You, Me and Other People

‘It’s ten a.m.,’ I repeat, smiling.

‘So what? It’s a half-bottle and I brought orange juice too if you want to spoil the taste.’ Her nose wrinkles, a pout that says she couldn’t imagine anything worse. I reach out and hug her again, whisper a quiet ‘thank you’ into her ear. In that moment, I’m so grateful to have her. Her antennae twitch whenever I need her. As if to prove the point, when we reach the kitchen, she whips out some fresh bagels filled with salmon and cream cheese from a tiny cool bag in her titan handbag.

‘You need to eat something healthy,’ she says as she pours champagne. The irony is lost and we munch, talk and drink, or at least she munches and I talk and drink. Occasionally, she just shakes her head. I tell her about this morning’s session with Dr Gothenburg.

‘Well?’ she says, creasing her brow, ‘What are you afraid of?’

I hesitate, but just for a moment, before the tears fall. ‘I’m constantly afraid.’

She pushes the already empty glasses aside and reaches for my hand. ‘Go on.’

‘Being alone … taking him back and not trusting him; something happening to Meg; being with someone else … I’m not sure I could.’

‘Pah,’ she splutters, as she stands up and heads towards the sink. ‘If it comes to that,’ she shakes the kettle then flicks the switch, ‘believe me – a cock is a cock is a cock.’

I shudder and she laughs.

‘The devil, witches and aliens,’ I continue, counting out my fears on my fingers.

‘Be serious.’

‘I am, Karen, I really am.’

Her bottom lip protrudes. ‘I see.’

‘Losing it someday.’ I raise my eyebrows.

‘Losing what?’

‘My temper … control … I feel if I show the world how angry I actually am, that I’d be locked up and the key thrown away.’

‘I’ll buy you a punchbag. Next?’

‘I worry about Meg, what this is going to do to her. She worships her father.’

‘Meg will be fine. She’s young and strong and she’s got too much of you in her to let this defeat her.’

‘It won’t defeat her, but it might shape how she views men.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Getting cancer,’ I add. ‘What if pentapeptides are found to be carcinogenic? What if I like my alcohol too much? What if my father’s genes take over?’

‘And what if you’re overreacting?’

I ignore her. ‘Oh, and the dark and deep water and air travel and wait … I’ve apparently got an inner saboteur.’

Karen’s quiet. She hovers by the boiled kettle, deep in thought, so I get up, usher her back to her stool and make two mugs of steaming Earl Grey.

Her hands straddle her cup. ‘I saw him last week.’

‘You did?’ The mood in the room shifts.

‘He owed me money and I went to collect a cheque. He looks like shit.’

‘Yeah well, he’s screwing some waitress. He deserves to look like shit.’ I take a seat opposite her.

‘She’s not a waitress. He told me that she part-owns the restaurant.’

‘She does? Well, I couldn’t give a shit if she whole-owns the restaurant. I don’t give a rat’s arse if she whole-owns a chain of restaurants. She’s a husband-stealing bitch.’

Karen laughs.

‘Did he ask about me?’ I’m not sure why I want to know. I just do.

‘Of course. He wants to know if I’ll speak to you on his behalf. I told him to go screw himself. Smug bastard … Enough about him!’ She suddenly slaps a hand on the breakfast bar and I flinch. ‘What about if I come down next weekend?’ she says. ‘We could have a takeaway and sleepover, maybe go out to a wine bar. I’m not sure you’re ready yet, but maybe if you pulled someone, you know, just a snog—’

I groan out loud and lay my head in my hands.

‘I was talking a quick snog, not a frigging wedding.’

‘You know what? I’m bored. Let’s talk about your love life.’

‘Hmmm …’ Karen replies. ‘Nothing new to report except a decision.’

I raise my head and my eyebrows.

‘I’ve decided,’ she continues, ‘that I need an older man. A solvent, older, mature, loving man.’

I smile. ‘Good decision. You do know that means a man in his forties.’

Karen sticks her tongue out, ignoring my jibe about the fact that she’s forty this year.

‘Anyhow, now you and I can go on the pull together.’

‘That’s not going to happen.’ I cannot imagine anything worse in the world right now.

‘Never say never.’

‘I’m saying never.’

‘Really?’ She pours me another glass, ignores her own. ‘C’mon, Beth, feel the fear and do it anyway! Never is an awfully long time. Take it from me. You’ll need a snog. And soon.’ She adds the last two words as if my very life will depend on me swapping saliva. Soon.

