This Perfect World

by Suzanne Bugler

  And when Thomas complains that he hates Milo Stupid Littlewood, I say, ‘I know you do. But can’t you just try to be nice?’

  Oh, irony of ironies.

  All that I am and all that I have done: the past lives on within me like a measured ghost.

  ‘Mummy,’ Arianne says, like she’s been mulling it over, ‘what does fuck mean?’

  And when I don’t answer she asks Thomas. ‘What does fuck mean, Thomas? Thomas, what does fuck mean?’

  And Thomas, in his six-year-old wisdom, says, ‘It means bum.’

  I’m crying when James gets in. He dumps his briefcase in the hall, walks into the kitchen, sees me sitting there at the table and stops. Horribly, I am reminded of those days after Thomas was born, when he’d come home and find me crying. He has that same look on his face, the look that says he wants to turn around again and walk straight back out.

  ‘Now what is it?’ he asks with trepidation, as if he really doesn’t want to know. And he stands there, and I know damn well that all he wants is his dinner, and to be left alone.

  Slowly I say, ‘Peter Littlewood has been calling me a twisted fuck-head. I know this because his son told our son at school today. And so I’m feeling a little upset.’

  I see him wrestling with himself. I see the fact that he thinks maybe Peter Littlewood has a point cross his face, followed swiftly by outrage, the pumped-up, don’t-insult-my-wife-or-you-insult-me obligatory outrage of the husband. And let’s face it, I am in James’s eyes not so much an extension of himself as an attachment, you know, like I’m an ambassador when things are going well, and a parasite when they’re not.

  What we have is a marriage, after all.

  ‘Well, what do you want me to do?’ he asks, throwing it back at me.

  I shrug.

  ‘Do you want me to go round there and thump him?’

  And he would; he’d go round there and thump him. He would, my fine, handsome husband. He’d go round there and thump Peter, and say Leave off my wife, and then come back here and blame me for making a thug out of him.

  We have a marriage, but it’s a thin and fragile thing.

  I look at him and he swims in a sea of tears. ‘I don’t know what I want,’ I cry. ‘But I don’t want this.’

  He almost rolls his eyes. ‘What do you mean by this, Laura? Do you mean this little mess you’ve got yourself into, or do you mean more than that? Do you mean me, us? Our children, our home, our lives? What? I mean, if you don’t want this, then what is it that you do want, Laura?’

  The question hangs in the air. James’s voice is too loud; I see it cross his mind just as it crosses mine: Don’t wake the children.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ I stare at him and he stares right back, his blue eyes stone-hard. I blink and blink again, breaking the focus. ‘It’s just living here, the way we live, the way everything that should matter doesn’t matter and everything that shouldn’t does . . . Don’t you ever wonder why we do it, James? Don’t you ever wonder why we live here like this?’

  ‘Then where would you have us live?’ James asks, and he kind of laughs, dismissively, coldly, like he hasn’t got a clue what I’m on about. ‘Would you like me to give up my job and go and become a postman in rural Scotland or something? Would that make you happy?’ Again he laughs, shaking his head as if he thinks I am mad, and I hate him for it. ‘This is life, Laura,’ he says. ‘This is what I thought you wanted. And anyway, what makes you think it would be different anywhere else?’

  Once, I nearly told him, about the cuts on my arm.

  He asked me about them, and I got this sudden confessional urge – something I’d never had before and I’ve never had since – something to do with being in love maybe, softening my head, letting my defences down. We’d not been together long, and you know what it’s like when you’re on that high. You get carried away. You want to find trust.

  It was a Sunday afternoon, late, just as the daylight was dipping and fading out. We’d been to the cinema, then gone back to his place, and back to bed. And we were lying there, half-dozing, half-dreaming, cocooned in shadows. He asked me out of the blue, asked me like he’d been wanting to ask me for some time.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ he said, trailing his fingers over my scars. And just for a second I nearly told him. But then this warning voice came bolting through my head: what if he already knows or thinks he knows, and what if he really wants me to tell him otherwise?

  So I did. ‘I cut it falling through a glass door, years ago,’ I said, and it was the right thing to say, because he accepted it, just like that.

