by Anna Maxted
‘My infant school too.’
‘Yeah, I know. Why would you represent him?’
‘He’s a very talented voice-over artist.’
‘You would say that. You’re his agent. How funny.’
‘He found me in the Artists & Agents Year Book, recognised my name. Why is that funny?’ Jack glanced at his phone again.
‘Are you in a rush?’ I said.
‘Yes. So say what you have to say, then we can part for ever.’
He was too cruel. I tried to think of what I wanted to say and then say it, but it was as if my tongue had furred over with moss. To my horror, my nose tingled, which I vaguely recalled as a precursor of tears.
Here was the thing. I needed to grovel. Not only did Jason want me to purge my soul, he wanted written proof that Jack and I were – as he put it – ‘best friends again.’ An eventuality that looked as likely as peace in the Middle East.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry about what happened, but I really don’t think it was quite as terrible as you’ve always thought. I didn’t actually do anything … much with Guy. Not when it got serious with you. I mean, there’s always a vague period at the beginning of every relationship and—’
Jack drummed his fingers on the table.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Hannah, this isn’t sounding like an apology to me.’
‘Well, no. It’s not an apology. It’s an explanation. I had odd ideas about relationships when I met you. Jason is quite into –’ I winced – ‘therapy, and looking back to, er, go forward. He feels that if you understood the truth, you might forgive me. And feel better about the whole … episode.’
‘Yeah. That’s not going to happen.’
‘But,’ I stammered, ‘give me a chance.’
Jack threw himself forward, resting both arms on the table, making me start. ‘Hannah, he wants the impossible. You’re saying he wants us to work through our past, picking out the issues and the problems like, like weevils out of a cow’s leg, and resolving them, leaving you pure and clean, absolved of guilt, a born-again innocent?’
I nodded. I was still trying to grasp the relevance of the cow’s leg. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what he wants. Even if you are being sarcastic. So why—?’
‘Because there is no resolution, and part of the problem is that you will never understand that. Once you cheat on someone the relationship can never be the same again. It’s like breaking a plate. You betrayed me, Hannah, when I loved you more than any woman I will ever love, and you never saw it, you never acknowledged it – you still can’t, you don’t have the mental apparatus, you lack the appropriate emotion, it’s like you’re fucking … autistic – I can’t forgive you for what you did to me, you changed me as a person, for the worse, and I hate you for that.’
Well. There it was. Straight from the heart. Or the knuckle. It was more information than I’d ever had about how Jack felt about my behaviour. I should have fallen at his feet, breathless with regret. But I couldn’t. He irritated the hell out of me. He was a self-pitying, pompous pig who just wouldn’t listen.
‘You absolute fool, get over yourself,’ I said, and walked out.
Chapter 13
I was buzzing with anger, and red-faced. This was so typical of Jack and me. Our rows went from 0–60 in ten seconds. I could still hear Jack saying, ‘I hate you.’ I made a gargle of rage in the back of my throat. I wasn’t used to uproar in my private life. Then, right in front of me, a woman stubbed out a cigarette under her shoe. She ground it out like she wished it was a person.
She was pretty. I pretended to check my phone messages. This is a ruse more advanced than rummaging in your bag because it allows you to loiter and stare. No point hanging around if all you can see is a crumbly tissue, and a bunch of spare change. I let my eyes flicker over her face again. The sense I got was of someone carefully put together.
Her shoes were black and white, wildly pointed at the toe, with a pattern punched in the leather, and a tiny heel. These, instinct told me, were fashion. Ugly and awkward as they were, they managed to be superior, to suggest, ‘I know something you don’t, poor you.’ I found it hard not to stare at them. It was like trying not to stare at a birth mark. If Gabrielle had taught me anything, they were designer and cost three hundred quid. Still, her cardigan was buttoned up wrong. I know little of the ways of men, but I suspect this clunkiness gave her more ooh la la.
She stepped into the restaurant I’d just left, and as she did it struck me that if I didn’t start walking, I’d still be standing there when Jack emerged. I took one step towards anywhere, then stopped. Then I followed Ms Pointy-Toes indoors. Just far enough that I could see where she was headed. I said, ‘Mm-hm,’ into my phone, while signing a cool ‘one moment’ at the receptionist.