I shudder visibly, catch her eye and we both hoot.

Painful belly laughs later, somehow we’re back to discussing more of my inner fears when she glances at her watch and makes a face. ‘Sorry, I’ve really got to go.’ She comes to hug me.

‘Relying on my “rampant rabbit” for sex?’ I offer as a parting shot.

She puts her coat on in the hall. ‘Sounds like my life. Be afraid,’ she says gravely, ‘be very afraid …’ And just as I think she’s out of the door, she stops, narrows her eyes and points to the wall with a questioning tilt of her head.

‘Oh, yeah.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘That. I’m redecorating. What do you think of the colour?’

She reads the words, a hint of a smile appearing on her full lips.

‘The colour’s bloody awful,’ she says finally. ‘And is “dastard” a real word?’

Later that day, when I’m upstairs working in the loft, my stomach flips when I check my emails.

-----Original Message-----

From: ahall@hall&fryuk.net

Sent: 23 September 2014 15:37 PM

To: bhall@intranethalluk.net

Subject: You (and me)

Hi,

I’m sure I’m the last person you want to hear from now but I really feel the need to talk to you. I hope you’re okay. I’m okay. I’m thinking of you. I miss you. A x

Stomach still playing leapfrog, I type my reply.

-----Original Message-----

From: bhall@intranethalluk.net

Sent: 23 September 2014 15:45 PM

To: ahall@hall&fryuk.net

Subject: Your mail

I am SO fed up with your needs. You needed to leave me to shag another woman. Now you need to talk to me. Miss me – you left me! What bloody planet are you on? And shove your ‘x’ directly up your ass. Beth.

Just as I press send, I hear the front door slam and my heart clenches. Shit. I creep to the door and listen. I’m not ready to see him. All sorts of thoughts skip through my head. Heart thumping, I remember I’ve changed the locks, but it’s only when I hear the footsteps on the stairs being taken two at a time and a telltale ‘Mum?’ that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I’m sitting down, pressing that spot between my thumb and forefinger, when Meg peers around the door.

‘There you are! Should have known! God, Mum, open a window!’ She comes across the room and embraces me, then walks back to the first Velux, pushing it open.

‘How can you work? It’s like a coffin in here! Any food in? C’mon,’ she pulls my hand. ‘I’m famished.’

‘You’ll be lucky,’ I say, following her downstairs. ‘I was going to food-shop tonight.’ The lie slips easily off my tongue. ‘Why are you home anyway? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

Meg turns on the stairway and stares at me with Adam’s eyes.

‘Look at you. I guess I just knew,’ is her explanation.

‘What?’ I’m a bit miffed because, midnight OCD episodes aside, I feel I’m doing pretty well. I tug self-consciously at my worn-out tracksuit, run a hand through my limp hair.

‘Tell you what.’ She nods towards my art text box. ‘Give me time to have a shower and freshen up, then take me to Guido’s for supper and I won’t mention how you’re generally behaving weirdly.’

‘Deal,’ I say, suddenly very grateful that she’s there.

‘I miss him,’ she confesses later over her gnocchi.

‘Sweetheart, it’s me he’s stopped loving, not you.’

The eyes look at me again. ‘Mum, Dad will never stop loving you. It’s just that he loves himself more.’

Oh, the words of the wise.

‘But he loves you the most,’ I add. ‘Never forget that.’

I can tell she’s trying not to cry, tearing a little piece of garlic bread off every few seconds. It’s like, if she keeps chewing, the tears won’t come.

‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ she confesses. ‘Every morning I wake up and think of how he’s behaved and I just shake my head.’

I nod mine.

‘It’s so bloody clichéd. I thought he was better than that.’

‘Didn’t we all?’ I sigh, a deep sigh. ‘Eat your food, it’ll get cold.’

She takes her fork and stabs some gnocchi, raises it to her mouth.

And, in that moment, watching her, I’m cast back in time to a three-year-old Meg. Her lower lip would tremble, just like it’s starting to now; she’d take a deep breath and she would either howl like a feral vixen or keep the lip-tremble going, stubbornly refusing to cry. Tonight there is no wild sound but the floodgates open anyway. Silent tears slide down her face. She looks away, searching for an escape route to the Ladies and I reach for her hand, clutch it tightly.

