Single Mother on the Verge

by Maria Roberts

  Shielding me like a baby bird, Mrs Yu leads me under her elegant arm to the door. Dr Li stands solemnly behind her, as though I am being sent out to do battle with the enemy. ‘Is no little balls for heartache,’ says Mrs Yu. ‘You tell him you love him, then you feel better.’

  I meet Zelda for a drink at Cord in Manchester. She’s travelling to London in a few days to watch our friend Prince read at the Southbank Centre. He’ll stay at a luxury boutique hotel. Zelda has already bagged a space in his bed, but she reckons there’ll be plenty of room beneath the duvet for me too. Like a bunch of seven-year-olds, Prince, Zelda and I have been known to cram into a bed together in a completely non-sexual manner, though the hotel staff may not see it quite like that.

  I arrange for Jack to stay the night with Margaret No. 2. I shall drop him at school, go to the event and dart back the next day. I look for accommodation as a back-up. Not at those prices. I email freebedandbreakfastandsex.com instead.

  Dear Bear,

  Have been invited to an event in London. Sorry for the short notice would you like to come (ha ha)?

  Naughty Bear xxxx

  Once I ended an email ‘Love X’. I didn’t hear from Toga for weeks. Another time I randomly slotted in ‘Yup, that’s why I love you. x’ And didn’t hear from him for almost a month. The lesson learned: when emailing Toga, never use the word ‘love’, but if I need an immediate answer do allude to sex. If it’s very urgent, kinky sex.

  Now all I need to do is wait…

  Why hasn’t he emailed back?

  Ping!

  Someone offering me a test pack of Viagra.

  Ping!

  An email from… Toga:

  Busy at work. On deadline. Call later.X

  I reread the email over and over again. What a love: a big ‘X’ not a little one. He must really like me.

  And with a few details in place such as breakfast club, after-school club and swimming lessons, it’s all organized. Except for the train tickets: which I can purchase on the day. Or I could drive? Train tickets are very expensive. No. Not drive. Perhaps drive. I email Toga:

  Do you have a driveway? And are you in the congestion zone?x

  He responds instantly: very peculiar, unless he thinks that ‘congestion zone’ is a euphemism for an orgy:

  Have a driveway (of sorts) and not in the congestion zone. X

  Last night I shaved off every bit of body hair I could see and even hair I couldn’t: a dangerous pursuit that required the agility of a contortionist, combined with the thrill of a Gillette razorblade. It looks like Toga can’t make it to Prince’s event because he’s off to some fancy-pants do at a hotel in Mayfair. I asked him if he could forfeit schmoozing for a bite of literature but he put on his firm I’m-a-man-and-I-mean-it voice: ‘I don’t know where I’ll be and I don’t want to leave the party early. It’ll be a good night: we’re going for a meal, and then to a hotel for champagne. I’m looking forward to it. I can’t make plans to meet you, sorry.’

  ‘I might book a hotel then.’ What would I pay with? Dried chickpeas? I have kilos of them.

  ‘There’s no need to book a hotel,’ he said, ‘when you can stay at my flat.’

  About forty minutes from Euston I carry my bags to the train toilet to get changed and start the cosmetic overhaul. Then I see it: A Very Big Queue for a Very Small Toilet.

  By the time the train pulls in at Euston, I’m standing in the cubicle, naked, frantically trying to change into a dress. If I don’t hurry up, I’ll be on my way back to Manchester.

  Eventually I rush back to my seat where I find a man standing guard over my bags. ‘I thought you were never coming back,’ he says.

  I’m to collect the keys to Toga’s flat from the offices where he works. I lean against the railings on the square, gazing enviously at the cars lined up to take sleek, successful people to the party – limousines with tinted windows, four-by-fours and shiny black Mercedes. Preened girls wearing little dresses and high heels merrily clamber into the back seats. I’m certain Toga would prefer to be with one of them and not me.

  I cross the road and squeeze between a giant black Range Rover and a black Mercedes. A security man listens to instructions in his earpiece, and as girls teem out of the shiny revolving doors he checks their names on his official-looking clipboard.

