Don't Get Me Wrong

by Marianne Kavanagh

  “It’s completely random. Bad things happen to good people. And good things happen to people who shit on everyone else.”

  Well, you would know, thought Kim.

  “Not that Eva would agree, of course,” said Harry. “She believes in karma. Good deeds mean future happiness.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then Harry said, “I’m sorry Jake couldn’t be here.”

  Kim shot him a quick look. But the remark seemed genuine. “It’s the job.”

  “Busy?”

  “Very busy.”

  Harry leant forwards, hesitated, and then sat back in his chair.

  “What?” said Kim.

  “It’s none of my business. But I just wondered if you and Jake were OK. You haven’t talked about him much recently.”

  Is it that obvious? Kim was about to say something off-puttingly neutral and change the subject but the words wouldn’t come. She was suddenly tired of lying. “He’s moved on. To the next one.”

  “The next one?”

  “The next intern.”

  Harry looked shocked. “I’m sorry.”

  Kim was surprised. He sounded as if he meant it—as if he cared how she felt. “I should have seen it coming. It’s all part of a pattern. It’s what he does.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Oh”—Kim’s voice trembled, despite herself—“three weeks ago. When I got back from Bristol.”

  “You don’t have to say—”

  “No, it’s OK. There was a letter waiting for me. Telling me it had been a real struggle to decide between us. In the end, he’d had to write down both our names, and list all the pros and cons under each one. And my cons went all the way down to the bottom of the page. So there was no contest really.”

  Harry looked down at his feet.

  “Damaris was really angry when I told her. She said he sounded like her consultant at the hospital. All decisions must be evidence-based.”

  Still Harry said nothing.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” I really don’t, thought Kim. It must be the rosé.

  Harry said, “So you’ve moved out?”

  Kim nodded.

  “Where are you living now?”

  “With Izzie.”

  “Does Eva know?”

  Kim shook her head, looking over at Eva on the other side of the table. “And you mustn’t tell her. She’ll be upset. So I’m not going to say anything until we get back to London. This is Mum’s time. Her wedding. I don’t want anything to spoil it.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that it’s what we all want. Your mum to have a perfect day.”

  But he had that blank, shut-in look in his eyes again. So Kim knew he was hiding something. She was about to ask more, to get to the bottom of what was going on, when Otis came up with a shiny green shield bug cupped in his hands, saying he wanted to build it a bungalow and call it Charlie.

  So the moment was lost. But I should have listened more carefully, thought Kim, self-recrimination howling in her head as her memories of the wedding faded away. I should have worked it out for myself. Harry was telling me that someone else had a secret. And of course that person was Eva—Eva, who had taken him into her confidence. Who had chosen Harry, not me. Again.

  “You did the same, in a way,” said Izzie.

  Izzie’s flat was always full of sunlight. From the bay window at the front, you could see right over Sydenham to the bright green leaves of ancient oak trees, last remnants of the Great North Wood. “I did the same?”

  “You kept something to yourself. You didn’t tell Eva about splitting up with Jake because you wanted your mum to have her big day without anyone being upset.”

  But breaking up with someone, thought Kim, isn’t the same as finding out you’ve got cancer.

  My sister has cancer.

  In her mind, as usual, she heard Grace’s voice. Of course they have such marvelous treatments these days.

  “He went to the oncologist with her. Her first appointment.”

  “You were in Bristol.”

  Kim fought back tears. “I could have cut it short.”

  “I think she just wanted to get it out of the way.”

  That’s not the point. It should have been me. I should have been sitting with Eva, asking questions, taking notes. Not Harry. Not Harry.

  The important thing is to stay positive.

  “And I don’t think,” said Izzie carefully, as if she was talking to a child, “that Eva gave him much choice.”

  That’s what Harry does. Gets people on his side. Gets a whole army of supporters fighting his corner. Kim felt angry and outmaneuvered. “So what are you saying—I should move on?” And then, using Jake’s favorite phrase because she hated it, and it still hurt her, and somehow flinging it out into the conversation made her feel she was able to hurt other people, too, “Draw a line under it?”

  Izzie looked down at the pleats of her red skirt. “She’ll get better, Kim. It’s not like the old days.”

  Although of course she has the most aggressive kind. With the worst survival rates.

  “And Harry’s done a lot of research. He understands what the treatment involves.”

  Cancer is the rampant growth of unregulated cells. Like the banking industry. I’m sure Harry understands it perfectly.

  “Don’t shut him out. He wants to do anything he can to help.”

  Harry had made her trust him. He had even made her tell him about Jake. And all the while, like a miser hugging gold, he had kept Eva’s cancer a secret.

  She couldn’t forgive him.

  • • •

  Harry stood in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, looking at the multicolored tents huddled on the cobbles like upturned teacups. Occupy London. Numbers were growing day by day. According to the papers, people were mystified. What do they want, these people camping outdoors in late October in central London? What are their demands? They don’t know yet, Eva had said the night before. They’re working it out. All they know at the moment is that they don’t like the way the world’s organized. Everything we do dominated by money and led by people who have money. They want something different. They want us all to think how things could change. Sometimes that’s where you have to start. It’s enough to say no.

