The Mistake I Made

by Paula Daly

  The downside to Tarn Hows is the sheer quantity of people who visit, particularly of late, as the path around the water has been improved to such a degree that you could get around on roller skates if you set your mind to it.

  At this time, getting close to seven forty-five, there were only a few stragglers left and a group of Japanese tourists. We stayed in the car as the group exited the minibus, not wanting to get caught up in the general confusion as umbrellas (to be used as parasols) were opened, cameras strung around necks, selfie sticks extended, wedge-heeled trainers adjusted.

  We grabbed our beers and sunglasses and headed off. Instead of going towards the path, though, we turned back on ourselves, climbing the small hill which lies due south of the road. The view is immeasurably better, and hardly anyone is anarchic enough to go against the National Trust signposts – so you can more or less bank on having it to yourselves.

  Henry also had lived in the area since birth, he said. So, having visited Tarn Hows throughout our youth, we were without the look of loved-up wonder displayed on the faces of many of the folk stumbling upon this beauty spot for the first time, couples whose expressions were so full of hope for the years ahead, as though this one experience would be the benchmark of their entire relationship. This is how it’s going to be, you would see manifested in the girls’ springy gait, the affected cadence of their words, and I’d think, cruelly: Every day, sweetheart. Every day.

  ‘Here all right?’ Henry asked, gesturing as he reached the summit, the bottles clinking against each other in the bag he carried with him.

  There was a patch of grass the size of a double mattress, flattened from an earlier picnic. I told Henry it was fine, and we settled ourselves, Henry taking the opener from his pocket. He offered me a bottle of Miller, giving me another gentle, chiding look of disappointment at my choice. ‘All of this,’ he’d joked earlier, motioning to the array on offer in the Co-op, ‘and you go for bland American beer?’

  ‘Bland American beer that I happen to like,’ I’d replied.

  ‘What?’ I said to him now as he removed the cap from his bottle, ‘You’d prefer one of those women who drink pints of Guinness, or Caffrey’s, while watching rugby with the boys?’

  He cast me an amused smile. ‘I’ve been out with a couple of those, actually.’

  ‘I thought you might have. Ever been married?’

  ‘Just once,’ he replied. ‘I was married once.’

  We went on talking for a time, one of those conversations when you skirt around topics, trying each other out for size, conscious not to offend or try too hard to impress. Our exchanges were frisky and teasing, but the whole time I was more than a little guarded on account of the Scott situation never being far from my mind.

  ‘So,’ Henry said, after we’d discussed films, musicians we found irritating, foreign places we’d like to visit. I was relieved he didn’t start banging on about his bucket list, as so many of the men I knew did, not realizing their list was exactly the same as everyone else who read GQ: scuba dive on the Great Barrier Reef, live in Barcelona for a year, get their pilot’s licence. ‘So, you’re seeing someone from work?’ said Henry casually.

  This caught me off guard. I’d hoped he’d not really registered Celia’s comment of earlier.

  As I stumbled on my words, he said, ‘I can’t think who it might be. Not Wayne, surely?’

  ‘No,’ I shot back quickly. ‘No, not Wayne.’

  He blew out his breath, smiling. ‘I couldn’t really picture that relationship. If I’m being honest.’

  I took a swig and stalled, thinking through the best way to proceed. If I admitted to seeing someone – anyone (they didn’t actually have to exist) – I would have an exit strategy.

  I could say I was pretty much forced into this date by his sister, Nadine, and was seeing someone secretly that no one knew about.

  That’s what I should have said.

  That would have been the sensible thing to do. To get out now before anyone got hurt.

  Except I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Henry was too damned beautiful and I was already captivated. I had the sense that, even if I tried to go ahead and tell Henry I was involved with another man, something completely different would shoot out of my mouth.

  ‘I don’t mean to pry,’ said Henry, cajoling softly, ‘but, obviously, it would be nice to know if I’m wasting my time here.’

  I drained my bottle.

