Rhodri harrumphs at me, without looking up from his book.
‘So I’ll be away over the summer for a few weeks. I’ll arrange for Jack to stay with my mum and Margaret.’
‘That’s good.’
‘So the next few months may be chaotic.’
‘They always are.’
‘But then we’ll have more time for one another.’
‘You always say that.’
‘I don’t see what else I can do. I have to work to pay the bills.’
‘I know.’
‘I think that’s great about your play, Mum,’ interrupts Jack. ‘Isn’t it, Rhodri?’ he looks directly at Rhodri as though to say, ‘Appease her for once. Please.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ says Rhodri.
‘Can I watch it, Mum?’
‘It’s not for young people, Jack. It has swearing in it.’
‘Why have you put swearing in it when you don’t swear in real life?’
‘Because it’s a grown-up story. Not a story for children. It’s what the characters do, not me.’
Jack considers this. Then he reaches for my hand. ‘Well done, Mum.’ He coughs at Rhodri to distract him from his compelling book on moon cycles. ‘Well done, Mum.’
‘Well done,’ echoes Rhodri, smiling.
16
It’s Monday morning. I’m sitting in Athens’s office pondering about Jack and his new romance. Yesterday Ellie came over to play. And when she left Jack said, ‘When we were in my bedroom Ellie looked at me and I knew she wanted to say something. So I said, “What is it?” And she said, “I love you.”’
Now we’re in trouble.
‘M,’ says Athens, sternly.
‘Yes?’
‘M. I need you to send these emails, update the website and get some speakers booked in.’
‘Right.’
I begin to chatter on about something to Athens, who is looking more furious with me by the second. He slams his hand on the desk, hard. ‘No. M. I need you to do this.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ I sulk. I hate being told off. Maybe I should have stopped working for Athens, instead of giving up the listings job.
A colleague looks across the desk at me, and then at Athens. At the coffee machine later, he says ‘You two argue like an old married couple.’
It’s true. Athens and I have known one another for years and bicker incessantly, which must be bad for any employer-employee relationship.
Back at my desk I ask Athens, ‘Do you fancy a drink after work?’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s see.’
I call Rhodri: ‘I’m only going for one drink with Athens, and shouldn’t be too late. Can you pick Jack up from school, check his homework, then put him to bed for me?’
‘Have a good time,’ says Rhodri. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.’
He’s being nice. Maybe the fact that I’m going away has softened his heart a little.
Athens sets down a pint for him and a glass of wine for me. I drink my wine far too quickly, so within the half-hour I’m on my feet. ‘Another drink?’
‘One more,’ says Athens.
We relax then, and chat easily, making plans about what we’re going to do over the forthcoming year. Projects we could take on and so forth. ‘Another drink?’
‘White wine. Then I should go.’ Outside it’s already dark. Jack will be in bed now. I call Rhodri. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I’ll be home soon.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Stay out as long as you want.’
When Athens and I have finished our drinks, we move to a different bar where Athens orders another round. ‘How are things with Rhodri?’ he asks.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say truthfully. ‘I don’t know what I think any more or how I feel.’
A waitress shimmies over to us. ‘Would you like to order more drinks?’
‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘Another wine.’
‘I have news to cheer you up,’ offers Athens. ‘You might be going to New York.’
‘What?’ I scream.
‘An all-expenses-paid trip to New York for the organization.’
‘No. What makes you think that?’
‘There’s a trip planned. Your name’s been mentioned. You should apply. You stand a good chance of getting a place.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be busy here so you should go for it, on behalf of us both.’
‘New York? New York!’ Oh, my God. Wait till I tell Rhodri this. We could never afford to go to New York. I can’t believe I might see New York. Jack will be jealous. I’d better play it down. New York, though. Me! In New York!
‘Hangover?’
‘Yes.’ I groan.
‘Want me to take Jack to school?’
‘Yes.’ I groan again.