Ms Pointy-Toes walked right up to Jack. I saw her kiss him on the mouth and saw him kiss her back. I actually put my hand to my throat, like some old grandmama on seeing a woman astride a horse. Then I nodded, unsmiling, at the receptionist – who returned the compliment – and stalked into the street.
I brushed my hand over my face. My heart felt curled up and burnt into a little black cinder. What exactly, I asked myself, were you hoping for here? I felt sick and foolish. Jack had a beautiful, glamorous girlfriend. Admittedly, my evidence was thin. She could be a friend. Yeah, right. As a PI you have to learn to distinguish between fact and supposition. It’s like boning a chicken. That said, I’ve never boned a chicken and on occasion I’ve found supposition priceless. Like, say, on this occasion.
I reminded myself that I had come to see Jack for one purpose: to facilitate a second marriage proposal from Jason. It shouldn’t bother me who Jack was fucking. Maybe it was because she was a blonde. They might be ten a penny in, say, Sweden, but in Britain a blonde is seen as extra-special, like a Ferrero Rocher. It riled me to have been succeeded by a model who the nation would regard as aesthetically superior. I’d have liked Jack to have downgraded to an old woman with a wart on her nose. Or maybe a man.
I tensed my jaw, and turned away. Get a grip, Hannah. Our meeting confirmed that divorce had been the correct answer. Jack had moved on. I should too. But, how the hell could I if he wouldn’t allow me to fulfil Jason’s conditions? Jason was right: I should sort out the clotted confusion that ruined my first marriage before embarking on a second.
Jack said he hated me. Hate is a strong word. I blinked, saw Jack kissing the blonde, his hand resting on her hip. Jack was a lost cause. I held my breath for a bit – forget him, concentrate on Jason. I’d devote myself to Jason, whatever it took.
‘Crazy,’ said Martine, when I told her, the next day. ‘Hey, are Jack’s premolars still retarded?’
Martine was a dental assistant. She existed in her own head and in romance novels, which was lucky, considering her job. It was a living death, although she worked for a nice man, Marvin. He adored being a dentist. The man loved teeth. He also never stopped talking. Or turned off Capital Radio. He spoke every thought aloud, over the ads for car insurance and bonehead DJs, all day in one tiny room.
‘I wonder what the thought for today is on the Sensodyne calendar, Martine, tear off the slip will you, it’s usually something to do with brushing, silly Sensodyne thoughts …’ I would have shot myself. I think Martine barely heard a word.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘And so’s Jack.’
Martine looked up from her plate. We were in her local pizzeria. I’d had food poisoning from there, twice. ‘No, he’s not,’ she said. ‘We’ve all got our pride. He thought you were doing the dirty on him. He can’t forget that. He can’t respect you. He’s a romantic.’
Martine picked a black olive off her pizza with her nails. I imagined little arms and legs waving in horror as it was transported to her mouth.
‘Respect is not a fundamental of many marriages,’ I said. ‘Really. I know.’
I treated Martine to the example of a recent case. A woman had an ABC follow her fiancé for three months because sh
e thought he was cheating. We had a van outside his house, the lot. She spent £40,000 for which we kindly confirmed her suspicions. But then, in the last month, he stopped cheating. Weeks later, this woman rang Greg to invite him to the Brompton Oratory. ‘We’ve having a blessing for our wedding,’ she told him. ‘I’d love you to be there.’
Greg, eating a fried breakfast at the time, swallowed a large chunk of sausage whole. ‘How,’ he replied, ‘do you think you’ll feel, spiritually, with me there? And where do you want me to stand? Behind a pillar?’
‘My marriage won’t be like that,’ said Martine. ‘My husband – when I meet him, that is – we won’t have even one secret from each other.’
We are all stupid. It depends on the criteria by which we are judged. Martine appeared to be more stupid than others, even though my private belief was that she wasn’t quite as dense as she pretended. She has four elder brothers, and a certain level of helplessness was expected of her, even rewarded. Anyway, I prefer people who keep a bit of themselves back.
