This particular
girl
is just
dying
to pelt you with ice cubes, I thought, edging away subtly so he’d stop grabbing my arm every three seconds.
“Just a white wine please.”
He grinned and gave me this sort of knowing nod, like he’d guessed all along that I was really a white wine girl.
“Medium?”
“Dry.”
Actually, I do prefer medium, but I can’t bear people who act like they know you and come over all chummy immediately.
I couldn’t figure out exactly what was odd about him at first, but then it hit me. For all his breezy manner and apparent confidence, he was actually seriously depressed. No, not a little bit down in the dumps. Not having a bad day. Depressed. Underneath the jolly exterior, you could sense this great, awful black hole of sadness. I looked away, embarrassed, as if I’d accidentally seen him naked. And the jolliness only made it worse, more desperate somehow. He looked like depression was his natural vocation and now that he’d found it he had no plans to look around for something else to occupy him. His skin had the dull, almost grey look of someone who’s spent too many hours writing letters of complaint to the council and not nearly enough time playing beach-ball.
Near the end of the evening, Michael leant right in close to me: “It’s been great to meet you,” he confided, “I really feel I’ve moved on from the pain of my marriage now.”
I smiled sympathetically and made one of Nat’s vague “mn” sort of murmurs.
“You know,” he said, smiling as if he was about to tell me a joke, “my wife and I had stopped having sex. We hadn’t made love for over five years.”
“Hm-mm.” I nodded, trying to look caring in a detached, don’t-you-dare-touch-my-arm-again sort of way, as I reached behind me for my jacket. Why are you telling me this? I thought. I don’t want to know. Maybe he imagined I might whisk off all my clothes out of pity and say, “You mustn’t go without sex for even one more minute. Take me now!”
“Well,” I said, looking at my watch. It was quarter past ten. “I really must be making a move. The babysitter, you know …”
Cassie found the whole thing hilarious, of course.
“Bet it makes you appreciate Scott now, eh?”
“Is
that
why you set me up with Michael?”
“Hey, no. No, I didn’t. I’m sorry. He really sounded like a nice guy from what Derek said.”
“He was OK. I’m not blaming you. But, he was just so sad. Everything about him, even—look, he had these really well-polished shoes, OK?”
“Well how the hell is that sad? Shows he takes care of himself. You were always pissed off with Scott and saying he should smarten himself up.”
“Shut up for two seconds and I’ll tell you. It was sad
because
somehow you could just tell that he’d really taken his time doing them, that he hadn’t just given them a quick buff up while he was running out the door like the rest of us. I bet he’d sat down with a proper shoe-cleaning kit and spun it out because he didn’t have enough else going on in his life.”
“You could still have whisked him home and tried to shag some life into him. Then he’d have taken his shoes off and you wouldn’t have had to look at them.”
“Thank you, Cassie, Queen of the Agony Aunts. Do you ever dispense advice other than: go out and get laid?” She looked at me, head tilted to one side in that way she has. “I know, I know, you think I’m a horrible person. I should have been more sympathetic, but I felt if I’d spent even ten more minutes in his company then his sadness would have, I don’t know, engulfed me like a great clammy grey cloud. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there as fast as possible.”
“Ah, well. It’s all practice. And now you’ve got the first one out of the way, you won’t be so nervous when you meet someone else.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry to whinge, I know you meant well. Anyway, it did have its plus side …”
“He paid for dinner?”
“No, we went Dutch. But after, when I came home, I sat up a while in the kitchen and gradually this great wave of, well,
relief,
swept over me. I know it sounds mean, but I was just
so
glad that I was me and not Michael, that I’ve got my two gorgeous, precious kids, my sisters, my parents, you—people who love me, I suppose, people I really love. I don’t ever want to be that lonely. I’d rather be back with Scott again than be like that.”
Our Aunty Mari came over last night—to babysit Rosie. I don’t need anyone looking after me. Mum said she was going out with a friend, but I reckon it was more like a date. For a start, she took like about fifteen hours getting ready. Normally, when she used to go out, which was practically never anyhow, it was more like fifteen minutes. Mum came downstairs in this blue dress that she never wears any more. It comes all the way down to here at the back so she can’t wear a bra with it. She came in the kitchen and I gave her a look, then she went straight back upstairs again and came down in a black skirt with a red top and a jacket over it.