‘There’s a glass of water by the bed for you. I knew you wouldn’t stay out for just one drink.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You needed a blow-out. It’s Okay.’ Rhodri pulls the covers over my head and kisses my cheek fondly. ‘When I come back from dropping Jack I’ll make you some breakfast. Then I’m going to the allotment to dig some new seed-beds.’
‘Where’s Mum?’ I hear Jack ask in the garden, as the bikes clatter out of the shed.
‘In bed. I’m taking you today.’
Jack whines for me, then bursts into laughter at something Rhodri does. Feebly I head into the bathroom for a wash. Back in the bedroom, I pull on yesterday’s clothes, then head downstairs. I am elbow high in soapsuds when Rhodri bundles merrily through the door. ‘Kettle on?’
‘Will be.’
Stooping down, he picks up mail from the floor. ‘For you, for you, for you.’
Bills. Bills. Bills.
Because it’s Mother’s Day next Sunday, and we can’t afford to go out for a ‘Mother’s Day Meal’, we’re heading out the Sunday before because it’s cheaper. It was my idea. The plan is to find a nice country pub for lunch. But before we go we stop off at a barber’s because Jack is in desperate need of a haircut. He sits on a raised chair, while I flick through a copy of the Sunday Sport, surrounded by framed pictures of footballers.
‘How do you want it?’ asks the barber.
Jack looks at me. ‘I want a Mohican.’
‘No Mohican,’ I instruct the barber. ‘Short back and sides.’
‘Why can’t I have a Mohican?’ Jack asks, for the hundredth time.
‘Because you’re only eight.’
‘But I want a Mohican and a motorbike.’
‘Stop this or I’ll shout.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re getting on my nerves.’ I put my nose back in the newspaper, only to realize that I’m gazing idly at a model with breasts the size of watermelons. I hastily fold the paper and set it down on the empty chair next to me.
The barber places a plastic bib around Jack’s neck. It’s blue with red giraffes. Jack looks as if he might cry. ‘So, what are you having, mate?’ he asks again.
‘Not a Mohican,’ I remind the barber. ‘Just a normal haircut.’ I stand up, purse my lips, put my hands on my hips and clear my throat like a headmistress.
‘Shaved at the back and sides and a bit spiky on top,’ says Jack, unhappily.
‘Is that Okay with you, Mum?’ asks the barber.
‘That’s Okay with me.’ Then I catch Jack giving me the look Damien used to give me. The look that means, ‘You’re in trouble now,’ so I move to sit behind him and blow kisses to his reflection in the mirror. He ignores me.
‘It looks great,’ I say, brushing shorn hair from his shoulders.
Jack reaches for the tub of gel and spikes the front of his hair.
As I pay the man, Jack hovers by the counter expectantly. ‘No sweets?’ he hisses, when we’re out on the street. The only reason that the barber is worth a visit is for the penny chews he hands out at the end.
‘I’ll buy you some sweets. Then we’re going for lunch.’
> After a trip to the sweet shop we collect Rhodri and set out in search of the perfect Sunday lunch.
‘What’s up with him?’ asks Rhodri, twiddling with the knob on the car radio, until he finds Radio 2.
‘Can we have a different station on?’ demands Jack.
‘No. I want to listen to this,’ says Rhodri.
‘Some pop music?’ I ask hopefully. But no, we’re stuck with the golden oldies. We drive for hours in search of an idyllic country pub. Every fifteen minutes I pull over, hop out and ask, ‘Is the food freshly made?’ only to be honoured with the reply, ‘No, it comes precooked and we reheat it on the premises.’
‘Can we just stop somewhere? Now. I’m starving,’ moans Jack.
‘Just drive to the next one,’ instructs Rhodri.
We repeat this little scene over and over again, until we’ve driven all the way from Manchester to Bakewell in the Peak District. ‘The next one is the last one,’ I tell Rhodri. ‘We stop there and we eat.’
We drive for another half-hour until eventually we find what appears to be a gastro-pub. I ask the barman if the food is home-cooked.
‘It’s prepacked.’
‘Do you do vegan meals?’
‘No.’
