Single Mother on the Verge

by Maria Roberts

  23

  ‘Do you know how to read that?’ I point to the map on Zelda’s knee, laughing. I haven’t seen my best friend for ages, because we’ve both been too wrapped up with men. ‘Do you know any good jokes like “How many academics does it take to read an A–Z?”’

  It’s impressively early – well, ten o’clock, which feels early for a Saturday. It’s a glorious August morning and I am outside Zelda’s flat. Our suitcases are packed into the boot of the car and strewn over the back seat. Zelda is wearing a bright silk scarf, which prevents her curly hair falling into her face. Her oversized sunglasses make her look like a glamorous Hollywood starlet in search of romance, coffee and panettone. She climbs into the car and crosses her long slim legs so that one hangs spidery over the other.

  ‘I have a picnic!’ she says.

  ‘Have you got your seatbelt on?’

  ‘Just doing it.’ As she reaches back for it, her bracelets jingle. She rummages in one of the bags wedged between her feet. ‘We have fruit, coriander hummus, water, and lots of healthy snacks for the journey.’

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ I say. ‘This is going to be so great. We’ll go mad in Edinburgh. It’ll be like an 18–30s holiday in Ibiza, only in Scotland and nowhere near a beach, packed with the literati rather than clubbers with glo-sticks.’ How thrilling! ‘We’ll have passionate affairs with famous writers or actors, or both at once, every day. I’m so glad you’ll be with me,’ I add, as we turn out of her road and head towards the motorway.

  I’d expected to be alone for the summer in Edinburgh but then Zelda chucked her boyfriend, and decided last night that she’d come too. ‘Forget that bastard,’ I say, pausing to check that ‘bastard’ doesn’t tip her into tears… No – brilliant: this is a break-up that requires lashings of feminine vitriol for the wounds to heal.

  ‘What a bastard!’ she agrees.

  ‘Oh, he’s such a bastard. A real twat.’ Am I pushing it with that last expletive? No, we’re still on safe territory: she must be well and truly mad with him.

  ‘Fucker,’ she adds.

  ‘What an utter, utter, utter fucker,’ I agree. ‘You’re so much better off single. You’re hot and you’re going to have so much fun in Edinburgh. Where are you going to stay, you crazy girl?’

  ‘With my cousin. He’s a banker and has a flat in the city overlooking the castle.’

  Now, why didn’t she tell me sooner that she had a cousin who’s a banker with a flat opposite the castle? Tsh. Girls really should pass this kind of information on to one another.

  Once in Edinburgh, we’re lost.

  ‘Maybe we should turn the map upside-down.’

  Zelda turns the A–Z upside-down. ‘We need to pass the castle,’ she says. We shoot up and down the road in search of it. ‘Where’s your flat?’

  ‘Murrayfield,’ I say.

  ‘If we just go down this road, we should get to it soon.’ Zelda calls the landlord to say we’ll be arriving in five minutes. We’ve just picked up the keys for the flats where the actors are staying: soft carpets, plump cushions and loads of books. Very lush. I’m hoping mine will be too.

  This is far worse than I imagined. There must be a mistake. I call the theatre-company manager. No mistake.

  This flat is a fleapit. It’s worse than that hotel in Paddington. It’s is even grottier than my house – and I thought I was slumming it there. ‘I don’t want to stay here,’ I whisper to Zelda.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asks the landlord.

  ‘Tremendous.’

  Everything is so not okay. I open the door to my bedroom to see that the carpet is made from that nasty cord stuff, the bed is a metal monstrosity and the curtains wouldn’t make it into a charity shop. Frankenstein might be happy sleeping there, but not me.

  ‘You can come and stay with me any time,’ says Zelda. ‘My cousin’s flat is supposed to be luxurious.’

  Later when I’ve dropped Zelda off at her swanky retreat – which is virtually in the castle grounds and so swanky even the entrance hall has plush cappuccino carpet, walnut antiques and an impressive Georgian door – I unpack my case into the crappy wardrobe. Thank goodness I brought some bedding. I’d be sleeping on a bare mattress otherwise. There’s nothing about the place that feels homely. And through the walls I can hear a couple having sex. I slope to the kitchen in search of food and a cup of tea. No such luck, so I slip on my shoes, and head down to the Spar beneath the flat.