  Rhodri would be horrified to see this. He’d have a group of protesters flinging their naked hairy bodies over the bonnets of the cars. They’d have placards in their hands with ‘Balls to Climate Change’ scrawled in vegetable-ink marker pen, with an arrow pointing to their bollocks. He’d say they should choose a venue close by, rather than transporting such avid consumerists in oil-guzzling cars across a congested city.

  In the foyer, girls, girls, girls tumble out of the lift, kissing the head of the bald concierge. ‘You coming to the party?’ asks one.

  ‘Maybe.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe.

  ‘Yes?’ he asks me. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve come to pick up some keys. Toga left them here for me.’

  ‘I have an envelope.’ He hands me a large padded one. Perhaps Toga’s left me a present: it’s so large that there must be a present in it… No present. Just a very small set of keys. I hand back the empty envelope. ‘You can reuse it,’ I explain. ‘Shame to waste it.’

  I head outdoors with the partygoers.

  ‘That car, please,’ says the security guard with the headgear on. He points me in the direction of a limousine. Tempting.

  In the early hours of the morning I catch a cab to Toga’s flat. Unfortunately the driver is not in possession of the Knowledge, I am very drunk and we are lost. What if Toga’s pulled a girl at the party and brought her back to his? Will I end up on the sofa? My mobile’s ringing. I burrow in my bag, trying to retrieve it.

  ‘Hello, Bear, where are you?’

  ‘Standing outside my flat waiting for you. Where are you?’

  ‘In a taxi. Lost!’ Toga obviously doesn’t find this as entertaining as I do.

  ‘For God’s sake.’

  I get the feeling Toga isn’t a happy bear this evening.

  ‘I’m standing in the freezing cold waiting for you. You have my keys. Where are you?’

  ‘On a busy road.’ That’s not a good answer, is it? All roads in London are busy. ‘By a park?’

  ‘Which park?’

  ‘A big one.

  ‘I’d better get back quickly,’ I say to the cab driver, who has pulled over to look through his A–Z. ‘He’s not very happy with me. Out in the cold, poor love. You want a big road with a Nando’s on it,’ I tell him for the tenth time. ‘There!’ I yell. ‘There!’ Suddenly everything looks familiar. Lucky Toga – he’ll be with me in no time. The cab pulls up at the end of the road. I walk down the icy street and see him. Lovely Toga. With his cute bobble hat on and glasses. He wraps his arm over me and pulls me towards him for a kiss as we head indoors to bed.

  Toga sleeps, but I’m restless and cold. I get up and wander to his living room where I find a pile of photographs. Next to them is a silly card I gave him many years ago. I’m surprised he kept it. I read the daft poem I wrote to him. How embarrassing. I wrap myself in his zebra dressing-gown, make a cup of tea and stand in the doorway, watching him sleep.

  ‘There’s a zebra in the bed,’ he says in the morning, pulling me onto him. I make what I think is a zebra sound, but possibly sounds like a warthog. I kiss the little scar in the shape of a bear’s paw on his chest, then his lips. ‘Good morning.’

  Toga gets out of bed to shower for work, then stands at the foot drying himself from the shower. I watch him pull his clothes from his enormous wardrobe. ‘You look very handsome this morning,’ I say. And he does. Looming over me, it’s quite impressive. ‘I fancy you rotten,’ I say. ‘Come here.’

  Toga lurches over to me pretending to be reluctant until he gets close enough for me to pull him onto the bed. He groans. But obliges.

  ‘That was nice. I’ll have another,’ I say, grabbing
his collar.

  ‘Go on, then, if you must.’ He kisses me quickly. ‘I’ll make you some breakfast,’ he says, then pads off down the hall to the kitchen before I can wrestle with him again. From the bed I hear him gather pots together, flick the kettle on and switch the radio into life. Leaves clatter over the conservatory roof like children running riot above us. I curl into the duvet and listen to a love song playing on the radio. I feel warm and content. If this is happiness, I like it.

  ‘Toast,’ says Toga, handing me a plate with I Love Skegness in big red letters across it. I put it on the cabinet by the bed and gaze up at him. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’ve got to get to work. I gave you a good seeing-to last night and this morning.’

  ‘Just a kiss, that’s all I’m asking for.’

