I Am Having So Much Fun Without You (26 page)

“Come in?” I swung the door open.

“It's five, Richard. I was supposed to get her at five.” She was still standing in the hallway.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “She's sleeping. I thought that we said six?”

Anne bit her lip. “Did we?” She exhaled. “Shit. Well, I have some errands to do, so—” She rifled through her purse.

“No, no,” I said again. “Come in! I can wake her, or we can just—” She stepped into the flat. I put my hand on her collar, insinuating that I wanted to take her coat.

“Oh,” she said, loosening one arm out. “Thanks.”

When I turned to hang her coat up, I heard her gasp.

“Oh. Shit!”

“Yeah,” I said, frowning. “I told you.”

“Look at that,” she said quietly, reaching out to touch
The Blue Bear
. “You could have . . . we could have stored it for you.”

“Yeah. I don't know, I didn't want to . . . I kind of wanted it back.”

She turned to me and smiled. My girlfriend. My wife. I remembered back in Cape Cod how she'd fall asleep with a book below her stomach while I was painting, the curtains lifting and falling in the breeze, the rhythm of her breath. The swell of her small stomach harboring our first and only child.

“Well, it's good . . . it's nice to see it,” she said, folding her arms. She stared at it awhile longer before taking in the cassettes and wires and the black pads of my headset.

“What is all this?” she asked, picking up a cassette tape.

“Oh,” I said, moving to the table, wishing I had a tablecloth to throw over my sentimental mess. “It's nothing.”

“And who's that?” She pointed to the frozen frame of Harold and Rosie that I'd hastily thrown up on the screen instead of my parents. They were caught in an embrace. Rosie still had her apron on. It was climbing up her bust.

“That's a guy I became friendly with on the ferry, actually.”

She raised her eyes.

“He's—that's Harold. And his wife.”

“But what is it?”

“It's nothing, it's just a project I started a long time ago that I was messing about with.”

There was a noise upstairs.

“She's sleeping?” said Anne, looking toward the staircase.

I nodded. She picked up another tape.

“You don't want to talk about it? When did you start it?”

I sat down on the seat under the staircase. “It's nothing—nothing official. I was just faffing about the first time I was back at my parents', you know, this fall.” I felt like I was stuttering. The words came out all wrong. “I found this old video camera, and I started filming them. Interviewing them, really. And then I started interviewing other people. Not a lot.”

“Other couples?”

I shrugged. “Yeah.”

“So it's a documentary?”

“No,” I said. “I don't know.”

She turned an empty cassette case over in her hands.

“You never mentioned it.”

“Well, there's not much to mention. It isn't very serious.”

Anne looked at all the crap spread on the table. “It doesn't look that way to me.”

“I don't know what it is.”

“Can I watch some?” she asked, her hand hovering over the keyboard.

I swallowed. “I don't know.”

“Is it pornographic?”

“Jesus!” I said. “No! It's my parents, and their neighbors, and then the guy I met on the ferry, and his wife of like a zillion years.”

She looked contemplative. “So, can I watch some?”

I looked up the staircase, hoping Camille might choose that moment to wake up.

“It's not fully edited. It's not even close. But . . .” I reached for the mouse. “I can show you Harold. He sells copy machines.”

I unclicked the pause button. Harold was rubbing his wife's back, and she had her head against his shoulder. Light streamed through the window behind their sink, illuminating the oven.

“Where is this?” Anne whispered.

“That's at Harold's,” I said. “In Great Gaddesden. Not far from my parents'.”

Anne nodded and continued watching. Harold and Rosie were embracing because Rosie had admitted something that made her sad. Their hug lasted a long time. Finally, after kissing his wife on the cheek, Harold sat back down. Rosie rubbed at her eyes with the dish towel and sat down as well.

“You want to keep going?” said my voice. “Because we could stop.”

“No, please,” said Rosie. “I'm embarrassed. It's such a silly thing.” Harold reached out for her hand. “Ask us anything. Something funny.”

