I was considering this when he spoke, so it took some time to respond after he said, ‘Hi, it’s Frank.’ I meant what I had concluded a few minutes earlier, that my family were a gift to be cherished. It felt genuine at the time, but in that moment I’m not sure I would have been able to identify Dylan in a line-up. Hang up the phone, I told myself, hang up and nothing bad can come of this.
Hang up, my conscience whispered, as I asked, ‘How?’
He chuckled. ‘My mother called me Francis and I never liked it.’
‘I mean how did you get my number?’ I hissed into the receiver. I glanced up at Bettina who was typing furiously, headphones in. ‘I didn’t give you my number,’ I said in my normal voice.
‘But you did. When you signed in.’ I pulled forth a hazy memory of scribbling my details down when I arrived at the event. The thought of him sifting through the pages to find my number made my body vibrate.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. I meant it: the fact that I was so drawn to him when I knew so little about him.
But he said, ‘Not really. I promised to introduce you to some clients.’
‘You did. I guess after everything, I thought …’
‘Everything?’ Talking to him made me feel naked and he knew it. I could tell from his voice that he was enjoying my discomfort, and that made me feel a prick of anger, which sadly one can feel simultaneously with longing.
‘Thank you. I appreciate that. Can you email me the details.’ I gave him my work address, which he repeated, still with the bemused tone in his voice. I hung up and congratulated myself on my maturity and professionalism. Perhaps I should have declined his help but I really needed something to offer to Carter. A great client would be the payoff – a career boost in exchange for one small sin. I could make that work; I would simply separate Frank, the man who had infiltrated my psyche and reignited my sexuality, from Frank, the useful work contact. Once I had allowed him to help me, I wouldn’t think of him again. I tried not thinking of him for a couple of minutes and then I checked my email.
I repeated that pattern all day, pretending to listen to my colleagues talk about trends and spikes; mindlessly wandering through the internet looking for inspiration. But every conversation or article or cup of coffee or toilet break would lead my thoughts back to Frank. Even Annie couldn’t penetrate my Frank fantasy. So when Bettina suggested the pub I said yes, because in some ways – although it pains me – I am my mother’s child, and after a day of failing to do so I was sure that the only thing that would shut off my mind was alcohol.
‘The thing about men is none of them, not a single one, knows what they want. Their mother told them what they wanted and now she’s old or dead, they’re looking for another one.’ Two drinks in, Bettina had reached the anger stage of grief.
‘That’s not true,’ said Marcus. ‘I know what I want.’ He looked at Bettina, his green eyes wistful.
‘You think you know what you want because the patriarchy makes you think that all the little witterings in your brain are valid, but you don’t truly know. How many guys have you met who are half-heartedly dating a woman, hit thirty and propose? Like someone yelled freeze and they had to tie the knot with whoever they were next to. It’s bullshit.’ Marcus rubbed his goatee.
‘What’s so wrong with that? People change – you might find the perfect person and in ten years’ time they become a monster, or they’re already with someone. It’s not a bad idea to find someone OK and make it work. I mean, if you want to be with someone.’
‘You don’t know anything,’ snapped Bettina, and he dropped his head.
‘I think you’re both right,’ I offered, opening my arms as if I were royalty addressing my subjects. I grabbed Bettina’s wrist. ‘You seek truth.’ I placed a hand on top of one of Marcus’s. ‘And you find beauty. In this world both are valid and also validating.’ Bettina pulled her arm away and sneered at me. I didn’t blame her; even I wasn’t sure what I was going on about. Why could I not learn that just because a bartender suggests a double it isn’t mandatory to have one? I turned to Marcus, who was beginning to go crimson. I lifted my hand, and watched his body relax and his standard colour return. ‘I believe you know what you want.’
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Why?’ said Bettina, wine sloshing in her glass as she spoke. ‘It’s not like you could trust the words coming out of his mouth.’ I looked for a lifeline.
‘You’ve been with Chris for ages, haven’t you, Dee. What are your thoughts?’ Dee looked a little taken aback. As if she was at a show and hadn’t expected audience participation.
