Mothers, Fathers & Lovers

by Ruby Soames

  I’d already heard this from him – but not what he was going to say next: ‘It was recently brought to my attention that your mother made a paternity claim against a Henry Hardwick, QC.’ He stopped to acknowledge my discomfort. ‘Maybe you’ve never had contact with the man, but our blood drives us, Ms Tyler. Ms Deborah Myers has peaked, but I’m pretty sure that you, Sarah, you haven’t even started. I’d gamble that with a little more rocket fuel under you –’

  Hearing my father’s name ignited a flare of childhood shame. I stood up from my seat. ‘You’re wrong. About all of it. Thanks for the offer. I’ll just take a severance contact. Deborah Myers should have the partnership.’

  The more stunned he looked, the more I went on. ‘I’ve more to give, yes, but not to this firm. I want to get out of this world of celebrity, disposable culture, status worship and wasteful, hateful greed. We are not evolving in the right direction. I don’t want a future of information technology. I want to work with animals, and grow things, and engender kindness and love.’

  He chuckled. ‘That’s why I like you, Sarah: one never knows quite what you’ll say and do next. I’ve touched a nerve, I see. I apologize,’ he moved back in his seat. ‘Clearly, bringing up your …’ He smiled as he twisted the contract in front of him. We both knew he could rip it up and my easy escape route would be barred.

  ‘You know, it was a little bit of a fight getting everyone to agree to take you on in the beginning: your unconventional background, the Thespian paramour and your … mother … but the risk paid off. So what I’m saying is, we need you just as much as the planet does.’ He stood up to shake my hand. ‘Take the time off. Think about our offer. Don’t make any rash decisions. ‘

  ‘You once said that you admired my “decision making”. I have decided. This is my last day at Forrester Levine.’

  4

  Carl helped me clear my desk as colleagues made sad faces and murmured, ‘G’luck Sarah’. There hadn’t even been time for a whip-round You’re Leaving Us card.

  I saw Deborah at the lift, her mass of hair, her wrinkled shirt, her large watery eyes – every morning she came to work looking like she’d been fished out of the sea.

  She gawped at the mountain of plastic bags and boxes. ‘What the hell?’

  I put my finger to my lips and pointed to the toilets.

  Once inside we checked no one was concealed in the cubicles as if we were secret agents, and then I told her the news: ‘I quit.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’ve been saying for ages I’d rather be finding homes for rescue dogs, that’s what I really want to do.’

  ‘But this is a job! When you start having to eat dog food you’ll miss this place. And Joseph? What’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. He sent a text from Delhi to say he’d arrived, missed me, “love love love” and … then …’ My voice faded a little while I held back the tears. ‘We were talking about living in LA together – and then, this morning –’

  ‘Have you been following him on Twitter?’

  ‘He doesn’t write any of that. It’s the publicity department.’

  ‘Really? Don’t any of them write their own …? Sorry, tactless.’ Deborah gripped me in her arms, but instead of crying, I just trembled at the thought of where the day was taking me.

  But then the power breasts of Helen Mallard, Mergers & Acquisitions, pushed through the door. ‘It was only a matter of time before he’d be shafting some gorgeous young thing, she could hardly have expected a man like Joseph West to keep his trousers up with all that temptation. She must be –’ she stopped. ‘Ah Sarah! How are you?’

  ‘A percipient analysis of my boyfriend, Helen. You must know a lot about temptation – the temptation to overcharge clients, put your nose into other people’s private lives and broadcast your cheap, received opinions. Oh, and next time you blabber to the tabloids about me, don’t call yourself a “close” friend, because neither of us even like you.’

  I brushed past her and gave the door the biggest slam I could manage considering the fire-safety mechanism.

  Deborah followed me to the lifts where the receptionists had huddled around a screen whispering. They snapped back into life and smiled far-too-sweetly when I appeared.

  ‘Could you let Carl know I’ll need help getting all this into a taxi?’ I asked.

