‘I love Clare,’ Patrick continued. ‘I admire her, and I respect her. But since we had Tom—’ He looked both defiant and embarrassed. ‘I’m starting to resent her. But that’s the problem — I’m not sure why.’
‘Well, what do you mean by resent her?’ said Michelle. ‘What’s she doing that’s making you feel that way?’
‘It’s like—’ Patrick was struggling to find the words. ‘She’s always been ambitious. Shot up the career ladder. Stayed at work till the last minute when she was pregnant. Hated the thought that people might think she was a gold-digger for marrying me — had to prove she could make her own money, be successful on her own merits. You know what I mean?’
Michelle nodded. ‘I share a few of those traits myself.’
She saw that Patrick wasn’t really listening and shut up again.
‘So now that she’s a mother,’ he was saying, ‘it’s like it’s become some sort of fucking competition. Can Clare King be the greatest mother in all the world? She’s determined to do all the right things — and better than anyone else. Tom will be healthier, smarter, more talented and successful than any kid in the known universe. That’s her plan.’ He lifted his hand in a helpless gesture. ‘Trouble is, she’s also determined to do it all herself. It’s like it’s her and Tom are this tight little unit, with me hovering around the perimeter like a spare wotsit at a wedding.’
Michelle hid a smile. ‘Call me crazy, but I think that might be the cause of the resentment right there. You’re feeling left out.’
Patrick glowered at her. ‘You make me sound bloody childish. Raising a baby’s not like musical chairs.’
‘Have you talked to her about it?’
This time Patrick glowered at his eggs instead. ‘She’s so determined this is how it has to be,’ he said. ‘Not sure I can persuade her otherwise.’
Which means no, thought Michelle. What is it with men and talking? she wondered. She recalled what she’d said to Anselo: we’re afraid that if we let our fears out into the open, somehow that will ensure they come true.
Michelle watched Harry making his way steadily through his waffle. So like his father to look at, she thought. But in personality, Harry was his own self.
Have I tried to mould him, she thought? A little. But I’ve stopped short of trying to make him something he’s not. Have I ever wished he had a different personality? That he was braver, faster, stronger? Oh yes.
‘Secretly,’ she said to Patrick, ‘every parent would love to find a way to ensure their children are never vulnerable. If we could, we’d make our kids so emotionally and physically robust that nothing and no one would ever hurt them. It’s because the thought of them being hurt, even a little, is appalling. It’s our worst nightmare, to the power of ten. It pushes every primordial button we have.’
Patrick stared at her. ‘You’re saying that Clare’s become a control freak because she’s afraid?’
There were benefits to being hungover, Michelle decided. The throbbing behind her eyes and the surges of nausea had been a useful distraction from the anxiety that continued to churn up her insides.
Chad is coming home tomorrow, she thought. I don’t know exactly when but my instinct is that he will eke out as much of this time as possible and I won’t see him until near the end of the day. He’ll come home for the children’s dinnertime, the way he always used to. He’ll be there for their bath and bed, and then we’ll be alone together, for the first time in four weeks. And I can’t even begin to imagine what he’ll say to me.
‘The scariest thing in the world,’ Michelle said to Patrick, ‘is having no clue how it’s all going to turn out.’
31
Aishe had expected a visit from Patrick in the morning. She didn’t want him to visit, but when he hadn’t turned up by the time she needed to leave for the animal shelter, she felt annoyingly put out. Fuck him then, she thought. See if I care.
Gulliver had spent all morning out at band practice, in preparation for the upcoming concert. The father of one of the other rock school kids had picked him up — in, Aishe noted, a brand new Audi Q7 SUV. And what an ugly, planet-fucking, social-climbing piece of metal it was, Aishe decided. I’m glad Gulliver’s got friends, but I don’t think I’ll be introducing myself to their folks any time soon. They’ll be the kind who have dinner parties where they discuss the value of their houses and their share portfolios, she thought. I’d sooner stub out a lighted cigarette on my eyeball.
