The greasy spoon is packed with wet people steaming gently and it would be nice just to shut my eyes for a few minutes, recover from my hectic weekend. The minute I close my eyes I can take myself right back to Cuba. The dancing, the sun, the colours . . . they’re all still locked in my head.
‘You look knackered,’ Debs observes. ‘Too much salsa, sun and sex.’
‘Plenty of the first two,’ I say. ‘But none of the latter.’
‘All that way,’ she splutters, horrified, ‘and no nookie?’
‘We didn’t have the time,’ I explain. ‘Most of Friday night was spent on the plane, Saturday we went dancing and didn’t get back until five o’clock in the morning.’ To be honest, the five-star hotel was a bit wasted on me. Egyptian cotton sheets and we were in them for a few hours, max. We nearly got down to bumping uglies on Sunday morning, but I’m not going to tell Debs that. It’s just that I couldn’t wait to get out into the streets of Havana again and have a look around, and I think Spencer sort of sensed that my mind wasn’t exactly on the job. And you don’t want your first time to be a quickie, right? Frankly, I’ve still got my eye on that hot tub.
You want to remember your first time together as special, and although Havana might have been the perfect setting, basically there was too much else that I wanted to do. Is that a bad thing? Maybe I shouldn’t have been feeling like that, but you have to remember that the only other man I’ve slept with for years and years and years is Johnny. Actually, I’ve made love with a grand total of two men since I was fifteen. Don’t even have to get my socks off to count that lot. My relationship with Charlie’s dad put me off men for years. You wouldn’t believe how long it took Johnny to break down all the barriers I’d erected round myself. So, despite what the media would have you believe, not all single mums are slappers – get it? Just because I made one mistake in the condom department it doesn’t mean that it should haunt me for the rest of my life.
That’s why it feels weird to be contemplating getting naked with someone else. Now that it comes down to it, I’m more than a bit reluctant. I’m not exactly drawing my pension, but I’m not getting any younger either. I’m not in bad shape, but I’m not going to be giving Kylie sleepless nights. Because I had Charlie so young I’ve got stretchmarks on my stretchmarks – my stomach’s like Nelly the Elephant’s arse. No six-pack there. Come to think of it, my arse is like Nelly the Elephant’s arse too. It wouldn’t be so bad if Spencer had a bit of softening around the waist or some physical defect to comfort me, but the man’s honed and toned. There’s evidence that plenty of hours have been spent in the gym.
‘Christ.’ Debs is wide-eyed, clearly still struggling to come to terms with the fact that I haven’t been shagged senseless all weekend. ‘Didn’t have time? What were you doing?’
‘Sightseeing.’
‘Fuck me.’ She looks put out. ‘I’d rather have gone to Blackpool and come back bandy.’
‘That’s where you and I differ,’ I note haughtily. ‘I appreciated the culture.’
‘Culture?’ My friend’s agog. ‘You’re not interested in culture.’
‘I am.’
‘Since when? We’re surrounded by the bloody stuff here,’ a wave of her arm takes in the greasy spoon and environs, ‘and I’ve never heard you wax lyrical about it.’
‘Here? What culture?’
‘We’ve got more culture than you can shake a stick at. We’re the home of the naffing Beatles, the Fab Four, the band that rocked the world. That’ll do for starters. We’re the European Capital of Culture, for frig’s sake. Someone must think we’ve got something to shout about.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Like hell. Just because it’s on the naffing doorstep and you don’t have to fly eleven hours to get there you’re not bothered.’
‘It wasn’t just about the culture.’ Debs does have a point and I sound chastened even to my own ears. She’s right about our fair city, but it isn’t the same when you walk past it every day. Cuba was so different. How do I explain that to her? ‘I wanted to experience everything there was to experience.’ I drift back to Spencer and me going home from the dance in the back of a big black Cadillac the size of my living room, belching smoke and smelling of cigars with salsa music still ringing in our ears. Sharing this with my bezzie though would be a waste of breath. I just don’t think Debs would get it. ‘There’s no point going all that way if you’re not even going to leave the hotel room.’
