Читать книгу Man and Wife - Tony Parsons - Страница 11

Richard was one of those pumped-up business types that were starting to show up all over town. The bespectacled hunk. The six-pack nerd.

Ten years ago a man like Richard – who does things with other people’s money – would have been all spindly legs and narrow shoulders. But you have to be tough to live in the city these days, or look like you are. I didn’t know what he was doing – a lot of weights, some cardiovascular stuff, maybe a few boxercise classes – but when I barged into the restaurant where he was having lunch with some business colleagues, for once he looked more like Superman than his mild-mannered alter ego.

Richard was the last one to look up at me. The other three saw me coming. Maybe it was my clothes – the kind of jacket that my mum would call a car coat, old chinos and boots. Pretty much standard uniform for a TV producer, although those clothes stood out in a swanky restaurant where they served hearty Tuscan peasant food for executives on six figures a year.

Richard’s companions saw me all right – the young Armani hotshot, the older, silvery geezer and the fat guy – but they were not quite sure what to make of me. I swear that one of them – the fat guy – was about to ask me for another bottle of sparkling mineral water. But when I opened my mouth, he realised I wasn’t there to pour the Perrier.

‘You’re not taking Pat away from me, you bastard,’ I said. ‘Don’t you even think about taking Pat out of the country.’

His dining companions stared from Richard to me and back again, uncertain what to make of this scene. A cuckolded husband? A homosexual love spat? I could see that they didn’t know Richard well enough to get it immediately. So he spelled it out for them, never taking his eyes off me.

‘This gentleman is the father of my stepson,’ Richard explained. ‘The poor little bastard.’

And that’s when I lost it, lurching across the table, scattering bread rolls and little silver dishes of olive oil, which I am almost certain the peasants don’t have in their Tuscan farmhouses. Richard’s dining companions recoiled, half rising from their chairs, shrinking from the trouble, but two waiters were on me before I could reach him. They started pulling me away, one of them trapping my arms to my side in a bear hug, the other trying to get a grip on the collar of my car coat.

‘You leave us alone,’ I said, digging my heels into the sawdust-strewn floorboards, managing to reach out and grab a fistful of linen tablecloth, despite my pinned arms. ‘You just leave my son alone, Richard.’

The waiters were too strong for me. Unlike Richard, I hadn’t spent hours pumping iron and running on the treadmill. I felt all the strength go out of me as they easily pulled me away. But because I still had hold of the tablecloth, I took it with me, and it all came crashing down: the glasses, the plates of robust pasta dishes, the rough-hewn chunks of bread, the little silver dishes of olive oil.

On to the floor and into their laps.

And Richard was on his feet, angry at last, ready to try out his new biceps and eager to punch my lights out, seafood linguini dripping down the front of his trousers.

‘You’re not taking my son away just because you can’t cut it in this city, Richard.’

‘That’s for Gina and me to decide.’

‘I’m his father, you bastard. And I’ll always be his father. You can’t change that.’

‘One question, Harry.’

‘What’s that, dickhead?’

I watched him wipe a prawn from his tomato-stained flies.

‘What the hell did she ever see in you?’

It was Eamon Fish who first told me about the blended family. Which is ironic, because Eamon was the most single man I knew. The sap was still rising in Eamon, but it hadn’t quite reached his head yet.

Although he was a modern boy about town, Eamon was painfully old-fashioned when it came to love, marriage and all of that. Blame it on his Kilcarney background. He had a single man’s view of wedlock, simultaneously wary and romantic. But I’ll say this for Eamon – he was the only one who warned me about what I was walking into.

‘Harry, good man you are,’ he called to me across my wedding reception. ‘I want a word with you.’

I watched him weave his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling as he went, polite and friendly to people who recognised him, grateful to the ones who didn’t. He was holding his champagne flute aloft to prevent spillage, looking even more dishevelled than usual, all shirt tails and floppy fringe and droopy eyelids, but he had those dark Irish good looks that belonged to a young Jack Kennedy, so even in his cups he resembled a rake rather than a slob. He put his arm around me, clinked our glasses.

‘Here’s to you. And your lovely bride. And your – what do they call it? – blended family.’

‘My what?’ I was still laughing.

‘Your blended family. You know. Your blended family.’

‘What’s a blended family?’

