by Sarah Long
Alone in her kitchen, Tessa compared her own life to her mother’s. Not so different, after all. ‘Find a job that keeps your mind sharp,’ her mother had urged her, harassed and bored in her apron, sweeping away the debris of another family meal, the grey perm and pleated dirndl skirt confirming that her life as a vibrant woman was over. Tessa’s hair was carefully maintained at a constant chestnut brown and she was better than her mother at disguising middle-aged spread beneath layers of black cashmere. She had achieved what her mother had wanted for her: a university education and a career where she was taken almost as seriously as a man. If she had subsequently found that sitting at a City trading desk was less appealing than bringing up her children, then good for her. Her mother couldn’t argue with that, it was a rational and human decision, and hadn’t Tessa learned from her example that a mother’s hands-on love was the richest gift you could offer? Anyway, Matt could earn enough for them all and she’d loved those afternoons in the park and calm days at home, watching Max and Lola putting their enthusiastic little hands into the mixing bowl to pull out fistfuls of cookie dough.
Keeping busy, now they’d gone, that was the key. Tessa pulled a cookbook down from the shelf and opened it at the page she had bookmarked earlier. She could get ahead now with the caramelised oranges, they’d keep in the fridge, then Maria could clear up the mess before she left. She selected a Japanese knife with a lethal blade from the block recently reinstated on the countertop. They were burgled a couple of years back and the police had found the carving knife abandoned on the study floor. Matt and Tessa were seriously freaked out, though they didn’t tell the children, and took to hiding anything sharp in a cupboard. But you soon forgot, and the Global eleven-piece kitchen set was now back in pride of place, challenging the next intruder to do his worst.
Tessa removed the skin from the oranges, then painstakingly cut away the pith between each segment, producing a dish of perfect crescents ready to be steeped in the sugar melting slowly on the hob. You could just slice them across but that wasn’t good enough, not when she had time to do things properly. The sugar had turned brown now and she took the pan to the sink to add a splash of water, watching it spit and hiss, then poured the caramel over the oranges. There, that was ready, one thing less to do tomorrow, getting ahead was the secret of being a successful hostess. When she was in the Girl Guides, she had been awarded her hostess badge, proudly sewing it on to the sleeve of her uniform. A kind woman had quizzed her about the steps the hostess should take when receiving guests, which mostly involved opening the window to air the spare bedroom and offering cups of tea. These days the stakes were higher, she had her reputation to think of, everyone agreed she was the most marvellous cook and she clung to this with almost comic pride, as though her raison d’être depended on the quality of her menus. I cook therefore I am.
Right, that’s enough cooking, she thought. Now it was time for her to read John’s message. She switched on he laptop and went straight into her Facebook, trying to ignore a new photo of Lola looking a little the worse for wear. You’d sometimes rather not see it; she was glad her mother had been spared the evidence of her own youthful indiscretions in the pre-internet age.
She took a deep breath and opened the message. It was disappointingly short. One word, followed by the sad face emoticon that Tessa herself had only recently mastered.
married
What was that supposed to mean? He was sad about her being married? Or sad because he was married? He gave nothing away about his own situation, maybe she’d missed the clues. It was time for some serious stalking. She settled in for an in-depth trawl through his photographs, to get the measure of this man who was already becoming her obsession.
Was that his wife, standing beside him in the Grand Canyon? She peered closely at the slim woman in sensible hiking gear, grinning at the camera. Hang on, weren’t all American women supposed to be fat, once you got away from the two coastlines? John himself had certainly gained some weight, she was hard pressed to see the skinny teenager in the solid figure he now presented, with hat pulled down over his sunglasses as he wrapped a protective arm around the woman. Who was she? Tessa clicked through more photos, trying to get a fuller picture of this life she knew nothing of. A barbecue in someone’s backyard, John slapping the steak down on to a massive grill. Boating on a lake, he’s holding on to a rope, wearing a baseball cap, not a look she favoured. Did anyone look good in a baseball cap? Certainly not that woman who is on board with him again, sexless in shorts and polo shirt, neutered by the unflattering headgear.
Ridiculous, that’s what I am, thought Tessa, drawing back from her laptop. Already jealous of the possible partner of someone she hadn’t seen for thirty years. Mooning around like a teenager. Ridiculous.
She got up to make herself a coffee. No milk, today was a fasting day and she’d got off to a bad start with that vanilla latte earlier. Fasting used to be a religious thing, now it was what everyone did to make themselves more fabulous. She was already looking forward to her lunch, a single slice of smoked salmon with cucumber, making up half of the five hundred calories she was allowed before bedtime.
She clicked on a different album, entitled Conquering Colorado! Still loving those exclamation marks. He was definitely chunkier than he had been, but it suited him, it gave him solidity, gravitas even. And he was obviously fit, you couldn’t climb up that rock face unless you were in pretty good shape . . .
She was so intent on Johnny Ormonde’s strong thighs that she failed to hear footsteps on the stairs until someone came up behind her and clapped their hands over her eyes, pulling off the headphones to whisper in her ear in a horror movie voice.
