by Jane Moore
The entire table fell into silence, suddenly deeply absorbed in their food. Such was his obvious distraction, Thomas inadvertently popped a sprout into his mouth.
“Gamby’s crying,” said Sophie matter-of-factly, using her pet name for Pam.
Jo looked across at her mother who had glutinous tears welling up behind her glasses. One rolled down her flushed cheek and plopped onto her plate as she stared at it.
“Gamby’s not crying, Sophie darling,” sniffed Pam, wiping her eyes with her holly-edged napkin. “That potato I ate was too hot and it’s made my eyes water, that’s all. Now come on, eat all your vegetables if you want to grow big and strong.” The rest of the meal passed in uncommonly polite conversation.
“Do I get the impression that at the frankly laughable age of thirty, I am about to become the product of a broken home?” said Tim quietly, as he flicked through the terrestrial TV channels.
It was 11 P.M. and he and Jo were sitting in the living room having just said goodnight to their parents after a particularly low-key Christmas evening of watching television. The rest of the day had passed without incident, but the atmosphere between Pam and Jim had been distinctly frosty, with everyone else tiptoeing round it.
“I doubt it,” said Jo, sipping a mug of hot chocolate, her legs tucked under her. “I asked Dad earlier if everything was OK and he said they were just going through a rough patch.”
Tim looked horrified. “A rough patch, at their age? I thought relationships were supposed to get easier as you got older. You know, companionship and all that. Christ, if they get harder then I’m seriously not going to bother.”
“It’s nature’s cruel joke, I think,” smiled Jo, grabbing the remote and pressing the mute button. “You meet, get married, have children, then the prime part of your life is spent trying to be all things to everyone. A good employee, a good husband or wife, a good mother or father. Then your children leave home, you retire, and you’re left together alone again. If you’re lucky, you lift your head above the marital parapet to find you still have something in common and get on.”
Tim’s face had suddenly turned serious. “Do you think there’s a chance they’ll split up?”
Jo made a scoffing noise. “God, I hope not. Can you imagine dealing with mother on her own? She’d be visiting us all the time and driving us even more mad than she already does.”
She was trying to make light of what they’d witnessed that day, but secretly it had worried her too. This was an age when her parents should have been enjoying each other’s company, free of the stresses and strains of working life and parenthood. Yet here they were doing all the immature bickering of a young couple heading for the divorce courts.
Tim’s concerned voice broke into her thoughts. “Seriously though, Jo, that looked like more than just a rough patch today. Dad looked like he hates her. He couldn’t even contain his loathing in front of the kids.”
Jo put her mug on the table beside the sofa, stood up, and stretched. “Nah, it’s Christmas that’s all,” she said nonchalantly, hoping it convinced her anxious brother. “It does that to you. Right now, there are people all over the country having arguments because they have spent the entire day cooped up together in a hothouse of children, chaos, in-laws and so on. It’s not a natural state.”
Tim nodded. “True,” he said. “I read a magazine article the other day that said more people instigate divorce at Christmas than at any other time of year.”
They lapsed into silence, Tim channel-hopping again while Jo flicked idly through Cosmopolitan. She came across an article entitled “How to Get Through Christmas.”
“See?” she said, holding it up for Tim to glance at. “That’s what it is, a bloody obstacle course. Santa has the right idea, he only visits people once a year.”
He smiled and pointed at the TV listings page laid out in front of him. “Look, Survival is on. Shall we see if we’re on it?”
Rosie had called earlier that day to wish them all a Merry Christmas and had Jo in stitches describing the festive scene at her mother’s house.
Her ancient grandparents were staying, which tapped a rich, comedic vein. Grandma Violet had snored her way through Bridge on the River Kwai, stirring only once to mutter, “Cruel race, them Japs,” before nodding off again. Rosie’s “Granpa Jack” had the beginnings of senile dementia and had read out the joke from his cracker at least six times over lunch.
“We indulged him the first few times and kept laughing,” said Rosie. “But he got really cross when we didn’t react to the last couple of repeats and called us all ‘humorless tossers.’ ”
Jo smiled now at the thought of her friend’s festive experiences and suddenly didn’t feel quite so depressed about Christmas Chez Miles.
