by Parks, Adele
I sip my wine and Tom busies himself hunting out his iPhone then connecting it to the speakers; we both suddenly seem aware of the need for background music. Now forgive yourself. The words were too glib, given too easily. I forgive you. How can he forgive me before he knows more about the situation, about my predicament, my regret, my pain? What does he have to forgive anyway? My crime wasn’t against him. And does his slick offer of forgiveness really mean the opposite? Is he shocked by me? Disappointed in me? Or is it that he simply doesn’t think this is a big deal?
He’s wrong. It’s a huge deal.
I think back to when I told Jeff about my son, Peter. I was twenty-four years old. We’d known each other just three months, the same length of time Tom and I have known one another, when I come to think of it. Jeff had already proven himself to be a marvellous friend. I remember meeting him in Regent Street; the cold December air had made his cheeks pink. Hamleys was hell, an orgy of plastic and excess, yet hard to hate because it was stuffed to the roof with excitable kids. Then Wetherspoons: it smelt of cigarettes and beer-stained carpet. Jeff healed me. He made me feel dignified and unshackled. He was reassuring and uplifting. The horrors submerged. Guilt faded a fraction. Shame slipped away.
I’m so deeply immersed in thinking about Jeff that I’m a little startled when Tom refills my glass and passes it to me again.
The background music he has selected is loungey, sexy. I’m not sure of the artist but I’m pretty certain it’s the twenty-first-century equivalent to Marvin Gaye. I look at him, bewildered; it’s definitely not the right sort of music to accompany the outpouring of my deepest secrets. He screws up his face, playfully apologetic. ‘It’s Callum’s playlist.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you want me to turn it off?’ I do, really, but it seems petty to say so. I shrug. I have become close to Tom in the past few months; we’ve been on an intense ride together. He’s always seemed so interested in me, so thoughtful and gracious; he’s always appeared to understand me so well. I’m trying to reconcile that Tom to this one, who has clumsily dismissed my confession about Peter and my concern that Jeff might exploit my experiences.
Then it occurs to me that Tom is not dismissing me – he wouldn’t. He’s trying to be tactful. He’s trying to minimise the drama of the confession, no doubt because of some sort of embarrassment. I mean, what is he supposed to say? At least he hasn’t reacted with anger, disgust or judgement. I should be grateful for that. He’s making light of it because he’s trying to stop me beating myself up. It must be that. It can’t be disinterest. Maybe he’s just processing this latest reveal; it is a lot to take in. This theory seems the most logical when he suddenly asks, ‘Boy or girl?’
He hadn’t even caught the gender. ‘A boy,’ I confirm. ‘Peter.’ Tom bobs his head stiffly and then knocks back his glass of wine, draining it. ‘Actually, it’s his birthday soon.’ I’m about to say that he’ll be thirty. I wonder whether he’s a father himself by now. I might be a grandmother; it’s hard to imagine. Impossible to know. He’s unlikely even to be called Peter any more.
‘It all makes a lot of sense. Your ferocious overprotectiveness towards Katherine isn’t just to do with the fact that you were neglected as a child, it’s because you’re trying to make up for what you did to Peter.’ I nod sadly. Jeff was right about one thing: there would certainly be a convincing explanation for the controlling nature of the mother in The Swap. Somewhat pathetically, it seems I’m fairly easy to understand.
‘So you, too, think I’m ferociously overprotective, then?’ I ask, trying to sound light but feeling battered. ‘I’d always thought you rather admired my hands-on approach.’
It seems I have messed everything up here, like I always do. I know I irritate my adored daughter with my timetables, structure, ambitions and goals. The truth is, she couldn’t wait to embrace a new, less cloying family. I’ve drifted so far apart from Jeff that he thinks sacrificing my most intimate secret is fair game if it saves his career. I don’t have a career of my own because I’m a mother. But that’s a relationship. Not a career. Men are lucky: they take it for granted that they have a relationship and a career, the two things are quite distinct and apart. It allows them to channel their energy and ambition in one direction; their love in another. And what about Olivia? Doesn’t she deserve at least a slice of my protection? If I’m ‘ferocious’, I presumably have strength to spare, but I’ve buried my head in the sand and tried not to get too involved. Yet I am involved; we’re inextricably linked.
