‘I did it,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got a nanny.’
And the reason I’m not more pissed off and resentful about having to organise it myself, she thought, is the one I’m just about to reveal. My ace in the hole …
‘He starts Monday.’
Chad blinked. ‘Sorry? He?’
‘Yup. His name’s Benedict.’
‘Benedict?’ Chad frowned. ‘He’s — what? A Catholic priest?’
‘Nope. Just your typical English public schoolboy.’
Chad gave her a look. ‘Is that better or worse than a Catholic priest?’ He screwed up his face. ‘Mitch, is it such a good idea to have a man looking after our kids? I mean — how much do you know about him?’
‘Not a whole lot.’ Michelle shrugged. ‘He tutors the son of a friend of mine.’
‘Which friend?’
‘No one you know.’
Chad paused. ‘Are you doing this deliberately? To get back at me?’
‘Have you organised anything nanny-wise?’
‘I’ve asked around.’
‘In other words, no.’
‘Mitch.’ Chad sounded weary. ‘I’m busy. And what do I know about nannies anyway?’
‘You said you would organise it.’
‘I said no such thing.’ Chad waved the beer bottle in the air. ‘You told me I had to!’
‘Well then.’ Michelle folded her arms. ‘You didn’t say you wouldn’t.’
‘Jesus.’ Chad blew out a breath. ‘I guess that’s what I get for marrying a lawyer.’
Even though her anger these days was on constant simmer, Michelle was taken aback by just how furious that comment made her. She wanted to hit him, she realised. She wanted to hit him so badly her hand was actually twitching.
Why? she wondered. Was it the offhand way in which he’d said it? So disrespectful — so disdainful. Or was it the realisation that while she may once have been a lawyer, she was certainly not one now? And probably never would be again. Because all she wanted to be now was a mother. And a wife …
‘Do you still want to be married to me?’
Michelle’s anger spiked again as Chad rolled his eyes.
‘Don’t be stupid, Mitch.’ He gestured at the doorway. ‘Come on. Move. I’m bushed.’
‘No!’ Michelle moved further into the space. ‘No, goddamnit! It’s a fair question. You’re barely around and when you are, you may as well not be. You don’t talk to me. You don’t show affection. You don’t even seem to like me much very any more. I don’t feel like we’ve moved house — I feel like I’ve been banished to some bad-wife gulag. You tell me it’s because of work. Does that mean work is the most important thing in your life now? Is this how I can expect my life to be from now on?’
‘Mitch …’ Chad rubbed the back of his free hand across his brow. ‘You’re good at telling me what you want. Have you ever stopped to ask yourself what I want?’
The question surprised Michelle, and the realisation that the answer was ‘no’ filled her with a guilt she disliked so much that she instantly sublimated it into resentment.
‘You’ve got the big job,’ she said sullenly. ‘You get to come home when you like, and you never have to think about anything but work — because the rest of your life is all taken care of for you. Aren’t you getting everything you want?’
Chad stared. ‘And you wonder why I never talk to you,’ he said.
As her husband pushed past her into the living room, Michelle felt her insides become the emotional equivalent of a pinball machine, ricocheting between anger and resentment before dropping down into the dark hole of fear and regret that signified game over.
I blew it, she admitted to herself. I’ve been blowing it all along, if truth be told. He’s right — all I’ve done from the start is gotten shitty with him and loaded him up with a litany of demands. I never asked, way back when in Charlotte, why he really wanted this job. I never asked what it meant to him. And even if he’d told me, I probably wouldn’t have heard him; I was too intent on berating him for ruining my life.
I had my chance just now to ask the questions I should have asked back then, and I blew it.
And the way things are going, I’m not so sure another chance will come.
‘You’re just doing it because you fancy her.’
Aishe ripped the top off a sachet of sugar and dumped its contents into her espresso. Normally she didn’t take sugar, but today she felt in need of some extra energy.
‘I certainly fancy her money,’ said Benedict. ‘Do you know how much she’s offered to pay me?’
