You, Me and Other People

by Fionnuala Kearney

  ‘You shouldn’t drive. I’m heading home for an hour. Come back, have a hot drink?’

  I’m confused. Kiera lives in London too.

  ‘I’ve rented a flat nearby.’ She reads my face. ‘Just while Noah’s here. You really shouldn’t drive, you know. I’m meeting Gordon back here in an hour, so I could drop you back to your car then.’

  I feel my head bob up and down before I realize I’ve actually agreed to this.

  ‘It would be good to have a chat anyway. Let me know what you think of Noah,’ she smiles. ‘I just need to pop in here quickly – won’t last until home.’ Her head nods towards the Ladies.

  I watch her tiny frame push through the swing door, have no time to wonder if a drink, hot or cold, in Kiera’s local flat is a good or a bad idea, before I hear my name being called again. This time, I recognize the voice. As I turn towards it, I hope I’m dreaming and soon discover I’m not. God, I decide, is fucking with me. Oh yes, fucking me large.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Typed on my iPhone, my ‘To Do’ list looks more organized than a paper version, but it’s still too long. I only have a few days before LA and this list makes me feel dizzy. My morning, so far, has been spent in the offices of a man called ‘Bear’. I have no idea how Bear got his name: whether his parents had a sick sense of humour, or whether he was given the nickname when his stature was greater than it is now. But I do know the Gospel according to Josh says that Bear is the best in the business for funky, ‘with it’, ‘songwriterly’ websites.

  Josh is right – the man knows his stuff; after spending a few hours at his office in Chiswick, I have the bones of what looks like a really exciting website. Josh has insisted that the whole thing be up and running with songs I’ve written but are as yet unsigned – all up there before Friday. Great. Bear (who is in fact a small, geeky-looking guy with scant hair and John Lennon glasses) and I have our work cut out …

  Right now, though, sitting in my car parked outside Bear’s office, number eight on the ‘To Do’ list is glaring up at me. I have been putting it off for too long and can no longer ignore it. Closing my eyes, I count to a hundred. Then I start up the car and point it in the direction of home.

  Five minutes from the house, I take a turn off the A3 and head towards my three o’clock appointment. When I get there, I walk through to reception. I’m nervous. Having Googled what to do, I am here, because I know I have to be. Every cell in my body is screaming ‘No.’ At reception, I’m handed a clipboard, asked to take a seat, fill in my details, then someone will be with me shortly.

  I stare at the page. Having spent all morning building the www.beth-hall.co.uk website, I’m not too keen on using my real name, so fill it in as Lucy Babushkowizc. As a combination of my inner saboteur and my fabulous inner core, I think it does reflect some parts of me. The rest of the questions I answer as honestly as possible, apart from my date of birth – for some reason, I make myself two years younger.

  About fifteen minutes later, I hear the name being called and look up. A young girl, not much older than Meg and very similar in looks to her, beckons me through to a smaller room. There we are met by an older, more matronly looking woman. She is seated, while the Meg lookalike stands. ‘Matron’ asks the questions. In a kind voice, she explains what sort of questions are on the way and what else may happen. I try not to gulp.

  I’m asked if I have had any medical problems, any outward physical signs of trouble. I shake my head, but tell them I’d like them to check anyway. I’m asked if I’ve had sex with anyone from outside the UK recently. I try not to laugh. They are not to know I haven’t had sex with anyone since Adam. There’s every chance when they get down there to have a look, they may need a can opener. I’m asked when I last had sex. I tell them, then explain a little about the circumstances, about why I’m here at the Genito-Urinary Medicine clinic, a fancy name for the place I have to come to, to check if I’ve acquired any sexual diseases from my philandering husband.

