I did tell her I had started a regular fitness routine, without mentioning it was part of my plan for a healthy pregnancy. I had already cut back on my drinking, figuring this was not the time to let some depressive episode with alcohol get its nails into me.
She gave me a prescription “to treat your anxiety.” I didn’t have it filled right away, of course. I looked it up online and saw it might harm the baby. Besides which, I wasn’t anxious. Scared and majorly pissed off, yes. The juddering waves of anxiety came later.
Anyway, this was the same woman who thought my walking every day might be “obsessive.” I ask you.
We wasted an inordinate amount of time talking about my stepmother, it seemed to me. Thank God it was three sessions and I was done.
I loathed everything about my stepmother, beginning with her name. I tried for all of five minutes to like Tralee but it was doomed from the start. She was like the Yoko Ono of Four Corners. What was my father thinking?
Another saying of my grandmother’s was that the first woman to the front door with the casserole gets the widower. My father had been a widower for about twenty seconds when this predator, all boobs and hair spray, swooped in with a whole lot more on offer than tuna casserole. She was white trash out of Carolina in a big way. It took me longer than it should have to realize she’d been in the picture with my father for a long, long time before my mother died, biding her time and waiting like the spider that she was.
He sent me to live with a big Catholic family for my last year of high school, so he could live with Tralee. The O’Brians had seven kids and he figured they wouldn’t notice one more. He was right. I soon moved out and got a shared apartment and a job at the local deli. Later I put myself through college with a combination of the scholarship and working at Hollywood Green Productions, which as I’ve said proved to be my launching pad into the BBC.
Was I angry? You bet I was. None of it would have happened if my brother had been alive. My father would have stuck around for him, not dumped him on that tribe of well-meaning religious nuts.
It’s pronounced Trah-lee, if you’re wondering. She could be sweet but only when she was getting her way. My father was besotted with her and I came to believe he was some sort of masochist.
This was not just my opinion: everybody in my parents’ little town saw what was going on—what had been going on for years. Everyone hated her, especially the women, and many hated him. Just take my word for it. As a couple, they were shunned. I can only think he was reverting to type, sinking to the easiest level, letting Jack Daniels do all his thinking for him.
She always wore a diamond big as Texas from her third husband on her right hand. That’s right—my father was husband number four. Spineless and at a loss as my mother’s health failed, he grabbed onto Tralee like a drowning man. They eventually got married in a hole-and-corner civil ceremony befitting the occasion. My father, with his usual impeccable timing, died soon afterwards. They were married just long enough to screw up my life.
I was not invited to the wedding but I wouldn’t have gone in any case. I had some fun considering what I might send them as a gift, but—no.
Tralee had two grown daughters, Marla and Brandee. Seriously. Because “Streetcar was my favorite movie ever.” She was not aware A Streetcar Named Desire had ever been a play and she was shocked when I told her. (Was I sure? Yes, I was sure. She was delighted to learn Brando had starred in both versions.) I thought she should have named her daughters after characters in Star Wars, like Jabba and Jar Jar. I don’t think Will would have married me if they’d been blood relatives, or if he’d met them or even seen photos of them. They were embarrassment enough at second hand.
At some point I had to return to the US to deal with stuff it was costing me a fortune to keep in storage. I had time to kill before my return flight so I decided to go see the new beach house my stepmother had bought with my father’s life insurance money. With what should have been my money. I still don’t know why I did it. It was salt in the wound. An impulsive giving in to curiosity, it was also a final gesture; I knew I’d never see her again. I guess I was hoping I’d find her failing, finally succumbing to one of her many illnesses, melting like the bad witch she was.
Will wasn’t with me, of course. I had only just met him, and—well, see above: Tralee and her daughters would have had him running for the hills.
When I called she sounded suspicious, paranoid—why would I want to see her, after all? Maybe to steal something I could use in a satanic ritual to make her bleached hair fall out? But after filling me in for a few minutes on her medical conditions, she told me I could come for lunch. I declined lunch, but I arrived to find she’d made tea and Ritz crackers with artistic little swirls of Cheez Whiz—sharp cheddar with pimento. Yum. I drank the tea.
She was older, and, of course, when you finally face the dragon in her doily-dotted cave, not as scary as you’ve built up in your mind. She was moving slower and seemed to have trouble focusing, if the nail varnish was anything to go by—it looked like she’d painted her nails in the dark. We spent half an hour talking about her vast array of fascinating medical problems; I hoped even half of what she claimed to be suffering from was true. Pretending to listen, I scanned the room for belongings she’d stolen from me and my mother. Every vestige of my childhood had disappeared, to be replaced by tacky crap that looked like it had all come from a garage sale.
Finally she surprised me by moving on to a topic beyond her high, but not high enough, LDL cholesterol levels. She asked me if I was seeing anyone. I told her a bit about Will, keeping it vague. I told her him name was James le Blanc in case she looked him up. I wanted this woman nowhere near my life.
Tralee said, “Well played. A highness, no less.”