‘And Little Lord Fauntleroy had a good time – even though he didn’t get any action?’
‘Of course he did.’
My friend clearly still thinks I’m mad and that Spencer’s a closet gay.
‘You should see the place, Debs.’ I don’t know why I should have to justify myself to her, but I’m going to try. ‘The people haven’t got two halfpennies to rub together and yet they’re full of life. There’s an energy there that’s gone from our estate. If they can have shit lives and still look like they’re living in a Disney movie, why can’t we?’
My friend rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she says, as she finishes her Danish pastry. ‘Now you’re going to become a one-woman crusade to re-energise Kirberly.’
I sit up straighter. Something goes thunk, thunk, whirr in my jet-lagged brain. ‘You know that’s not a bad idea.’
‘Fabulous,’ she says. ‘Now what have I gone and done? Put stupid ideas into your head. You and your bloody do-gooding. No doubt you’ll try and drag me into it too.’
My thoughts are whirling so quickly that I’m having trouble catching them. Yet, I think that in there, somewhere, a plan is hatching. ‘Have you spent that hundred quid that was left over from the social evening yet?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she admits sulkily. ‘But we could go and blow it now on handbags. We’ll pick up some great bargains on the market in weather like this, our kid.’
I give her my biggest grin. ‘Or maybe there’s something else much more useful that we could do with it.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
I ruffle Charlie’s hair and he ducks away from me. ‘Did you miss your old mum?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says.
‘Bet you did.’
‘Did not.’ And he busies himself with his vegetable korma. I’ve been getting the cold-shoulder treatment since he came home from school. He avoided me by playing on his Playstation and watching crap on telly, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him to turn it off. Now we’re sitting together at the kitchen table having our tea.
‘Were you and Johnny okay?’
My son shrugs. ‘Yeah.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I had a nice time in Cuba?’
‘Did you?’ he asks, but he fails to look interested.
‘Yes. It was lovely. I’d like to take you one day.’
My only child gives me a withering look. Maybe not. Charlie’d probably prefer Alicante or Benidorm – somewhere with a water park that you can get to in two hours.
He pushes his cauliflower round the plate and avoids my gaze. ‘Are you going away with him again?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly. ‘But I’d like to. Would you mind?’
‘I’d rather you went somewhere with Johnny,’ he answers. ‘Then he’d take me too.’ The truth of that statement hurts.
I pick up a paper bag off the chair. ‘Spencer bought you this,’ I say. ‘As a souvenir.’
Charlie’s eyes brighten. That’s kids for you. Can be bought off every time. He opens the bag and holds up the T-shirt. It looks ten times too big for him. What was I thinking, letting Spencer loose alone in the T-shirt shop at the airport? Kiddo here will probably be about eighteen by the time he grows into it.
He stares blankly at the face on the T-shirt. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Che Guevara.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He was a Cuban revolutionary.’
‘What’s a revolutionary?’
‘I’m not really sure,’ I admi
t. ‘But he was one of the good guys.’ Then I show my lack of knowledge about Cuban military history and add, ‘I think.’
Charlie puts the T-shirt back in the bag.
‘You must remember to thank Spencer.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what did you and Johnny do?’ I must remember to call Johnny and thank him too. Despite having a minor case of the strops, Charlie seems to have survived the weekend unscathed.
‘We painted a dance studio,’ my son mumbles.
That probably wasn’t the answer I was expecting.
‘And he took me to Burger King.’
‘Whoa, whoa,’ I say. ‘Back up. More about the dance studio.’
‘We painted a muriel. Johnny let me do some.’
‘A mural of what?’
‘Dancing people. I did a lady’s skirt and some hair. Big hair.’ My son indicates big hair in case I’m not familiar with what it is.
‘At a dance studio?’
Charlie nods, forgetting he’s in a mood and becoming animated. ‘Ronaldo’s. I think he’s a bender.’ He gives me a limp wrist.
‘Language, Charlie.’
‘But he’s very nice. He had caramel wafers. Kyle said benders are very happy people.’