Tom turns to me and grimaces. ‘Sorry, awful choice of words. You know I don’t think your instinct to protect is too much. I understand. I’d do anything for my kids, too.’ He reaches out and moves a strand of hair from in front of my eyes, tucks it behind my ear. ‘You must know by now, Alison, that I think you are pretty damn perfect.’
And I still don’t see it coming, no doubt because I’m so caught up in my own thoughts about Katherine, Jeff and Olivia. Tom leans in and kisses me, not on the hand this time and not like a parent kisses a child to soothe them. This is an adult kiss. Square on the mouth. His lips are soft yet firm, warm and in the right place. They know when to stay still and when to move. His lips brush my ear next. Then they’re back on my mouth. I’m too stunned to process this, to react. I feel his unshaven cheek. His warm breath. It’s a technically excellent kiss. Half-formed thoughts whirl around my head and refuse to fasten. He’s Katherine’s biological father. I’m Katherine’s devoted mum. He’s attractive. I’m interested. Flattered. He’s lonely. I’m scared. It really is a lovely kiss.
Except that it’s not Jeff’s kiss.
It comes to me. Instinctively, like the act of breathing out after holding air in my lungs for a fraction longer than is comfortable. The thoughts sharpen. Clarify. I process, I react.
I pull away, gently, so as not to hurt his feelings, but to make sure he knows I’m not interested I carefully yet firmly put my hands on his chest and push to make some space between us.
‘No, Tom.’
‘Why not?’ He looks genuinely confused.
‘Well, Jeff, for a start.’
‘You’re not his wife.’
I find this a bit offensive; I hate it when people make this distinction and judge our relationship in this way. ‘I am. As good as,’ I say defensively. I think about the proposal Jeff threw out in frustration and fear last week. It’s ironic it occurred as I was insisting that I trusted Tom. I do. On the whole. A little less now. We were in a difficult situation before; now he’s plunged us into something considerably more awkward and bewildering.
‘He doesn’t make you happy. I’ve seen it these past few months.’
‘I’m unhappy because of the situation we all find ourselves in. We’ve raised each other’s babies. Katherine might have the mutated gene. That overpowers my every thought.’ How might he imagine I could be happy with that hanging over us?
‘You barely talk to one another. It’s me you turn to.’
My head is woozy, I’ve drunk far too much, far too quickly. I’ve barely eaten all day. I recognise the truth in his words. There is a connection between us. I do find Tom attractive and sympathetic. He’s worked very hard at ingratiating himself with me. I haven’t been talking to Jeff. However, even through the alcohol-induced fog, I wonder whether that’s Jeff’s fault or mine. Or a bit of both.
‘I’ve been thinking, Alison. We could be a family.’
‘What?’
‘All of us together. I bet you’ve always wanted more children.’ He smiles at me, delighted to have alighted on this solution. Is he serious? As if anything can be as easy as that. ‘Katherine adores her siblings. She’s always disappointed if they’re not around.’ With the notable exception of Olivia – but I don’t get time to interject because Tom continues: ‘I’m Katherine’s father. You are her mother.’ This doesn’t make sense, it’s not logical, and yet on some level I do know what he means. I’ve just had the same thought myself. ‘Alison, I am
in love with you.’ I stare at him, open-mouthed. I can’t comprehend what’s happening. This kind, handsome man is declaring his love for me. That’s madness. He looks so much like Katherine, it’s peculiar. I could almost fall in love with him just because I adore her. I almost have. Yet.