  It sounds like the Summer of Love, Harry had said, grinning. A whole load of hippies drifting about, trying to change the world.

  I think they’re angrier than they were in the 1960s, said Eva, her blue eyes serious.

  It must be cold here at night, thought Harry, looking at the white stone façade of the cathedral. And noisy, with the traffic and the clock bell marking the hours. You wouldn’t get much sleep. A gust of wind would probably blow the tents away. Maybe they don’t sleep, he thought. Maybe they operate in shifts, taking it in turns to organize new arrivals and talk to the press. It was just before seven a.m., but already there were people moving round the camp. Someone was carrying a kettle. Of course, thought Harry. That’s how the British protest against global capitalism. They make tea.

  Eva had wanted to come. I could cook, she said. Or sing. There are mothers with children sitting on the steps of St. Paul’s.

  You need to rest, he said.

  There’s more to life than resting, she said.

  Across the entrance to the camp was a huge green banner with pink letters spelling out CAPITALISM IS CRISIS.

  “I keep forgetting things,” said Eva.

  “No change there, then.”

  She gave him a small push on the shoulder. “It’s a recognized side effect. Chemo brain.”

  “Maybe it is,” said Harry. “But I don’t think you can blame the drugs. You’ve always had a brain like a sieve.”

  “Were you always this rude?”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “You can’t remember?”

  Eva laughed. She still laughed a lot.

  But there were day
s when she was so tired that he put them to bed one after the other, Otis, then Eva.

  And then he sat on the sofa in the dark, looking at the lights on the Thames.

  “Promise me you won’t talk about fighting. Or battles. Ever.” Eva’s manifesto, right at the beginning. Sitting in the sunshine, the light in her white-blond hair.

  Harry smiled. “Make love, not war.”

  “When have I ever wanted to fight anything? And anyway it’s not a battle. It just is. Like rain. Or mold.”

  It’s Kim and I who fight, thought Harry. Every step of the way.

  “You’ve got to help me. I don’t think she’s got the right attitude.” A pub near Paddington, one Tuesday evening before Kim got the train back to Bristol. She was angry, on edge, her face set. “I don’t mind all the homeopathy and essential oils if it makes her feel better. But no one seriously thinks any of that makes any difference. Exercise, maybe. Nutrition. There are studies pointing to the advantages of a vegan diet. But the most important thing is attitude. She’s got to make a commitment. She’s got to be determined to beat it.”

  “I’m not sure she sees it that way.”

  “This isn’t about you, Harry. This isn’t about what you think. This is about Eva.”

  It was the same clipped tone she always used whenever she spoke to him these days. But what did he expect? That’s how she coped under pressure, with extreme efficiency. Whenever Kim came round to the flat, her arms were always full of books, leaflets, and box files bursting with information. Harry could see that the words made Eva tired. But she never showed it. She sat with Kim on the sofa—the sofa that looked so tiny in the corner of Harry’s vast apartment—and listened carefully as Kim explained the latest treatments, the ongoing trials, the papers published in academic journals.

  Sometimes, when Kim was talking, Otis would come and stand next to Eva, and she would put her arm round him and pull him close. They weren’t even looking at each other, but you could see that they had taken refuge, as usual, in the silent communication that excluded everyone else.

  Otis had just started school. He liked it. He had a blue sweatshirt with a line drawing of the school building picked out in white on the front. His book bag was blue, too. The school was only ten minutes’ walk from the flat. Most of the time Eva managed it. But sometimes Harry went in late. Or a friend—another parent—picked Otis up and brought him back at the end of the afternoon.

  It seemed strange to think that Eva had ever contemplated moving away. This was her home now. She had found her community in the fug and dirt of central London.

  Great Tom, the bell in the southwest tower, chimed the hour.

  At least I can tell her about this now, thought Harry, looking out over the tents. Eva had liked the idea of a peaceful protest against capitalism. Gentle resistance. I can describe what I’ve seen, the encampment on the steps of St. Paul’s.

  He turned to make his way to work.

  A jogger ran past in skintight Lycra—red-and-blue leggings and a long-sleeved white top. He started threading his way through the tents, using the camp as an obstacle course, pausing just long enough to shout, “Why don’t you all get fucking jobs!”

  No one responded. No one even looked at him.

  She’s had the surgery. Halfway through chemo. Radiotherapy in December. All over by Christmas.

  Next spring I’ll take her to Monterey. I want her to see the place where they sang. Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding, the Mamas and the Papas.

  • • •

  Kim stood in the bay window of Izzie’s flat in Sydenham. She had offered to look after Otis for the whole day. We’ll have a great time, she said. We might go to Crystal Palace Park. Go and see the Victorian dinosaurs—great green models looming out of the bluebells. No one ever seems that surprised to see them there. Let’s go to the park, have an ice cream, and see some extinct animals! But then this is southeast London. There are billionaires stepping over beggars. Why would anyone be surprised by a stegosaurus?

  I’m really grateful, said Eva.

  Polite, thought Kim. As if I was a friend doing her a favor.