‘Kyle knows a lot about everything, doesn’t he?’
Charlie nods, still too young to grasp the finer shades of sarcasm. One day I must remind myself to strangle Kyle Crossman before he completely poisons my child’s mind with his ten-year-old politically incorrect and possibility perverted view of life.
‘You should see it, Mum,’ my son continues proudly. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Has he finished it?’
‘No,’ Charlie says. ‘Not quite. He’s going there tonight to do the last bit.’
And I don’t know why I say this, but I do. ‘So we could go along and see it?’
My son looks up, eyes as wide as his grin. ‘Yeah!’
‘Then let’s do it.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Johnny was putting the finishing touches to a pair of cherry-red shoes when he heard the doorbell ring and saw Ronaldo mince out to answer it. Another hour here and that should do it. The studio would be fully operational once more.
‘Not long now, boy,’ he said to his dog. Ringo’s tail thumped happily against the floor. Life as a dog must be so much easier, Johnny thought. Sleep, try to get a shag – even a chair leg would do – someone feeds you. There were worse lives to lead.
The studio didn’t look bad. Not bad at all. Maybe if Ron wanted to stump up for the paint then he might do the hallway too. Maybe the front door as well. It was always the way, paint one room and it made the others look like shite. Come to think of it, the kitchen could do with a quick lick too.
A moment later, he heard footsteps behind him. Ronaldo coughed delicately and Ringo started to whine with joy. ‘You have visitors, Mr Johnny.’
He turned and was surprised to see Charlie and Sally standing there. The boy was smiling brightly, but his ex-girlfriend seemed uncomfortable.
‘Hiya,’ she said, and came across to kiss him fleetingly. Even after just a weekend away in the sun she was looking tanned and lovely. Looked as if she’d had a good time. Damn.
‘Hiya, yourself.’
‘I brought Mum to show her the muriel.’
‘Mural,’ Johnny and Sally corrected in unison and then exchanged a wry glance.
Sally stood back and gazed at the wall. Actually, it was more like a gape.
‘Johnny,’ she breathed. ‘This is fantastic.’
He scratched at his head, embarrassed. ‘Thanks.’
‘He is an artist,’ Ronaldo put in. ‘A true artist.’
‘I did this bit,’ Charlie said, pointing to a flowing skirt. ‘And this.’ The big hair was singled out for attention.
‘That’s very big.’ Sally kissed her son’s head and he let her. So he hadn’t stayed mad at his mum for long, Johnny thought. That was good. ‘That’s great, love,’ she said. ‘You’re a clever boy.’
Charlie glowed at the approval. Ronaldo beckoned to Charlie. ‘Come with me, Mr Apprentice. I have some of your favourite biscuits in the cupboard.’
Obediently, Charlie followed Ronaldo. Even Ringo trotted after them. Both Johnny and Sally were conscious that they’d deliberately been left alone. Sal studied her feet.
‘Why do you think Ronaldo did that?’ she asked.
‘Maybe he thinks that you’d like to show me your gratitude for looking after your only son.’
She laughed and it was a wonderful sound. He didn’t realise how much he missed it.
‘How was Cuba?’
‘Amazing.’
He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know anything else. Thankfully, nothing else was offered. Sally paced the floor staring at his artwork, slowly taking it all in.
‘I saw some stuff just like this over there. On the buildings. Very colourful.’
‘Yeah?’
‘This is really very good, Johnny,’ she said softly. ‘I had no idea.’
It had been a sore point between them. Sally had always thought that he was wasting time with his painting. As a consequence, when they were together, he’d hardly done any at all. It was only after their break-up that he’d started up again. Now he felt he was getting into his stride.
He shrugged. ‘I like doing it.’
‘Is Ronaldo paying you?’
Trust Sally to ask the awkward questions. ‘I owe him,’ Johnny said, shuffling his feet. He hoped that she didn’t ask what for. ‘I did this as a favour.’
‘I know that I’m forever in your debt,’ she said with a smile, ‘but can I ask you to do one last favour for me too?’
