‘Yeah sure, I’ll cheer you up in no time,’ he said brightly, with an absence of tact I knew he did not intend.
‘I’m not sure it’ll be that easy, Michael,’ I said harshly despite myself. ‘Someone I have known for most of her life is dead; a very good friend – two very good friends – have lost a sister. I need to deal with it. This is grown-up stuff. I’ll see you Saturday, now go and play football or something.’ I hung up and stormed the last twenty minutes home full of rage. I knew I had taken my anger out on him when he didn’t deserve it but I felt a nasty pleasure that for once the recipient hadn’t been me, and a seedy kind of triumph that despite my cruelty I would still see him Saturday morning, keen as a puppy.
Since then I’ve had my phone turned off. To avoid any more messages from Owen as much as anything else. It occurs to me that I should maybe sit down and think about the whole Owen thing, try and work out where he’s coming from, what he’s likely to do next, but I can’t and anyway I refuse to. For me to be dwelling on the mysterious ways of Owen is exactly what Owen wants. I put it out of my mind. He’ll get tired, some poor girl will take his fancy in a bar or a club or a library and he’ll leave me alone in favour of some novelty. Despite his self-delusion, not even Owen is so overdramatic as to keep this up for long.
The office seems quiet when I get in and I realise that I’m almost half an hour early, an eventuality that I never achieve by design, usually timing my departure from home to ensure that I am at least ten minutes late into the office, maybe more if the buses don’t come on time. I spend a moment trying to commune with the psyche of the rest of the city’s worker drones. How many of them get a kick out of going to work and how many, like me, see it as a way to fill time until real life starts in the evenings? Hmm, filling time. Probably shouldn’t be filling time when you don’t how much you’ve left. For some reason a memory of Josh’s desolate face as he hunched over the balcony railings after Ayla’s funeral flashed back to me.
I stare at this week’s filing and speculate on the reality of the paperless office as I look at the colour-coded and yet indecipherable array of Post-its that adorns my monitor.
Ayla used to love stationery.
I don’t know why I’ve suddenly remembered that. When she was eleven or twelve she used to collect reams of pretty writing paper and notelets, scented erasers and matching pencil-and-sharpener sets.
In fact, somewhere around here is the three-colour Tipp-Ex set she so longed for that I’d pinched for her a couple of years ago. I never did get around to giving it to her before she grew out of that phase and into aspiring after a belly piercing.
On impulse, I root around in my desk drawer and look for the set. I find an old toothbrush, a single earring and half a pot of glitter eye shadow, the other half of which has spilt over the rest of the drawer’s contents. Under the office lights’ fluorescent glow it gives off an oddly festive feel. Right at the bottom I find the Tipp-Ex set and right under that something else I’d forgotten. The application form for the journalism course I’d always wanted to apply to but had never got around to.
I lift it out of the drawer and gently blow the glitter remnants away. I think of the look on Ayla’s face when she used to pack her pencil case for a new term full of promise. I could fill it in, couldn’t I? I could send it off, see what happens.
And anyway, it would give me another reason to ignore that filing.
After completing the form and slipping it in with the work post, I wondered if my last phone call with Michael had constituted even more of a shift in the power balance of our relationship and if that was what I had actually wanted, actually meant by being so unkind. It made me think about the countless cruel things that Owen had said to me over the years. For the first time I think I understood him in a small way, understood his impulse to hurt other people rather than himself, to be in control. Thinking about Owen made me wonder what delights might lurk in my in-box this morning, or how many silent calls I might pick up. I thought about Ayla’s sixteen years of life and my thirty. And I made a decision. As soon as this time, this hiatus, is over I am changing everything. As soon as everything is back on an even keel I’m going to go back to college, or at least I’m going to do something. My birthday is in a few weeks. By the time the next one comes around I will have achieved some personal success, damn it.
Jackson is next in and he strides straight to my office and to my visitors’ chair, tipping it back on two legs, a habit he has probably picked up from Rosie. I smile to myself.
‘Hey,’ he says in an unusually downbeat tone.
‘Hey,’ I reply, with the false ring of an English person speaking American.