Alone in the house, Aishe had picked up an Ian Rankin novel and tried to read, but had found her mind hijacked by both Patrick and Benedict. Thoughts about Patrick were easier to deal with, because the reaction they provoked was simple fury. If the family had sent Patrick here in yet another attempt to tell her how to live her life, then the family could go fuck themselves. In fact, she saw no reason why her conversation with Patrick need consist of any more words than those. She’d exchanged considerably more with Anselo, the family’s last, failed, emissary. But ninety per cent of them had been unnecessary, and had diminished much of the sense of triumph from the victory. I regret a lot of the things I said to him, thought Aishe. Mostly, I regret that it was the last time we talked.
Thoughts about Benedict were more problematic. It was no trouble to come up with a litany of complaints about him: a mere boy, a smart-arse, a drifter, a spineless lily-livered stick insect who could be pussy-whipped by even the most egregious of bimbos. But every time she’d mentally skewered him, pinned him savagely like a voodoo doll, she’d recall how good his hands felt on her skin, how he smiled down at her with genuine pleasure and affection as she lay there in the post-orgasmic glow that he’d elicited. How he looked when there was no doubt that he was crazy about her. How few people over the years had looked at her like that …
Aishe threw the book across the room. It hit the wall, bounced and skittled the photographs on the bookshelf. The one of Frank landed hard on the one of her brothers and sisters, and she heard the sharp snap of glass.
‘Shit,’ she said and hurried to scoop the frames up off the floor.
The photo of the Herne siblings was intact. But on the other, the glass was cracked, right across Frank’s face. Aishe knew that she could easily replace the frame, that the photograph could go back on the shelf, as good as new. But the tears still pricked and if the glass had not been loose, she would have cradled the broken frame to her chest.
Instead, she gently laid Frank’s photo flat on the shelf and set the photo of her family back where it had been. Anselo’s unsmiling, dark, nine-year-old eyes stared back at her and, briefly, she touched a fingertip to his face.
A glance at her watch told her it was after midday. Time to leave for the shelter. When she shut her front door, Aishe had an unsettling impression of finality. The door had closed behind her thousands of times before, but not once had Aishe felt uncertain about what would be waiting for her when she opened it again on her return home.
‘I look like a prize twat.’
Patrick was holding the photograph of his younger self away from him by one corner, as if it was a well-used handkerchief.
‘No, you don’t.’ Gulliver took the photo from him and replaced it carefully in the box. ‘You look like Marlon Brando in The Wild One.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Crossed with Bob Hoskins in Super Mario Brothers.’
Patrick folded his arms across a daunting expanse of chest. ‘D’you think you know me well enough to take the piss?’
‘Child abuse is illegal here,’ Gulliver remarked. ‘You’ll have to suck it up.’
‘You remind me of another young cousin of yours,’ said Patrick. ‘Name of Tyso. Same red hair. Same big mouth.’
Gulliver took out the photo of the men taken at the wedding. He pointed to his great-uncle Jenico. ‘Mum says I look like him.’
‘That’s why you look like Tyso — he’s Jenico’s youngest,’ said Patrick. ‘He’s first cousin to me and your mum. I’ve got no fucking idea what relation that m
akes him to you.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Tyse? About nineteen, I suppose.’
Gulliver checked the photographs he was sorting through. ‘Any other cousins my age?’
Patrick noted that the boy’s casual tone was belied by the hunch of his shoulders.
‘Would you like to meet them?’
‘I dunno.’ Gulliver gave a good impression of an offhand shrug. ‘I’m not sure they want to meet me.’
‘What gave you that idea?’ Patrick was surprised.
Gulliver shrugged again. ‘Uncle Jenico didn’t seem that interested when I emailed him.’
‘Ah.’ Patrick hesitated. ‘I imagine that’s because you’re still a kid.’
‘I’m fourteen!’ Gulliver scorched him with a glare that reminded Patrick exactly of Aishe.
Patrick held up his hands in the surrender position. ‘I meant that you’re still your mother’s responsibility. Jenico wouldn’t want to make any connection with you that hadn’t been okayed by her first.’
Gulliver stared. ‘You’re fucking kidding me.’ Then he kicked the table leg. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
He kicked at a kitchen chair, then pulled back his foot to punt the chair across the room. Patrick grabbed his arm.
