Читать книгу The Complete Man and Boy Trilogy: Man and Boy, Man and Wife, Men From the Boys - Tony Parsons - Страница 34

Glenn was dressed in his winter plumage – a ratty Afghan coat draped over a shiny blue tank top that revealed the hairs on his scrawny chest, and hipsters so tight that they made a mountain out of his molehill. He was so far out of fashion that he had just come back in style.

‘Hello, Harry man,’ he said, clasping my hand in some obscure power-to-the-people shake that thirty years ago probably signalled the revolution was about to commence. ‘How you doing? Is the little dude around? All well? Sweet, sweet.’

There was a time when I wanted my old man to be more like Gina’s dad. A time when I wished my father had appeared in glossy magazines in his youth, grinned on Top of the Pops once or twice in the early seventies and shown some interest in the world beyond the rose bushes at the end of his garden. But as I looked at Glenn’s wizened old bollocks sticking up through his tight trousers, it seemed like a long time ago.

Glenn’s youngest daughter was lurking behind him. At first I thought that Sally was in a bad mood. She came into the house all surly, avoiding eye contact by taking a great interest in the carpet, letting her stringy brown hair – longer than I remembered it – fall over her pale face as if she wanted to hide from the world and everything in it. But she wasn’t really in a bad mood at all. She was fifteen years old. That was the problem.

I took them into the kitchen, depressed at the sight of two of Gina’s relatives turning up out of the blue and wondering how soon I could get shot of them. But I softened when Sally’s face lit up – really lit up – when Pat padded into the room with Peggy. Perhaps she was human after all.

‘Hi Pat!’ she beamed. ‘How you doing?’

‘Fine,’ he said, giving no sign that he remembered his mother’s half-sister. What was she to him? Half an aunt? A step-cousin? These days we have relatives we haven’t even invented names for yet.

‘I made you a tape,’ she said, fumbling in her rucksack and eventually producing a cassette without its case. ‘You like music, don’t you?’

Pat stared at the tape blankly. The only music I could remember him liking was the theme from Star Wars.

‘He likes music, doesn’t he?’ she asked me.

‘Loves it,’ I said. ‘What do you say, Pat?’

‘Thank you,’ he said. He took the tape and disappeared with Peggy.

‘I remembered how much he liked hip-hop when we were all staying at my dad’s place,’ she said. ‘There’s just a few of the classics on there. Coolio. Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Tupac. Doctor Dre. Stuff like that. Things that a little kid might like.’

‘That’s really kind of you,’ I said.

They sipped their drinks in silence – herbal tea for Glenn, regular Coke for Sally – and I felt a stab of resentment at these reminders of Gina’s existence. What were they doing here? What did either of these people have to do with my life? Why didn’t they just fuck off?

Then Pat or Peggy must have stuffed Sally’s tape into the stereo because suddenly an angry black voice was booming above a murderous bass line in the living room.

‘You fuck with me and I’ll fuck with you – so that would be a dumb fucking, mother-fucking thing to fucking do.’

‘That’s lovely,’ I said to Sally. ‘He’ll treasure it. So – you visiting your dad again?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m living there now,’ she said, shooting her old man a look from under her ratty fringe.

‘A few problems back home,’ Glenn said. ‘With my exlady. And her new partner.’

‘Old hippies,’ Sally sneered. ‘Old hippies who can’t stand the thought of anybody else having fun.’

‘Heavy scene with the new guy,’ Glenn said. ‘Bit of a disciplinarian.’

‘That moron,’ Sally added.

‘And how’s your boyfriend?’ I asked, remembering the ape-boy smirking on the sofa.

‘Steve?’ she said, and I thought I saw the sting of tears in her eyes. ‘Packed me in, didn’t he? The fat pig. For Yasmin McGinty. That old slapper.’

‘But we spoke to Gina the other night,’ Glenn said, his foggy brain finally getting down to business. ‘And we promised that we would look in on you and Pat if we were in the neighbourhood.’

