Читать книгу You, Me and Other People - Fionnuala Kearney - Страница 12

‘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.

‘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.