Needlemouse

by Jane O'Connor

  Neil shifted in his seat and politely turned his attention to me. ‘So, long time no see. What have you been up to all these years?’

  To his credit, he tried to look interested as I falteringly accounted for the last thirty-five years of my life, which sounded as dull and uneventful to me as they must have done to him. I tried to keep my tone light, as if I was delighted with how everything had turned out. I recounted the series of administrative positions I had held in colleges and universities, the outright purchase of my flat in South London using my uncle’s inheritance money, my various trips abroad. I didn’t mention Prof. In response to his inevitable question about husbands and children, I breezily dismissed both as not being at all what I wanted.

  Neil looked at me in silence when I had finished, and I realised he was waiting for me to continue, to get onto the good stuff, the meaty stuff of my life, the achievements, the loves, the passions, the disasters, the defining moments. I briefly considered telling him about the hedgehog sanctuary, but decided against it.

  ‘That’s it, really.’ I took a sip of my water and he cleared his throat and fiddled with his watch. ‘How about you?’

  It was a relief to get the focus off me and, like most men, he enjoyed the opportunity to talk about himself. He told me about his career as a music journalist, which had taken him all over the world, and about his love of going to gigs and festivals and discovering new bands. He told me about his first wife, Mia, who had died when their daughter Holly was only a baby and how he had brought her up on his own until he met his second wife, a Japanese singer of some renown apparently, called Emiko. They had a whirlwind romance and got married quite quickly, but apparently she soon discovered that she couldn’t stand living in England and had recently moved back to Tokyo, taking their young son with her. He was in the process of selling the family home whilst trying to work out how to manage being a father to two children of vastly different ages in different continents. He recounted all this without self-pity, but in a pragmatic, mature manner.

  ‘She was too young for me, I suppose,’ he said thoughtfully, taking a long draught of his beer. ‘Or perhaps I was too old for her.’

  It was the story of a life well-lived – he had taken risks, he had followed his passions, he had been hurt, he had experienced terrible loss – but he had had much joy and love and he clearly adored his children. The comparison to my meek and sheltered life hung unspoken between us as the waitress delivered our food. He had ordered only a main course, steak and chips, and I had gone for a salad, as usual, which I pushed around my plate. He ate quickly and we talked a little about the road we both grew up in and some of the neighbours that we had had.

  It was glaringly apparent that I was of no interest to him, either physically, mentally or emotionally, which was fine by me as my heart belongs to Prof. Even so, I have to admit it was nice listening to Neil talk and reminiscing about the old days when we were all so young. I saw him glance at his watch and towards the door and felt a surge of unprecedented panic. I don’t know what possessed me, but I found myself suggesting cocktails. He hesitated for a moment and then politely agreed, signalling to the waitress to take our order. I drank my mojito rather too quickly as he sipped his Old-Fashioned and we talked about the time he and his brother had broken a pane in Father’s greenhouse with their cricket ball and how they had had to weed his vegetable patch all summer to make up for it.

  The rum and the shared stories combined to create an artificial feeling of closeness with Neil for a moment, and I found myself blurting out, ‘Do you know I used to keep a diary about you?’

  He looked at me with a quizzical expression. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I used to write down every day what you were wearing and where you went and what time you came back and if you spoke to me, or anyone else in the family, what you said and what I, or they said …’

  He frowned. ‘You spied on me?’

  ‘No, of course not. It was just, I suppose I liked you, was interested in you, you were the most exciting person in our street. I wanted to know what you were like, what you were doing. I didn’t do it for long, just a few weeks – no, it was just a few days, actually, now I think about it …’

  ‘It sounds like you spied on me, Sylvia,’ he said.

