by Nicky Wells
By the time I had come down again, Mum had taken a casserole from the Aga and was ready to serve us dinner. She even retrieved a bottle of wine to help us all unwind after our long day. Had it not been for Dad’s conspicuous absence, it would have been extremely cozy. The only grating factor was Tim’s presence. I longed to be alone with Mum to pour my heart out, but I wouldn’t be able to do so until…well, until the call of his office became too strong.
All of a sudden, the wine and the stress hit us all at the same time, and by nine p.m. we weren’t able to keep our eyes open any more. Mum had switched all phones to their loudest ring settings, just in case there was a call during the night, and we went to bed—Mum in her and Dad’s room, me in my room, and Tim in the guest room. My room had an ancient, tiny, teenager’s bed that was not big enough to sleep two people, however close they might snuggle, and the guest room in our lovely little cottage was too small for a double bed, so whenever Tim and I visited Mum and Dad’s, we had to have separate beds. In the past, I had loathed that fact, and so we hadn’t come down to visit nearly as much as Mum and Dad would have liked, but that night, I was deeply glad of these arrangements. I went to sleep under Dan’s benign gaze watching over me from the ancient poster above my bed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
When I trundled downstairs into the kitchen the next morning, I found that Mum was already up and sipping her second cup of coffee. We shared a companionable half-hour in the kitchen all on our own, not really saying very much but taking great comfort from each other’s presence. Then Tim rose, too, and soon we were on our way to the hospital to check on Dad. Tim was a veritable tower of strength, taking care of all the little trivial things that needed doing but that neither Mum nor I would even have thought of. When we got home that night, the fridge was fully stocked, the house was clean and warm, the mail had been arranged into little piles—junk, Mum, Dad, other—and there was a general sense of calm. And yet…and yet horrible little me felt like this was all wrong. I would have preferred someone else to do all these things. Tim was being fabulous, but I couldn’t get myself to feel close to him. I felt grateful, but I also found his presence profoundly irritating.
As the next two days went by, my feeling of disenfranchisement toward Tim grew to enormous proportions and became almost impossible to ignore. Things weren’t helped by the fact that I reverted into a good old, proper Cornish pisky—my parents’ nick name for me when I was little. Dan, bless his little heart, had packed for me only the most impractical of clothes. And so I had dug out my ancient woolen jumpers, some faded jeans, wellies, a bobble hat and even a scarf that I had tried to knit for myself in primary school. I felt comfortable in these clothes, but I could tell that my appearance alienated Tim. In fact, the first time I came downstairs in my scratchy, faded attire, Tim snorted the contents of his coffee cup across the kitchen table.
“What the hell is that?” he burst out before he could help himself.
“What?” I replied, completely at a loss. I caught Mum stifling a grin as she turned quickly back over the sink.
“That…outfit?” Tim persisted, clearly perturbed.
I looked down myself. “Oh,” I explained, “these things? These are just some sensible clothes for the weather.” And then I added somewhat facetiously, “Why? Do you need some, too?”
But Tim merely shook his head.
Mum and I continued to spend most of the time by Dad’s bedside, and things were manageable with Tim then. But at lunchtimes and in the evenings, when she, Tim, and I would play at little families, the atmosphere became progressively awkward. I blithely maintained an ostrich stance—head deeply buried in the sand—and hoped that something would give, sooner or later. Finally, after three days, when it was clear that Dad was no longer at risk but that I wasn’t going to budge just yet, Tim declared over breakfast that he really had to return to London.
I did my very best to suppress a whoop of joy and only Mum saw the delighted glint in my eye before I made suitable “I’m sorry to hear that” noises, supplemented quickly with reassuring “we’ll be okay” and “you’ve been an absolute rock” assurances. When the time came to say goodbye to Tim, relief at being rid of him—at least for a few days—tinged my voice with undue cheer and optimism. Tim veritably blossomed as I thanked him and hugged him and even managed a little peck on his check. At one level, I meant everything I said. He had been great, I had appreciated his company, up to a point, and he had been a brick. He was the best man any girl could ever wish for. These were all true statements, but they didn’t come from me as a lover. Something clearly had irretrievably broken inside me as far as Tim was concerned. What a hash you are making of things, I admonished myself as I watched Tim drive away.
