All You Need is Love

by Carole Matthews

  Now that he wasn’t active, the chill of the night started to set in – and also the doubts. Had he done the right thing? Johnny turned up his collar and huddled into the corner of the doorway. Ringo, completing three circles, snuggled down next to him with a contented sigh. Only time would tell.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I leave Spencer in bed and get a taxi home. My lover was all keen to get up with me and see me home, but I insisted he stay where he was. He looked so warm and comfortable that I couldn’t make him go out into the cold light of dawn. Waking up in his arms was just wonderful and it took all of my willpower to drag myself out of bed.

  It’s not yet six o’clock, but I want to make sure that I’m home long before Charlie. I told him that he had to come and get ready for school here rather than going straight from Kyle’s. To be honest, I just want to make sure that he’s still in one piece – that he hasn’t come home with a piercing or a tattoo. Being slightly less melodramatic, I also want to make sure that he has a decent breakfast and his packed lunch for the day. Kyle, poor kid, seems to live on nothing but crisps.

  The taxi pulls up outside Bill Shankly House and, still yawning, I pay the driver. I watch him drive off and then make my way up to the flats. As I get to the doorway, I start as I see a figure huddled there, fast asleep. I start again as I realise that it’s Johnny and he’s cuddling a pint of milk. Ringo’s sparko at his feet.

  Going over to him, I give his shoulder a gentle shake. ‘Johnny.’

  The dog cocks his ear and Johnny rouses, blinking his eyes as he does so.

  ‘What on earth are you doing out here?’ I ask.

  My friend is still trying to wake up and mumbles groggily, ‘Waiting for you.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘All night,’ he admits, stretching.

  ‘That could be classed as stalking, Johnny. Come on in before the neighbours start gossiping. I’ll make you some breakfast.’

  Climbing the stairs, Johnny follows, bringing the milk with him. Ringo trots behind. I flick a thumb at the milk bottle. ‘Is that mine?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Johnny says. ‘Your milkman comes at five o’clock. He’s a nice fella.’

  I humph at that. Johnny’s everyone’s bezzie within two minutes of meeting them.

  ‘You owed him a month’s money. I paid him for you.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, having the grace to blush. ‘Thanks. I’d been meaning to catch him.’ Actually, I’d been hiding from him for weeks. ‘I’ve got the money in a jar in the kitchen. I’ll sort it when we get upstairs.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ he counters sleepily. ‘You know that.’

  We say nothing else while we climb the stairs – me not knowing whether to be hopping mad or just sad.

  I let us all into the flat – me, Johnny and the faithful hound. Chucking my bag on the sofa, I turn to Johnny and say, ‘What were you thinking of? Now you know that I spent the night with Spencer, does that make you feel better?’

  ‘No.’

  We go through to the kitchen.

  ‘In my defence,’ Johnny says, ‘it wasn’t my entire reason.’

  ‘Care to enlighten me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He takes my hand and tugs me to the kitchen window. ‘That’s what I’ve been doing.’

  ‘Ohmigod.’ My hands fly to my mouth. Outside the flats is an enormous wall that’s normally covered in obscene graffiti. It’s such an eyesore. It was one of the first things on my plan to obliterate. Looks like that’s been done. And in fairly good style.

  Now it’s decorated with hearts and flowers and there’s a curling banner painted across the middle which boldly declares, Sally Freeman, I love you. Hot, stinging tears prick at my eyes and I start to cry. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say that you like it.’ Johnny’s face is anxious and frowning.

  ‘I love it,’ I tell him truthfully. ‘It’s beautiful.’ No one has ever done anything like this for me before. I don’t think there could be a more public declaration of Johnny’s love. It thrills me and it hurts me in equal measures.

  ‘And the sentiments?’

  ‘Not entirely a surprise.’

  ‘Does it change things between us?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’ Looking over at my ex-lover, my heart aches for him. There is so much good in Johnny, I can hardly bear to cause him this pain. ‘I’ve just got out of someone else’s bed, Johnny. Doesn’t that tell you something?’