She got back quite late, after half-ten. I stayed up, waiting for her to come home, and I looked out the window to check out the guy when I heard a car pull up outside, but it was just Mum getting out of a taxi.
Then this morning I’m eating some Sugar Puffs straight from the box when Mum comes in.
“Good time last night?” I did that thing with my eyebrows, making them go up and down really fast. “You were late enough.”
And then she laughed, which was kind of weird, and she rolled her eyes the way Dad does. Used to.
“Not really, but thank you for asking.” Then she came over and tried to hug me.
“Mu-u-um! Gerroff!”
“Oh, Nathan. You’re
so
precious, you’ve no idea.”
I think she’s lost the plot. What’s brought on all this luvvy-duvvy stuff?
“What’s up with you then?”
“Nothing’s
up
with me. Actually, yes it is. I suddenly feel rather lucky and pleased to be me for once. It’s a nice feeling.”
Oh no, I thought, that’s all we need. Don’t tell me she’s gone all flaky for this guy. Flake City, here we come.
“You seeing him again then?”
“What? Who?”
I shrugged and chucked a Sugar Puff high in the air and caught it in my mouth.
“This guy. Your
date.”
“Ha! You little detective, you.” She gave me another squeeze and kissed the top of my head. “Nope. Definitely not, in fact.”
“Mn.”
“You think that’s why I’m so cheerful?”
“Mn.”
She leant against the counter and fished into the cereal box. She never does stuff like that. Normally, it’d be: Get yourself a bowl, Nathan. Sit down and eat properly, Nathan. For goodness’ sake, Nathan, can’t you eat like a normal person?
“No, it’s not that. Hey, these aren’t so bad without milk, are they? It’s just—well, you know I’ll be forty next week.”
“Yeah. You’ve gone on and on about it so it’s not like I’ve been allowed to forget.”
“Have I really? Sorry. Well, maybe I have. I’ve felt pretty lousy about it to be honest, as if my whole life is over. Especially with the problems between your dad and me, you know?”
“Mn.”
“It sounds strange maybe, but suddenly I feel like I’ve woken up. So I’ll be forty—so what? Big bloody deal. I’m still healthy, still attractive—don’t you
dare
give me that look, Nat, you cheeky so-and-so—and I’m not giving up on myself. Or not yet at any rate.”
I still say she’s becoming a bit of a loony tune since Dad left, but at least she was in a good mood and wasn’t telling me off, so I guess maybe it’s OK.
“Oh. Right. Mum?”
“Yup?”
“Can you lend us some money so’s I can get some talk time for my mobile?”
She laid her head down on the counter like she was about to go to sleep.
“I give up.” Then she chucked a Sugar Puff at me. Parents aren’t supposed to do stuff like that, are they? I mean, Dad always did, but he wasn’t like a real parent anyway, he only ever said parent stuff about doing your homework and not watching too much TV when Mum told him to. And now she’s getting just as bad. I don’t know. Parents. I mean, what are they like?
We’ve got into something of a routine, me and Rosie. I pull up outside at bang on 10 a.m. on a Sunday. I cheat actually—I get there a few minutes early and park round the corner so I can arrive on the dot. Well, it means Gail’s got no excuse to have a dig at me and Rosie seems to like it. She stands by the window in the front room with her nose pressed to the glass so she can watch out for me. I don’t even need to ring the bell.
Rosie flings open the door, jumps up to give me a hug, then kisses her mum goodbye and settles herself in the car while Gail and I see to the business end of things, i.e. the handing over of vast sums of money from me to her. She tells me when there’s anything extra the kids need but, give her credit, she never asks for extra for herself. She’s decided to start working longer hours at the surgery now, so that’ll ease things a bit all round. True, the money’s nothing to write home about, but then she says what else could she do? I’ve always thought Gail was pretty brainy actually, a lot brainier than me that’s for sure, but she’s never pushed herself. Yeah, I know, like who am I to talk?
