The Chocolate Run

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘Then of course there’s the fact your mother ran off to start a new life a year after you were born and died before she could come back.’

  Eric’s face tightened in displeasure. ‘My mother is on her way here as we speak, with my father,’ he spat, his voice challenging me to argue.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I suggested gently.

  ‘No. I. Don’t.’ Eric refused to acknowledge his birth mother. Dad2 had tried to talk to him about her but Eric always said he didn’t want to know. I knew about her, what little Dad2 would tell me, but Eric had decided she didn’t exist. That encompassed his mother’s side of his family. They tried to contact him over the years and sometimes he’d speak to them but he made it clear it was for Dad2’s sake, not because he wanted to know them. It was such an unEric way of behaving but I didn’t want to upset him by asking him about it.

  I touched his arm, didn’t want to alienate him. ‘Ez, your relationship with Arri will change, course it will. But you’ll adjust. We all adjust to circumstances good or bad. Like me and Greg. I never thought I’d go near him, or anyone like him, but here I am, seeing him. Actually, not just “seeing him”, having a relationship with him.’ I think.

  Eric stared into the mid-distance as I talked. He didn’t move or react.

  ‘Look how well you take care of me. You’re depriving at least one child of all that love and sensibleness and all-round irritating goodness you personify. You’d be a great father. Don’t let the things that might never happen stop you from becoming the fantastic things you can be.’

  We sat in silence for a while. ‘I never thought of it like that,’ Eric eventually replied. He looked me up and down in wonderment. ‘Although, must say, you should take a bit of your own advice, hen. OK, my round. Then we’d better get back to yours to shower and change before Mum gets here and gives us the six-hour version of the passive smoking lecture.’

  Eric slid out of the booth, headed for the bar.

  I watched him flirt with the barmaid. Not a patch on Arrianne, but Eric, like Greg, found it necessary to befriend or flirt with most people he met. He might grow to dislike them, but it was his intention to get on with everyone . . .

  When we first met, one summer’s day when the rain was coming down in sheets outside, Eric was going to be ten in ten days; I was going to be ten in three months and ten days. Mum and Dad2 had been ‘going out’ for two weeks and I’d met Dad2 twice. To me he was a tallish white man with blondish hair and a permanent smile.

  Eric was the same height as me, but puffy around the face, circular around the body and Dad2 had, rather cruelly, dressed him in green and white horizontal stripes so he appeared more circular than he was, with smart blue trousers and shiny black shoes.

  I was wearing a red and white gingham, puffy-sleeved dress with black tights and equally shiny black shoes.

  Eric Hampton, aged nine and eleven months, held out the white paper bag in his right hand instead of saying ‘Hello, Amber’ as instructed to by his father. ‘Would you like a Cola Cube?’ he asked, as though he’d practised the line for a school play.

  I looked to my mother for guidance. Was I allowed to accept the proffered confection? Mum, with her hair pinned back into a bun, smiled and nodded. I took an orangey-red cube, covered in crushed sugar.

  ‘Would you like to play Ludo?’ I asked in the same school-play-rehearsed voice.

  Eric looked at his dad for the same guidance I’d looked to Mum for. Dad2 smiled and nodded too, then we ran off to play. He became my weekend best friend and then my brother when they moved in.

  The woman behind the bar flushed as Eric paid her a compliment. I moved my bag onto my lap, took out my mobile. Take my own advice, I thought. Take my own advice.

  ‘Sunday Chronicle, hello?’ the voice said as they answered the phone.

  ‘It’s me,’ I said.

  ‘Hi,’ Greg replied, frost in his voice.

  ‘What are you up to tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘Oh. I was wondering if you’d like to come to my place for dinner?’

  Greg said nothing.

  ‘Well, it’ll be my place for dumping stuff and getting changed. We’ll go out for dinner tonight. Then we’ll go shopping tomorrow, have lunch in town and back to my place for dinner. We usually all lie in on Sundays, pad around in our pyjamas, eat late breakfast, then they all leave.’

  Greg still said nothing.

  ‘You don’t have to be around for all of it. Mum’ll freak if you see her braless and in her pyjamas, but you’re welcome to come out tonight and see if you could stand a whole weekend with my family.’