‘Er, Chris is a bit of a moron. Wouldn’t know what he wanted if he was on fire and had to choose between a bucket of water and a parakeet.’
‘Exactly!’ shouted Bettina. She threw her arms up, splashing Marcus with Pinot Grigio in the process. Dee dabbed at his trouser leg with a tissue from her cardigan pocket.
‘In fact, he won’t know what he wants for his tea and will sit there till he starves, so I’d better be off.’ Dee drained her shandy. ‘See you later, troops.’ As she left, Bettina finished what remained of her wine and stood up.
‘I know I don’t want to be running around after a man for the rest of my days. Who wants another drink?’ I raised my hand and Marcus indicated his empty pint glass.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ said Marcus, as we watched Bettina fight her way to the front of the bar. It sounded more like a prayer than a conversation starter, but I nodded enthusiastically.
‘She’s great! You’re great! Everyone is in some way.’ When I get drunk, I can be a bit overenthusiastic, but I do actually believe that we all have our individual gifts and, whilst those gifts might not be as obvious as, say, Jennifer Lawrence’s gifts, someone will find them.
‘I’m not sure you’re right. I’ve pretty much consistently been told I’m not that great,’ said Marcus. His voice held a quiver of sadness but he was smiling. Certainly that was part of his greatness – the way he kept smiling, even though, just looking at his grubby Red Dwarf T-shirt, you could tell that his life had been difficult. I felt intensely motherly towards him and wanted to give him a cuddle, so I did. He struggled a little, but eventually relented and allowed his head to rest on my shoulder.
‘She’s married,’ I heard Bettina say. It was an accusation. Marcus and I uncoupled and she placed our drinks in front of us.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered before starting on his lager, and I patted his head.
‘Let’s each tell the most tragic love story we’ve ever heard, preferably with a straight man’s demise at the climax,’ said Bettina.
‘Um,’ said Marcus, and glanced at me. He would never criticize her but we were both thinking that Betty had taken bitterness to professional levels.
‘Oooooor,’ I said, holding up a finger and noticing that I was slurring slightly. ‘The most inspiring love story we have ever heard.’ Marcus grinned. Bettina looked at the ceiling thoughtfully.
‘I prefer my idea,’ she said. ‘So, this guy I worked with fell in love with this woman in the Netherlands. He was going to give up his whole life and move to a tiny little village in the mountains or something. He moved out of his flat and sold all his shit, and even had a leaving party before he flew out to stay with her. He lands, and it turns out she’s at least ten years older than she made out and lives on a pig farm with her three kids.’ Bettina drank deeply and allowed us to take in her words. ‘The pathetic bit is that he tried to make it work. Stayed for three months.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, unable to find a positive spin for the woeful tale, ‘that’s pretty high on the tragedy meter.’
‘What’s your contribution?’ Bettina asked Marcus. He cleared his throat.
‘Well, I did know this guy who asked a girl out sixteen times. Finally, she said yes, but it was basically to stop him asking. They went on one date – he spent a fortune taking her to this play she wanted to see. At the end of the night, she told him he could have a selfie with h
er and asked if that would be enough for him to leave her alone.’
‘Ouch,’ I said.
‘That was you, wasn’t it?’ asked Bettina. Marcus sighed and nodded. I gave him a sympathetic look as Bettina howled. Even though we had barely begun our drinks, he offered to return to the bar.
‘Betty,’ I said sternly, when we were alone.
‘I’m giving him a break. I’m at the pub with him, aren’t I? What’s your story?’
I’d heard many dismal love stories over the years but always came back to one. ‘My father left my mother when she had severe post-natal depression. Apparently, he wanted someone who could still do what she was good for. She never saw him again and neither have I.’ It was my turn to receive a sympathetic look.
Then Bettina stuck her tongue out at me. ‘I was just trying to have a wallow and you had to make it all serious.’
I laughed. ‘You shouldn’t be wallowing. I’m trying to tell you you’ve probably had a lucky escape.’