On Sunday morning, we go out for a bike ride, then we find somewhere we can have a lunch—a roast or shepherd’s pie—proper food, not just chips as Gail says; I
am
trying here. In the afternoon we rent ourselves a video and sit on my settee with our feet up like an old married couple, then at the end we rewind to see all the bits we liked best again. Or we have a look round the shops and Rosie helps me get bits and pieces for the flat. She picked me out a vase and some cushions, she says you have to have things like that or it’s not a proper home at all.
A few times, we’ve gone up to London for the day. We even went to the Science Museum. I know, I know, I said you’d never get me in a museum till I’m long dead and they want my bones for a display case: Late 20th century/early 21st century male. Origin: South-east England. Note how the skull and skeleton show signs of excessive stress consistent with having suffered a crap life. Actually, we went because of some project she was doing at school to do with methods of transport, and they’ve got models of aeroplane wings and that sort of stuff which all move and it showed you how a plane goes up in the air and stays there. It’s all to do with the shape of the wing and the speed of the air over it and under it. I think. Funny, I always thought planes stayed up because you’re all on there with your fingers and toes crossed and praying like buggery that it’s not time for your number to come up. The museum wasn’t half bad actually. It’s more like playing now, with things to do and funny demonstrations and computers and everything. She said I was embarrassing because I kept having a go at all the things, but they never had them when I was a kid so I don’t see why I should miss out now. Still, I wish Nat had been there. He’d say he was too old for it, but I reckon he’d have got a kick out of it. If we go again, I’ll tell Gail, see if he fancies coming along.
Gail says I should write him a letter as he won’t speak to me if he answers the phone, just goes and gets Rosie. It made me think of that time, when I saw what was on his computer screen. Just “Dear Dad.” Maybe he didn’t want to say anything else, or didn’t know how. Must run in the family because I had a go at writing to him, I really did, only I’m not much of a one for letter writing and I couldn’t get it to come out right. And in the end the only bit that seemed to make any sense was “Dear Nat” and “love from Dad"—and I didn’t think that would make much of a letter so I never sent it.
On Sunday, Rosie asked me about Christmas.
“Da-a-a-a-dd-ee-ee?” she says. So I know she wants something. Mostly she just calls me Dad.
“Ye-e-e-e-s, Ro-o-o-o-o-s-ee-ee?”
“Silly!” She hits me on the arm. Children are so violent these days, what’s the world coming to?
“Go and pick on someone your own size, you bully!” I rub my arm, hamming it up like mad and screwing my face up in pretend pain. “What do you want, Piglet? More pocket money? The latest Nikes? Fame and fortune? Whatever it is, the answer’s probably no, so go ahead, ask away!” I pat my pockets. “Your old dad’s a bit short of the readies this week.”
“No,
Daddy.” She takes out her purse. It is pink with tiny beads stitched on all over it but there are gaps from where Rosie has pulled off some of the beads with her teeth, one at a time. She says it stops her biting her nails, but her nails are so short now there’s nothing left to bite anyway. She unzips the purse and shows me her little stash of money. “See?”
“You little hoarder—can I have some?”
She chews her lip for a moment and pokes through the contents with two fingers.
“OK. How much do you want?” Dead serious.
“Oh, Rosie, sweetheart!” I pick her up and whirl her round in the air the way I used to when she was just a tot. “I don’t want your money. I was just kidding.”
“You can if you want.” Aged nine (sorry, nearly ten), going on thirty-five. She tucks her hair back behind her ears.
“I’m fine.” I take her hand and we swing arms as we walk along, heading for the harbour to see the boats before we go for fish and chips. She does a funny half-skipping step to keep up with me. “I’m chuffed to bits you offered me your money, but hey—”
“What?”
“I don’t want you worrying about money, love, OK? Just ‘cause things are a tad tight at the moment doesn’t mean we’re on the breadline. Your mum and I would never see you or Nat go without.”
“What’s on the breadline?”
Questions, questions.
“You’d make a great quizmaster when you grow up. Or you could host
Newsnight,
have the politicians quaking in their shoes. On the breadline means being poor—like only having enough to eat bread, I suppose. Actually, now I think of it, I’m not sure it is that. I think it comes from being so poor that you were given free bread but you had to queue up for it. Surviving and no more.”
“Only bread. No chips?”
“Uh-huh, no chips.”
“No … roast chicken with peas and gravy?”