  I could sense the warm atmosphere dissolving around us and quickly changed the subject, asking him about his mother and his current domestic set up. He answered my questions in a perfunctory way and then excused himself to go to the bathroom. I took the opportunity of a few minutes respite to plan how I could backtrack to the regretful sharing of the diary and downplay it, cancel it out, and try to end the evening on a more positive note. I decided to tell him it was a joke and worked out how I would explain that I have an offbeat sense of humour. It would be fine, he would understand and we could move forward, just as friends, obviously (my romantic desires lie elsewhere), but it would be nice to meet up with such an attractive man every now and then for dinner and a chat. Perhaps even have a companion to be a plus one at weddings and the like – he was lovely company, after all. Buoyed up, I finished the last of my mojito, ordered another cocktail for us both, and awaited his return with confident anticipation.

  After five minutes, the dreadful possibility crept into my mind that he wasn’t coming back. After fifteen minutes, it was a certainty. I looked around the restaurant at all the other couples and groups of friends laughing and eating, oblivious to my predicament, and shrank into myself, to the small, proud place where no one can hurt me. I stood up on shaky legs and then sat down again. How did one deal with this situation? I couldn’t just go; the bill had to be paid. I indicated to the waitress and asked for it.

  ‘Don’t worry, your friend paid on his way out,’ she said, beaming as if I should be delighted at this news. ‘But you will need to pay for those last two drinks.’

  I handed over the money and stumbled past her towards the door. I looked up and down the road but he was nowhere to be seen.

  I rang Millie as soon as I got home and told her what had happened. I covered my upset by saying how angry I was and how rude Neil had been to leave like that. I also ranted at her for making me go to meet him in the first place. Millie listened without interrupting and then commented enigmatically, ‘You can tell a lot about yourself by the way someone leaves you, darling.’

  ‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’ I really was angry by now. ‘Don’t you dare give me any of your self-help nonsense!’

  ‘Don’t be cross, sweetie, he was obviously just not interested and didn’t want to hurt your feelings by telling you.’

  ‘I wasn’t interested,’ I shouted. ‘For your information, I have a man in my life.’

  It’s not often Millie is speechless, but that took her off guard for a moment.

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, it’s not important. It’s none of your business.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’re upset, darling. I really did think you’d like to catch up with each other and I didn’t know you were already seeing someone. How could I know that if you didn’t tell me? I don’t spy on you, you know.’ This last comment was said teasingly, with affection.

  ‘I told him, Millie, how embarrassing is that? I told him I watched him and kept a diary about him and that’s why he left. I don’t know what I was thinking telling him that, what must he think of me?’

  ‘But he already knew that, darling.’ Millie sounded confused. ‘I told his mum about it in the shop and I also told him at the time. Sorry, honey, I thought you knew that he knew. It’s not really a big deal, is it? You were only fifteen or so and everyone thought it was a hoot. I’m sure he’s not that easily rattled. Now, tell me about this man you’re seeing.’

  I watched a moth fly in the open window and knock against the ceiling lampshade again and again in the self-destructive dance all of its kind seem compelled to perform, and suddenly felt incredibly weary.

  ‘I’m not seeing anyone, Millie. I’m
going to bed now. Goodnight.’ I hung up the phone and went into my bedroom.

  I have taken Prof’s teabag out of the bedside table drawer and laid it beside me on the pillow so I can smell it while I go to sleep.

  Thursday 15 October

  Is there a difference between willing and wanting? I’m not sure any more. Apparently, in German, there is a word which can mean either and there is no way to know in translation which meaning is right. I know this because I heard Prof discussing it with his new PhD student, the brilliant Lola, when I took them in their coffee. A grown woman called Lola! How ridiculous. She is not the usual post-grad type, actually. Older, a bit more world-weary-looking but obviously she was quite a looker in her youth. She has long blonde hair which is too young for her (dry-looking at the ends) and she was wearing a denim jacket and a load of silver and turquoise jewellery.

