You, Me and Other People

by Fionnuala Kearney

  I try and relax, check my iPad is charged and on aircraft mode, turn off my mobile phone and sit back. I close my eyes and stretch my neck muscles before looking down again.

  ‘Would you like a glass of champagne?’

  I raise my head slightly, nod to the hostess, who hands me a fizzing glass from a tray.

  ‘Nuts?’

  Of course I am, I want to say. I can’t even make eye contact with my neighbour. I’m as fucking nutty as they come.

  ‘Would you care for some nuts?’

  I shake my head. The gremlins would vomit on top of Mr Man next to me. I’m not eating anything for a while.

  He is, at last, sitting down – seems to be comfortable. He has removed from his smaller bag an iPad, a newspaper and a pair of reading glasses. I can tell all of this by straining my left eye to the edge of its socket, while it seems that I’m still looking ahead. Right ahead of me is the tiny screen that shows the aircraft is still in London. I wonder how to switch this thing off. Adam always dealt with aircraft paraphernalia. I’m frustrated because I don’t want to watch the aircraft’s progress in flight. The only way I’m going to get through this alone is to pretend I’m in a simulator. We aren’t really going to leave the ground at all. It’s just a day-long simulation of a transatlantic flight.

  ‘Just pretend you’re in a car.’

  Shit. Mr Man is speaking and I think he’s addressing me. I peer to my left. He is tall. I can tell this even from his seated figure. He’s wearing a striped, open-neck shirt and a pair of faded denims. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and both arms are tattooed. On his right I can make out parts of a dragon. He looks as though he has a full head of sandy hair, but it’s difficult to see because he’s wearing some kind of bandana thing on his head. He holds his hand out to me.

  ‘Nice to meet you. You seem a bit nervous.’ His accent is East Coast American – not quite Boston, but not as clipped as New York.

  I force my hand in his direction. ‘Beth Hall, good to meet you too.’ I’m not sure it is – good to meet him – but for now, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. I take a second look at the headgear thing and hold my counsel.

  ‘My ex-wife used to be a terrible flier. She’d just pretend she was in a car. It seemed to work.’

  Christ. Thirty seconds and he’s letting me know he has an ex-wife. Do I need to know this?

  ‘What brings you to LA?’ he asks.

  ‘Work,’ I tell him. I debate fibbing and telling him I’m a movie producer. ‘I’m a songwriter.’

  ‘Really?’ He seems to straighten even more in his seat. ‘I’m a musician – a drummer in the band called The Brothers.’

  It’s my turn to sit up, and boy has he passed my ‘awe’ test. The Brothers are one of my favourite bands, a modern-day version of the Eagles, with a really fresh fusion of rock, pop and country. I’m impressed, wonder why I didn’t recognize him, and come to the conclusion it’s the bandana. The drummer guy has a head of wild hair that obscures his face most of the time. And while I don’t expect to be booking a vajazzle as soon as I disembark, at least the next eleven hours don’t seem quite so terrifying. I listen carefully to Mr Brother above the noise of the engines and wave at the stewardess for some nuts.

  I am a little drunk. Mr Brother, whose real name is Jeff, but is known by friends as ‘Pink’, because of his avid gay following, looks like he’s a little drunk too. His eyes, which two hours ago were a deep shade of ocean blue, have a sort of glazed, slightly bloodshot look. I have just got to the interesting part of my life, as I now know it.

  ‘So, you see, I don’t just have another woman to deal with, I have another child too,’ I tell Pink.

  He nods, says nothing, like it’s the most normal situation in the world. Maybe it is in LA or whatever part of the US he comes from.

  ‘He’s been lying to me for ten years. Ten years!’

  Pink takes another sip of his whisky.

  I’m still wondering why my plight hasn’t elicited a response.

  ‘Are you a cheat, Jeff, I mean Pink? I mean, don’t tell me if you don’t want to, but you did mention you had an ex-wife. You are in a band. You obviously travel a lot, probably have women throw themselves at you.’

  For some inexplicable reason, I feel the need to mime the word ‘throw’ and toss some of my drink all over Pink’s faded jeans.

