42
I KNOW IT’S time to let go of my dream. It’s time to let go of a lot of dreams but this one is overripe and ready to fall from the tree. I return to work and ask Bob to give me a permanent nine-to-five contract because people who are not going to become singers do not need to work shifts. Bob seems mildly impressed by my decision. ‘I knew you had a Debenhams voucher in you,’ he says. Fairfax gives a Debenhams voucher to anyone who works at the company for ten years or more. I grip the seat of my chair after he says this. I sense I need to physically hold myself on to it. ‘I’ll get a contract for you ASAP but you can start working the hours now.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and get up to leave.
‘Welcome to the team,’ says Bob.
‘I’ve been working here for months, Bob.’
He leans back and puts his hands behind his head. Two perfectly spherical sweat patches shine at me like headlights.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but now you really work here. Now you work work here.’
I go back to my desk and stare at the blank monitor. Greg is on a call but he keeps glancing at me between sentences. After he says goodbye he swivels his chair towards me. ‘You all right?’ he asks.
‘Greg,’ I say, without looking away from the computer, ‘do you want to go out tonight and get very, very drunk?’ I look at him; I can tell he’s amused. ‘I mean excruciatingly, can’t see your hand in front of your face drunk.’
‘There’s nothing I’d like to do more, but I’m taking the girls to the panto. You should come; bring Moses.’ In response, I start to cry. ‘Shit, sorry mate. I can probably move the pantomime …’ He pats me on the back.
‘No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine.’ I try to dry my tears with a Post-it note. Greg hands me a handkerchief and I wipe my face with it before blowing my nose. ‘Thanks,’ I say, handing it back to him. He takes it gingerly and puts it in his pocket. ‘Who has handkerchiefs anyway?’
‘Is it divorce stuff?’ asks Greg.
‘No, not really. It’s just … do you ever feel like no matter what you do, your life won’t get started?’
Greg takes off his headset. ‘Let’s go for a fag break,’ he says.
‘You don’t smoke,’ I say.
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
We sit on the fire escape and watch the pigeons in the car park fight over a discarded muffin.
‘That’s what I feel like,’ I say.
‘Like a pigeon?’
‘Like the muffin.’
Greg puts his fingers in his mouth and lets out a long, sharp whistle. The birds quickly disperse. ‘Is the nine-to-five life so bad?’ he asks.
‘It’s not the nine-to-five, it’s just … It’s the giving up. When I separated I thought I was just letting go of my relationship but it really means letting go of everything.’
‘Yeah, but giving up stuff is sometimes creating space to let good stuff in. Like, aren’t you seeing someone?’
‘Yeah … how did you know?’
‘You’re always on your phone under the desk,’ says Greg. ‘I figured it was a new bloke or a serious addiction to Angry Birds.’
I laugh and say, ‘No one plays Angry Birds any more.’
Greg nudges my foot with his toe. ‘So what’s he like?’
‘He’s perfect,’ I say into the floor.
‘Don’t sound so happy about it.’
‘I’m just worried—’ The words catch in my throat for a second. ‘I’m worried I won’t be good enough for him.’
‘How can you think that? You’re great.’ I look at Greg to see if his eyes will reveal the lie. ‘You’re funny and you’re clever and you always have Polos.’
‘I take fresh breath very seriously,’ I say.
‘See, funny,’ says Greg.
‘I don’t wanna be funny. I want to be hot. I want to be fascinating.’
‘Hot’s overrated,’ says Greg. ‘What are you gonna do with hot when you’re in a nursing home?’
‘You really know how to flatter a girl.’
‘No, I’m not saying you’re not hot; of course you’re hot. I just mean—’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Moonwalk out of that one.’
‘I just think people place too much importance on hot,’ says Greg quietly.
‘George is hot.’
‘Is that your guy?’ asks Greg.
‘Yeah. I kind of wish he wasn’t so hot. Like, stop me if this is TMI, but I’m scared he’s gonna turn and run the second he sees my saggy mum tum.’ Greg chuckles and shakes his head. ‘Thanks for that,’ I say, ‘that helps.’