  Still silence. Isn’t this what he wanted? A piece of me. A piece of my family. That mythical something very few people got? Why was I getting the silent treatment?

  ‘Greg?’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure,’ I lied. But it was only a small lie.

  ‘Shall I come round to yours for about seven-thirty?’

  ‘Perfect, see you later, darling.’

  ‘See you later, gorgeous.’

  As Eric put our drinks on the table I realised I’d unintentionally called him ‘darling’. He was, I suppose. He was my darling. Special. He was going to go where no man had gone before.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question, am I going to meet Greg this weekend?’

  ‘Yup.’ You are now.

  chapter twenty-two

  parental guidance

  Mum and I have an odd relationship. ‘Reserved’ is one word for it.

  I’m always pleased to see her, our ‘reunions’ are usually a laugh, and Christmas, holidays, times we spend together are good, but I do often wonder what things would be like if Dad2 or Eric weren’t there as well.

  I knew Mum before them, she knew me before them; when she was perpetually unhappy and I was constantly afraid. I knew Mum when she spent more time shouting than she did sleeping. When she could ignore me for days because I hadn’t finished all the food on my plate at dinner. When she tore apart my favourite book because I’d given her a look. I knew Mum when everything she did was full of resentment and bitterness.

  Eric looked like peanut brittle; Mum was peanut brittle, except to look at her small, round body with her curly black hair you’d think she was fudge. You thought she was soft, my mum, but she was hard as nails. Most people think of their mothers as fudgy – all sugary and comforting – inside and out, not mine.

  My mum had become hardened during her time with my dad, Dad1. She was difficult to get to know, to get close to. I’d never seen her cry, not once. She found it easy to be angry; easy to be independent; hard to show her joy. Anything good I did was snatched away from me, made into something she did that got me it. Like when I got a 2:1 for my degree. Dad1 had been disappointed I hadn’t got a first; Mum had told me she’d been praying non-stop for twenty-four hours for me to do well. I wasn’t good enough in Dad’s eyes; I hadn’t spent months slaving over books in Mum’s eyes. And on graduation day . . . Dad, in a rare moment of unDadness, told me he was proud of me. Before those words had a chance to penetrate the shield of calm I’d constructed to get through a day of my parents being in the same three-mile radius, Mum had snapped at him, ‘You should’ve told her that years ago, it’s too late to say it now.’

  So, sometimes it’d take me a while to warm up to Mum. Not only because I remembered her when she was unhappy, mainly because I remembered how resentful I was of her when she was unhappy. Guilt, I suppose. I spent so much time alone, worried that something I did or said would set my parents off, that it became difficult, if not nigh on impossible, to look at either of my parents when I spoke to them. Yes, as an adult, I understood what they were going through. Didn’t stop me, though, for the first few hours of seeing them, feeling like that girl sat in the back room while they went at it in the front room: shouting, smashing and everything that went with it.

  I loved my mother, I loved m
y real father, but it took a while for me to warm up to them.

  ‘To whom do these belong?’ Mum asked, holding a pair of grey jockeys between her fingertips. She and Dad2 had arrived a few minutes earlier and she’d gone to change out of her travelling clothes – which in Mum speak was to check how untidy my flat was – and she’d reappeared thirty seconds later with the undergarments.

  Warmth and life ebbed out of my body as I stared at Greg’s pants. When I’d gone into the tidying frenzy required of an imminent visit from my mother, I’d meant to collect all of Greg’s bits and pieces, put them into a box and stash them under the futon in my office where Eric slept (he wouldn’t go through my stuff). Meant to, completely forgot. And why did I forget? Because Greg was moving in with me on the sly.