That night, Mum and I were alone for dinner so she decided to treat us to a takeaway dinner from the Indian place up on Cliff Road. She set a few candles on the table, turned down the lights, and opened a bottle of wine. As we were starting to demolish the heap of poppadoms, she gave me a long, searching look. Here was the opportunity that I had both wished for and dreaded, and already tears were stinging at the back of my eyes in anticipation of things I might say, things I might discover about myself.
“What’s wrong, Sophie?” she finally asked gently. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve not been yourself, and there’s more to it than your Dad’s illness.”
I nodded, trying to swallow a mouthful of food and hold back two eyefuls of tears. I succeeded with the food but the tears came out regardless. In fact, I cried a torrent such as I hadn’t cried since my pet hamster had drowned in our garden pond because I had left his cage door open and the poor thing had gone exploring. Then, too, I had had an overwhelming sense of guilt at messing up other another creature’s life.
Mum just let me cry. She waited patiently, all the while picking at her food, sipping at her drink, and encouraging me to do the same. I did eventually try to eat. I discovered that I was ravenously hungry as the tears poured out, as though a great big plug was being lifted from my stomach. The more I cried, the hungrier I got, and I started taking big forkfuls of chicken dhansak in between sobs. Unfortunately, curry, wine, and tears didn’t mix very well, and soon I was hiccupping. Mum had to come over and rub my back, and all of a sudden, we were sitting at the table in heaps of laughter rather than tears. And then, in fits and starts, out came the whole story.
I spared nothing. Yet when I got to the night at the Royal, I faltered, suddenly acutely aware that I was talking to Mum and not Rachel. Mum and I had always been close, and I had always shared boyfriend troubles with her. But this was different. This was a tale of deception and lies, and I wasn’t sure whether she would comprehend. Moreover, I was getting into some very…saucy bits here, and it was odd, very odd, to be quite that explicit. I had started, but maybe I ought to close it there?
My pause had given Mum a chance to offer a verdict, but she wouldn’t be drawn out yet.
“Sophie, whether or not that act made you unfaithful is entirely up to your conscience,” was all that she would say—and that didn’t help me much. “I don’t know, Mum,” I blurted out. “This is too weird. Maybe I should stop here.”
“No,” she breathed. “Please go on. I’d love to help. I may be your Mum, but I’m not as prudish as you think I am. I was young once, too, you know.” Here, she even blushed.
“If you’re sure?” I asked doubtfully. “You might not like what you hear. You might think I’m a dreadful slapper.”
“I doubt that,” she replied simply. “But I won’t push if you don’t want to talk.”
So I ploughed on. Eventually, I had to confess that I did go on tour with Tuscq with both eyes wide open and a fair amount of trepidation.
“Basically, I knew something was going to happen. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay strong. And I went anyway. There was just that teeny bit of excitement, the desire to perhaps…put myself into circumstances that…well, that might absolve me of responsibility for my bad behavio
r.”
I paused for a second. “Yes, perhaps I did go on that tour because I knew I would sleep with Dan and I really wanted to do so. And because I knew that I could use the circumstances to explain away any unfaithfulness. ‘What goes on tour, stays on tour,’” I quoted.
Mum nodded her head again. “And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Sleep with Dan.”
Blimey. She was more forthright than I had ever known her. I gulped. Answering this question was like crossing the final frontier. But there was no going back. Besides, she knew. There wasn’t much point in being coy.
“What do you think?” I tried to stall, nonetheless.
“I want to hear you say it,” she insisted. “It’s important.”
I sighed massively. “Yes. I did. Several times. Sleep with Dan. And it was great.” I paused again, uncertain how far to go. “It was the best sex I’ve ever had. I couldn’t begin to pretend that I regret it. And…well, I felt there was more to it than just sex. I don’t know if I imagined that…I probably did imagine it. Yet there was warmth and love and caring. And I couldn’t get enough of that.”