‘Never mind, eh?’ I smile at Rhodri. I’m using my it’s-a-Sunday-trip-out voice. There’s tension in the air but, no matter how annoyed everyone is, I’ll smile and laugh and chatter in this irritating singy-songy voice.‘Oh, look, Jack,’ I sing. ‘We can have lamb roast and Yorkshire puddings.’
We usually have mung-bean casserole on a Sunday, so bless the Lord for this roasted young animal.
‘Not hungry.’
‘Go on. You can have anything.’
‘Not hungry. Don’t want vegetables.’
‘Have some of mine, then.’
‘Don’t want anything.’
Other families, nice ones with polite children, are staring at me.
‘We could have gone to a pub in Manchester,’ says Jack. ‘You didn’t have to drive two hours for lunch.’
‘But it’s a pre-Mothers’ Day meal, a special occasion.’
Actually mothers are supposed to be treated to meals on Mothers’ Day but I have to buy my own.
‘But it’s not Mothers’ Day yet,’ snaps Jack.
I shoot him a fierce look. He shuts up for all of one minute, but then jabbers on until I bark: ‘If you can’t behave nicely, you’ll have to sit elsewhere.’
He moves happily to an empty table nearby. Meanwhile, Rhodri advises me to be stricter with Jack so I gradually fade him out until his voice merges with the sound of rain splashing against the window. The Sunday trip out is ruined. There will be no walk in the countryside after lunch because now we’ve sat down, it’s absolutely pouring.
‘What are you going to eat, Rhodri?’
‘A plate of vegetables.’
‘Very nice.’ I turn to Jack. ‘Isn’t this lovely, Jack?’ I smile through gritted teeth. ‘Isn’t this lovely, everyone?’
17
As the train to London pulls away from Manchester, I rest my head against the window, watching greys and browns and reds stream by until there is nothing but green fields around us. I open my magazine and lust over pictures of Helena Bonham Carter. How does she manage to look scruffy and sexy? A posh name must help. If I were called Mariella, I’m sure I’d be far sexier.
I rub anti-ageing cream over my hands. A Spanish girl I met at university told me you can tell everything about a woman by her hands: mine look like farm hands. If only I had graceful long fingers like… Who has graceful long fingers? Like Gwyneth Paltrow.
Before I left I emailed Toga to see if he fancies watching the play with me.
He emailed back:
Not the bloomin’ theatre again…
Which made me laugh, because I knew he’d agree to come with me and he’ll pay for dinner, then we’ll kiss somewhere hidden away, and for one tiny moment I’ll imagine that I feel this free always. I’ll forget that my life is full of arguments over wheelie-bins and eco-disasters and absent violent fathers and endless bills I can’t afford to pay.
Toga texted that he’ll meet me on the corner of Regent Street and Oxford Street, outside Topshop. The train will draw into Euston soon so I call him. ‘Hello, Bear.’
‘Hello, you.’
‘How will I know where Topshop is?’
Toga sighs impatiently. ‘You’ll see it. You can’t miss it. Catch the Tube to Oxford Circus. Six thirty?’
‘Six thirty.’
It is just after six twenty-five when I emerge at Oxford Street. I check my reflection in a shop window. As I make my way from the edge of the pavement to the crossing, commuters hurtle past, knocking into me from all sides. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me,’ I mumble apologetically.
Obscured by a man holding a large placard with an arrow pointing left for ‘designer handbags’, I lean against a balustrade and watch Toga wait for me outside Topshop. He removes his glasses and carefully uses the tail of his scarf to wipe the lenses. He fiddles with his coat cuffs. He runs a hand through his thick hair, pulling up the front and smoothing down the back. He searches in his coat pocket for something, pulls out his mobile. Who’s he calling? Another girl, maybe? My phone buzzes in my bag.
‘Are you nearly here?’
‘Yes.’ I hang up and join the swarm crossing Oxford Street. The closer I walk towards Toga, the more I smile. He’s facing away from me and trying to pick me out in the wrong crowd. I tap his shoulder, reach my fingers upwards, and draw him down to kiss me.
