by Sarah Long
He sighed and launched into the usual gloomy assessment of his health.
‘Still I have big pain in my back and the huge migraine. Next weekend I go see doctor in my country for tests, doctors better in my country.’ And then, with mercurial charm, he smiled again, and passed her his phone to show her a photo of a blonde baby, ‘Look, my son is walking!’
It was an odd family life. His girlfriend and child lived back home in his village while Mariusz lodged on the outskirts of London, sitting down to an all-male dinner every night with his ‘boys’ as he affectionately called his co-workers. Then again, wasn’t every form of family life odd? There was no normal, least of all Sandra and her husband, isolated in their separate thoughts within a shared bed. Everyone had all come a long way since the Ladybird picture books of Mummy and Daddy sweeping up the leaves with their rosy-cheeked children before sitting down together for a conventional six o’clock supper.
‘I move to very nice house in new street, Sandra, very good area. Only white people.’
‘You can’t say that, Mariusz, it’s racist.’
‘I share bedroom with Gregor, we have forty-eight-inch plasma on wall.’
She pictured him sitting up in bed with his electrician, watching a movie and sharing a box of popcorn, a comic sexless duo, like a latter-day Morecambe and Wise. It was a heroic bachelor existence, like being in the army, toiling on the front line of rich people’s houses and sending home all their money for their families.
‘How lovely, I’m pleased for you. Now, shall I show you this tap?’
Upstairs in the bathroom Mariusz dropped to his knees and leaned forward in the cupboard to fiddle with the hidden workings of the Vola mixer. She stood behind him, enjoying the view of his lower back, the boyish smooth skin above the waistband of his jeans, listening to him express disbelief at what the rich were prepared to spend on brassware.
‘You crazy, Sandra, in my country I no need me spend huge money for tap.’
She could see his point but when your life is temporarily subsumed by browsing bathroom brochures, you inevitably choose the most expensive. She had spent days poring over those images, comparing the angles and proportions of the Vola with lesser models and, in the end, there was no other possible decision. They could afford it, so why not? Although it did put her on the back foot when it came to Mariusz’s frequent demands for another payment of small money.
He stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans and looked at her with real concern.
‘Tell me, Sandra, how is your husband? Is he still crazy?’
That was the thing about intimacy. Once you’d slept with someone there was no place for small talk. You couldn’t just chat about the weather, or revert to a professional relationship.
‘We don’t say crazy, Mariusz. He’s depressed.’
‘Ah yes, I too am very depressed. Yesterday I pay me £360 to get car back from pound. Very, very depressed.’
‘It’s not the same thing, though I do sympathise. Getting done by a parking attendant is completely infuriating. But when you’re depressed like Nigel you can’t even feel infuriated, you just feel blank. Like nothing’s worth it.’
‘He take medicine for this?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure it’s helping.’
The happy pills were stacked in the bathroom cabinet. Cetalopram, or Silly Pram as they called it in an attempt at levity. He was also undergoing Cognitive Behavioural Therapy with a South American woman who was good-looking as well as kind, according to Sandra’s Google image search. She’d love to sit in on those sessions. Surely it was every man’s dream, talking about himself to a beautiful woman with no risk of her yawning or leaving the room.
‘Maybe he sad because he pay too much for this Vola tap?’ Mariusz suggested.
Sandra laughed. ‘There’s probably a lot of truth in that. But it’s what he wanted. Anyway, he’ll get better. But thanks for asking.’
He stepped forward and gave her a warm hug, then gestured to the bedroom.
‘If you like, I cheer you up?’
She felt his strong, competent arms around her and for a moment was tempted, it wouldn’t be the first time after all. And you had to admire his gall; if you don’t ask, you don’t get. She gently released herself from his embrace.
‘I think not, that’s all behind us now.’
He nodded his acceptance.
‘As you like. You are very nice person, Sandra. So now, maybe we go through rest of this list.’