I nodded. I could not be troubled to explain British titles to this peasant. I sat staring into her gleaming little blue-lined eyes as she replayed the story she had already once told me of her third husband’s dying wish—his heartwarming desire that Tralee should find someone to take care of her and their two little orphans when he passed. That she should not mourn him forever (as if).
So touching. And doesn’t this Make-a-Wish scenario sound familiar? I mean, please. Did he also desire that my mother should suffer so horribly, waiting at home for my father to come give her her medicine?
So this monster and I sat and drank tea and I watched her lick the Cheez Whiz off the crackers as I wished arsenic was easier to come by. She wanted to reminisce over pictures of the funeral. Of course I declined. The person buried in that box was not my father, not the hero he’d been. He’d thrown all that away.
She always had a parting shot.
“I think you’re making a big mistake,” she said as I rose to leave. “He’s miles out of your league. You should stick with your own kind.” She said this not particularly with spite, but more as a point of information.
It was this kind of thing … I don’t know how I stopped myself from choking her or throwing something at her head, maybe one of her bargain purchases from the Shopping Channel. There was a heavy glass paperweight on the table I stood next to and my fingers itched to throw it at her like a baseball. Then I realized it had belonged to my mother. I pocketed it instead. At least the visit wasn’t a total loss.
If Will was out of my league, my father was for sure out of hers. How fucking dare she? I literally bit the inside of both cheeks until I tasted blood. Then I spun round and stalked out the door without another word.
These memories, these blasts from the past. What was the use of them, and why did Anna’s death seem to dredge up all this crap? It was nothing to do with her …
Ken, for instance, the guy Oscar was so exercised about—why think of him now? I’d allowed him to move into my place in London to save money, which proved to be one of those false economies you could kick yourself for, like buying the second-hand car that leaves you stranded when you cou
ld have afforded better. For a while after I tossed him out, Ken became a bit of a stalker. He had thought his moving in was a prelude to forever, it seems. But I met Will and that was that. Bad timing, that’s all. Too bad. Ken had to go.
I didn’t remember a whole lot about him, to tell you the truth, apart from the way we parted. He’s a vague, large blonde shape in my memory, a sort of Ken-doll in looks and name. He had some adventure TV show about exploring the Amazon jungle that he was trying to sell to the BBC. I suppose I was really only seeing him because he was American and I had fallen into a sort of nostalgia for people who sounded like Ken, who looked and acted like him: all puppyish exuberance and not a lot of forethought. But then Will came along, handsome in that pale, long-nosed British way; Will had a British passport and a title. And, oh my lucky stars, Will was smitten with me.
I spent half a day, while Ken was out, packing his belongings for him to save on the drama—he didn’t have much, as his major stuff was back in the US. He walked in to find his bags stacked in neat rows by the door, his coat folded on top of the largest case. I even had my phone ready in my hand to call him a taxi. Yes, I waited until he got home, even as I wondered if that was wise. They always say it’s when things end that the guy gets violent, if he’s going to. But I’d never seen a sign of that sort of temper from Ken. I almost wondered if he wouldn’t have been more interesting to me with that edge. The edge that Will had, in spades. Poor Ken. He couldn’t help it that he was boring.
He bleated for about five minutes, and finally said, “Did you ever love me?”
Why pretend? I shook my head.
“No. Of course not. I don’t think you’re capable … ” His voice wavered, and he must have sounded pathetic even to his own ears. But his gaze never left my face, in that hopeful, puppy-dog way of his: Surely I was joking and we would go for the walk I’d promised after all? I looked away, the way you turn from a car wreck once you realize it is way worse than you expected.
“No, not really,” I said, to make sure he got this. “I didn’t really love you. And before you say it again, whether you loved me or not doesn’t matter, don’t you see?” More quietly, I repeated, “It doesn’t matter. It’s just over. It never started.” Really, I thought to spare us both further embarrassment, truly I did, but Ken did not seem to take it that way. I suppose I should just have just left him alone to sort himself out for an hour, but I wanted to feel I’d behaved well, cutting him free to find someone else: It just didn’t work out, blah blah blah. Best of luck for the future.
I also didn’t quite trust him not to set the place on fire, lovable or not.
As I’d told Oscar, I don’t know what happened to Ken.
Or maybe I don’t want to remember.
30
There was a woman on one of those true-crime shows on the telly who had cut her abusive husband up into a curry. Seriously. Well, several curries, presumably. A squeamish BBC had declined to dramatize that one for BM: London.
The night of Milo’s visit, Will started to get up in my face about something, but he stopped when he noticed I was cutting carrots and parsnips into a one-inch dice. Maybe he’d seen the show. Instead of going out of his way to provoke me, as was his wont lately, he got himself a gigantic pour of something and went off to the living room to see what was on TV. I had started doing all the cooking but honestly, it was better that way. Will had once been good about helping with the cleanup. Now that had become my job, too. I reminded myself it was only temporary and not worth fighting about.
I liked to have classical music playing in the background during dinner. We had a built-in stereo system that could pipe music into any room in the house. All very civilized, plus it hid the fact that my husband and I had nothing to say to one another. Without music to fill the silence, there was only the sound of the scrape of knife and fork against the plate.
When did this start? Six months ago? More?
