All Your Fault

by NJ Moss

  My words didn’t sound as crisp as I needed them to be.

  “Hmm,” he said again. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Do you have children?” I wished I could whip the question back the moment I’d uttered it. It was way too forward.

  He did not look pleased. “In a way. But no, not really.”

  In a way? What in the name of Christ was that supposed to mean?

  “My girlfriend has a daughter.” Perhaps he could read my confusion. “But I fail to see how it’s relevant, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart. That really grated. “Of course.”

  A pause.

  The pause was getting longer.

  This pause was far, far too lengthy.

  “I’ll work harder than any other candidate,” I said quickly, trying to salvage. My palms were streaming rivers of sweat. “I’m not working for a pay cheque.” Liar. “Or to ‘make ends meet’.” Oh, you lying bitch. “I’m working for the respect of my children, who I love more than anything in this world. I’ll admit I’m surprised, Mr—Clive. I did not expect things to be so informal today. But I’m also glad, because it means I get to tell you a blunt truth. Hire me and I’ll work ten times as fucking hard as anybody else you interview. Because I want it more. Plain and simple.”

  My heart thumped in the back of my throat.

  I was fairly certain I’d said the F-word.

  Clive nodded slowly and a smile smeared across his face. Unless I was going mad – maybe you are – I was sure I detected pity in his expression. “You’re right. This is informal. I know you weren’t expecting this. Well, we’ll be in touch.”

  “That’s… it?”

  “I’ve heard everything I need to hear. Since you’re the last candidate I’ve interviewed, I should have an answer for you within the hour. Please keep your mobile turned on.”

  “Sure. Yes. Of course. And Clive, I didn’t mean to curse. I suppose I got carried away.”

  He chuckled as he stood up, offering me his hand. His Rolex jingle-jangled as we shook. Thankfully he didn’t mention how badly I was sweating. “Nothing wrong with a bit of passion. We could use it around here. Like I said, keep your mobile on.”

  I left the offices, finding it difficult to look anywhere but at the floor. I rode the lift with a pit in my belly. Barely twenty minutes had passed since I’d entered the building, but it had felt like a saga.

  It was over and I’d ruined it. He’d set me some obscure test and I’d been unable to think on my feet quickly enough to dance to his tune.

  I wandered Queen’s Square for several minutes, clutching my mobile and waiting for the vibration that would tell me, unfortunately – and though I performed very well and I was a very likeable person – I was not quite right for this position.

  I kept walking, around and around and around.

  Like the wheel of a bicycle. Like the rain-streaked spokes of a novelty pink bike, a 1950s-style bike, with tassels, going around and around—

  How is that helpful? I chided myself. Torturous thoughts were the last thing I needed.

  I sat on a bench and took long deep breaths, trying to get myself under control. Half an hour passed, sitting there, waiting.

  I decided the suddenness of the experience was causing this ribcage-thumping heartbeat. I spent my days doing chores and taking care of Russ. And then, all at once, I was in an office pretending to be like them, pretending my skirt wasn’t clingy and my armpits weren’t damp. Then there had been the strange informality of the interview. That hadn’t helped.

  My mobile rang. It was Langdale Consulting.

  “Grace.” Clive sounded sombre, a man who didn’t want to be making this call. I braced for rejection. But then he said, “I won’t keep you in suspense. You got the job. You were by far the best candidate.”

  “Pardon?” I gasped. “Really?”

  “Really. I know your circumstances, and I could tell you were nervous back there. But there’s no need. The job’s yours, if you’ll have it. And let me just say, it’s never smart to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “No. I mean, yes. Thank you. I agree.”

  “Come in on Friday for a tour and to meet the gang. We’ll get you started properly on Monday. I hope you can hit the ground running.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Goodbye.”

  He hung up and I felt all the tension deflating out of me. I let my head fall back. I closed my eyes, the sunlight glowing against my eyelids. I’d done it. I’d actually bloody done it.