‘Stay,’ I plead. ‘You’re okay …’ The restaurant only has four other diners and we’re seated far enough away from them. I can feel the taste of my own cries in the back of my jaw. Controlling them, I hand her tissues and whisper, ‘It’s going to be okay.’ The words seem empty and hollow to me. I hope they sound different to her.

‘Will you,’ she sniffs, wipes her eyes, ‘will you take him back?’

The hope in those eyes makes me want to gasp, grab at some extra air to help me come to terms with what her expression means. Despite her strength, despite her obvious anger at her father, all she wants is for this to be over and her family back together again. I want to kill Adam. I want to kill him for doing this to her and to me. I shake my head slowly. ‘I don’t know, Meg, I just don’t know yet.’

She nods, looks away, places the cooling gnocchi in her mouth and chews slowly. I watch her pierce another piece and repeat. Letting go of her hand, I take my own fork and swirl some spaghetti around its end. The bolognese is garlic heavy and I think about how Adam always shied away from garlic kisses. It feels something like spite when I clear my plate slowly.

We chat about anything that is nothing to do with Adam and me, or Adam and me and her. Her coursework, her flatmates, her tutors and her shower, which has mould in the tiling grout. Soon her tears have turned to laughter and I smile and she does too. She stands, comes over to my side of the table and hugs me. Tight. No more words are needed. She’s strong. She will be all right and, as long as she’s all right, I will be too.

Later, after late-night cocoa at home, Meg apologizes again for not staying the night and pulls a jumper on over her T-shirt. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’ve got an important tutorial first thing. You okay?’ I take her in my arms, not an easy feat as she’s a lot taller than me. I stroke her beautiful chestnut curls.

‘I’m fine if you are,’ I whisper into their softness.

‘The “f” word, Mum. That bad, eh?’

‘Fine’ is a swearword in our house, usually meaning, ‘fed-up, insecure, neurotic and emotional’.

She kisses me, a slight touch of lips. ‘Take care, Mum.’ I want to keep hold of her as we hug, wrap her up in my clothes or shrink her, put her in my pocket for safekeeping. As soon as she leaves, I run to my handbag, remove my notebook and my Dictaphone. As I write the words, I record the melody I’m humming. I call it ‘The F Word’.

I’m not fine,

No, I’m not fine this time,

I can’t even say that word in this hell of mine.

I close my eyes and positively visualize it performed on a worldwide stage.

Maybe given time,

Fine might mean fine,

But right now it’s early days,

I hurt in a hundred ways,

And I’m not fine.

Climbing the stairs to bed, I yawn – a long, gaping, sleepy yawn, and am so relieved that I crawl fully clothed under the bed covers. In my dreams, Gordon Ramsay is in my bed.

‘You can’t call it “The F Word”,’ he says.

‘How did you get here?’ I say.

He doesn’t answer but I have to admit that he looks quite dishy there, his head resting on Adam’s pillow.

‘But since you’re here, does the “F” stand for fuck or for fine?’ I lean up on my left elbow. ‘See, around here when you say “fine”, it’s called “The F Word”,’ I explain.

‘No,’ he says, raising his head to meet mine. ‘It definitely stands for fuck in our house.’

‘But this is my house,’ I pout. In my dreams, my pout is suggestive, my lips dressed in scarlet gloss.

‘Who the fuck cares,’ he says, and kisses me. Gordon, it seems, is not averse to my garlic kisses.

Chapter Six

Emma has a fourteen-year-old son called Harold. Not Harry – Harold. I imagine him to be complete with spots and a pathological hatred of both his name and his divorced parents.

So far, because I generally visit the White House at weekends, when Harold is with his father, Alan, I have avoided meeting him. Last night was an exception to this rule. A Wednesday and dinner at the White House was on, because Alan had taken Harold to the cinema straight after his school tennis match. They would not be back until ten, by which time, having eaten dinner, I would be gone. That was the plan. Like all best-laid plans in my life, it didn’t quite pan out – which is why I’m sitting in St Thomas’s A&E department, nursing a minor head wound. I don’t blame Harold. He and Alan had argued, so he’d come back early. Any child of fourteen who’d walked in to find a stranger mounted on his mother on the white rug would do the same thing. I think his tennis racket came off worse.

‘How are you feeling?’ Meg asks. I haven’t yet explained what happened since calling her on a payphone.

‘Fine, it looks worse than it is.’ I tug on the bandage.

‘Leave it,’ she says, ‘I don’t think the bleeding’s stopped yet.’

