Saturdays at Noon

by Marks, Rachel

  It’s the Emily I met all those weeks ago at anger management, and I know she’s going to make this as hard for me as she possibly can. I can’t blame her. But I could really do with some of the ‘other’ Emily right now.

  ‘Good. Well, I’m glad you’re all right.’

  Emily takes a sip of her drink. I’m guessing from the glaze on her eyes, like a thin layer of icing, that it’s not just Diet Coke. ‘Is there anything else, Jake? I’m just about to go out.’

  I suspect it’s a lie, and it hurts that I’ve caused her to shut down when she was just beginning to open up to me.

  ‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this, but Jemma’s decided to permanently reduce her hours so she can do the school run. I’ll help you find another job. I’m sure there’ll be someone at Jemma’s work who needs a nanny and I’ll ask around at school.’

  Emily nods, but she keeps her face like stone.

  ‘Of course I’ll pay you until we sort out something else for you,’ I continue, insultingly matter of fact. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to make it any better. ‘I’ll write you a great reference. I’m good at lying.’

  I’m trying to lighten the mood but she doesn’t laugh, and another flurry falls on my already compacted layer of guilt.

  ‘What makes you think I want a job as a nanny?’

  ‘I thought you loved looking after Alfie, that’s all.’

  At the mention of Alfie, her eyes start to fill with tears and I can see how hard she’s trying to keep them at bay. ‘I do. Because I love Alfie, not because I love being a nanny.’

  I wish that I could wrap my arms around her, but I know she’d push me away if I got anywhere near her.

  ‘Sorry, I was just trying to help. I’ll pay you until you find whatever it is you want to do.’

  Emily smirks. ‘So Jemma’s back for good, is she?’

  ‘She says she wants to try to make it work.’

  Emily downs the last of her drink. ‘If only she could’ve realized that without buggering off to Paris. Would’ve saved us all a lot of hassle.’

  The words come before I can stop them. ‘I’m sorry that getting to know Alfie and me has been such a hassle.’

  It’s totally unfair, I know. I’m an arsehole. I just feel so angry. At Jemma, for coming home before Emily and I had a chance to figure out what this thing between us really is. At Emily, for not giving me something, anything, to hold on to. Even though I’m not sure what I’d do with it if she did.

  Emily stands up and puts her glass on the side. She’s so close to me that I want to pull her in to me and kiss her. I want to rip her clothes off and make love to her right here on her living-room floor.

  ‘Well, I’m glad Alfie’s got his mum back. He deserves that. He deserves a proper family.’

  The thing is, she’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to give up on what we’d started.

  ‘I still want you to see Alfie. We can meet up at the park and stuff.’

  Emily nods but she won’t look me in the eye.

  ‘And I still want to see you too. I want us to be friends.’

  Tell me you want more. Tell me it’s not enough.

  ‘Friends. Perfect.’ Emily moves towards the door and holds it open.

  ‘Bye then, Jake.’

  But I don’t want to go. There’s so much left to say. ‘You know, this thing with us, do you think that it could’ve become –’

  Emily cuts me off. ‘We helped each other through a tricky time, Jake. That’s all it was. Don’t worry, I was never looking for a relationship.’

  I suppose I should be relieved. She’s taking the decision out of my hands. But I’m not. In fact, I feel exceptionally sad.

  ‘Good. I’m glad we’re both on the same page. See you soon.’

  I walk out and, as I do, I know there’s no going back. This is our goodbye. And it makes me realize how much I wish it wasn’t.

  * * *

  I always hate taking Alfie to birthday parties. First, there is the obsession about the party bag (will there be one? What will it have in it? When will I get it?) that starts as soon as he’s received the invitation and intensifies threefold by the time we are getting ready to leave the house on the day of the party. Second is having to waste my hard-earned cash on a bit of plastic tat for some kid I don’t even know, and third is the inevitable meltdown when the mixture of excitement and anticipation all gets too much for Alfie.