  I see a glance pass between them, realize it’s probably quite common, this situation. A woman, or indeed a man, having to check out they’re okay after years of being with the same person, years of being with the same unfaithful person. I can tell from that glance that I’m not alone. Unsure if I feel better or worse, they ask if I’m able to give a urine sample; they prepare one of those kidney-shaped cardboard bowls with a needle to take a blood sample. Inside, I’m starting to seethe. That fucker. That shitbag. Christ, there’s times I hate him …

  I fill the tiny sample bottle and hand ‘Matron’ my bottle of warm pee. I make a fist to let her take some blood. I open my legs and let her part the folds of my undercarriage with her gloved hands. During this last part, my eyes are closed. I say some sort of prayer – a muttered gobbledegook cluster of words that pray to some God somewhere that I have nothing nasty, that she doesn’t spot some foul rash. She raises her head, unsnaps her gloves, smiles and tells me everything looks fine and I heave a very deep sigh of relief.

  I’m asked how I’d like to receive my test results. As quickly as possible, please, is what I’m thinking, but we agree that they will call my mobile. I thank them and exit, stage left.

  I am trembling as I come out to the car park. Hoping no one sees me, I skirt the edge of the clinic and enter the main ground floor of the adjoining building. My shakes need a coffee before I drive home. I snake my way through the crowds and I’m almost at the Costa concession when I see a familiar figure up ahead of me. Confused, I call his name.

  ‘Adam?’

  He turns to face me, his expression one of pure horror. ‘Beth,’ he says. ‘What are you doing here?’ As he speaks, he walks, steering me by the elbow, back towards the exit.

  I stop moving. ‘I’ve been to the GUM clinic to have myself tested. Why are you here?’

  He looks as if he is about to die on the spot. ‘I’m …’

  ‘You’re what?’ I’m aware that he’s looking back over my shoulder to where we just came from. ‘Who are you here with?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Did you hear what I just said, Adam? I’ve just had a woman checking my bits for nasty rashes. Now what the fuck are you doing here?’

  He’s steering me again.

  ‘I’ve been visiting a friend. I was just leaving …’

  I grind myself to a halt again. ‘Who? Who were you visiting?’ I notice how pale he is, how much weight he’s lost. It would look good on him if he wasn’t such a ghastly shade of wan. A thought that he might be ill flits through my mind – maybe he’s been having tests?

  ‘Just a friend of a friend. I said I’d pop in and visit if I was out this way.’

  I am at the Costa bar and, though I don’t believe a word he’s saying, I need a coffee more than I need a row in the middle of the hospital. ‘I need a coffee. My visit to the clinic has traumatized me.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, his eyes darting up and down the corridor. ‘I’m sorry. I mean, of course I’m sorry that, you know, you feel you had to go there.’

  I snort out loud. ‘Are you having one? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t want anything.’ He glances at his wrist. ‘I’ve got to go, Beth. Sorry to be so short, but I’ve got to go.’ Within seconds, he’s vanished, and I’m left standing there, a fiver in my hand, my mouth wide open.

  I order a double latte and sit on one of the armchairs near a large pillar, wondering what just happened. From the throng of people around me, I see Kiera Pugh walk towards the exit next to me and remember her son is in hospital here. Shame flushes my face as I look down, place myself behind the pillar, trying to avoid her eyes and the inevitable small talk. Though I feel for her right now, I’m more concerned about Adam. He was behaving like a madman. A madman with something else to hide …

  In my driveway, I’m greeted by my very irate mother.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Elizabeth. Five o’clock means five o’clock. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour and it’s bloody cold.’r />
  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, really sorry.’ I unlock the front door and turn the lights on. I cannot tell her the truth and say she didn’t make my ‘To Do’ list and so I forgot she was coming. ‘I got horribly delayed on the A3,’ I lie.

  ‘I’ll keep my coat on for a while,’ she grumbles as I turn the thermostat up. The temperature outside has really dropped this week and the house is cold.

  ‘I’ve put you in the green room,’ I tell her, trying to cheer her up. It’s the warmest room in the house and, because it looks over the garden, it’s also my mother’s favourite bedroom. ‘And I thought we’d get a takeaway, a nice treat.’

  ‘What you mean is you have no food in.’

  I make a face. ‘There’s no point. I’m away soon for a few days. Chinese or Indian?’ I put my arm around her.

  ‘Chinese,’ she smiles. ‘Are you excited? Los Angeles, eh? Your dad would be so proud. Will you play me the song?’

  ‘I will. Let me just grab a shower, Mum. I’ll take your bags upstairs. Put the telly on?’