  I knew I’d never tell him then, but no matter. It was from a different life, gone.

  Fuck-head means nutter, everyone knows that.

  I lie in the dark, curled away from my husband’s sleeping body, and I want to be gone, far, far away.

  EIGHTEEN

  Round here, I’ve no choice but to brave it out.

  I deliver and collect my children from their daily obligations as usual, and I shop, and I run, and I go to yoga, with a smile etched upon my face. And I watch as the little groups of women in this place huddle and split and re-form again. Tasha and Fiona are suddenly best friends, though they never spoke to each other before – they’ve got something in common now: me. And so Penny’s put out and has to jockey for position, which she does by shoving Liz out, and so Juliet spots an opportunity and homes in on Liz, and round and round it goes.

  And James comes home with a pissed-off look on his face and tells me nothing of his day. And he goes off to his football, but when he comes back he creeps in beside me in the dark, and although I’m awake he no longer shares with me the pub talk, the secrets of the men in this little town.

  I am outside now. I am on the outside of my own life, and observing from the sidelines as it so easily comes apart.

  And then, late on Wednesday morning, just as I am bracing myself to collect Arianne, Ian Partridge phones.

  ‘Laura,’ he barks, ‘Ian here,’ in that over-familiar way that makes my skin crawl. ‘Got something I need to talk to you about. About Mum. I was thinking I could meet you for a drink or something. Hang on a minute . . .’ There’s a radio playing in the background, for a moment it blares out even louder, and then a door bangs and the music fades out. He’s in a corridor; I can hear his footsteps echoing off the floor, and the crackle of his phone as he carries it, stomping along. In those few seconds I am ready with a definite No.

  But then he’s back saying, ‘Got good news about Heddy. Doctors reckon she’ll be coming out soon. And me and Linda, we’ve been wanting to get Mum moved up here with us, and Heddy and Nathan, but it’s not been possible, you know, with Heddy in the hospital. Listen, I’m coming down at the weekend. Thought maybe you and me could meet up then, have a bit of a chat.’

  And I am so desperate to find an end to all this that I agree to meeting Ian Partridge in the Red Lion in Forbury High Street, on Friday night.

  I have to get a babysitter in, as James is out on Friday too, but I think that is probably just as well. I don’t really want him to know where I’m going, and it saves lying.

  I wear my jeans, and a plain black top. I’d wear my sunglasses too if I could, and a wig. I haven’t been to the Red Lion in Forbury High Street since I was seventeen. I imagine it, still full of the people from school, the girls all mums now with tired faces, the boys all starting to bald. God forbid that I should recognize anyone, or have anyone recognize me, out on a Friday-night date with Ian Partridge.

  We arranged to meet at eight, so I arrive at five past and go in the back entrance from the car park, past the smokers, huddled outside. It’s not just the Red Lion I haven’t been in for years; I haven’t been in any pub. The odd bar maybe, but not a pub. I walk across the dirty dark-red carpet to the bar, and feel as if everyone is staring at me.

  I’d have got my own drink, but there he is, Ian Partridge, propping up the bar with his pint and waiting for me.

  ‘Laura,’ h
e says, loudly, so if there were anyone there from school they’d hear, and maybe look, and maybe put two and two together. ‘Good to see you again. What you drinking?’

  And I have to stand there like his date while he kisses me on the cheek again, and orders me a Diet Coke. And then we both walk across that dreadful carpet to a little round table next to the fruit machine. Ian sits on the built-in seat that runs along the wall and I have to either sit next to him or perch on the stool opposite. I take the stool, obviously, but have you ever had to sit on one of those stools? It’s impossible not to cross your legs and lean forward, showing too much thigh and cleavage. Thank God I’m wearing jeans, so there’s one less distraction at least.

  Ian takes a big gulp from his beer and licks the foam off his lip. And then he belches, keeping his mouth shut to hold it in, so that his face kind of jerks back into his double chin for a second and his cheeks puff out. When he speaks I get the faint whiff of sulphur off his breath. ‘Yeah, Mum says the doctors are pleased with Heddy. She’s making good progress.’