  Today’s party is at the climbing centre. I have to admit it’s an awesome venue. I wish places like this had existed for kids when I was little. There’s a boulder room, a proper climbing wall, where the kids get strapped into a harness and have to race against the clock to get to the top, and a digiwall, where the grips light up and you have to chase them. It’s a harsh reminder of the fact I didn’t even let Alfie have a party, let alone one as cool as this.

  Most of the children are chasing around the room, ignoring the activities on offer and whacking each other with balloons. Alfie, however, is playing the chase-the-lights game for the umpteenth time. He’s completely focused, oblivious to the other children beating the crap out of each other. He’s the sort of kid who I’m sure will, one day, cure cancer. I just hope he has fun along the way.

  Another boy comes over to the digiwall and I brace myself for it to kick off. He darts towards the glowing grip but Alfie barges him out the way with his shoulder and smacks the light with his hand. As it goes out, the boy looks at him, confusion dashing across his face, then they both return their focus to the wall.

  I walk over to Alfie and whisper in his ear, ‘Work as a team, yeah? This boy’s going to help you get an even higher score.’

  The boy hurtles towards the next light and subconsciously I try to stop his progress, like some kind of mind-bender, but it doesn’t work and it feels like everything’s happening in slow motion, as the boy’s palm meets with the plastic seconds before Alfie’s.

  In a fit of rage, Alfie throws himself on to the padded matting and pounds it with his fists. ‘No, I want to do it on my own!’

  The other boy surveys him for a second, like a rare creature he’s not encountered before, then continues with the game, stepping over Alfie when necessary to get to the lights. After a few moments, the music begins its countdown to the end of the game (as if we needed the tension cranking up any more) and Alfie looks up at the wall. I can see the conflict all over his face, as he’s torn between racing towards the lights to get a better score or continuing to make his stand against what he sees as a great injustice. He starts to get up but then the music comes to its dramatic finale and Alfie crashes his head back on to the mat, erupting into tears.

  I feel the eyes of the other parents burning a hole in my shirt and then Ben’s mum comes out of the party room, where she’s been setting up the food.

  ‘Is everything OK? Did Tom hurt him or something?’

  ‘No. Tom’s fine. Alfie’s just very competitive about the game and was trying to beat his score.’

  Ben’s mum smiles, but I can tell she thinks Alfie is being a spoilt brat. It’s what I would’ve thought before I met Emily. She kneels down beside him and I pray that he doesn’t lash out at her.

  ‘Parties are a time for sharing,’ she says in a patronizing tone.

  Alfie turns away from her and lies on his side. She gives me a look that says ‘tut, tut, tut’ and I know she expects me to castigate Alfie for being rude. Usually I would. Usually I’d pick him up, take him over to the side of the room and bollock him, delivering the ultimate punishment that he’s no longer allowed his party bag. But today, I think about what I’ve read and imagine what Emily would do if she were here, and I pick Alfie up and carry him to the sofa, where I sit down with him cradled in my arms.

  ‘Look, little man, I know you wanted to finish your game and beat your score. I know sometimes it’s rubbish when other people want to join in something and you don’t want them to. I get why you’re angry and if Tom had been my little boy, I
’d have told him to wait until you’d finished, but he’s not, so I can’t. Now let’s not let it ruin the rest of the party because there’s so much fun stuff here. It’s your turn on the big wall with the harness next.’

  I expect Alfie to argue, to squirm out of my arms, to tell me he hates me, but he doesn’t. He puts his arms around my neck and hugs me back, letting his head rest on my shoulder. And I know it’s a drop in the ocean. I know, within minutes probably, he’ll be arguing with me about something else, but right at this moment it feels like a breakthrough. Right at this moment, I feel the deepest love for my little boy that makes me physically ache.

  * * *

  There are three other kids with Alfie in the auto-belay room: Tom, the boy he had the conflict with earlier, Ben, the birthday boy, whose mum gives me a cursory smile from across the room, and bloody George.