  I knew women who’d done this. Martha, for example, had started leaving bathroom things at her Tony’s place, then underwear, then jumpers and pyjamas; Tony only realised she hadn’t spent a night away from his flat in a month when he found a box of tampons in his bathroom. I’d thought only women were that sneaky until I started seeing Greg. He’d made it his duty to do the weekly wash now, not out of an altruistic need to make my life easier, but because half of it consisted of his clothes – he’d stopped carrying spare clothes with him a millennia ago. In the bathroom, a spare toothbrush had appeared. Not the type of spare toothbrush I used to carry in my bag when I was dating Sean. Nope, Greg’s was a permanent fixture, slotted into my toothbrush stand like it belonged there. Aftershave had appeared on the shelf in the bathroom, as had a shaving kit. He never got up early to go home and change any more. When I was going out with Sean, that was for over a year, I’d often be seen by people I knew boarding a bus to his with half my wardrobe and the contents of my bathroom shelf crammed into a holdall, no matter how long I was staying. I hadn’t left so much as an earring at Sean’s. Or at Greg’s.

  Greg had so successfully and slyly moved in with me, I’d not noticed that his stuff shouldn’t be there. If I’d forgotten to hide Greg’s pants, then I hadn’t hidden other related paraphernalia. My body went weak. My vibrator. I’d left my fluorescent pink vibrator in the top drawer of my beside table – Greg had been chasing me around the flat with it the other day and I’d blithely chucked it in the drawer afterwards. And, oh no, on the bedside table, in the wooden box, were the condoms. The condoms.

  As all these thoughts galloped through my brain, there was silence in my living room. Dad2 had paused in putting his glass of beer to his lips. Eric, who was stood about two foot away from me, was also staring at the pants. Even the television was holding its breath. The pores on my forehead opened and sweat started to creep out. I was thirty, for goodness’ sake, surely my mother wouldn’t still think I was a virgin. But then, knowing my three parents, they’d think I’d be a virgin until my wedding day and the man I married was my first boyfriend.

  My mother was holding my boyfriend’s pants. Could things get any worse?

  BUZZZZ! The buzzer exploded into the silence and D2 and I leapt out of our skins.

  Eric, the calmest man alive, said: ‘I think you’re about to meet the owner of those pants, Mum.’

  I moved past Mum and the offending article and went into the corridor, to the buzzer. I picked up the black phone by the door, grunted into it.

  ‘It’s me,’ Greg said.

  Too horrified to speak, I grunted into the receiver again, pushed the button with the key symbol on it, then opened my front door ready to whisper to him, warn him, that my parents knew we were having sex and therefore not to make any comments that could be taken in an ‘I’m having my wicked way with your daughter and there’s nothing you can do about it’ manner. My voice shrivelled and died in my throat as I clapped eyes on him.

  WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?

  As if I hadn’t had enough shocks in the past three minutes, Greg was presenting me with another: he was wearing a three-piece suit. Waistcoat, jacket and trousers. All charcoal colour, teamed with white shirt, navy-blue tie. His hair was freshly washed and combed back off his face into a ponytail. (He might as well wear his suit jacket over his vest and hitch up his sleeves because ponytails on men were synonymous with ‘eighties wanker’ as far as I was concerned.)

  My heart, which was already beating in double time, sped up to quadruple time. He was meeting my parents, not my bank manager. And even my bank manager, cool as she was, wouldn’t expect him to dress like that.

  ‘Do I look all right?’ Greg whispered as he arrived at my door.

  I nodded, mute. And scared. Dear God, please don’t let him start talking in a posh accent or something.

  I led the way into the living room. As we entered, Dad2 stood. Mum and Eric were already standing but, thankfully, Mum was no longer displaying Greg’s underwear. All three of them looked expectantly to the door as Greg stepped into the living room behind me.

  I could imagine what Greg was seeing: a five-foot-nothing woman, with black, curly-permed hair. She has a nice face and is wearing a blue pleated skirt, white blouse and a big cream cardie. To the woman’s left, about half a foot taller in height, is a white man. He has glasses on that don’t hide his lined, jowly face. What hair hasn’t receded is white. He wears suit trousers and a white shirt, with the collar open, curls of his chest hair showing at the top. To the woman’s right, taller than both of the older people, is an Aryan type in baggy blue combats and white T-shirt.