They walked through the house; elegant empty rooms, showcasing their owners’ understated good taste. Sandra paused to point out a botched door handle, some loose grouting, a wonky shelf, small failings in what Nigel referred to as the Eastern Bloc finish. It didn’t matter to her, but Nigel had made it clear he couldn’t handle these imperfections, not in his condition. She was pleased with a money-saving idea she’d had; to install Ikea shelves in the laundry room, it was chic now to be a little bit thrifty. The inspection over, she accompanied Mariusz back to his van, stuffed to the roof with the paraphernalia of home improvement: planks of wood, ladders, heavy dusty tools. Tatiana across the road was coming out of her house and waved to Sandra who returned the greeting. She was a stick-thin blonde like Sandra, they mostly were in this street which was known with false modesty as The Little Boltons. Every house had a boastful piece of art displayed in the front window, bought at eye-watering cost to impress the neighbours.
‘I come for sure next week, Sandra, I believe me.’
She did love his use of English.
‘You may believe you, Mariusz, but should I believe you?’
‘Sandra, Sandra! Yes! You know you like my person!’
It was true, she did like his person, especially the athletic way he jumped up into the driving seat.
‘I come Thursday,’ he shouted through the window. ‘I go Ikea first, get your shelf, I like very much Ikea cafe. I have me hot dog and small cock, then I come to you.’
‘WHAT did you say?’
‘Hot dog and small cock!’
‘You mean COKE.’
‘Yes, I believe me!’
She waved him off and turned back to the house, letting herself in through the side gate to the garden. Against the wall, zinc boxes were lined up with geometric precision, filled with plants chosen for the architectural value of their leaf-shape. Above all, no flowers unless they were white. Colour in the garden was a no-no, far too vulgar. She unchained her bicycle from a Victorian railing that had somehow escaped the ruthless purge of all things old – she had ripped out the charming shed covered with a rambling rose in a fit of modernist zeal – then lit a cigarette and rode off down the street, steering with one hand as she inhaled from the other in an effortless piece of multitasking. As she turned into the Fulham Road, she thought of Mariusz in his van and how nice it would be to join him, to put on some messy overalls and drive off to help him on his next job.
*
Harriet double-locked her front door – you couldn’t be too careful – and set off down Ladbroke Grove towards the park. She’d have to be quick, she was meeting the girls for coffee soon. Girls, of course, was a ridiculous misnomer: she, Sandra and Tessa were all the wrong side of fifty, but when the three of them got together, it was straight back to the school canteen, even if their topics of conversation had moved on. Instead of Latin homework and boys, it was art exhibitions and mothers-in-law, but the bond was still there. She was looking forward to hearing about Tessa’s weekend in Cornwall, it had been so long since she and Sam had been away à deux that she’d forgotten the protocol of a rekindle-the-magic minibreak.
Hyde Park was quiet at this time, just a few joggers and dog people, and tourists looking out for Kensington Palace, hoping to catch a whiff of the royal magic. Two young women with perfectly toned bottoms encased in black Lycra were laughing together as they pushed their padded triangular prams. Harriet let the dogs off their leads and strolled after them, adopting the half-smile worn by dog-walkers. A half-smi
le for a half-purpose as they followed their pets, the way a senior aide walks a few respectful steps behind a dignitary. Having the dogs got her out of the house and gave a rhythm to her day, which could otherwise be alarmingly unstructured. Not like her time practising at the bar, when her timetable was tightly constructed, or her subsequent life as full-time mum (those words!) with the weekly diary stuck on the fridge, reminding her exactly when the boys had to be delivered to their various CV-enhancing classes, a pair of adults-in-waiting, honed and polished for the good of their future careers. Walking the dogs made her feel useful, could even be seen as a form of household economy. Many of her neighbours spent a fortune employing professional dog-walkers, so that was one expense that Harriet was defraying by making herself available to Benson and Hedges. And of course, she loved them to bits; the way they jumped on her bed, wagging their silly tails, offering the unconditional devotion it was hard to find elsewhere.