‘You know. It’s like The Brady Bunch. When a man and a woman put their old families together to make a new family. You know, Harry. A man living with kids that are not his own. A woman becoming a mammy to children she didn’t give birth to. A blended family. Like The Brady Bunch. And you, Harry. You and The Brady Bunch. God bless you, one and all.’ He put his face next to mine, and pulled me close. ‘Good on you, pal. Here, let’s sit for a minute.’

We found a quiet table in the corner and Eamon immediately produced a small cellophane bag from out of a jacket that was still sporting a beat-up carnation. This was new. The Charles was new. When I first met him, he had never taken anything stronger than draught Guinness and a packet of pork scratchings.

I looked anxiously around the room as Eamon carefully tipped a mound of white powder on to the back of our wedding invitation and began chopping out chunky white lines with his black Am Ex.

‘Jesus, Eamon. Not in here. You can’t take this stuff when there are kids around. At least take it to the toilets. This is not the time or the place.’ Then I came out with one of my father’s lines, almost as though the old man was speaking through me. ‘Moderation in all things, Eamon.’

That gave him a chuckle. He started rolling up a ten-pound note.

‘Moderation? You’re – what? Thirty-three now? Thirty-two? You’re already on your second marriage. You’ve got a son who doesn’t live with you and a stepdaughter who does. So don’t lecture me about moderation, Harry. There’s nothing moderate about you.’

‘There are children around. And my mum. And my Auntie Ethel.’

‘Your Auntie Ethel doesn’t mind, Harry.’ The chopped white lines were deftly hoovered up his nose. ‘She was the one who sold it to me.’ He held out the rolled-up, slightly damp tenner to me. I shook my head and he put his drugs away. ‘Anyway – congratulations to you, mate.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Just don’t ruin it this time.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Keep your head out of the clouds and your dick in your trousers.’

‘Oh yes, that’s one of the traditional wedding vows, isn’t it? Church of England, I believe.’

‘I mean it. Don’t get restless when the fever wears off. Don’t start thinking about the grass being greener next door, because it’s not. Remember that your knob is attached to you, rather than the other way round.’

We watched Cyd coming towards us across the crowded room. She was smiling, and I don’t think I’d ever seen her looking lovelier than at that moment.

‘And don’t forget how you feel today,’ Eamon said. ‘That above all. I know what you are like, because all men are the same. We forget what’s in our hearts.’

But I wasn’t listening to him any more. I thought that the day I needed marital advice from a coked-up comedian would be a black day indeed. I got up to talk to my wife.

‘You look happy,’ she said.

‘I’m better than happy.’

‘Wow. Better than happy. Then I hope I don’t disappoint you.’

‘You could never disappoint me. As long as you do one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Dance with me.’

‘You’re easy to please.’

So I took her in my arms, feeling that long, slim body in her wedding dress, and as Ella Fitzgerald sang ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’ we moved in perfect harmony and, although there were friends and family all around, for as long as the music played my wife’s face was all I could see.

The police finally let me go.

Richard and the restaurant both decided not to press charges. So I drove home, thinking about all the things that Cyd and I had talked about before we were married. We had spent hours discussing all the big stuff. It was what our relationship was built on. That and our desire to fuck the arse off each other, of course.

We talked about our parents, those old-fashioned husbands and wives who married young, stayed together all their lives and were parted by death too soon. We talked about our parents, not simply because we loved them, but because that was the kind of marriage we intended to have.

And we talked about our own wrecked relationships – hers worn down by Jim’s constant tom-catting, mine blown up by a stupid one-night stand that crawled into the daylight. And we talked about our children, the lives we wanted for them, and our fears that the divorces would leave scars that lasted for a lifetime.

We talked about how my son would fit into our new family, how we would make him feel like a full member, even though he lived with his mother, even if he was only visiting. And we talked about my relationship with Peggy, how I was going to be some kind of father to her, even though she had a dad of her own. When we looked at our lives it sometimes all seemed convoluted and scary, but we thought that being crazy about each other would be enough to get us through. And it was, for a while. Because we loved each other. Because we could talk about anything. Almost anything.

The only thing we kind of edged around was having a child of our own. The baby subject – the biggest subject of all – was put on hold. We blamed work. What else does anyone ever blame?

‘I just want to get Food Glorious Food up and running before we start trying for a baby,’ Cyd had said. ‘It’s really important to me, Harry. Please try to understand.’

