Читать книгу Ordinary Joe - Jon Teckman - Страница 12

The taxi journey home seemed to last an eternity which was nowhere near long enough for me. I felt an oppressive, suffocating guilt about everything that had happened. I was dreading seeing Natasha again and also worried about how Olivia would feel when she read Bennett’s latest text. It was totally irrational of me to blame him for any part of what had happened – yet still I did blame him. Why had he had to make the terrible situation I’d created so much worse? Why, when faced with competing options of what to do, could he not have done the right thing? Why did he have to be such an arse? Was it, as the scorpion said to the frog, simply his nature?

The house was almost completely dark when I walked in. Looking up the stairs, I could see a faint light peeping out from behind the three quarters-closed door of our bedroom. Natasha was probably sitting up in bed reading, looking forward to hearing all my news. And I still had absolutely no idea what I would say to her when I saw her. I rifled through the post on the table, annoyed at the staggering ordinariness of it all, reminding me I was back in the real world of bills and junk mail and putting out the dustbins on a Sunday night.

I took off my shoes, picked my way through the dark living room into the kitchen and ran a glass of water from the cold tap. I gulped it down in one draught, then decided I needed a pee, so I popped into the downstairs toilet and took my time emptying my bladder as quietly as I could before washing my hands as if I was scrubbing up for a delicate operation. Then, bereft of further reasons for delay, I climbed the stairs with all the perky enthusiasm of a condemned man walking to the execution chamber, opened the bedroom door and prepared to meet my fate.

Natasha was propped up on her pillow, fast asleep. The book she was reading – this month’s book-group selection – hung limply in her right hand, a thumb wedged uncomfortably in the crease where it had tried to close, saving her place. She was still wearing her glasses and her soft brown hair had fallen forwards, half-covering her eyes. She looked at peace – as if she had gone to bed without a care in the world.

I made no attempt to wake her, grateful to put off even longer the shattering of her delusions. Carefully, I prised the book from her sleeping hand and placed it on her side table. Then I turned off the light directly above her head, and replaced it with the weaker glow from my bedside lamp. I tiptoed into the children’s bedrooms just to look at them as they slept. Helen was lying exactly as I imagined Natasha had left her. Not a hair out of place, her duvet perfectly even and tucked up crisply under her chin like a floral pie crust. By her head lay her favourite teddy – a souvenir from a previous trip to New York – now worn in places from too much loving. I wanted to hug her and plant a kiss on her perfectly smooth forehead but didn’t feel I had the right. How could I use the lips that the previous night had wandered all over Olivia Finch’s illicit body for such a precious assignment? I watched her breathing for a while, then muttered a quiet ‘goodnight’ and left.

Entering Matthew’s room, I was greeted by a totally different scene. He was spread-eagled across his bed, his limbs arranged in a casual swastika. All his bedclothes were on the floor – his duvet, pillow and even his under-sheet. Perhaps he had woken in the night in the throes of a terrible nightmare and thrashed around wildly waiting to be rescued, or perhaps he’d gone to bed still pretending to be a spaceman or a dinosaur hunter and somehow managed to strip his bed in the midst of the action. Matthew was a deeper sleeper than his sister so I risked stroking his hair as I lifted his head to replace his pillow. I re-covered him with his Thunderbirds duvet and left the room. He would have to make do without his sheet tonight.

Finally, I went into the bathroom, stripped off my well-travelled clothes and ran a bath. After I’d brushed and flossed my teeth and scraped my face with an expensive exfoliating cream (the legacy of some long-forgotten Father’s Day or anniversary), I poured a generous helping of bubble bath into the running water, stirred it to create a thick foam and climbed in. I lay there without moving a muscle for some minutes, enjoying the sensation of the hot water on my skin. Then I scrubbed myself vigorously with a harsh abrasive scrunchy thing of Natasha’s (the legacy of a long-forgotten Mother’s Day or anniversary) like a religious pilgrim purging himself, desperate to obliterate every molecule of my sin.