  I’m heading upstairs when she yells at me to leave the nail bag downstairs. I leave the smaller, patent, orange one that rattles. A Chinese, a manicure, my mum telling me that my song is worthy of a Grammy, some Sky Plus recordings of good television drama and a glass of wine. All in all a good evening, if only I can stop thinking about Adam Hall, the madman.

  Upstairs, my mobile flashes, just as I get naked. I grab it, seeing it’s Meg. ‘Long time no speak, stranger. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum, just busy.’

  I throw a towel around me to keep warm. ‘I’ve tried to call you a few times, left a few messages.’ I’m trying hard not to sound accusing. ‘You never did finish your room.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘How’s Jack?’ There’s a downbeat tone in her voice and I’m wondering if he might be responsible.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s been great actually …’ She stops herself. ‘Listen, are you in tomorrow night? I need to see you before you go to LA.’

  I am supposed to be seeing Giles tomorrow night. A night out at the cinema. I couldn’t tell him that I don’t like the cinema, because he knows from the first time being at the house that I do. I couldn’t tell him that I don’t want to go for fear he’ll kiss me again, because I’m too nice to say something that awful. And I’ve decided I really didn’t like the kiss. So, I agreed to go, and now hopefully Meg is going to offer me an excuse to get out of it. I may, however, have to ham up her urgent need to see me.

  ‘Well, it’ll have to be tomorrow night then,’ I tell her. Suddenly, I’m worried. My mummy antennae twitch. ‘Are you all right, really?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mum, I’m fine. I’ll be there about seven?’

  ‘Okay, see you then, love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’ She hangs up.

  I drop the towel and wait for the water to heat up. Shivering, I go through the call in my head again. Leaning against the tiles, I say another gobbledegook prayer, my second of the day. Counting my prayer for Kiera Pugh’s child, it’s my third of the month – of the year – in a decade. I step under the steaming spray and ask all the gods who are listening to please not let Meg tell me she’s pregnant. And, just for a moment, an ever-so-brief smidgeon of a second, I think of LA and how I’ll like it. And whether I could stay there forever …

  Mum is sitting in her favourite chair, eyes shut, head back, and her leg moving gently in time with the slow ballad music. She takes a sip from her glass of wine, eyes still closed. I can tell she’s listening to the lyrics. When it’s finished she looks across at me. ‘Brilliant, darling, really, it’s brilliant. The best you’ve ever written.’

  I can’t help but beam.

  ‘Do you believe it?’ she asks. ‘The words of your song?’

  My smile turns itself upside down. ‘It’s not about Adam and me,’ I say, a tad too defensively. I start to clear the plates in front of us. It had been a lovely laptop supper until now.

  ‘Why not? Don’t you think it could be?’

  I sigh. ‘It’s for the movies, Mum, not real life. In real life people can’t always reconcile.’

  ‘I know that. But what if it’s what he wants and what you want deep down? I know it’s what Meg wants.’

  There are times when Sybil Moir frustrates the hell out of me, and this is one of them. I know she and Meg are close, but I don’t want her filling Meg’s head with false hopes.

  ‘Meg knows it’s not what I want, deep down or otherwise. Nor is it what I need. She’ll get used to the idea soon and she’ll always have both Adam and me in her life.’

  Mum stands, walks across to the kitchen and loads the plates in the dishwasher. We pass by each other as she heads back and I’m trying to squash the Chinese foil containers into the recycling bin. She puts her arms around my neck. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  ‘I will be, but not with Adam.’

  She sighs into my hair. ‘Maybe he just has to show you he still loves you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t make any difference, Mum. It’s just too late.’

  ‘I see,’ she says, then moves away, fills her glass with more pinot grigio and retires to her favourite chair. ‘It’s nine o’clock,’ she calls back. ‘Game of Thrones is on. I’ll do your nails in the morning.’

  Later I fall asleep dreaming of Tyrion and Adam duelling for my love. And I wake, wondering, what if … What if he really fought for me?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  On the way home, my head hurts, my heartbeat is irregular, I have a nagging pain in my arm and I’m driving a car. Not a good combination and, since having a heart attack at the wheel is not something I want, I pull over and try to breathe deeply.

