by Anna Maxted
I explained.
‘But,’ I said, ‘if you could see past the brown vegetable dye, to the hair, and the clothes, and the shoes …?’ I did a quick twirl.
Jason beamed. ‘You look lovely,’ he said. And then he pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I wasn’t expecting it, so my teeth hit his quite hard, but apart from that (and the tan stains on his yellow shirt and the red lipstick smears around his mouth) it was perfect. The evening had begun well.
‘I like your clothes,’ Jason said. ‘I really like them. They’re so … they are girl’s clothes.’ He added, ‘I don’t mean that to sound bad.’
He looked around, wide-eyed. ‘And the place is spotless. And there are flowers!’
If Jason planned to give me a rundown of everything he saw, we were in for a long night. But then, Gab always complained that she could have a head transplant and Ollie wouldn’t notice. I tried to be glad that Jase was a man who noticed change.
‘And –’ he sniffed – ‘whatever you’re cooking smells great! And, you’ve laid the table!’
‘Would you like a drink?’ I said, to stop the commentary.
Jason hesitated.
I waved a bottle of red at him. ‘Oh, be a devil!’ I said, in my mother’s voice.
He grinned. ‘Why not? Go on then.’
In the silent aftermath of this middle-aged exchange, my heart shot to my shoes. I suppose I’d expected Jason to get that young hipsters like us weren’t expected to dawdle over the offer of one glass of red wine, as if it were a bowl of smack cut with talcum powder. I knew he saw it as a serious consideration to be weighed against the demands of the office the following day, and it made me feel like I was en route to dying. To cheer myself up, I retrieved two brandy glasses and poured an inch of booze into his (the polite measure, apparently). I filled mine to the brim.
‘Something’s different,’ muttered Jason, as I danced around the hob, squashing the lumps out of the mushroom gravy. I was getting quietly violent, until I remembered they were mushrooms. ‘Hannah! You turned off the TV!’
I blushed.
Jason shook his head. ‘Hannah. You are amazing. To be honest, I never thought you’d do it. But it seems that you have. I did think it was a risk, asking you to contact Jack, but, I feel it’s a risk that’s paid off. You really have turned over a new leaf!’
One problem with Jason: his use of clichés. Ready-made language for people too lazy to bother with original thought. Still, he took similar offence at my use of readymade meals. Not tonight, though.
‘This is superb!’
‘It’s meatloaf,’ I said.
Jason paused. ‘Is it meat?’
I paused. ‘It’s meatloaf. There’s your clue.’
Jason coughed. ‘Right. Right. Only, I thought, what with –’ he rolled his eyes – ‘my delicate stomach, I thought you might have substituted soya.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s not a problem. But, you know, the Chinese call soya “meat without bones”.’
‘What! Do they? Urgh! Why do they do that? How disgusting. Urgh, it makes you think of a body without a skeleton—’ I stopped.
‘Because of the beans’ high-protein content.’
‘Ah.’ I smiled. ‘Mushroom gravy? Can I taunt you with some? I mean, can I tempt you with some?’
Jason held out his plate. I doused it in gravy, and waited for praise. What I got was a gobbet of chewed meatloaf spat onto the middle of my white tablecloth (also a sheet), and an overturned chair, as Jason sped to the bathroom retching. There he remained for twenty minutes, which gave me time to ascertain that the mushroom gravy was as dense in salt as the Dead Sea. Eyes bulging, I snatched up my mother’s instructions. There it was. ‘Tsp equals tablespoon.’
‘Jason,’ I shouted. I could hear him sighing on the toilet. ‘Jason. In cooking, what does tsp stand for?’
‘Teaspoon,’ he croaked.
All I could do was apologise. And hate Angela. She knew what a tsp was; it was her native tongue! I’d deal with her later.
I leant against the bathroom door. ‘Jase,’ I said, ‘are you OK?’
He groaned softly.
‘Jase? There’s something I have to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘I … I’m so sorry about this mess tonight. All I want is a new beginning. I feel I don’t deserve you. You’re so … so good, Jason.’
‘Don’t say that. Ahh, could you, could you run to the end of the hall, now, please, Hannah?’