‘No, it’s just that … I’ll let you into a secret – and you need to know I’m breaking the bro code to tell you this – but guys don’t care about that shit.’
‘Sure, sure, that’s why all those magazines are filled with girls in polo neck jumpers reading Joyce.’
Greg ducks down so he can see my face more clearly. ‘Really, we don’t. I mean, a lot of the time we’re too busy worrying about our own shit, but most of the time we’re just thinking about how fucking lucky we are to be there.’
‘Is that how you feel about Lisa?’ I ask.
‘Lisa?’ Greg looks a little confused.
‘Does she make you think about how lucky you are?’
‘Martha,’ says Greg in a serious tone, ‘Lisa would be lucky to have me.’
I laugh. The sensation is like stepping into a warm bath. ‘We better go in,’ I say.
‘You sure you’re OK?’
‘Yeah, anyway I’m getting cold.’
‘You want my jacket?’
‘Nah, you’re good.’ I stand up and square my shoulders. ‘Come on. I have to get on, I work work here now.’ I look down at Greg, still sitting on the escape. ‘Move it, this attitude won’t get you your voucher.’
Greg jumps up. ‘And what a travesty that would be,’ he says.
Bob meets me at my desk. He’s smiling, which is what he does when he’s about to sack someone. Only I could go from getting a new contract to getting fired within the space of a few minutes. ‘Can I speak with you, Martha?’
‘Sure,’ I say. He walks briskly towards his office and I have to jog to keep up with him. I turn to look at Greg before I go into Bob’s office. He puts his forefinger under his chin and uses it to lift his head a couple of inches.
‘Take a seat,’ says Bob. I sit on the edge of the chair. ‘I want to talk to you about your request earlier today.’
‘OK,’ I say. I wonder if that mad woman who rang looking for Darren called back and reported me.
‘We’ve had a problem with Carlos.’ Carlos is the shift supervisor. His problem is that he’s a functioning alcoholic, and everybody knows this, but Bob is implying a new, more recent problem. ‘Porn.’ Although we’re the only people in the room, I look round for help. This seems like a very odd subject change, even for Bob. ‘He’s been watching a lot of porn. A lot of porn.’ Bob gets up and walks round to lean against the front of his desk. ‘Look, I don’t mind – boys will be boys – but some of the girls don’t like it. And you know, with all that sexual harassment business out there. We just can’t afford a lawsuit.’ I nod yes; that sexual harassment business is rather a hassle. ‘So, I had to let him go. Shame, great guy,’ says Bob. He’s silent for a moment, clearly lost in some special memory he and Carlos shared.
‘Which is where you come in,’ he continues. ‘I’m offering you a promotion.’ It should be a joyous moment, being offered advancement at your job; a spiritual feast of recognition and validation. Instead I feel like someone’s seen me standing on the edge of a cliff face, snuck up behind me and given me a little push. ‘Carlos had to go and then you ask for this new contract and I realize it’s supercilious.’
‘I— I don’t think that’s what you mean.’
‘Yeah it is, love, look it up. Anyway, I’m saying we wanna see your contract and raise you a brand-new contract with one pound forty extra per hour and your own parking space.’
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t drive.’
‘But you’ll know it’s there,’ says Bob earnestly. When I don’t respond he adds, ‘You won’t get a better offer than this.’ I believe him.
‘Can I think about it?’ I ask. Bob looks at me as if I’ve been given a winning lottery ticket and used it to wrap up chewed gum.
‘Not much to think about in my opinion, but think away,’ says Bob. ‘Let me know by six.’
I don’t even thank him before I stand up. I know I should – even a douche like Bob deserves gratitude – but I can’t. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth to speak a scream will escape. When I leave his office I can see Greg staring at me; his eyes are asking a question I’m not ready to answer. I turn and walk out of the floor and I keep walking – down three flights of stairs, past Darryl sat on his chair in the reception area, and I don’t stop until my legs ache. Even then I want to keep walking, I want to keep walking until I know where I’m going.