I wondered what it was this time. Anyone could see the tension in the man, in the way his head jutted from his shoulders, in the way he stabbed his fork against the plate. I knew better than to say a word. I wondered if anyone from Milo’s team had spoken with him yet.
Half the time I didn’t even know what Will’s problem was. Lately I could guess: a guilty conscience makes the best people behave badly.
How had we got to here, me and Will? It had started so well. We had been one of those golden couples books are written about.
I had been at a wine bar with some people when I spotted Will having a drink. The mirror over the bar reflected the aristocratic lines of his face—not Prince Charles aristocratic; more Jude Law with hair—but what really captivated me was the way he carried himself, his relaxed posture as he chatted with the bartender. He radiated man-of-the-world confidence, that self-assurance that comes naturally to people of his class and background, to men who are born to lead. It’s attractive until you have to live with the accompanying sense of entitlement every day.
Anyway, I reapplied my lipstick and headed straight over to order food for my table from the bartender. Carpe diem.
Much later I ended up making excuses to the friends—BBC coworkers celebrating something, some engagement or promotion long forgotten—and I left with Will.
Not that anything happened that first night. I’m not stupid, and besides, Ken was at home watching telly, waiting for me. In hindsight, Ken-as-barrier was a good thing, making me a little more elusive in Will’s eyes. We went from the wine bar to the cozy basement of a restaurant on Great Titchfield Street for dinner—Will first picking up the tab for the appetizers I’d ordered for my table. Yes, he was all that—thoughtful, generous, and good-looking. This one act won him many fans among my colleagues, apart from Oscar, who saw it as some toff showing off.
I had the Ken situation to get out of first. This had to be clear sailing, for I was just as smitten as Will was. I found it hard to breathe in his presence. Ken would have to understand: it was just one of those things.
Of course I pretended not to be too interested in Will at first, but I did look for a wedding ring and saw none. That didn’t mean he wasn’t taken in some way. It turned out he was. One of his mother’s finds. He told me the whole story over more drinks, then, still the perfect gentleman, he put me in a cab and sent me home.
The next day he was ringing my doorbell. A bit awkward, that, because of course he didn’t know about Ken. I told Will over the intercom, politely, that I was busy and I’d ring him later, which just whetted his appetite. He never guessed about Ken. Sometimes jealousy over a rival works for you but in Will’s case, I had a feeling it would backfire. Just being unavailable to Will now and then was all it took.
Will’s girlfriend later ran off, to all appearances disappearing with her Spaniard, as I’d told Oscar. Will swore it was nothing to do with me.
“It had been over a long time,” he said.
Exactly what I wanted to hear.
I’ve had some amazing luck in my life—things that seemed just handed over because I wanted them so much, so intensely. Will was one of these things.
To avoid talking about Anna that night of the parsnips, I kept jumping up to refill Will’s wine glass or get more bread from the oven. Getting him plastered was always a dicey proposition: sometimes wine would calm him down; at other times, it was fuel to the fire. That night I made sure it calmed him. A little something added to his drink, that was all.
He grabbed the remote, dropped into a chair in front of the TV while I did the dishes, and promptly fell asleep.
I know this sounds like a marriage in the death throes, and of course, it was. But meanwhile, an uneasy truce was preferable to the endless rounds of fights. Least said, soonest mended. I needed calm and space to think, to be ready for whatever lay ahead. I decided to pretend, to keep on pretending. Keep him from doing anything rash, and calling on whatever skills I possessed as an actress. I couldn’t
quite pull off doting wife, but I could do patient and long-suffering wife.
Around eight Frannie Pope stopped by. She did this occasionally—she was lonely, I guess, and would turn up once she’d closed the shop with some feeble excuse to talk. Generally, it was Will she wanted to take financial advice from. I took her coat and scarf to hang in the hall closet and sent her off to bend Will’s ear—he’d been awakened by the doorbell. I offered her wine and said I had something to finish up in the kitchen.
She was a welcome distraction. From what I could overhear, she was nattering at Will about some investment or other—was it a good buy? Was gold still a safe bet? She’d come into some money, it seemed. A small bequest from Anna, of all people. I tuned out at that point and continued fussing around, wiping down the kitchen counters.
When she got up to leave I went to fetch her coat from the hall closet. She stood there saying endless goodbyes, complimenting me on my hairstyle and my watch, and then, in her dithery way, she dropped her purse. Half the contents spilled out and coins went rolling across the wood floor, so we spent some time getting her sorted. She seemed flustered, but then, she always seemed flustered.
What the hell, I asked Will once she’d left, was that all about?
He shrugged and turned the set back on.
I resumed organizing my Anna case file. Drag and drop, drag and drop. I had started keeping the writer’s equivalent of a double-entry system: the whole truth, and the truth in its fictionalized version. The story was taking shape, the pages adding up, and I had started keeping a page-count spreadsheet to document my progress.
I made fun of the OCD tendencies of my neighbors but in truth, while the rest of the house might be a shambles, my office was generally shipshape. I’d spent a certain amount of time each day getting even more of my files in order, shredding and condensing. Tidying my life for posterior.
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