I ran to the end of the hall, where the sound of Jason’s diarrhoea was still clearly audible. When it was over, I ran back.
‘Jason. I forged the note from Jack.’
There was a silence. Then Jason said, ‘You mean he didn’t write it?’
‘No.’
‘So you didn’t sort out your emotional baggage? You lied to me?’
‘No.’ I winced. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh my God!’
I stared at the bathroom door.
‘Is it … over?’ I whispered.
‘I think there might be a bit more to come, you might have to run to the end of the hall ag—’
‘Jase. I mean, is it over with us?’
My insides were mercury, hard and heavy. But I’d had to tell. I refused to base our new future on lies. I wanted to be honorable, through and through.
‘Hannah, no, not at all.’
I allowed a smile.
He laughed. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it makes it fair.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because, oh God –’ sqtsqtsqtsqt – ‘end of the hall!’
I ran on the spot. ‘Yes?’ I said, trying to throw my voice. ‘Because I slept with Lucy.’
I sighed. ‘Jase. Of course you slept with Lucy. You were engaged to her. For a minute.’
‘No.’ The toilet flushed. ‘I mean, I slept with her every day for a week before I went to Kenya. And yesterday.’
Chapter 20
‘What!’ I said, ‘I thought you said Irritable Bowel affected your sex drive?’
Now, I see that I was relieved. Having been the bad guy with Jack, it was a privilege to be in a position to forgive. Jason’s infidelity took the pressure off. It freed me from the duty to be good. Then, I didn’t see this as reflecting on the strength of my love for Jason. Or on my famed problem with intimacy, as Jase would have it. I thought I was pretty damn twenty-first century, actually. I suspect that Jase was more clued than I was as to what my reaction meant. Which is possibly why he went ballistic.
He burst through the bathroom door (having opened it). Do you even care about me, etc.
‘Of course I care about you,’ I said.
‘Then why pull me up on a technicality? Aren’t you furious, Hannah? Aren’t you jealous? Aren’t you imagining me and Lucy and what we did together?’
I made a face. ‘No actually, that would be rather yucky.’
‘God!’ shouted Jason.
I scowled. ‘Do you think that people who choose not to expose their souls for public entertainment don’t have feelings? Wouldn’t that be like thinking that, say, New York only exists when you fly in to JFK?’
(This was a dig as Jason had never been to New York. Personally, I don’t think he was up to it.)
Jason’s expression softened.
Encouraged, I added, ‘For all you know, I’m dying inside.’
‘Hannah,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise.’
I’m no Miss Marple, but Jason would have made a bad detective. He heard only what he chose to hear and made assumptions. I had not said, ‘I am dying inside.’
He squashed me in a long hug, which gave me time to consider how I was feeling.
There was shock. Jason had always regarded sex as naughty, and not in a good way. He was thorough in his duties – but he never seemed to lose himself. But to shag Lucy day in, day out suggested enthusiasm.
I was hurt. Because I loved Jason? Because my ego was dented? Jason had the promise
of me, why did he need her? Yet, there was none of the bubbling red fury I’d experienced on seeing Jack kiss a girl. Lucy wasn’t blonde – maybe that was it. What is worse? If a man cheats on you with a plain woman or a very beautiful one?
I also disliked that Jason had kissed her yesterday and me today – for health reasons if nothing else. Get Martine on the subject of mouth bacteria, and you’d never kiss anyone again. (‘Staphylococci cause gum boils and grow in clumps like a bunch of grapes.’)
I concluded that it was hard to be jealous because Lucy was not an object of envy. After three weeks of slog, I was mistress of the flower arrangement (lift bunch out of paper, place directly in vase), and the homely home: remove every item from every surface, thus defeating the point of surfaces, disguise all smells with bleach or scent. This was Lucy’s world, and she was welcome to it.
I squeezed him hard around the waist. He gasped. ‘I do love you,’ I said. ‘I really do.’ Suddenly, I felt happier about saying it.
Jason blushed. ‘That’s the first time in five years you’ve said that voluntarily,’ he said. ‘I love you too. And of course I forgive you.’ He took a huge breath. ‘God, Hannah. I feel so light, and happy!’
I was about to make a toilet-related crack, but caught myself.
Jason sank to one knee. I knew what was coming.