By the time I hauled myself out of the bath, towelled myself down and walked back into the bedroom, it was after midnight and Natasha was snoring contentedly. After a week of looking after the kids on her own, she would be at least as shattered as I was after my almost sleepless night and long journey home. I turned off my light and slipped into bed. As I closed my eyes, I remembered that I’d left Natasha propped up with her glasses still perched on her nose. I turned my lamp back on and tried to remove them without disturbing her, but as I lifted them, one of the arms caught her in the eye and she woke with a start. For a moment she was completely disoriented as if she didn’t recognise this strange man in her bed and I feared she would scream, but once her vision had cleared and the fuzzy shape resolved itself into the familiar figure of her husband, her look of alarm broadened into the most welcoming of smiles.

‘Ah, honey, you’re home,’ she whispered, ‘am I glad to see you!’ Then a pause as a look of concern spread across her face. Had I already given away something in mine? ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No,’ I replied, hiding the truth with casual ease. ‘I’m just really tired. Go back to sleep and I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.’

‘You’re on earlies,’ she said so quietly that I could barely hear her, her eyes already closed. She was asleep again before my head hit the pillow.

Despite the feeling of almost numbing exhaustion, it took me ages to fall asleep. I was still on New York time and my mind was buzzing. Should I tell Natasha what had happened? She’d never believe it – she’d laugh in my face at the thought of me, plain old Joey West, schtupping Olivia Finch. She’d laugh even more if I told her that not only had I slept with this lustrous, illustrous woman, but, it appeared, she seemed to think I was Bennett.

I can’t have been asleep very long when I was woken by a bouncing bomb of a small boy erupting into the room, jumping up and down and shouting at full volume in his delirium at seeing his daddy after so long. A week is a long time for a three-year-old and quarter past five was as long as Matthew could wait before coming in to check that I really was back.

‘You’re on earlies,’ Natasha reminded me from behind locked eyelids. ‘All week.’

Matthew threw himself on me, forcing me awake. He had some exciting news that couldn’t wait. ‘Daddy, daddy,’ he shouted, ‘we’ve got a new fucking fish! Mummy bought us a fucking fish!’

I was half dragged out of bed and out of the room, pausing only to grab my dressing gown from the back of the door to protect me from the early-morning cold. Matthew swept down the stairs before me and into the living room. He wasn’t tall enough to reach the light switch, but was unperturbed by the darkness, negotiating his way through the cluttered room and skipping over discarded toys as if fitted with radar. When he reached the small, octagonal fish tank in the corner, he felt around on the lid to activate the switch that threw light into the watery casket.

‘Where is it?’ he said to himself as he pressed his nose up against the glass to get a better view inside, ‘where is the fucking fish? Daddy,’ he called, remembering I was there but not bothering to look back, ‘can you fee the fucking fish?’ I shook my head silently to indicate that I could not, in fact, see the fucker, while Matthew remained deep in concentration, searching for this elusive aquatic phenomenon.

‘Ah, there it is!’ he said eventually, a note of triumph in his sweet little voice as he located his prey. He pointed to a louche leopard loach, partially hidden behind the ceramic pirate galleon, busily sucking algae off the inside of the tank as nature intended. ‘There’s the fucking fish, daddy! Can you fee him? Can you fee the fucker?’

I crouched down to look into the tank, but my view was obscured by my own reflection in the glass, so clear in the darkness of the room around it that I could see the tears making their pathetic, self-pitying journey down my cheeks. ‘Yes, I can see him,’ I said then, quietly to myself, ‘I can see the stupid fucker.’

We studied the sucking fish for a while until I felt it was reasonable to turn on the TV and tune into one of the several dozen all but identical children’s channels we had acquired. Matthew sat down next to me and I hugged him like a favourite toy as he stared at the screen. The repetitive squeaky voices drilled into my brain, crowding out the more important stuff I should have been contemplating at that time – like what the hell was I going to say to Natasha when she emerged from her well-earned lie-in. In some circumstances this could probably be used as torture, but for me, at that moment, the cartoonish cacophony delivered blessed relief.

