheeks and mascara on her dark silky lashes, had turned round. Seeing the looks on her parents’ faces, she had burst into tears.
Lydia, unable to hide a glint of triumph in her eyes, had knelt down in front of the child and explained in a sorrowful voice that Daddy had made a mistake and that the vanity unit would have to go back to the shop.
‘Maybe Santa …’
‘Father Christmas,’ John muttered.
Lydia had glared at him, shaking her head before continuing with exaggerated enunciation, ‘Maybe Father Christmas will bring you one for Christmas.’
John had looked from his weeping daughter to his ex-wife, who was still squatting in front of the child. He remembered the time, not so long ago, when Susannah was born. He had stood by, unable to do anything much other than be in the way, as his wife went through the pain of labour. As the hours wore on he had wished fervently for a dragon or two to appear so that he could prove to his wife his love and gratitude. Yet now, barely six years on, if a dragon knocked on the door he would keep hold of Susannah and then stand back, politely offering him Lydia.
‘Be my guest, dear fellow, and enjoy.’
This time, determined to get the visit off to a good start by pleasing Susannah without enraging his ex-wife, he had stood before the rows of California Surfer Barbies, Fairy-topia Elina Barbies and Barbies On the Go at a loss to know which one to chose. A young woman shopper with a toddler in a pushchair smiled conspiratorially at him. A female sales assistant with an air of motherly competence asked him if she could help. He said he was unsure which one his six-year-old daughter would like the best. The sales assistant said that California Surfer Barbie was very popular at the moment.
The young mother interceded with, ‘My eldest is completely in love with her Fairytopia.’
She and the sales assistant exchanged amused glances as John picked up one of the dolls, looking at it with complete bafflement.
The assistant said, ‘Why don’t you go for Fairytopia Elina? As this lady says, all the little girls adore her.’
John nodd
ed.
‘Yes. Yes, I think I shall. Thank you both very much.’
As he wandered off towards the cash point the assistant shook her head and smiled at the young mother.
‘Bless.’
Now he was pacing the sitting room of his Primrose Hill house, pausing every minute or so in front of the window to look for the silver Mercedes Estate. He had checked Susannah’s bedroom twice already, making sure it was aired and that her toys were arranged just the way she liked them. Then he had worried, the way he often did, that Susannah’s desire for order and straight lines might be the beginnings of obsessive-compulsive behaviour.
A couple of weeks back, when he and Lydia had been having a particularly vicious row, Lydia had turned on him, her dark eyes sparkling with malice, and said, ‘Maybe it’s best Susannah doesn’t spend too much time with you; I mean what with your problems.’ She had rolled the word ‘problems’ around her mouth as if it were a chocolate, melting deliciously on her tongue.
He had felt doubly betrayed; she knew about his OCD only because he had confided in her during a recent truce, telling her to watch out for signs of related behaviour in their daughter.
‘There is a slight genetic component to the whole thing,’ he had explained.
And at the time, Lydia had smiled and thanked him for being so frank. She was an expert, his ex-wife, in drawing out a confidence, storing it up and throwing it back in your face.
He went into Susannah’s bedroom one more time and having studied the row of soft toys lined up on the bed he picked up Pooh and moved him away from Mr Woofy, sitting him next to Polly Pig instead: a small break in the order would be healthy. He took a step back, studying his handiwork. Then again, maybe it wasn’t right separating the two friends. Maybe instead of gently discouraging any obsessive-compulsive tendencies in his daughter, it would simply upset her to see her possessions rearranged. So what about if he moved both Pooh and Mr Woofy away from their spot just below the picture of the funfair and placed them further down towards the foot-end of the bed? Yes, that was better, enough of a disruption of what could be developing into an obsessive arranging of her toys by his daughter but not so much as to unsettle her.
Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers Page 20