  ‘Ooops, sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. And yes, I cheated on my wife. Learned my lesson when she left me though. Never did it again.’

  ‘D’ya think it’s just in men’s DNA?’

  He laughs. ‘Women cheat too, you know.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, no they don’t. I know lots of women and I don’t know any who have cheated.’

  ‘Then you’re lucky, because they do. Really.’

  I am unconvinced. ‘I would have gone to dinner with you, you know.’ I raise my glass to him and down the rest of my champagne. ‘I can’t now, obviously, now that I know you have the gene.’

  ‘I might have asked you.’ Pink smiles.

  The hostess is standing in the aisle beside our seats with the meals we had ordered from a menu when we boarded. Pink pulls his tray down and leans across to pull mine down for me.

  ‘We should eat,’ he says.

  ‘You’re a wise man, Jeff Pink.’

  He hands me my tray. The starter is a fishcake that smells a little fishy. When I tell him this he laughs again, offers me his green salad as a swap. We switch plates and I concentrate on eating some leaves. I munch through two bread rolls, hoping it will soak up the alcohol.

  I drink lots of water during dinner, try and regain some focus, apologize to Pink if I’ve talked a load of shit since we took off.

  ‘I’ve loved your company,’ he says.

  Really? I can’t help but think he’s full of it. I’ve done nothing but bad-mouth the general male population.

  ‘If I did ask you to dinner in LA, would you overlook my defective gene?’

  I blush. The feeling of a red flush crawling over my skin is how I know I’ve sobered up. ‘I might. Dinner is dinner, right?’

  ‘That’s right. Dinner is dinner.’

  ‘Just checking.’ The last thing I need is any transatlantic lingo confusion. I need to know upfront if agreeing to dinner is code for dinner and a shag. Christ, I have been out of the game too long. ‘Dinner would be lovely,’ I hear myself reply.

  ‘No fishy fish, I promise.’

  His bandana has loosened and I can see a head full of straw-coloured curls underneath. It looks like it’s all being held up by a band and is probably quite long. Adam keeps his hair clipped very short and I find myself wondering what it would be like to run my hands through a man’s hair. I wonder what it would be like to touch him. I have to look away as my blush deepens and I feel a warming in my groin that has been absent for too long.

  Catching my breath, I stare out of the window.

  ‘You okay, Beth?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I tell him, willing the high-rise colour away. I swear I’ve actually wet my knickers. I stare at the wing of the plane, the tiny little light flashing underneath it. Maybe I’ve drunk too much and it’s just leaked straight through. Or maybe, I’ve got my period. Fuck, what if it’s my period? Mentally, I calculate that I’m not due for a while. I try and place my hand between my legs under the tray table. I close my eyes. No, just Pink then.

  I don’t know whether to be pleased or horrified. For the last eight months, I’ve only ever been wet with the help of my trusty vibrator. Dear God in heaven, only me. Only I could find my mojo fantasizing about a man named Pink.

  ‘Beth?’

  I turn around to see the stewardess standing next to him.

  ‘More champagne?’ he asks.

  I put my hand over the top of my glass and shake my head. I need to keep my wits about me. I need to be absolutely certain that the words mile and high and club are not said aloud, or even whispered. I need to be absolutely certain that I do not lose my
senses and offer up my weedy lady garden to this man at thirty thousand feet.

  Chapter Thirty

  For the last ten days, I’ve been running to the office, changing when I get there and running home again. Ben can’t believe my times and tells me not to push myself too hard. All I need is to finish, he reminds me, not to finish in Olympic time.

  This Monday morning, I meet Jen just outside the lift when I get there. She has a young girl with her, about Meg’s age, and introduces her to me as Matt’s niece Becky, the new intern. I nod, apologize for my sweaty hands and head to the Gents. After a quick shower, I knock on Matt’s door.

  ‘Becky?’ I ask him, my head craned around to see him.

  ‘My niece. We spoke about her?’

  ‘We did?’

  ‘She’s finished her History of Art degree; I thought she could help Will out with procurement.’