Bettina smiled; she had a smile that could stop traffic. ‘You might be right. I’ll have to move on to my other break-up technique then.’
‘Which is?’
‘Shots.’
I waved my hands in protest. ‘I’m approaching forty. I don’t do shots.’
‘You do tonight.’
11
MARCUS RETURNED TO the table with drinks and Bettina immediately sent him back to the bar. The evening passed in a vodka-fuelled blur. We commandeered the jukebox; Bettina literally growled at anyone who tried to approach it. You got three songs for a pound, so we chose a song each for every coin. This resulted in a bizarre mash-up of nineties pop, punk and heartbreaking ballads. We were all supportive of each other’s choices, singing along when memory permitted. It was the perfect way to end a Monday, and I had all but forgotten what I was supposed to be forgetting. I didn’t even think about going home until I was weaving back to the table from my fifth toilet break, and found Bettina and Marcus kissing furiously. They were so focused on the task at mouth they didn’t notice my return, so I picked up my things and left them to it.
I fell into a cab, feeling proud that I could remember my address. I think I had a little doze in the back, because before I knew it the car was flooded with light and I was being asked for the best part of twenty pounds.
‘Did you go via Manchester?!’ I admonished the driver, and he told me to enjoy my evening. I slammed the door in protest and tried to hide my struggle with the garden gate; despite my ungraciousness, the driver waited until I was safely behind it to pull away.
After several attempts to get my key in the lock, I pushed the door open triumphantly. Slipping off my shoes, I recalled Marcus and Bettina’s fervent groping, and giggled. I was shushing myself when I got the feeling that something was off, and not just my hand–eye coordination. I stood with my hands on my hips and examined the hallway – shoes scattered haphazardly; post piling up on the little side table; it all looked standard. And that was it. I could see how normal my home looked. The lights were on, every single one. That’s when I heard the sobbing, high-pitched and erratic, still able to pierce a path straight to my heart. I walked slowly towards the kitchen, hoping to prepare myself for whatever I found there. Before I entered, I could see Ruby, her head on the table, long, skinny arms wrapped around it. Dylan stood against the counter silently, his face ashen.
‘Hey, family,’ I said tentatively, to no response. ‘It’s a bit late to be doing homework, Rubes.’ I tried to catch Dylan’s eye, but he would not or could not look away from our daughter. Even after I said his name he continued to stare at her, as if scared she was a vision and if he blinked she might disappear. I said his name more forcefully and he spoke, but not to me.
‘Tell her. Tell your mother what you did.’ I approached Ruby and, as I drew close, she raised her head. Her eyes were rimmed with red. A memory returned of Ruby at four; she needed surgery for a hernia. She was too young for us to explain general anaesthetic or surgery or hernias, so we told her she was going to the hospital for a nice long nap. When she was taken to theatre and a blue-gowned monster plunged a needle in her hand, she locked eyes with me. That evening she looked at me the same way – with pain, shock and also an accusation: that I had broken my promises. I had failed to keep her safe.
‘Mum,’ she whispered. I recognized it as an apology, and realized I hadn’t heard her say the word for some time. I pulled her head to my body and the action unleashed a fresh batch of tears, which soaked through to my skin.
‘Fine,’ Dylan said, straightening up to his full height and folding his arms. When we first met and Dylan told me he used to be a doorman at a brazenly dodgy club, I didn’t believe him. He had the size but was too gentle, definitely more teddy than bear. In that moment, I saw it. He could be intimidating; he seemed almost menacing. I felt protective of my little girl.
‘Fine. I’ll tell her.’ Dylan took a step closer and Ruby pressed her face into me. ‘I went to look at the bank statements today.’
‘Did they take the water bill?’ I asked.
