All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘That he’ll be a weirdo? A freak? A gorilla in Y-fronts?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Or that he is the sister? The thought had crossed my mind.’

  It had, fleetingly. I’d pushed it to the back of my mind as soon as it had entered, but jeez, Louise, what if his sister was . . . Gwen?!

  ‘I don’t wish to offend you, Miss McGee, but you appear to be one of those women who defines themselves completely by the men in their lives. And it surprises me. And frustrates me in equal measure.’

  Oh. Oh right.

  ‘The old can’t tell the young how to live their lives, but I often wish they could. I was just the same, till my divorce. That was in 1972. Since then I have lived my life for me, nobody else. And can I tell you something?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s fan bloody tastic.’

  She went on to describe a song from the seventies about a woman roaring. How anyone with fallopian tubes could become strong, basically, and on her own terms.

  God, I felt embarrassed. Not only had I owned up to being a complete loon, but in so doing I had levelled a criticism that was so pertinent it was making my pulse race at about thirty times its normal speed. I wasn’t just a fuck-up, I was an uber fuck-up. I was an anti-feminist fuck-up.

  ‘I might go to bed,’ I said, wanting to hide from her all-seeing eye.

  ‘Or we could talk about something else?’ she suggested, pity in her voice. I shook my head.

  ‘I’m a fuck-up, Mrs Bathing,’ I said clinically.

  ‘Yes, dear. But even fuck-ups can roar.’

  I said goodnight as I stood, then I leaned over to hug her. We’d thus far not had physical contact, but so many lines had been crossed tonight, who cared? She certainly didn’t. She didn’t flinch or push me away, instead she wrapped her skinny arms around me and held me. Long enough to show she cared, but not too long as to cause embarrassment. There was tenderness in that hug. And fragility, too. She felt so emaciated under her clouds of kaftan, she felt like a little old lady. Which I guessed she was. And yet, she was far stronger than me. She had the life she wanted, she enjoyed it, and it was all on her terms. No man in the picture. No rules to follow, only those that she set herself. OK, so she must have had the money to fund her self-appointed lifestyle, but I kind of got the impression that even if she lived in a studio flat on a council estate, living on benefits, the steely determination would still be there, she would still have lived by her own rules.

  I lay on top of the bedcovers with the fan whirring away at me. Sleep came slower than Christmas that night as I pondered over what Mrs B had said. Since my teenage years I had lurched from one relationship to a relationship with drama school, and then jumped on the first guy who showed an interest in me. Now that had soured, I’d jumped on a cyber relationship as if that was the answer to all my problems. And clearly it wasn’t. That had been inappropriate, I saw that, but had my decision to be with Stu been inappropriate, too? Could I only define myself in terms of the men in my life? Mrs B thought so. And I must have, too, or else why did her words hit home so much? I didn’t feel the anger of injustice, just the shame of being caught out. Why did I depend on others to make me happy? Why couldn’t I make me happy?

  I suddenly remembered that months earlier I’d taken part in a photoshoot on Acacia Avenue for Feminism Awareness Week, or something. Three women from the cast – including Trudy in hotpants, four-foot heels and no sense of irony – smiled into a camera wearing T-shirts emblazoned with the logo, ‘THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE’. The pictures had appeared online and in various trashy magazines under headlines as corny as GIRL POWER! and ACACIA SISTERS ARE DOING IT FOR THEMSELVES. (Cue Trudy commenting, ‘It sounds like we’re pleasuring ourselves, babes’ – again, no sense of irony.) Could I really claim to be a feminist if I defined myself solely through men? No. But the magazines didn’t care, it was all about getting a picture of three ‘pretty girls’ pouting with lips that spelt juxtaposition. I’d not given it much thought at the time – we were always being asked to pose for various causes wearing T-shirts with ‘STAMP OUT HOMOPHOBIA’ or ‘BREAST CANCER – GET IT CHECKED!’ etc. – and this was just another in a long line. But the memory of this particular photoshoot, and the resultant snaps, made me feel like a hypocrite. Maybe to the casual onlooker I was a feminist. I had a good job, people respected me and considered I had at least a modicum of talent. I was, as they say, going places. Only I knew the truth, and so did Mrs B now.

