You, Me and Other People

by Fionnuala Kearney

  Pouring my one glass of wine, my hand is shaking. Actually shaking, like full proper tremors. It makes me remember a day shortly after Adam left, and I had started to see Dr Caroline Gothenburg. I had such bad shakes that day … Caroline would be proud today. I close my eyes, get in touch with my inner Babushka, who is smiling with me, rather than laughing at me. It’s going to be okay. Babushka often struggles, living side by side with Lucy Fir, but today she’s strong. I am a successful writer. I am a good-looking forty-two-year-old woman, ready to start living again. I am about to have supper with a new friend. That is all. Day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment, Babushka reminds me.

  An hour and a half later, I have consumed almost a whole bottle of wine. Giles is on his first glass of red. The lasagne is in the oven. The kitchen smells like Jamie Oliver has been in and I’m still scared witless. Giles has made an effort, looking smart in an open-neck shirt and chinos. He’s sitting at the breakfast bar and picks up one of the many congratulatory cards on the side. ‘May I?’ he asks.

  I nod. I suppose now is as good a time as any to confess that I’m only in estate agency for the regular salary. I never dreamt of it as a child. But I did dream of writing songs …

  He has read a few of the cards. ‘So, let me get this right,’ he says. ‘You have written a song and this song is going to be in a Hollywood movie.’

  When I hear it said like that, I sort of want to squeal, but I contain myself and just agree. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And the holiday time that you’ve just booked off. You did say you were going to LA. Is it anything to do with this?’ He waves one of the cards.

  ‘I’m meeting the producers.’

  ‘Holy shit! I’m impressed! I mean, you put it in your CV – “Songwriting” – and I thought it was an unusual hobby, but wow! Well done you.’

  I bring the lasagne to the dining table. It’s already set and the salad is sitting in the centre. When we’re seated, I hand him a steaming portion. ‘Careful, it’s hot,’ I say, passing the salad bowl and side plates.

  ‘Did you make this?’ He rubs his thighs with both hands.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘A woman of many talents.’ He smiles. ‘So, your mum’s card. Tell me why, in the middle of your mother’s obvious excitement at your success, she seems most concerned with giving you a manicure before you leave?’

  I laugh. ‘My mother is a force of nature. Her latest adult education-acquired skill is all things nails. Gels, nail art, everything. She’s now added some sort of holistic healing oil on the hands and, yes, she’s desperate to try it out on me before I go.’ I shrug. ‘She’s harmless and she adores me. I find it quite comforting having her spoil me … She’s coming tomorrow night to paint a personally designed treble clef on my thumbnail.’

  ‘Bring her into the office, I’d love to meet her.’

  My face creases. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’d probably have us married off.’ The words have escaped before I have a chance to filter them.

  He laughs out loud at this idea and I’m not sure what’s funny, my mother pairing us off, or me telling him that’s what she’d be doing. I am of course ignoring the fact that Mum would prefer Adam and me to reconcile above all else.

  I notice he’s eating a lot of salad and playing with the lasagne. ‘Is it okay?’ I ask. ‘The food?’

  He flushes red, puts his knife and fork down. ‘I should’ve said something. I don’t eat meat.’

  My hand covers my mouth.

  ‘Please,’ he says ‘it’s my fault … I normally tell people but, to be honest, I was so shocked when you called and asked me to supper that I just said yes, and then felt I couldn’t ring back.’

  I go to take his plate away and he catches my hand, covers it with his. ‘Please leave it. I’ll just have more of this delicious salad.’

  I sit down again. ‘Sorry.’ I’ve no idea why I’m apologizing. Probably for serving a vegetarian with meat, but it might be because I felt nothing during the hand-touching thing. As it happened, I thought, maybe there’ll be sparks, like in the movies. But there were no sparks. And no one knows more than I do what crap they serve up in the movies. I’m disappointed, so help myself to the last of the white. Another glass down. I remove the lasagne to the kitchen and pray he likes apple pie.

  Conversation is flowing. He is a lovely, kind, attentive man who seems genuinely interested in me and what I do. I carve two triangles of pastried apple.