“Okay,” I went. “Can Harold cook?”

Rosie burst out laughing. “Can he cook?! Well, he can grill things? He can cook an egg. For a lot of men, that's cooking. Yes, I'd say he cooks.”

“I make a very good ham sandwich.”

Rosie nodded vigorously. “That's true. Very generous with the mayonnaise, though, isn't he?”

“See?” I said to Anne, reaching for the keyboard. “It's not exactly deep stuff.”

She swatted at my hand. “Shh,” she said. “They're sweet.”

“And Rosie,” went my voice again. “Can she cook?”

“Does a bat have wings?” said Harold. “Oh, she can cook, all right. Rosie used to make a blood pudding that would have you—”

An alarm started going off on my phone. I turned it off and put the video on pause.

“What's that?” asked Anne.

“I was going to wake Camille up so she'd sleep tonight, you know?”

Anne nodded.

“Should I wake her?”

Her eyes widened. “I don't know.” She looked at the computer screen. Harold was twisting the dish towel around his fist, and Rosie was frozen in midlaugh. “I guess so,” Anne said. “She's got a big week.”

“Right,” I said, standing. “Are her friends better?”

Anne shrugged. “Not really. Everyone's still got the flu. Do you want me to get her?” she said, half standing as I walked toward the stairs.

“No, no,” I said. “Stay comfortable. Hopefully she's not too deep asleep.”

“Can I watch more of this?” she asked.

My face reddened from surprise. “Well, sure,” I said. “If you want to.”

“Is that all right?”

I stood there like an idiot, staring at the screen. The heat from Anne's presence carried over me in waves. There was something in the air that was making me feel both nauseous and excited, like the artificial hunger you get from eating foods cooked with MSG.

“Is that all right?” she repeated.

“Sure,” I said, leaning over to switch to another video clip. “But it's really nothing. You just—this is the beginning of Harold's bit, so you just hit play.”

A few seconds later, at the top of the staircase, instead of Harold's baritone I heard my own voice ring out:

“Okay. Welcome to my parents. Edna. George. When did you two meet?”

“We met swimming. She had on a red suit.”

“A one-piece.”

“I offered her an ice cream.”

“A Mr. Whippy! You know, from the little lorry that used to pull up outside?”

I put my hand against the wall to steady myself. The clever girl had figured out how to watch the video of my parents. I felt flushed with shame for both the fact that she was seeing it and the fact that I'd tried to hide that I'd been watching it before she arrived. In the bedroom, I sat down on the edge of the mattress and listened to the breathing of our sleeping child. My parents' voices filled the kitchen below. I was overtaken with the need to cry.

I moved closer to the top of the bed and bent my head toward Camille's. I put my hand to her forehead—it was clammy, but not too hot. The poor thing was caught in the snarled web of sleep. It felt cruel to wake her up, but something dark was building inside of my small flat. An undeniable sadness was seeping up into this room and I was worried that if I didn't get Anne and Camille out, I would never be able to feel safe in this place again. They were too near to me. I loved them too much. And the love overtaking me combined with the fact that I was going to spend another evening alone, doing nothing with it, being weighted down to motionlessness by my own actions, made me want to get it over with, and fucking be alone.

“Sweetheart,” I said, my hand on her shoulder.
“Mon lapin.”
I shook her gently. “Mommy's here, darling. It's time to go home.”

I watched one eye open. And glare.

“Mmmmggghh,” she went, pulling the blanket over her.

I pulled it back down. “I know, love,” I said. “It's no fun, is it, but you have to wake up. You'll have school tomorrow, and—”

“I want to keep sleeping!” she said, turning the other way. “I want to stay here!”

I tried tickling her back.

“You'll be back soon, love. But Mom's waiting downstairs.”

“It's so
stupid
!” she said into her pillow. “I don't want to!”

My chest burned. Again, I felt an aching need to cry. I would wait until they were gone, though. I would wait, and I'd shut down that bloody computer, and then I'd sit inside the bathroom that was the size of most people's sinks and I would do it. I would cry.