  Deborah helped me with a bag. ‘Fancy staying at my place? I’ll take the day off, we can get drunk and watch slushy videos?’

  ‘Thanks, but I just want to go home and sort this out with Joe. The way they’ve been marketing him – this has got out of hand!’

  Deborah looked at me piteously. ‘Though maybe … it’s true?’

  ‘No! No. Don’t be silly. No.’

  She shook any doubt out of her own head. ‘You guys are tight. He adores you. It’ll be fine. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

  The lift pinged as it arrived at our floor. I looked around at all the boxes and saw a half-empty packet of dried corn. Happy!

  ‘There is something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would you look after Happy?’

  ‘Happy? The rabbit? Oh Sarah! When people ask if there’s anything they can do, they don’t mean it!’

  ‘Just a little while?’

  Deborah scratched her head. ‘Just a little while – for how long?’

  ‘You’ll be the first partner with a rabbit hutch in her office!’

  ‘Partner – why d’you say that?’

  ‘No reason – just keep him away from predators.’

  Deborah touched my arm, gently, unsteadily, as you might a body in a coffin, and I took my last flight down to the ground floor of Forester Levine.

  Carl loaded the boxes and plastic bags into a taxi at the rear entrance and soon I was inching through the city traffic. I gripped my phone tight, begging Joseph to call. I tried not to look at the stuff about Joseph and Sylvia online but couldn’t help reading on his official website that a close friend had said: Joseph had been unhappy in his relationship with longterm university pal, Sarah Tyler, 26, a corporate lawyer with whom he shared a bedsit in North London.

  Outside the ‘bedsit’, there was another frenzy of journalists and the collection of teenagers who’d been partially camped there for the last year.

  The cabbie pointed to my door. ‘So, who lives there then?’

  ‘I do.’ Or should I say, did?

  ‘Must have some pretty fancy neighbours.’

  ‘Could you just drive around the block again?’

  I didn’t want the boyfriend everyone was looking out for; I wanted the Joseph I’d met and fallen in love with, the one I had a direct line to, the friend who’d always been there for me, the man I’d planned to spend my life with.

  We drove around the block three times. The taxi driver sighed loudly as he asked if we were to go around yet again. As the journalists and fans surrounded the taxi I took out my wallet to see it was empty. I had no money to pay the driver and the cost was about the same as a meal at Nobu‘s.

  ‘Could you take me to the nearest bank?’

  He grunted, inconvenienced and unconvinced about his latest pick-up.

  We made a detour to a cashpoint where I stood for several panicked minutes trying to remember my pin number. Once I was back in the cab, he asked, ‘So what are all those photographers doing outside your building then?’

  ‘They’re waiting for Joseph West’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh!’ He smiled into the rear view mirror. ‘She’s that Sylvia Amery, ain’t she?’

  ‘Go round one more time.’

  ‘Right-e-oh!’ he whistled.

  5

  11:03:54 Home.

  I’d only been away from the flat for a few hours and yet it seemed abandoned, eerily quiet, out of place. It could have been one of Joseph’s stage sets after a show. His jacket hung on the back of the chair, photos of us sat on the shelves and the little notes we’d written to each other were still there, trapped
under cheery fridge magnets that we’d collected on trips together.

  I’d ignored the rumours at first. No one had told me anything directly, but a few times people had insinuated that Joseph, when away, was busy with more than just filming. The Helen Mallards of this world would say, ‘He seems to get on so well with his leading ladies, don’t you think?’ And I’d pass on what Joseph told me: everyone involved in a film project has to work very closely together – they’re sealed in that passionate, soul-searching, demanding, other-dimension for weeks or months at a time. Often, the person they’re talking about isn’t even Joe – he gets caught up with the character he’s playing. Even in university productions he’d be intensely intimate with his drama friends, all those days rehearsing; the trust games, the after-hours’ drinking sessions and then the first-night parties, the second-night parties, reading the reviews together while hung over at breakfast, and the last-night party – but by the final curtain call, Joseph was onto the next play and could barely remember their names. I was always there though: the constant, the devoted, his number-one fan.