Cyd’s company was named after the Lionel Bart song from Oliver! Serving sushi, baked ziti, spring rolls, chicken satay and mini-pizzas all over the West End and the City.

‘But you never know with a baby,’ I said. ‘Sometimes people try for a baby and it takes time. My parents waited years for me.’

‘And you were worth waiting for. And our baby will be worth waiting for. She’ll be a beautiful baby.’

‘Might be another boy.’

‘Then he will be a beautiful baby. But this isn’t the time. Look, I want a child as much as you do.’

I wondered if that was true.

‘Just not now. Just let me get this thing off the ground. One day, okay? Definitely one day. There are things I want to happen first.’

Food Glorious Food was good, and growing really fast. Launches, openings and promotions were all asking Food Glorious Food to feed the faces of their partygoers. It took up a lot of Cyd’s time, but this was something she had always dreamed of doing. Her own business. So she rushed from fashionable new hotel to first night, while I queued for condoms in Boots like a teenager from the dawn of time. Anything else, sir? Well, yes – I’d quite like a baby, now you come to mention it. Got any in stock?

‘I want to build something of my own,’ she said. ‘I’ve never done that in my life. I’ve always worked for other people in little jobs that didn’t mean a thing to me. For most of Peggy’s life I’ve been a waitress. But I’ve got this thing I’m good at, Harry. This thing I can do really well. I can cook anything, and I’m not afraid of hard work, and I’m smart enough to understand what my clients want. I’m not useless. I’ve got skills.’

‘I know you do, I know you do.’

‘I want to make something of my own, make some money, make you and Peggy proud of me.’

‘I’m proud of you already.’

‘But you understand? Please try to understand. I want this marriage to work. And of course children are one of the things that marriage is all about. But so is understanding each other.’

‘I understand.’

And I smiled when I said it, to show her it was true. I understood. At least, I think I did. I wanted her business to do well. I knew it was important to her. I could see Cyd wasn’t like the mothers of Peggy’s friends who had retired from high-octane careers to have children. My wife was doing it the other way around. And she was at least as smart as those other mothers. Why shouldn’t she have it all, too?

But I guessed it wasn’t just her catering business that was staving off baby hunger. She had been worn out by Jim, and maybe she just wanted to give our marriage time to grow before adding any more complications to the mix. And in my heart I suspected that there was some other reason, a reason that could never be spoken, that Cyd wanted to defer pregnancy.

I had a hunch that my wife didn’t completely believe that I could keep all those wedding vows, that in the end I would turn out to be nothing special. Just another Jim. She didn’t want a baby with someone who wouldn’t stay with her. Not a second time. And I could understand that. Because I felt the same way.

But as I drove home from the restaurant, I saw that having a baby wouldn’t make things more complicated for us. It would make everything a lot simpler. A baby of our own was just what we needed. To hold it all together. To create a home that would find room for all of us. Including Pat.

As I felt the muscles in my upper arms throb, still sore from the grappling techniques of the waiters, I realised we needed a baby to make our blended family into a proper family.

I needed to be a real father again. To Peggy. To the baby that Cyd and I would have together.

And to the boy they wanted to take away.

‘Can you give me a hand with this stuff, honey?’

Cyd was getting ready to go out to a gig. The kitchen was full of silver trays covered in clingfilm. Tonight it was antipasti – fat tomatoes stuffed with rice, prosciutto served with figs, thick slices of mozzarella decorated with sprigs of basil, pane alle olive, and tiny pizza marinara the size of compact discs.

So I helped my wife to carry it all out to the car, while she told me about the event. The business was still new enough for her to be excited.

‘First night. Off-Shaftesbury Avenue. Some Hollywood star who wants to do theatre. Ibsen, I think. I don’t know. Something Scandinavian. We’re catering for 200 at the after-show party.’

When her station wagon was loaded with Italian delicacies she slammed it shut and looked at me. And that’s when she knew that something was wrong.

‘What is it?’

‘Gina. And that loser she married. They want to leave the country. Taking Pat with them.’

‘For good?’

I nodded. ‘Bastards, the pair of them.’

‘What’s caused all this?’

‘Richard. London hasn’t worked out for him. He wants to try his luck in New York. As if his little career is the only thing that matters. As if Pat hasn’t got any rights.’

She put her arms around me. She knew what this meant.

‘How would you feel about Pat coming to live with us?’ I said.

‘Gina wouldn’t agree to it, would she?’