  Wilhelm ‘Will’ Trask runs our small but elite Art department – so small, in fact, that it only has two people, him and now Becky. His role is to source art, ideally sought-after pieces that will likely increase in value, on behalf of mainly Russian and American clients.

  ‘She’s going to have to travel. With Will?’ I raise my eyebrows. Will, though single, has a reputation of being a ladies’ man.

  ‘Kettle and pot?’ Adam replies. ‘And hands off.’

  I raise both my hands in protest. The thought of looking at a woman my daughter’s age is beyond even my wildest dreams.

  ‘Have you heard from New York?’ I ask Matt. ‘I’ve been in touch with Mark – he’s found the right office. We need to move quickly.’

  ‘He mailed me too. I’m just trying to sort out the final funds.’

  I can’t help but think he looks worried rather than excited. Though we’ve both been involved, it’s really Matt’s dream being fulfilled with the setting up of a small New York office of Hall and Fry. ‘You going to go over and see it?’

  ‘Flight booked for Thursday. Don’t you ever look at our office diary?’ He shakes his head, holds a hand up to excuse the fact that he has to answer whatever call is coming through. I wave a goodbye and pass by Jen and Becky, which makes me think of Meg.

  I try calling her again, walking back to my office. The results are due and I’ve left messages to let her know that – despite her hating me – I’m there for her, especially since Beth is away.

  Surprisingly, she answers.

  ‘You’re there,’ I say.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just to know you’re all right.’

  ‘You can’t even be honest about that, can you? What you really want to know is if I’m a match for your bastard sprog.’

  I’ve known what to expect, but still, her words make me wince.

  ‘Well, I am,’ she continues. ‘There you have it. He must be your son, eh? I must be his sister after all.’

  I am stunned into silence. While I hoped and even prayed that a match would be found and while I knew Meg was probably the best hope, I was afraid to believe it might be possible.

  ‘I found out this morning. I’ve only answered the phone to tell you,’ she says curtly.

  I can’t help but notice she hasn’t called me ‘Dad’ yet. I hang my suit jacket on the back of the chair at my desk, stare at the pale, twist-pile carpet under my feet.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask her.

  ‘The right thing. I’ve got more blood tests tomorrow, to double, triple make sure, but they expect them to confirm everything. Then, I have hormone jabs four days before the procedure. That itself is apparently just like giving blood.’

  ‘Can I be there?’

  ‘I don’t need you there, nor do I want you there. Mum will be back.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  She interrupts me, laughing. ‘But this isn’t about what you’d like, is it, Dad?’ She ends the call.

  I blink at the phone. The good news is that she called me Dad. The bad news is that, yet again, I sound like an uncaring bastard.

  There is a knock on my door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Becky comes through with a cardboard tray of coffees. ‘White latte with two?’ She hands me a large takeaway cup with a black ‘x’ across its plastic lid.

  ‘Thank you.’ I offer her my hand. ‘Sorry I couldn’t shake this morning. I’d run in from home.’

  ‘Yes, Jen told me you’re running a mini-marathon next week.’

  The reality of someone telling me that it’s actually next week I’m running thirteen miles for the Anthony Nolan Bone Marrow Charity makes me feel the need to sit down.

  ‘Allegedly,’ I say.

  ‘I couldn’t run for a bus, me.’

  I know she’s just trying to be friendly to the other partner in the business. I know she’s just being polite but, right now, I’m not in the mood for small talk with Becky or anyone else.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ I raise the cup in acknowledgement and, at least – as she turns to leave – she has the grace to know she’s been dismissed.

  I try to work. I have two meetings with clients this morning. One a family representative who is unhappy with the financial wrapper we’re offering his pension fund. I have agreed with Matt that he can do all the talking for this one and I can just sit. The second is a new client – a referral, ironically from the Grangers. Matt thinks that this is hilarious. But as the morning crawls by, I realize there’s very little that I find funny in the world nowadays.