‘No.’ Aishe stirred her coffee and clattered the spoon down onto the saucer. ‘And don’t tell me. I’ll puke.’
‘What would you prefer?’ Benedict picked up his own cup. ‘Being ogled by family-sized sons of the road while you pour coffee, or reacquainting yourself with the joys of soiled nappies and infinite choruses of The Wheels on the Bus?’
‘It’s not like I have a choice,’ muttered Aishe. ‘I can’t believe she asked you, though. What qualifications do you have besides being desperate and available?’
‘If you’d read my resumé,’ Benedict replied, ‘you’d have noticed that between fruit picking in New Zealand and my exceptionally brief stint as a valet-parking attendant at the Waikoloa Beach Hilton, I worked in a child-care centre in east Kalgoorlie, the jewel of Western Australia.’
‘Did they not reference-check you?’
‘They did have a reference but it was for a Martin Hopkins, who I’d met on the train to Perth. Martin had been listening to tales of the mines and was convinced that gouging out ore under the blistering sun would be a more lucrative career than mixing up playdough for nippers. I had no job prospects whatsoever, so he kindly offered me his.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Good thing they never asked to look at my passport.’
‘That is so wrong,’ said Aishe, ‘I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never blagged your way into a job?’
‘Pretty much every job,’ Aishe admitted. ‘Except for the waitressing. All I needed for that was breasts.’
Benedict hesitated. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’
‘No.’
‘It’s about your financial situation,’ he said, ‘not your love life.’
‘Still no.’
Benedict ignored her and pressed on. ‘How on earth do you survive on waitressing pay alone? You work only four mornings a week, which by my calculation — being intimately familiar with the minimum wage — should barely keep you in tacos, let alone pay the rent for that house. Did you rob a bank somewhere along the line?’
‘Oh, look,’ said Aishe. ‘There’s Angel and Malcolm. Let’s go and sit with them.’
‘Damn it! Will you ever have a proper conversation with me?’
Aishe blinked at him. ‘What do you mean a proper conversation?’
Benedict waved his hand helplessly. ‘A proper conversation. One that’s more than superficial. The kind that friends have.’
Aishe spoke clearly and distinctly, as if to an infant or imbecile. ‘But we’re not friends.’
‘Then why the hell are you here?’ Benedict said. ‘Why bother to have any conversation with me at all?’ He leaned forward and jabbed a finger at her. ‘Seriously, what is your problem with me? There are occasions when I catch you looking at me as if you were wishing me at least six feet under. I thought it was just because you resented spending the money on me, but it’s not, is it? It’s something deeper. And I think you owe it to me to explain.’
Aishe became aware that, of the occupants of the café, only Xavier behind the counter was making an effort to pretend to not be interested. By contrast, Angel and Malcolm had shifted their seats so that they were now effectively ringside. Angel beamed and saluted her with his coffee cup, as if to say ‘Carry on’.
‘Well?’ Benedict demanded.
‘Si,’ Aishe heard Angel say. ‘Por qué? The hot young lover’s question see
m reasonable.’
‘Why the hell do you care if I’m friends with you or not?’ Aishe said.
‘That’s at least the third variant of that bloody question you’ve thrown at me,’ said Benedict. ‘It’s not an answer.’
‘No, it is a tactic that is very — how you say in English?’ Angel asked Malcolm. ‘Evading?’
‘Evasive,’ said Malcolm. ‘Effective, though. Attack is always the best form of defence.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Aishe snapped. ‘Look, if you want to tell me all your personal shit then go on — get it off your chest.’
‘Again, not an answer.’
‘Is like Frost/Nixon,’ said Angel to Malcolm.
‘Or Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men,’ said Malcolm. ‘“You can’t handle the truth!”’ he bellowed.
‘What is your problem with me?’ Benedict asked again. ‘You accused me once of being a sifter. Is that it?’
‘That’s a pretty good reason, don’t you think?’
‘We’re not talking about what I think. I’m trying to God-damn-Christ-bloody-hell find out what you think!’
‘And then what?’ Aishe said.