  When I’m back in the kitchen ten minutes later, the sex session is still banging on at full force. I try to take a nap, but find it impossible because of the constant groaning.

  Exhausted, I call Rhodri. ‘Hiya, it’s me.’

  ‘I know it’s you.’

  ‘How are things? When are you leaving for the protest? Have you arranged for someone to look after the rabbits?’

  ‘I forgot about that.’

  ‘Ask Scarlet and Philomena – they’ll do it, no problem. Tell Scarlet we’ll pay her five pounds a week.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And Josie will look after the post and the plants if you give her a key.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘I think the couple next door are loved-up because they’ve been shagging all afternoon. And I mean all afternoon. You missing me?’

  ‘You missing me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Then Rhodri speaks softly and warmly to me, which makes me think that he does love me, after all, and instantly I miss him. When I say goodbye to him, I call Jack, who is holidaying in a caravan with Margaret No. 2, and then I’m even more homesick.

  A week has gone by. My play is on in the Arctic, far, far away from all the fun in town. Only teetotal depressives make it to this end of the city because there ain’t no action, and there ain’t no pubs either. The set doesn’t fit the stage, and neither does the cast. Thankfully, Zelda has been nursing me with red wine in the Traverse Theatre bar, where I’ve developed a crush on the security woman, who gazes upon me with pity. Meanwhile actors have been hitting on Zelda.

  I’ve also discovered that it’s not a loved-up couple on the other side of my bedroom wall but a sauna-and-massage parlour so ‘saunas and massages’ noisily take place at all hours of the day. Last night, tortured by lack of sleep, I shared Zelda’s bed at her cousin’s luxury flat. Sleeping with a girl is so much nicer than it is with a sweaty hairy man. Zelda is so scented and floral – everything she has is dainty and pretty and sparkly.

  Tonight Zelda is going out with some academics she met at a conference, but luckily I have plans, too, because Morton called to say that he’s at the Edinburgh International Film Festival for a few days. This evening we’re going to meet for a quick drink. He’s flying here from London. I wonder if he’ll have to charge past Rhodri and other protesters at the airport. I put some bacon under the grill for a sandwich, then strip off and plunge into the bath. By the time I’m ready for my evening out dinner will be ready.

  Stepping out of the bath, I pull the plug, grab a towel and make my way to my bedroom. The humping from the sauna-and-massage parlour is drawing to a climax so I play some music on my laptop to drown the grunts and moans, then kick my feet up onto the bed and take deep breaths. Apparently a bath followed by a serene rest is equivalent to an expensive hydrotherapy treatment at a spa.

  I’m just beginning to relax when a smoke alarm shrieks. I leap up and run into the hall in my towel, remember the bacon and pull it out from under the grill. Then I try to spot where the smoke alarm is: the ceiling is the obvious place – but even if I stood on a chair I couldn’t reach it. I hunt for a ladder and find one in a cupboard the size of a morgue. I haul it out into the kitchen, wobble up and switch the alarm off – only to be startled by the scream of another from the hall. I drag the ladder there and switch that one off too – only to hear the scream of a third, this time from the bedroom.

  Silence, thank God for that. I breathe a sigh of relief – only for all three to strike up again. I run through the flat on a
mission to open as many windows as possible but someone bangs aggressively on the door. ‘The alarms are going off,’ a woman yells.

  No shit, Sherlock. ‘I’m dealing with it,’ I call back. ‘Sorry.’

  She bangs the door harder. ‘They’ve been going off for twenty minutes.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, I’m trying to turn them off. They’ll stop soon, I promise.’

  The only way to do this quickly is to shed the towel. It’s holding me back. Naked, I run from room to room, climbing the ladder, pressing the button, climbing down, running to the next, but the bloody things will not stop. I use the towel to waft smoke out of the window.

  The woman returns and bangs on the door harder. ‘The alarms are still going off!’

