According to YES

by Dawn French

  Rosie rolls in towards him and lovingly cups her hand over his cock.

  ‘Hey, you’re shaking,’ she says.

  ‘It’s my age, things shake.’ He says.

  ‘You’re getting cold, come on,’ she pulls the sheet around them both, and cuddles into his shoulder. Gradually, he stops shaking and warms up.

  ‘I’m amazed by this, just so you know…’ he reassures her, ‘Amazed. Thanks for … turning up. I wasn’t sure you would.’

  She sighs, ‘I wanted this as much as you. I just didn’t realize until I read your letter. But I knew straight away that you’d take care, of this … of me …, of us …. that it would be really private. And I knew that you saw the real me, the same way I believed I saw you. It’s need, isn’t it? With both of us. How could I resist? And anyway, the timing is great, because you are lying next to a person who has just recently decided to live her life according to yes. Enough of “better not” and “thanks but no”, I’m trying “yes please” for size.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he strokes her nice-smelling hair. They can hear strains of ‘Danny Boy’ in the streets outside. He holds his hand up as if to grab the orange light. ‘Everyone else seems to love a sunset. Postcards. Photos. Sunsets all over the world. I hate them. Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s pretty ’n’ all that, and … natural … and … God even, but I don’t appreciate the light seeping away from me like that, deserting me. No thanks. Keep your sunsets. I’ll take noon every time. Seriously. I get why wolves howl.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They are crying, grieving the end of another day of glorious light. They are yelling at the moon, for celebrating another day gone,’ he explains.

  ‘No-one’s stopping you from howling,’ she teases him, ‘howl all you like.’

  Thomas lowers his arm and lets his finger circle Rosie’s nipple, which instantly responds by bunching up and out for more. It sends a shiver of delight right through Rosie.

  ‘There are other, more pressing things I’d rather do,’ his deep voice buzzes in her ear.

  ‘Right.’ She puts her hand over his. ‘Are there? Are there things you really want to do?’

  ‘Well,’ he thinks about it, ‘what, you want me to tell you now?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. You were inside me twenty minutes ago. I’m supposing now would be as good a time as ever to do the “getting to know you” stuff? Whaddyathink?’

  He laughs at her cheek, and lies back to properly think. ‘OK,’ he says, finally. ‘Let me see. I want to wear shorts to board meetings.’

  Rosie chips in immediately, ‘But you’re one of the founding partners of your company, your name is in the title, pass a law: “shorts can be worn”. Ba-da-bing-ba-da-boom. Done. Next.’

  ‘OK. I want to play electric guitar again, I used to be in a band …’

  ‘Course you did. Name of band?’

  ‘The Right Solutions,’ he is nearly proud.

  ‘Hilarious. Appalling. That’s achievable easily.’

  ‘I guess so. I want to go on a date with Nicole Kidman and have her beg me not to go home, I want a motorbike …’

  ‘No! Cliché. Not allowed.’

  ‘OK. I want to drink absinthe and sleep in a field under a huge moon. I want to dance a waltz.’

  ‘Oh please promise they’re not all sentimental.’

  ‘No. No.’ He thinks hard. ‘No. Well, yes, but no. I want to paint a portrait, a good one.’

  ‘Can you paint?’

  ‘No, but I would love to. And I want to hold a younger, stronger man down in osaekomi-waza, it’s a judo hold. I want to get it so right that he can’t move at all, be in charge with skill and device, not just brute force. Would love that, and know what? I’d love to dye my …’ He nearly says it, but his smile fades, and Rosie slumps a little as it does. He continues, ‘Listen to me. I want, I want. It’s all too late anyway. There’s no time …’

  Rosie kisses his big chest and looks deep into his eyes. She dares him, ‘Oh, we have time. We have plenty of time. So finish that sentence, please …’

  It seems you can find anything in downtown New York. Half an hour later, Thomas is sitting on a chair, naked except for a draped towel. Rosie is dressed and sits on the edge of the bath next to him. She flicks off a rubber glove cheekily, and asks, ‘Any burning, sir?’

  He looks up at her, wide-eyed, ‘Believe me, if there was any burning you’d know about it, Toots.’ They sit in silence and look at the towel.