“Mum and Dad won’t get divorced,” she reassured Tim. “They’re just getting on each other’s nerves a bit, that’s all. They’ll be fine.”
Tim yawned. “I suppose you’re right.” He stood up and stretched in front of the mantelpiece mirror, then smoothed an eyebrow. “Now then, as a resting actor I need some rest.”
“Off you pop, then. And seriously, don’t worry. Mum and Dad will be back to their stultifyingly normal selves by the New Year, you’ll see.”
As she climbed the stairs to bed, she crossed her fingers behind her back and hoped for the best.
31
she arrived at 9:30 P.M. In the otherwise dark, silent street, Conor and Tim’s abode stood out, a brightly lit beacon pulsating to the sound of “London’s Burning” by The Clash.
Jo was an hour later than she’d planned to be, held up by her own infuriating indecision about what to wear. After trying on every item in her wardrobe, she’d opted for the trusty old faithful of women everywhere, the little black dress. With its ribbon straps and slightly plunging neckline, it accentuated her slim but shapely shoulders, and the knee-length style flattered her long legs. For fear of looking a bit too Rose Kennedy, she’d draped a cerise pashmina around her shoulders and a matching clutch bag under her arm. Thanks to a newly acquired ringlet machine that resembled a torture implement, her hair hung in loose curls around her face.
“Fuck me, you look fantastic!” yelled Tim, bearing down the hallway toward her. “Well obviously, don’t fuck me because we’re brother and sister and the authorities would frown on it.” He was playing to the gallery, a small crowd of his friends standing in the living room who were now smiling indulgently at Jo.
Tim removed her pashmina and chucked it over the banisters. “As ever, most of the guests are crammed into the kitchen, frightened shitless of leaving the booze table for even one moment,” he said, raising his eyes heavenward.
He ushered her into the long, narrow kitchen, where a deafening wall of noise hit them as he opened the door. There were about forty people crammed in, spilling out through the French doors and into the garden where Tim and Conor had placed a few outdoor candles.
“I’m insisting everyone has a vodka and Red Bull when they arrive, just to get them on the road to oblivion,” shouted Tim, pouring her a glass of pale orange-colored liquid from a jug.
“Thanks!” she shrieked above the din. The drink was way too sweet for her, so she held her breath and knocked it back in one.
“Attagirl!” Tim slapped her on the back, prompting her to have a coughing fit and dribble some down her chin.
As she silently cursed him and searched around for some paper towels, Jo looked up and saw Conor across the room. He was standing with Emma, his arm thrown casually around her shoulder, chatting animatedly to another couple. Wiping her mouth, she stood there, looking across the room until he caught her eye. When he did, he raised his glass in her direction with a small smile, but made no attempt to come over.
It’s so different going to a party with someone, thought Jo miserably. Even if you don’t stick by them all night, they are always there as a security blanket to snuggle up to occasionally in moments of social ineptitude. Jo felt extremely inept right now. Stand
ing in the midst of this heaving, laughing crowd, she had never felt more alone.
Just as she was considering the sudden development of a migraine and sloping off home, there was Rosie walking down the hallway with Jim in close pursuit.
Jo felt herself relax. “It’s the social cavalry,” she said, giving her friend a hug. “Say hello to your very own gooseberry for the night.”
For the next two hours, she didn’t leave their side once, except to join the queue for the one and only loo which, inevitably, didn’t lock. Sitting there with one foot pressed against the door, her head leaning against the cool wall to her side and ignoring someone’s repeated attempts to get in, it dawned on Jo that she was hopelessly drunk. She’d had two more swift vodka and Red Bulls before moving on to white wine, but instead of feeling nauseous and overemotional, she felt euphoric. She also felt one hundred percent sexually rampant.
“Bloody hell, I don’t know what’s in that Red Bull, but I feel bloody great,” she shouted to Rosie back in the kitchen.