‘Not now, Alison!’ Dylan roared. I felt Ruby’s body tense and gripped her tighter. I was about to instruct my husband to calm down but he began speaking again, his words tumbling out on top of each other. ‘There was an alert about downloads or uploads or whatever they are, and I clicked on it – I just wanted to stop it beeping – and it opens and there’s a whole load of pictures. Pictures of Ruby, you know, selfies or whatever.’ I tried to shrug but I was hampered by Ruby’s unyielding embrace, so I shook my head. Ruby took selfies like other people drank water; they were part of her life force. ‘Naked pictures, Alison!’ Dylan shouted. I told him to be quiet then. I didn’t think he had a right to his outrage; I’d told him we should check her phone each night but he’d talked me out of it. ‘The girl needs her privacy,’ he’d said with a little shake of his head, when I knew he meant that he couldn’t be arsed.
‘You’ll wake Chloe and the neighbours,’ I said, but as I was speaking I began to comprehend what he had said. I pulled Ruby off me and she fell limp, like a puppet. She folded over on to her knees, making a low moaning sound which was muffled by her pyjama-clad legs.
‘What were you thinking?’ I asked her. Although I knew. She was thinking she wanted to belong and to feel sought after and to be seen in a way that she probably didn’t feel, and if she were another girl, someone else’s daughter, I might have responded to that sympathetically. But she was mine. ‘What on God’s earth were you thinking?’
‘She’s not moving until she tells me who she’s sent them to,’ Dylan said.
Ruby started to speak but her legs obscured the words.
‘Sit up, darling,’ I said. ‘Talk to us, please.’ All I’d wanted was for her to talk to me. She sat up.
‘I was in my bra,’ she said mournfully.
‘Barely,’ muttered Dylan.
‘This is serious,’ I said. I noticed that I couldn’t pronounce my S’s properly and took a few breaths. Couldn’t I have major parenting challenges in the morning, or at least sober? ‘Ruby,’ I said when I had composed myself. ‘Once you’ve sent those pictures it’s like a virus – you don’t know where it can end up.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t send them. I promise. I wasn’t going to send them to anyone.’
‘Why did you take them then?’ asked Dylan. ‘You’re a child. This is …’ He covered his face with his hands. I saw Ruby wince. Even in her distress, I could tell she was miffed at being referred to as a child. It made me want to laugh; as children we think we have the answers, and then we reach adulthood and find only more questions.
‘Go to your room,’ I said. ‘We’ll deal with this tomorrow.’ It sounded ridiculous even to me, like something a sitcom parent would say, but I needed to end it and return to the matter once at least some of the vodka had left my system. Ruby seized her opportunity, scurrying out of the kitchen and up the stairs before slamming her bedroom door closed. I reached out
to Dylan but he didn’t move, and my hand hung in the air uselessly.
‘Do you really believe she didn’t send them to anyone – is that very likely?’ I sat in the chair Ruby had vacated and looked up at him.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I was willing to keep her up all night.’
‘I know, but she’s got school, Dylan.’
‘Like I’m gonna send her back there with the little perverts that have convinced her to do this.’ I could feel my drunkenness converting to a hangover, a dull throb at the base of my skull.
‘I think we both know that Ruby doesn’t need anyone to convince her to do something.’ Dylan looked at me as if he didn’t recognize the person in front of him.
‘Have some coffee. I’m going to bed,’ he said before leaving. I stayed in the kitchen and forced myself to down a pint of tap water before following him. He was under the covers when I crept into our room; for a minute I thought he was asleep but as I climbed into bed in my underwear he spoke.
‘Where have you been?’
‘At the pub.’
‘Clearly.’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘I think I’ve got a right to ask why you’re rocking home drunk on a Monday night.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘You sound like your mother.’ I slapped him. Hard. It was an awkward blow, catching him half on his face and half on his neck. It was absurd, probably something my mother would do. Dylan barely reacted.
‘Go to sleep, Alison,’ he said. My throat began to ache.
‘You should have just called me. I would have come straight back if I thought you needed me. I wanted a night out, that should be allowed.’
‘Check your phone,’ he said. I turned over and closed my eyes. My stomach rumbled angrily and I remembered I hadn’t eaten, but for some reason getting up for food would have felt like losing a battle, so I continued to lie still until the room and the evening faded away.
More Than a Mum Page 8