We both mulled that over for a long, long time.
“And then what?” Mum prompted, an intrigued glint in her eyes.
“Then nothing. There was no declaration of love, although…Dan kept making allusions about wanting to make me his girlfriend, and how he felt ready to change. I discounted all of that. I didn’t let myself believe him. But even so…”
I hesitated again, trying to gather my thoughts.
“Mum, there is something in the way he says my name. Something in the way he calls me ‘his Sophie’ or ‘his little Sophie’ that…well, that really gets to me. There is so much tenderness in there. I don’t think I’m making that up. And do you know what’s worst?”
Mum shook her head.
“In all this time with Tim, I’ve never felt so loved. He doesn’t manage that level of tenderness and intimacy. Our lovemaking is…barren compared to what I have experienced with Dan. I’ve seen Tim every day for almost two years. I hadn’t seen Dan for ten years, and I probably spent less than two weeks with him altogether. Yet…I feel closer to him than I ever did with Tim. Do you think that’s ridiculous?”
Mum didn’t respond. She just took my hand and squeezed it gently. Tears were welling up again as I put my thoughts into words. I think I had hit upon the crux. Dan had struck a chord inside me that Tim didn’t even know existed. That, in all honesty, I hadn’t even known existed. But now I did, and I couldn’t turn back the clock.
“I had resolved to figure out what to do when the tour had come to an end. I was going to go to ground, maybe come here, and really think about my life. And the men in it. Until then, I couldn’t see any harm in taking as much of Dan as I could get—just in case that was the biggest sense of happiness and fulfillment I would ever feel in my life. But then I got Rick’s message, and I had to leave the tour.”
I groaned. “God, that came out all wrong…I really didn’t mind. I was just shocked and guilty that I had been so far away. But that meant that I had to leave Dan and immediately face Tim. And seeing Tim at the airport…there was nothing in me. Nothing worthy of sustaining a relationship, that is. Having him round here, twenty-four seven every day…oh Mum, it was terrible. He was great, and I resented him for it.”
I let that hang for a moment, and Mum waggled her head in contemplation.
Suddenly, I felt much better. I had poured it all out, put it all in sequence and into the open. And as I had been talking, I could suddenly see how events had come together to make me ping-pong from one emotion and one man to another. All of a sudden, my behavior, while perhaps irresponsible, was at least explicable. I had acted and reacted; perhaps I hadn’t always made the best decisions, but I had tried my best. For the longest time, I had tried to hold on to my love and commitment to Tim, but there was something in that relationship that wasn’t right, or that wasn’t enough. Now I had to figure out whether it would do, whether it was fixable. Whether I wanted it fixed. Or whether I wanted…someone else.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The candles had burnt low and the food was finished by the time I finally wound up my confessional. I felt drained and exhilarated.
Mum still didn’t offer any advice. She said there was none for her to give. But she didn’t judge either. She didn’t seem outraged at my behavior, and that in itself was comforting. She simply said that sometimes these things happened to make us understand what we really wanted from life, and that it wasn’t always possible to maintain the moral high ground.
“Sooner or later, you’ll make the right decision. You’ll know it’s the right decision. And Dad and I will be behind you whatever that is.”
“Are you sure?” I muttered doubtfully. I was a little disappointed. I wanted more concrete advice. And yes, I wanted some kind of absolution. It’s all right Sophie, it’s not your fault. That would have done nicely. But Mum simply nodded and patted my hand some more.
“I’m sure. But I can’t tell you what to do.”
“Do you think I’m a terrible slapper?” I blurted out suddenly, in desperate need of affirmation that Mum still loved me.
“I don’t,” she stated simply. “I think you’ve behaved terribly, but then you know that and you don’t need me to tell you that. But you’re too concerned and worried about it all to qualify as a slapper.” She grinned at her use of this unfamiliar word. “I love you.”
At our visit to the hospital the next day, Dad was alert enough to quiz me about the tour. Both he and Mum had been reading my column diligently and had been very proud of me. Then he waved the most recent edition of Read London in front of my face impatiently.