‘Hannah,’ he said, gripping my hands in his, ‘this time please say yes.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘but do we always have to do this near a toilet?’
Jason laughed, and shuffled along the carpet on his knees. I pigeon-toed behind, feeling silly. I wished he’d stood up and walked; I don’t like short men. (This is, apparently, instinct. Also, I got a bad reaction off a guy once after describing him, to his face, as ‘petite’.) Happily, when Jason had shuffled a respectable distance from the bathroom, he rose to his feet, affording me the girly thrill of his full height, five foot eleven.
‘Hannah, will you marry me?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Go on then.’
‘Hooray!’
Jason picked me up and spun me around. I laughed, then my feet hit the hall table, cricking my back. I allowed him to carry me to the sofa. He plumped the cushions behind my head, and said, ‘Look what I got you.’
A diamond that would take your eye out.
‘Wow.’
It was big and sharp, with dangerous glinting edges, perched on top of a gold band.
He slid it onto my finger. It felt heavy and strange. My hand dropped to my side, stretching my arm, I was sure, by about three inches. I heaved it back up to my eyeline. I tilted my hand left and right, like a lady, to see it glitter.
‘This,’ I said, ‘is quite a weapon.’
‘It is also,’ murmured Jason, his voice tickling, ‘a token of my esteem.’ He breathed into my ear, which could only mean one thing.
What with his stomach, my back and the aftertaste of infidelity, it wasn’t the greatest. But as I stroked his hair afterwards, I felt tender towards him. (The way to my heart is most unladylike.)
There was a mischievous part of me that couldn’t wait to tell my mother that Jason and I were affianced.
Why? Because I had a suspicion. Angela didn’t think Jason was right for me!
He’d always adored her. Young men did. It was like gay blokes and Liza Minnelli. I’d had to struggle to keep them apart. Jason thought he could see maternal potential in Angela, and was determined to unlock it. As if she were the perfect mother trapped in a tower, waiting for the right child to come along and free her. He’d watch, wide-eyed, as she pulled a burning tray of spitting-hot roast potatoes out of the oven with a worn tea towel. ‘Angela, use the oven gloves, you’ll burn your hands!’
She’d give him a quick, tight smile and say, ‘Thank you, Jason. I’m fine.’
Whereas if, say, Gabrielle had intervened, my mother would have clutched her arm, smiled into her eyes, and said, ‘Oh, Gabrielle, you know what I’m like, I’m hopeless.’
It was strange. Jason was the kind of man that mothers were supposed to love.
A wicked urge overtook me, and I said, ‘Hey, Jase. I can’t wait to tell my mother that we’re engaged.’ Jason smiled. ‘I think she disapproves of you.’
He stopped smiling. ‘She disapproves of me?’ Jason was aware he was the kind of man mothers were supposed to love. ‘Why? That’s not true! It can’t be.’ He looked upset. Then he said, ‘But … if it is true, why can’t you wait to tell her we’re engaged? Wouldn’t you want to put it off?’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘I like to tease her.’
‘That’s not teasing,’ said Jason. ‘It’s taunting. Which is a form of expressing anger.’ He propped himself on one elbow. ‘And you know what else anger is?’
I tickled his foot with mine, but he wouldn’t be deterred.
‘Grief,’ said Jason, sternly. ‘Anger is grief. And I think your anger at your mother is a mask for your pain. It’s so you don’t have to feel the pain at her loss.’
I shushed him. ‘Oh, Jase. You are funny! She isn’t lost. She’s right there. I don’t care for her much, but she’s right there.’
Jason shook his head. ‘Hannah, from all you’ve told me, she is lost to you. You do care for her, but you’ve destroyed all your expectations of her. That way, it’s impossible for her to disappoint you. You’ve dragged the level down, because it hurts to set it high.’
I silenced him with a pinch on the cheek. ‘Jason,’ I said, ‘I am going to ring my parents and tell them the happy news.’
I didn’t lose my temper, because I thought I knew why he’d burst out with all this. He was angry at his mother, for dying. He was obsessed with mothers. His whole bearing screamed ‘I am the ideal son’. Like, as if he was good enough his mother would come back from the dead.