Benedict sank back in his chair. ‘Unbelievable. It’s like we’re speaking in different languages.’
‘That is what happens when I talk to myself,’ said Angel. ‘Sometimes I do not know whether I am — what is that phrase?’
‘Coming or going?’
‘No, another one.’
‘Do they have to be here?’ Benedict murmured.
‘Arthur or Martha?’
‘Si! That is what I do not know.’
‘But you do know that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness,’ said Malcolm.
‘Is that like the seven signs of ageing?’ said Angel. ‘I already have many of those. The lines, the pores. Although I have not the uneven skin tone. I put that down to olive oil.’
Malcolm looked interested. ‘Ingested or applied?’
‘Is it because of Gulliver?’ Benedict said quietly. ‘Is three a crowd?’
Aishe suddenly felt as vulnerable as if she’d been stripped naked and forced to walk down a crowded public street. Her small store of respect for Benedict had been pulverised. In that one sentence, he had revealed himself as the enemy she’d always suspected him to be.
She gathered herself to go on the attack, but some instinct made her hold fire. The most dangerous thing she could do right now was to place Gulliver between her and Benedict. A crack had opened in her relationship with her son and Aishe had no desire for it to widen. And if Gulliver felt a need to side with anyone at this point, Aishe knew it was unlikely to be her.
No, no, no. She could not afford to set herself against Benedict. He was an enemy, but he needed to be disarmed, not killed. How on earth could she do that?
Then she thought — look at him. He’s not as self-assured as he comes across. He’s lonely. Really lonely. Why else would he keep pushing the friendship barrow when she was such a bitch to him? And he fancied her — she knew he did. No matter how much he admired Michelle, he’d still pick Aishe first. That wasn’t ego. That was fact. And if she took it that far, he’d do anything she said …
‘What the fuck is a meme?’ she asked.
‘It’s … a website,’ Benedict said cautiously. ‘They’re characters that have been drawn to humorously represent certain — well, human foibles, I suppose.’
‘Rage Guy.’
‘That’s one, yes.’
‘And the Troll? What does he do? Apart from bastardise Shakespeare?’
‘Annoys people. In essence.’
Aishe nodded slowly. Then she said, ‘Show me.’
Benedict opened his mouth and then shut it again. ‘If I show you,’ he began, ‘does this mean we’re now on friendly terms? Forgive me for asking. I’m finding it hard to keep up with your rapid volte-face.’
‘Lo que es esa palabra?’ demanded Angel. ‘Speak English like the rest of us!’
‘Too late, they’ve gone,’ Malcolm remarked. ‘They seemed to be in quite a hurry.’
‘Did she answer him? I did not hear. Too busy demanding.’
‘She gave him a look.’
‘What kind of look?’
Malcolm demonstrated.
Angel was outraged. ‘How come I no see this look?’
‘You were too busy being outraged.’
‘It is the Spanish temperament,’ said Angel. ‘Hot blooded. The red mist rise. Like a bull in the ring when the matador cloak flash.’
‘Hot flashes!’ said Malcolm. He raised his coffee cup. ‘Olé to that!’
13
‘Maybe I should have an affair with him,’ Michelle was saying. ‘He’s cute enough to be a threat. Whereas if I told Chad I was having it off with my sixty-year-old landlord, I’d just sound like a desperate saddo.’
She pushed the cake plate across the kitchen table. Aishe shook her head and noted that Michelle set the plate to one side with some reluctance.
‘What do you think?’ Michelle asked. ‘Would it be worth doing the whole Mrs Robinson routine?’
Aishe silently blessed her years of practice at keeping a straight face. When you’re pretty, authority figures were often more inclined to believe you were innocent, but not always. That’s when the ability to confidently deliver a bare-faced lie while maintaining steady eye-contact came into play. Aishe had once convinced a customs official on the German/Swiss border that her visa details were out of date because of a bureaucratic cock-up in Italy. It was her choice of Italy that swung it. Everyone knew how useless the Italians were. Could not find their ridiculous handmade shoes if their feet were in them. The German customs official even chuckled a little as he stamped her through.