  8

  I sat outside the school gates waiting for the bell to ring, the butterflies in my belly taking on a different quality. These were not the razor-winged butterflies of a person unsure of whether or not they were fit to be seen as more than a parent. These were the blissfully regular – but no less special – butterflies of a mother waiting to hear how her son’s first day at school went.

  I couldn’t help but smile, despite the nerves I felt for Russ. In most unusual circumstances, in a most unconventional situation, I’d proven I still had some of my old grit left.

  I sat back and closed my eyes, thinking back to the interview, wondering if I’d perhaps exaggerated how poorly it had gone in my mind. Sitting in Queen’s Square, had I worked myself into an unnecessary panic?

  Memory had been my chief interest while studying psychology at university. I remembered reading the work of a psychologist, whose name I’d forgotten. They’d studied satanic cults and explained how many of the stories had in fact been entirely fictional, despite the tellers firmly believing in them. The study had often returned to me over the years, perhaps because the so-called memories had been so vivid, so full of detail – scents and sounds and visceral violence – and yet they’d sprouted from the emptiness of the mind. In a sense, they were fake. And yet in another sense, they were as real as any other memory, because they felt real.

  Perhaps we treated our memories like our faces before a night out. A little touch of foundation here, some blusher there, and why not some lipstick, why not some shaper, why not add some contours? What was real when you got right down to it? Our minds were all that existed.

  These subjects had once kept me at the library for long nights, consuming textbooks and journal articles like oxygen.

  It was entirely possible I’d retroactively made the interview seem worse in my mind, perhaps to soften the blow when the rejection came. The café too, sitting in the café and seeing nothing but hipsters and stylish women… was I projecting, seeing the opposite of myself, because I’d felt mumsy and frumpy? I felt an ember of my old passion, letting my mind skim over these ideas.

  Perhaps if I understood memory well enough, I could alter mine, make it so my sister had never turned her bike to the lip of that hill. Or I could forget Father’s severe face when he told me the fate of my grandmother and how my mother had led a hard life: how she’d seen Cecilia Hyde swing back and forth in her studio, her throat paint-red.

  I groaned, the noise seeming loud in the closeness of the car.

  This was a good day and, as I did far too often, I was allowing the more macabre parts of myself to drag my mood into the dirty depressing gutter.

  I climbed from the car and sucked in a lungful of fresh air, taking out my mobile as I wandered over to the gates.

  I’m so proud of you, Troy’s text read. I knew you could do it. I’ll pick us up a Chinese and some bubbly on the way home. You are AMAZING. I love you so much xxx

  I love you, I wrote back. Picking up the terrors. Hope Russ is okay. See you later xxx

  The bell rang and soon I was milling amongst the other parents. I felt another expansion of pride when a couple of them, ladies I knew by face and first name alone, commented on what I was wearing.

  I was grinning like a fool when Russ came sulking out, his teacher, Miss Mathieson, standing at his side with a pained expression on her face.

  She was only twenty-six and extremely beautiful, her hai
r a close-cropped afro and her eyes wide and sharp. She’d published poetry in small local magazines and she ran a creative writing class after school. She was one of those teachers who honestly cared about her charges.

  Her frown deepened when she spotted me and came walking over. But worse, Russie wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the ground in a way I recognised well. His hand made a tight fist on the strap of his Iron Man schoolbag.

  What’s happened? What has he done?

  “Mrs Dixon.” She kept her voice low, probably aware of how far-reaching the schoolyard grapevine could be. “Can I have a word? In private?”

  “Of course, yes.” My mouth was dry as I stared at my son and wondered why he wouldn’t look at me. “Let me just find my daughter.”

  9

  Mia kept Russ company as Naomi Mathieson and I settled into the classroom. She sat behind her desk and I sat opposite, folding my legs, interlocking my hands in my lap. I was doing everything I could not to fidget. Behind Naomi’s head a colourful alphabet hung, the pink F upside down where it had come loose from its fastening.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “There isn’t a problem, really, not like this huge boom. I want to nip something in the bud before it becomes a problem.”