  ‘There’s no one,’ I said firmly, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I was seeing a guy, but it’s over. I fobbed my neighbour off with that lie because she’s always trying to set me up. I told her I was seeing someone from work just to, you know …’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, looking relieved and genuinely pleased at the same time. ‘Oh, well, that’s good then. Didn’t want to have to fight over you.’

  I smiled weakly.

  ‘Not least because I’m a shitty fighter,’ he added, as he passed me another bottle.

  ‘What are you good at? Just out of interest,’ I asked.

  ‘Me?’ he replied, and without missing a beat, said, ‘Living.’

  ‘What kind of answer is that?’

  ‘The only answer I have.’

  I laughed and began picking at the wet label on the side of the beer bottle. ‘That does sound rather big-headed,’ I said.

  ‘Does it?’ he replied. ‘I don’t mean it to. I’m not saying, “Hey, isn’t my life great, isn’t yours rubbish?” Just that I try to spend my days doing as many of the things that I enjoy and hardly any time doing the things I don’t.’

  ‘Such as working,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Such as that.’

  He tipped the neck of the bottle of his strawberry ale against mine. ‘Cheers,’ he said happily.

  Foxy was yapping in the garden when we returned.

  ‘Be quiet!’ yelled Celia, before blowing her whistle.

  Not wanting Henry to see the state of the interior of my home, and also, not wanting him to be around when George returned, I didn’t ask him in for coffee. In fact, I’d said goodbye to him as I’d closed the car door. We didn’t kiss. Celia and Dennis were enjoying the last of the evening sun on their newly purchased bench seat, and it would have been supremely awkward.

  Nonetheless, Henry took it upon himself to follow me to my front door.

  ‘Nice time?’ asked Celia, and I mumbled that it was lovely, thanks. I was aware of her shooting Dennis a look. She now thought I was the type of woman who sabotaged every relationship by being too picky. She didn’t have to say it. It was there, plain as day, in the lines of disapproval at the corners of her mouth.

  Turning the key in the lock, I said to Henry, ‘I’d invite you in, but my son …’

  I let the words hang, hoping he’d make the leap between George arriving home soon and his presence being inappropriate.

  ‘Then invite me in,’ he said.

  ‘George will be back.’

  ‘So, you don’t have friends round?’ he asked mildly. ‘Not ever?’

  ‘Not the male kind.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I can’t stand that “This is Mummy’s new friend” crap. Or, “George, come and meet your Uncle Henry.” It’s bad for kids.’

  He regarded me as if to say I was being over the top, overprotective of George, and so I told him, in a whisper-shouting kind of way, that since he was not a father, he had no real grounds to air his opinion on my parenting decisions.

  For a second he appeared angry. It was fleeting, though. The kind of short-lived surge you experience when cut off in traffic, before realizing you actually know the old guy in the car in front.

  ‘Just five minutes,’ persisted Henry.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t. Sorry.’

  ‘I want to see where you live.’

  ‘And I’d rather you didn’t.’

  At that moment Celia got up from the bench seat and toddled across the front lawn, hands on hips. ‘Would you two l
ove birds care for a glass of Pimm’s?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ replied Henry quickly. ‘I’m driving. And Roz has just offered to treat me to one of her famous coffees.’

  Celia’s face dropped. ‘Perhaps next time,’ she said, and Henry threw Celia his most charming smile, saying, ‘Definitely. Wouldn’t miss it.’

  He turned back around, and his eyes were alive with mischief.

  So I pushed open the door.

  ‘The lounge,’ I said flatly, and gestured for Henry to go on in.

  I turned and saw that Celia hadn’t moved. She was still in the same spot on the lawn. ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed to her silently, ‘do you mind terribly?’, feeling bad when I saw how dejected she looked.

  ‘Not at all,’ she blustered, recovering herself. ‘Go! Enjoy!’ and then: ‘He’s terribly handsome, Roz,’ she whispered, her tone now girlish and conspiratorial. ‘Is he a keeper?’

