‘So, I got a job. I start next week.’
‘That’s good.’ It seems to take her a moment to remember the reason I haven’t been working for the past six years. ‘But who’s going to be looking after Alfie?’
I know this isn’t going to be the easiest thing to explain.
‘It’s a little complicated. There’s this girl, woman, at anger management.’ As I hear the words coming out of my mouth, I know I’m going to have to lie. ‘She happens to be a nanny so I asked her to do it.’
‘You’ve asked a woman from anger management to look after our son? Are you crazy?’
I have to move the phone away from my ear she’s shouting so loud.
‘But I’m in anger management. Does that make me a bad person? Am I not capable of caring for our son?’
Jemma’s exaggerated exhalation makes a rustling sound down the phone. ‘Look at it from my side, Jake. Surely you can understand where I’m coming from?’
I can, but I’m still pissed off. I’m the one who’s here, having to make the difficult decisions.
‘I didn’t have a lot of options.’
‘Because of course you couldn’t just put him in regular childcare?’
‘Let’s not start this. Alfie asked for her. He likes her.’
‘How does he even know her?’ Jemma’s voice has the distinct tone of someone who is trying to sound calm but failing.
‘We just bumped into her a few times. She doesn’t look at him like he’s a spoilt brat. Do you know how rare that is? She’s actually really good with him. I mean, she’s far better with him than –’
‘I am,’ Jemma interrupts.
‘I was going to say than I am. Come on, Jemma, you can’t exactly be angry with me. You chose this, remember?’
I can picture Jemma running her hand through her blonde hair. Her perfect face only slightly marred by the anguish spread across it.
‘That doesn’t make it any easier, Jake. I know I’m not entitled to say that, but it’s the truth.’
‘You know, Jem, you could just come back home. I wouldn’t make you pay for this, well, not too badly, anyway.’
I can almost hear Jemma smile and it makes me want to jump on the next flight to Paris and bring her home in some fancy Hollywood gesture.
‘I can’t, Jake. It’s easy to stand here listening to your voice and imagine it’s just like it used to be, when we’d talk on the phone into the early hours when I was away for work. I used to physically ache with missing you.’
Her use of the past tense is like an elbow in the ribs.
‘But you know if I came back, it’d only take five minutes before we’d be arguing again, scoring points against each other, resenting each other, just making each other miserable.’
I know she’s right. I know it’s easy to romanticize things now she’s not here, but even if Alfie isn’t showing any signs of missing her, I am. I don’t miss what we’d become, but I do miss her.
‘Do you think if we hadn’t had Alfie, we’d still be happy?’
I know it’s a terrible thing to say, to think even. But it’s something I wonder about a lot.
‘You can’t think like that, Jake. It’s like wishing him away.’
‘I’d never wish him away. Of course I wouldn’t. But we were good together, weren’t we? You and me, before, I mean?’
‘We were the best.’
I think we were. I remember being really happy, but it seems so long ago that sometimes I wonder if I’ve reinvented the memories.
A door bangs in the background and I can tell she’s gone inside.
‘I’m going to go and make some supper now. I’ll call Alfie again in a couple of days. Give him a kiss from me.’
‘I will. And, Jem? I still love you, you know?’
‘I know. Bye, Jake.’
She puts the phone down and the bed, the room, the whole house suddenly feels so much emptier than it did before.
I know she’s right. If she came back, I’d forget this feeling in a few days, maybe sooner. The minute she waited for me to respond first before dealing with Alfie, I’d resent her. Or picked me up on how I’d chosen the wrong clothes for the woods because they were smart clothes and he needed scruffy ones for somewhere muddy. How the hell can you tell what’s smart or scruffy? They all look the same to me and, whichever I choose, you can guarantee I’ll get it wrong.
But right now all I can see is Jemma on our first date. We’d chatted a few times at the university bar, but it was the first time we’d gone out, just the two of us. She organized it all, which was something I wasn’t used to, but was secretly chuffed with, as it meant there was no danger of me disappointing her. She chose this ultra-stylish bar and when I arrived, she was already there, sitting talking to the barman, who was clearly flirting with her.
‘Ah, here you are. I was just telling Rich all about you.’
‘What about me, exactly?’
‘Oh, just that you’re some hot surfer dude. Shit, I got the wrong person, didn’t I?’
‘You’re funny.’
‘You’re cute.’
‘Cute?’
‘Yes. Trust me, I know a lot of knobs. Cute is definitely a good thing.’
She told me all about her marketing degree. How she was going to work for an agency called Abbott Mead Vickers because apparently they were the best of the best. I still remember her response when I asked her how she knew they’d give her a job.
‘Because I’ll work my butt off until they see it’s in their best interest to employ me. And if that fails, I’ll use my feminine charms on them.’ At that point, she flicked her then long hair and pouted her lips, and we both laughed.
‘Well, how could they possibly resist?’
‘Exactly.’
It was that simple for her. She believed the world was a wonderful place and that she deserved to experience everything it had to offer. I’ve always had a fair bit of cynicism, but back then Jemma had none. It was one of the main reasons I fell in love with her.
