by Clare Pooley
Monica watched as Hazard and Alice took a photo of Julian, working it like a gnarled and grizzled Kate Moss, leaning against the guardrail, overlooking Paris. A small crowd had gathered around them, as if trying to figure out if they were celebrities of some sort. Betty was adding to the spectacle by doing some of her tai chi moves with a pigeon sitting on one of her hands (one of the many things she appeared to have packed in her giant carrier bag was birdseed). Wasn’t she worried that one of them might poo on her? Just thinking about it made Monica feel nauseated.
She was trying really hard to like Alice, with her perfect face and figure and gorgeous baby. Hazard and Alice reminded her of the cool kids at school, the ones who seemed to fit in effortlessly, to do and say the right things and wear the right outfits—even when they’d turned up in something ridiculous, no one would laugh, and they’d inadvertently start a trend. Monica had made a big point of finding all that stuff beneath her. She was going to go to Cambridge and do something worthwhile with her life. Secretly, she’d been thrilled on the (very) few occasions she’d been invited to sit at their lunch table.
Usually, if she was feeling inadequate, Monica would put on a concerted front, making sure she looked as happy and successful as possible. But now, she couldn’t do that because of that damn book. Hazard and Alice both knew exactly how dissatisfied she was with her life. Well, at least she wasn’t horribly shallow and obsessed by the validation of strangers on social media, she thought as she watched them bend over Julian’s phone, uploading his picture.
Monica’s mother would not have approved of Alice. Monica remembered all the times she’d gone with her to help at the women’s refuge for victims of domestic violence. “Battered women,” they were called back then, which always made Monica think of cod and chips. Always make sure you have financial independence, Monica. Never let yourself, or your children, be reliant on a man for your basic needs. You never know what might happen. You need to be able to support yourself. Surely Alice’s Instagram thing wasn’t a proper job? It was just a vanity project.
“I love your dress, Alice,” she called over, because she was making an effort, and wasn’t that what you said to people like her?
“Oh, thanks, Monica,” Alice replied, with a perfect smile dimpling her cheeks. “Cheap as chips, but don’t tell anyone!” Who on earth, thought Monica, would she tell?
She felt someone take her hand. It was Riley. She snatched it away, then chided herself for being churlish.
“Thanks for organizing today, Monica, it’s been totally awesome,” he said, which just made Monica feel sad for what might have been. She wished she could re-create the relaxed, uncomplicated, happy relationship they’d had, but she couldn’t. It was like trying to get a stain out of the carpet. You could scrub and steam and brush for as long as you liked, but there would always be a faint outline of what had spilled. Anyhow, even if she could turn back time, what would be the point? Riley would be heading off around Europe soon enough, then back to Australia, which was not exactly commuting distance. No, it was far wiser to keep the wall she’d erected around her emotions firmly in place.
“God, look at those three with their stupid Instagram fixation,” said Riley. “Here they are, at the top of one of the world’s most awesome monuments, overlooking the most awesome city, and all they’re focused on is Julian’s clothes.”
And in that moment, Monica very nearly forgave him everything. Except his constant use of the word awesome, which was driving her crazy.
* * *
• • •
IT TOOK MONICA an age to get the group back to ground level, since nobody apart from her seemed to be at all concerned about the imminent departure of their train back to London. She was at the back of the group, trying to usher them through the exit turnstile, like a farmer herding his sheep into a sheep-dip. Betty was at the front, having difficulty getting her huge bag through the narrow exit. Monica watched as a charming young man gestured to her to pass the bag to him, so he could help her get it over the barrier. Seconds later, he was running at top speed away from the tower, clutching all Betty’s belongings. Not so charming after all, it appeared.
Betty started yelling in Mandarin. Although Monica couldn’t understand a word, she got the basic gist. Swearing was definitely involved. Benji, like something out of an action hero movie, pushed the crowd aside, vaulted on one hand over the turnstile, and chased after the thief.