  Henry had wandered through to the dining room. ‘I see you’re going for the minimalist look.’

  ‘Listen, if you going to be critical—’

  He put his finger to his lips. ‘I’m not. But Roz, you don’t have any furniture. What on earth happened?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Stuff.’

  ‘Have you just moved in?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly. I had a visit from the bailiffs. Anyway, do you still want that coffee?’

  He tried to smile sympathetically but wasn’t entirely sure if I was pulling his leg. ‘Let me,’ he said, and he moved towards the kitchen. ‘You sit down’ – he cast his eyes around the room – ‘you sit down there … on that box.’

  I stayed where I was. My sandals were starting to pinch, so I removed them and stood in my bare feet.

  A moment later he reappeared. ‘Cups?’

  I shook my head. ‘Just what’s soaking in the sink.’

  ‘It’s like my student days all over again,’ he said brightly. ‘Tea out of a glass, vodka out of a bowl.’

  I followed him into the kitchen. The balls of my feet made a soft, thwacking sound on the linoleum as I moved. ‘What did you study?’ I asked.

  ‘Chemical engineering.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a job at, like, ICI, or something?’

  He nodded. ‘You’re right. I should.’

  ‘But instead you …?’

  ‘Piss about in insurance two days a week.’

  ‘What do you do when you’re not working?’

  ‘Read, mostly,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  He laughed. When he realized I wasn’t joking, he considered my question. ‘Do you know what,’ he said, ‘if you’d asked me that a year ago, I’m not sure I could have answered. I certainly don’t read to escape, or as some self-improvement exercise, if that’s what you were thinking.’

  I shrugged. ‘I wasn’t thinking that.’

  ‘I’ve always enjoyed reading,’ he explained. ‘I’ve always found myself wanting to pick up a book without really questioning the reason. Except last year I read a review of a book by John Malkovich.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was a writer,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sure that he is. The review was by John Malkovich, not the book.’

  ‘My mistake.’

  ‘Actually now that I come to think of it, I’m pretty sure it was a reviewer pretending to be John Malkovich. Anyway, the book was May We Be Forgiven by A. M. Homes.’ He paused. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘No matter. It’s not important. It’s what he says in his review that highlights the reason I read. He says everyone is so dull nowadays. Basically, everyone’s so frightened of upsetting other people, there are no characters left any more. And when he sat down to read May We Be Forgiven, he was at last spending time with someone interesting. He found the main character so interesting, so compelling, he couldn’t wait to get back to the book. In answer to your question, I think that’s why I read.’

  ‘Because people are dull?’

  ‘Yes. You have nice teeth by the way.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He realized at this point that there was not enough water in the kettle, by the sound it was making. Filling it at the sink, he said, casually, ‘So, bailiffs. That’s kind of a big deal. How did that happen?’

  ‘I spent more money than I had. And I was left in a bit of a mess by my ex-husband. He ran up quite a few debts in my name.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember. Shitty thing to do. You don’t seem too upset about it, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘I was. But what’s the point? I picked him, after all. At first I spent a lot of time blaming, back in the beginning, before I realized it wasn’t going to get me out of the trouble I was in. No one was going to come along and say, “Do you know what? You are so totally right. It’s all Winston’s fault.” And besides, there are a hell of a lot of people more compromised than me. But I should have handled it better than I did. Anyway,’ I said, ‘things are easier now. The worst is over. I’ve managed to climb out of the hole I was in and things are starting to look up.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I admire you for that.’

  I looked away.

  ‘Do you like your job?’ he asked.

  ‘I like parts of it. I enjoy offering relief to a person in pain, it’s just it takes up—’

  ‘All of your time?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I went on to explain how my own clinic had folded but that I still hankered after working for myself again one day.

  ‘So why don’t you?’ he asked. ‘Why not just go it alone again?’

  ‘There is an opening to do just that, but I’m scared. I made a hash of it last time and ended up working ridiculous hours because I couldn’t say no to people. And then I let them down anyway because of my irresponsibility.’