  ‘That’s excellent news,’ I say, though I can’t help feeling uneasy. But Heddy’s kept my secrets all these years; surely she’s not going to go letting them out now? Or maybe she will – maybe that’s part of the therapy, the letting go. Shame eats at my conscience, but it’s the shame of being found out.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Ian. ‘And Mum says it’s part down to you. She’s very grateful to you, Laura.’

  ‘Really, I’ve done nothing,’ I say and the shame bites a little deeper.

  ‘But the thing is, it’s too much for Mum, looking after Nathan and Heddy. Me and Linda, we’ve been trying to get her to move up near us for ages. Mate of mine’s got a house just up the road. He bought it for his mum, but she don’t need it now; she’s gone into a home, poor dear. He don’t want much rent and it’s just sitting there, waiting for her. Got a lovely little garden, it has, just right for Nathan. Course they couldn’t move while Heddy’s stuck in the hospital.’

  How selfish of Heddy – the thought rises out of old habit and flashes through my mind. And it’s followed by another thought, probably equally unreasonable: how come I didn’t know about this house before?

  ‘I worry about Mum,’ Ian says. ‘It would be much easier if we were nearby.’ He picks up his glass again and looks at me a little shiftily over the top of it. ‘Thing is, Mum gets a bit funny about moving. She’s lived in that house for years, ever since she first married my dad. She’s got all her memories and that.’

  It takes me a moment to realize what he’s getting at. I’m too busy thinking that there can’t be that many good memories. I mean, watching your husband becoming ill and then dying, and being left to bring your kids up on your own and having one of them wind up the way Heddy has, and basically just scrimping and scraping and struggling all your life. Would that give you memories to cling on to? Probably it would, if you were Mrs Partridge. Probably you’d treasure whatever you had. Your life is your life, after all.

  ‘It would be nice for her to be so close to you and her grandchildren,’ I say, and I just feel so incredibly sad suddenly. Sad that anyone should have a life like Mrs Partridge’s.

  Ian nods, deep in thought, his eyes fixed on the front of my top now. ‘It’s a lot to organize though, for Mum. She don’t know much about paperwork and that, and it’s a bit difficult, what with me being so far away.’

  Now I understand what he wants. ‘Well, I’ll help. Of course I will.’

  ‘Thanks, Laura. Mum didn’t want to trouble you any more, but I said you wouldn’t mind.’ He lifts his gaze, and holds my eyes a little too long for comfort. I look away, and I can feel the colour rising in my face. Let’s not forget that this is Ian Partridge, the boy who used to lurk about gawping at me whenever I had the misfortune to come calling for his sister. And now here I am in a pub with him, and I’m thinking it’s time that I should leave.

  But then he says, ‘Funny how things turn out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say, and I’m making a big thing of gathering up my bag.

  ‘Well, you and Heddy. Never thought you much liked her when we was kids. But now look at you, doing all this for her.’

  I glance up from my bag, expecting to see sarcasm on his face, but he’s just staring at me with these big, earnest eyes. And his cheeks are colouring up, too. ‘It’s true, Laura,’ he says. ‘It’s great the way you’re coming through for her.’

  I don’t know what to say. Embarrassment has me pinned to my seat. Horrible seconds pass.

  And then he coughs, putting his fist in front of his mouth and noisily clearing his throat.

  ‘Let me buy you another drink,’ he says.

  ‘No, really, I must be going.’

  ‘Just one,’ he says.

  ‘No, really, I . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘What is it? Same again?’

  And I have to sit there while he goes back to the bar, and I’m just thinking over and over What am I doing here? And God knows how this must look to anyone else. I hold my bag on my lap now, ready to escape as soon as I can.

  ‘There you go,’ Ian says when he comes back, and I hate the fact that his fingers have been on my glass, so close to the rim. He sits himself back into his seat, looks greedily at his pint and lifts it ceremoniously to his lips. And when he’s had a good few glugs, he holds his glass out to me a little way and says, ‘Cheers.’

  I feel obliged to lift up my own glass, and say the same.

  ‘Not much of a thank you, but still . . .’ he says, and I realize that’s what this is about. It’s my thank-you drink. The least I could do is drink it graciously.

