You, Me and Other People

Chapter Three

‘I’d like you to write about yourself,’ she says, just as the hour is up. ‘I want you to only write about you – not Adam, not Meg, nor your mum, your alcoholic father, your dead baby brother or anyone else – just you. Don’t think about it too much. Just let it flow.’

I write every day, but the idea of me, and only me, being my subject matter makes me want to grab my knees and rock back and forth in my chair.

‘Use the Russian doll idea,’ she suggests, picking up a small barrel-shaped doll from the coffee table. Last time I was here, I noticed a whole shelf of them nearby. Opening it up, she reveals five layers, with the final one being the size and shape of a monkey nut.

‘That’s where you need to get to,’ she says, pointing a filed French nail to the monkey nut centre. ‘Peel back the outer layers, get to yourself. Your core.’ She is smiling, as though she’s rather pleased with herself.

‘I’m not sure …’ The anxiety in my voice is audible. ‘I can’t get that small, I don’t think I’d know my inner bits if they walked up and introduced themselves.’

‘Maybe you could start with, “Who am I?”,’ she says, leaning back.

I imagine this in my head using word association, and panic as I only have enough words to cover the two outer dolls at most. She tells me to breathe, breathe, slowly in and out.

I close my eyes.

‘Then go on to “How do I feel?”,’ she continues.

Oh God, I feel a little sick. Please don’t let that be vomit at the back of my throat.

‘And then maybe what do I like and dislike?’

‘Okay, stop!’ I get it. I look at her and her coffee-table toy. ‘You’re going to need a bigger doll.’

Caroline, as she has insisted on me calling her, has suggested that I borrow some books and CDs on relaxation techniques. She showed me a reflexology pressure point on the fleshy part of my hand, between my thumb and index finger, advising me to press it gently whenever I feel panicky. I think Abba songs work well too, so I’m singing ‘Fernando’ aloud when I reach Weybridge High Street. It’s the afternoon school run and the traffic has formed a long, snaking queue.

‘Fernando’ over, I tackle ‘The Winner Takes It All’, only to decide, midway, that it’s a bad song choice. I push one of Caroline’s CDs into the player. The sound of the sea crashing against rocks and some dolphin-like ‘clicks’ fill the car. I breathe in deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth, just like she showed me. Three minutes later, I haven’t moved an inch and I leap at the Bluetooth trill of the mobile.

‘Hey, darling,’ I say.

‘Hi, Mum. You okay?’

‘Great.’ I never lie to Meg, but now is not the moment to confirm that neither Abba nor dolphins are resolving my anxiety. I glance at the clock. ‘Didn’t you say you had lectures all afternoon?’

‘I did. I do. I didn’t go in.’

‘I see …’

‘He called me.’

‘Okay …’ The traffic still at a standstill, I prod the fleshy part on my left hand with my right thumb.

‘I mean, I’m not sure what he wants me to say? He leaves you – I mean us – for another woman, phones me up and just wants to have a chat! I asked him. I mean, I asked him if he was still with her. He didn’t even have the balls to just admit it.’

Meg takes a moment to breathe and I remove my foot from the brake, inch the car forward, jab the flesh again. I’m sure I’ll have a bruise tomorrow.

I’m determined to say the right thing. ‘Meg, love, don’t cut him off. This is about me and him. It’s our marriage that’s the problem, not you and him. He’s still your father and he loves you with all his heart.’ Even as I’m saying this, I can imagine her twisted grimace. She and I have wondered lately if he even has a heart.

‘He’s a liar,’ is her angry reply.

‘Yes, yes he is, but it’s me he’s lied to, not you.’

‘His lies still affect me! Can’t you see that, Mum?’

‘I’m sorry.’ My head is nodding. Of course I can see it. I’ve always been able to see it, but something tells me that, while she hates him now, it’s a temporary thing. Soon, she’ll love him again, and I don’t want her to feel she needs my permission. They are, and will always be, thick as thieves. ‘Just talk to him if he calls. Don’t cut him off for my sake. You need each other.’

She makes a ‘hmph’-like sound and I change the subject, urge her back to classes, insist she keep carrying on as normal. She hangs up with a promise to visit next week.

The entire exchange with my daughter lasts a few minutes and I’m still stuck in the High Street. There is nothing else for it. I press play on the CD player and surround myself with more ‘Flipper’ noises.

By the time I get home, I feel quite serene, if a little seasick. I park the car a few metres back from the double garage. It’s separate from the house, set back on the unattached side, and it’s another of Adam’s anally tidy spaces.

I enter through the up-and-over door. Inside, there is floor-to-ceiling shelving on one side, with various selections of paint, paint brushes, rollers, cleaning fluids – all filed beautifully in shades and can sizes. I find a tin of gold spray paint, which I used last Christmas to colour pine cones. I can’t quite comprehend that I ever considered pine-cone colour important. Opposite the paint shelves is the ‘car section’, with a selection of chamois leathers, T-Cut, car shampoo, mini-vacuum, wax, rolls of soft cloth.