‘How are you doing?’ As we talk I go through my morning routine of booting up my tortoise-speed PC and opening internal mail envelopes stuffed full of invoices and external circulars offering me security guards or cut-price office furniture. I absently-mindedly bin what I hope is the junk mail.
‘Oh, not so bad. Well, terrible really,’ I smile at him wanly and he returns the favour, very sweetly not turning on his full-power smile.
‘Yeah, Rosie seems to be taking it pretty hard too.’
I fish an invoice out of the bin and replace it with a letter about water coolers that I had mistakenly shoved in the dark and rarely sorted world of my pending tray.
‘So, what is the deal with you and Rosie?’ I ask, in the vain hope he might tell me something she hasn’t.
‘Nothing, no deal. We’re friends. I’m hopelessly in love with her, of course,’ he says lightly, ‘but she’s got a whole lot of baby on her mind, not to mention a repentant ex-husband, and I’m going back to NY in less than a month. Friends is about all we can be.’ He nods, his handsome face a picture of resignation, and somewhere beneath the tan I detect a nuance of genuine sorrow. I have got so used to Jackson that I can’t believe he’s going back.
‘Less than a month? That’s gone quickly. But you’ll be back on a regular basis, won’t you? And as long as you’ve persuaded her not to go back to Chris, you never know what might happen,’ I say hopefully, watching the interminable turning of the PC egg-timer as it attempts to open my e-mail in-box.
‘Well, I gave it my best shot, it’s true. You never know what’s going to happen.’ He tips the chair back on to its four feet and rises. ‘Do you want to have lunch later?’ he throws over his shoulder as he leaves.
‘Lunch? Yeah, lovely.’
My unbelievably slow, unbelievably noisy, unbelievably archaic PC finally finishes its whirring and my in-box opens. Thirty-six new e-mails. I check them quickly: several from Georgie, a couple from Jackson, something jokey with an attachment from Selin that she sent on Monday, just a few hours before Ayla died. And the rest the usual complement from my colleagues throughout the building. Nothing that looks as though it might be from Owen. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Maybe he is somewhere out there still, hunched over some pay-as-you-go terminal in an internet café, sending me alliteration-heavy missives like there’s no tomorrow but they don’t get into my mail box, so they don’t really exist as far as I’m concerned. I’m just not going to think about him any more.
The relief makes me feel bold and I turn on my mobile. I wait with baited breath for it to ring to tell me I have messages but it is silent. There is one text message, however. I chew my lip as I open it, it’s from Michael.
‘sry sry. pls call. mxx.’ I look at it for a moment. I probably should call him and make him feel OK, confirm our plans for tomorrow morning but instead I delete it. I’ll think about him later. Right now I feel elated. Owen has finally found something better to do; I don’t have to think about him any more.
The afternoon runs down slowly and the absence of anything much to do has left me exhausted and almost looking forward to a quiet night in.
‘Bye then,’ I call to Jackson as I leave dead on five.
‘Yeah, bye, I’ll see you Monday,’ he calls back.
‘Yippee yi yay,’ I reply gluml
y as I exit the doors.
I have the bus-stop in sight when I feel a stranger’s hand fall heavily on my shoulder. I whirl round in shock, crashing the arm away with the full force of my forearm. My heart is pounding and I clutch my bag to my chest, thinking ‘Owen’, and ‘Don’t be such a fool’ in one brief moment of panic. I find myself glaring into Michael’s eyes.
‘For Christ’s fucking sake, you idiot, you scared the fucking shit out of me!’ I scream at him. No one around stops or bats an eyelid, lucky he isn’t about to murder me.
‘God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I called your name but you didn’t seem to hear me.’ Michael backs away from me, his palms raised to placate me. I look at him with disbelief and then I let him pull me into his arms and I am glad to have my face buried in his shoulder for a moment, breathing in his warm scent. Finally my blood pressure drops and I only feel incredibly tired.
‘Michael, why are you here? I told you I’d see you tomorrow,’ I say, watching hurt spread over his face as I finish my sentence. My bus comes around the corner and, wearily, I let it pass, tutting and sighing for his benefit.