  Anyway, Prof was very pleased to see her when she arrived this afternoon. He came out of his inner sanctum and shook her hand, said he was happy to see her again and that he was looking forward to working with her. Their meeting went on well over the allotted hour. They sat deep in conversation – well, she did most of the talking in her soft Irish accent – and I could see Prof was interested because he sat at his desk the whole time; when he is bored he wanders round the office like a restless dog waiting for his walkies. I usually take that as a sign to go in and rescue him via a fictitious urgent phone call from the Dean or a forgotten Skype meeting with an overseas colleague. I kept my eye on his body language throughout in case he needed me in such a way, but he seemed fine so I left them to it, although after an hour and twenty minutes I did open the door and remind him that he had Simon Belington booked in for a tutorial at half past.

  ‘Is he here yet?’ Prof asked without looking up from the papers Lola had given him to look at.

  ‘No, not yet,’ I stammered, feeling a bit taken aback, ‘but he is due soon.’

  Prof just nodded and gave me what I felt was a rather dismissive smile so I backed out of the room with that annoying, uncontrollable blush reddening my cheeks. I didn’t like that at all; I feel it gave the wrong impression to Lola and I don’t want her thinking that she is more important than the other students or to underestimate my role in scheduling and protecting Prof’s time. I also hate it when Prof makes me feel as if I am a fusspot or a nag when all I ever try to do is look after him and help his days go smoothly. Lola came out a couple of minutes later with that inspired, excited look that Prof’s students tend to leave with when their work is going well and they can’t wait to get back to their computer and continue writing their masterpiece, buoyed up with his approval.

  ‘Just a minute, please,’ I called after her as she fumbled with the office door handle, juggling files and her bag.

  ‘Yes?’ She turned with an impatient smile.

  ‘You need to fill in a tutorial record sheet.’ I like all Prof’s records to be up to date as you never know when the Dean will do an audit.

  ‘I’ll email it to you; I have to pick my son up from school now,’ she called over her shoulder as she rushed out.

  I narrowed my eyes at her departing back. Not only did she keep Prof nearly half an hour longer than scheduled, but she didn’t fill in the paperwork either. I wonder what her husband or partner thinks of her doing this doctorate? I’m sure he’s not well pleased, given the commitment involved, especially if they have children. I doubt she’ll stay the course. I’ve seen these mature students before and they rarely complete. They take on too much, wanting to do it all before they get too old, having a last-chance grasp at an academic career, trying to live up to the image of themselves they had when they were younger, before work and marriage and families and mortgages came along to steal all their time, energy and money. There’s no doubt students like Lola want to do a PhD but are they willing to make the sacrifices necessary for such a prolonged and intensive piece of research? By the look of her, I’m guessing not. She’s had her bit of attention from Prof but he will now want some pretty impressive writing from her by the end of the week, based on their discussion, and the proof, as they say, is always in the pudding.

  Simon turned up five minutes later, looking like a whipped puppy as usual. I can’t imagine why skinny boys think that skinny jeans make them look anything other than weedy and ridiculous. His fringe was all in his face, his acne was worse than ever, and I swear he was wearing eyeliner. I ushered him in to the inner sanctum and Prof and I shared a lovely little amused look over Simon’s head that said What a state! and that settled me and made me feel connected to Prof again.

  I asked him later about Lola, on the pretence that I needed to provide some information about her to the student record office. His face lit up as he recounted how she was an absolute rising star in the world of Educational Sociology and that her Master’s degree dissertation had been published in a high-ranking journal and was causing quite a stir in academic circles. He was honoured that she had chosen him to supervise her thesis and enthused about her ‘astounding level of intellect’ and ‘incredible insights’. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just nodded blandly and got back to my work. I don’t want him to think I am even slightly impressed. I am both willing and wanting her to never come back.