Her talent for deception was being fully utilised at the present. As Aishe pretended to consider Michelle’s request, her mind was being bombarded with memories of yesterday afternoon.
Gulliver had left for rock school but was due back in an hour, so Aishe knew there was no time to waste. Benedict had been a little alarmed at the speed at which she’d initiated the removal of clothes. She’d not thrown him on the bed exactly, but he’d been taken sufficiently unawares to emit a small yelp of surprise. He’d even let her roll on the condom.
‘Ah — foreplay?’ he’d just managed to ask before the question became redundant.
Then it was Aishe who’d been surprised. She’d expected to be repelled by his skinniness, to find him all ribs, pointed elbows and scrawny limbs. She’d expected him to be boyishly inept — after all, how often must he get the chance to practise? The odd quick shag in a doorway with a drunken chalet girl did not a competent lover make.
But he’d been good. Quite astonishingly good. Intuitive, thoughtful, skilful. Aishe had found her self-control slipping away like the end of a climbing rope on which she hung suspended. For a panicked instant she’d made a last grab, but then had simply given up and let go.
Afterwards, they’d lain there, side by side, not saying a word. Then Benedict had checked his watch, and in the scramble to get dressed before Gulliver came home, there’d been no time to say anything but ‘Quick, throw me those!’
He’d turned up today as usual, in time for her to leave for her waitressing job, but there had not been a Gulliver-free moment. Now, Benedict was soon to arrive at Michelle’s house. He had taken the children to the playground, and it would be less than half an hour before he was walking in the door. This time, they’d be surrounded. Unless they locked themselves in the bathroom, there’d be no chance to talk freely.
Aishe wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to him anyway. Her plan had been to keep him dangling with sporadic acts of sex that she could easily distance herself from. After yesterday, she felt part of that plan had somehow gone awry.
But in the meantime, here was Michelle, waiting for an answer. Aishe doubted her question had been serious, but decided it was best to respond as if it was.
‘Would your marr
iage survive an affair?’
‘It certainly wouldn’t if Chad had one,’ Michelle said with glum resignation. ‘Sod it. I suppose I could drop hints to unsettle him, but even that might backfire. He might confront the poor boy. Worse, he might insist I fire him.’
‘What exactly,’ said Aishe, ‘are you aiming to achieve here?’
‘Exactly? No idea.’ Michelle confessed. ‘I don’t know. I want to jerk him out of this complacent bloody routine of his. I suppose I want him to notice me again.’
‘He noticed you that night you went to dinner,’ Aishe said.
‘Yes, thanks for that,’ said Michelle sourly.
‘It’s a tactic, though, isn’t it?’
‘What? Getting shit-faced and embarrassing everyone?’
‘If you kept it up, he’d have had to do something.’
Michelle sat back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘Hmm. I see what you’re getting at. Sort of the Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? approach. The mutual hatred was what kept the marriage together. That and the flagrant alcoholism, of course.’
‘Probably at the extreme end of what you’re aiming for,’ said Aishe. ‘Although there is something to be said for hate sex.’
‘God, yes, isn’t there?’ Michelle agreed.
Aishe couldn’t quite meet her eye.
Suddenly, Michelle sat up. ‘What about the opposite approach? What if I became the best wife ever?’
‘Like who? Marion from Happy Days? The Brady Bunch mother?’
‘Close. Very close. By God!’ Michelle gave a grim smile. ‘He’d certainly notice that. He’d sit up like a dog and bark.’
‘And how do you plan to pull this off? No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said Michelle. ‘And in answer to your question, my plan is not to make it obvious that I’m trying to manipulate his arse. I’m going to make subtle, incremental changes. Take it step by Stepford, you might say.’
‘Do you have Phil’s home phone number?’ Michelle asked Chad.
It was Saturday night, and Harry and Rosie had just been put to bed. Michelle was now dishing out the adult portions of a chicken pie that was Chad’s favourite. The smell of buttery pastry and creamy filling was driving him temporarily insane with hunger, thus preventing him from fully focusing on her question.
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 11