Jeff is Katherine’s dad. Jeff is the one who has brought her up. He’s the one who has dotted her chickenpox spots with soothing lotion; I remember he spent hours playing cat’s cradle and simply holding her hands so she wouldn’t scratch the sores and scar. He’s the one who taught her to swim; she hated inflatable wings and refused to wear them so she’d simply wrap her arms around his neck and kick while he swam. I always thought they looked like a couple of turtles. He’s the one who learnt that the only way to get her to eat peas was by pretending to be King Poseidon using a trident. He sat on the nippy British beach with her, building sandcastles, even though we were wearing waterproofs; he even queued for ice cream. He always had a handkerchief to wipe her face. I know because I was there with him. We’ve always been side by side. All along. We’re a team.
Tom’s thoughts, clearly, could not be further from my own. He lunges forward and kisses me again. This time, there’s nothing gentle, tentative or lovely about the kiss. It’s passionate; determined to the point of aggressive. As I try to manoeuvre away from him, he pushes his entire body on mine and I am on my back. Before I know it, he is lying on top of me. I struggle, but he doesn’t stop. His hands run up and down my body: my thighs, my waist, my breasts. I try to push him off me but he just grabs my arms and pins them above my head, laughing. He’s so big, it seems he can hold both my hands down with one of his while his other continues to explore my body roughly. His hand is up my jumper; he makes a fast and clumsy lunge for one of my breasts, somehow finding his way inside the lace of my bra.
It’s then that Olivia walks into the room.
30
I gently push open the front door. I’m not sure what it will be like to face Jeff. I’m still absolutely furious with him regarding his pitch, but now I have kissed Tom – or at least been kissed by Tom. Do two wrongs make a right? I sigh, wearily. No, absolutely not. When have they ever? I wish we could just scrub tonight; I wish none of it had ever happened. Is it progress, I wonder, that I only want to turn back the clock twenty-four hours, not three months?
I took a taxi home. As much as I wanted to be out of there, I knew I couldn’t drive myself, as I’ve had far too much to drink. I left my car at Tom’s. I’ll have to collect it tomorrow; the thought already distresses me. Can I manage to sneak around there, early on, and retrieve it without having to speak to him? I just can’t face him right now. I can’t imagine when I’ll be able to face him again. Tom did not want me to leave at all. Even when Olivia stomped out of the house, shouting, ‘You are a moron! You both make me sick!’ he didn’t run after her, he just kept saying to me, ‘We can’t let her spoil the moment.’
‘What moment?’ I demanded. ‘Where is she going?’ I pushed him off me and straightened my clothes as I ran out of the front door and along the path; the frosty night air bit my bare arms. Olivia was already out of sight. ‘Where will she go?’ I asked.
‘To her friend’s, I suppose.’ Tom shrugged. He didn’t look in the slightest bit fazed. I know he encourages greater independence in Olivia than I manage with Katherine. I understand that, as a family, they have been through so much more than most families ever have to stand and I assume that’s why they are more self-governing. Generally, I’ve admired Tom for fostering confidence and autonomy in his children but, under these circumstances, I can’t help stressing about Olivia’s whereabouts.
‘Which friend?’
‘She has a number of them.’
I scowled at him. ‘Aren’t you concerned?’
‘She’ll settle down, probably come back in half an hour. I’ll text her if it makes you feel better.’ He did text but I wasn’t surprised when the phone failed to shudder with a responding message.
‘I’m getting a cab.’
‘There’s no need for that.’
‘There’s every need.’
‘We were on the brink of something there, Alison. You know this has been on the cards. Just give in to it.’
I insisted on standing near the door to wait for the cab and while I was doing so Tom got a text from Olivia saying she was going to stay at her friend Rosie’s. He resisted saying ‘I told you so’, but his expression conveyed his belief that, once again, my reaction had been panicky and that he knew his family well enough to make the call on their safety. Again he tried to convince me that this meant I really didn’t have to hurry away.
‘Alison, please. Don’t rush off. We need to talk about us. About our family.’ I had no clue as to how to respond to that; I stared at him, mouth gawping. He stepped towards me, his face just centimetres away from mine. I was glad to hear the toot of the taxi horn.