  He rolls his eyes, then kisses me. ‘’Bye, love. Call me when you’re on the train.’ He grabs his keys and makes for the door.

  ‘Toga,’ I shout. ‘Toga.’

  He strides back into the bedroom, grinning. ‘What?’

  ‘Another. Just a little one.’

  ‘Oh, all right, then… I’m really going now.’

  I wait until he’s walked further this time. ‘Toga,’ I call.

  Toga plods back into the room, shoulders slumped. ‘Go on, then,’ he says. ‘If you must. Kiss me, then.’ He lunges at me until his cheek is next to my lips and I hoot with laughter. He stands up, smoothes down his jumper, ruffles his hair and is off.

  I’m lying in Toga’s bed, daydreaming about (in no specific order): our big house in the country (somewhere just outside London, of course, so he can keep his job) with a dog, and our lovely little children, probably girls, blonde, plaits, identical twins, very pretty little dresses, their adoring big brother Jack, and our days out to galleries in the convertible, the wedding (a small luxurious affair with me wearing a demure and simple dress that cost a fortune, a beautiful white-gold ring, gorgeous little diamond earrings, a tiny but very expensive single-diamond necklace), our holidays in Mustique with drug-addict rock stars… and we’re happily ever after. The sex is fantastic – always. In fact, it only gets better. Throughout our long and happy life together (he’ll die before me, leaving me wealthy but heartbroken) we experiment in all sorts of ways, even frequenting swingers’ joints, which we laugh off as a ‘silly phase’ in our sixties at the nudist club in Brighton. And then, in our seventies, when the grandkids have gone home, I’ll bring him coffee only to find him dead with a smile on his face and I’ll think, We had a good life.

  I’m just at the end of my saga when my phone vibrates with a text message:

  Be careful love. It is very icy and slippery out there x

  A few days later, I’m washing the dishes in my kitchen trying to fade out the sound of Rhodri packing his belongings into cardboard boxes. He’s removing his records from the bookshelves, and his Welsh books. Each time I’ve stepped into the living room it looks emptier. We’re caring and careful with one another, which makes me uncertain that we’re doing the right thing. As I perch on the sofa it takes all my strength to hold off from saying, ‘Stop! Put everything back. I’ve changed my mind.’

  Rhodri said goodbye to Jack last night and explained that he won’t be here when he returns from school, and Jack seemed all right with that.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rhodri,’ I say, perched on the sofa feeling glum. ‘For everything I’ve ever done. And the other men. I’m sorry about that too.’

  He places his hand on my knee and takes a swig of his tea. ‘Maria,’ he says, smiling, ‘you don’t need to be sorry. I keep telling you that. You didn’t do anything wrong.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘I changed,’ he adds, ‘and so did you. We were never going to work, were we?’

  He laughs a little and so do I. Then I slope off to the bedroom where I begin to pack away his clothes and shoes.

  PART THREE

  28

  Forget the Sunday lie-in and festive bollocks in preparation for Christmas. I’m going to blast all the dust out of the house. I’m going to wash the towels and the bedding. I’m even going to wash clothes that don’t need washing but have been soaked in vegetable-derivative detergent for the past year. I will also mop the floors and clean the windows.

  New start, new attitude.

  I’ll be a housewife, just for me. What a liberation!

  Jack wasn’t too keen on the plan. ‘I know I said we’d go on a bike ride today,’ I explained, ‘but Santa doesn’t like messy houses and he’ll be on his way here soon.’

  Jack had wanted to play at Margaret’s house, but he can’t because Damien, who now lives with his girlfriend, is visiting her today, and he’s the last person I want to bump into when I’m sloping about with a broken heart.