I move a few things around. I put some paint in the car section, throw the chamois leathers on the floor and dance like a dervish on them. I remove the bag from his mini-vacuum and empty it over the chamois, then tear the bag up and replace it in the vacuum. I mix big cans with little cans of paint and, whilst I’m busy generally messing with Adam’s space, I find the can of paint I bought for the hall last year. I remember Adam being adamant.

‘No way,’ he’d said, ‘it’s awful.’

And I remember just accepting that.

It’s much later, after my tuna sandwich dinner, when I return to the garage. I retrieve the can of paint, a wonderful shade of ‘Tiffany’ blue, some brushes and a roller, and begin to redecorate the hall. I’ve never liked the cold stone shade that Adam chose. The preparation – taking all the pictures down, washing the walls – takes ages, and I’m just about to give up when I pick up the tiniest brush and dip it in the paint. It seems to have a life of its own, writing in Tiffany blue over cold stone:

I am Beth. I am strong. I am middle aged. I like champagne, chocolate, the ocean, lacy stockings, Ikea meatballs, flip-flops, Touche Éclat, music and lyrics. I don’t like politicians, call centres, size zero women, snobs, punk rock, horseradish, dastards and women who sleep with dastards

I stand back and admire my work. Without realizing it, I’ve created a sort of text box on the hallway wall. Drawing a square around it, I underline ‘dastards and women who sleep with dastards’. I’m not sure it’s exactly what Caroline had in mind when she said ‘write about yourself’, but it works for me. Before going to bed, I take another peek. Marvellous.

Sleep, however, has become another problem for me. An hour later, I’m still wide awake, with the television on mute and the laptop perched next to me. A small whirring noise lets me know it’s still turned on. Lucky laptop. I leap out of bed, not wanting to think about sex.

In our en-suite bathroom, I am assaulted by images of myself. The French oval wall mirror above the walnut unit housing double sinks confirms that though my green eyes remain my best feature, they have been particularly challenged by Adam leaving. Even my fabulous Touche Éclat struggles to keep up with the dark shadowy veins of a broken marriage.

The full-length mirror to the right of the bath reveals legs that are far too short for my torso. A couple of grey pubic hairs prove beyond any Dead Sea Scrolls that God is a man. The loose bit of my skin overhanging the top of my knickers reminds me I’m a mother, as if I need reminding … My hair which – when I was twenty-two – used to be long, dark brown and shiny, is – now I am forty-two – short, dark brown and matt, compliments of L’Oréal, because I’m worth it. I cleanse my face with a wipe one more time and start to sing. I sing ‘Missing’, the last song of mine that Josh sold, which has earned me the princely sum of £10,500 so far.

‘The mirror doesn’t lie, but who is she and where am I?’ I blast out the lyric with gusto as I head downstairs and take the vacuum from the hall cupboard. I sing louder in my best voice above the drone.

I vacuum the living room, then the dining room and finally the hall. I pass my artwork and smile. When I put the vacuum away and liberate the limescale loo cleaner from the cupboard under the sink, I realize I’m having what Adam used to call an OCD moment, an episode that my therapist would probably have a proper Latin word for. Yellow gloves are snapped into place before I scrub the loos, still singing, with a scourer in one hand and a newly poured glass of wine in the other. If someone could see me, they’d think me quite mad. If there are any aliens watching, they’ll kidnap Sylvia next door instead. They could never take the risk.

Chapter Four

I’m sitting in my office, my head in my hands, my elbows rested on the scarred walnut antique desk that Beth sourced somewhere in rural Brittany. My wristwatch claims its ten thirty, which means I’ve been here two hours. Despite the two large screens on the wall opposite, with Bloomberg blinking red downward arrows at me, all I’ve done since I got in is paper-shuffle. Outside my door, the plaque six feet away in the reception area says HALL & FRY. The name is well known in the City. It tells people that we are a respected wealth-management firm, a highly regarded family office. If your family has money, come to us; we’ll look after it, help it grow. You want art? You want to invest in property? The markets? We are specialist consultants. Offering advice. I wish to hell someone would offer me some.

As if on cue, Matt – my business partner for almost twenty years – enters without knocking.

‘You look like shit,’ is his opening line.

I rub my two-day-old facial hair. ‘We’re not seeing clients,’ is my only offer of defence.

‘I still have to look at you.’ He throws a couple of files on my desk. ‘Can you have these back by four and we do have to see clients tomorrow, the Granger brothers? So a shave might be in order?’

I ignore the client reference, ignore Matt’s worried face looking at the screens, lean back and put my feet up on my desk. ‘You pissed off at me for some reason?’