‘I had to see you face to face, to find out if you’re still angry with me. If we are … you know. OK.’ I close my eyes and take a deep breath. He really scared me. I hadn’t realised that I could be so easily spooked.
‘Look, can we go somewhere to get a coffee and talk?’ he asks. I look up at a rain-filled sky. There is no reason why he shouldn’t come home with me tonight, Rosie will have gone by the time I get back, but for some reason the thought of spending this evening with him wears me out.
‘No, look, I’ve got plans for tonight. Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I listen to my patronising and detached tone with mild bewilderment. Who am I today?
‘I’ve made a twat out of myself, haven’t I?’ he says sullenly. Pity and regret flood my chest with warmth as I fold my arms around his waist. The look of relief and gratitude on his face makes me wince.
‘You haven’t, it’s just that we’d made an arrangement and I’ve already made plans. And this week has been tough, you know. I’m not at my best.’ I stand on tiptoe and softly kiss his warm mouth.
As we part he looks at me with a puzzled smile. ‘You’re always on best form for me,’ he says. I smile back at him but really I wish he’d stand up for himself a bit more. Another number 73 bus turns into the bus-stop and I start towards it, hoping to beat the throng for a seat.
‘Look, I’m getting this one. I’ll see you in the morning, OK? About ten-ish or something?’
‘OK. See you. Love you.’
I smile at him once more over my shoulder, but I don’t look back as I get on to the bus and I don’t turn to wave goodbye as the bus departs.
Chapter Forty-three
When I get in the flat is empty and in darkness and for a few seconds I wish I had brought Michael home with me.
Rosie has left me a note telling me she’ll be back Saturday evening around seven-ish and not to pinch all her biscuits. I smile as I take the packet out of the bread bin and help myself to one. Things with Rosie have been better since the funeral but not the way they used to be. Since I told her exactly what I think of Chris and how I feel about the whole thing we haven’t spoken about it. This used to be the sort of thing we’d talk over endlessly between us, working out a conclusion in unison, but it’s obvious that whatever she is going to decide it will be without my input, and it’s when the decision has been made that we’ll really find out where our friendship stands. I just don’t understand why she doesn’t see him as clearly as I do.
I phone Pizza Gogo and order a large vegetarian thin crust on the grounds that the vegetable content (i.e. sweet corn) makes it healthy, getting a kick out of watching the pizza man out of the living-room window as he picks up the phone and then, realising it’s his laziest customer, finds my face in the window and gives a little wave.
‘You come and get it, yes? Save my legs?’ he jokes as he takes my order.
‘No, no, your leaflet says free delivery within a five-mile radius, it doesn’t say anything about not delivering within a hundred-yard radius.’
He laughs and tells me fifteen minutes.
‘I’ll see you in half an hour then.’ I hang up.
I call Selin next, hoping she’ll be in and want half of my pizza. Her phone seems to ring for a long time before the answerphone picks up. I think she might be call screening.
‘Selin? It’s Jen, darling. Are you there? Pick up if you are? I’m home and I wanted to see how you are. I haven’t managed to get you for the last couple of days and I’m not around tomorrow, so I wanted to check in. Are you OK? Selin?’ Eventually I hang up and look at the phone for a moment. Rosie hasn’t managed to talk to her either. I try Selin’s mobile, but it’s switched off.
The family business had been closed all week but I just can’t bring myself to phone her at her parents’ house. I suppose she’d call us if she wanted us. We told her she could, she said she would. On impulse I call Josh’s mobile.
‘Jen,’ he says, answering in a couple of rings.
‘Hi, where are you?’ I ask routinely.
‘Um, walking along Clissold Park. Mum’s just fed me and I’m going home to try and get some kip. I was up all of last night and most of today. Thinking, you know. Trying to do some work.’
‘Right, of course. Listen, Josh. I haven’t been able to get hold of Selin. Was she at your mum’s? Is she OK?’ I listen to the sound of Josh’s breathing for a second.
‘Um, yes, she’s there.’ There is something he doesn’t want to tell me. I’m sure Selin blames me.