  I see something inside Johnny shrivel up and die. Ringo whimpers. My friend chews at his fingernail. ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then there’s not much else for me to say.’

  ‘Let me put the kettle on,’ I blurt out. ‘In times of crisis you can’t beat a cup of tea.’

  ‘A hug would work too.’

  I only hesitate slightly before I go and put my arms round Johnny and we hold each other tightly. ‘You are my best friend,’ I whisper fiercely in his ear. ‘I always want you to be in our lives. My son adores you.’

  ‘What does Charlie think about Spencer now?’

  ‘He’s coming round to the idea. Slowly.’

  ‘I’d still like to see more of him,’ Johnny says, holding me away from him. ‘I know that I’ve got no legal rights, not being his real dad and all that, but maybe we could come to an informal arrangement?’

  ‘You can see him whenever you like.’

  ‘It’s more awkward with Spencer around,’ he points out. ‘Perhaps I could take Charlie for the weekend sometimes?’

  ‘Of course you can. He’d love that.’

  ‘And it would give you more time to spend with your new man.’

  ‘Why would you want to do anything to help facilitate my relationship with Spencer?’

  ‘Because I do love you, Sally Freeman. More than you’ll ever know. If you’re sure that this is what you want, then I love you enough to let you go.’

  The tears are hot behind my eyes again.

  ‘He can offer you so much more than I’ll ever be able to. A blind man on a galloping horse could see that. Even I can see it.’

  ‘It’s not about his money,’ I say. ‘I’m not a gold digger.’

  ‘I want Charlie to have a better life too,’ Johnny continues. ‘You’ve taught me that much. If this Spencer can give the lad a better start then I can’t stand in the way of that.’

  I hug Johnny again. His body’s warm and familiar against mine. And, in some ways, I miss that so much. The sex with Spencer is new and exciting, sizzling. But after five years with Johnny, our love-making had become comfortable, loving and caring. I don’t think that you can beat that.

  ‘You’re a wonderful man and the best friend that I’ll ever have,’ I tell him.

  He eases himself from my arms. ‘Either that or I’m a complete idiot,’ he says flatly.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  We’re meeting Spencer at the Albert Dock outside the Tate Liverpool. He’s organised a day out for the three of us. A bonding exercise with Charlie. I’m nervous and I know that I shouldn’t be. I want so much for my son and my lover to like each other.

  Charlie’s very reluctant about this. There’s some football practice this afternoon that he really didn’t want to miss, but I think this is more important, particularly when Charlie isn’t exactly showing any signs of having Beckham’s skill on the pitch.

  Spencer’s already waiting when we arrive at the dock and my heart lurches when I see him standing there in his designer sunglasses and the smartest casual clothes I’ve ever seen. The sun’s shining today, but there’s still a cool breeze off the Mersey which is scudding the big white clouds across the sky. So much money has been lavished on this area and it’s worth it because it looks fabulous. I feel guilty that I don’t do more things like this with Charlie when it’s on our own doorstep. Perhaps Debs is right. We don’t appreciate our rich culture when it’s right there under our noses all the time.

  There’s a museum dedicated
to the Beatles, a Magical Mystery Tour in an old coach round the haunts of the Fab Four, and the Yellow Duckmarine Bus – one of those old amphibious crafts that bobs visitors around the waterfront and the docks. Charlie would love all of those and I wonder what Spencer has in store for us.

  ‘Hi,’ I say shyly, as I kiss him on the cheek. I was naked and getting low down and dirty with this man just a couple of days ago, but now I feel strangely embarrassed in his presence.

  ‘Hey,’ he says softly and gives me a squeeze. Then he bends down and shakes Charlie’s hand. The volume increases. ‘Hello, Charles.’

  No one calls my son Charles. Not even when they’re cross with him. He wasn’t even christened Charles. Actually, he wasn’t even christened. ‘It’s Charlie,’ I say, putting my arm round my lad’s shoulders. ‘Just Charlie.’

  Already, my son has stiffened.