Two dogs were better than one, not least for the opportunity it presented for amusing twin names. Castor and Pollux, Terry and June, Benson and Hedges. In a similar spirit, the people next door made a point of parking their cars side by side on their drive, displaying their personalised number plates: 2 BE and NOT 2B. An expensive joke, though neither of them appeared to be of a merry disposition from Harriet’s occasional exchanges with them, mostly about burglaries and the case for establishing CCTV cameras. She hadn’t expressed her opinion that they were asking for it, flaunting their wealth like that.
She took a well-chewed rubber ball out of her bag and threw it for the dogs, who went yapping after it, panting on their short legs. Pugs weren’t really designed for exercise, being better suited to their original purpose of bed-warmers to the Emperor of China. Had they moved to the country, she would have gone for Labradors or some other breed with long legs, but it wasn’t fair in London.
Benson was squatting by a tree and with practised ease Harriet sheathed her hand in a scented orange plastic bag and stooped to pick up the warm faeces. Like many mothers, she had acquired the dogs when her sons left home, filling the empty nest with a more amenable type of small animal, the sort that didn’t answer back and make unreasonable demands. The nappy sack evoked distant days of soft babies and breastfeeding, the smell of Kamillosan smoothed on cracked nipples. At least it was only the dogs she was now on toilet duty for. So far.
She thought of their new tenant in the basement, the large and garrulous cuckoo triumphantly installed in the nest. It had seemed the decent thing to do, inviting Sam’s mother to live with them; they got on well enough and, anyway, the flat was self-contained. What she hadn’t counted on was Celia falling ill the moment her last box of winter clothes had been unpacked. Seventy-five years of perfect health, and now THIS, as she liked to remind them at the hospital, while Harriet sat beside her, wearing her best carer’s expression, anticipating the years and years to come, for it was clear Celia would outlive them all, with her ox-like constitution only temporarily diminished by a few mutant cells.
Weakened by the thought, she sat down on a bench and pulled out The Times. Doing the crossword brought a sense of achievement, although it was a monumental waste of time. And surely a dying art; none of her children understood the contorted logic of cryptic clues and nor did anyone else of the younger generation as far as she could work out. Chewing on her pen to contemplate possible anagrams, she let her gaze wander to the bench opposite where a young man in a duffel coat was sitting, looking across at her, his long legs extended in front of him. She averted her gaze and scribbled down the letters randomly, hoping to pull them into a pattern. Of course. Intuition. She filled in the column, then looked up again. He was still staring at her. And now he was getting up and walking over towards her. Quick, eyes down.
‘Excuse me.’
She looked up, his expression was anxious and entreating.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m being cheeky, but I just wondered if you fancied going for a coffee or something.’
He was in his thirties, she guessed, a kind face and the kind of beard that managed to look unfashionable, in spite of the current trend.
‘That’s very nice of you,’ she said, ‘but I’m quite busy with my crossword.’
He nodded. ‘I see, of course. Hope you don’t mind me asking, but you’ve got to try, haven’t you?’ He smiled agreeably and strolled off.
Only then did she smile to herself. She wasn’t exactly a romantic target, a middle-aged woman in a sensible Barbour and scuffed flat shoes. Even her husband didn’t want to have sex with her any more, so why a good-looking stranger would hit on her, she had no idea. He can’t have been that desperate. Still, it would give her something to laugh about with the girls.
She called to the dogs and fastened their leads, calculating there would just be time to hang out the washing. She preferred to focus her mind on small, achievable tasks. Making sure to hang the heaviest clothes on the highest part of the rack – because heat rises, remember your Physics O Level. It was less daunting than the big imponderables. Like: what was the purpose of her life? And how on earth had she let herself morph from top-dog lawyer into a provider of maternal services, now surplus to requirements? She was so proud of how her two sons had turned out, and of course she wanted them to spread their wings and have their own lives, but now they were both on the other side of the world she had only her pets and her mother-in-law to look after. And her husband, but who knew where that was heading. Was he slipping away?
