Fourplay

by Jane Moore

  Thomas walked into the kitchen and plonked his science project on the table. He had changed from his school uniform into his beloved Arsenal kit which, despite being only three months old, was probably already out of date. Conor, looking as deliciously casual as ever in black T-shirt and faded jeans, was two steps behind him.

  As Jo stirred the coffee, she surreptitiously watched the two of them flicking through the project. Thomas was leaning against Conor’s leg and had one arm thrown casually round his shoulder.

  Jo remembered what Rosie had said about Conor already knowing the children. It was the main reason she wanted things to be restored to how they once were. Now that their father had left, she felt it much more important for Thomas and Sophie to maintain contact with male role models such as Tim and Conor. That was her sole motive, she told herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t find Conor attractive. She did. But that and his great relationship with the children still weren’t enough for her to consider him as a future partner.

  “I have to feel that buzz,” she’d said to Rosie recently, when they were talking about relationships in general.

  “Oh, puh-lease,” Rosie had scoffed. “That ‘buzz,’ as you call it, is probably just a feeling of danger because you’re attracted to men who are difficult. You mistake difficult for interesting.”

  Jo pursed her lips. “But that doesn’t mean I have to settle for someone boring.”

  “See? There you go again. Automatically assuming that a bloke is boring just because he isn’t a complete hunk. There is a middle ground, you know.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Jo grudgingly. “But I have yet to find it.”

  “No, what you mean is, you have yet to give it a try.”

  Maybe she’s right, thought Jo. But I’m not ready to give up on the “buzz” just yet.

  “Thomas! The Simpsons are on.” Sophie’s shriek from the living room startled her.

  “I’ll show you the rest another time,” said Thomas, closing up his project file and heading for the door.

  Normally, Jo might have lectured them both about letting television dictate their lives and made them do some schoolwork, but she wanted time alone with Conor to get their friendship on an equal footing again.

  “Children really brighten up a household, don’t they?” she smiled.

  “So, how have you been?” asked Conor, ignoring her remark.

  “Fine, thanks. I managed to survive mother’s visit, but only just. When there’s nothing more to be said, she’ll still be saying it.” Jo was determined to keep the conversation neutral.

  Conor laughed. “Ah yes, the State Visit. Tim invited me round for Sunday lunch a couple of weeks ago then mysteriously uninvited me. I hope it didn’t have anything to do with what happened between us?”

  Again, Jo was completely taken aback by his directness. So much for avoiding sensitive issues, she thought. Feigning indignation, she replied, “Of course not. I just didn’t want to inflict mother on anyone outside the family, that’s all.”

  She could tell by his expression that he knew she was lying, but he let it pass without further comment.

  “So what’s the audition Tim’s got then? Hamlet? Macbeth?” she said brightly. She was dying to ask Conor about the new girlfriend Tim had mentioned, but she decided to stay on safer territory.

  Conor shook his head. “He wishes. No, he’s gone to audition for a part that was absolutely made for him. It’s something in a Pot Noodle ad.”

  Jo burst out laughing. “Knowing him, he’ll negotiate a year’s free supply instead of a fee.”

  Conor nodded slowly in agreement, then drained his coffee cup. “Right, I’ll be off then. Thanks for the drink.”

  His abrupt termination of the conversation slightly wrong-footed her. “Oh right, no, thank you for looking after the children. You saved me a lot of hassle.”

  “No problem, they’re very special kids. You’ve done a good job. They seem remarkably unfazed by the break-up.” He was standing in the middle of the kitchen looking straight at her.

  She felt she should simply say, “Thanks” and show him out, but something made her want to carry on the conversation.

  “I’ll admit it’s been difficult,” she said hesitatingly. “There have been so many times when I’ve wanted to sit them down and tell them the truth rather than the ‘Mummy and Daddy just don’t love each other anymore’ rubbish, but it would break their little hearts and I can’t do that.” She felt the telltale pinprick of a tear, and blinked furiously to stop it.

  “That’s commendable,” said Conor. “There are a lot of people that don’t put the feelings of children first. They make it all about what adults want.”

  Jo studied him for a moment, an expression of slight puzzlement on her face. “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem fairly tuned in to all this for someone who doesn’t have children.”

  He had taken a couple of steps toward the kitchen door, but turned to reply. “You don’t have to be a parent to know. Sometimes, you can be a child that was in such a situation.”

  “God, sorry,” she said, kicking herself for forgetting that Conor’s father had walked out of the family home when his son was twelve and had never returned. In truth, Jo had been an extremely self-obsessed sixteen-year-old when it happened, and had paid little attention to the plight of her brother’s friend.

  “Forget it, it was all a long time ago.”

  “So how did your mother cope with it?” asked Jo, assuming from his earlier comment that the situation wasn’t handled well.

  “Let’s put it this way. It happened when I was twelve and my mother spent the next six years until I moved away to college telling me what a terrible person my father was. I can’t blame her for saying it, but it was tough for me to deal with at that age. For the next couple of years I thought my name was Shut Up.”