  ‘Your turn,’ he says.

  Rosie knows he is inviting her to reciprocate and open up about herself. She smiles fondly at him, shaking her head and fiddling with the rubber glove. ‘Honestly, Thomas, I’m better off as a bit of a mystery. The actual truth is a bit boring.’

  He stares at her as if to push the matter, but it doesn’t work, so he softens, and tentatively asks, ‘Is there someone? At home?’

  ‘Do you mean physically or mentally?’

  ‘Why are you British always so evasive? You know I’m asking if there’s someone special in your life …’

  ‘No. Yes. Not sure.’

  ‘One of each. OK. Is that why we did this?’ He kisses her hand, just to reassure her there’s no judgement in his question, just a need to understand her.

  Rosie isn’t ready to be entirely understood just yet. ‘We did this because there’s a funfair in those eyes of yours.’ She stands over him, and takes his lovely big face in her hands and kisses his lips fully, savouring every lavish moment of it, mingling her tongue with his in succulent shared bliss. When they break apart, she looks under the towel, and says, ‘What if the missus sees this?’

  It’s the first time Glenn has entered the room, and Rosie is aware of how uncomfortable that is, but she’s not one to pretend the difficult stuff away. Glenn is part of the truth of all this.

  Thomas responds, ‘Not much chance of that. We stopped the naked together stuff years ago. We used to, yes … but the nightclothes slowly crept in … like the hairy ears and the enlarged prostate … mine not hers.’

  ‘And I’m not the first, am I?’ questions Rosie.

  He half smiles in a sad way, then he suddenly winces.

  ‘OK, now there is a slight, hot … ness …’ Rosie looks under the towel and clasps her hand to her face. He continues, ‘If this all ends in my death, I want you to make up something very dignified.’ He suddenly looks like an excited boy up to no good. A timer bell rings on his watch.

  ‘And rinse!’ says Rosie, as Thomas drops the towel and steps into the shower.

  Much later in the evening, back in the apartment kitchen, Rosie is tucking into a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup she picked up in a Vietnamese grocery store on the way home. However much she uses these stores, she cannot get used to the bounty they offer, so different to corner shops in Cornwall. At home, she’d be lucky to get a decent block of cheddar and some Twiglets for a munchie. Here there are deli counters and hot cheesy pizzas and Chinese food and meatloaf and aisle upon aisle of soups and salads and sandwiches. For a woman with a thumping appetite, all of this choice is dizzying. Rosie thinks it a crime to pass an ice-cream fridge without giving a home to a tub or two who might … otherwise be rejected. So here she sits, cosy in the kitchen, scoffing her soup from the cardboard shop container. Iva has, unusually, chosen to sit with her, and is tucking into kielbasa sausage and sauerkraut which she cooks in beer. She looks at Rosie.

  ‘What?’ says Rosie.

  ‘What?’ says Iva.

  ‘You’re staring at me, Iva.’

  ‘Free to look, isn’t it? No tax on that. Just watching you with the soup, you are liking, yes? Liking so much, like you have not eaten food for three years. Hungry, hungry. You must have busy day, no?’

  ‘It’s my day off.’

  ‘OK. So, you been doing what? Walking or shopping or what? To make you so hungry?’

  ‘I’ve just been enjoying myself, Iva.’

  ‘Enjoying yourself. Yes. I can see somebody is happy.’
>
  ‘When is your day off?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I go to Greenpoint. In Brooklyn. Little Poland, and I eat with my friends. I can speak there. We speak. My language. And I go to my bank. Put my money there, for my plane home three weeks in summer.’

  ‘Oh, lovely. So you will see your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, I will see.’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘The summer before.’

  ‘Last summer? Blimey. That’s a long time.’

  ‘Yes, she live with my sister, and I will bring her to America for college.’

  ‘Oh, that will be great. How old is she?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Do you have a picture? What’s her name?’

  A pause. It all becomes a bit too difficult for Iva.

  ‘No. I keep her for me. No photo, no name for you. Just for here …’ Iva pats her heart, and gets up to wash her plate.

  ‘Sorry, Iva, I didn’t mean to pry or upset you. It must be so hard for you.’