At half past six, Helen glided into the room and perched on my lap. She put both arms around my neck and hugged me tightly, kissing me on my forehead, nose and lips. I realised how much I loved the smell of my daughter in the morning – she smelled of perfection. Not manufactured, thousand-dollar-cosmetic, perfumed Hollywood perfection – just pure, unquestioning beauty, innocence and love. With her face nestled alongside mine, her breath tickling my neck, I risked a couple more tears, hoping she wouldn’t notice them trickling into her hair. My fists were clenched so hard that my fingernails dug into my palms. I wanted to scream – to rail like Lear against my own stupidity. If I loved my children as much as I knew I most definitely did, then how the hell had I let what had happened happen? How could I have risked all of this for all of nothing?

When the programme ended, Helen leapt up from my lap and announced she had something for me. She went out into the hall, returning immediately holding a piece of paper carefully in front of her, the blank side towards me to enhance the surprise. She poured herself back into my lap and turned the paper around to reveal an intricate drawing of four people – two big and two little – standing in front of two buildings – one large, one small. Half the picture was in daylight, the other half in darkness. In the lighter half stood a big person in a dress with brown hair and bright red lips, in front of whom stood a little person in a blue dress and an even littler person in some kind of trouser arrangement. All of them wore sad expressions despite the sunshine. Shrouded in darkness, a large person in blue trousers and a red shirt stood before a very tall building. He was almost perfectly round, like Father Christmas on dress-down Friday in Lapland. His expression was enigmatic – on closer inspection I saw that he had two mouths: one turned up in a smile, the other downcast and gloomy. One eye was bright and twinkling; the other looked sad and lonely.

‘This is me and Mummy and Matthew,’ Helen explained, pointing to the lady with the two dwarves on one side of the page, ‘and we’re all sad because you’re not here. And this,’ she said, pointing to casual Santa, ‘is you in New York and it’s dark because you said that sometimes it’s night-time over there when it’s daytime here and you’re sad because you’re missing me and Mummy and Matthew, but you’re happy too because you’re having a nice time and going to films and parties and stuff.’

‘That’s beautiful,’ I said, huskily and I meant it. Then I noticed a small red figure in the top right corner of the piece of paper. ‘What’s that “6” for?’

‘Oh, that’s the mark Mrs Hodges gave it,’ Helen replied. ‘She told me it was wrong because it couldn’t be light and dark at the same time and you couldn’t be happy and sad. But she liked the drawing of the house and said that I’d coloured within the lines nicely, so she gave it a six and said it wouldn’t be going up for parents’ evening.’

‘I shall be taking that up with Mrs Hodges,’ I heard Natasha say, and looked up to see her standing in the doorway, looking tired but strangely elegant in her white bathrobe and leopard print slippers. I was surprised to see her up so early – usually whoever was on ‘lates’ eked out every possible second of peace and quiet before joining the chaos downstairs. I’d been counting on waking her up with a nice cup of tea in my own time, fully prepared for our first proper conversation.

‘You’re up early,’ I said. She walked across the room to me and draped her arms across my shoulders, kissing me on the top of my head as I lowered my face away from her. My eyes, I feared, would be red and it was too early in the year for hay fever.

‘I’ve got some presents for you,’ I announced, creating a reason to get up and out of the room so I could compose myself properly. ‘I’ll make Mummy her tea and then I’ll get them.’ I heard the chorus of disapproval from the children as I left the room, leaving Natasha to deal with their appeals for the satisfaction of their fundamental human right to receive their gifts immediately. I used the time it took to boil the kettle and brew the tea to make sure I had every angle covered.

Handing out the presents bought me a little more time. Matthew, as usual, received a model plane bearing the livery of the airline that had delivered me safely home, adding it to his collection of twenty or more – one for every time I’d chosen work overseas over time with him and his sister. For Helen, I had found a watch with a selection of different coloured wristbands and Natasha looked pleased with a bottle of her usual perfume and a pair of inexpensive earrings. Everything came from the in-flight catalogue. Everything had to be as normal as possible and even the children knew that I hated souvenir shopping, preferring to spend every possible moment in the Business Lounge rather than joining the fight for last minute gifts at the airport. While Mattie settled down with his new plane, and Helen played happily with her watch, checking the coloured straps against her hair, pyjamas and skin, Natasha and I finally had time to catch up on all that had happened while we’d been apart.