  Of course I’d read about him and various women too, but I was always the loyal girlfriend. I’d collected all that had been written about Joseph for our children and their children. It was part of the collage of his life: the colourful people, locations and wild parties. It made sense that sometimes he went to first-night openings with co-stars: I often worked late and wanted him to get the best exposure he could. Rebecca Hobson was quite persistent about how important it was to keep his ‘name out there’. Despite what people read into my not always being at his side, we were a team.

  If only I’d said ‘Yes’ when he asked me to go to America with him. If only I’d said ‘Yes’ to what I’d stopped him from asking. If only.

  The door buzzer went every few minutes sending my heart into overdrive. I could see the crowd of journalists on the intercom monitor. They weren’t going away. But before anything, I had to speak to Joseph.

  I found the piece of paper on which Joe had scribbled the name of the hotel he was staying at in Delhi. I dialled and asked to speak to ‘Elvis East’, his latest code name. I checked my watch: it would be late afternoon. Most likely he’d be on set but it was worth a try.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no answer, Madame. Please try again later.’

  ‘Excuse me? I have a very important message for Elvis East – Mr West – could I try him at Ms Amery’s room? It’s urgent.’

  The man hesitated. I heard the flicking of pages and him tapping the phone. ‘Hold on a moment.’

  It was less than a minute before I heard Joseph’s voice answer the phone. ‘Hello. Hello?’

  Then I heard a woman’s voice in the background.

  ‘Hell-lo-oh?’

  I put down the phone.

  If I was looking for evidence, that was it.

  I banged out an email:

  Joe, I was under the impression on Sunday that we were making plans for a future together. Apparently you made the same proposition to Sylvia Amery, who’s accepted your offer and with whom you are sharing a hotel suite. If you can’t convince me otherwise or refute any of this immediately – both privately and publicly – you leave me no choice to conclude that our relationship is terminated. I shall move out and put the flat on the market. It’s over.

  The legal, pompous way it was written annoyed even me, but there was nothing left to say. I had pride. I’d sworn never to let a man break my heart – I had no intention of ending up like my mother. But it had been impossible not to love Joseph; he had won me over and convinced me that he and I were made for each other.

  ‘You’re the one, Sarah,’ he would say, and kiss the top of my head. Our two lives had become one. Joseph and Sarah. And then three, Joseph, Sarah and Elvis, our dog.

  Rebecca was right; it was over.

  6

  Kamilla jumped down from the ladder and spanked orange dust from her palms.

  ‘Why d’you need a place to stay?’ She stamped clumps of plaster from her boots. ‘Look at you! Gimme a hug!’ She said covering me in splodges of paint.

  Kamilla and I became friends over a half-dead pigeon when we were six years old. Before that, Kamilla had been my first enemy.

  She had been the co-leader of a gang of five-year-olds who’d made my childhood a misery at Tennyson Tower, Chelsea. Her friend, Aisha, was two years older and the last in a family of drug-dealers and extortionists who terrorised the estate. Kamilla, whose mum was Bangladeshi and whose dad, Marek, was Polish, lived opposite us. She always said that the day she watched my mother and I move in she knew we’d be friends forever – as she could only have been two years old then, I doubt it, but she does have a spooky, clairvoyant side to her, which she claims guides her in all her best decisions and, as she made her first million pounds at nineteen years old, it seems to have worked for her.

  Kamilla, Aisha and their entourage of pre-schoolers would throw water bombs – inventively created from condoms and tap water – at me. They frequently called out insults, their favourite name for me being, ‘Snow Whitey!’ I always knew when Kamilla was home because she’d be waiting, watching the window from five floors up getting ready to pelt me with whatever she could find on the stairwell.

  ‘Where’s your dad, Snow Whitey? Eh?’ she’d snarl, or give the more effective, ‘Your mum’s a loony. Loony Tunes!’

  I couldn’t exactly contradict her, so it was just a matter of cultivating a look which I hoped conveyed, ‘I don’t care’.