The assembled tourists shouted encouragement in a cacophony of different languages, like a crowd watching football’s European Cup final. Benji caught up with the robber, grabbing him by the arm. The crowd cheered, wildly. Mrs. Wu even punched the air. Then the man slipped off his jacket and, still clutching Mrs. Wu’s bag, ran off again, leaving Benji holding his clothing. The crowd groaned and swore—mainly unintelligibly. Benji took chase again, this time bringing his quarry crashing to the ground with an impressive tackle.
“GOAL!” shouted Riley. The crowd went crazy as Benji sat on the thief, holding his hands behind his back. Betty’s bag was lying on the ground, spewing out fortune cookies, birdseed, and a tangle of wool. Monica called the police.
Betty aimed a deft kick at one of the man’s shins.
“Don’t fuck with me, mister,” she said.
He would rue the day he crossed Betty Wu, thought Monica. She just hoped Betty hadn’t spotted Keith cocking a leg over her knitting.
FORTY-FIVE
Riley
The return train journey was rather more subdued than the way out, as everyone was exhausted after the heady combination of exercise, culture, and high drama.
Riley watched with interest as Betty stood up and walked over to the empty seat next to Benji. Benji looked surprised and more than a little terrified. Far more terrified than he’d been apprehending the thief earlier. Riley pretended to be fascinated by his guidebook, while he was actually straining to hear what Betty would say.
“So, Monica tells me you good cook,” she said.
“Well, I love cooking, but I’m nowhere near as good as you are, Mrs. Wu,” replied Benji, with what Riley thought was just the right amount of deference and ingratiation. He noticed that Betty didn’t shout at him to call me Betty!
“Next week, you come to restaurant. I teach you to cook wonton soup.” It was definitely an order, not a suggestion. “Recipe my mother taught me, her mother taught her. Not written down. In here.” And she tapped her head, with a finger as determined as a woodpecker’s beak digging out bugs from a tree trunk. Without waiting for an answer, Betty stood up and went back to her own seat, leaving Benji looking a little stunned. Riley felt all warm inside. Perhaps the City of Love had woven its magic already. He loved a happy ending.
Alice sat down next to Julian and pulled up his new Instagram page.
“OMG, Julian! You have more than three thousand followers already!” she said. Julian looked bemused.
“Is that good?” he asked. “How did they find me?”
“It’s not just good, it’s SPECTACULAR in just twelve hours. You are going to be a SENSATION. I posted some of your pics on my page and suggested my followers follow you, and they’re heading over in droves. Look at all the comments! They LOVE you! Hang on, you’ve got some private messages, look.” Alice jabbed her fingers at Julian’s phone a couple of times and squinted at the screen.
“I don’t BELIEVE IT!” she shrieked, making Bunty start wailing, causing some very disapproving looks from their fellow passengers. “There’s a message from VIVIENNE WESTWOOD! The real one.” Who was Vivienne Westwood? wondered Riley. Why was she causing such excitement, and was there an unreal one as well? He wished Alice would stop talking in capital letters. It was giving him a headache. Riley hadn’t imagined it was possible for anyone to make him feel tired and jaded, but Alice seemed to be doing just that.
“She says she’s pleased you’re still wearing her clothes—I tagged her, you see—an
d if you come to her HQ, you can try on the latest collection.”
“Oh, darling Vivi. Always liked her,” said Julian, “but I’m afraid I can’t afford any of her clothes these days. I haven’t sold a painting for over a decade.”
“But that’s the AMAZING thing about Insta, Julian. Once you get enough followers, they’ll give you all their clothes FOR FREE. You don’t think I actually BOUGHT any of this stuff, do you?” she asked, gesturing at her clothes and bag.
“Golly,” said Julian. “You’d better show me how to do it then. I’m not very good at this phone thing. My fingers are too fat and clumsy. It’s like trying to type with a bunch of bananas.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a little pointy thing you can use,” said Alice. “You’ll love Insta. It’s so pretty. It’s like ART, only more modern. Right up your alley. If Picasso were alive now, he’d, like, totally be into Instagram.” Julian’s eyes bulged a little at that suggestion.