Now I understood what they were doing here. No doubt they were responding to Gina’s prompting. But in their own ham-fisted way, they were trying to help.

‘Heard you’ve got a new gig,’ Glenn said. ‘Just wanted to say that the boy’s welcome to crash with us any time.’

‘Thanks, Glenn. I appreciate the offer.’

‘And if you ever need a babysitter, just give me a call,’ Sally said, hiding behind her hair and staring at a point somewhere beyond my shoulder.

It was really sweet of her. And I knew I needed a bit of extra cover with Pat now that I was working part-time. But Jesus Christ. I wasn’t that desperate.

Cyd loved London the way only a foreigner could love it.

She saw past the stalled traffic, the dead pubs, the congealed poverty of the council estates. She looked beyond the frightened pensioners, the girls who looked like women, the women who looked like men, the men who looked like psychos. She saw beyond all of that. She told me the city was beautiful.

‘At night,’ Cyd said. ‘And from the air. And walking across the royal parks. It’s so green – the only city I ever saw that is greener than Houston.’

‘Houston’s green?’ I said. ‘I thought it was some dusty prairie town.’

‘Yeah, but that’s because you’re a dumb limey. Houston is green, mister. But not as green as here. You can walk right across the centre of town through the three royal parks – St James’s, Green Park, Hyde Park – and your shoes never touch anything but green, green grass. Do you know how far that is?’

‘A mile or so,’ I guessed.

‘It’s four miles,’ she said. ‘Four miles of flowers, trees and green. And people riding horses! In the heart of one of the biggest cities on the planet!’

‘And the lake,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget the lake.’

We were in a café up on the first floor of a huge white building from the thirties on Portland Place – the Royal Institute of British Architects, right across the street from the Chinese embassy, a monumental oasis of beauty and calm that I never knew existed until she took me there.

‘I love the lake,’ she said. ‘I love the Serpentine. Can we still hire a rowing boat at this time of the year? Is it too late?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. It was the last week in September. ‘We might be able to get a boat for a few more days. You want to try?’

Those wide-set brown eyes got even bigger.

‘You mean now?’

‘Why not?’

She looked at her watch.

‘Because I’ve got to get to work,’ she smiled. ‘Sorry. I would have loved it.’

‘Then how about tomorrow? First thing. Before the crowds get there. We’ll get an early start. I’ll meet you at your place after breakfast.’

I still hadn’t seen her flat.

‘Or I could come to your place after I get through at work tonight,’ she said.

‘Tonight?’

‘That way we would really be sure of getting an early start.’

‘You’ll come to my place after work?’

‘Yes.’ She looked down at the clouds in her coffee and then back at me. ‘Would that be okay?’

‘That would be good,’ I said. ‘That would be great.’

Maybe the thing with Cyd had started off as some dumb infatuation when I was still reeling from Gina leaving me. But after we slept together for the first time it really wasn’t like that any more. Because Cyd’s mouth fit mine in a way that no other mouth ever had – not even Gina’s mouth.

I’m not kidding – Cyd’s mouth was a perfect fit. Not too hard, not too soft, not too dry, not too wet, not too much tongue and not too little. Just perfect.

I had kissed her before of course, but this was different. Now when we kissed, I wanted it to go on forever. Our mouths could have been made for each other. And how often can you say that? How often do you find someone whose mouth is a perfect fit for your mouth? I’ll tell you exactly – once. That’s how many times.

There’re a lot of nice people in the world, a million people who you could fall in love with. But there’s only one person out there whose mouth is a perfect fit.

And despite everything that happened later, I still believe that. I really do.

In the early hours I watched her while she was sleeping, loving it that she was on my side of the bed, happy that she knew so little about my old life that she hadn’t automatically taken Gina’s side.

I drifted off knowing that we had begun, and it was up to the two of us what side of the bed we slept on.