  ‘Tell me about you, Giles. I know you were married – do you mind talking about it?’

  I need to know if he has cheat DNA in him before I even let him kiss me.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he says, ‘though there’s really not a lot to tell. We married young. We got married because Mireille was pregnant.’

  He says the word ‘Mireille’, pronouncing it with an authentic French accent. As I’ve learnt tonight that Giles is forty and the twins sixteen, I quickly work out that ‘married young’ means at the age of twenty-four. Older than I was …

  ‘It was tough. We were living in France. I was working there, selling holiday homes to Brits mostly. It didn’t bring in a lot of money and Mireille’s an artist. Money was tight.’

  ‘When did you come back?’

  ‘Over ten years ago.’

  ‘They stayed?’

  ‘They did.’ He sighs, deeply and loudly. ‘We just fell out of love. It was friendly; as friendly as two people with two children falling out of love can be. Her parents lived a mile away. They were glad to see the back of me.’

  ‘And the girls. How often did you see them?’

  ‘Not often enough for the first five years. As soon as they were eleven, we both agreed that they should come to school in England. They’re boarding over in Walton, so they’re with me most weekends and go back to France for all of the holidays. It works quite well now.’

  I don’t ask how he went from struggling holiday-home seller to privately educating two children. Something tells me the random mention of her parents has something to do with it. I hope not, for his sake. I hope he’s made a shitload of money selling houses in Weybridge and Mireille has become a name in the French art world.

  It’s not long after coffee that Giles suggests he should go, it being a ‘school night’ – work tomorrow. We are both in the office tomorrow, so I’m anxious that the next few minutes don’t make that awkward. At the door, standing under my text-art, he tells me he hates horseradish even more than meat and I laugh.

  ‘You have a lovely laugh,’ he says, then he leans in for the kiss. It is tender at first, just a gentle touching of lips, before a full-on kiss. It feels strange, this sensation of another man’s tongue in my mouth. His hand is on the back of my head, and that makes me think of Adam, the way his fingers used to lace through my hair. I end the kiss.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he whispers.

  ‘You will,’ I reply, my voice a whisper too.

  I close the door behind him, lean my back flat up against it. Immediately, I know I will not be kissing Giles again. I’m cast back to being seventeen again. I felt nothing, absolutely nothing, when he kissed me. Is this normal? Is it because I haven’t kissed anyone else in so long? Maybe it’s me. Maybe I can say that. ‘It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve forgotten how to kiss.’ I shake my head, grab my phone and head straight up to bed. The clean-up can wait until the morning. My phone registers fourteen missed calls from Karen since I hung up on her. I listen to the last 121 message and smile. She, too, can wait …

  Lying in bed, I go over it in my head. For the first time in many months, I really miss kissing Adam – the physicality of it. The way he held me, the way he used his tongue, the way I tingled every time he did. I miss making love. I haven’t made love to another man in over two decades, so I’m not sure if I miss making love or, again, if I miss making love to Adam. Cliff is back, singing away, and I end up putting my pillow over my head and begging Lucy Fir to deck
him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tim and Kiera have come through. Together they must have worked on Gordon, who absolutely does not want me near his son. Later today, I’m going to the hospital to meet Noah. They both think it’s best if I’m introduced as a friend of Tim’s. Before this can happen later today, I have to send another grovelling text to Meg, go for a thirty-minute run and get through a day’s work in the office in half the time.

  My running gear lies in a squashed ball at the back of the hall cupboard. It whiffs a bit but I pull it apart and add additional layers. It’s a month to Christmas and it’s cold outside. Water bottle in hand, I leave the flat and, turning left, walk down Narrow Street, past the Italian and Indian restaurants, past the warehouse conversions, towards the pedestrian entrance to Limehouse Marina. Stopping to stretch, I cross the street and start to run. I run around the Isle of Dogs, across the top, past Canary Wharf tower and the shopping mall.