*
Tessa was feeling particularly empty this morning. The weekend in Cornwall was already a distant memory, Matt was at work and the house was silent as the grave. She unpacked their bags, placing the electric photo frame in the study – as predicted, Matt hadn’t wanted to take it to the office; too naff and sentimental, he’d said. As she looked through the photos now, she recalled the last time she’d seen Lola when they’d left her standing outside her halls of residence, looking fragile in her leggings and favourite blue jumper as she waved them off. Matt had driven all the way home because she couldn’t see through her tears to take the wheel. Feeble beyond belief, but she could tell he felt it too, from the set of his mouth and the restless tuning between radio stations.
She opened her daughter’s bedroom door. It was chilly in there; the radiator had been turned off, no point in heating an empty room. The bed was still rumpled, and she sat on the Cath Kidston covers, sprigs of pink flowers on a baby-blue background. She leaned over to pick up the debris that had fallen down by the bedside table: tissues, hair elastics, cereal bar wrappers. In the drawer she found birthday cards, topless pens and an old school ID card, with Lola’s face staring solemnly out, rounder than it was now. An unwashed mug with a corny slogan, ‘you’re my cup of tea’, sat congealing next to the lamp. Tessa had told Maria not to bother with Lola’s room, she wanted to keep it as it was.
Discarded pairs of knickers were strewn across the floor, neat and small, unlike Tessa’s inelegant undergarments, along with a number of T-shirts that had not made the final cut of the uni selection. Putting them away in the wardrobe, Tessa remembered exactly when each one had been chosen, mother and daughter squeezed into a changing booth while Lola put her lovely young limbs through the sleeves and Tessa had given her verdict. It was so much more enjoyable than choosing her own clothes; an exercise in aesthetic appreciation informed by maternal love.
Beneath the bed, the storage drawers held a gruesome tangle of mutilated Bratz dolls, with unscrewed oversized feet welded to platform shoes. Exercise books with wobbly writing, the pages stiff with glue from stuck-on stars and collaged picture patchworks; the witch’s outfit she’d worn for Halloween, with purple straw hair sprouting out from a conical hat; a fencing mask with breeches and jacket, now abandoned and forgotten.
Tessa sat back on the bed, overcome by a sense of loss. She usually made a point of not calling Lola: the tacit understanding was that it should be the other way round, but there was no harm in sending a text.
; Just found your fencing stuff, sure you don’t want me to send it up, now you’ve got all those lovely FACILITIES? How are you?
She thought back to the time when she used to drive Lola round to the fencing competitions. Little fake warriors in their white outfits, each one accompanied by a willing mother, a packhorse-cum-servant, her life put on hold for the sake of her children’s extra-curricular accomplishments. It was a good thing to put on the UCAS form, that’s what they agreed as they chatted over coffee poured from Thermos flasks they had prepared at daybreak, before setting off in their people carriers, children riding in the back like minor royalty. What had it all been for?
Her phone buzzed with a reply.
No, don’t bother, my fencing days are over. Yeah, great thanks, major bar crawl last night!
It was enough! Lola was fine and everything was going to be alright. Tessa quickly plumped up the pillows and shook out the duvet. It was time to meet her friends.
She stepped out into the fine autumn day, it was a brisk ten-minute walk to the Bluebird Cafe. They used to meet at the Picasso before it closed down, and still lamented its raffish old Chelsea charm, but the seats were comfortable at the Bluebird, and it was still in the right location. A long way from Orpington High Street, that was for sure, where the three of them would saunter after school, treating themselves to soggy jam doughnuts at the bakers shop where Tessa had her Saturday job, before heading back for some telly and homework followed by a Vespa curry presented on a ring of rice, or beef stew with dumplings.
Harriet was already installed at the cafe, where they always met for coffee, never for lunch. They were so absolutely not Ladies Who Lunch, with those terrible overtones of wasted talent and idleness.
This did not prevent Sandra from quoting Sondheim’s song at every opportunity.