  Kiera rings and I press the Bluetooth. ‘What happened to you?’ she asks.

  ‘I had to go, sorry.’

  ‘Are you all right, Adam?’ She sounds concerned.

  ‘I’m fine, it’s just been a long day.’

  ‘Look, there’s no easy way of saying this without nagging, but I need to know if you’ve asked Meg.’

  Kiera’s concern for me is now making sense.

  ‘Meg hasn’t spoken to me since I asked her, Kiera. She told me we’re finished – never to speak to her again.’

  Kiera makes a gasping sound.

  ‘I’ve texted her, emailed her. Told her what she has to do. She knows the urgency and I know she’ll do the right thing.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’

  There is nothing else to say. I mutter a goodbye, start the engine and flick the radio on. Not in the mood for music, I turn to LBC, where there’s a debate in full flow. The voice of a woman, identified by the host as Rabbi Rebekah Morley, speaks in clear tones.

  ‘It’s because of the absence of God in most people’s lives!’ She seems outraged. ‘It seems like most people nowadays are happy to sin as long as they’re not discovered. For too many people, it’s not the “doing something bad” that bothers them, it’s the fear of being found out. It seems to be okay as long as that doesn’t happen.’

  A softly spoken man interrupts.

  ‘Hold on, let’s be clear here. What’s a sin? Do we go by the Ten Commandments?’

  I switch channels and unscrew the cap from my bottled water. The soft harmonies of the Eagles do not distract me from the earlier mention of the Ten Commandments.

  Honour thy father and thy mother.

  Thou shalt not kill.

  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s goods.

  Thou shalt not commit adultery.

  I’ve never envied Sylvia or any other ‘neighbour’ a thing and I’ve never thought of killing someone – not really. I have committed adultery and I did honour my mother and father – to a point. That is, until their last double act – but that’s something I don’t want to think about right now. I simply haven’t got the head-room left.

  At home I pour a large Jim Beam, no ice. I swallow it in three gulps and pour another. I pull a seat out at
the tiny table. Opening the letter I’d found in my pocket earlier, I see it is two pages long. Sybil’s flowery handwriting stares up from the pages, which smell of her home in the Cotswolds – something like lavender and rosemary mixed together. I haven’t had a handwritten letter in over twenty years; if it wasn’t from Sybil, I’d be quite excited. I straighten out the many creases on the page, take another gulp of whiskey and begin to read.

  Dear Adam,

  Yes, you are and have been dear to me, despite the fact that you’ve been a total idiot. I’ve been wondering how to contact you, since you didn’t respond to the message I left on your phone. You cheated on her, Adam. It’s unforgivable. You should never have done that, not to my beautiful, sensitive, loving daughter. That said, I know without even talking to you that you’ll want her back. I know from talking to Meg you want her back. Meg just wants you both to get back together, to have her family whole again. I also know Elizabeth will come around. If you give her time, show her that you still love her, don’t give up on her, she will find a way.

  I swallow hard, stand up suddenly, knock the whiskey tumbler over. In the bathroom, I pull my clothes from me, change into my running gear. My head, I’d swear, is making whirring sounds I feel so fucking dizzy with it all. Grabbing keys, I slam the front door, leave the building and start to run. I run for miles, sticking to the pavement as I’ve forgotten my reflective gear. I run for miles with only my thoughts. I run for miles, telling myself that Forrest Gump has nothing on me. By the time I return home, I’m greeted by the scents of my neighbours’ dinners wafting through the communal hall.

  Inside, I ignore the broken glass and the mess. Still sweating, I pour another drink and sit on the sofa with Sybil’s pages.

  When I was a little girl, I dreamed of getting married to a man I loved and who loved me back. All grown up, I realized the man I did marry was a complex bastard. But I loved him, and he loved me back. I loved him enough to forgive the fact that he loved alcohol more than me. He never drank a drop until our son died, and after that he never stopped until it killed him. Other people told me I was stupid for staying, but I know what worked for me and Elizabeth. The life in between was still worth living.