  Beth is in my head. With every rhythmic beat of my feet on the pavement, there is another thought of her. It’s as though I’m on countdown and I have to savour every image, every memory before she makes that call. Before she tells me that we too are finished, before I give in to the black cloud that has been lying over me since Sunday. Back in Narrow Street, I buy a newspaper and cross the road.

  As soon as I hear the sound, I recognize it immediately: brakes on tarmac. Turning swiftly left, I raise an apologetic hand to a taxi driver who swears aloud. I watch his face, his words appearing in amplified slow motion, open hostility tumbling from his mouth. I reach the footpath, balance myself against a wall and rub my temples. My head throbs, as if my brain has loosened from its anchor and is banging off my skull. Sounds ambush me like someone has turned the volume up. Turning around, I move slowly towards the building I now know as home.

  In the shower, I stand for ages beneath a scalding flow of water. I am wearing my running clothes. Unsure if this is genius as it means they get washed too, or it’s another sign of me losing the plot, I remove them and scrub them with shower gel. I’m not quite ready for the funny farm yet. Hanging them on the side of the bath, I dress for work before shovelling a slice of toast and a tepid coffee down me. Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at my desk.

  In Oakside paediatric unit, my palms are sweaty, my heartbeat loud and irregular. I’ve been told what to say; I’ve been told what to do. If I stick to the plan, everything will be fine. I know they don’t have to let me see him, so I’m grateful to Kiera and Tim, and Gordon who, though he won’t be here today, has agreed reluctantly to my meeting Noah. The story is simple. I’m a friend of Tim’s; I’ve come to collect him as we’re going out for a catch-up with some university friends later. It sounds a little convoluted to me, but I figure they must know what they’re doing and, frankly, I’d agree to anything if they let me meet my son, just once.

  I make my way to the ward. My phone notes hold all the directions dictated by Kiera and I finally reach the right room. Looking in from a small porthole window in the door, I see Kiera and Tim both laughing inside. On the bed lies a small boy, tubes and wires all over him. He is having an animated conversation with his mother, both his hands in the air, as though he’s debating a point. I stand still, very still. He looks just like me, or just like I did at his age. His hair, though patchy, is the same colour and has the same curl running through it. He has Kiera’s mouth and my nose and, though I can’t see from here, I suspect he has my green eyes. I’m locked in position when I see Tim wave at me and beckon me into the room.

  Pushing the door open, I suddenly have second thoughts. What am I doing here? What right have I got to be here? I shouldn’t be here …

  Tim offers me his hand. ‘Adam. Good to see you, mate. Noah, this is Adam, the friend I told you about. Thinks he’s a scratch golfer but all he does is scratch his head a lot when we play.’

  Kiera comes forward, offers me both her cheeks. ‘Good to meet you.’ Her voice is almost a murmur.

  Noah smiles. ‘Nice to meet you, Adam.’

  ‘How are you. Feeling?’ I know it’s lame but it’s all I can think of to say. It’s impossible to ignore the medical paraphernalia in the room. It’s impossible to ignore the tubes and wires attached to the child. It’s impossible to come to any conclusion other than this little boy is very sick.

  ‘I’ve had worse days – how about you?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’ I was right: his eyes when they meet mine are green. I see it then, immediately – he knows something. His eyes seem to say to mine: ‘Hello, Adam. I’m Noah and you look just like me. How about that …’ Kiera senses it too. She shifts uncomfortably, starts to fidget in her handbag. I don’t know where to look and find myself focusing on the floor tiles. Chequered, black and white, they remind me of a chessboard.

  Noah looks over the side of his bed. ‘I often think it looks like a chessboard, the floor …’ He pulls himself upright against the mound of pillows behind his head. ‘Sometimes, at night, if I have to lie on my side, I look down and move pretend pieces around the floor. Do you play?’

  I’m left wondering if the child is a mind-reader, but I nod. ‘It’s been a while but I used to – a lot.’

  ‘We should have a game,’ he says. ‘I get bored playing with myself on the DS. And these two are rubbish.’ He smiles at his mother and uncle. ‘Dad’s not so bad, but he’s easy to beat if I concentrate.’ Suddenly, his breathing seems a little laboured, as if talking has exhausted him.