  ‘You’re not irresponsible,’ he said. ‘You bring up a child, alone, whilst working full time, with very little help from anyone, from what I can gather. How is that irresponsible?’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say,’ I replied. ‘But people take rather a different viewpoint when—’

  He waved my words away with his hand as if to imply: What do they know about anything? He said, ‘I read recently that seventy-one per cent of people dislike their jobs. That’s a lot of dissatisfied people spending their lives doing something they don’t like.’

  ‘Do you like yours?’ I asked.

  ‘Not especially, but I only work two days out of seven. I reckon you could do pretty much anything for two days a week. Of course, we were told that, with the advent of all the labour-saving devices, everyone would be on a three-day week by now. That never quite happened, though.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘They need to keep us out of mischief,’ he said. ‘What would happen if we were suddenly let loose with all that free time? There could be anarchy.’ He smiled. ‘There will always be some people who want to work all day. Let them, I say, and leave the rest of us in peace. Naturally, there are some people who can’t seem to understand why I would choose to earn less and work less. Because wealth is the only indicator of success nowadays, and so on.’

  Winston, too, went through a protracted anti-commercialism phase. Giving long speeches about autonomy, the misunderstood Luddites, the myth that a rewarding life is to be had through hard work.

  The trouble was, he still kept on buying stuff.

  I asked Henry who he meant when he said some people had a problem with his choices, and he replied, ‘Scott Elias.’

  I shifted my weight to my other foot.

  He said, ‘You’ve met Scott, I assume?’

  ‘Hmm-mm, a couple of times.’

  ‘Total wanker,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand why Nadine stays with him. Well, I suppose I can. The kids, and all that. But still.’

  ‘You don’t like him,’ I said, my tone neutral, my expression neither one thing nor the other. And he frowned, before saying, ‘What’s to like?’

  ‘I c
an see how you might not see eye to eye.’

  ‘I don’t see eye to eye with him,’ he said, ‘because he’s a dickhead.’

  ‘Not because he’s loaded? You’re not jealous of his money?’ I asked playfully.

  ‘That’s the thing: take away the money and look at the man. What’s left? Nothing. Has he ever said one funny or interesting thing in your company?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘I mean, what does he do?’ he said. ‘What does he actually care about? Scott’s got all that wealth, and what does he do with it? Buys objects. That’s it.’

  ‘You’re suggesting he should save the world?’

  ‘I’m suggesting he could do something useful. The guy shafts everyone he comes into contact with.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked.

  ‘In every way. He has to push everything, he can’t let go. He can’t stand to lose a penny.’

  ‘Really?’ I said doubtfully. ‘He seemed pretty generous to me. My sister seems to think so, anyway.’

  Henry laughed. ‘Oh yeah, Scott the nice guy. Scott’ll bring the wine, he’ll pay the bill. But, I’m telling you, he doesn’t put his hand in his pocket unless it’s tax deductible. He doesn’t spend one penny of his own money. Everything comes out of his business. Every so-called generous thing he does goes down as a business expense.’

  I immediately thought about billing Scott for services rendered. He’d told me he had a hard time scraping the cash together. Which had been hard to believe.

  ‘Hurry up with that coffee,’ I said.

  ‘He’s got to beat the system,’ Henry continued, unabated. ‘He’s a great example of greed gone nuts … never enough, never enough. He takes it all for himself and he puts nothing back. And he has a wicked dark temper.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Henry, ‘Scott Elias is never happy unless he’s screwing someone.

  26

  SO I WAS a business expense.

  I had no right to be bitter about this – what difference did it make how Scott funded our encounters?

  And yet, oddly, I was. What Scott received from me in the way of ‘services’ was essentially free. By lying, by cooking the books in this way, he was able to fund our encounters with money he would have had to pay in tax to the Inland Revenue. So he could sleep with me as many times as he wished, and, as Henry pointed out, it wouldn’t cost him a penny.