  ‘We’re both looking forward to our day out together, aren’t we, Charlie?’ Now I’m speaking in sing-song tones. Must be catching. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Thought we’d go to the Tate,’ Spencer suggests as he gestures at the big blue and orange building behind us. ‘There’s an exhibition of Chinese contemporary art that I think will be very interesting.’

  Chinese contemporary art? Very interesting? My heart sinks. I was hoping to sit on a coach and sing Beatles songs. Charlie looks like he feels the same.

  ‘Do you know much about modern art, Charlie?’ Spencer asks – still a decibel too high.

  My son looks nonplussed. ‘No.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I say too brightly. My own voice has gone to pot too. ‘We’ve never been here before. What do you think, Charlie?’

  My son shrugs. ‘Whatever.’

  Spencer rubs his hands together, clearly pleased. He beams wildly as he says, ‘The Tate it is then.’

  We go into the gallery and I have to admit that it’s the first time I’ve ever been in here. I also have to admit that it’s the first time I’ve been in any art gallery, modern or otherwise. I’ve been bringing up a kid single-handedly, okay? So, my appreciation of modern art has been a bit neglected – get over it. I have.

  Inside the Tate, the foyer is bright and airy as is, I guess, befitting of a modern gallery. A few paintings in bold colours grace the walls. If the entrance is anything to go by, it looks nice. This could work out much better than I imagined. Charlie, however, doesn’t look quite so impressed. He’s currently trying to curl in on himself in an attempt to look invisible.

  Spencer makes a donation in the clear glass box for the purpose and then ushers us up the stairs to the first floor and to one of the galleries. Opening the glass doors, we go inside. The room is painted bright white and grey steel pillars support the vaulted ceiling in exposed brick with soft lighting.

  I don’t really know what to do in here and neither does my son, so we both hang on to Spencer’s coat tails exuding nervousness. It’s as quiet as the grave and there seem to be more security guards than there are customers. Our feet clonk too loudly on the polished wood floor as we walk. What do I do? Should I go up to the artwork and linger, trying to look intelligent, or should we just shuffle past with admiring glances making informed-sounding murmurs? The first wall seems to consist of a series of painting of dismembered bodies. Not sure what to make of that.

  My son’s eyes are out on stalks and I’m not at all surprised. The last time Charlie saw this amount of slaughter was probably on one of Kyle’s Playstation games. I thought we’d be looking at the sort of stuff that’s painted on Johnny’s van. But no, this art is out to shock. What I want to do is rush my boy straight out of here, but then that would make me look like a pleb.

  ‘Why is this art, Mum?’ Charlie whispers to me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper back. We both get a fit of the giggles. Spencer smiles indulgently at us. Perhaps he wouldn’t if he knew what we were laughing at.

  The three of us make our way along the rows of exhibits, paintings, sculptures, some things that defy description.

  ‘Wow,’ Spencer says, enraptured. ‘Fabulous.’

  Charlie and I exchange a glance. ‘Care to shed some light on it for us?’ I venture. ‘We’re not really used to this kind of thing.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Spencer says, stroking his chin in a thoughtful manner as he admires another painting of a cut-up corpse. ‘A lot of the art stems from the new generation of Chinese artists,’ he intones. ‘I’m full of admiration for them. Unlike the generation before them, they’re really moving toward a self-confidence and maturity that comes from a greater understanding of their place in the contemporary global village.’

  ‘Really?’ Charlie and I look at each other. My son’s face is as blank as my own. Clearly neither of us have a clue what Spencer is talking about.

  ‘I like the way that they’re able to contemplate their own positions within a society that’s going through an immense period of rapid and profound cultural upheaval. Don’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say.

  Charlie chokes on a giggle. I give my son a surreptitious kick.

  ‘The paintings are full of vivacity, imagination and energy.’ Spencer is unaware that he’s lost his audience. They’re dead bodies, for heaven’s sake. Lots of them. I can’t imagine why he thought that this would be a fun way to spend a morning with a ten-year-old boy. Does he really know so little about kids?