  The young girl that works at the climbing centre puts harnesses on the boys and I’m already hoping that George can’t climb for shit and that Alfie races up the wall and puts him to shame. I know, in reality, that will never happen, but it’s a nice image to sit with for a minute.

  As soon as the boys are attached to the wall, George confidently traverses the various grips and makes his way up. Tom starts crying and chickens out and I’m secretly glad, as it takes the pressure off Alfie. And Ben has a go but keeps losing his grip, quickly deciding that swinging around in the harness is actually much more fun than climbing anyway.

  Alfie looks up to the top of the wall and then over at me. ‘I’m going to get to the top, Daddy.’

  I give him a thumbs up, but my heart sinks, as I know there’s no way my clumsy little boy is going to manage to get even halfway, let alone to the top. Once the instructor has clipped him to the wall, Alfie starts his ascent and then his foot slips, followed by his hands, and he ends up swinging around on the rope so that he’s facing the opposite way. I know there’s another meltdown on the horizon and I wish Ben’s mum wasn’t here, as I know that, in her eyes, my parenting is going to come up short, yet again.

  I twist Alfie round, helping him back on to the wall. ‘Don’t worry. Just try again. It doesn’t matter if you get to the top or not.’

  Alfie furrows his brow. ‘But I want to get to the top. Like George is. Look.’

  Alfie points at George, who is looking down on us, his head nearly touching the ceiling. It feels so apt, him all the way up there like some kind of miniature Spider-Man and us standing beneath, staring up at him in wonder.

  ‘Then you go to the top, little man. I believe in you.’ As I say it, I know it’s a lie and I feel guilty for having absolutely no faith in my son’s ability.

  Then something incredible happens.

  Alfie starts mounting the wall like Indiana Jones. Every now and again, his shoe slips, but he grips on with his hands and tries again to find his footing, succeeding and pushing himself upwards. In no time at all, he’s at the top, slamming the button to stop the timer and looking down at me with a smile as wide as the Cheshire cat’s.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m fist-pumping the air and whooping. All the other adults in the room look at me as if I’m crazy, but I don’t care. Alfie bounces his way down to the ground, repeatedly smashing himself against the wall, and I run over and give him a huge hug.

  ‘That was amazing!’

  ‘See, I told you I could do it.’

  ‘You did. And you were right. You didn’t give up. You kept going.’

  Alfie looks at me like he’s questioning my intelligence. ‘It’s called perseverance, Daddy.’

  I laugh. ‘That it is.’ I ruffle his hair. ‘I’m so proud of you, little man.’

  As I say it, the look on Alfie’s face makes me want to cry. He looks exactly how I felt the day I won the Year Six drawing competition at school. I’d spent hours copying the front cover of one of my comics, erasing and trying again multiple times until I got Spider-Man’s mask just right. I hadn’t shown Mum or told her about the competition. Then, at the school fete, there it was on a board in the hall with a first-place rosette attached to the corner. Mum held my face in her hands and told me it was the most amazing picture she’d ever seen, then marched me over to the cake stall and bought a whole chocolate gateau to celebrate. I’m guessing my face at that point in time was just like Alfie’s is now. And it makes me realize that I don’t tell him enough how proud I am of him.

  ‘How about on the way home we go and buy a DVD and popcorn and you can stay up late for film night?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah!’ Alfie jumps up and down, making the metal clasp on his harness clank loudly. ‘Can we have ice cream too? Please, Daddy, it is a treat night?’

  So typical of Alfie to try to negotiate better terms. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘So that’s a yes?’

  ‘Go on, then. Now get to the top of that wall again before the session finishes.’

  There are times as a parent when you feel like you’re winning. When you experience a sudden realization that the love you feel for your child is the most intense thing you will ever feel. Like you’re right bang in the focal point of your life and everything else has been or will be slightly blurred in comparison. And you will yourself to treasure it, to cling on to this time for dear life and savour it. And then they won’t go to bed and they spill your pint and they argue with every fricking thing you say and you forget this feeling. You wish the hours away until they’re asleep and you finally get ‘you’ back, if only for a short while. But right at this moment, I’m riding high on being-a-parent euphoria and it feels great.