  I stared and she stared and I realised she was waiting for me to speak. “Nip what in the bud?”

  “Russ, is he… would you say he’s quite an energetic boy?”

  “Of course he is.” My hackles flared. Leave my son alone, Naomi. “He’s got bundles of energy. It’s one of the things that makes him so special.”

  “And it’s great. I don’t want you to think it’s not. But the problem is—sorry, not problem. What I’d like to discuss is that quite a few times today he’s disrupted the class. Don’t get me wrong. This is Reception. It’s expected. But I wanted to see if you could maybe talk to him? Let him know school time is different from playtime?”

  “It’s his first day.” My voice had become like Mother’s, as it often did when I felt threatened. It became more cutting. It became posher. “I’m certain expecting a boy like Russ, a boy full of energy and life, to instantly adjust to sitting in a classroom all day seems rather ridiculous. Doesn’t it?”

  Naomi stared at me, face hard. “I’m sorry if you feel like I’m attacking you, Mrs Dixon. That’s not what I want to do here.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He jumped up on the tables several times, even after I told him not to. At one point he tried to run out of the class. A flock of birds was passing by the window and he leapt up and ran over, shouting for everybody to look at the birds. Obviously I could handle this myself. But I wanted to speak to you first. It’d be such a shame – for him, for you, for everyone – to start his school career by telling him off. Like you said, he’s a ball of energy and that’s great. I don’t want to stifle him. I’d like to point his energy in the right direction.”

  She broke off, placing her multi-coloured fingernails on the desk. I knew she was right. She was a good teacher. And yet, at the same time, the urge to slap her across the face swelled in me. What did she expect, a well-trained dog sitting when she said sit, standing when she snapped her fingers?

  “I understand where you’re coming from, Miss Mathieson.”

  “Please, call me—”

  “But like I said before, it’s his first day. Of course his behaviour is not acceptable, and I’ll talk to him. But I believe some patience is required too. It’s completely healthy and natural for a boy his age to have energy to spare. Unless he’s in trouble, I would very much like to take him home.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to avoid, Mrs Dixon. Trouble.”

  “Like I said, I’ll speak to him about his behaviour. I’m sure things will go more smoothly tomorrow.”

  I fled the room and found Mia and Russ in the hallway, Mia scrolling through music on her iPod, Russ sitting with his arms folded, his lips stuck out. He was looking at the floor and trying not to cry. He hated crying. He thought it made him a baby.

  Was I too soft with him? Should I scold him now, turn cold and slightly cruel as my mother would have?

  “Mummy,” he said, looking up at me. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  I found myself standing over him, hugging him to my hips, and then kneeling down and wiping a tear from his cheek. “Don’t be silly. You’re not in trouble. We were having a grown-up talk, that’s all.”

  “Really?”

  I smiled. “Really.”

  “You got the job,” Mia said, narrowing her eyes at me.

  “How did you know?”

  “You look different. You look happy. I’m proud of you.”

  “Me too!” Russ beamed. “You’re the bestest Mummy in the whole wide world!”

  I opened my arms and they both fell into the embrace, though Mia half-hugged me, reluctantly. From the classroom, Naomi Mathieson peered at me and smiled tightly. I smiled back, uneasy, secretly wondering if I’d done what was best for my children or what was best for me.

  “Come on.” I stood and took Russ’s hand. Mia drifted away; this was too much for her. “We’re having a Chinese tonight.”

  “With the nice chips?”

  “Yes, Russie. With the nice chips.”

  “Can you tell Dad I want those noodles, Mum?” Mia said. “The ones I had on his birthday?”

  I took out my phone, shooting her a wink. “Texting him now, Miss Fussy.”

  Mia smirked.