‘Now what would make you think that?’ Matt turns back to me, peers at me above his glasses, then reconsiders and removes them completely. It gives him something to wave at me. ‘Why in the world would anyone be pissed off at the wonderful Adam Hall?’

‘Yeah well, join the queue,’ I mutter, removing my feet.

Matt sits in the chair opposite, runs a hand through his scant hair.

‘What is it you’re doing, Adam? Do you even know? I mean, do you love this girl?’

I stand and look out of the window, try to lose myself in the urban sounds below. The loud hum of traffic, the odd siren, riverboat horns … My office overlooks Tower Bridge and there isn’t a day goes by where I don’t look down from my sixth-floor room and pinch myself. I’m a lucky guy. At least I was a lucky guy. Now I’m a lucky bastard. Lucky dastard. A lucky dastardly bastard. I feel Matt’s eyes bore holes in my back.

‘Adam?’

‘That’s three questions. Which one would you like me to answer first?’

‘Whichever.’

I turn to face him. ‘The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t think I’m in love, but I’m drawn to this woman—’

Matt makes a ‘haruuumph’-type sound. ‘It’s called lust,’ he says, matter-of-factly.

I feel my head shake in defence.

‘If it’s not lust and it’s not love, what is it? Do you have anything in common with her?’

‘Her name is Emma.’

‘Emma then.’ Matt shrugs as he stands, replaces his glasses. ‘What is it you have in common with Emma?’

‘She’s …’ I hesitate for just a moment too long.

‘She is gorgeous,’ he offers. I think in a strange way, he’s trying to help.

She’s ten years younger than me. She comes from money, while my DNA originated in Bethnal Green. She doesn’t even know who The Eagles are and I’ve been to every concert they’ve played in the UK. She couldn’t sing along to Bruce Springsteen with me. She lives in a clutter-free, white, sterile house, whereas I’m – I mean Beth’s – a hoarder.

‘She is gorgeous,’ I agree. ‘And, frankly, the sex is phenomenal.’

I stare at his suited back as he exits the room.

‘Lust.’ He looks back over his shoulder. ‘Told you so … Speaking of which,’ he says grinning, ‘you have a lunch appointment with the subject of my dreams.’

My eyes squeeze shut as the door closes.

Bloody hell. Karen. I have a lunch appointment with the woman Matt has been lusting after for years. Karen, our outsourced IT specialist and Beth’s best friend in the world.

As she approaches, I notice men staring. Karen is stunning: a tall, willowy redhead with a slim figure. Straight, short, spiky hair; wide brown eyes flanked by long lashes; a pert nose and full lips. She’s wearing a fitted jacket and loose flared trousers. Karen refuses my air kiss, turns her head away and slowly begins to fold her long legs into the booth I’ve reserved for lunch. I hand her an envelope.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I could’ve just sent it by BACS, but I wanted to apologize in person. That brings us all up to date.’

She nods, doesn’t look at me and immediately begins to remove her limbs from the booth again.

‘What? That’s it?’ I hear my voice sound as if I’m fourteen and it’s about to break.

She looks me up and down. ‘Adam, I agreed to meet you when you guys owed me six grand. I thought I’d have to butter you up to be paid. I thought I’d get quoted the fact that times are bad, that we’re all still feeling the pain of recession. That your clients haven’t paid you, so you’re a little slow in paying contractors, but hey …’ She waves an arm dramatically as she swings her designer handbag over her other shoulder. ‘Here we are and you’ve already paid me!’

‘Stay for lunch …’

‘I’d rather starve.’

‘Please.’ I meet her narrowed eyes. ‘I need to talk to you, to someone.’

‘Try Yell.com. Look under “Counselling for fucktards”.’ She is still standing.

‘Please? Beth won’t talk to me.’

She relents a little and sits down, no legs under the table, just seated on the edge, ready for a speedy exit. It’s good enough for me.

‘Drink?’

She shakes her head.

‘Do you mind if I have one?’

More head-shaking. I motion to the waiter by pointing to my empty G&T glass, mouthing ‘another’ to him. Karen is looking at her feet.

‘Where do I start?’ I place both my palms on the table, clutching the edge with my thumbs.

‘Well, you could explain why you’re playing hunt the sausage with some blonde waitress?’

‘She’s not a waitress,’ I begin, ‘she part-owns the restaurant.’ I’ve recently learned this fact and feel eager to share it with Karen.

‘Bully for her. Explain then why you’re playing hunt the sausage with a blonde part-restaurant owner. Again …’

She spits the last word out. For a moment I’m confused. Then I realize. This is Karen; Beth tells her everything. Of course she would know about the last time, but that was different. And it was such a long time ago.

‘That was a long time ago,’ I whisper.

‘What? I can’t hear you,’ she says, raising a palm to her ear. ‘I’m assuming it was an apology for breaking Beth’s heart. Again.’