  And then came the day of the pigeon.

  Aisha and her little gang had got hold of one of her brother’s BB guns and had started shooting at birds, cats, homeless people or cars. I could see them from my window but was too late to stop a young pigeon being struck. It collapsed to the ground. While they were laughing and looking for a larger target I ran down to save its life. I knew what it was like to be hounded by those girls and had accepted what I had to go through, but I couldn’t stand by and see it happen to a bird that’d just been cooing in the sun.

  The pigeon had to decide between its fear of me and the pain of escaping. As I tried to take its limp, warm body in my hands, Kamilla stood over me.

  ‘Is it dead then?’ she asked.

  ‘Not quite, but –’

  ‘Didn’t mean to kill it, it just seemed like a –’

  ‘Can’t you leave anyone or anything in peace? Look, it’s dying now, because of you!’ I looked straight at her, tears of rage in my eyes. I stood up and pushed her hard in the chest. She reeled back but when she looked at me again, she didn’t retaliate. Instead, she steadied herself and asked, ‘Maybe we can take it to the hospital?’

  Kamilla and I carried the pigeon to Accident & Emergency at Kensington & Chelsea Hospital. When the receptionist saw that we’d brought a bird into the building she didn’t waste time ushering us out into the street where she told us to wait until someone called Kamilla’s dad to come and collect us. One of the nurses had overheard what was going on, got in touch with a friend of hers, Josie, a trainee vet from Limerick and a volunteer at an animal rescue centre. She arrived quickly.

  ‘Are you the two girls with a sick pigeon?’ she asked, winding down her car window and letting the air blow through her mass of orange hair. She got out of her car and dragged out a large, black medical bag. ‘Right.’ She took the bird in her hands. ‘He’s in a bad way,’ she said.

  ‘We think someone might have hit it with something.’

  ‘We’ll get to that. But what worries me is this foot – can you see his toes are all bound up – probably why he couldn’t get away when he was attacked. See that toe? Looks like he might lose that one.’

  Kamilla started to cry.

  The long plastic string that’s often attached to bin liners was tightly bound around his claw. Josie opened her bag and took out some tweezers, a metal implement and a small pair of scissors.

  We were so absorbed in the operation we hadn’t noticed Marek parking his van.

/>   ‘So who’s sick?’ he called over to us.

  ‘He is, Tata,’ said Kamilla, her eyes still glistening from tears.

  ‘Excuse me – that’s a pigeon.’

  ‘I am aware of that, yes,’ said Josie not looking up.

  ‘I’ve been called from work because of a pigeon?’ No one answered him, we were too riveted by Josie and the bird. He slouched over to us.

  Marek was, and still is, a very big man – blonde, green-eyed and intensely muscular, a thousand years ago he would probably have been the victorious leader of clubbearing Slavic armies – he wasn’t a man used to being ignored.

  ‘They said, “Hospital. Emergency”. This is the “Emergency”?’

  ‘The bird’s been very hurt,’ Josie explained as she tugged at the claw.

  ‘It’s a pigeon, lady! Just another dirty, diseased and shitting London pigeon.’ He moved over to us, his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Do you realise,’ said Josie pausing from the bird to address Marek, ‘that a great proportion of London pigeons are in agonising pain because their feet have got caught in human hair? String? Plastic? Rubbish we leave lying in the streets?’

  Kamilla looked at her incredulously.

  ‘They pull at it to get free and the problem gets worse. All it takes is …’ Josie cut and tweezed and gradually the bird started to clench its claw, ‘just doing this and setting them free again.’

  The bird bounced a few feet away where he could keep an eye on us.

  Marek smiled, kind of. Until he said, ‘and then they shit on my van.’

  A few pigeons and a curious sparrow flew down from a lamppost.

  ‘Oh, great. More of them. Lady, really, you think I care that one of them limps? Come on kids, get in and don’t touch anything until you wash your hands. Let’s hope you can stay out of trouble for one bloody afternoon.’