  He looked forlorn. Jo’s instinct was to cross the room and give him a big hug, something she would undoubtedly have done before their recent sexual encounter. Instead she stayed where she was.

  “What’s your relationship with your father like now?” she asked, vaguely remembering Tim once saying that there was contact.

  “Patchy. My mother had told me so many times that he’d left because he didn’t love me, that I spent my formative years cutting him out of my mind. By the time I had suffered a couple of my own relationship knocks and realized there are always two sides to every story, there were too many years lost for us to ever be really close.”

  “So what was his side of the story?” It was a dreadfully personal question, but Jo had to ask it.

  “A long one,” he said with a sigh. “But basically he left because he couldn’t stand my mother’s moods anymore, then spent years trying to get access to me. He hung on to all the legal letters and court documentation so he could prove it to me when I got older.” He paused and flipped back the cuff of his jacket to look at his watch. “And all the time there I was thinking he’d just walked out and forgotten about me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Instinctively Jo crossed the room and placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t be,” he said, a touch too briskly. “God, I hate people who bore everyone with their problems, and here I am doing exactly that.” He moved further toward the kitchen door, letting Jo’s hand fall back to her side.

  “Well, I did ask,” she smiled. “And it’s done me the world of good to hear it, because it makes me determined to carry on saying nice things about Jeff to the kids. So thanks for that.”

  “At your service, ma’am,” he smiled, clicking his heels together and tilting his head forward in a semi-bow.

  As they walked down the hallway toward the front door, the phone started to ring.

  “Don’t worry, you get that. I’ll talk to you soon, I hope,” he said, stepping onto the doorstep.

  “Thanks again!” shouted Jo over her shoulder as she dashed into the living room to pick up the phone that was being steadfastly ignored by her two square-eyed chil
dren.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Sean Goode.”

  “Sorry?” Jo was distracted by the sight of Sophie doing a headstand and putting her grubby feet against the wall.

  “The bad driver who crunched your car.”

  “Oh yes. Hi.”

  “You haven’t called, so I’m calling to see what’s happened about getting the damage repaired.”

  “To be honest, I haven’t even thought about it since. As I said, it was only a slight bump, so let’s just forget about it.” She was silently gesturing at Sophie to get down, but her strong-willed daughter was ignoring her.

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

  “But thanks for calling to ask,” she said reassuringly. “There aren’t many people who would be so concerned about someone else’s car. You’ve restored my faith in human nature.”

  “Um, well actually, that wasn’t the only reason I was calling.”

  “Oh?” Jo’s attention was now firmly fixed on the voice on the other end of the line.

  “I was rather hoping I might be able to persuade you to have a drink with me one night. If I’m honest, I was being cowardly and using the car business as an excuse to call.”

  “I see.” She thought back to the day of the minor accident and remembered Sean “Bloody Fantastic” with a smile. He was certainly cute and surely there was no harm meeting him in a public place. It was only a drink after all. “Yes, why not?” she said, thinking how proud Rosie would be of her decisiveness.

  “Great! How about one night next week?”

  “As my diary consists of blank pages for the rest of the year, I’m sure that’ll be fine.” Jo winced as she said it, realizing that if she was going to get back into the dating game, she would have to play harder to get.

  “Sounds exactly like mine,” he said. “What a pair of Billy No Mates we are.”

  She wondered if that were true, because she couldn’t imagine for one moment that such a wickedly charming man would be short of social engagements. He’d probably just said it to make her feel reassured. In which case, she liked him better already.

  12

  Rosie was insisting on calling it, was Thursday night.

  “It’s only a drink, for God’s sake, don’t get too excited,” said Jo, as her friend rifled through her wardrobe the night before like a deranged makeover consultant.

  “Bloody hell love, had anyone told you the war’s over?” Rosie was holding up a peach twinset.

  “That was Jeff’s favorite,” said Jo, a raft of memories flooding her mind as she stared at the familiar outfit from the early days of their marriage. The days when he had often still removed her clothing for her.

  “Right. Charity shop,” said Rosie dismissively, chucking it on to the ever-growing pile behind her.

  “What?” said Jo, in an aggrieved tone. “I like that. I’ll probably wear it again.” She retrieved it from the pile.

  “No you won’t.” Rosie snatched it back. “Not unless you want to die a lonely old spinster. It’s hideous and aging and that’s precisely why Jeff liked it, because it meant that while you were wearing it no other man except Roy Orbison would look at you.”

  Jo folded her arms in exasperation. “Well, on that basis, I suspect most of my closet will be empty in an hour’s time. I’ve always based my style on comfort.”

  “Precisely,” said Rosie, tut-tutting at some drainpipe jeans she’d found buried under a pile of old shoes. “You have to find your own style again now. I’m not saying you should walk around like mule dressed as lamb, but you’re only thirty-three for Chrissakes. Lighten up.”

  Rosie’s malapropisms had always been a source of amusement to Jo. “It’s mutton, not mule, you daft cow.”

  “Mutton, mule, moose, whatever. It’s shit.”

  “And you’re an expert on fashion are you?” she said, eying Rosie up and down.

  “Hey, you’d be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap.”

