by Dawn French
There’s a quiet pause where perhaps Rosie might have apologized for the racket she made. She doesn’t see the need to, so she doesn’t. Rosie is brave enough to live inside her truth, even if it means her manners appear questionable sometimes. She just can’t be sorry for being human, for feeling something big. And anyway, she didn’t know that he was there. She thought she was private. No apology required.
Kemble stares at her through his fug of alcohol. ‘Want a drink with a kick?’ He proffers the bottle of Jack Daniels.
Rosie doesn’t answer.
He persists. ‘I asked you a question.’
Rosie is forced to reply, against her wishes. ‘No ta, I’m sticking with the cha.’
‘Well, aren’t you the ray of sunshine?’
How rude. Rosie doesn’t care to speak to him. Especially not in this sozzled state. Kemble gives up and pulls a sarcastic mimicking face behind Rosie’s back which she perfectly well sees in the darkened window’s reflection. Childish. How very different he is to his father. So much less sophisticated. So much less … everything. Kemble turns back to his screen.
There is an awkward silence between them, save the tinkling of the spoon in the cup whilst Rosie makes her tea. She has lots of sugar, she loves it, it’s comforting and delicious. It’s even a tad medicinal, she seems to remember some obscure advice from her mother, concerning shock and sugar. There was, of course, no sugar whatsoever in this uptown, uptight home, until Rosie turned up. Glenn regards it as utter poison, so Rosie hides the bowl in the cupboard with the cleaning cloths, somewhere Glenn would never go. Here and now, whilst Rosie feels wrung out, she shovels the sugar into the tea in three generous dollops, and proudly leaves the bowl out. So what?
She is about to leave the kitchen, but for some reason she turns at the door and comes back in, ‘Why are you fighting to keep the boys?’
Kemble is startled, ‘What do you mean, why?’
‘You hardly give them the time of day, Kemble.’
He glares at her, willing her to shut the eff up. He has no idea how to handle this moment with the audacious Rosie, he doesn’t ordinarily deal with defiance too well. It challenges his already tenuous relationship with his own self-esteem. He is rendered ineloquent.
‘… And?’ is all he can summon.
Rosie decides to be really honest, ‘You’re doing this to get at Natalie …’
Kemble downs his drink, and returns to his keyboard.
Rosie speaks soft and firm, ‘You want your wife back.’
He attempts to continue ignoring her … but this is a step too far. He turns on her, ‘I want them. I can’t have her.’ He pours himself a sixth ill-advised whisky, and continues pointedly, ‘Do you have any kids?’
Rosie puts her cup down, ‘No … no.’ She finds it hurts too much to say any more. She looks longingly at the door, wishing she was back in her room and moves towards it, knowing that this is a good moment to retreat.
Kemble is beyond reasonable now. ‘You reckon it’s easy then, do you?’ he spits out.
Rosie looks him directly in the eye, unafraid. ‘I think you’re a coward.’
Kemble grins an ugly grin, ‘And you’re so perfect, are you?’
‘Well, I could stand up to my mother, thanks.’
This is the tipping point for the tipsy Kemble, who unleashes, ‘Aw, go fuck yerself. I don’t see your perfect relationship anywhere. And where’s your perfect kid?’
Rosie is speechless, there is no answer to that. Kemble senses victory, it’s an uneasy one, but nevertheless he feels like he’s in the lead enough to launch, ‘Then back off, bitch,’ at her.
Rosie is disgusted at his offensive and desperate attempt to shut her up. ‘Why don’t you drop the big man act, you baby.’
‘An act, is it?’
‘Yep, Kemble, a big sad obvious act.’
Kemble is unnerved by her, by this, yet something in him is drawn to her insults. ‘Yeah? Is it?’ he burbles, incoherently.
Rosie has nothing to lose. ‘A lost little boy, trying to please his mummy. I bet you lie in bed at night, and dream of how free you’re going to feel the day she dies. You fantasize about that, don’t you? Of who you can finally become then, don’t you?’
There is silence, while Kemble wonders how she knows this. He can’t explain or understand it, but he actually wants more of her insults, they are accurate, and have somehow woken him up.
