The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘I would have asked,’ he said. ‘I would have wanted to know.’

  ‘I couldn’t ask,’ said Aishe. ‘It’s not like you know you’re pregnant instantly. It takes a few weeks. By that time, it was too late.’

  It sounded so plausible even Aishe almost believed it.

  ‘You never had one conversation with him about what he did? Never talked about where he’d come from? Where he was going?’

  ‘No.’

  Gulliver dropped his eyes to the camera and fiddled with the lens.

  ‘Why’d you even bother to learn his first name?’ he said. ‘Doesn’t seem much fucking point.’

  He flicked the lens open and shut. ‘I wish you’d never told me anything about him. If he didn’t have any name, he wouldn’t seem real. I wouldn’t think about him. Wouldn’t think about him being out there somewhere.’

  Aishe felt her heart lurch. She wanted to run to him and hold him tightly to her, like she’d always done when he was little, whenever he was upset or hurt. But he wasn’t little now, and hugs were no longer what he needed from her.

  I could tell him, she thought. Somehow I always imagined I would tell him. When he was older. When I wouldn’t have to worry so much about sharing him because he’d be independent, could make his own decisions.

  But now that he is older, she thought, now that he wants to know — I can’t tell him. I’ve lied all this time, that makes it impossible for me to tell the truth now. Because if I tell him, he will never, ever trust me again.

  He needs something, though. Some tiny bit of comfort …

  ‘Gulliver,’ Aishe said, ‘even if you had the chance to meet him, that doesn’t mean you’d connect with him, or him with you. Being a father is about more than contributing half the chromosomes.’

  She saw his mouth rise in smile, and braced herself. He met her eye. Aishe, expecting to see anger and resentment, was surprised to see only a mild resignation.

  ‘That’s kind of ironic,’ he said. ‘I got a Y, but not a who.’

  Then he bent and aimed the camera at the photo of the group taken at the wedding. His uncle, his cousin, his great-uncle all stared back at him.

  He said, ‘I guess these are the only men in my life now.’

  Benedict had left Aishe’s but he’d not gone home. He had four messages on his phone from Izzy already, and one from Eddie, who’d wanted him to help out at the rock school.

  It was dark, and while it wasn’t cold even now that it was early November, Benedict still zipped his leather jacket right to the top. He was sitting on a bench on a walkway that ran between houses. In daytime, the path was filled with joggers and cyclists and mothers and strollers. Now there was nobody.

  The lights were on in the houses on either side. People at home, having dinner, watching television with their families. If someone spots me here, Benedict thought, they’ll probably call the police. A strange young man in a biker’s jacket, sitting in the dark — he must be either on drugs or sizing up the easiest house to burgle. He can’t possibly just be sitting there because he’s desperate to be alone.

  Above the bench was a streetlight. It didn’t give out much light, but it was enough for Benedict to see the photo he was holding in his hand. Not that I need light, he thought. This image is etched in my memory, because it’s the only one I have.

  It was a photo of himself, at age four or five, sitting with his mother on a beach. Benedict had no recollection of where the beach had been — Cornwall? Devon? In fact, he had very little recollection of the day, and wondered if what he did remember was only due to the fact that he’d carried this photo with him ever since leaving for boarding school at age eleven. It was a small photo, easily hidden, or he would never have taken it with him. I wasn’t actually a mummy’s boy, he thought, but the risk of being thought one was far too great for me to bring the photo out into the open.

  What he remembered had been captured in the photo: he and his mother building a sand castle. She was wearing a blue one-piece swimsuit (his father would never have allowed her out in a bikini), and a wide-brimmed straw hat decked with fake flowers that she jokingly called her donkey hat. The photographer had captured her on her knees, shaping with care a last turret on the castle of damp sand. Benedict was beside her, also on his knees, a small yellow flag in hand, waiting to place it triumphantly on top of the turret and declare the castle complete. His expression was half eager, half terrified: eager to place the flag, but terrified his mother’s turret would collapse and they’d have to start all over again.

  I’ve no idea where I got the flag, he thought. Perhaps she bought it for me? It’s unlikely that he did.

  I know my father took this photo. But because I can’t see him, Benedict thought, I can so easily pretend he was never there. In my memory, it was just my mother and I, indulging in a joyful, inconsequential piece of play.