‘Sur-prise!!!’
Tessa jumped as she felt his hands, smelling faintly of smoke, pressing against her eyelids. She spun round and there was her son.
‘Hello, darling, what a lovely, lovely surprise!’
She sat back for the pleasure of taking him in, absurdly good-looking in his slovenly jeans.
He bent down to give her a hug.
‘I thought I’d look in and check up on the old woman. What’s this, whiling away the day on Facebook? Who’s that old bloke?’
He leaned over to get a better look and frowned at the photo.
‘Terrible clothes!’
‘Oh, nobody,’ said Tessa, quickly logging out, ‘just someone I was at school with.’
She was annoyed with herself for blushing.
Max looked at her with his father’s amused brown eyes. He was so like Matt, or like Matt used to be.
‘You know you can tell everything about someone by going through their browsing history,’ he said. ‘Do you think I should take a look, check out your favourite websites and discover your secret vices?’
‘Go ahead!’ she replied, ‘I can assure you there’s nothing there to get excited about.’
‘No, I’ll be alright. I’m not really interested, to be honest. Just saying.’
Of course he wouldn’t be interested, she knew that. It was one-way traffic with your children, you were passionately curious about their lives, but they really couldn’t care less how you filled your days. As long as you were still there to provide laundry and food services and unconditional love.
Max was moving towards the utility room with a large sports bag.
‘I’ll get these on, shall I? Or are you still possessive about the washing machine?’
‘Not possessive. Just keen to ensure you select the right programme and don’t overload.’
He grinned and dropped the bag on the floor. ‘Probably best if I leave it to you then. What’s for dinner? I thought I’d stay the night if that’s OK.’
‘Of course it’s OK. Always a treat.’
‘Indeed.’
He patted her on the shoulder, then went to stretch out on the sofa, heavy boots plonked disrespectfully on the cream cushions.
‘Feet down, please!’
She was already thinking about what to make for dinne
r, Chinese duck maybe, with pancakes and hoisin sauce. Never mind the 5-2 diet, it was so good to be needed again. She pushed his feet off the sofa and sat down beside him, making the most of him.
‘Come on then, fill me in. What have you learned this week?’
It was a game that dated back to their first separation: reunited as they walked home from school, his hand in hers, when he would earnestly divulge the information he had acquired that day. How the stars emit their own light, how a seed swells beneath the soil, the naming of parts of a castle: portcullis and drawbridge, barbican and buttress.
Max clearly decided to humour her. ‘Well, I was reminded that Freud believed that love is an overestimation of the object. As opposed to the Ancient Greeks, who likened it to fire.’
‘I see. And what do you think?’
He shrugged. ‘Both views are viable.’
Max was non-committal about his love life. He was a Facebook refuser but Tessa had seen plenty of contenders on his friends’ timelines: glossy-haired girls, arms entwined with his as they confided to the camera that it was all SO FUN!, which was irritating to those who deplore poor grammar. But there was no one special at the moment, he said. Nobody for her to meet and assess as a possible provider of grandchildren.
‘I think it sounds fascinating,’ she said, ‘I wish I’d done psychology.’
‘Never too late, Mum. You could enrol for a second degree. Go on that Open University summer camp where all the old people shag each other.’
‘No chance. I doubt I’d be capable of sitting another exam. Anyway, I struggled with motivation with my first degree so I’d be hard pushed to see the point of doing another one.’
‘I know the feeling,’ said Max.
‘No, come on, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, every motivation I’d have thought!’
‘Whatever. How’s Dad? Oh, wait, how was your Cornwall weekend? I forgot to ask. Did you love it?’
‘Of course, have I not spoken to you since? It was lovely.’
‘Did you go in the sea?’
‘No! We got an ice cream though. Coated in clotted cream with a flake, the way you like it.’
‘Nice.’
He nodded, evidently pleased to find them freeze-framed in his idea of their simple contentment. Mum and Dad in the hazy Cornish sunshine, smiling into the camera over their ninety-nines.
He jumped up. ‘Right, I’m going to crash out for a couple of hours. What time’s dinner?’
‘Eight o’clock, when else? I’d better get out to the shops. I’ll just text Dad, let him know you’re here.’
‘Sick.’
Max winked and held out his fist to exchange their mock street gesture, palms brushing then hands clasping in brotherhood. It was like the old days, thought Tessa, as she watched him leave the room, almost a full house again, another mouth to feed, busy busy busy.
What time was it in Wyoming? Six hours behind. John might be having his breakfast now, cinnamon toast maybe, or driving to work in his Cadillac or a Buick, kicking up the dust of the Midwest plain stretching out before him, like in the Wizard of Oz. She listened to make sure Max was safely upstairs, then opened her computer. There it was, another message.
Camels? I wish!!! They’d sooner you shoot to kill than smoke a cigarette in this goddam country!! Another pleasure lost to the mists of time! Tell me your news! I’m all ears!! Xx
Xx. Kiss kiss. Two kisses.