“It’s full of caffeine,” laughed Rosie, who was drinking her usual Bacardi and Diet Coke. “I doubt you’ll sleep much tonight.”
Jo suspected it was probably a false feeling, but for the first time in ten years, she felt like her old self again. Devilish Jo, flirtatious Jo, wicked, funny, out-of-control Jo with absolutely no worries in life except where her next kick was coming from. It felt fantastic.
She was stirred from her inebriated reverie by the deafening sound of Big Ben chiming.
“Here we go!” bellowed Tim, turning up the ghettoblaster he’d tuned in to the radio station covering the event.
Jo found herself being shunted into position by two bit-part actor friends of Tim’s, who crossed their arms and grabbed one of her hands each. As the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” filled the room, they pumped her arms in time to the beat.
She was dreading the end of the music, that time when everyone worked their way around the room kissing complete strangers and saying, “Happy New Year!” with false brightness.
“Happy New Year!” chorused the bit-part actors, and each turned to give her a peck on the cheek before disappearing into the throng to find other, more willing victims who didn’t resemble Edna the Inebriated Woman.
Jo found Rosie and Jim and gave them a huge bear hug each before they lost themselves in a drunken necking session of their own. She stood next to them feeling like a spare part and wondering what to do next, when a man she hadn’t seen before emerged from the throng.
“Well, just look what Santa’s left for me,” he said, a broad grin on his ruddy face. “Happy New Year, whoever you are.”
He enveloped Jo in a clumsy embrace and his unattractive loose, wet mouth bore down on hers. He stank of whiskey and stale cigarette smoke, and Jo felt an overwhelming wave of nausea. She tried to push him away but he was too strong. Suddenly, Jo felt him pulling away from her and looked up to see Conor standing there, his hand firmly gripping the back of her assailant’s collar.
“Fuck off, Roger,” he scowled. “Can’t you see she’s not interested?”
Looking suitably humbled, Roger muttered a barely audible apology and skulked off into the living room.
“Thanks,” said Jo, aware her voice was slightly slurred.
Conor shrugged. “Forget it. He’s always been a lascivious bastard. Happy New Year, by the way.”
“Happy New Year back,” she smiled. It was as if everyone else in the room had shriveled to microscopic proportions. There was no incessant chatter, no music, no noise of any kind. Just her and Conor facing each other in an empty room, or at least that’s what it felt like.
He stepped forward and placed the crook of his forefinger under her chin, gently tilting it toward him. His warm mouth placed a soft kiss on her lips.
As she felt him pull away, Jo moved forward in a drunken attempt to prolong their fleeting contact, but he resisted and took a step back. He looked at her curiously.
“Emma’s over there,” he said, jerking his head to one side.
Jo wished the ground would open and swallow her up. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. It’s that bloody Red Bull stuff. I’m not used to it,” she muttered.
“Are you alright?” He looked concerned.
“Fine, fine,” she said, a little too enthusiastically. “You go and see Emma.”
Ten minutes later, she allowed herself a surreptitious sideways glance and saw Conor joking with one of the bit-part actors while Emma lovingly caressed the back of his neck and occasionally blew in his ear.
Perhaps that’s what all men want, she thought miserably. A piece of arm candy—the irony of the phrase didn’t escape her—who looks good but doesn’t interfere with any thoughts or opinions of her own while you’re chatting to your mates. Someone who never argues with you, who has sex whenever you want it, who never moans, whinges, or expresses any other feelings than sheer bloody joy all the time.
Trouble is, she knew from the experiences of her friends that, although men say that’s what they want, the truth was somewhat different. The husband of one of her old school friends had insisted his wife give up her career to be a mother and run the home. He had repaid her by having an affair with a dynamic businesswoman who, he said, excited him, “Because there was more to her life than just being a housewife.” Such are the anomalies of life, mused Jo, as she wandered into the living room where two couples were locked in an embrace on the sofa, the television flickering in the corner. Apart from them, the room was empty. Jo dialed a cab and sat on Tim’s Britney Spears beanbag to wait. She was told it would take half an hour.