I look around. No sign of a doctor with the X-ray results yet.

‘Did she bring you here?’

I nod, slightly.

‘So, where is she? Why did you call me?’

‘She had to go, be with her boy.’

‘She has a son?’

I nod again.

‘How old?’

‘Fourteen. With a hell of a right swing …’

Meg’s face scrunches. She looks me up and down, and frowns in a way that makes her look like her mother. ‘Please tell me he didn’t catch you,’ she whispers.

I remain silent. I feel nauseous, and the antiseptic scent of the surroundings doesn’t help; that clawing taste that lingers at the back of my throat.

‘You already have Mum in therapy and now some poor child will probably need counselling for the rest of his life. You’re disgusting,’ she says, looking far into the distance, ‘absolutely disgusting.’

I would nod again, agree with her, but I’m afraid the motion would make me puke.

‘Mr Hall?’

We both turn to see the doctor who’d spoken to me earlier. I raise my hand, acknowledging my name.

‘Ahh, there you are. Well, the good news is there’s nothing broken, no fractures. You have a mild concussion. You may feel nauseous, even vomit, but if it lasts longer than twenty-four hours, come straight back to us.’ He smiles at Meg. ‘You are?’

‘His daughter,’ she says, her lips curling in distaste.

‘He shouldn’t be alone, just in case he’s sick?’

She nods, pulls me upright and pushes me towards the exit.

‘His clothes?’ The doctor, noting my state of undress, looks back towards the A&E department. I have no shoes or socks on, no shirt; just a large, blood-splattered white bath sheet, presumably Emma’s.

‘Doctor, he doesn’t deserve clothes,’ is her response, as I’m pushed through the swinging door to the car park and the bite of the midnight air.

I awake to the sound of birdsong. Meg is standing above me with a glass of water in her hands.

‘Drink,’ she orders.

I do as I’m told, the cold, limey tap water a relief on my furry tongue. I’m in her room, in the house she shares with two other girls in Clapham. From here, it’s not far to where she studies at Westminster.

‘Why am I here?’ I sit up in her narrow bed. ‘Where did you sleep?’

She points to a couple of duvets on the floor. ‘You fell asleep in the car and we were nearer here than Ben’s. Don’t you remember getting here?’

‘No. Look, I’m sorry, Meg.’ I move to get up, the pain in my head sudden and sharp, like a machete has pierced my skull. I fight the urge to vomit.

‘Stay put. Let’s make sure you keep the water down.’

‘I need to call the office.’ I look for my jacket, my phone.

Meg shrugs. ‘I assume your stuff is still at hers. Besides. I’ve already called Matt and told him you’re not coming in today.’

‘You did?’ I close my eyes and lean back on her thin pillow, the throbbing in my head mirroring the beating of my heart. ‘How?’

‘I called Mum for his number.’

My eyes shoot open and I groan aloud. ‘No, Meg, please tell me you didn’t—’

She raises a palm to silence me. ‘Enough, Dad. I didn’t tell her the truth. See?’ She swings her long hair around at me, looks like an ad image for shampoo, except for the anger flashing in her eyes. ‘See, now you even have me lying to her. Christ, you’re a piece of work.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Well, I had to tell her you were hurt. I just lied about the circumstances – told her you’d been mugged.’

A soft smile shapes my lips. ‘Well I was, sort of.’

She tries not to grin, but I can see her fight it. ‘By a jealous fourteen-year-old boy … no, I didn’t tell her that bit.’

‘Thank you, Pumpkin.’ I reach for her hand, hanging loose by her side just inches away from me in the tiny room. She snatches it back.

‘I didn’t do it for you. I did it for her,’ she says simply.

‘I know that. Thank you anyway?’

She nods. ‘Right, if you haven’t barfed in the next few hours, I’m going to try and get to my three o’clock lecture. Do you think you can stay alive for an hour without me?’

‘Sure.’ I straighten up in the bed. The clock on the wall says eleven thirty, which reminds me I should be in work. ‘What did Matt say, by the way?’

Meg smiles. ‘I didn’t lie to Matt, Dad. I told him you’d been bashed over the head by your mistress’s sprog.’

I feel the limited contents of my stomach churn. ‘Oh shit …’

‘Funnily enough,’ Meg laughs as she pulls up a chair to sit at her desk, ‘that’s exactly what he said. Now, sleep. Talk to yourself in your head, whatever, but I have to study.’

‘I’m going.’ I move to get out of the bed.