  I look through the spy-hole on the door. I can’t see her. ‘I really am very sorry.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘No, I think I’m Okay,’ I call, flapping the towel beneath the smoke alarm in the hall. It stops, as do the others.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need any help?’

  ‘It’s under control.’

  I hold my breath, waiting for one or another to start up again. But they don’t. Eventually the woman walks off. She must think me a lost cause – what kind of lunatic refuses to open the door? My heart is pounding so hard that I feel sick.

  Some half-hour later I’m dressed to meet Morton, but after all that dashing around I am a nervous ruddy mess, not clean and glowing as I’d hoped to be. I begin to pack my bag for the evening: lipgloss, a map of Edinburgh, purse, hairbrush…

  Now someone else is knocking on the door.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a man shouts through the letterbox. ‘Excuse me.’ He bangs again. ‘Excuse me.’

  I peer through the spy-hole. He leans against the wall: nice hair, good clothes, smart, but nevertheless a potential rapist. I creep away from the door, suddenly cold with fear. I cup my hand over my mouth and nose so that he can’t hear me breathe.

  ‘Can you open the door? I’d like to speak with you.’ He raps the letterbox so hard I jump and shake with terror. ‘I know you’re in there.’

  I creep down the hallway and slump onto the floor, listening to his relentless shouts. If I hold my breath and close my eyes, he might just go away.

  ‘We live in the flat beneath you,’ he calls through the letterbox. ‘There’s water pouring into our kitchen. When you’re able, please come down and speak with us.’

  When he’s gone I flop my head between my knees and cry: this is ridiculous, I am ridiculous. What kind of woman would hide, rather than answer the door?

  It’s past seven when I meet Morton. He’s waiting for me in the Traverse Bar, two glasses of white wine on the table. He looks professional, like an old and clever doctor. I climb up onto the stool, and as we talk I swing my legs, causing the stool to pivot from side to side. His voice seems to boom loud and deep amid the general chatter. I’d like to catch him between my legs, pull him to me and kiss him. But just as I reach out with them he introduces me to a spectacled and jolly colleague, and they dive head first into some discussion about politics.

  We drink up quickly, then head outdoors. Morton has a meeting at eight, so I walk with him through throngs of people handing out flyers. We stride past the tents at the book festival, and past bars spilled out onto the pavements, their tables filled with animated ladies sharing bottles of wine and talking about literature.

  ‘I stop here,’ he says, gesturing to a grand building.

  ‘Five more minutes?’ I ask.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he says, ‘we’ll catch a play. Meet me at six.’

  He grins hopefully, so I pull his shirt collar until his face is close to mine. Teasingly I bite his ear. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  As I walk the long road to Murrayfield I place my daily call to Jack. ‘Hello, darling. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m still on holiday,’ he shrills. ‘No, Granddad, stop it – stop it…’ He laughs. ‘And we’ve been shopping and I bought some new games and I made some friends and Nana’s making dinner and…’

  ‘Sounds like you’re having lots of fun.’

  ‘I am. You wanna speak to Nana?’ He hands the phone to my mother.

  ‘You eating okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll be with you at the weekend. Jack says he isn’t missing you but I think he is because he falls quiet from time to time.’

  ‘I just want to come home now,’ I say. ‘This is too long to be away from him.’ The hours are so torture and the pressure of promoting my own play, which no one wants to watch and is located in Festival Arctic, is surely on a par with being locked in a cupboard with a spider if you’re an arachnophobe. If it weren’t for Zelda, I’d have offered myself to the Edinburgh Tattoo as a human cannonball.

  Thank goodness I’m seeing her later.

  I drop into the venue on my way to see how many tickets have been sold for this evening’s performance. Hmph… not a lot.

  ‘I have something here for you,’ says the girl at the desk. ‘At least, I think it’s for you.’

  I see the most enormous bunch of flowers. And an elegantly wrapped box. I hope they’re for me.

  The girl hands me the bouquet. ‘I wish someone’d send me flowers like this.’ She grins.

  Who loves me so much that they’d go to all the trouble of sending me such an expensive display of my favourite lilies?