“It’s about time you went back and did your job, young lady. I don’t know who this Jack person is, but his column isn’t a patch on yours.”
I looked at him blankly. “I can’t go back. I’ve got to make sure you’re all right,” I protested at length.
“Fat lot of use you are to me down here,” he grumbled. “I’m stuck in this hospital bed, and in a few days, I’ll be stuck in bed at home with your Mum to look after me. I really don’t need you to hang around and make me feel sick, too.”
Mum and I exchanged a look and suppressed a smile.
“I’d much rather have your next column to look forward to,” Dad continued. Then he dropped the grumpy-old-man act and pulled me toward him. “Seriously, Sophie, I’ll be all right. I don’t want you to put your life on hold for your sad old man. Go back and have some fun, and be sure to visit us over Christmas.”
“Are you sure?” I managed, barely. “I already felt so guilty that I wasn’t here sooner, and I’d feel terrible if…” I didn’t know how to conclude that thought.
“There will be no if,” he asserted rather forcefully. “I’m one hundred percent on the mend. And with all this rabbit food I’ll have to eat from now on, I’ll be healthier than you and your Mum together. I’ll see a hundred and ten yet, don’t you worry.”
“I think your Dad’s right about you going back to your job,” Mum chimed in, and also managed a surreptitious little wink. “If you go now, you can make the last two events.” She grinned conspiratorially.
“What other things?” Dad put in immediately. “What don’t I know?” He really was a lot more alert, and suddenly I realized that I wanted to go back. To the tour. To Dan. I wanted to round things out, maybe. To see what would happen.
It was then that I also realized that I had totally broken my promise of letting the band have news about my Dad and myself. I had not picked up the phone and spoken to anyone since I got here. Not Dan, not Jack, not even Rachel. All of a sudden, I couldn’t wait to get going. Dad had observed me closely and now laughed at me.
“That’s it. I can see the ants in your pants,” he piped up. “Don’t hang around. Go on, get on with it.”
At his insistence, Mum drove me home and on to the airport. During the journey,
I called Rick to say that I would be popping into the office for a few minutes that evening—it was now Friday, December second—and that I would be rejoining the band and resuming my column the following day. Even Mum could hear his shouts of “hooray” through the headset.
Then I called Dan. It was kind of odd doing that with Mum next to me, but I had an overpowering urge that could not be quelled. I was aware that I was turning all coy and flirtatious as I spoke to him, but Mum merely smiled. Predictably, Dan was delighted that things were well—“told you so”—and ecstatic that I would be joining him and the band again the very next day. “We’ll pick you up from the airport,” he promised. “Just let us know your flight details.”
Finally, I had a quick chat with Rachel. She had heard from Rick about Dad and was pleased that everything was okay. She had also had an upset call from Tim the previous day, wondering if she could let him know if she knew whether I was…well, up to something.
“He knows something is going on, Soph,” Rachel cautioned.
“I know,” I sighed in response. “I’m working on it.”
“What are you going to do?” she wanted to know, intrigued.
“I don’t know. I’m working on it,” I repeated. “For now, I’m rejoining the tour tomorrow—for the last show in Paris and the gig at the Arena in London. I’ll sort my life out when I’m back.”
“Sounds good to me,” Rachel laughed. “Just take it easy and don’t let things get you down. Life’s too short. Best enjoy it while you can.”
Whoa, she was going profound on me. Something was up with her, too.
“What’s going on at your end?” I quizzed in return. “You still seeing Jordan?”
“Well…yes. Sort of,” came her evasive reply. Something was definitely up. “Can I tell you when you get back? It’s too complicated for a phone call, and I have to submit this article in a few minutes.”
“Sure. I’ll see you the minute I get back.” I was intrigued, but I really had to go.
Next, I punched in Tim’s number but I couldn’t get myself to hit dial. When I had first decided to go back to London tonight, I had thought that I would ask to see him for dinner. Now I wasn’t sure whether that was such a good idea. Luckily, we had already arrived at the airport and I had to hurry to grab my flight, so I argued that I didn’t even have time to make that final call.