‘Mmm.’ He obliges. ‘You took your time.’
I kiss him again before he can complain any more. ‘Nice coat. New?’
‘Not that new. We should hurry. We need to be in Islington for seven. Have a drink first? Let me take your bag.’
‘Sounds good.’ I hook my arm in his, and attempt to keep pace with his stride as we plough back underground.
It’s when we’ve surfaced at Angel station that Toga drops my hand and falls a few steps behind me.
‘Hello, mate,’ booms a voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
I turn to see a man Toga’s age.
‘Hi,’ he says over-enthusiastically. ‘This is my…’
What does Toga say: friend, cousin, friend-of-a-friend? Regardless of the label, I’m dismissed quickly enough.
‘We’re catching a show – it starts soon,’ he apologizes.
‘’Bye,’ I say, ‘nice to meet you.’ Not that I met the man at all. Whoever he was.
‘Shit.’
‘Why “shit”?’
‘No,’ he reassures himself. ‘It’ll be… We weren’t doing anything. Just walking together on the street.’
A platonic distance apart, we hurry through Islington, down Upper Street towards the King’s Head. My little legs run two steps to his one as I snatch glimpses inside restaurants, bars and smart boutiques. Once inside the pub we find a cramped corner, I dump my heavy bags and collapse into him.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks.
‘Wine.’
‘Which?’
Which is most sophisticated, red or white? I’ll go for white. Red wine always leaves me with stained lips.
‘Type?’
Does ordering wine have to be so complicated? I’ll have the alcoholic type. The cheap type, actually – no, second thoughts: if he’s buying, I’ll have the expensive type.
‘Lambrini,’ I tease. Toga cocks his head like a disappointed spaniel.
‘A good dry white wine.’ I smile, pinching his bottom as he heads off to the bar. ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ I ask a girl.
‘Go ahead,’ she says. ‘That’s an amazing dress you’re wearing.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We were just admiring it,’ she says, gesturing to her friend. ‘It suits you.’
I’m in a black dress with a white trim: quasi-demure French maid. I’d hoped Toga would like it, but so far he hasn’t said anything.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say, adding, ‘It’s silk,’ for effect.
Whatever people say about London folk being rude and arrogant is just plain wrong. These ladies are lovely. I should think of something equally complimentary. ‘I love your top,’ I say.
‘Where are you from?’ she asks.
‘Manchester.’
‘I went there once, years ago.’ She shrieks with delight.
That’s quite an achievement, I think, for someone inside the M25 to travel north, especially someone with such a plummy accent. ‘It’s changed a lot now,’ I say, imagining that when she last visited the fronts were hanging off buildings blasted by the IRA bomb. Manchester is nothing like it seems in an Elizabeth Gaskell novel, I want to tell her. Now we generally have a toilet to each house, and send our children to school rather than the mills.
Before I can cause too much trouble, Toga returns. I take a thirsty gulp of my wine and kiss him again. I begin to brush my feet over his legs. Then I lean over for an almighty snog. Oh, he’s delicious. I could unwrap him right here and lick him all over. The two women beam at me approvingly. They’re thinking, She has a great dress, a gritty accent and a handsome boyfriend. I look back at them with a glint in my eye that translates as: ‘Forget the dress, this man is a jolly good ride.’
At the interval we skip the bar and head outdoors for a cigarette, then skip the cigarette and instead cross the road to St Mary’s Church, interrupting our steps with urgent kisses down a dark alleyway. It’s drizzling, and each time Toga’s cold lips touch me I shiver.
‘Here will do,’ says Toga, pushing me up against the church wall and wrapping his arm around my waist. With one hand, he pushes my face upwards until my neck is stretched taut, then his teeth scrape across my skin as his other hand rummages beneath my coat. ‘You want it, don’t you?’ he whispers into my ear.
No, I want to talk about the state of the economy. Of course I want ‘it’. Toga and I haven’t done ‘it’ for ages.
Single Mother on the Verge Page 12