  * * *

  The following day, Jemma calls to say she has an important meeting that she can’t get out of, so I sneak out of work early and pick Alfie up from school. When we get home, he runs straight up to his room. I make myself a coffee and then head up. He’s sitting on his floor with my camera around his neck, trying to line up a row of figures, but they keep toppling over.

  ‘How’s it going, little man?’

  Alfie pushes all the figures over. ‘I can’t do it. They won’t stand up.’

  ‘How about we get a base plate to put them on?’

  Alfie walks around his room like he’s looking for something and then slumps on his bed. ‘I don’t want to. It’s rubbish.’

  I sit down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder. ‘Come on. This isn’t like you. Do you want me to help you?’

  Alfie hangs his head. ‘Can Emily take me to school tomorrow?’

  ‘Remember we talked about this, Alfie? Mummy takes you to school and picks you up now.’

  ‘But you picked me up today.’

  ‘That was because Mummy had to work late. But normally she does it now, doesn’t she?’

  ‘But can’t Emily just do it once? Just tomorrow? So Mummy can do some more work?’

  I rub Alfie’s back. ‘Do you want to call her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Emily, silly.’

  Alfie can barely contain his excitement and I feel guilty that needing to stifle my feelings for Emily has prevented him from seeing her. ‘Can we?’

  ‘Let me just get my phone.’

  As I listen to the dial tone, a mixture of nerves and excitement bubble in my chest. I’m not sure Emily will answer, and even if she does, I’ll probably crash into a wall of negativity, but I’m desperate to hear her voice, to know she’s OK. It seems to ring forever but, eventually, she picks up.

  ‘What is it, Jake?’ she says in an exasperated tone.

  ‘Alfie wanted to call you. He misses you.’

  Her voice changes in an instant. ‘Of course. Put him on the phone.’

  Alfie hasn’t quite got the hang of having a conversation on the telephone yet. He keeps moving the phone to his mouth when he wants to speak and then misses what Emily has said, but with me regularly putting the phone back to his ear, they just about manage to communicate. Alfie tells her all about the climbing party and his idea for a new film that he wants to create. His face is so animated a
nd he has so much to say to her … it stings.

  After he’s told her everything he can think of to tell her, he hands back the phone. ‘Emily says she has something to say to you.’

  I take it, feeling an anxious anticipation at what she might say. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Look, I’m not sure if you’ll be interested or not, but I found this private paediatrician online. Lots of the parents on the PDA Society website said they’d had more luck with him than with their normal doctor. Obviously it’ll cost, but I thought I’d just let you know. I can send you the details, if you want. But it’s up to you.’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be great. Thank you. Send them over and I’ll get in touch with him.’

  ‘No problem. I just want the best for Alfie.’

  She sounds so distant I want to reach through the phone and pull her towards me.

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. Give Alfie a kiss from me.’

  ‘Of course. And, Em?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want to meet us in the park after school one day this week? I could get away early and bring him straight out. Whichever day suits you?’

  It just comes out and then Alfie’s jumping up and down and I know I can’t go back on it.

  Emily doesn’t respond straight away, then she says, ‘OK. Thursday?’

  ‘Perfect, I’ll see you about four.’

  I’m not sure what Jemma’s going to think, or if I can get away with not telling her at all, but I know by Alfie’s face that it’s the right thing to do. And I can’t pretend it’s entirely selfless – I’m desperate to see Emily too.

  Emily

  ‘I’ve missed you oodles and oodles, you know?’

  Alfie sits next to me on the park bench and plays with the Velcro on his shoes. ‘Are you going to start taking me to school and picking me up again?’

  ‘No, buddy. You have Mummy to do that now. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  Alfie doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps pulling the strap off his shoes and then re-securing it.

  ‘I’m allowed a snack after school now, like you let me. It doesn’t have to be a fruit bar. I can have a Kit-Kat.’