I almost snatch the G&T from the waiter’s tray as he walks by.

‘I am sorry. Of course, I’m sorry. Every day I’m sorry—’

‘Words, Adam, just words … Thank you for the cheque.’ She stands up, straightens out her tailored trousers and eyeballs me. ‘I do hope that we can continue a working relationship, but when it comes to your behaviour and Beth, don’t ever expect me to take your side.’

‘I don’t, Karen.’ I reach out and grab her arm. ‘Look, I only want to talk to her. Just talk to her, try and explain.’

‘Don’t you get it?’ She pulls away. ‘You’ve hurt her too badly this time. There is no explanation you could possibly offer.’

‘But we’ve been married for—’

Karen tuts loudly, shakes me off her and walks away. Men stare in her wake, then look back at me. It looks like a lovers’ tiff and I’m the baddie. Well. They’re half right.

‘Twenty years,’ I finish my sentence, addressing my G&T. I swallow back the remains of the drink in one gulp, realizing for the first time that this is it, the possible end of my marriage, and I wonder how the hell I ended up being so arrogant. What had I thought? That she’d just take me back again. Yes. That’s exactly what I’d thought. That I could have a bit of fun, admit my mistake and that Beth would take me back. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. The words roll around my head and I hear myself speaking just like her. I’m trying ‘Beth-speak’, potty-mouth stuff. I leave the restaurant, thinking I’m due at Emma’s in five hours for dinner. Fuck. Double plus fuck.

I’m a little drunk. Home-cooked, slow-braised lamb shank is staring up at me from a white plate – on a white table. I’m sitting on a white chair on a white rug. I have a white linen napkin on my lap. I’m in the White House.

‘You’re not perfect, you know.’ I point a fork at the figure sitting opposite me. ‘Not all that …’ I look at my surroundings, searching for the right word. ‘White,’ I add.

‘More wine?’ she offers.

‘You’re not innocent. No way, not at all. You knew I was married. Yes, you knew.’

She sips her wine. ‘I did,’ she agrees.

‘All this white.’ I wave my cutlery around the room, splashing gravy on the white rug below. ‘Oops,’ I place a slightly drunken hand to my mouth, ‘a stain. Emma, you have a stain.’

She stands up, walks to the kitchen and returns with a spray cleaner and a cloth. She lowers herself and tries to rub the blemish away.

‘I have a stain too – on my soul,’ I whisper. ‘No, two actually … two big ugly black marks on my soul.’

She looks up at me, nods and returns to the rug below.

‘But hey, while you’re down there,’ I say, and laugh out loud. I’m fucking hilarious, I am.

Chapter Five

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she says. I’d been talking about my work. How I feel that I’m not good enough, that I may never be ‘successful’.

‘What would it be like if you achieved everything you wanted, rather than feeling you have to sabotage it?’ Caroline asks.

I am momentarily horrified. ‘Sabotage?’ I exhale loudly. Is that what I do? I let her question linger and my shoulders unlock and lift.

‘I’ve been listening to you.’ She leans forward. ‘And you’re really hard on yourself. If anyone else treated you like that, you could sue for harassment.’

I scan the copy of the crumpled timeline in my hand for a hint. What went wrong? I want to scream out loud and blame Adam, but I can’t. I suspect I also played a part in getting to this place today.

‘He did it once before you know.’ I begin to cry. ‘Years ago … but I forgave him.’

She makes a face, an acknowledging grimace. ‘What happened?’

‘Some client …’ I rub some white lint from my navy blazer. ‘A woman he was working on some deal with. I never found out who. Meg was only nine at the time. I didn’t want to know, I just wanted it fixed – so we worked on it.’ The lint is gone but I’m still rubbing my arm. ‘Though what really happened is: I worked on it and he just nodded, played along.’ I shake my head. ‘To hell with him. Let’s concentrate on me …’

‘Okay. Some homework.’ Caroline claps her hands lightly. ‘I want you to try and reinstate upbeat thoughts into your life. Try reciting some positive affirmations, almost mantra-like.’

I can do that. I offer a rare smile. No problem.

‘Try to be spontaneous. Imagine what it might be like to do something unplanned.’

My immediate instinct is to tell her not to be stupid. I don’t do unplanned, and I invented control-freakery. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say.

‘What is it you’re afraid of?’ she challenges.

Everything, I realize, I am afraid of everything.

When I arrive home, there’s a familiar car in the driveway and Karen is sitting on my doorstep with a large bunch of yolk-yellow gerbera daisies, my favourite flowers, and a bottle of orange label bubbles. Her face is raised to the morning sun.

I hug her. ‘It’s ten a.m. Why aren’t you in work?’

‘I work for myself; took a few hours off, figured you might need this?’ She waves the bottle as I unlock the front door.