  ‘No. Not hard. Not difficult to keep her safe inside me. That’s the job of the mother. You should try.’

  ‘Yes. Maybe one day.’

  ‘One day, if it doesn’t go all the shape of a pear.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Rosie asks.

  Iva clatters around clearing up. ‘Nothing. You be careful. This family …’ Iva makes a spiral with her index finger next to her forehead, indicating that they are crazy.

  Rosie laughs, ‘I’m here for the boys, that’s my concern.’

  ‘Yes, good. That is right. Goodnight.’ Iva purposely turns the lights off, save one that’s over the cooker, and always left on overnight.

  Rosie is still finishing her soup, and sits alone and quiet in the strange night light, feeling distinctly like someone’s just taken a nosey peek inside her.

  Meanwhile, in their bathroom, naked Thomas is brushing his teeth and looking directly into his own eyes in the mirror. He is checking to see if any guilt is discernible. He doesn’t think it is. Why? It hasn’t happened that often, but it has happened. Could it simply be that he doesn’t actually feel guilty at all? Maybe, he thinks, a person is entitled to no regret and no shame if what they have done feels so … right? He’s not going to strangle the joy with guilt. Especially not when he doesn’t even feel one single tiny tug of it.

  What he would feel guilty about is hurting Glenn, because she hurts so much already, she’s fragile somewhere inside that brittle front. So. No. He won’t be visiting these questions again. Besides which, how can he feel a jot of sadness looking at THIS in the mirror? He smiles to himself, finishes cleaning his teeth and struts back into the bedroom.

  Glenn is sitting on the bed, turned away, as usual, putting this and that safely into her bedside drawer.

  Thomas stands boldly, nakedly, on the opposite side of the bed, hands on hips. ‘I’m getting fatter,’ he says, flagrantly slapping his belly.

  Glenn glances behind her, ‘You seem just fine to me.’

  Thomas looks down at his bright green pubes, ‘Happy St Patrick’s Day, honey!’

  ‘Yes dear,’ she replies. ‘Happy St Patrick’s Day.’ She begins moisturizing her hands. Thomas hums ‘Fly me to the moon’ as he pulls on his pyjama bottoms, tucking his secret away.

  Another Breakfast

  It’s an ordinary weekday, and Rosie is in the twins’ bedroom corralling them to get dressed, to get their school gear ready, and to get to breakfast. She is herself still dressing, throwing on a bright red cardigan over a blue polka-dot dress and scooping her unruly hair up into a huge messy high ponytail. She is right next to their iPod, and with her finger poised above the play button, she says, ‘OK, gentlemen, here we go. If you aren’t standing to attention by that door, completely washed, dressed and ready for school action by the end of this song, there will, repeat WILL be serious consequences which involve extreme pain. Yes, I hereby declare I am threatening you with physical violence, intent to harm, call it what you will, it will hurt. Do you understand?!’

  ‘Yes, Rosie.’

  ‘We understand.’

  ‘Right,’ she continues, ‘here goes.’

  She presses the button, and very loudly, Pharrell Williams’ ‘Happy’ blares out. You have to be dead to resist dancing and singing along to this song, so of course they bop away as they clear up their room, pick up their books and get their school uniforms on, lip-synching all the while. On the very last beat, they jump into position near the door. Phew.

  ‘Good, I don’t have to injure you after all. By the right, quick march, follow me …’ Rosie stomps out of the door towards breakfast. She leaves the boys’ bedroom door open, their den door is also open, her door to her set of rooms is open, and as they pass Thomas’s office, his door is also open. She glances in. He is dressed for work. As he sees her, he grins and steps out from behind his desk. He is wearing pink Hawaiian shorts. Rosie smiles and carries on marching to the breakfast room, leaving a trail of light from the open doors flooding the dark corridors behind her.

  Five minutes later, Glenn’s face is wearing its most distasteful expression Rosie has thus far seen. Her eyes bore their disapproval into Thomas as he turns from the sideboard where he is loading his plate up with bacon. For a tiny second he could be embarrassed, but then he knocks his knees together in a funny little dance for her and winks. He hopes this will thaw her. It doesn’t.

  When the derisory comment eventually comes, it is from Kemble. ‘Pop, only a fag wears pink shorts.’