  Kiera approaches the bed, leans into him, where he automatically loops her arm for her to pull him upright. She gently massages his back. ‘You need to take it easy,’ she whispers. ‘Enough chatting for today, time to get some rest.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum, really.’

  ‘Rest,’ she says firmly, ‘now.’

  Noah’s eyes roll upwards. ‘You’re fussing.’

  ‘Someone has to.’ She kisses his forehead.

  I find myself moved by the scene. I’ve only ever known Kiera as a friend, someone I had an illicit, fun night with. Now, she’s here – an anxious, loving mother to her child, the child I helped create. It’s surreal and I feel as if I’m watching a film reel.

  ‘We should go, Adam.’ Tim gathers up his coat and briefcase, leans into the boy and high-fives him.

  I want to say, ‘No. Please, just another few minutes. Please, just let me look at him?’

  I say nothing, but offer him my hand.

  ‘Come back for that game of chess?’ he says.

  I nod and turn to leave with Tim.

  ‘Adam?’

  I look back over my shoulder.

  ‘What university did you go to?’ he asks.

  My eyes dart to Tim’s. I went to King’s College, but I’ve no idea where Tim went.

  ‘We went to Brunel,’ Tim replies, then glances at his watch. ‘C’mon, we should go. The boys will start without us.’

  I paste a frozen smile to my lips, mutter a goodbye, and exit ahead of Tim.

  ‘That was close,’ he whispers when he catches me up. ‘I’d swear sometimes, that kid can see through walls.’

  ‘Do you think he suspects something?’

  Tim shakes his head. ‘Nah, he’s just fishing. I’ve got to get back to London for a meeting, Adam. You okay from here?’

  I nod, wave him off. Tim heads out to the west entrance car park and I head back, through a warren of corridors, towards the east one.

  Quickening my pace, I feel an urgent need to get out of here. Convinced Noah asked the question for a reason, I have a vision of Kiera appearing with tears in her eyes or, worse, Gordon appearing with murder in his. I wanted to meet my son, but I do not want to upset his family dynamic.

  Without warning, my gut begins to heave and I know I’m going to be sick. I scan the hallway and see a male toilet up ahead. Running, I push the swing door open and barely make it to the cubicle before my stomach empties. Gripping the sides of the bowl, I vomit continuously for what must be a few minutes. Finally, I try to
stand. My legs unsteady, I balance myself against the stall wall. I wipe my mouth with some toilet paper and open the door. Thankfully, the room is empty. I wash my mouth out, spray in some mint freshener. My reflection shows a man who looks much older than my forty-three years. My skin is pale, veined, my eyes heavy and dark. Though I keep my hair cut very short, a few of the tiny curls at the edge of my hairline are stuck in a line of sweat. Noah has curly hair … Noah has very little curly hair left, presumably from chemotherapy.

  I straighten out my clothes, take the opportunity to sit in a chair, just by the inside of the door. I wonder why it’s here. For the elderly? Infirm? Selfish middle-aged men who find their shoulders unable to carry their load? The chair is hard plastic, not designed for comfort or to encourage sitting for long.

  A man enters the room, looks at me, and asks me if I’m okay. I nod, mutter a thanks and stand up. I need to get home and it’ll take ages at this time in traffic. Outside the men’s loo there is a vending machine; I search my pockets for coins to feed it for a bottle of water. Just drink the water, I tell myself as I unscrew the cap. Drink the water, get in your car and drive home slowly. Do not drive to Weybridge, which is no longer your home. I’m tempted. Just drive the ten-minute drive there, ask Beth if I can stay over and crash for the night. I am deciding it’s a very bad idea when I hear my name being called.

  ‘Adam?’

  I turn around to see Kiera.

  ‘You still here?’ she asks.

  ‘I, er—’

  ‘You okay? You look a bit green around the gills.’

  I shrug. ‘I’m okay, just been sick,’ I find myself confessing and nodding towards the men’s toilets.