‘Uh-uh,’ he said. ‘This is your mother’s stuff. Show some respect.’
Gulliver tried to shake free his arm, but Patrick’s hand was large and his grip strong. Gulliver glared again at his cousin, his face flushed with frustration and the humiliation of being the weaker.
‘When has she showed any respect for me?’ Gulliver said. ‘When has she ever cared about what I wanted?’
Gulliver shook his arm again, and this time Patrick released him.
‘What do you want?’ said Patrick, as his young cousin rubbed his arm and glared up at him resentfully. ‘What is she not giving you?’
Out of embarrassment, or shame — Patrick couldn’t tell which — Gulliver dropped his gaze.
‘I want a family,’ he said quietly after a long pause. ‘I want more people in my life.’
‘And have you told her that?’ Patrick said.
‘No point,’ said Gulliver sullenly. ‘She won’t listen.’
Patrick was about to argue, until he realised that he, personally, could not recall a single time where a willingness to listen could be listed among Aishe’s qualities.
The moment for further conversation passed. They heard the key click in the lock and the front door rattle open.
‘She won’t like it that you’re here,’ said Gulliver.
‘Yeah, well, she’s entitled to her opinion,’ said Patrick. ‘Something else you’d do well to respect.’
Aishe appeared in the kitchen doorway and stopped short. Patrick saw surprise in her face, swiftly followed by resentment — and something else he couldn’t quite place which looked oddly like satisfaction. She’s been gearing up for a fight since last night, he reasoned to himself. Now it’s time. Gloves up. Ding!
‘I brought dinner,’ he said before she could launch into him. ‘Went to the Mexican place in town. No fucking idea what I actually ordered. Us Brits may be able to tell a vindaloo from a jalfrezi, but this stuff is foreign.’
‘You got tortillas,’ said Gulliver, who’d begun rummaging in the box. ‘And churros! Fuck yeah!’
‘Gulliver,’ Aishe warned.
Her son jabbed a finger at Patrick. ‘He swears all the time.’
‘Habit,’ said Patrick. ‘Don’t start and you won’t have to break it.’
He saw Aishe give him a quick look that seemed mildly disappointed. She stepped through into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘Want a beer?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ Patrick said.
Aishe handed a bottle to him and moved to take a chair at the kitchen table. She saw the box of photographs and chewed her lip.
‘Having fun?’ she said.
‘Realising it’s almost thirty years since you were eighteen isn’t a barrel of laughs,’ said Patrick. ‘Nor is seeing reminders that you were once a complete tosser.’
Aishe appraised him. ‘That’s not what the boys in my family thought,’ she said. ‘To them, you were the epitome of cool. But then, two out of three of them were morons.’
Patrick nodded. ‘And if it hadn’t been for your dad and Jenico, I’d still be a complete waste of fucking space.’
Gulliver was picking lettuce out of his tortilla and discarding it on the side of his plate. ‘What did they do?’
‘Kicked my arse,’ said Patrick. ‘After I got out of jail, I had no idea what to do with my life, so I did nothing except mooch around and moan about my lot. Your mum’s dad — your granddad — and Jenico gave me a bollocking. Told me if I didn’t get off my snivelling rear end and find a job, I was out — could no longer rely on family support.’
‘I believe it,’ said Aishe. ‘Dad had no patience with parasites.’
Patrick stared down at her. ‘Top bloke, your dad,’ he said. ‘Hard as fucking nails, but fair with it, you know? He was a hell of a loss to all you kids, not to mention your poor bloody mother. I don’t think she’s over it even now.’
Gulliver broke the silence. ‘What were you in jail for?’
Patrick turned, surprised. ‘Hasn’t your mother told you? Thought I’d be the perfect object lesson for every Herne clan parent.’
Gulliver muttered, while avoided looking at his mother, ‘She never tells me anything.’
‘You’ve never asked,’ said Aishe.