  Rosie flinches at this. ‘Wooo. Massively un-pc there!’

  Teddy, who is home to visit again for a few days, agrees. ‘It’s not OK to say that, Dad, the little guys …’

  Kemble perseveres. ‘Oh sorry … Queer then?’

  ‘Really?’ Teddy questions him. He says to his grandfather, ‘I personally think you look edgy, Granpop.’

  ‘I’m hoping this is for some kind of sponsored charity event?’ Glenn remarks.

  Thomas grins at her, giving her every indication that she couldn’t be more wrong. He’s doing this because he wants to, ‘Nope. Got an important board meeting.’

  Kemble says, ‘OK, he’s full on senile. Fact.’

  Rosie has remained quiet, watching the scene with interest, and trying to keep the twins distracted from the casual homophobia that is being bandied around. She gets up to help herself to coffee. Thomas holds the cup out for her and, as he gives it to her, brushes her hand. For the briefest of seconds she catches his eye. A tiny thrilling fleeting moment, which Rosie reacts to in the carnal pit of her stomach. And then just as quick, it’s gone.

  Iva bundles in with a huge parcel. ‘The porter just deliver this. Is for you, Mr W. B.,’ and she hands over the large cumbersome package.

  ‘Ah,’ says Thomas. ‘Thank you Iva. I know exactly what this is. My latest eBay triumph.’

  ‘Wow!’ says Three.

  ‘What is it, Granpop?!’ says Red.

  ‘You’ll see boys, you’ll see. All in good time.’

  Glenn watches all this unnecessary excitement, a General losing control of her army.

  Saturday

  Glenn is irritated. Not only are the doors open all over the place in the apartment, and increasingly so, it would seem, allowing pesky light in, everywhere. But now there are two further abominations. The first is air. There is a distinct breeze blowing fresh air right through, which is another reason to keep the wretched doors shut. Never mind the windows, which also ought to be closed. Why are they open? Who has opened them? She knows full well of course, but she is rehearsing her outrage.

  The second horror is … leaves. Bringing with them a third aberration, which is dirt. The leaves are on the hallway floor, and she follows them like a Hansel and Gretel trail, til they lead her to the open service door at the back of the kitchen. Clearly, the twins and that woman are ferrying plants through the apartment and up the back stairs to the roof. This is precisely what Gle
nn predicted. Utter chaos. Easily five or six leaves cluttering up her space. Well, mainly the boys’ space. Well, mainly the back steps where she never ventures. Nevertheless, it’s utterly unconscionable. Words will be had. Firm words. Making sure everybody concerned understands who the damn boss is here.

  As she retraces the trail of leaves, picking them up one by one, another annoying thing occurs. She hears the faint sound of an electric guitar. Where is it coming from? Is it Teddy? As she walks towards the direction of the sound, she realizes it’s coming from Thomas’s office. Oh Lord, she thinks, now I have a husband who is retreating into adolescence. Nothing in Glenn wants to go in and share in his excitement about his new acquisition. Everything in her wants to flee, there’s just too much light and air and music here.

  She can’t leave though, because her friend Betty is due to come for coffee. Betty is Sharpe’s widow, and since Glenn didn’t go to the funeral, this is the first opportunity she’s had to offer her condolences. It’s the right and proper thing to do, so Glenn can’t escape it. It’s a duty, and Glenn is big on that. She tuts and walks away wondering why on earth she has to deal with so much chaos. It’s so very tiresome.

  Up on the roof, surrounded by masses of light and air and chaos, Red, Three and Teddy sit side by side on deck chairs. There is quite a lot of garden mess in one corner, and all three are wearing wellies. As is Rosie, who is parading up and down behind them. Their eyes are firmly shut, and they are laughing at her. She is pretending to be an old fashioned German therapist, ‘Imageen ze garden. Feeeel ze garden. Vot do you see in it? Answer zis now, boy,’ she pats Three on the head.

  He answers hopefully, ‘A swing?’

  Red joins in, ‘A little house?’

  Now Teddy seizes his opportunity, ‘I say “cocktail bar”, I say “hot tub”, I say “two person hammock”. Call me horny.’