  Saturday 17 October

  I went to see a film with Millie this evening, the new George Clooney one. How tedious that man is with his vanity projects and perfect profile, but Millie has loved him ever since ER and Kamal refuses to go the cinema (says he can’t stand sitting still for so long, but I think he just finds it pointless). I wanted to go to the multiplex, but Millie insisted on the Ritzy – she is truly obsessed with Brixton, says she likes the buzz. This evening Mills was wearing leather trousers, an orange bandana and hoop earrings that gave her a distinct piratey look which I assume wasn’t deliberate, but you never really know with my sister. She had a huge piece of carrot cake and a hot chocolate in the cinema café before we went in. I try not to comment but I worry about her weight, I really do. I had a peppermint tea served to me by a girl covered in rose and thorn tattoos with piercings on every visible orifice and with the sort of cut-glass accent that is usually associated with royalty. You would think, having been employed in universities for most of my working life, I would be numb to the countless ways that young people insist on shoving their ‘individuality’ in everyone’s face, but I have to admit even I was rather surprised at this juxtaposition. I was about to comment on this to Millie when I noticed she was staring after the girl as she stomped back behind the bar in her Doctor Martens.

  ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ I could see Millie was animated in the way she gets when she recognises anyone even remotely famous.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ I sipped my tea dismissively, ready to be unimpressed at Millie’s triumphant naming of some has-been reality TV star.

  ‘That’s Bethany, Shona and Ian’s daughter.’

  I stared long and hard at the waitress as she stood frowning behind the counter, trying to comprehend how that could possibly be the case.

  ‘No, Millie. It can’t be, she’s only what? Nine or ten maybe at the most …’ I was faltering, panicking really. That familiar surge of dread came over me, the one that rears up from somewhere deep inside when I’m faced with irrefutable proof that so much time has passed, that friends’ children have grown up, that everyone’s life has moved on and ahead into new pastures. All except me. All except my life.

  But even as I was trying to dismiss her, forcing my attention away from this grown-up girl with the tattoos and the attitude, Millie was up from her chair and rushing over to her. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she cast her usual Millie spell on the girl and they were hugging and chatting like best friends within moments. Millie indicated over to me as I knew she would and I managed to arrange my face into a semblance of a smile, a contented smile I like to think, and lifted my hand in a slightly embarrassed wave. Bethany acknowledged me with a small nod before turning her att
ention back to Millie who had her phone out by now and was tapping in precious new numbers. She was flushed with excitement when she finally made her way back to the table and gabbled on as if she had just met one of her heroes.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s all grown-up. She’s twenty-two now, graduated from Brighton University with a degree in graphic design last summer. Shona and Ian have moved back to Wimbledon – how fab is that? Beth’s given me Shona’s number so I’m going to call her tomorrow and hopefully arrange a meet-up. Wouldn’t it be amazing to catch up with Shona again after all these years? We used to have such a laugh, didn’t we?’ Millie looked at me at this point and I smiled thinly, nodding my head. ‘You did like Shona, didn’t you?’ Millie was clearly irritated at my lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied curtly, hoping she would drop the subject.

  The truth is, that whether I liked Shona or not, and I suppose I did back then, I do not, under any circumstances, want to see her now. Millie doesn’t – can’t – understand, how hard it is to have catch-ups with people when you have absolutely nothing new to report and nobody else you can talk about. She can’t know how such interactions leave you exposed, with nowhere to hide, and when you think it can’t get any more painful, then comes the pitying stare. No partner, no children, how sad, you can see them thinking. Then they feel embarrassed for you and they try to say something that will make you feel better, like: ‘Oh well, you’ve still got your freedom. Do you do a lot of travelling?’ (no, not really) or ‘Haven’t met the right one yet, hey?’ which sounds ever more ridiculous the further I get into my fifties. Then, almost imperceptibly, their mind shifts to thinking, No partner, no children, how weird … and they look at you like you are an unanswered question. You are residing at the destination they spent their whole adult lives ensuring they didn’t arrive at. Every divorce, every pregnancy, every relationship they took a chance on, every bad decision they ever made, at least took them on a different path than the one that led here – to being an undefined woman in a world fixated with definitions. If only Prof would hurry up and be ready for our relationship to properly begin, then this awful feeling of living in limbo would be but a distant memory.