She hadn’t smoked a cigarette in twenty-four years. Not since she’d seen that blue line on the home pregnancy kit and thrown the remains of the packet of Marlboro into the bin. Now, suddenly, she felt that nothing would give her more pleasure. Pulling the tiny thread on the cellophane wrapper, flipping open the packet to remove the foil, then pulling out the slim pencil form of what they laughingly referred to as coffin nails or cancer sticks when they were young enough to believe themselves immortal. ‘Cancer stick? One for you, one for me,’ then heads bent over the lighter, the hit of that first inhalation, the best feeling in the world. Why had she ever stopped?
She wrote her reply.
You know the headlines. Married. Two kids.
The wiggly line started, showing he was typing his response. Oh my God, they were on Facebook chat!
Gutted. You already saw my . Who’s the lucky man?
So he was gutted, was he? Tessa sat back angrily and frowned at the screen. If he was so gutted, why had he walked out on her like that? Alright, not exactly walked out, she knew he was going to work on a farm in Australia for a year, but still. Humiliating to think how she’d watched the post, waiting for a letter, making excuses for him about the unreliability of airmail. But nothing, not even a postcard.
She typed her slightly chilly reply.
No one you know. He’s called Matt. We just had our silver wedding.
Happy ever after then. It’s been a long time, Tessa.
It has. For all I know, you’re still herding sheep in Adelaide.
No chance! It was a great experience but I stuck to the plan. Came back to study engineering at Manchester.
So he had come back. Without telling her. Manchester was two hours by train from Nottingham. Tessa had checked out the journey after he’d gone, already thinking about the weekends they would spend together when she arrived at her hoped-for university. She’d always been a planner and even though everyone said that school romances never survived, she honestly believed they were in it for the long term. Although John clearly hadn’t seen it that way.
Hello? Are you still there? Talk to me, Tessa!!
I’m here.
This is so amazing, talking to you again. I’m picturing that scar you had on your fingertip.
Tessa inspected the forefinger of her left hand, it still had the silvery line where the surgeon had stitched it up after her misadventure with the food mixer. She had been making coffee butterfly cakes when her hand slipped and her mother’s face turned white before she sprang into action, binding up the finger and rushing her to A & E. John said it was endearing when she showed him, he said it was like the mark on Action Man’s cheek, she was a kitchen hero.
Why hadn’t he contacted her? What was she supposed to think when he disappeared from her life? It was too big a question, she mustn’t show how much he’d hurt her. Get over it, this was ancient history. She should stick to the finger detail.
Scar still there. Added a few more over the years, occupational hazard.
I’d like to see them . I’d love to see you again.
Would you now?!
Of course I would.
Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?
Yes and when we meet, I’ll make you understand. But right now, I’ve got this picture of you in my head, we’re on that camping trip and you’re wearing a tight pair of jeans and it’s started to rain and all we’ve got for dinner are two cans of chunky chicken, and that jerk Tom forgot the tin opener, and you’re laughing and I just want to kiss you so much. I think that was when I realised.
She hadn’t thought about it for years but it came back to her, clear as day. They had taken the train the first day of the holidays, pitching their tents in the field above the wild Cornish coast, trying to pin down the flaps that were blowing in the gale. She rushed out her reply.
We had to smash them open with a rock! What did you realise?
That you were my dream girl! Especially in those jeans, have you still got them?
Dream girl. It was unexpectedly painful to read those words. When you found your dream girl, you married her and lived happily ever after, you didn’t vanish for thirty years without saying a word. She remembered the jeans, though. FUs, the provocatively named brand of choice for those who fancied themselves a little bit daring. She’d noticed him eying her up when she was wearing them, following her up the hill as they laboured beneath the weight of their rucksacks until they reached the chosen spot along the cliff from Tintagel. The sun came out the following day and they’d gone skinny dipping, plunging through
the waves then running back up the beach to wrap themselves in towels and cook sausages on a barbeque.
No I don’t still have those jeans.
Shame.
Anyway, what about you, are you married?
Divorced.
In spite of everything, her heart leaped.
Sorry to hear that, what happened? If you don’t mind me asking.
I don’t mind you asking. Why does anyone divorce? I guess I married the wrong person . How about you, Tessa, did you marry the right person?
What a question, of course she had married the right person! Or maybe that was something you never asked yourself if you wanted to stay together. Anyway, John had sacrificed any right to ask such a thing.
In the words of Garrison Keillor, We Are Still Married. So I suppose I did.
Too bad. I bet you’d still look great in those jeans.
Tessa was thinking about her reply when Max came crashing back down the stairs.
‘Mum! Have you seen my earphones? I think I must have left them here a couple of weeks ago.’
There was just time for her to hastily sign off.
Got to go! Speak soon x
She closed her computer and set about looking for the earphones. Max and Lola both lost them with alarming regularity, usually down the back of the sofa. They were eventually located in a drawer along with other technical accessories and assorted rubber bands. She handed them over to Max who returned to his lie-down.