Quietly, five minutes before it was due to arrive, she let herself out of the house without saying goodbye to anyone. Anyway, she hated the drawn out rigmarole of trying to leave somewhere while everyone protested, “Don’t be so boring, stay.”
She was still slightly drunk, but the euphoria had turned into a miserable feeling of loneliness, a sense of desperation that she was returning home to her empty house at the start of a brave new year. A year that, a few weeks ago, she had hoped would mark a new beginning. Ha bloody ha.
“Sorry, instead of Fairfields Avenue, go to Wellington Road please,” she said to the driver.
The words just popped out unexpectedly, and she had no idea why she was going there, or even whether he’d be in. He’s bound to be up north, celebrating the New Year with his loved ones. After all, isn’t everyone? Everyone but me.
The car pulled up outside Sean’s flat and Jo noticed a faint light through the living room window. She suspected it was merely a burglar deterrent. Well, at least that’s what your average homeowner thought. To burglars, it was probably just a light left on by someone who had gone away but was trying to pretend they hadn’t.
She handed the driver a ten-dollar bill. “Wait here, and if I go into the building and am not back out in five minutes, you can go,” she said, aware she was sounding like some bit-part in a gangster movie.
She rang the bell and waited, glancing round at the pathway and flowerbeds that had become so familiar to her over the past year. She felt absolutely nothing, numbed by alcohol. Ringing the bell again, this time more urgently, she was just about to turn away when a voice came through the intercom. “Hello?”
“It’s me. You alone?” Jo’s voice was low and noncommittal.
“Yes.” His voice sounded expectant. “Come up.” The door buzzed and she walked inside the unprepossessing hallway, the familiar stale smell filling her nostrils. As she climbed the stairs and heard Sean open his front door, she briefly stopped halfway to try to gather her thoughts.
Had she come for an argument or to make up? Neither, she decided. She was drunk and lonely, and she’d come for some physical contact with a man she’d once loved, probably still loved.
As she walked around the corner, he was standing in the doorway, his hair disheveled, a bathrobe tied loosely at his waist.
He looked pensive. “Jo . . . I . . .”
“Save it
, Sean. I haven’t come to talk.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, inclining her head to find his mouth. He responded instantly, kissing her with such passion they stumbled and fell against the hallway wall.
Kicking the door closed with his bare foot, Sean tugged her dress up over her hips, revealing the black lace stay-up stockings that, for once, had lived up to their name. He slipped his hand inside her g-string and, with one swift movement, he snapped one of the delicate lace sides. Jo felt them fall to her left ankle.
Pushing his body against hers, he carried on kissing her passionately and lifted his hands to the ribbon straps of her dress. He tugged them both down to reveal her breasts. “God I’ve missed this,” he muttered, before taking one erect nipple in his mouth and caressing the other.
“So have I,” she whispered, feeling her insides turn to mush as his fingers moved in and out of her.
She pushed on his shoulders to move him away, and lowered herself to the floor, pulling him down by her side. Her dress bunched up around her middle, she straddled him on the hallway carpet and guided his penis into her, letting out an audible gasp as it entered.
Almost violently, she writhed backward and forward on top of him, caring only for her own pleasure. Eyes closed to block out the face of the man who had caused her so much pain, she lost herself in a fantasy world of anonymous sex, greedily taking what she wanted and damn the consequences. Head thrown back, she came in a violent shudder then collapsed, spent, on Sean’s chest.
They lay there for a minute or two, catching their breath while the feelings of passion and ecstasy gradually subsided into ones of sobriety and reality. The lethal combination of alcohol and New Year loneliness had brought her to Sean’s door, and now Jo felt horribly awkward.
Sean cleared his throat to speak. “I knew you’d see sense in the end,” he murmured, gently stroking her bare thigh. “The feeling between us is just too strong to throw away.”
Rolling away from his touch, Jo slowly stood up and pulled her dress down. She said nothing, simply staring at him coldly as she pulled each shoulder strap back up and stuffed her broken, discarded g-string into her handbag. When she was absolutely sure everything was back in its rightful place, she spoke.