  I wish I had been able to contact you, he said to the woman in the photo. But I did not want to make it any easier for him. I know you’ll know that’s why, and I hope you’ve understood. I hope you’ve forgiven me for not being braver.

  28

  ‘Don’t look,’ said Michelle to Connie under her breath. ‘Don’t look, don’t look, don’t—’

  ‘Oh, there’s Becca.’ Connie waved.

  ‘Jesus fuck! I told you not to look.’

  Connie leaned forward. ‘This isn’t a big restaurant. We’re right near the entrance. The odds of her not seeing us were slim.’

  ‘That’s because she has evil laser vision,’ said Michelle. ‘A telescopic bitch scope.’

  ‘Ssh,’ said Connie. ‘She’s coming over.’

  ‘You,’ said Michelle, ‘have gone right to the top of my shit list.’

  ‘Connie. How lovely to see you.’

  Becca was beside them. She was wearing a severely minimalist long-sleeved panelled dress in grey and black. It stopped above two knees that reminded Michelle of Rosie’s teeth aginst her gum just before they started cutting: the bony nubs of Becca’s knees seemed to strain against her skin in the same way, as if they were about to erupt through. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that clearly doubled as a facelift, Michelle decided. I hope that elastic band is extra sturdy. If it snaps, her whole face will collapse inwards, like a failed soufflé.

  Becca stooped to kiss the airspace next to Connie’s cheek. She was smiling, observed Michelle, but it was stiff, fixed — a smile for form only. Becca’s true state of mind was shown by her eyes, which were travelling around the room, scanning it for anyone who might be more important than us, Michelle decided. And no doubt for enemies, too — like the Cylons in the old version of Battlestar Galactica.

  God, now it’s my turn, thought Michelle, as Becca aimed the smile in her direction. This will go one of two ways. She’ll either pretend to have forgotten who I am, to make me feel like an insignificant speck, or she’ll make a pointed reference to my behaviour at the dinner, to make me feel like a drunken slob.

  ‘Michelle,’ said Becca. ‘It is Michelle, isn’t it? I didn’t get much chance to talk to you the other night before Chad had to take you home.’

  Impressive, thought Michelle. A double hitter. Hook, cross! Ka-pow!

  Bet she wouldn’t be so smug if she knew her nanny was shagging mine. Pity I can’t tell her, thought Michelle. Don’t want to get Izzy fired.

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’ Michelle smiled. ‘Mrs Chad. Which one was your husband again?’

  ‘Jay,’ said Becca. ‘He’s the Senior Vice-President of Hedging.’

  ‘Hedging, eh?’ said Michelle. ‘Connie, is Phil also in Hedging?’

  ‘Phil is in Equity Derivatives,’ said Becca. ‘Isn’t that right, Connie?’

  ‘Yes, Becca,’ said Connie.

  Michelle resisted the temptation to kick her friend’s shin under the table. Goddamnit, Connie! Don’t be so freaking meek!

  ‘Becca, won’t you join us?’ said Connie.

  And that, my girl, thought Michelle, has earned you a pla
ce on my special shit list. But don’t worry — it’ll take a miracle to bump Gwyneth Paltrow off top spot.

  ‘I’m meeting Sissy. You remember Sissy,’ Becca said to Michelle. ‘She was at dinner too. She’s married to Elliot.’

  Doesn’t ring a bell, thought Michelle. There was a woman called Bitchface. But no — I don’t recall a Sissy.

  Becca’s phone beeped and she pulled it impatiently from her bag. As she read the text, her mouth thinned.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  She shoved the phone back in her bag and expelled a sound like ‘tchah’.

  ‘Sissy’s cancelled,’ she said. ‘That’s the second time she’s done this to me. So incredibly self-centred. I really will have to say something.’

  Why bother? thought Michelle. Why not just make her die the death of a thousand cutting remarks? Although it sounds like she has a hide like yours, in which case the only real option for death would be a .44 Magnum to the head.

  ‘Then do join us, Becca,’ said Connie, ignoring Michelle’s warning glare. ‘They haven’t taken our order yet. We’ve really only just sat down.’

  ‘Oh, why not?’ Becca made it sound like the second-worst of two very bad offers. ‘Get them to set another place.’

  As it happened, a waiter was hovering anxiously. Becca was the kind of woman who induced anxious hovering in waiters, thought Michelle. A third place was set and a menu offered. Becca waved it away.