43
THE NURSERY WORKER looks startled when I arrive to collect Moses. ‘Is there a problem?’ she asks.
‘I felt like getting him early,’ I say.
‘Sure thing,’ she says. She turns to the room and calls, ‘Momo!’ To my knowledge no one has ever called him that in his life, but he pops out from within a Wendy house and toddles over. It brings home how removed I am from him; these strangers are raising my child. ‘He hasn’t had his lunch.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say as I pull on his coat. I kneel down in front of him to do up the buttons. ‘We’re going on an adventure,’ I tell him.
It feels like the train to London might be enough for Moses. He bounces tirelessly in the seat next to me, shouting ‘Thomas!’ each time another train passes. I remember taking the same journey with my own mother; she always brought homemade sandwiches, informing me she wouldn’t be a victim of London prices. We don’t have a picnic, so we create a makeshift one out of two Marks & Spencer sandwiches and a packet of crisps.
‘What did you do at nursery today?’ I ask Moses.
‘Nursery,’ he says solemnly.
‘I love you,’ I say, and for the first time he says back, ‘I lull you.’
This was always the sort of stuff I thought we would do as a three. Take the train, share the baby’s delight. It’s odd how you convince yourself that you will do these things, that you will eat dinner together every evening and create pedestrian, but poignant to you, traditions. Why would you manage as three what you could not do as two? For the first few years we were together, Alexander and I would alternate Christmas at each other’s family homes. Well, that was the agreement, but it was only a verbal contract and more often than not we had Christmas at the Rosses’. Initially Alexander convinced me with the undeniable truth that his parents lived further away and therefore could see us less, and then his mother was dying, and then his mother was dead. That year we tried to piece together some semblance of a holiday but every activity was punctuated by her absence and any moment approaching joy was seasoned with guilt.
The following year I convinced Alexander to invite his dad to our flat. Alexander’s sister, Meghan (an amiable but nervy secondary school teacher), had just had a baby and I thought it might be helpful for her not to have the stress of cooking for us too. Also, I hoped that it might be an opportunity, perhaps my best opportunity, to win over Eric Ross.
Alexander’s parents had always made it clear that I wasn’t welcome. They weren’t openly hostile; that would probably have been easier, that would have given me something to push against and an excuse to stay at home. No, they just communicated through their demeanour that they were only barely tolerating me. In fairness to Alexander’s mother, I’m not sure anyone would be good enough for her darling son; in the case of his father I think he mistrusted any person who wasn’t as hateful as him.
I had been preparing for two days – cleaning the flat, securing the goose they always ate, and watching dozens of online videos to learn how to cook it. Eric arrived long faced and empty handed. He removed his stiff suit jacket from his portly frame and positioned himself in the only armchair. I didn’t spend much time with the men in the morning; I was standing guard at the oven, determined to get the dinner ready for their immovable 1 p.m. serving time. I paused only to give Eric his present, a cashmere scarf I had bought on credit. He thanked me before placing the gift on the floor beside him, unopened.
At ten minutes to one I emerged from the kitchen, sweaty but triumphant. ‘Dinner will be served at one,’ I chirped.
Eric took a long slug of his Scotch and said, ‘I’m not hungry.’ Alexander said nothing. I remember leaning against the kitchen counter, arguing with myself over the benefits of holding in my anger. Eventually I picked up the bird and threw the whole thing in the bin, and instantly regretted it. I told Alexander that Moxie got to it and we ate the veggies on our laps. Since that day, Eric may have said a few hundred words to me, and I like it that way. We learn how to be from our parents, either by emulating them or distancing ourselves. Alexander is charming, sometimes to a fault; he often makes promises he cannot deliver. A boy with excess charm could only be raised by a man with none.
I guess, given these beginnings, it might have been unfair of me to expect Alexander to be able to create traditions for our son. The work of parenting should be split equally but each job description doesn’t have to look the same. I kiss the top of Moses’s head, the only bit of him that still smells like baby. He nestles into my chest as I do so. I hope this means he has accepted my application as chief parent in charge of new discoveries.
