But he isn’t forty-five, he is twenty-eight years old. His mother is forty-nine. There has been some terrible mistake, the timing is out, and how can he possibly be expected to deal with this, the sight of his extraordinary mother diminishing like this? It isn’t fair on him, not with so many other distractions. He is a busy young man on the edge of a successful career. Expressed in its frankest terms, he has better things to do. He feels another sudden urge to cry, but he hasn’t cried for fifteen years, so he puts this down to the chemicals and decides to sleep a little. He balances the glass of wine on a packing case by the side of the bed, and rolls onto his side. Being a decent human being will require effort and energy. A little rest, then he will apologise and show how much he loves her.
He wakes with a start and looks at his watch, then looks again. 6.26 p.m. He has slept for six hours, clearly impossible, but when he pulls open the curtains the sun is starting to dip in the sky. His head still hurts, his eyes are somehow gummed shut, there’s a metallic taste in his mouth, and he is parched and hungrier than he has ever been before. The glass of wine,
when he reaches for it, is warm in his hand. He drinks half of it, then recoils – a fat bluebottle has found its way into the glass and buzzes against his lip. Dexter drops the glass, spilling the wine down his shirt and onto the bed. He stumbles to his feet.
In the bathroom, he splashes his face. The perspiration on the shirt has gone sour, taking on an unmistakeable alcoholic stench. A little queasily he paints himself with his father’s old roll-on deodorant. Downstairs he can hear pots and pans, the babble of the radio, family sounds. Bright; be bright and happy and polite, then go.
But as he passes his mother’s room he sees her sitting on the edge of the bed in profile, looking out across the fields as if she too has been waiting for him. Slowly she turns her head, but he hovers on the threshold like a child.
‘You’ve missed the whole day,’ she says quietly.
‘I overslept.’
‘So I see. Feeling better?’
‘No.’
‘Oh well. Your father is a little angry with you, I’m afraid.’
‘No change there then.’ She smiles indulgently and, encouraged, he adds, ‘Everyone seems pissed-off with me at the moment.’
‘Poor little Dexter,’ she says and he wonders if she is being sarcastic. ‘Come and sit here.’ She smiles, places one hand on the bed next to her. ‘Next to me.’ Obediently he enters the room, and sits, so that their hips are touching. She knocks her head against his shoulder. ‘We’re not ourselves, are we? I’m certainly not myself, not anymore. And you’re not either. You don’t seem yourself. Not as I remember you.’
‘In what way?’
‘I mean … can I speak frankly?’
‘Do you have to?’
‘I think I do. It is my prerogative.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I think …’ She lifts her head from his shoulder. ‘I think that you have it in you to be a fine young man. Exceptional even. I have always thought that. Mothers are supposed to, aren’t they? But I don’t think you’re there yet. Not yet. I think you’ve got some way to go. That’s all.’
‘I see.’
‘You mustn’t take this badly, but sometimes …’ She takes his hand in hers, rubbing the palm of it with her thumb. ‘Sometimes I worry that you’re not very nice anymore.’
They sit there for a while until eventually he says, ‘There’s nothing I can say to that.’
‘There’s nothing that you have to say.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘A little. But then I’m angry with pretty much everyone these days. Everyone who isn’t sick.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I am so, so sorry.’
She presses her thumb into the palm of his hand. ‘I know you are.’
‘I’ll stay. Tonight.’
‘No, not tonight. You’re busy. Come back and start again.’
He stands, holds her shoulders lightly, and presses his cheek against hers – he can hear her breathing in his ear, the warm, sweet breath – then he walks to the door.
‘Thank Emma for me,’ she says. ‘For the books.’
‘I will.’
‘Send her my love. When you see her tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes. You’re seeing her tonight.’
He remembers his lie. ‘Yes, yes I will. And I’m sorry if I haven’t been very … very good today.’
‘Well. I suppose there’s always the next time,’ she says, and smiles.
Dexter takes the stairs at a run, counting on the momentum to hold him together, but his father is in the hallway reading the local newspaper, or pretending to. Once again, it’s as if
he has been waiting for him, a sentry on duty, the arresting officer.
‘I overslept,’ says Dexter, to his father’s back.