  Kim leant her forehead against the glass. Behind her, Otis, who had emptied his rucksack onto the carpet, was already managing a fictional world in which a badger grappled with a giant octopus, a sea lion rode a fire engine, and a space rocket landed upside down in a farmyard, scattering the sheep.

  Below her, in the street, Harry and Eva were getting into the Porsche. The roof was down. Kim, the all-seeing eye, the secret camera, felt like a spy. A Peeping Tom. She saw Harry speak. But she was too high up to hear the words. Harry had given Eva a silver charm bracelet that morning—antique, heavy, jangling like wind chimes whenever she moved. But up here, high above, Kim couldn’t hear that either.

  Eva had a long gauzy scarf tied round her head. It was pale blue and white. You couldn’t see she was bald.

  Then Harry started the engine, and there was a rumble, like the roar in the throat of a big cat. Harry didn’t move off straightaway. They just sat there, talking and laughing, as if they had all the time in the world. Then Harry pulled out of the parking space, and the car built up speed—fast, streamlined, racing down the dull suburban street—until all Kim could see was Eva’s scarf fluttering, like bunting, in the wind.

  • • •

  Rooftop bars in London get very crowded on a Friday night. People like the contrast. All week they’ve been ground down by pressure and deadlines. Released from the bunker of work, they want to get as high as possible, physically and metaphorically. The taller the City grows, thought Harry, the more important it is to be way up in the clouds. Otherwise you can end up feeling like an ant. Busy but easy to crush.

  Normally, if you want to enjoy stunning views over London, you have to book. Or queue. But the waiter just nodded them through.

  “They know me here,” said Syed.

  Harry didn’t realize he was joking until they got the other side of the glass doors. It was November. The roof terrace—open to the elements, slightly shiny with rain—was cold and deserted. A few months ago, Harry would have said, What are we doing out here? Bad idea. Let’s go in. But their old easy relationship had disappeared. The row in the pub had cut deep. Nowadays, whenever Harry heard rumors in the health care sector, or saw shares unexpectedly plummet, or watched as companies scrambled to make statements about price-sensitive information that had somehow been leaked, he wondered whether Syed was behind it.

  You need to be able to trust your friends. It doesn’t work if you’re suspicious of what they’re doing behind your back.

  For a few minutes, they didn’t talk at all—just stood there with their bottles of beer, looking out over the waist-high barrier onto the darkening City. They could see the Tower of London, St. Paul’s, the Shard, the Gherkin. All the office buildings had horizontal stripes of yellow light like deck chair fabric. If I leant right over and peered round the edge, thought Harry, I could probably wave at Otis. Or at least in his general direction.

  “I thought you might not come,” said Syed.

  I nearly didn’t, thought Harry, staring out over the gray skyline.

  “I thought you might have written me off as someone you didn’t want to associate with.”

  Harry took a mouthful of beer. He felt Syed watching him.

  Syed said, “I didn’t do it. And I’m not going to.”

  Harry looked at him properly for the first time. “You said it was too late.”

  “I was lying.”

  Harry thought about this. “Why?”

  “So you’d think there was nothing you could do.”

  I should have known, thought Harry. Typical bravado. “What happened to the brother-in-law?”

  “An uncle. An interest-free loan. So he’s fine.”

  They stood in silence. Harry said, “Would you have done it?”

  “Spread false information? Probably.”

  It goes on all the time, thought Harry. It seems like a game. A bit of li
ght law-breaking. You forget all the victims at the end of the process. All the little people investing their money.

  Syed said, “The family is angry.”

  “With you?”

  “They think I’m rich. They think there’s no reason not to pay my brother-in-law’s debts. I’m being selfish. Unreasonable.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It had to happen.” Syed took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I couldn’t carry him forever.”

  They stood side by side contemplating the horizon. Syed said, “And anyway I’m glad it happened. It made me stand up to my mother. She loves me. I’m her world. I can do no wrong. But that’s a hard burden to carry. Being someone’s pride and joy. She has a picture in her head of who she thinks I am. And every day I feel I’m failing, because I don’t match up. However hard I work, however successful I am, I’m not the perfect son she carries around in her mind every minute of every day. So when I said I wouldn’t give him the money, and she couldn’t shame me into changing my mind, something shifted. I had disappointed her. I was no longer perfect. I felt free. She kept saying, ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened to you, Syed? Are you ill?’ And I said, ‘No. I’m just not going to do it.’ ” Syed was silent for a moment. Then he said, “And you know what? It feels good.”

  Harry said, “You could feel even better.”

  “How?”

  “Tell her about the gambling. And the strip clubs.”

  Syed laughed. The atmosphere between them was suddenly lighter. He said, “Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Warn me off. Stop me doing it. Most people would have just let me go ahead and make a complete dick of myself.”

  Because I wanted to do something right for once. “I didn’t think you’d like the food in prison.”

  “Seriously.”

  Harry said, “My friend Christine says you should look after your friends. And I always do what Christine says.”

  “Christine?”

  “Not your type.”

  Syed smiled. A gust of wind ruffled the large red cordyline at the corner of the terrace. He shivered and turned up the lapels of his jacket. “It’s fucking freezing. Shall we go in?”