‘Not much to tell, really,’ I lied when she asked me about my trip. ‘Usual stuff. A few meetings with Buddy and the guys at the studio. They’re really expanding fast over there. Buddy reckons they might make twelve movies next year which could mean a lot more work for us. We went to the premiere of the movie, of course – pretty lousy film but it should do OK at the box office. Bennett was a complete and utter prat throughout, as expected. Then I thought I’d come home and catch up on all the broken nights I’ve been missing. I really don’t recommend getting eight hours sleep every night, hon. It’s very over-rated.’ I was aware I was speaking slightly faster than usual but otherwise thought I pulled it off pretty well.

‘Same old, same old, then?’ Natasha said, her tone gently mocking my casual account but otherwise carrying no obvious threat. ‘So while I’ve been back here enjoying myself with the early mornings and breakfasts and packed lunches and school runs and cleaning and tidying and all the other exciting things that define my existence, you were having to go to meetings and film premieres. Poor baby.’ She yawned and hugged her tea a little closer. ‘Go on,’ she said after a short pause, ‘amaze me. How was the party? Did you get to see the divine Olivia Finch again? Or has she taken out a restraining order on you after you watched her doing it last time you were in New York? And did you manage to slip my phone number to George Clooney, by any chance?’

‘Erm …’ I began, hoping that my face hadn’t turned as red as it felt from the inside. ‘Er …’ I continued with a little more conviction. ‘I can’t really remember now. Um. Yes, of course, I did see her at the party. You know, after the film. Just to say “hotel, Olivia” – I mean “hello, Olivia,” you know?’

‘Ooh,’ said Natasha, ‘so it’s “Olivia” now, is it? May I assume we’ll be exchanging Christmas cards this year? If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you fancied her. Can’t imagine why when you have this waiting for you at home.’ She struck a pose, trying to look as glamorous as possible in her ancient, threadbare robe.

I could have said, ‘Yes, actually, it is “Olivia” and I didn’t just speak to her but spent a good part of Saturday night making mad passionate love to her.’ If I had said that, I know exactly how Natasha would have reacted: she’d have given a long, loud laugh. Not directed at me in an unkind, belittling way but with me in a conspiratorial, in-on-the-joke, pull-the-other-one-it’s-got-bells-on,we’re-not-the-sort-of-people-who-get-down-and-dirty-with-Hollywood-superstars kind of a way.

But of course I didn’t say that. I wasn’t ready to tell such a bare-faced truth. Instead, I said, ‘Yes, Olivia Finch. And, er, what’s his name. The guy who was in, erm, that film …’ I tailed off, aware that every film star reference would provoke another dozen enquiries from Natasha who was far more interested in the celebrity scene than in my role at its margins.

Fortunately, she was already off on a different tack. ‘So what do you say to someone who you’ve actually watched shagging? Isn’t it embarrassing? You’re like one of those awful doggy blokes who stand around looking at people doing it through their car windows!’

‘I didn’t actually watch her doing it’ I protested. ‘She was acting. It’s her job.’ I was digging myself a hole and was relieved when stereo cries of ‘Daddy!’ announced that the uneasy peace that had existed between the children had broken down. They launched themselves at me, both desperate to tell me their version of whatever had happened before the other on the cleverly observed basis that whoever made their case first and loudest usually won my support.

I put on a DVD of one of their favourite animated films and settled them down either side of me on the sofa, glad of the diversion from any further questioning about New York. I closed my eyes and felt myself drifting off to sleep, my arms full of happiness, my head jumbled and confused.

‘You just rest here, my love,’ Olivia Finch whispered in my ear, ‘I’m here to look after you now. You don’t have to worry about a thing.’

I jolted upright, not knowing whether I was at home in London, still in New York, or had died and was languishing in purgatory. As my eyes focused on the TV screen, I saw a white rabbit tending to a bruised and bloodied badger, tenderly placing a damp spotted handkerchief across its brow.

‘That’s right,’ said the rabbit in Olivia Finch’s unmistakeable soft Southern drawl, ‘I’ll look after you now, my brave, brave fellow.’