“Camille,” I said, “let's go now. Your mom needs you to go.”

Camille tossed off the blanket.

“You're
mean
,” she said. “I don't want to.”

“I know, sweetheart. But haven't we had fun?”

I brushed hair out of her sticky, sleepy face and saw that she had tears smarting in her eyes.

“Oh, love,” I said, holding her. “Don't you feel well?”

“I'm tired,” she said, her face hot against my jumper. “I want to stay here.”

“Darling,” I said, kissing her head. “Trust me, I know. But your mum's made a great dinner and, here you go, let's get your shoes. Can you put your shoes on?”

Camille kicked and frowned.

“There you go, love. Let's try to be smiley for your mom, yeah? She'll want to hear about the zoo, I think. And the horses?”

Camille shrugged her little shoulders.

“Okay,” she said, “Fine.”

I had to help her to her feet, as she was still wobbly with sleep. I tossed the duvet back into place and thumped at the pillows so that I wouldn't be totally depressed when I came back up and saw the imprint of a body that was no longer there.

“Let's go, then, pumpkin,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Careful with the stairs? You got your jacket?”

“It's downstairs.”

“Tickety-boo, then,” I said. “Down the hatch we go!”

I started down the stairs with Camille behind me, turning now and then to make sure she put the right foot on each step. Anne had had a fit when she'd seen this staircase, dubbing it the architectural personification of an accident waiting to happen.

At the foot of the stairs, I turned and reached for my daughter, and swung her down the rest of the way so we were both facing the kitchen table. Anne closed the computer abruptly, wiping at her eyes.

“Hey there, Camille bird!” she said, bending down to take Cam in her arms. Watching the two of them together made my heart drop all the way down to the soles of my damn shoes.

“You've got everything, sweetheart? You've got everything, yes?” Anne stood up and nervously ran her hands through her hair. A little bit of mascara had smudged beneath her right eyelash.

“That was great.” She nodded in the direction of the computer. “That was something. Really.”

Before I could respond, she reached to the right of
The Blue Bear
for Camille's coat.

“You were having a great nap, weren't you?” she said, help
ing Camille into it. “A lovely little rest?” She helped Camille get her other arm into her jacket and then she came to me. She kissed me once on each cheek, letting her lips linger there just long enough that when she pulled away, I could feel dampness on my skin.

“It's very good,” she said. “It is.”

My throat caught. I just nodded. I couldn't say anything else.

She swallowed hard. “Okay, sweetie, kiss your daddy.”

And Camille did.

Anne cast another look at
The Blue Bear
and then stared down at the floor. It seemed like she was about to say something, but she didn't. After thanking me for the weekend, she pulled the door open for Camille and followed our daughter through my traitorous door.

As poorly insulated as the building was, I could hear their every footstep. Little feet and big feet making their way down the wooden hallway, then stepping carefully onto the first turn of the winding staircase, which was wooden, and slippery, and also classified as an accident waiting to happen in Anne's architectural book.

I waited until I couldn't hear footsteps in the stairwell anymore. Then I sat down and opened the computer. The film was paused on an image of the TV in my parents' house. I rewound the video several seconds to confirm what I knew Anne had seen.

“Oh, I wanted to talk to Camille, dear!” said my mother, turning toward the camera. “My goodness, is that on again?”

“It wasn't Camille.” My voice. The camera zoomed in on my mum's face. “And yes.”

“It's not going to be a very interesting video you're making,” went my father. “Us watching the tube.”

“Excuse me. But how do you make love last?” My voice—the lens focused on my father's aging face.

“Honey, are you all right, dear?” My mother picked up the remote control from the coffee table.

The camera panned from my mother, who looked worried, to my father, who looked confused, and then back again.

My voice: “No.”

“Sweetheart?” My lovely mum got up from the couch. The camera jiggled as she sat down beside me. I had filmed her face first, then her hand. I had filmed her moving a throw pillow onto the floor so she could put her arm around me.