  ‘Bring me the chicken salad, with no almonds or avocado. And no stone fruit or kiwi. I assume the lettuce is cos and not iceberg. Make sure it’s extremely well-washed — and air-dried only.’

  ‘Mm-mm,’ said Michelle. ‘That sounds delicious. Connie, what are you having?’

  ‘Oh.’ Connie’s smile up at the waiter was tentative. ‘Oh, I think I’ll have the same.’

  ‘Connie?’ Michelle adopted a sing-song tone of enquiry. ‘Is that what you really want?’

  ‘Connie has a constant battle with her weight,’ said Becca. ‘Most of the time you win though, don’t you, Connie?’

  Connie flushed and nodded to indicate that the waiter was now hovering next to Michelle, waiting.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Michelle said to him. ‘I’ll have the cheeseburger.’

  When the waiter had taken the menus and hurried off, Michelle added, ‘I was going to have the roast chicken, but it’s only a mere six hundred and ninety calories, whereas that cheese-filled sucker is a whopping nine-ninety. If my weight wants a battle, then I say — bring it!’

  She didn’t miss the glance that Becca shot Connie. It said, unmistakably, that everything Becca had decided about Michelle at that dinner had now been confirmed. Michelle was a fat lush with a foul mouth, who lived in shitty new-money Marin.

  Thing is, thought Michelle, I couldn’t give a flying fuck if Becca thinks me a simpering fool who wears a panty-girdle and takes secret slugs of the vanilla essence. The list of people whose opinions I value is short enough. The world could freeze up and thaw out again before Becca would make the cut.

  But Connie doesn’t think that way, Michelle realised. Connie cares very much what Becca thinks. The woman who has the brains to conquer Joyce and patience and wisdom to rival Gandhi cares about the opinion of a woman whose flesh has been melted off her bones by her own bile. Why did Connie bother to go to a clinic to get an acid-peel, thought Michelle? She could have just paid Becca to lick her face.

  Right, Michelle decided. Gloves off.

  ‘How’s your new nanny working out, Becca?’ she said. ‘I hear she’s quite the fresh-faced young stunner.’

  Becca didn’t even blink. ‘She’s a moron. If every other nanny in the Bay Area wasn’t a Hispanic illegal with crappy English, I’d fire her tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Connie. ‘I thought she was sweet.’

  ‘Marshmallow is sweet, Connie,’ said Becca, ‘and its nutritional value is roughly equivalent to Isabel’s IQ.’

  ‘What does Kay think?’ said Michelle.

  ‘Who?’ Becca frowned.

  ‘Oh, right. I mean Jay.’

  ‘Jay? He sees her for thirty seconds a week, if that. So of course he thinks she’s a honey.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ Michelle said, ‘thirty seconds isn’t enough for him to do any honey-dipping.’ Her gaze became mock-innocent. ‘Or maybe it is?’

  ‘Jay won’t screw the help,’ said Becca without hesitating. ‘He has a whore up in Portrero who does the whole pointy-boots thing with him. Keeps him happy.’

  ‘Becca!’

  Michelle was grateful for Connie’s exclamation. It gave her time to pick her jaw up off the tabletop. Maybe I’ve misjudged Becca? she thought. I’ve pegged her as an uptight, hyper-critical, vengeful bitch. But perhaps those qualities have their upside?

  ‘Doesn’t bother me,’ said Becca to Connie. ‘Keeps him out of any messy situations with domestics or girls in the office. I mean, you can pay them off, but all the weeping and phone calls and carry on — it just gets tiresome.’

  Becca held up her glass of water. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘It’s whores for us from now on.’ She took a sip, and added, ‘You should suggest it to Phil, Connie.’

  Connie touched her hand to her chest. ‘Oh, no! No, Phil wouldn’t want to do that kind of thing. I mean — he simply wouldn’t.’

  ‘Really.’ Becca was still for a moment. Then she shrugged. ‘OK.’

  The waiter arrived with their food. Michelle noted that he served Becca first.

  Connie waited until he was well out of earshot. ‘I know some men have a high sex-drive,’ she said, and blushed. ‘But Phil — well, he doesn’t go without, let’s put it that way.’