He turns a page of the newspaper. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me, Dad?’
‘There didn’t seem much point. Also I tend to think that I shouldn’t have to.’ He turns another page. ‘You’re not fourteen years old, Dexter.’
‘But it means I’ve got to go now!’
‘Well, if you’ve got to go …’ The sentence peters out. He can see Cassie in the living room, also pretending to read, her face flush with condemnation and self-righteousness.
Get out of here now, just go, because this is all about to break
. He places one hand on the hall table for his keys, but it comes up empty.
‘My car keys.’
‘I’ve hidden them,’ says his father, reading the paper. Dexter can’t help but laugh. ‘You can’t
hide my keys!’
‘Well clearly I can because I have. Do you want to play looking for them?’
‘May I ask why?’ he says, indignant.
His father lifts his head from the paper, as if sniffing the air. ‘Because you are drunk.’
In the living room, Cassie gets up from the sofa, crosses to the door and pushes it closed.
Dexter laughs, but without conviction. ‘No, I’m not!’
His father glances over his shoulder. ‘Dexter, I know when someone is drunk. You in particular. I’ve been seeing you drunk for twelve years now, remember?’
‘But I’m not drunk, I’m hungover, that’s all.’
‘Well either way, you are not driving home.’
Again, Dexter gives a scoffing laugh, and rolls his eyes in protest, but no words will come out, except for a feeble, high-pitched ‘Dad, I am twenty-eight years old!’
On cue his father says, ‘Could have fooled me,’ then reaches into his pocket for his own car keys, tossing them in the air and
catching them in feigned joviality. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a lift to the station.’
Dexter does not say goodbye to his sister.
Sometimes I worry that you’re not very nice
. His father drives in silence, Dexter steeping in shame in the big old Jaguar. When the silence can no longer be borne, his father speaks, quietly and soberly, eyes fixed on the road. ‘You can come and get your car on Saturday. When you’re sober.’
‘I’m sober now,’ says Dexter, hearing his own voice, still whining and petulant, the voice of his sixteen-year-old self. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he adds, redundantly.
‘I’m not going to argue with you, Dexter.’
He huffs and slides down in his seat, his forehead and nose pressed against the window as the country lanes and smart houses flash by. His father, who has always abhorred all confrontation and is clearly in agony here, punches on the radio to cover the silence and they listen to classical music: a march, banal and bombastic. They approach the train station. The car pulls into the car park, emptied now of commuters. Dexter opens the car door, places one foot on the gravel, but his father makes no gesture of goodbye, just sits and waits with the engine running, as neutral as a chauffeur, his eyes fixed on the dashboard, fingers tapping to that lunatic march.
Dexter knows he should accept his chastisement and go, but pride won’t let him. ‘Okay, I’m going now, but can I just say, I think you’re completely over-reacting to this …’
And suddenly there is real rage in his father’s face, his teeth bared and clenched tight, his voice cracking: ‘Do not
dare
to insult my intelligence or your mother’s, you are a grown man now, you are not a child.’ Just as quickly the rage is gone, and instead he thinks his father might be about to cry. His bottom lip is trembling, one hand is gripping the wheel, the long fingers of the other hand wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold. Dexter hurriedly backs out of the car and is about to stand and
close the door, when his father turns off the radio and speaks again. ‘Dexter—’
Dexter stoops, and looks in at his father. His eyes are wet, but his voice is steady as he says—
‘Dexter, your mother loves you very, very much. And I do too. We always have and we always will. I think you know that. But in whatever time your mother has left to her—’ He falters, glances down as if looking for the words, then up. ‘Dexter, if you ever come and see your mother in this state again, I swear, I will not let you into the house. I will not let you through our door. I will close the door in your face. I mean this.’
Dexter’s mouth is open, though there are no words.
‘Now. Please go home.’
Dexter closes the car door, but it doesn’t lock. He closes it again just as his father, flustered too, jolts forwards, then into reverse, leaving the car park at speed. Dexter stands and watches him go.
The rural train station is empty. He looks along the length of the platform for the payphone, the old familiar payphone that he used as a teenager to make his plans of escape. It’s 6.59 p.m. The London connection will be here in six minutes, but he has to make this call.