Rosie doesn’t see this, she is just on a roll, since she seems to be getting away with it and it’s immensely liberating.
Kemble asks, ‘D’you want to say any more?’
‘Yep. OK thanks.’ Rosie picks up the gauntlet, ‘you are a self-pitying disaster zone. Completely toxic.’
Kemble says nothing. She is getting to him.
She continues, ‘You’re incapable of even one small bit of bravery. Either of your eight-year-old sons has more courage in their little finger than you have ever had …’
His eyes moisten. Rosie hesitates, feeling suddenly guilty that she has said too much. He’s crumpling in front of her eyes.
‘Sorry, Kemble. I didn’t mean … to go that far … it’s just … you are bloody maddening.’
‘Well, here’s the thing lady. I want more. More of that. Plenty more, if you please.’
Rosie is astonished by this strange reaction, she senses that it is all getting a bit odd and inappropriate.
He isn’t giving up. ‘If I asked you nicely? Could you be more nasty?’
‘What?! No!’
‘If I begged?’
‘No, Kemble. Stop it. What’s the matter with you?’
He knows what the matter is. ‘We got to the part at the lawyers, where I should’ve kept my promise. I promised Nat. I couldn’t do it. I’m a useless shit.’
‘You’re emotionally crippled, for sure …’
‘Yep. That’s it. Keep going …’
‘Oh, give over, for Gods’ sake! I’m not playing your weird games, Kemble, I’m telling you the truth as I see it.’
Rosie moves closer towards him, squares up to him. He says nothing. So she does. ‘It’s difficult, I’m sure, but you’ve got to step up, pal. Got to. And soon.’
Everything on Kemble’s face tells her that he is on the edge. He doesn’t know how to be in this situation, he rarely confronts anything, least of all himself.
‘Christ, I know it’s hard, but really Kemble, you have no option if you want what’s right for those lads. Now is the time to dig deep …’
In the giddy midst of his inebriation, and possibly because of it, Kemble knows that what she says is right. But the one little shred of misplaced ego he has left keeps him trapped within his lies. He doesn’t want her to know it all, he wants to be able to keep his secret because he hasn’t even told it to himself yet. Not properly.
Natalie guessed. She told him that their marriage was no longer possible, and that he wouldn’t be able to have an authentic happy life until he worked things out for himself, that she thought it was why he drank so much and threw his weight around so randomly. That it was at the centre of all his trouble, at the centre of him. And now Rosie is hovering dangerously close to the real Kemble, and he feels cornered, defensive. It takes him back to being a teenager, and all the macho crap he invented about himself, mostly to impress his parents, mostly his mother. He is their only child. A boy. A man. Who would surely grow to be every bit the man his father is …
Kemble stands up, ‘I know what you want me to do. What everybody wants me to do …’
‘So do it, Kemble,’ she says, ‘man up.’
‘Yeah,’ he agrees, ‘man up. Grow a pair … of these,’ and with that, he grabs her hand, and thrusts it onto his balls. Rosie is startled, but stands her ground and doesn’t flinch. She does the opposite, she holds his gaze. Very quietly she says, ‘How dare you? Dream on, mate,’ and she gives them a quick hefty squeeze til he winces. Then she releases him and walks off briskly, breathing hard and heading for the sanctuary of her r
oom. Get away, get away.
The teetering Kemble is left standing alone with his embarrassment and shame, the two comrades he is most familiar with. So familiar, in fact, that he actively seeks them out as regular company he can rely on. He always forgets, though, that those two destructive reprobates are part of a mighty alliance, a triumvirate that includes their sinister old crony, anger … and when he now joins the gang, Kemble explodes inside, and chases up the corridor after her.
Before Rosie even has time to realize it he is thundering up behind her, an angry bull. He grabs her, and they fall to the floor together.
‘Kemble, what the fuck are you doing?’ she blurts as he fumbles about, clumsily pulling at her dressing gown. She squirms herself around until she is facing him, with Kemble on top of her.
‘I’ll show you, I’ll show all of you …’
He pins her arms to the floor either side of her shoulders, his face is close to hers and their laboured breath is mingling, a clash of whisky and tea.
‘What do you want to show me?!’ she pants at him.
He falters. ‘I’m a man. I’m … just a man. That’s it.’