Julian had managed to buy more champagne at Gare du Nord, so they could—he explained—celebrate Benji’s heroism on the return journey. He’d arranged several plastic cups on the table in front of him and was carefully filling each one. It occurred to Riley that only he and Alice had read Hazard’s story in the book. He looked over to Hazard, who was sitting on his own, resting his head against the train window. He seemed as if he might be asleep, until you saw his hands, which were clutched so tightly into fists that his knuckles had gone white. Riley walked over and sat in the seat next to him.
“Hazard, you’re doing really brilliantly, you know. You are the real superhero around here,” he said.
Hazard turned to look at him. “Thanks, mate,” he said, sounding genuinely grateful, but immensely weary.
“Are you still looking for a job? It’s just that Alice has got me doing some gardening. I’d love the extra help if you could spare the time?”
“Sure. I’d really like that. I’ve been at a bit of a loss, to be honest. I don’t want to go back into the City, but I’m not sure I’m qualified to do anything else. It’s not good for me to have too much time on my hands,” replied Hazard. “I’ve even found myself becoming obsessed by Neighbours and Countdown. Once an addict, always an addict. And I could really do with the money. I’ve nearly spent my last bonus, and if I don’t find myself some sort of job soon, I’ll have to sell my apartment.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. This work’s for a local charity. But are you still interested?” asked Riley.
“Definitely!” replied Hazard, with genuine enthusiasm. “I’ll work out my finances later. I’m sure something will crop up. By the way, don’t worry about Monica. I bet she’ll come round in the end.”
Riley realized that if they’d been girls they might have hugged at this point. But they weren’t girls, so he gave Hazard a little punch on the arm, then walked back to his seat.
Bunty had had enough of the day and was red-faced and yelling, barely recognizable as @babybunty. Alice was carrying her up and down the aisle, as the only thing that seemed to settle her was constant movement. Riley wondered whether this was putting Monica off the whole procreation thing. It was certainly making him think twice, and he’d always loved the idea of a big family.
A few minutes later, Riley walked down the carriage to the toilet and pressed the button to open the door. It slid across to reveal Bunty, on her back in the sink, naked, legs waving in the air, and poo everywhere. All over the basin, the mirror, the walls even. Alice gaped at him, hands full of baby wipes, and said, “Sorry, I thought I’d locked the door.” He just replied with a strangled “AARRRGGHH” as he pressed the button to make the door close, and it all go away, but the image remained seared on to his retinas. He mumbled something as the door closed. He could hear Alice’s muffled voice.
“Actually, Riley, I’d love some help here!”
“Sure!” he said. “I’ll go find Monica!” That was what she meant, wasn’t it?
FORTY-SIX
Monica
Riley came back from the toilet looking decidedly queasy.
“Are you OK, Riley?” Monica asked.
“Yup, totally fine. But I think Alice might need some help,” he said, sliding quickly into a seat and not looking back. Monica headed in the direction Riley had come from, rather alarmed. She hoped the day wasn’t going to be ruined, when they were so nearly home and dry. The door to the toilet was locked. Monica knocked.
“Are you in there, Alice? It’s Monica. Do you need a hand?” she asked.
“Hold on, Monica!” replied Alice. A minute or two later, the door opened and Alice thrust Bunty at her.
“Could you take Bunty for me, while I clean up in here? I had her on the changing mat, but every time the train takes a bend I worry she’ll be catapulted onto the floor. I’ll be out in a minute. Thanks so much!”
The door slid closed again. Since she was on her own, Monica leaned forward and breathed in Bunty’s downy head. She smelled of Johnson & Johnson, freshly laundered cotton, and that indefinable scent of brand-new human being that reminded Monica of everything she didn’t have. The door slid open and Alice stepped out.