  I have triple layers on leaving the office. It’s dark outside and I make sure the last layer I wear is the reflective one. My rucksack on my back, I exit the revolving doors at seven thirty-six p.m. I push a button on the stopwatch on my wrist and turn left up Embankment. When I reach the underpass, I head up the slip road alongside Blackfriars Bridge, then snake a route through narrow streets, back onto Upper Embankment Road. The incline, which only a week ago would have brought me to my knees, is not a problem. I run rhythmically, my heartbeat the louder background sound competing with the traffic.

  At Tower Bridge, I stop, navigate the crossings at walking pace, then start to run up the Highway. At the Shell garage, I stop again, a sudden piercing pain in my chest almost felling me. I bend over, try to catch my breath. The pain radiates from my chest down my left arm. I grab it, squeeze it, to try and ease the discomfort. Fear grips me. Trying not to think about it, I walk into the garage, towards the double sliding doors. I see a man there, seated on a rug at the entrance, a cup between his knees. I remember thinking, ‘Poor bastard – it’s too bloody cold to have to be outside begging.’ And that is the last thing I remember …

  I’m in my parents’ bedroom. It’s morning and I’ve only come upstairs to tell them I’m off to work. It’s August and I have a job at McDonald’s before heading back to university next month. They’re both normally up way before me, so I feel a little odd, knocking on their bedroom door, and even more strange when I enter without being told to. There is something off immediately. The air is stiflingly hot, the room is a sauna and needs the window opened.

  ‘Mum? Dad? I’m off to work.’

  Nothing. I cross the room to the window, pull back one of the curtains. When I turn around, I know immediately. I’m shocked, I realize that. But somehow, I’m not remotely surprised.

  ‘Mr Hall?’

  I open my eyes. There’s a tiny flashlight being moved up and down in a vertical line. I make a face.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘It hurts.’

  ‘Glad you’re back with us.’ The male voice with the torch speaks. ‘Can you hear me okay?’

  I nod, barely, but he sees it.

  ‘Good. You passed out, had a minor heart attack, Mr Hall. Nothing to worry about. We got you here in time. You’re on the mend and you’ll make a full recovery – just a shot across the bows, eh?’

  I’m trying to fathom the fact that I’m forty-three years old, fighting fit, and have had a heart attack, minor or otherwise.

  ‘Stress is often a factor. We’ll ha
ve to sit down in a day or two and work out the “why”. Maybe overdid the running, eh? But for now, you rest up. Let us take care of you. Is there anyone you’d like us to call? We’ve tried the ICE number on your mobile, but I’m not sure if we got anyone. Did we get anyone?’

  I can make out his profile turning towards someone else to ask the question, but I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  ‘Ben.’ I manage to speak, my voice a weak whisper. ‘Call my brother Ben.’

  Time passes. I awake to a gentle prodding on my hand and open my eyes, less painfully this time.

  ‘I told you not to try and beat Mo Farah.’ It’s Ben’s voice and I feel an overwhelming sense of relief.

  ‘Get me out of here,’ I whisper.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ I hear a chair scrape along the floor and feel him sit beside me. ‘You’re in here for at least a few days and then you’re coming back with us.’

  It is only then I notice Karen lurking behind him.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Peachy,’ I tell her.

  ‘Good, I’m glad.’

  A small laugh tries to escape me but ends up as a strangled cough. I am quite sure that, given our last meeting, Karen probably wished a heart attack on me. Ben pulls me up, bangs my back. ‘You’re all right’, he says. ‘You’re all right.’

  ‘What have they said?’ I ask him when I catch my breath. ‘The doctors.’

  ‘Minor heart attack. So small it barely registered. Nothing to worry about. Bed rest. You have raised cholesterol, but apparently that’s not uncommon in middle age.’

  ‘Watch it,’ I tell him.

  ‘They’re suggesting you cut back on the running for a while.’

  This makes me feel sad. I have loved running, both the physical training and the working towards something where I might make a difference.

  ‘You won’t be taking part in the mini.’ He states the obvious and I nod.

  ‘Meg?’

  ‘I’ve told her. I’m sure she’ll be here …’

  I want to tell him not to bet his flat on it, but I feel incredibly tired.