5) Must be close to his family.
Marthashotbod: Are you close to your mother?
Undeterred83: Of course.
Marthashotbod: Why’s that?
Undeterred83: Because she’s my mother. That’s enough.
I agree.
‘Ooh,’ says Moses. We are standing in the entrance hall of the Natural History Museum. The skeleton of a blue whale towers above us. I look at Moses and I know that’s what I want, the rush of experiencing something new; excitement so immense it verges on fear. I take his hand and he looks at me and says ‘ooh’ again. I remember seeing a model of the blue whale in the museum as a child and being unable to accept that something that big could exist in reality. I became obsessed with the creatures; I remember Mum and I spending hours at the library researching them and her getting hold of some obscure documentary on their migration, which I watched until the tape in the video became mangled in the machine one day. I decided that, despite my lack of almost any mathematical skills, I could be a marine biologist. Luckily this was the same year Take That released ‘Could It Be Magic’, so I ended the year focused on a seventeen-year-old lad from Stoke-on-Trent and not the world’s largest mammal. Holding my son’s hand, with so much discovery before us, I am immediately taken back to a time when anything was possible.
‘Come on, mate,’ I say, ‘there’s so much more.’
We cover the dinosaurs and all the mammals. I’m so impressed by how patient and well behaved Moses is, or perhaps he is often patient and well behaved and I don’t take the time to notice. We stop for tea and chocolate cake. I decide there and then that this is a fine tradition. As Moses works away at his slice I think about how much I want to protect him and how outlandish a task that is. ‘Moses,’ I say, ‘I want you to know that, whatever happens, Mummy loves you and Daddy loves you, and, even if it doesn’t always seem like it, Mummy and Daddy love each other.’
‘Juice!’ shouts Moses, pointing at his carton of orange from concentrate.
Exhausted by all the sights and sounds of the city, Moses falls asleep almost immediately on the train home. I lean back against the window and let him nestle into me. He fits perfectly, as he always has, no matter what his size. A woman across the aisle watches us and smiles a smile that makes me know she is remembering a small boy that was once in her own life. She catches me watching her, watching us, and her smile widens. I know she sees me as reliable, responsible,
loving and loved, and I know that I have to be the person she sees. Careful not to wake Moses, I ease my phone out of my bag and call Bob. It’s quarter to six.
‘Greg told me your son was vomiting blood,’ he says. ‘It’s not catching, is it?’
‘No, it’s all good. I’ll be in tomorrow. I’m just phoning to say I’ll take the job.’
‘Course you will.’
44
EVEN THOUGH MOSES is still drifting in and out of consciousness I take a bus in the opposite direction to Leanne’s house. The skies are black and the probably ecologically sound but basically ineffective street lighting leaves me almost blind. It’s OK, though; I would know this walk in my sleep. I paused after every step the last time I made the journey; I don’t know what or who I was hoping would intervene. This time I scurry. Moses is growing heavier with each second and I want to arrive before the guilt about keeping him out so late stops me.
I hear something soft and foreign, possibly Indian, playing from inside the house. It’s such a blatant indication that someone’s real, actual life is happening behind there that my hand hovers for a few seconds before I thump my fist against the door four times. I’m reaching for another round of knocks when it swings open, causing me to lose balance and fall forward a little and making Moses, resting on my left hip, shake his head, as if showing his disapproval before settling back to sleep.
Jacqueline watches this with a blank expression, a kind of therapist magnolia in the paint chart of emotions. Her long blonde bob is tousled in a way that any man observing her would assume was the result of violent lovemaking and any woman would know was the result of at least an hour with a full head of hot rollers. She has on a navy and white striped Breton top and a pair of faded blue jeans. Her feet are bare and perfectly pedicured.
‘Martha? Are you OK?’ she asks. It comes so readily that it makes me think that maybe I was not the first nor perhaps the last client to turn up unannounced.
‘No, no, not really.’
‘Have you had thoughts about harming yourself?’
The Single Mum's Wish List Page 27