‘I know that, Kemble.’
He lets go of her wrists and sits up, still straddling her. She sees in his desperate eyes that anger is leaving, and drunken confusion is replacing it. Kemble is an oaf in every way, lumbering around making all the wrong decisions and hating himself. Her gown has fallen open and her breasts are exposed. Kemble can’t take his eyes from them. But he hesitates. Why is he so bewildered? Is it the drink?
Rosie’s glad he’s so lost, it gives her a chance to escape. She pushes him off her and he falls away easily, and slumps against the wall. A big pathetic sack of potatoes. She clambers up, pulling her gown around her, and walks the few paces to her room, where she gently closes the door behind her.
What the hell has just happened?! Does she need to lock the door? No, she doesn’t feel afraid. Does she need to leave the apartment immediately? No, because she doesn’t feel compromised. He is the one who will feel a fool, not her. What a sorry, sorry excuse for a man he is. It’s as if he’s been used up, there’s no point to him. Rosie pities him. How awful it must be to be him. To be privileged, empty, failed Kemble, chained to a massive inadequacy package like that, ready to throw himself over the side and let it drag him down to the depths, so far that he believes he will never surface again. All the time Rosie is thinking about him, she is trying to self-soothe by grabbing at the lovely Persian carpet with her toes. Feels a little bit better. Oh dear. What a ruddy weird mess.
Rosie has been sitting, thinking like this, in the gloom, for an hour or more, when there is a soft, uncertain knock on her door. So soft that she’s not even sure it is a knock. She listens. It comes again. She takes a deep breath, and goes to the door. She opens it a tiny bit, and through the narrow slit, she sees Kemble in a big white fluffy dressing gown. His hair is wet, and he smells of soap.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says quietly, ‘so sorry.’
She opens the door a bit more. ‘I’m not loaded anymore,’ he continues, ‘this is me, cold shower, not so drunk, being as real as I know how. I’m sorry.’
Rosie can tell that eating this huge portion of humble pie is taking some stamina and no small amount of courage.
‘Can I come in for a minute?’ he asks politely. Rosie’s instinct tells her that, despite everything this evening, she is safe with this broken, feeble fellow. She prays she’s got it right when she opens the door fully, and steps back to allow him in. It flits across her mind that if this were happening to any good friend of hers, she would be strongly advising against it. Yet here she is, letting it happen. ‘Just for the record, Kemble, you don’t frighten me.’
He sits down on her sofa, and straight away, she notices that he is fidgety and fighting back tears. He coughs to steady his thoughts and to see the extreme emotion off.
‘Why the hell can’t I do the right thing? It’s so … clear … what’s right.’
‘Think it’s a toss up between what you’re prepared to risk,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’ he says.
‘Well, if you do the right thing, you risk losing the respect of your mother. If you do the wrong thing, you risk losing the respect of your kids.’
‘I’ve never had the respect of my mother. No-one has that except for Dad. No-one. Never will.’
‘So why are you chasing it then? If it’s so impossible to have?’
‘Dunno … always wanted it. Always.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you that she might have decided, somehow, to never give it to you, on purpose? So that she can feel … sort of … important? Maybe that’s how she needs to have her power. It’s a bit messed up. A lot messed up. But the messed-upness is hers, not yours, frankly. Leave it be. Let her get on with it. You’ve got a job to do.’
‘Yeah. I have … What?’
‘Being a dad, for God’s sake! Those lads, all three of them, are bloody longing for you. Just like you’re longing for Glenn. But unlike her, you can give it to them. Can’t you? Give ’em buckets of it, of you. That’s all they want, Kemble. They don’t need a perfect dad. Just a regular, interested, flawed wanker like you. They’re waiting for you to get involved, and make the right decisions. That’s all. It’s easy. Achievable. Don’t be like her, withholding it all. Don’t be that, you know how much it hurts. Why would you do that to them? Don’t let them feel they aren’t worth it, or that you’re dangerous for them in some way. They are, and you’re not. Fact.’
In this moment, something shifts in Kemble. Rosie has thrown him a lifeline. He can see there’s a way out, and the dawning relief of it, the beginning of acceptance, is overwhelming. He smiles weakly at her, and she smiles kindly back, and says, ‘You have no idea how privileged you are.’