  I wanted to be the woman Mrs B hoped I could be. Fabulous, fantastic and self-sufficient. After all, it’s not like I’d had very good taste in men to begin with. So why did I think they were so marvellous? One turned out gay, the other turned out violent, the latest vanished in a puff of smoke as soon as I showed an interest in meeting him. Nice. Of course I was bloody ready. Apart from anything, it appeared I had no choice but to be ready.

  I decided to write a list, to try and crystallize in my mind what I wanted from life now that I was at a crossroads. I got my pen and Hello Kitty jotter from my suitcase and returned to the bed, scribbling away: ‘What I Want by Jodie McGee’.

  That took me ages to write because I did big swirly writing for my name like this:

  I sighed, unable to think of anything, so added, ‘Aged 28 and a third’.

  And then the sad thing was, the really sad thing was . . . I couldn’t think of anything to write. How bloody tragic was that? I didn’t know what I wanted from life. Had I been that wrapped up in pleasing Stu, and working, and trying to keep my head above water that I no longer knew what I wanted from life?

  But then, had I ever known? Memories flooded back of Mum sitting me down before I married Greg, trying to pin me down about what I wanted from life. My mantra in those days had been, ‘I just wanna marry Greg.’ How awful that sounded now. How tragic. Like I didn’t have a brain in my head. God, this was even worse than I’d thought. I had to write something. Anything. So I just wrote the first things that came into my head.

  1

  To be happy.

  2

  To sort it out with Stu. One way or another.

  3

  To keep my job.

  4

  To carry on being happy.

  5

  To work out what I actually want from life.

  6

  To sort it out with Our Joey.

  I paused. I couldn’t believe I’d actually written that.

  7

  To find Matthew and apologize for being a nightmare. Not to start seeing him, just to explain where I am at and why I was such a tit. Do I owe him that? Or is it just me wanting to feel less embarrassed? Who cares? But it would be nice just to be able to put a card through his door. Maybe give one to his sister to give to him. Yes. That’s what I would do. Save us all the embarrassment then.

  8

  To learn to roar.

  I put my pen down and felt myself melt into the pillows, as if relaxation was engulfing me. I had a plan of action for the remainder of my vacation, and I had a plan of action for the rest of my life, because as I saw it, if I kept my nose clean at work then I’d keep my job. If I kept my job then I would be happy. I would speak to Stuart on my return and either dump him (good option) or get back with him (non-roar option). But if I’d sorted it and it was my choice, I would be happy. I would then write to Our Joey for one last time or, even better, go and see him DJing in a club in London, or wherever, surprise him and hold out the hand of friendship and see if he shook it or slapped it away (in a camp manner, perhaps).

  And before that, first thing tomorrow, I would write a nice card to Matthew and get it to this cleaner bird up the road. And if she wasn’t his sister, sod it. At least I’d have tried, and at least I’d have got my feelings off my chest. Maybe that would help me find some – God I hated the word – closure.

  Over breakfast the next morning I informed Mrs B of my plan. She was so rapt by it she flicked her ash in the pain au chocolat basket by mistake. She
went digging in the dresser in her living room and produced a box full of greetings cards in French and English, for all occasions. She was a veritable Paperchase in flip flops. I might have expected any other seventy-something ex-pat to have a selection of chintzy cards showing flowers in vases or pussycats licking brandy glasses, but not Mrs B, she had up-to-the-minute ones with comedy captions on the front, the sort I might have picked myself. I loved her even more for them. I chose one with a Sixties photo on the front of a telephonist at a switchboard looking up at a guy who was hovering over her desk. He had a speech bubble coming out of his mouth that said, ‘Have you tried switching it on and off?’ And she was replying, ‘Have you tried shoving it up your arse?’ We both agreed it was cheeky, decadent and tied in with the theme of our computer-based relationship. I asked her how much it cost as I went in my purse for some change, but she just said she would ‘stick it on the bill’ – my bill was going to be extortionate at this rate, I’d taken so much from her! I took it onto the terrace and wrote inside:

  Dear Matthew,

  I’m sorry if I scared you off by saying I was coming over. It was foolish and inappropriate and I am sorry. I enjoyed our chats. You were there for me when I needed it and I’ll never forget your kindness for that. But I also appreciate that you don’t want to take this any further. And now I’ve had time to think, neither do I. But here’s to a brief, lovely, cyber friendship, and I wish you all the best for now and for the future.