That night, we went back to my halls and, as we walked in, my room-mate winked at me and excused himself. Jemma giggled and, when the door shut, she pushed me up against the wall and kissed me. And, all of a sudden, I began to believe that dreams could come true too.
But now, well, now I can’t help wondering what we’ve done to each other.
Emily
The first couple of weeks with Alfie haven’t gone quite as I’d hoped. I had some misguided vision of making magnificent Lego creations, producing inspiring works of art to put up on the dining-room wall, teaching him new skills, sharing unique experiences. Of course, I knew he could be challenging. I’d seen him kick off with Jake. But I thought maybe he’d be different with me. If I’m totally honest, I hoped I could show Jake how to get it right.
But it turns out Alfie is actually really hard work. Smash-your-head-up-against-a-wall kind of hard. So far, key highlights have included him refusing to get dressed for school and lying outside the front of the house in his pants while all the neighbours watched me try to bundle him into the car with his uniform tucked under my arm, an extraordinarily loud and physically encompassing tantrum in the doorway of the local Sainsbury’s because I needed to pop in to buy some carrots I’d forgotten to pick up while he was at school (I’ve not forgotten anything since) and an hour-long screaming fit that I think might have permanently damaged my hearing because I told him his time was up on his tablet.
This morning he is refusing to put his seat belt on.
‘Come on, Alfie. We’re late for school. Just pop it on, will you?’
Alfie doesn’t do anything so I put the gearstick back in neutral and pull the handbrake on.
‘What’s up?’
‘I can’t do it.’
‘Don’t be …’
I’m about to say ‘silly’ but looking at Alfie’s expression, that’s not the Alfie I’m sitting next to right now. I’ve discovered that Alfie has a number of faces, a number of guises, lik
e costumes he slips on and off. Silly, manic, nothing-you-say-will-get-through-to-me Alfie has a fixed grin like the Joker, and darting eyes. This Alfie – eyes staring ahead as if he needs switching on – is not Silly Alfie.
‘Do you want me to do it?’
Alfie nods and I reach over and fasten his seat belt. He relaxes back into his seat.
‘Right, let’s go to school.’
* * *
The school playground is a terrible place. Seriously, I didn’t realize before how lucky I was to be missing out on this shit. It’s like being back at school myself, but worse. Because the people staring at you like you’re a piece of crap are no longer girls struggling to hide their acne with thick orange foundation but beautiful, confident, successful women.
The cliques are similar, but there’s not the same sense of hierarchy as there was at school. The ones who would’ve been geeks now have multiple degrees, successful businesses and children on the ‘gifted and talented’ register. The arty ones are no longer relegated to the corner of the common room – they’re right in the middle of the playground, happy and self-righteous in their charity-shop clothing with their free-range toddlers running around bashing their scooters into people’s legs and munching on organic carrot sticks. The sporty ones still gather together, confidently dressed in Lycra or running shorts, but no one seems intimidated by them any more. As long as you’re in a group, it doesn’t appear to matter which one you’re in. The killer situation is standing on your own, like I am right now, with everyone glaring at me like I’m an escaped convict about to abduct their child. I’ve been here every morning and afternoon for the past two weeks, and not one person has spoken to me.
Alfie leans his head on my thigh, then tugs at my jumper. I crouch down so that I can hear him over the noise of all the other children playing.
‘Did you put my book in my book bag?’
‘Yes.’
One day, I forgot to put his reading record (a Big-Brother-type document in which you have to write every single night that you’ve heard the child read or there’ll be a punishment worse than death) into his bag. Now, every day without fail, he checks that I’ve remembered.
‘And did Daddy write in there that I read?’
I pull the yellow book out of his bag, open it and show him where Jake has written the page numbers. ‘Yep. See, there.’
I put the book away and Alfie wraps his arms around me, squeezing me tight. For a few seconds, it’s a normal cuddle, but then, as often happens with Alfie, it turns into something more akin to a chokehold. I try to remove his arms from around my neck, but he just grabs me tighter so that I tumble back on to my bottom. Out the corner of my eye, I catch the group of sporty mums staring at me.
‘Stop now, Alfie.’
He giggles in my ear.
‘Alfie. Stop.’ I manage to move him off me.
Now, right there, that’s the face of Silly Alfie.
When his teacher emerges from the classroom door, I give Alfie a kiss and hang his book bag over his shoulder. ‘See you after school, buddy.’
Alfie joins the line, tripping over a box of wooden building blocks as he glances back at me on his way into the classroom.
* * *
As soon as I pick Alfie up from school, he’s on one. Swinging his book bag round in the middle of a busy playground, running into the road, purposefully putting his shoes up on the dashboard to make muddy footprints. We get through the door and he’s on a mission for a biscuit, enraged at the injustice of not being allowed to have one (and when you get Feeling Wronged Alfie, God help you). He climbs up on to the worktop to reach the biscuit box in the cupboard and I lift him down. We do this three times, like a disc jammed in the same spot, until he, very sneakily, pretends to have given up and then darts back and vaults on to the worktop while I’m putting something away.
I walk over and hold the cupboard door closed. ‘No chocolate, Alfie. A piece of fruit, a fruit bar or a cracker.’