‘Lie the hell down,’ she shouts at me, and there’s that flash in the eyes again. ‘You have to stay here until tonight. Then I have to drive you home since you have no clothes.’

‘I’m fine.’ I sit stubbornly on the side of the bed, ignoring the hammering in my head.

‘Dad, you’ve used the “f” word. You’re anything but fine, so be a good boy and lie down.’ Her voice softens. ‘Please?’

I do what she says. My head is fuzzy, crowded with imaginary scenes. Beth getting the call from Meg; Emma, unable to call me since my phone was still at hers. Harold, would he be damaged, having attacked his mother’s lover? Did Meg say something last night about Beth being in therapy?

I watch my daughter at her desk, surrounded by books on her chosen subject, criminology. Faces of famous serial killers stare up at her from large hardback tomes. Her room is a weird space – a pink draped bed with fairy lights on the headboard and every free gap crammed full of books on vicious minds. I notice she holds herself so upright, years of her mother teaching her not to slouch. She’s only pretending to read a particularly thick book with small writing, but I can tell she’s not concentrating.

‘Have you seen your mum lately?’

‘Last night, earlier, I was on my way back here when you called,’ she replies, without lifting her eyes from the page.

‘I sent her an email.’ I don’t tell Meg about the return one telling me where to shove my kisses. ‘How is she?’

‘Better than the last time I saw her. She’s getting there.’

I wonder where ‘there’ is. ‘Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?’

Meg seems to ignore the question.

‘Meg?’

She lifts her eyes to mine. ‘Would you?’ she says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s not the first time, is it, Dad?’

I flinch. My past is obviously now out there for debate by all and sundry, but I find myself unable to answer the question. I try to imagine how I’d feel if the roles had been reversed. Not nice, more stomach-churning, and I wonder why I do what I do. Why I can hurt the people I love, why I assume forgiveness should be their first port of call. My brain nudges images of my parents forward, and I’m reminded how their tutoring meant I was always expected to do the forgiving. I close my eyes …

‘I didn’t think so.’ Meg returns to Ted Bundy, preferring the antics of a serial killer to occupy the space in her head.

Just as I think I couldn’t possibly sink lower in my daughter’s eyes, the expression on her face when she opens the door to my brother Ben’s flat with her spare key tells me otherwise. Emma has got there before us.

‘Darling! I’ve been so worried.’ Emma leaps from the sofa, which is visible from the front door. She sees Meg immediately and I watch her face process the facts, putting two and two together. ‘Your keys …’ She points to my jacket and the rest of the clothes she’s returned, my CK jocks taking pride of place on top of the pile. ‘They were in your pocket. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Well, it seems you’ll be okay from here.’ Meg turns to leave.

‘Don’t go.’ I grab her jumper.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hisses.

My fingers immediately release her.

‘It’s good to meet you, Meg.’ Emma tries. ‘I’m sorry it’s under such strange circumstances.’ She raises both her shoulders upwards.

Meg nods in her direction, then bolts.

‘Darling,’ Emma repeats as the door closes. She nuzzles into my neck. ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry. I don’t know what came over Harold. I left him with Alan, told him to think about his behaviour, told him I expect him to apologize to you.’

I can see both our reflections in the tall windows of the living room. The sliding door to the tiny balcony is open and I can hear the sounds of the busy road below. In the glass, Emma’s tall body almost dwarfs mine as she holds me. I see myself, a forty-three-year-old idiot with a gash in his head.

Chapter Seven

‘I am just so angry all the time.’ I try to explain. ‘Angry and frightened and confused …’ I tell her that Karen came around with her builder brother, Brian, and they fitted a punchbag in the garage.

She grins. ‘Have you used it yet?’

‘Oh yes.’ I hold my hand out to show her the tiny bruise on the second knuckle of my right hand. ‘I convinced myself I was working out, but actually I have a picture of Adam on it.’

‘So, why exactly are you angry, Beth?’ She puts it so simply that I find myself getting annoyed at her too.

‘I’m angry because my dickwit of a husband cheated on me. I’m angry because I bet he’s stupid enough to think he’s in love. I’m angry because his fragile forty-three-year-old male ego needs to be massaged by another woman. I am angry because he’s greedy, immature and selfish. I’m angry at myself because I forgave him once before when he was greedy, immature and selfish, and I’m angry because he’s made us just another statistic.’ Tears pool in my eyes and I reach for the tissue she hands me.