  “Point taken,” said Jo, gathering up an armful of clothes and stuffing them into a trash bag. She knew Rosie was right, but her natural urge was to hoard objects from her past as if they were the very glue that held her life together. She had every letter and postcard ever written to her, every school report, and clothes dating back to the heyday of David Cassidy. No wonder minimalism isn’t my design specialty, she thought as she watched Rosie shriek with laughter at the discovery of a frayed Doctor Who-style scarf.

  Five minutes later they were having a glass of wine in the kitchen, surrounded by three overstuffed trash bags.

  “Well, all that little exercise has established is that I have absolutely nothing to wear tomorrow night,” said Jo, raising an eyebrow in Rosie’s direction.

  “Nonsense. It’s been an emotional and psychological spring clean that will prove to be a significant turning point in your life.” It never ceased to amaze Jo how Rosie could get psychoanalysis out of any situation. “But I agree with you on the nothing to wear bit. It’s time for a raid on Antebbe, I reckon.”

  Antebbe was the curiously named local clothes shop that relentlessly and determinedly went on selling trendy outfits while surrounded by a staunchly middle-class clientele that favored the more matronly look. Or the “hideous and aging” look, as Rosie had referred to it.

  “New outfit?” scoffed Jo. “I can’t afford to go buying new clothes just for a quick drink with some lousy driver I don’t even know. I’ve got no money of my own until the interior design invoices get paid. Jeff keeps me on a very tight financial rein.”

  “Really?” Rosie looked shocked. “Can’t you ask your solicitor to try and get more?”

  “Er, what solicitor? Jeff said it would be a waste of money because he could sort it all out for nothing.” She knew what was coming. Rosie didn’t disappoint.

  “Jesus effing Christ. I sometimes wonder how someone so bright can be so damned stupid!” She banged the table as she said the last word. “He’s controlling you again. Of course he wants to keep the financial arrangement between you and him, because he’s probably getting away with daylight bloody robbery.”

  Jo gave a deep sigh. “I must say, there’s barely enough to get by on. I’ve had to start eating into my rainy day fund, and it wasn’t a significant amount to begin with. It’s minuscule now.”

  “Right, the raid on Antebbe is postponed. We’re off to find a local solicitor.” Rosie picked up her handbag from the floor as if to leave. “My mother has always said to me, ‘Trust your husband, but get as much as you can in your own name.’ ”

  Jo looked mildly panicked. “I can’t. Jeff will go mad.”

  Slapping the palms of her hands over her face, Rosie’s next words sounded muffled. “Jo, let’s get one thing straight.” She dropped her hands. “Jeff walked out on you. He introduced the kids to his new girlfriend when you specifically asked him not to, and now it turns out he’s probably fiddling you out of what’s rightfully yours financially. Why the fuck would you spend even one nanosecond worrying about what he thinks of anything? It’s about time he faced up to the high cost of leaving.”

  “But he’s still the father of my children,” said Jo sadly. Even she wasn’t convinced by this argument, but it was all she could think of at the moment.

  “All the more reason why he should treat you fairly.” Rosie’s mouth had set into a firm line. “You’re the one with the full-time responsibility while he runs about playing Lothario. He should be kissing your feet with gratitude, not leaving you short.”

  “I know what you mean, but I’ve never been into demanding equal this and equal that. Provided I can get by and it means the children don’t get dragged into any court procedure, I’d rather leave it like that.” She stood up and started brushing crumbs off the cutting board, in the hope her action would indicate an end to the matter. But no.

  “This isn’t about making demands, Jo, it’s about being treated fairly.” Rosie stopped and looked straight at her.

  Jo sighed and didn�
��t make any attempt to reply. She stared out of the window onto the back garden and wished all the problems would just go away. She wanted things to be how they once were. Her life might have been mundane perhaps, but at least it had been relatively uncomplicated. Now all the mundane tasks still had to be carried out by Jo Muggins, but on top of that she was dealing with the psychological strain of adultery and desertion, as well as struggling financially. Rosie was right. She had to do something. “OK then. But just an initial meeting first to see which way the land lies, and that’s all. I’m not promising I’ll act on anything the solicitor tells me.”

  “Fine.” Rosie stood up. “Anyway, Jeff should be grateful it’s only a divorce you’re thinking of. In my family, we don’t divorce men, we bury them.”

  Less than two hours later they were back at the house. As Jo walked into the living room and sat down, she caught sight of her face in the mirror. It was ashen.

  “Cup of tea?” said Rosie.

  “Thanks.”

  The meeting with the solicitor had been emotionally draining as well as quite distressing. It had felt odd to be telling the most intimate details of her private life to a complete stranger, but it had also felt quite cathartic. She couldn’t be sure, but Jo felt that by discussing her separation in such formal circumstances, she had taken another major step toward a full emotional recovery. But she still had a long way to go.

  When she and Rosie had first arrived at Stones & Co., a surly receptionist who was better suited to a doctor’s office had told them there were no appointments that day.

  In a dismissive gesture, the woman had returned to her magazine. But Rosie continued to stand stock still in front of her, looking thoughtful.