‘I was a shit,’ said Patrick, to forestall the brewing argument. ‘A vandal, a petty thief, a brawler. Got hauled up in juvenile court countless times, but usually got off with a slap on the wrist or a token bit of community service. Thought I was invincible until I was nineteen, when I came up before a magistrate who saw me for exactly what I was — an arrogant, unrepentant shit. So he banged me up for six months in adult prison. I only served three but they were the most fucking terrifying of my life. Every single day I was convinced I’d meet an agonising death at the hands of some inventively vicious psycho.’
‘So are you the only jailbird in the family?’ Gulliver saw his mother’s expression and shrugged. ‘Just asking.’
‘As it happens, the King family has never been the most law-abiding. I come from a long line of chories.’
‘What’s are chories?’ said Gulliver.
‘Thieves,’ said Aishe. ‘But then, what would you expect from a bunch of Pikey Travellers?’
Patrick took the plate Gulliver was offering him and dumped a tortilla on it. Then he pulled up a chair opposite Aishe, sat down and grinned at her. ‘Snob.’
‘Why are you here?’ she said. ‘If it’s to give me more helpful “family advice”, then you can piss off again.’
‘My excuse for being here is to look at a property investment,’ said Patrick. ‘A winery. Up in Napa. My real reason is that if I didn’t get some time out of the house, I was going to go spare.’
‘Unrest on the domestic front?’ The thought gave Aishe a mean satisfaction.
‘Yeah, you could say.’ Patrick swigged his beer. ‘But I think I can deal with it. Got some sane advice from your friend, Michelle.’
Aishe, who had been simmering away in grudge mode, now hit the rolling boil of intense resentment. What made it worse was that she had no idea why. Surely it was good that Patrick wasn’t here to bug her? And surely she’d prefer that he dumped his problems on anyone else but her? She didn’t want to be his agony aunt — what did she care?
Oh, but you do care, said the voice in her head. Because in your mind you’ve always been the one with the power. Their puny weapons of guilt and obligation bounced harmlessly off your armour. Their pleading and grovelling was for naught — you spurned them like a warrior queen and sent them whimpering back from whence they came. That’s how it’s seemed in your mind, anyway, said the voice. Until now.
Aishe had to say it. ‘I can’t imagine you lot would miss this opportunity to get i
n some kind of dig about my dereliction of family duty. You can’t help yourselves.’
Patrick gave her an even stare. ‘By my estimate,’ he said, ‘it must be seven years since any of us has come near you. So I’d say — message received. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Gulliver. Aishe could see that he’d finished all the bits of his tortilla that weren’t green and now had a churro poised over the pottle of chocolate sauce. He was staring straight at her, directing a laser-beam of pure hate. It jolted Aishe like a punch to the heart. ‘You’re such a fucking bitch,’ he said.
‘Oi!’ Patrick protested.
‘Shut up!’ Gulliver yelled at him. ‘You don’t know what it’s like for me. You have no say.’
He dumped the churro in the pottle and smacked the container down on the bench, where it immediately toppled over. Chocolate sauce began to ooze, but Aishe paid it no attention.
‘You act like everyone out there is the enemy,’ Gulliver said to his mother. ‘Like everyone — schools, family, whoever — is part of some evil fucking cult that wants to suck us in! What are you trying to do? Keep me safe? If you are, you’ve failed big time.’
He shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans, yanked out his iPod and brandished it at her.
‘What do you think I’ve got on here? Amy Grant? I can download any music I want off the internet. I can go visit sites that have shit on them like you wouldn’t believe. I can talk to whoever I want — all manner of creeps and pervs. Did you miss that trick?’
Gulliver slammed his iPod down on the bench, narrowly missing the puddle of chocolate ooze. ‘And if you’re thinking that’s easy, just cut off the internet — think again. There are girls at rock school, Mum. Real, live ones. And guess what? You know a bunch of those times I said we were rehearsing? I lied! So suck on that!’
‘Stop it.’
Patrick didn’t raise his voice, but the authority he invested in the two words got the desired result.
‘Don’t give us all this hard-done-by bullshit,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a good life. And what’s done is done — your mother made her decisions because they were hers to make. If you think you’re grown-up enough to have a say now, then stop the ranting and just say it. That’s what grown-ups do.’
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 28