  10

  “I’m telling you, she has it out for me.” Troy sighed, his anxiety heavy even through the phone. “I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything wrong. I do my job. She used to accept that, appreciate it, even. I’m a good manager. I’m fair but stern when I have to be. It’s not like this is my fucking dream job, fine. But who works their dream job? Jesus, Grace, lately it’s like she has a vendetta against me. Today I submitted this report. It’s a run-of-the-mill thing, we submit them every week. It’s basic.”

  I nodded along, like I always did, even over the phone. When Troy needed to vent about work, it was best to let him get it all out.

  “But she decides to charge into my office and tear me a new one, loudly, so all the agents on the floor hear her shouting at me. How the fuck are they supposed to respect their manager if the Head of Claims can come in here and start chewing my goddamn ear off like some feral dog? It’s completely out of order.”

  I was standing in the garden, leaning against the cool brick of our home, watching as the sky bruised purple. Inside, I could hear Russ at the kitchen table, making ooh and ahh noises as he played Minecraft on the iPad. I was giving him more screen time this evening, which was probably a mistake, most definitely an error in motherhood after he’d misbehaved at school.

  But I was tired, my nerves unspooling after the interview and the confrontation with Russ’s teacher. I wanted to be the perfect mother, never waning in my efforts to monitor screen time. But when Troy was almost two hours late and Russ was bouncing off the walls and I wanted a stiff drink and a lie down, it was hard.

  Troy wasn’t done. “And then it’s, ‘You need to stay late and complete these reports.’ I ask her if this is paid overtime or if I’m here for the fun of it, and she looks at me like I’m dirt, like I’m Oliver Fucking Twist begging for a handout. It’s driving me insane.”

  “I know.” I felt deflated. “She sounds like she’s being very unreasonable.”

  “Exactly!” he erupted. “That’s exactly what she is. Unreasonable. Anyway, look, I’m on my way home. Mia wanted fish and chips, right?”

  Our local Chinese doubled as a chippy, but I couldn’t remember a time when Mia had ordered the fish. “No. The Korean Udon noodles, the ones she had on your birthday.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Listen, I’m driving. I’ve got to go.”

  “Are you on the Bluetooth?”

  The way he sighed truly niggled at me. It was a sigh that told me I was being paranoid. I
shouldn’t worry about such unimportant things. As though driving safety was unimportant. As though there weren’t thirty thousand hit-and-runs every year.

  But Troy wouldn’t be a runner, a voice whispered inside my head. He’d do the right thing.

  “You know I wouldn’t risk that. I love you. See you soon.”

  “Love you,” I said, but he’d already hung up.

  It wasn’t that I resented being the sounding board for Troy’s work-related ranting. He needed somebody. Of course he did. I was his wife, the perfect candidate. But sometimes it felt like I was being drained of all my positive emotions.

  Fine, perhaps there was a desire in me to ignore his work and pretend the Troy we knew was the only one who mattered. Fine, maybe I wished he’d let his troubles with Vicky, his boss, fall to the wayside this evening in light of my good news. Was that selfish? I didn’t know. Marriage was difficult sometimes.

  I went inside and walked up behind Russ. He was sitting at the kitchen table, pawing at the iPad. “Five more minutes,” I told him.

  “Ten, please? Can we do ten?”

  “Five.”

  “Five and a half.”

  I laughed and leaned against the table. “Okay, clever cogs, five and a half it is. What are you doing anyway?”

  “Gotta get a thing for my horse. A what’s-it-called, Mummy?”

  “A saddle?”

  “Yeah. Then I can ride it.”

  “Russie, did you like school today?” I asked as casually as I could. I wanted him to stay focused on the game. “Was it as fun as you’d hoped it would be?”

  “No. It was boring. Really really boring. We just sat there and talked and talked and I wanted to go outside, Mummy, because there was a bajillion birds out there. At the park when we run at the birds and they all fly, they fly like little paper airplanes and that’s so cool. But then the nasty teacher says sit down and everybody was looking at me and it’s really horrible.”