‘A cracker with Nutella.’
‘That’s chocolate, Alfie. What about some peanut butter? That’d be yummy.’
‘No, I want chocolate.’
‘No chocolate, Alfie. You know the rules.’
‘The rules are stupid.’
I tend to agree with him on that one. I’m desperate for a biscuit and Jake’s pointless law means I have to sneak them when Alfie’s on the toilet, like I’ve got some dirty crack habit.
‘Either way, those are the rules. Come on down.’
He tries to pull my arm away from the cupboard door so I carry him off the worktop again. He fights his way out of my arms and runs into the lounge. I leave him for a minute but I can hear banging and crashing so I know I’m going to have to go in. I take a deep breath and put my game face on. If I show any sign of weakness, he’ll jump on it.
He takes a run up and storms into the glass doors.
‘Alfie, you’re going to break the glass. You can’t do that.’
It’s like he doesn’t hear me; he just keeps doing it over and over, getting slightly more forceful each time. I can just imagine Jake’s face if he comes home to find an Alfie-shaped hole in the patio door.
‘Come on, Alfie, let’s go and build something with your Lego.’
‘No, I want to run.’
‘Then let’s go and run outside.’
‘No, I want to run here.’
‘Well, you can’t. You’re going to break the glass.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Alfie takes a big run up and then bashes into the door, shoulder first.
‘Alfie, I’m going to count to three and then if you don’t stop, I’m going to have to put you on the thinking step.’
Alfie covers his ears.
‘One.’
Bash.
‘Two.’
He looks at me and I think he’s going to stop. I will for him to stop. Because trying to get Alfie to sit on the thinking step is like trying to get a piece of wool through the eye of a very tiny needle. But then he takes another run up and I know he’s going to charge into the door again.
‘Three. Right, Alfie, thinking step. Five minutes.’
I know he won’t go of his own accord so I pick him up and his flailing legs kick me in the stomach, but I try not to show it hurts. I place him on the step and put my hands on his shoulders to keep him there. He wriggles free and runs up the stairs, laughing. I chase him, pick him up and carry him back to the step. This time, I sit next to him and hold on to him so he can’t move.
‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’
‘I’m not hurting you, Alfie. I’m just stopping you from running away. If you just sat here and did the five minutes, then we could go and play. You know I have to start the timer again every time you run away.’
‘I won’t run away.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
I let him go and the second I do he belts upstairs again. It takes everything I’ve got to follow him up. When I reach his room, he’s sitting on his bed.
‘Come on, Alfie. I’ll sit with you. Let’s just do the five minutes, yeah?’
Alfie lowers his chin to his chest and crosses his arms.
‘Why won’t you do it, buddy? Just get it over with so we can carry on having fun?’
Alfie doesn’t speak, just stares at his quilt.
‘Please, I don’t want to have to fight you back on to the step.’
‘I’m not doing it.’
‘Then I’ve got no choice.’
I pick him up again, and he screams and hits my back with his fists. I just about manage to carry him to the stairs, then sit on the top step with him on my knee, my arms clasped tightly around him as he tries to fight free. Tears are streaming down his face and his cheeks are bright red.
‘Stop, Alfie. Please stop fighting.’
I’m begging but he’s not listening. Just screaming and kicking, my shins taking blow after blow. When I can’t bear it any more, I release him and he runs away. I hear his bedroo
m door slam and I lie back on the stairs and know there’s nothing I can do to stop the ambush of tears. I just let them fall, welcoming the release. Once they’ve passed, I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoody and check in the mirror that my eye make-up hasn’t run. I lick my finger, wipe away a rogue bit of mascara and take a deep breath.
When I enter Alfie’s room, he is sitting on his bed with a box of conkers. He takes them out one by one and puts them in a circle on top of his quilt.
‘Wow, that’s a lot of conkers.’
Alfie looks up at me. His face is puffy from crying and he looks suspicious of me, like he’s not sure whether I come in peace or whether my friendly comment is to disguise my next attempt to capture him.
‘There’s sixty-four. Sixty-three and one in the shell. That’s sixty-four.’
‘Cool. I wish I had sixty-four conkers, especially one in a shell.’
Alfie smiles, clearly proud of his collection. He carefully opens the shell and takes out the conker from inside. ‘This one’s magic. If you hold it, it makes you super-strong. Look, I can even lift my bed up when I’m holding it.’
Struggling with the conker still in one hand, he manages to lift his bed a centimetre or so off the floor. ‘See.’
‘Wow, Alfie. That’s amazing.’
‘Do you want a go?’ He holds the conker out to me.
I take it and then lift the bed. ‘Oh, yeah! It really is magic. I can’t believe how strong it makes me.’
Alfie smiles, takes the conker off me and returns it to its shell. ‘Do you want to help me put them in a circle? Then I’m going to do a square and then a triangle.’
‘I’d love to, buddy.’
I sit on his bed beside him and run my hand up and down his back. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that the thinking step is a load of bollocks, but I know that I can’t. So, instead, I help him make the different shapes out of conkers and just enjoy spending some time with this Alfie before I next have to face the other one.
Saturdays at Noon Page 15