  Your mad friend,

  Jodie xx

  I stuck the card in the envelope, licked the flap and wrote his name on the front. Now all I had to do was find this pink house and find this sister.

  ‘One person’s pink is another person’s lilac,’ I pointed out to Mrs B as we sat on a bench opposite the entrance to the ‘pink’ house. Mrs B had come to keep me company, and brought a bottle of rosé and two glasses. The bench, she told me, was what approximated a bus stop round here. The house we were staring at, by anyone’s standards, was not only lilac but also not a house but a mansion. Poking up behind a tall wooden fence I could see lilac turrets, solar-panelled higgledy-piggledy roofs, circular stained-glass windows, plus the usual – for round here anyway – palm trees.

  ‘I don’t decide what colour people’s houses are, Miss McGee. Someone else called it the pink house, I just followed suit. Hard to tell behind these bloody things.’ And she tapped her humongous sunglasses.

  ‘Sheep,’ I said cheekily.

  She raised an eyebrow. I saw it move behind the grey Perspex. ‘Not like you to follow the herd. I thought you’d prefer to buck the trend.’

  She shrugged and lit another cigarette, her fourth since we’d arrived. I topped myself up with some water from a bottle I’d brought. It was too hot, even in the shade, for me to be drinking just yet. I also wanted to be sober when I approached ‘the sister’.

  ‘Baaah!’ she suddenly bleated, sheeplike, and we both giggled.

  I sighed, bored. ‘Why can’t I just go up and ring the bell? Ask to see the maid?’

  ‘I’ve told you. It’s like Fort Knox over there. And they never answer to strangers. They have a security camera on the gate.’

  ‘They’d recognize you.’

  ‘And ignore me. We had a falling out when I accused them of mistreating their cat. Poor thing looked like he’d been in Belsen. I don’t see it any more.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  She gave a par-for-the-course sigh. It was a noise she often made, as if the rest of the world never quite met with her exacting standards.

  ‘Mrs B?’

  ‘Miss McGee?’

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘I’d rather that than an impersonal one.’

  ‘What’s your first name?’

  ‘Lar.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Lar.’

  My eyes nearly popped out on stalks. ‘That’s a Liverpool word. It’s like a term of endearment, short for lad. So if your friend’s called Michael, you might call him Mickey Lar. I’ve never heard the name Lar before.’

  ‘It’s English.’

  ‘Is it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘How d’you spell it?’

  She rolled her eyes like I was the ultimate nincompoop and said, ‘L.E.A.H. Lar.’

  Which gives you an idea just how posh she was. I didn’t have time to tell her how it should really be pronounced, because suddenly there was movement over the road. The slatted wooden gate of the lilac/pink house slowly slid to one side with an electronic purr – not opening at an angle as I’d expected it to – and a slim woman in her mid-twenties came out wearing a pale pastel green uniform, a bit like a nurse’s. She had her hair scraped back into a medium-sized chestnut ponytail and she stopped to take a thirsty swig from a bottle of water before starting to walk down the hill. Mrs B and I jumped up.

  ‘Miss Maxwell?!’ Mrs B called, nudging me.

  The woman looked round, trying to place where the voice had come from. It didn’t take her long as we were running across the street, waving and saying, ‘Hi. Hi.’

  ‘Do I know you?’ She had a Yorkshire accent. This was perfect. I remembered Matthew saying he originally came from Keighley.

  ‘I’m Lar Bathing from down the road, I know your employers. This is my friend, Jodie McGee.’

  ‘Hiya!’ I gasped.

  She was looking startled and a bit scared.