  And then we get on to the practicalities, the things that I am good at. I say I’ll look after Nathan tomorrow so that Ian can talk things over properly with his mum and take her to visit Heddy. Mrs Partridge has an appointment with the doctor to discuss Heddy’s aftercare – I’ll take her, I offer, if she wants me to. It turns out Mrs Partridge owns the house, so there’ll be estate agents and solicitors to deal with. I’ll help with all that, I say. Don’t worry, I’ll do whatever I can. I am amazed at my own sincerity.

  ‘I want to get them up as soon as possible now,’ Ian says. ‘She don’t need to sell the house first, not if you can help with that. New house is ready whenever she wants it, and she can stay with me and Linda for a bit first. Till she’s sorted. We haven’t got much room, but she’s very welcome. It’ll be nice for the kids to have Nathan around.’ He lifts up his glass again, and downs the last of his pint. And he leans closer to me, across the table. ‘You’re a real rock, Laura,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what me and Mum and Heddy would do without you.’

  For an awful, guilt-hewn moment I think things are going to get embarrassing again, but then he’s back talking about how he’ll give the house a lick of paint to brighten it up for his mum, and about his kids and how they’re looking forward to seeing their nanna every day . . . And I sit there and I listen and I am overwhelmed by just how much Ian Partridge loves his family. His wife and his kids and his mum and his sister and his nephew . . .

  I see how much they all love each other, the Partridges.

  I see a lot of things now, that I couldn’t see before.

  And so we go to collect Nathan the next day, Thomas, Arianne and me. The children are just delighted to see that old car again, and wait out the front admiring it; Nathan comes out of the house to join them. And I stand in the doorway of the Partridges’ house and force myself to embrace Mrs Partridge’s small, tired bones in a quick, fast hug.

  ‘Mrs Partridge, it’s fantastic news about Heddy,’ I say, and I can’t understand why she doesn’t seem even just a little bit thrilled. She flutters in my arms like a bewildered bird and I think maybe I’ve pre-empted things. Maybe Heddy isn’t definitely coming out after all.

  But then there’s Ian, striding up the hallway behind her. ‘Thanks, Laura,’ he says. ‘Going to take Nathan with us when we visit tomorrow, all being well. Looking forwa
rd to that, aren’t you, Nathan?’ he calls out, his voice loud, booming against the narrow walls. ‘Going to see Mum tomorrow.’

  Nathan, who is crouched down with my children beside that car, looks back at the house, bashful, shy. But Mrs Partridge says nothing other than, ‘Yes, dear, I think so, dear,’ and, of course, ‘Thank you, dear.’

  I whisk Nathan away and bring him back to my house. We have lunch and then go to the park. All is going well enough until the Littlewood children turn up at the park too, complete with their dad, with his put-upon face and his arsed-up attitude, and his phone stuck permanently to his ear.

  I hear him coming before I see him. He drones into his phone with his loud, bored voice so that everyone has to hear him. Goosebumps prickle over my shoulders and I want to hide, but where can I hide, here in our bright, sunny park? So instead I act like I am as happy as can be on this most carefree of days, laughing at everything the children say, pushing swings, throwing balls, and absolutely 100 per cent delighting in all that they do.

  He has no choice but to acknowledge me. ‘Laura,’ he says gruffly and stands, uncomfortably, an arm’s length away.

  And I don’t even look at him. I can’t bring myself to. ‘Peter,’ I say, equally curtly, and he has to stand there suffering while his children play with mine. Even I can’t stand it for long, though. I round up Thomas, Arianne and Nathan and head for the exit, smiling as I go. And I’m thinking You’ll think twice before you go calling me a fuck-head again.

  James has been out playing golf, but he comes back earlier than I expected. We’re just back from the park ourselves, and the children are having drinks and biscuits at the kitchen table when I hear his key in the door.

  James has never met Nathan before and knows nothing about him. This should be no big deal – kids come back here to play all the time without James knowing anything about it, and I’m sure he wouldn’t even know what half his children’s friends look like. But this is different. Nathan is different. He looks different, sitting there at the table with my two with their blond hair and their bright eyes.