  ‘It’s not just about sex, Connie,’ said Becca. ‘It’s as much about stroking their egos as it is about stroking their dicks. The whole power-play and adrenalin rush — the kind of high they get from work is what they’re after when it’s after work. If you follow me.’

  She picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of lettuce. ‘I’m sure Phil is happy as a lark being married to you, Connie. But when those phone calls start coming — which, according to Jay, should be any day now — don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Aishe was in the shelter van with Nico, seriously considering making a pass at him.

  Fuck it, she thought. What have I got to lose? OK, yes, there’s my place at the shelter. But if Nico says yes, then he’s hardly likely to fire me. So I’ll get laid and I’ll be able to stay.

  Nico is not interested in you, said the voice, and you know it. You’re just acting up because you’re feeling lonely and old and unattractive. You’re feeling you’ve lost your control over men. Sex used to be your weapon of choice, but lately it’s been turned against you. Eddie — you let him take charge, you submitted, you gave in. Benedict — he doesn’t want you any more, because even though you did your damndest to flay every inch of pride from his being, you failed. And now he’s found someone else. Someone younger and arguably prettier, who doesn’t make it her sole mission to grind him to dust under her heel.

  Fuck you, Frank, said Aishe in her head. Fuck you, Eddie, Benedict, Jonas and Uncle Jenico. Fuck all men who want to fuck with my life!

  Aishe thumped back in the passenger seat so hard that Nico glanced at her, startled.

  ‘Something up?’ he said.

  ‘Nope.’

  Nico couldn’t help observing that Aishe’s arms were folded so tight it looked like she was wearing a straitjacket.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said after a beat. Then he said, ‘You up for this? Because if not, you can stay in the van.’

  Aishe gave him a baleful stare. ‘It’s just some moron who can’t take care of a dog. It’s not a case of abuse.’

  ‘And I’d rather it didn’t turn into one,’ said Nico, ‘so could you keep your thoughts about morons to yourself?’

  Aishe silently added Nico to her list of men who could go fuck themselves.

  They were driving into a newly built area. Even though the road was public,
it had the air of a gated community. Rows of matching houses, neat and large, with billiard-baize lawns and driveways filled with SUVs so clean you could see your reflection in the hubcaps. Nico’s van was dusty and battered, patched up with mismatched paint. If it didn’t have the cute, bright animal-shelter logo on the side, thought Aishe, we’d have been pulled over by the neighbourhood cops before we’d got two feet. Protecting smug suburbanites from undesirables. Bet that makes them feel like real policeman.

  As if he’d read her mind, Nico said, ‘A guy I went to school with is a cop in Oakland. He told me they get more call-outs in two hours than cops round here get in two weeks. And you know what the cops here mainly get called out for?’

  ‘Burglary?’

  ‘Nope. Most of these people have their alarms rigged up to private security firms. They pay through the nose but at least they get action. Cops won’t prioritise burglary call-outs unless people have been threatened or hurt. No,’ said Nico, ‘the main crime the cops here deal with is domestic violence.’ He glanced around. ‘Hard to imagine. Looks lemon-fresh to me.’

  ‘Looks like hell to me,’ said Aishe.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Nico. ‘Not all of us have the good fortune to be working-class heroes.’

  Aishe couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

  ‘OK, here we are.’

  Nico changed down and pulled alongside the curb. The van gave its usual rattle and cough as he switched off the ignition. Nico patted the wheel and said, ‘Good girl. Be sure to start again for me, won’t you, sweetheart?’

  He saw Aishe’s disbelieving look.

  ‘Bit of tenderness never hurts,’ he said with a smile.

  Aishe frowned. ‘Are you married?’

  Nico looked mildly alarmed. ‘Married? No. Why?’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘Aishe,’ said Nico, ‘there’s a woman in that house who wants to give us a dog. She’s desperately eager to give us the dog. Let’s not keep her waiting.’

  On the drive up, Nico had told Aishe that the woman had got a black Labrador puppy for her child, as company for the little boy after her husband had walked out on them six months ago. She hadn’t been able to handle the dog at all, and had rung the shelter to beg them to collect it. Aishe had no tolerance for people who thought puppies would somehow take care of themselves — would just sit around looking appealing as if they were stuffed toys. Those people, she firmly believed, should be forced to pay a hefty fine for a) animal neglect and b) terminal stupidity.