  For an hour – a long, long hour – we trail round after him while he tries, and fails, to educate us in the appreciation of modern Chinese art. As well as the corpses, there’s a pile of rubble that’s supposed to say something meaningful about the Great Wall of China, and a blow-up sex doll dressed in a Maoist uniform, which I don’t get at all. I’m just grateful that, at this point, my son has given up asking questions.

  After a while, there’s a tug on my sleeve. ‘I’m hungry,’ Charlie whispers.

  ‘Me too,’ I confess.

  ‘Can we go now?’

  I ruffle his hair. ‘Had enough of Chinese art?’

  He nods vigorously, then adds, ‘Johnny’s paintings are miles better than this.’

  I sigh at yet another severed and bleeding limb. ‘I can’t help but agree with you,’ I say.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  We go into the Tate Liverpool Café to have our lunch. It’s a stylish venue next door to the gallery and is currently decorated with an art installation that involves brightly coloured plastic streamers draping from the ceiling and an indecipherable message in big, black letters all along one wall. Don’t understand that either – but the colours are pretty and at least there’s no blood. The menu is lovely, but it’s all goat’s cheese and polenta, and we struggle to find something that Charlie likes to eat – and believe me, my son isn’t a picky eater.

  Eventually, we settle on a chickpea burger with sweet potato chips for him. We’ve just finished eating when Charlie’s mobile phone beeps. ‘It’s a text from Johnny,’ he says when he checks it.

  ‘Go outside to text him back,’ I tell him. Other diners are already staring at us. ‘I don’t want you doing it in here.’

  He slips down from the table and goes outside. And before you say anything about what’s a kid of ten doing with a mobile phone when I’m on benefits – I’m like any other parent: I want to know where he is every minute of the day. Especially where we live. So if some of my measly income support has to fund my son’s Pay As You Go, then so be it. Through the huge windows I watch him texting, frowning in concentration, tongue out to aid him. It makes me smile to myself and a rush of love for him floods through me.

  Spencer’s fingers find mine. ‘That didn’t go well, did it?’

  ‘No,’ I say with a smile. ‘A bit too highbrow for a ten year old.’ A bit too highbrow for me too.

  ‘I thought he’d like it.’

  ‘Oh, Spencer,’ I say. ‘You really don’t understand children, do you?’

  ‘I loved art galleries as a boy,’ he protests.

  ‘Did you?’ />
  ‘My father always used to take me up to London when I was home from school in the holidays. It was our special time together. I could lose myself for hours in the Tate, the National, the Royal Academy.’

  ‘Well, maybe Charlie just hasn’t had enough exposure to them.’

  ‘What do you want to do this afternoon? I’m so hopeless at this, maybe you’d better choose.’

  ‘I think Charlie’s had enough for today.’ Personally, I think he’s been marvellous. There were times when I felt like lying down on the floor and kicking my heels. Chinese art might be great, if you like that kind of thing, but you can have too much of it. Ten minutes was my limit. ‘You go off and do your own thing. There’s a football practice that I’m sure Charlie would like to go to instead.’ It would run off some of his pent-up energy.

  ‘I hoped that we’d spend the whole day together. I could come to the football practice too.’

  ‘Do you know anything about football?’

  ‘I’m more of a rugger and polo man,’ he admits.

  I laugh. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? Look, Johnny has said that he’d like to have Charlie at the weekends sometimes. If you want to organise that party at your house, then perhaps I can fix it to be there.’

  Spencer’s smile melts my heart. He might be rubbish with kids, but he’s certainly got it off pat with the female of the species. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ll miss you today,’ he tells me earnestly. ‘I enjoyed our night together. I’d like to be able to do it more often.’

  ‘I’d like to do that too, Spencer. But this is like eating an elephant. Let’s take it one small bite at a time.’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  ‘So?’ I say to Charlie. ‘What do you want to do now?’

  Spencer said goodbye to us, looking a bit downcast, but also the slightest bit relieved. He feigned pressing engagements for Charlie’s sake and left both me and my son sitting on the side of the Albert Dock in the warm sunshine.