‘What if she did? Would it be okay with you?’

‘Whatever makes you happy, babe.’

‘Thanks.’

I felt a stab of sadness. Because she didn’t say that having Pat come to live with us would make her equally happy. Of course she didn’t say that. How could she? She said that she wouldn’t object – and I knew that my wife was a kind-hearted, generous woman, and that she loved me, and that she meant it.

So why wasn’t that enough?

Because I wanted him to matter as much to her as he did to me. Even though marriage had changed everything, and being the wife of Pat’s dad was very different from being the girlfriend of Pat’s dad. But I wanted her to see him with my eyes – how unique he was, how special, how beautiful. I wanted Cyd to look at Pat with the eyes of a parent. But only blood can make you feel like that. And with the best will in the world, you can’t fake blood.

‘Jesus,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘I’ve got to run. Can we talk about this when I get home?’

‘Sure.’

She squeezed my hand, kissed my cheek. ‘It’ll all work out, babe, I promise you. Got to run now. Don’t forget that Jim’s picking up Peg.’

How could I forget?

Jim’s sporadic outings to see his daughter had taken on the importance of a state visit. Excitement mounted in our house days before the event. I should have been sympathetic to Jim – another part-time dad, separated from his flesh and blood. But I was resentful, bitter and jealous. For all the usual reasons—that my wife loved him first (definitely) and best (probably). And there were reasons that had nothing to do with my jealous heart.

Jim turned up when he felt like it. He stayed away when it suited him. This should have reduced his stock in our house, but somehow it didn’t. He got away with murder. No matter what he did, Peggy was mad about him, was delirious with excitement when he came to call on his Norton.

And from Jim and Peggy I learned that children want to love their parents, want to love them with all their heart.

Even when they don’t deserve it.

Jim was late. Very late.

Peggy was perched on the back of a chair by the window, her face pressed against the glass, waiting for the appearance of her father’s motorbike.

But Jim wasn’t coming. I could sense it, because it had happened before. There would be no night out with Peggy’s old man. Not this time.

The phone rang and Peggy rushed to get it. I knelt on the floor, picking up the accessories of Air Pilot Lucy Doll and her high-flying friends. It’s so easy for a kid to lose these fiddly bits, and then they go crazy because they can’t find them. I carefully replaced a male flight attendant’s drinks tray.

Peggy came back into the room with the phone, trying to be brave, sucking in her bottom lip to stop it shaking.

‘It’s Daddy. He wants to talk to you.’

I took the phone. ‘Jim?’

In the background I could hear the music. ‘Baby, pull my love pump/ Baby, pull my love pump/ Baby, pull my love pump/ But not so hard next time.’

‘I’m at the dentist,’ Jim said, raising his voice above the music. ‘I can’t make it this time. Bloody shame. Try to explain it to her, will you, Harry? I feel really bad, but I’ve found something that urgently needs filling.’

I hung up the phone.

Peggy had disappeared.

I found her in her bedroom, hiding under her duvet. On the walls were posters of boy bands and Lucy Doll in all her incarnations, their fixed grins and perfect worlds shining down on one sad little girl.

I stroked her head. ‘Your dad will see you next time, darling. You know he loves you.’

‘He’s got a bad tooth.’

‘I know.’

‘And it hurts him.’

She sat up and I dried her eyes with an official Lucy Doll tissue, thinking what a great kid she was, and how she deserved better than her feckless father. But then every child in the world deserved a better father than Jim.

‘Tell a story, Harry. Not from a book. Tell a story from your head. A real one.’

‘A real one?’

‘Um.’

‘Okay, Peg.’ I thought about it for a minute. ‘Once upon a time, there was an old man called Geppetto.’

‘That’s a funny name.’

‘And Geppetto found a magical piece of wood that – guess what? – could laugh and cry.’

She gave me a dubious smile.

‘Really?’

‘Honestly.’

‘You’re making this up, Harry,’ she said, her smile growing.

‘I’m not, Peg,’ I said, smiling back at her. ‘Every single word is true. And from that piece of magic wood – guess what? – Geppetto made Pinocchio.’

‘Who was Pinocchio?’

‘He was a puppet, Peg. Just this piece of wood that could act like a human. He could laugh and cry and everything. But what he wanted, more than anything in the world, was to be a real dad.’

Did I say dad?

I meant boy.

Pinocchio wanted to be a real boy.