‘I won’t be getting married when Jason finds out that I failed to resolve anything with Jack.’
Martine gasped. I thought she was choking on a wad of dough, until she said, ‘Roger would know what to do!’
‘Genius, Martine,’ I said.
‘But,’ roared my father, leaping off his deck chair for emphasis, ‘for heaven’s sake, why won’t he sit down with you like a rational adult, and talk matters through? This is ridiculous! Ten years have gone by! Surely he doesn’t want to stand in the way of your last chance at happiness?’
I held my untouched glass of water in two hands, and stared into it.
I felt low, Jack had turfed up a lot of bad memories. It was like meeting the bigshot from school ten years on. No matter how grand you are in your life now, you revert to the relationship you had then. I was different, I was urbane, for God’s sake, urbane! But with Jack I was still that silly teenager who couldn’t commit. My father wasn’t helping.
‘He’s still upset with me,’ I said.
‘Why, though?’ shouted Roger. I could sense the neighbours, holding their breath on their sunken patio. ‘It doesn’t make sense! Give me his number! Where does he live? I’ll go and talk to him. I’ll have a word, bloody chutzpah!’
My heart seemed to make a lunge for my throat. ‘No!’ I said.
My father took off his shades and stared at me.
‘There’s no need for that, Daddy,’ I said, calmer. ‘I’m … I’m sure Jason won’t mind if I don’t return waving a peace treaty from my ex-husband.’
‘For Christ’s sake! Forge the note! Forge it! Who cares? Bloody stupid idea! What Jason doesn’t know won’t hurt him!’
‘Well, I—’ I stopped. That phrase summed up my relationship history, with everyone. It made me no better than Brompton Oratory woman. I was not going to forge anything for Jason. This was supposed to be my new start, not a sly recycling of old attitudes.
‘So you haven’t answered my question!’ boomed Roger. ‘Why’s Jack being so bloody contrary? What does he care? What aren’t you telling me? You’re not telling me something, Pumpkin! What is it? Don’t lie to me! I’m in corporate PR, madam, I know an economy with the truth when I see it. Come on, spit it out, spit it out!’
My mouth opened and shut.
More than anything, I feared my father thinking less of me. He said the most curious thing once. It was my mother’s birthday. I’m always nicer to my mother on that day, it’s like a gun amnesty. We’d all gone to the theatre. It was a first night and my mother had recognised the playwright, a grizzled old thing, sitting in the row in front. I noticed he didn’t laugh once. Hey, maybe he noticed I didn’t laugh once. When the actors finally took their many bows and everyone scrambled to leave, my mother giggled.
‘What?’ I said.
She covered her mouth. ‘He passed me, and I thought, what if I was to shout, “What utter rubbish!” What if I’d shouted that out, during the play? Or, what if I’d jumped out of my seat and attacked an actor?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said my father.
Gabrielle was with us to dispel the tension – Oliver had to work – and she’d slipped her arm into my mother’s. ‘I know what you mean, Angela. I think that sort of thing too. If I’m at a magazine do with Ollie, talking to the picture editor, I sometimes think: what if I were to throw my drink in his face? It’s … well, it’s not because you’re a rebel.’
We all laughed. Except Daddy.
‘I think,’ added Gabrielle, ‘it’s because you think it’s the worst possible thing you could ever do. You fear authority, you fear other people’s disapproval.’
‘Oh dear, do I?’ said my mother.
I felt a brief flutter of affection. ‘Yes, Angela,’ I said, ‘you do. You shouldn’t. You’re …’ I didn’t want to say she was as good as them, but now I couldn’t not say it without flouting the gun amnesty, ‘… as good as them.’
‘Hannah, your forehead,’ said my father. ‘Do you have an allergy?’
‘Oh! No,’ I said. ‘It’s just a few spots.’
As Gabrielle and my mother wandered on ahead, my father mused, almost to himself, ‘Shame.’
‘What is?’ I said.
‘The way you disregard your appearance. Sometimes I think of how pretty you were as a little girl and I look at you now and I feel disappointment. All that promise, blown. Like biting into a … sour cherry.’
I was a bit hurt.