  It’s a struggle carrying the bouquet more than a mile to my dismal flat, then heaving it up the endless flights of cold stone stairs. I set it down so the weight of the water in their wrapping makes them stand upright. I open the box of chocolates and pop one into my mouth. I don’t recognize the writing. It’s a small card. To prolong the surprise, I hold the envelope up to the sunlight at the window and try to deduce who it might be from.

  Rhodri would never send me flowers. He might grow something for me from seed, or plant a tree, but he would never send me a bunch of flowers: the carbon footprint is simply too great. Not to mention the overuse of pesticides and cheap labour.

  Morton. He may have been stricken with love for me last night.

  Toga. Perhaps he feels bad that he visited Edinburgh the week before I arrived, and never did take me to the Hilton.

  Or someone totally random who has simply taken a fancy to me.

  I open the card…

  … the flowers are from my mother.

  I dial her number again. ‘Thanks, Mum. They’re great… Not too big… No… It was a lovely thought. I have them in my bedroom… Yes, I’m enjoying a chocolate right now.’ I put another into my mouth and suck it appreciatively. ‘Mm, delicious. I’ll eat them all and get fat.’ My mother chuckles. ‘It was a beautiful thought and cheered me up no end. Thank you.’

  ‘I thought it would. Well, you take care, love. See you at the weekend.’

  *

  ‘George made dinner,’ proclaims Zelda, proudly. I’m seated with Zelda, her cousin George and his economist friend John around the dining table at George’s flat. Outside, fireworks at the Edinburgh Tattoo are bursting, whiz, pop, bang, above the castle. I’m weary after my night with Morton. He took me for dinner at a chic little restaurant in Grassmarket. Now, from my own experience, I wholly believe that oysters are indeed an aphrodisiac.

  ‘This looks fab,’ I say to George. ‘Thanks for having me over. I was in need of some home comforts.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘And thanks for all your kindness while I’ve been here. It’s very good of you.’ George has taken me under his wing, as he has Zelda. Right now, my dresses are in his washing machine, and my bras and pants are drying on his radiator.

  George talks about his work at the bank. ‘But I’m leaving for Afghanistan soon,’ he adds.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘With the Territorial Army,’ explains Zelda. ‘George will be leaving his job as a banker for the army.’

  Then the doorbell rings: a sergea
nt major in full uniform has dropped by for a cup of tea.

  I think of Rhodri. He’ll be at Heathrow, campaigning with the other activists and attending workshops, talking about direct action, like anti-war, anti-globalization, anti-cheap-airline protests, and here I am, a traitor in his midst, drinking imported wine with a soldier, a banker and an economist.

  *

  By the time Jack arrives with my mother at the weekend, I’m shaking with exhaustion. I see them waiting for me at a picnic bench in their hotel garden. I take a seat next to Jack, kiss him hello, hug him tightly and listen to his tales about his holiday, then retreat to the toilets to cry. I’m washing my face with cold water when my father rings. ‘Hello, petal,’ he says. ‘Everything okay? I just wanted to warn you – now don’t get upset about this – but I went to your house yesterday to see how Rhodri is getting on. You probably wanted to return and find everything tidy and nice…’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘It might not be when I get back.’

  ‘I’ll see if Eleanor and I can get over there this weekend and sort it out, but we might not have time. I’m sorry, darling, but the house is a mess.’

  I’ve just put my phone away and am brushing my hair, preparing to head back outdoors to Jack, when Toga calls.

  ‘I can’t talk right now,’ I say.

  ‘Are you still with Rhodri?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I need to see you,’ he says. ‘Soon.’

  Why does he need to see me? He won’t tell me over the telephone. Then it dawns on me that maybe Toga is in love with me and, in that brief moment, it feels as if my life is about to change.

  24

  Three weeks have passed, the September school term has started, and already my jaunt to the Edinburgh Festival seems a lifetime ago. My father was right. I returned to find the house upside-down. Rhodri is so fired up with activism from spending summer at the camp, that I have secured my position as Environmental Enemy No. 1. Toga has called a number of times, suggesting weekends when he might visit, but the timing just doesn’t seem right: pulling my family back together needs to be my top priority.