Back home, I walk straight into the kitchen for a glass of water. I need to start thinking clearly. This is a mess. A big, fat, unholy mess. And now I think I’ve played my part in it being so. The house feels other; still and empty. Katherine is at Maddie’s and I can’t bring myself to hunt out Jeff. He might be sulking in his office, or skulking in the sitting room; it’s even possible that he’s asleep in our bed. Imagining his contentment and lack of concern causes another shard of anger to spike me. Shouldn’t he know we are on the edge of a disaster here? Why hasn’t he sat up and waited for me? On the other hand, thank goodness he hasn’t sat up and waited for me. I’m sure he’d be able to see the betraying kiss on my lips.
Then I see it on the breakfast bar, left out quite prominently so that I cannot miss it: a small pile of A4 paper. Tentatively, I move closer. I’m not sure what I’m about to discover, or what more I am up to discovering.
On top of the pile there’s a printout of an email. It’s from Sue, his agent. I automatically check the date and time it was sent: only three hours ago.
Wonderful concept, Jeff! I’ve already sent ‘Ding Dong, Five Months Gone’ – working title (I think we could find something more emotive) on to your publishers. This is such a raw, affecting story. I haven’t come across anything similar. I don’t doubt we’ll hear from them soon. As you know they have been champing at the bit for this!
Well done! Put your feet up this weekend. You deserve it. – Sue.
Ding Dong, Five Months Gone? Is he insane? What happened to The Swap? I sigh, wondering why I even care what it’s called. I don’t want the atrocity ever to come into existence. I suppose, after years of being involved in Jeff’s work, helping him come up with concepts, listening to him as he discussed ideas and read chapters to me for continuous review as he’s writing, I’m simply on automatic pilot. And what does this mean, anyway? Why has Jeff left me this email? Is he gloating? Justifying himself?
Underneath the printout of the email is the synopsis and then the first few chapters. I don’t want to read it again. The words are still scalded on to my mind but, like picking at a scab or scratching an insect bite, I find it impossible to resist. I climb up on to a kitchen stool and begin.
At first, I don’t understand at all.
There is a bright, worthy but somewhat artily pretentious father with the role of lone parent to a seventeen-year-old boy, Oliver, but there is no sign of Karl or his renowned and respected architect father – or his highly controlling housewife mother, come to that. The synopsis specifies that the novel will be written from the different viewpoints of the single dad and his teenage son … girlfriend appears on the doorstep … medical evidence … unequivocal … five months pregnant … young boy has to take on the responsibility of parenthood.
What?
I read it over. Once again, I can feel my legs shaking, knees knocking together, but not with the horror I felt earlier today but with something like relief. I read to the bottom. This is not the plot I read earlier this evening, it’s not about our lives. I begin to think I’m going mad.
I come to sense t
hat Jeff is in the kitchen. I know he’s standing in the doorway watching me read the document. He gets milk out of the fridge, pours two mugs of it and spoons in cocoa before popping both mugs into the microwave.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t presented The Swap?’
‘I did. You didn’t listen.’ His voice is calm, even. He places one mug down in front of me. ‘Careful, it’s hot.’
It’s funny, isn’t it? If anyone were to ask me how I would define love or, less ephemerally, if anyone were to ask me how I know Jeff loves me, I doubt I’d say because he makes me cocoa and warns me not to scald my mouth, but in this moment I think perhaps that’s how I do know. I jumped to an awful conclusion. I think it was understandable but, admittedly, I didn’t let him explain himself. I didn’t trust him. Yet he’s willing to forgive me my rashness, to chalk it up to little more than a spat. Which, for sure, it was. The relief. The relief.
Except. I think of Tom’s lips on mine. His hands on my body. Why did he do that? Did he really think he had a chance with me? Had I given him reason to believe that? Maybe. It was a kiss that came out of turmoil and anger and trauma, but nonetheless a kiss. The familiar fizziness starts again in my nose; I realise tears are threatening. I put my head in my hands.
‘Oh, thank God. I just couldn’t have coped with that.’
‘The publicity around me publishing a book based on our lives?’