‘I know. Jeez.’
‘No, no. I’m not talking about stuff, material stuff, I mean that you get to be a parent. It’s … big … y’know … don’t bugger it up …’ She nearly loses her composure. She doesn’t want to be doing this in front of him, in front of anyone, but her emotional immunity is low, and has been all evening. ‘You’re so lucky. Some people really … need you. You matter to them. It’d be a sin to squander that … love. That’s all.’ She looks at him, she means it, bone deep.
Kemble knows it, maybe for the first time. Unequivocally. He feels huge compassion for her generosity and for her sincerity. He doesn’t witness this often. His eyes fill with tears and he starts to softly sob. This is someone crying for the first time in ages. Rosie puts her hand to his face to wipe away his sadness and, simultaneously, he does the same to her. He moves closer to her and pulls her against him to hold her in his arms. Rosie’s face is against the downy dressing gown. She closes her eyes and allows herself to be held. Two complicated, hidden people sharing their hurt, both of whom ordinarily do almost anything to avoid it, now both clinging to the wreckage, grateful for the honesty. She can hear his fast heartbeat through the cloth, and she can feel his body shaking as he submits to his sorrow. She holds him tight, like a koala holds a tree. She just wants to be there, and to not think. Cleaved together like this, the two of them pat and stroke and rock each other gently, until … eventually … they lull into sleep.
Somewhere in the thick of the night, Rosie is roused from her deep sticky slumber, and her lovely sensual dream, to find that sleepy Kemble is nuzzling into her neck. She feels his lips moving slowly over her face til he finds her mouth. It all happens in the treacle of half awake. The two of them wind around each other like ivy, as they kiss and inhale each other. Before they are alert enough to think, their most natural desires draw them together as they melt into sex. It is dozy and tender and easy, until Kemble suddenly ramps up his energy. Her gown comes off as he flips her over. She hears his breathing change, more urgent, and he is muttering low and animal. He kisses her back, and leans in to her ear from behind, she can hear him whispering, ‘I’m not who I am. This isn’t who I am,’ as
he pushes into her. He starts a steady long stroke, and groggy Rosie can’t help liking it, he’s strong and sure, and she is waking up fast now, as his rhythm increases. She is swept up in his grunts and she begins to realize he is in his own world. She turns her head to see his eyes are closed, and he is biting the air as he thrusts and jolts toward his orgasm. ‘I … don’t … want … this,’ he gasps, ‘Don’t look at me.’
It’s dawning on Rosie that this is not right for a thousand reasons when he suddenly ejaculates, panting ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ He pulls away from her, and they both sit naked and hunched up, at either end of the sofa, separate and reeling from what just happened.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, OK. Sort of. Bloody hell, Kemble. I was asleep …’
‘I know. Me too. Sorry. I just … want … oh God …’
‘What, Kemble? What do you want?’
He hangs his head and puts his hand to his forehead. With his other hand, he reaches out to her, his lifeboat, and she takes it in hers. He pauses.
‘I want …’ he stutters. Will he say it? Will he finally put his secret out of him, and into the fresh air?
‘I want to want women … but I don’t … mostly … I … don’t.’
And with that, Kemble’s face collapses and he hides it from her, in unmitigated shame. Rosie lifts herself off her end of the sofa, and she goes to him. She pulls his hands away from his face so she can look him directly in the eye.
He is repeating, ‘See? See who I am?’ in hushed tones.
‘I see you now, Kemble. I properly see you now. I get it. It’s OK. Really, it’s OK. It all makes sense.’
He speaks fast. ‘Natalie knew, she told me to own it. She loved me, she said, but we couldn’t stay married. She promised not to say anything til I get my head round it, til I’m ready. And she hasn’t. Even when she could’ve. I wish I didn’t hurt her so badly. She deserves better.’
‘Better than what?’ says Rosie.
‘Better than some ageing closet coward who can’t face his own truth, and made her life a misery.’
‘That’s not the bit she deserves better than. She deserves better than a dishonest man too afraid to tell his family the truth, who drinks to dull the pain and absents himself from his most important commitments.’