At 7 p.m., Emma takes one last look in the mirror to ensure that it doesn’t seem as if she has made any kind of effort. The mirror leans precariously against the wall and she knows that it has a foreshortening, hall-of-mirrors effect, but even so she clicks her tongue at her hips, the short legs below her denim skirt. It’s too warm for tights but she can’t bear the sight of her scuffed red knees so is wearing them anyway. Her hair, newly washed and smelling of something called forest fruits, has fallen into a ‘do’, flicked and fragrant, and she scrubs at it with her fingertips to muss it up, then uses her little finger to wipe smears of lipstick from the corner of her mouth. Her lips are very red, and she wonders if she’s overdoing it. After all, nothing’s likely
to happen, she’ll be home by 10.30. She drains the last of a large vodka and tonic, winces as it reacts metallically with the toothpaste, picks up her keys, drops them in her best handbag, and closes the door.
The phone rings.
She is halfway down the institutional hallway when she hears it. For one moment she contemplates running back to answer it but she is late already, and it’s probably just her mum or sister to find out how the interview went. At the end of the hall she can hear the lift door opening. She runs to catch it, and the doors of the lift close just as the answering machine picks up.
‘… leave your message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.’
‘Hi there, Emma, it’s Dexter here. What was I going to say? Well I was going to say I’m at this train station near home and I’ve just come from Mum’s and … and I wondered what you were doing tonight. I have tickets for the
Jurassic Park
premiere! Actually we’ve missed that I think, but maybe the party afterwards? Me and you? Princess Di will be there. Sorry, I’m waffling, in case you’re there. Pick up the phone, Emma. Pick up pick up pick up pick up. No? Okay, well I’ve just remembered, you have your date tonight, don’t you? Your hot date. Well – have fun, call me when you get in,
if
you get in. Let me know what happens. Seriously, call me, soon as you can.’
He stumbles, catches his breath, then says:
‘Just an unbelievably shitty day, Em,’ and falters again. ‘I’ve just done something so, so bad.’ He should hang up, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to see Emma Morley so that he might confess his sins, but she’s on a date. He pulls his mouth into a grin and says ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I want to know everything! Heartbreaker you.’ He hangs up. Heartbreaker you.
The rails are clicking now, and he can hear the hum of the train approaching, but he can’t get on board, not in this state. He’ll just have to wait for the next one. The London train arrives and seems to be waiting for him, ticking politely, but Dexter
stands shielded by the plastic carapace of the payphone booth, feels his face crumple inwards and his breath become broken and jagged, and as he starts to cry he tells himself that it’s just chemical, chemical, chemical.
Covent Garden and King’s Cross
Ian Whitehead sat alone at a table for two in the Covent Garden branch of Forelli’s, and checked his watch: fifteen minutes late, but he imagined that this was part of the exquisite game of cat-and-mouse that is dating. Well, let the games commence. He dunked his ciabatta in the little dish of olive oil as if loading a paintbrush, opened the menu and worked out what he could afford to eat.
Life as a stand-up comedian had yet to bring the wealth and TV exposure that it had once promised. The Sunday papers weekly proclaimed that comedy was the new rock and roll, so why was he still hustling for open-mike spots at Sir Laffalots on Tuesday nights? He had adapted his material to fit with current fashions, pulling back on the political and observational material and trying out character-comedy, surrealism, comic songs and sketches. Nothing seemed to raise a laugh. A detour into a more confrontational style had led to him being punched and kicked, and his residency with a Sunday night improv comedy team had proved only that he could be unfunny in an entirely unplanned, spontaneous way. Yet still he soldiered on, up and down the Northern Line, round and round the Circle, in search of the big laughs.
Perhaps there was something about the name ‘Ian Whitehead’ that made it resistant to being spelt out in lightbulbs. He had even considered changing it to something punchy, boysy
and monosyllabic – Ben or Jack or Matt – but until he found his comic persona he had taken a job in Sonicotronics, an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road where unhealthy young men in t-shirts sold ROM and graphics cards to unhealthy young men in t-shirts. The money wasn’t great, but his evenings were free for gigs, and he frequently cracked up his co-workers with new material.