‘Ask away.’ He just prayed that she wasn’t going to ask him to look after Charlie again this weekend while she jetted off somewhere else exotic with Spencer. That would be more than he could bear.
His ex-lover linked her arm through his and said, ‘Fancy painting a “muriel” in the Community Centre?’
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘Who put this computer together?’ I must have been jet-lagged yesterday, because it’s the first time that I’ve noticed it.
‘Me and Johnny,’ Charlie says over his shoulder, dragging his attention away from Shaun the Sheep on the television.
‘You weren’t half busy at the weekend, the pair of you.’
My son shrugs and I lose him once more to the ever-perky Shaun.
I pull up a chair and sit down in front of the computer, which has been mounted on a side table near the window. It feels like I’m taking my place at a grand piano. My fingers limber up over the keys and I should be flicking out the tails on my dress coat. Lesson number four – Surfing the Internet. Hmm. Let’s see what I can remember.
‘Johnny says we need Broadband,’ Charlie offers from the sofa.
‘Does he.’
‘We’d get a quicker connection then.’
‘How much does that cost?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Don’t suppose the DHSS would pay for it,’ I mutter to no one in particular. Then, before I make my first and momentous foray into the world of cyberspace, I stare out of the window.
Out there, across the city, Spencer is there somewhere. I wonder what he’s doing now? He wanted to see me tonight, but what can I do? I’ve left Charlie alone all weekend with Johnny, I can’t start doing that every evening of the week too. I can sense that Charlie’s not comfortable with the situation either, so I can hardly invite Spencer round to hang out with us. Anyway, why would he want to spend his spare time in this dingy hole when he’s got his own flaming penthouse to rattle round in? But I desperately want to see him. I had such a great time, and now I’m physically aching because I’m missing him so much. No one has ever made me feel like that before. He’s fantastic. Fabulous. As well as being ridiculously handsome and ridiculously wealthy, he also happens to be great company. And I don’t want to lose him. How many men come along like that in a lifetime? Ho
w many women would give their right arm to be in my place? How many nights will he sit in on his own waiting for a single mum to make herself available, when he could have his pick of eligible women? If I were him, I’d be cruising the fleshpots of Liverpool looking for biddable wenches to take back to seduce in my hot tub. Come to think of it, that’s exactly what he might be doing. How would I know?
Before I can send myself into a spiral of depression, I switch on the computer. At least I’ve remembered how to do that.
‘Johnny’s set you up an internet account,’my son informs me. ‘Click the icon.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘We do it at school.’
‘Why didn’t I know that?’
‘Because we’ve never had a computer at home for me to work on.’
‘Oh.’ See, here I am again, holding back my child’s education because I’m too piss-poor to buy a computer and have had to depend on the charity of others. I bash the keys harder.
‘Your email address is SallySuperwoman.’
I don’t know why, but that makes tears come to my eyes. ‘Who thought that up?’
‘Me and Johnny,’ my son says.
And I wonder how much was Charlie and how much came from Johnny. Some Superwoman, when I can’t even get my own kid a computer.
Taking my time, I work through the steps as Spencer showed us and – miracle upon miracle – after a few peeps, beeps and farty noises I’m connected to the information superhighway. I’m surfing the net singlehandedly for the first time! Woo-hoo! I’m almost giddy with excitement.
‘I’m doing it, Charlie,’ I shout. ‘I’m doing it!’
‘Sound, Mum.’ My son’s eyes don’t leave the telly. Clearly he doesn’t regard my first solo foray into the whirling maelstrom of information around us in the same momentous light as I do.
I go to Google – seems as if Spencer has taught me well – and tap in what I’m looking for. Sure enough, a list of sites pops up instantly. They’re spread out before me for my choosing, offering more facts and figures than I can ever possibly need. My fingers move over the keys as I click my selections. I feel a real sense of achievement and joy. It’s as if this isn’t just connecting me to a whole load of bollocks that’s out there that I’m never likely to use, but as if I’m somehow rejoining the human race again. I’m connected, online and I’m coming your way.
All You Need is Love Page 12