And then she woke up screaming.

It was only Pat.

Probably disturbed by drunks staggering home at the fag-end of a Saturday night, he had stumbled out of his bed and crawled into mine, never really waking, not even when he threw a leg over Cyd’s waist and she woke up as if someone was kicking in the window.

She turned towards me, hiding her face in her hands.

‘Oh God – I thought – I don’t know what I thought. I could see you. But I could feel someone else.’

I put my arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her. Pat was out cold on her side of the bed, his mouth open, his arms above his head, his smooth round face turned away from us, but one leg still draped over Cyd.

‘I’m all right, I’m all right,’ she said, gently removing Pat’s leg. She slid over me and got out of bed, not sounding all right at all.

I thought she was going to the bathroom. But when she didn’t come back after five minutes, I went looking for her. She was sitting at the kitchen table wearing a shirt of mine that she must have found in the laundry basket.

I sat down beside her, taking her hands. I kissed her on the mouth. Softly, lips together. I loved to kiss her all different ways.

‘I’m sorry he scared you,’ I said. ‘He does that sometimes. Climbs in my bed, I mean. I should have warned you.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Are you sure?’

She shook her head.

‘Not really.’

‘Listen, I really am sorry he frightened you like that. I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. I’ll put a lock on my door. Or tie him down. Or –’

‘It’s not Pat,’ she said. ‘It’s us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We haven’t really talked, have we?’

‘Sure we have. I told you about Gina. You told me about the guy who was into the bamboo. The one who wasn’t Rhett Butler. We talked a lot. We got all the sad stories out of the way.’

‘That’s the past. I mean we haven’t talked about now. We don’t know what the other one wants. I like you, Harry. You’re funny and you’re sweet. You’re good with your boy. But I don’t know what you’re expecting from me.’

‘I’m not expecting anything.’

‘That’s not true. Of course you are. Same as I am. Same as anyone is when they start sleeping together or holding hands in beautiful buildings and getting all dreamy over the coffee and all that. Everyone is expecting things. But I’m not sure if they’re the same things.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well – do you want more children?’

‘Jesus. We just slept together for the first time.’

‘Ah, come on. You know in your heart if you want more children or not, Harry. I don’t mean with me. I mean with anyone.’

I looked at her. As it happens, I had been thinking about it a lot.

‘I want more children if the person I have them with is going to be with me forever. Okay?’

‘But nobody can guarantee that they’re going to stay together forever.’

‘Well, that’s what I want. I don’t want to go through it all again. I don’t like seeing all the pain and disappointment that you pass on to some innocent little kid who didn’t ask for it and who doesn’t deserve it. I didn’t like going through all that with Pat and I’m never going through it again, okay? And neither is any child of mine.’

‘Sounds very noble,’ she said. ‘But it’s not really noble at all. It’s just your get-out clause. You want more children, but you only want them if you’re guaranteed a happy ending. Only Walt Disney can guarantee you a happy ending, Harry. And you know it. Nobody can ever give you that kind of guarantee. So everything just – I don’t know – drifts.’

I didn’t like the way this was going. I wanted more kisses. I wanted to watch her sleeping. I wanted her to show me beautiful buildings that I never knew existed. And the boats – we were still going on the boats, weren’t we?

‘You can’t just transfer your heart to another woman after your marriage breaks up, Harry. You can’t do it without thinking a little about what you want. What you’re expecting. Because if you don’t, then seven years down the line you will be in exactly the same place you reached with Gina. I like you, and you like me. And that’s great. But it’s not enough. We have to be sure we want the same things. We’re too old for games.’

‘We’re not too old,’ I said. ‘For anything.’

‘Too old for games,’ she said. ‘As soon as you’ve got a kid, you’re too old for games.’

What did she know about having a kid?

‘I have to go home,’ she said, standing up.

‘What about rowing on the lake?’ I asked.

‘Rowing on the lake can wait.’