“She’s really gorgeous, Alice,” said Monica as they walked back toward their seats. She was expecting one of the obvious responses from Alice, an I know or Isn’t she just? Or perhaps a mock-humble Not at three a.m., she isn’t! But instead Alice stopped and looked at her intently.
“You know, the baby doesn’t make the happily ever after, Monica. And sometimes a marriage can be the loneliest place in the world. I should know.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Alice,” Monica replied, wondering what the story was there. “There are actually loads of advantages to being single.” And, for the first time, Monica really thought that might be true.
“I remember!” said Alice. “Eating what you want, when you want, total control of the TV remote, not having to tell anyone where you’re going or who with. Slobbing around in yoga pants and slippers. Regular sex, too—ha ha. Those were the days!” She paused and looked wistful.
“Monica, I read something on Instagram the other day. It said, Mother is a verb, not a noun. I think it means there are many ways to mother without actually being one. Look at you and your café. You nurture loads of people, every day.”
Monica couldn’t quite believe that such a life-altering, if slightly patronizing, thought could come from woman she’d dismissed so lightly at the beginning of the day, outside a train lavatory, and courtesy of a rather saccharine Instagram meme.
After walking Bunty up and down the aisle a few times to help her settle, Monica passed her back to Alice with as much relief as regret, and sat down next to Riley.
Riley must have felt emboldened by Julian’s champagne, because he had that look on his face that he got when he was about to say something significant. Monica prepared herself.
“Monica, I really am so sorry I didn’t tell you about the book. I honestly didn’t mean to keep you in the dark, it’s just I couldn’t tell you the night we met, with all those people around, and then I just kinda missed the moment. It got too late, and I didn’t know how to fix it. You probably won’t believe this, but I’d planned to tell you right after Christmas.” And he looked at her so earnestly that she did believe him, and while it couldn’t totally fix things, it really did make them feel better. She took his hand and leaned her head on his shoulder.
FORTY-SEVEN
Alice
Alice went straight to the fridge and poured herself a large glass of Chablis. She was aware that she’d drunk more than her fair share of champagne on the return journey (she hoped no one else had noticed), but it had still barely touched the sides. She sat down at the black granite counter, kicking her shoes off onto the polished concrete floor. Her minimalist kitchen with its perfect lines and edges had, as Max was fond of saying, “wow factor,” but it wasn’t warm. Sometimes you didn’t w
ant a room to make a statement or to say anything about you, you just wanted it to shut up and be a room.
It had been a wonderful day. If it hadn’t been for constantly having to stop Bunty from yelling, trying to feed her without shocking Julian by displaying too much boob, and changing her nappy in cramped train toilets, it would have been perfect.
She’d never forget Riley’s face when he’d interrupted the nappy change. So much for being in touch with nature. Even as he’d been closing the door, looking as if he was about to vomit, he’d said, “Are you OK, Alice?” in a strangled voice, his revulsion and good manners fighting for supremacy. Sweet boy. And what about Benji, who she’d last seen sobbing outside a Chinese restaurant on Christmas Day, heroically rescuing Mrs. Wu’s bag? It was as good as a Netflix drama. She heard the front door bang. Max was back from work, late as usual.
“Hello, darling! What’s Bunty still doing up? It’s nine thirty. And what’s for supper? I’m ravenous.”
Alice peered inside the fridge. The only nonalcoholic contents were half a lemon, a packet of butter, some tired-looking salad, and a quarter of a quiche, which Max insisted real men didn’t eat.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she said, trying to be sorry. “I haven’t prepared anything. I’ve been in Paris all day, remember? Just got back.”
“God, it’s all very well for you, isn’t it, swanning around having lunch in Paris while I work every hour God sends to keep Bunty in disposable nappies. I guess I’ll have to call Deliveroo.”
Alice eyed the unopened chilled packet of butter, about the shape and size of a brick, and considered at what velocity it would need to be thrown to hurt, but not cause permanent damage. She resolved to accidentally wash his bright-white Calvin Klein underpants with some red socks. The conversation Alice had had with Monica about the advantages of being single came back to taunt her.