I blinked away the memory, as Roger clapped his hands in my face, ‘Hello-o! Earth to Hannah! Spit it out! You did something to antagonise Jack! What did you do? Out with it!’
Ah, Christ. I was determined to be straight with Jason. Surely my father deserved the same treatment.
I swallowed. ‘All right, Daddy, if you really want to know. The reason Jack still dislikes me so intensely is because he thought I cheated on him. He found out, after we married.’
I wanted to explain that it was more a technicality than a physicality, but Roger didn’t give me the chance. He stared as if I had morphed into a different person – maybe not even a person, more like a variety of toad.
He said, ‘Then you’re no better than your mother.’
My father turned his back, and let me go. I was trembling, but I wasn’t surprised, because my father has a thing about cheats. He has never forgiven my mother for cheating on him. And neither have I.
Chapter 14
I used to be close to my mother, when I was little. I was very girly then. The memories are fragmented but, if I choose to, I can pick out glinting shards.
She bought me a green velvet dress – I used to stroke it on my lap like a cat. And a pair of black patent shoes.
I can still remember the breathless thrill I got from seeing my feet in those shoes. I remember my five-year-old self whispering those magic words, ‘black patent shoes’. I wore them for parties, for going to special places, and when I fastened their silver buckles I could barely believe they were mine, that I was a girl who wore black patent shoes.
Shoes like these had the power to transform me into something I was not. All the people I wanted to be (my mother, ballerinas, princesses) wore such pretty shoes: pink, satiny, ribbony, high-heeled, shiny, pointy-toed, or open-toed, for which you painted your toenails lovely colours. If I tried on Mummy’s shoes, my legs became a lady’s legs. My mother was very ladylike. She used to apply pearl lipstick, then blot it, twice, with a tissue.
Although there was something guarded about her, even then. I have an old black-and-white photograph – I came across it recently, digging through my desk drawer – my father must have taken it on holiday in Portugal or Spain. Angela is sitting on the sand in a flowery swimsuit on a small stripey towel, her hands clasping her knees. She is slender and brown and her eyes are closed. I don’t think she knew he was taking the picture, she is too inside herself, absorbing the sunshine. I like her feline grace in this picture. She looks as if she might be purring, but maybe it
is her wariness I relate to. Ollie and I are nowhere to be seen. The beach is packed with people perched on clusters of deck chairs in the distance, and the sea is a thin blue strip beyond them, but my mother is sitting on the pale sand, all by herself.
I don’t remember much, certainly nothing of our very early relationship. Grandma Nellie once mentioned Angela having ‘difficulties’ after I was born. I presumed Grandma Nellie meant women’s problems and I didn’t enquire further. So maybe we weren’t that close at first. It’s funny how, before the age of five, your consciousness takes it all in … and lets it float out again. Apart from the disembodied lipstick blotting and the recollection of my black patent shoes, there are no active memories.
Photographs, still lives, are all the evidence I have. I know Angela has a picture of us together, on her dressing table, still. We are in the garden and she is showing me a leaf. I’m no expert on kids but I’d guess I was around two. We are both frowning in concentration over this leaf – maybe it was an oak leaf – and my baby hands look small and chubby next to her slim ones.
Until it all went wrong, I hoped to be exactly like her.
My father did a good job of taking over, though. There is a further memory blank, around the time it happened, but you get a sense. I wouldn’t admit this to, say, Greg, but I believe that if something bad happens in a place, sadness seeps into its walls and is held in suspension by the structure that bore witness to the crime. That’s maybe why I don’t like Hampstead Garden Suburb, our house. It holds the lingering scent of regret and unhappiness. If the sin has not been absolved, there is nowhere for it to go. I recall a brief period of shouting, then silence.
I have an image of standing in our hallway, watching my mother leave by the front door. And from another time, me entering that hallway, and running up the stairs, holding the sobs in my throat. I don’t recall who let me in, but I ignored whoever it was. I don’t know what happened when I reached the top of the stairs. I remember hating family mealtimes. Concentrating on the food on my plate, willing it to disappear so I could leave the table. I spent a lot of time in my Wendy house – a sheet draped over an enormous cardboard box – arranging its contents, making the kitchen neat.