‘Do you think I should call her? I don’t want to intrude,’ I say, trying to work out what he’s thinking.
‘Maybe tonight isn’t the best night. Look, don’t worry about her, she’s being looked after, she’ll call you when she’s ready. You know Selin.’
Feeling rejected in some oblique way I start to feel sorry for myself.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy staying awake for a couple more hours to help me finish off a veggie pizza?’ I ask hopefully.
‘After one of Mum’s meals? Are you joking? She’s still cooking for … for six.’ He finishes the sentence quietly and I kick myself for being so insensitive.
‘Josh, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Look, take care and call me, OK?’ Another couple of beats of silence follow.
‘I could bring round some wine and watch you pig out, though,’ he says suddenly and my heart lifts. I hadn’t realised how much I didn’t want to be alone tonight, even though I’d turned down the pleasure of Michael’s company.
‘That would be really nice, if you’re sure,’ I say, trying to keep the potential pressure of gratitude out of my voice.
‘I’m sure. I’ll pop into the Venus 21 off-licence and I’ll be there in ten, OK?’
‘OK,’ I say, smiling to myself.
The pizza arrives and I shove it in the oven while I wait for Josh. Catching sight of myself in the hall mirror I quickly go into the bathroom, cleanse the mascara seepage from under my eyes and brush my hair back from my face. It seems pointless before pizza but I brush my teeth anyway and squirt on a bit of Rosie’s perfume.
He arrives a few minutes later with two bottles of wine, a couple of days’ stubble and hollows under his eyes that throw his cheekbones into stark relief.
‘Fuck, you really haven’t slept, have you?’ I say without thinking. He laughs.
‘So direct and to the point, as always. That’s my girl.’
Finally, with beakers of wine, Billie Holiday in the CD player and the pizza laid out before us, we settle on the sofa.
‘This is nice,’ I say. ‘I don’t mean, you know what I mean, I mean it’s ages since you and I have just hung out.’ Which isn’t strictly true, we’ve hung out a lot recently but everything before Ayla’s death now seems like light years away.
‘Yeah well, I usually have to try and catch you between bouts of Owen,’ he smiles wryly.
&n
bsp; ‘And I have to catch you between bouts of creative temptresses with a special line in papier mâché and henna hairdos,’ I retort for good measure.
‘Not any more, I’ve given them up. Can’t trust a girl who gets turned on by soggy paper and glue. I’m thinking maybe chicken wire and plaster of Paris might be my next avenue of romantic exploration.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Oh really? Well, I’ve given up Owen, so until chicken-wire girl comes along we can do this more often.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ he smiles. ‘Unless another fatally-flawed-personality boy comes along in the meantime.’
We both laugh at ourselves and take a large gulp from our glasses, holding each other’s gaze as we do so. I fill the glasses up again. We have silently agreed that we are going to get bladdered. Josh is sleep deprived and I haven’t eaten much today so it shouldn’t take too long. This means I’ll have a red-wine hangover for Michael in the morning. Oh well.
‘How are you holding up?’ I ask, not for the first time. ‘Stupid question really.’ The wine sizzles in my empty stomach.
‘Stupid? No, I’m holding up dreadfully.’ He takes another gulp of wine, emptying half of his glass in one go and topping it up again. I try and think about what I can do, what I can say. I can’t just not talk about Ayla, but I feel as if I shouldn’t simply let him sink into overtired drunken maudlin oblivion either. If I can’t be there for Selin I can try and rescue Josh in my own small way.
Suddenly an old memory pops into my head.
‘Do you remember when you had that girl up in your room, what was her name? You were about twenty, you must have been because we were in the lower sixth and Ayla was three. I bet you were trying to get your leg over and anyway, Ayla was just talking properly and we got her to run into your room and shout, “Josh is gonna do it! Josh is gonna do it!” at the top of her voice and your mum came storming up the stairs and dragged you out of that room by your ear. And that poor girl, what was her name? She ran out of there quicker than a bat out of hell. God, that made me laugh for weeks.’
Growing Up Twice Page 25