  ‘Everyone, this is Greg . . .’ My voice died. Shite, hadn’t even thought about what to call him, ‘My . . .’ What was he? My boyfriend? Yes, obviously. But I’d only called him that out loud to Mr Chocolate Sniffer. And nobody who could even vaguely be described as my boyfriend had met my parents. This was all too brand new. ‘My erm . . . boy . . . fmnd. Greg, this is my mum, Dad2 and my brother, Eric.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Mum said, taking Greg’s proffered hand.

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ Greg replied, straight into flirt mode – the creep even kissed the back of her hand.

  ‘Hello, Greg,’ Dad2 said. ‘Are you named after Gregory Peck by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My mother absolutely loved Roman Holiday.’

  SIR?!

  ‘All right, mate,’ Eric said, shaking Greg’s hand warmly.

  Greg visibly relaxed. ‘Hi,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Mate, thanks to you, I’m going to have to change,’ Eric said. ‘It’s not a good way to start things, you know? Making your girlfriend’s brother look bad.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Greg said.

  ‘Look at yea. Suit. I’ll have to change. Wear my suit. If I don’t my ma will go on and on about how smart yea look. Won’t yea, Mum?’

  Mum gave him a look that said, Stop being so silly.

  Greg shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘A wee tip for yea, lad. Always try to impress the brother, not the old folks. Brothers have more sway with the girlfriends.’

  Mum raised an eyebrow at Eric that said, Go to your room and change.

  ‘See?’ Eric smirked at Greg, then headed for the office/second bedroom.

  Eric’s mucking about had been an attempt to put everyone at ease. The pants incident hadn’t done Greg any favours so Eric made Mum relax enough to give him a couple of her world-famous looks. Mum and Dad2 went off to change, too, leaving me with Greg.

  ‘That went all right, didn’t it?’ Greg whispered anxiously.

  ‘I suppose, if you don’t count the pants and the condoms.’

  ‘Bye, everyone, it was great to meet you. I’ll see you soon,’ Greg said, picking up his jacket and tie. I stood too, ready to see him out.

  Dad2 chuckled. ‘Soon? Yes, lad, I guess tomorrow is soon,’ Dad2 said.

  ‘I don’t know why he’s going home anyway, pretending he doesn’t sleep here. It’s not like Mum hasn’t already found his pants,’ Eric smirked.

  Dad2 almost spat out his beer as Eric collapsed in laughter. Mum had the beginnings of a smile teasing around her eyes (two small sherries had loosened he
r up). I hooked an arm through Greg’s. He was the only person who hadn’t had a drink because he’d driven us to the restaurant. He looked confused.

  ‘See you tomorrow, lad,’ D2 said.

  ‘See ya tomorrow, mate,’ Eric said, tossing Greg a can of beer. ‘Have this when you get home.’

  Greg caught it one-handed.

  ‘Good night, Gregory,’ Mum said, ‘see you tomorrow.’

  Greg and I started to the door and as I shut it behind us D2 called out, ‘Don’t bring the car tomorrow, lad, we’ll pay for your taxi home. You’ve got to have a couple of drinks with us.’

  ‘Aye, and none of that suit nonsense, either,’ Eric added.

  ‘Byeeeee,’ Mum called.

  Fresh air pulled its cool blanket of oxygen and nitrogen and all the other elements that made up the air we breathe around us as we stepped out of my building and went to his red Escort.

  Greg opened his car door, threw his jacket across into the passenger seat. Immediately his arms wrapped themselves around me, pulling me tight against him. I was a whole galaxy of emotions, but the sun in my galaxy right then was relief. Greg hadn’t batted an eye about my family. I hadn’t caught him giving sly looks or acting like he was trying to work things out. He came, he saw, he accepted. He’d even had the common decency to be scared they’d hate him. That’s all I wanted, for him to realise my family is like a box of chocolates: we all looked different, but were essentially made from the same stuff. We belonged together.

  Greg was lovely. I kept forgetting that. I kept expecting him to turn into Darth Vader when he was so blatantly Han Solo. He didn’t need to be constantly held at arm’s length. And I didn’t regret lessening the distance between us now. I’d almost driven myself crazy by worrying about it beforehand, but it’d been done and he didn’t run away, and I hadn’t wanted to run away either. He was special.