  This morning, like a rebel, I went to the shops and purchased a truckload of products that were banned during the Rhodri years:

  – Vanish

  – Persil Colour

  – Fairy fabric conditioner (almond milk and honey)

  – L’Oréal Elvive colour protective shampoo

  – Pantene colour protective conditioner (couldn’t find the L’Oréal one to match)

  – Stardrops multi-purpose cleaning fluid

  – Toilet Duck

  – Flash Power Action with bleach

  – Those things you put in the toilet to turn the water blue when you flush it

  – Flash floor cleaner

  – Mr Muscle oven cleaner

  – Plug-in air-fresheners (‘festive aroma’, get rid of those dank compost and kitchen-bin smells we’ve been harbouring)

  – 1001 carpet cleaner

  – Pledge

  – Olay anti-ageing moisturizer

  – Johnson & Johnson facial wipes

  – 2 Radox bubblebath ( one is relaxing to calm me down, and the other is invigorating to get me going again)

  – Impulse Temptation (should I bump into a handsome man by, rather than on, the conveyor-belt at the supermarket)

  – A frozen pizza and some cheap and nasty oven chips for tonight’s dinner

  I bought a copy of Cosmopolitan because it has a feature on things to do before you turn thirty. I’ll have to get cracking with planning. A quick skim of the magazine, and I discover that it’s far too late to do any of the things it suggests I should do before I turn thirty because it’s evidently aimed at women who have only just turned twenty, not those like me who turned twenty almost a decade ago.

  I throw the magazine into the recycling pile and pick up a broom instead. Cleaning is addictive. The house smells of artificial citrus and feels spick and span. After I’ve sprayed Mr Muscle inside the oven, I’m going to have a hot bath in my relaxing Radox bubble bath. Between mopping and dusting and generally being a multitasking phenomenon, I managed to iron Jack’s school uniform and prepare his packed lunch for tomorrow – I even cut the crusts off his sandwiches. He has Vimto in his flask, not organic Fairtrade pulp, so I’ll be a much-loved supermum before I know it.

  The next day I’m on a toxic-product come-down when I hear the key turn in the front door and Rhodri walks in. ‘Hello. Needed something from the shed.’ He grabs a banana from the fruit basket, wolfs it, then heads upstairs.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Toilet.’

  He is up there for a suspiciously long time – the time it takes to have a number two. I’ve only just rid the bathroom of man smells. The toilet flushes and, before I know it, he’s in the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards, grazing on what he can find and snaffling oatcakes. Forgive me, but I thought he’d moved out.

  ‘You don’t live here any more.’ Surely this is obvious. He packed his things himself, although I have been finding shoes and other things around the house, placed there, I’m beginning to think, so he has no choice but to come back. ‘You can’t just wander in and eat my food,’ I say.

  His mouth is stuffed with oatcakes, and he has a big jar of olives in a vice grip between his knees. ‘I’ve come to fix your bike. You want your bike fixed, don�
�t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  The cost of bike repairs must be a banana, four oat-cakes and a handful of olives. No, hang on, he’s in the cupboards rummaging for more. What else has he found? Peanut butter.

  Rhodri goes to the shed to pull out my bike. I have about an hour before I’m due to collect Jack from school. I’ll make Jack something he likes for dinner: Heinz ravioli on toast? Hmm… If Rhodri is here, I can’t let him see that we’ve started to eat convenience food.

  ‘You’re a very lucky girl,’ he tells me, as I watch him fiddling with the brakes.

  ‘Lucky how, exactly?’

  ‘You slept with other men, asked me to leave, and here I am repairing your bicycle for you.’

  ‘Yes, I am lucky,’ I say. ‘But the environment is even luckier. If you didn’t do it, I’d have to drive.’

  *

  Jack and I arrive home from school to find Rhodri still in the back garden, unscrewing parts from my bike, cleaning them and putting them back.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ I yell.

  ‘Yes, please, dear.’

  Just like old times. Scary.

  He heads into the kitchen, taking his dirty boots off at the door. We stand a distance apart.

  ‘How’s the bike going?’

  ‘I need to order some bearings. It’ll ride smoothly when it’s done, though.’ Rhodri takes a noisy slug of his tea. If he was still my boyfriend, I’d have nagged him about that. Now he lives elsewhere he can do as he pleases. He grins pleasantly at me. ‘Good cup of tea, love.’

  ‘Thanks. And thanks for doing the bike.’

  ‘Do you want that?’ he asks, nodding towards an oversized pumpkin sitting on the kitchen counter.

  ‘No. You can take it.’

  ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘you have it. You can make pumpkin soup out of it, or pumpkin pie.’