If that sounds uncharacteristically astute, one therapy session had taught me this: whatever you say you are, you’re the opposite. I was happy to apply it to Jason, if not to myself. (Therapy wasn’t for me. I’d sat down and nearly puked as the seat was warm from a previous bottom. I was offended at the concept of being a bean on a conveyor belt of damaged goods.)
Jason checked his watch. ‘I do realise that Daddy Dear expects a report of each event in your life as it occurs,’ he said, ‘but it’s past midnight. You can’t ring now!’
I ignored the jealousy-induced sarcasm, and flopped back down on the bed. ‘You’re right. I’ll ring tomorrow.’
It crept over me that I felt limp about sharing the news with Roger, even though it would be the fast track back into his affections. I couldn’t decide if this was because I was less than thrilled about the news myself, or because I was less than thrilled with Roger. Both thoughts were sacrilege and I tried to dismiss them.
Chapter 21
I did ring home the next day, but no one answered, and my father was uncontactable at the office. His PA, Rita, was apologetic and indiscreet. A Telegraph hack had pressed the ‘track changes’ button on a press release sent as a Word document. This spelt trouble.
As Roger had once explained it, ‘Every press release has to be approved by every prick in the company, and ends up being amended by three hundred and thirty-six different cunts.’
If a journalist receives a short document that has a disproportionately large number of bytes, and presses the ‘track changes’ button on the toolbar of his Word programme, he can see every sly change made to that document.
‘Your father is steaming,’ whispered Rita. ‘He’ll be tied up all day in damage limitation. But I’ll tell him you called, dear. Nothing important, I hope?’
I’d popped the diamond ring in my pocket, as I didn’t want Greg to see it. My father should be the first to know. But then again, I should tell someone, get a test reaction. I decided to call Gabrielle.
‘Gab? You OK?’
‘Not really, oh Jesus, stop that! No! Don’t press that, Jude, stop it now, now – wait! – baby, come along, away from there, darling, you’ll hurt – awwww, silly sausage, no
w what did I just say, aww, poor Jude, oh no, oh you poor boy, oh it’s OK, hug from your mummy, hug from your mummy, ouch, don’t bite Mummy—’
Rather like pulling someone from a taxi, I feel it’s rude to force a person out of a bad mood. I’d save my news. I said, ‘Did he trip? Is he OK? Where’s Nanny Amanda?’
Gabrielle sniffed. ‘On her way back to Melbourne.’
‘A holiday?’ I asked, without hope.
‘For good.’
‘What! Why?’
Secretly, I couldn’t imagine a decision more self-explanatory. Ten minutes with Jude and I was exhausted, ready for bed. Allegedly, most babies were similar. Jude would step on and off and on and off and on and off a doorstep for a good half-hour, while you bore his entire, substantial bodyweight, then freak out, suddenly, for no reason. Once Jason had come in wearing a hat and Jude had reacted like Freddie Kruger just stepped in the door. Gab had ripped it off Jason’s head while screaming, ‘Hats scare him!’ Now, unless he’d been watching Nightmare on Elm Street, that was irrational. I had no idea how Nanny Amanda had managed him.
‘Hated England.’
‘Ah.’
This wasn’t a surprise. Nanny Amanda and Gabrielle had enjoyed a fine working relationship, bar the fact that Nanny Amanda was bluntly underwhelmed by London, while Gabrielle remained its staunch defender. If ever I’d asked after the health of Nanny Amanda, Gabrielle would report today’s slur on the United Kingdom.
Its great advantage was that it was ‘very near to a lot of other countries’.
After standing in a queue in Sainsbury’s: ‘You know, in Australia we have these things called Express Checkouts?’
If it weren’t for the exchange rate, ‘there’d be half the number of Aussies and Kiwis here’.
Subsequent to putting on half a stone: ‘Everyone comes here and gets fat. It’s the weather. I never ate junk food in Australia.’
Following an encounter with a bloke from Dalston: ‘The men here are such dags.’ (On requesting translation, Gabrielle discovered that a dag was ‘the clotted shit and wool stuck to a sheep’s tail’.)
Plainly, it was only a matter of time before Nanny Amanda fled our land of fat people, daggy men, long queues, and Australians.