  ‘I’m sorry. This is going to sound mad,’ I was a bit out of breath after the mini dash, ‘but have you got a brother called Matthew?’

  Again, she looked startled and shook her head.

  ‘Matthew Martin Maxwell? Floppy brown hair? Very sporty? Nice smile?’

  She shook her head, swallowed and uttered an apologetic, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

  ‘He’s an old friend, and—’

  ‘I’m sorry. I have to get on.’

  And with that she carried on down the hill, drinking her water as she went. I looked at Mrs B, who whistled between her teeth.

  ‘Well, Miss McGee. I’d say that was that. We’d better put that card in the bin and consider it closure.’

  I turned away from her and watched Miss Maxwell marching down the hill. Something didn’t add up about her delivery. It had been all wrong. If that had been a take, the director would have asked to do it again.

  ‘What? What are you thinking, dear?’

  ‘Mrs B. I work on a soap. I know bad acting when I see it.’

  ‘What d’you mean, lovely?’ She placed a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘That was bad acting.’

  ‘You think she’s lying?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well then, let’s get in the car and follow her!’

  And she ran off down the hill towards her villa.

  Minutes later we were in her car, zooming down the hill like something out of The Streets of San Francisco. My mum had recently got the whole series on DVD from eBay because she had a bit of a thing for Michael Douglas. Every time I’d been round to Sandalan – apart from the fateful dinner party – I’d see Michael Douglas, looking about twelve, bouncing down the various steep hills of San Fran in one of those really long American cars that I imagined only existed in TV programmes.

  Well, that’s what it felt like now. It had to be said, Mrs B’s car wasn’t the best vehicle for being incognito. For a start it was a vintage navy blue Bentley from the Sixties, so everyone you passed stopped and stared, and secondly, it was a convertible, and we’d not had time, in our haste, to put the roof up.

  ‘There she is!’ screamed Mrs B as we caught sight of the green uniform at the bottom of the hill. By now Miss Maxwell was trudging quite slowly, so we had no choice but to drive past her. About twenty yards ahead Mrs B swerved over, hit the kerb, uttered an expletive and killed the ignition. Oh, this was her idea of parking. She then started the ignition again, remembering something, and hit a button on the dashboard. Very slowly – like, really sl
owly – the roof rose up from the boot and arced its way across the car, like the hood of an old Victorian pram being gently closed by a nanny. Only slower. By the time Miss Maxwell walked past us, we were still exposed to the elements. She looked at us warily and we both smiled warmly. Then she passed. About five minutes later the roof had locked into place and we were kind of hidden from view, though it was a bit late now.

  ‘Sorry about that, dear.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘I had the roof modernized last year. It’s still bally slow.’

  I realized I was shaking. Because I was wondering, like in my dream, whether the online Matthew might be some weird woman pretending to be a man. And maybe I’d just met her/him. Had I actually just met Matthew?

  As Mrs B put the car into gear and drove, equally slowly, into central Mandelieu, a thought suddenly hit me.

  ‘Are you safe to drive this thing?’ I was remembering the rosé she’d been drinking at the bus stop.

  ‘Never,’ came the reply.

  Every time she turned a corner I shrieked, thinking she was driving on the wrong side of the road because she was pissed – although Mrs B was never so vulgar as to use that word; she preferred ‘past the post’ – before remembering we were in France and it was, to be a little French for un moment, de rigueur. If not, le law. God my French was getting good. I felt I was almost fluent.

  ‘What are we doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Just driving around in the vain hope of . . .’ and then she suddenly squealed. ‘Thar she be!’ and pointed ahead.

  Miss Maxwell was coming out of a greengrocer’s with a carrier bag crammed with, no doubt, veg. She was checking something on her phone as she walked along a street to our left, then she looked up suddenly and started to run.

  ‘Has she seen us?’ I gasped, even though I knew it wasn’t possible. We were too far away and stuck at a red light.

  ‘No, I think she’s running for that bus.’ Mrs B pointed again and I looked. The lights changed and we saw Miss Maxwell hop on. ‘Bingo.’