‘A colleague,’ I replied. He nodded and then walked a few feet away to buff glasses – clearly not an interesting enough story to break up the tedium of his day. I read and reread the cocktail list; it featured a lot of herbs. My phone buzzed and immediately I thought it might be a message from Frank cancelling. I was simultaneously hurt and relieved, the same way I feel if I offer someone assistance and they refuse.
It wasn’t Frank; it was Dylan. ‘HAVE FUN!’ it read, followed by that mocking winky-face emoji. Dylan had just started using emojis because I’d told him they were necessary – texts can’t convey tone. At the time he said, ‘Just assume I’m being nice.’ But the next day he asked me to bring home bread and added a bright red heart. I closed my messages without replying because every response I started felt like a lie. I had sent him a text earlier in the day to say I was having dinner with a potential client; not quite a fib but not close enough to the truth.
I tapped on my news app, downloaded months ago but never once accessed. Waiting for Frank, I felt hyper-aware of my ignorance about current affairs. I was curious about the world around me; I had many concerns about what sort of future was being created for my children, but when I tried to take in the information it would swim around my mind, never settling. Over the years, I’d learned to hide my lack of knowledge by asking the opinions of others and then agreeing with whoever I was speaking to at the time, but from the little I knew of him, I understood that I wouldn’t be able to hide from Frank. That was frightening but also seductive; if I couldn’t hide it meant there would be no need to make the effort to do so. Frank was an air-conditioned bedroom in a heatwave, a place where I could drag off my clothes and flop on to the bed naked – sweaty and swollen but finally unrestricted.
I sipped my wine a little too quickly. I didn’t savour any of the aromas, mineral or otherwise; I simply wanted to reach the place where your mind gives in, when your worries stop straining against the bear hug of alcohol and are carried away, panting and exhausted. The maître d’ must have taken pity on me and handed me a menu to peruse. I read through it carefully, each descriptor a short story. Everything was muddled or enveloped. And it was expensive, undeniably so. At the bottom of the main courses there was a list of sides, none less than a fiver, and from my calculations it would take at least two of these to create something approaching a satisfying meal. I found myself struggling to find a way to justify the expense. I couldn’t write it off as a client dinner and it was far too extravagant for a casual midweek meal – and it was to be casual, I had promised myself that. I decided to tell Frank that I only had time for drinks. I would have one more pound-a-sip glass of wine and return home to a pizza from my freezer.
I had decided this only moments before I felt his hand rest lightly between my shoulder blades and heard his baritone voice ask, ‘Hungry?’ And despite this I nodded eagerly, even before I had turned to see his face. When I did, I saw my response had pleased him and my stomach performed a cha cha.
15
FRANK LOOKED AWAY from me and across the room; seconds later the maître d’ was before us. The world is made of two kinds of people: those that can gain the attention of restaurant staff and the rest of us. I can spend fifteen minutes waving and calling only to have dozens of waiters glide past me; sometimes I have to resort to grabbing a passing arm, startling the owner of the limb and furthering my sense of hopelessness. I felt like Frank could draw a server to him with a thought. His whole energy said ‘you should want to make me happy’. I’m sure it was this that found us being led to a quiet booth near the back of the restaurant, two banquettes either side of a large table covered in thick, white linen. The glass panels creating the enclosure rose to the ceiling, making it feel like a room within a room. Both Frank and the maître d’ gestured for me to sit, and I tried not to show that I was aware of them observing me as I wiggled gracelessly into the seat. I was right about not being able to hide from Frank.
‘Not the easiest to access, but worth it,’ he said, as he slid into his side effortlessly. Within the confines of the booth he felt dangerously close. I unfolded my napkin slowly to avoid his enquiring eyes. When I looked up he was still watching.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ we both said simultaneously.
‘Jinx,’ I said. He held out his right hand, little finger extended towards me. ‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Aren’t we supposed to lock fingers now?’ he asked seriously.
‘I think that means something else,’ I said. He didn’t move his hand away. I shook my head, hoping to convey that I was humouring him, when in fact the thought of touching him again, even in such a benign manner, made my mouth go dry. I wrapped my little finger around his and he responded with a firm, consistent pressure. It didn’t hurt but it wasn’t quite comfortable.
‘What does this mean then?’ he said. I looked past our hands and into his eyes.
‘It’s a promise,’ I said.
‘I like that,’ he said.
‘Are you ready for drinks?’ said a voice beside us, and we both turned to look at the waitress before we let go.
‘We’ll have a bottle of the Malbec,’ said Frank. The waitress nodded briskly and left without further comment. We sat in silence for a minute. I didn’t know how or where to start. I felt like I should apologize, but for what I wasn’t sure. I needed Frank to set the tone. Then he did.
‘You’ve been on my mind,’ he said.
And I responded, ‘I’m married.’
‘I know,’ he said. I played with the edge of my napkin, smoothing and resmoothing it against my thighs. ‘You have a ring.’ I placed my hands face down on my lap and examined them. It was true I wore a ring on the fourth finger of my left hand, but it was an ornate band with a tiger’s-eye stone and said student more than spouse. With funds stretched beyond our limits in the run-up to the wedding, Dylan and I found the ring in an antiques shop in Camden. He promised to replace it when things were more settled. We never got around to it and I found that I didn’t mind. I had grown fond of my quirky wedding band. ‘It’s not just that,’ said Frank. ‘I could tell you were holding back. And that’s fine because—’
‘Would you like to taste it?’ the waitress asked. She held the bottle towards Frank and he moved his wine glass closer in reply. She carefully poured a mouthful of inky liquid. Frank lifted the glass and, though it was tall and bowl-like, it looked small in his hand. He closed his eyes as the wine touched his lips and breathed in the scent before placing it back down.
‘Good, thank you,’ he said. The waitress filled his glass. She paused to wipe the neck before she poured mine. I wanted to grab it from her and do it myself, or maybe swig straight from the bottle. As soon as she had retreated, I exhaled a breath I had been unaware I was holding.
‘This is a favourite,’ said Frank, picking up his drink.
‘That’s fine because …’ I prompted.
‘Ah yes,’ he said. I thought I knew what he was going to say: that he didn’t like me ‘that way’. He wouldn’t be the first. Even though hearing that would be for the best, would untangle the moral knots I had got myself into, I braced myself for the verbal blow. ‘It’s fine because I’m married too.’ I wasn’t ready for that. Even though I was sitting down I felt unsteady. And, also, I felt angry. Angry at myself, for not seeing the obvious – he didn’t really like me; I was a box to be ticked on his list of mid-life-crisis clichés. I was angry with Frank because he purported to be so honest and authentic, all the while dancing, literally, around the truth. And I was angry on behalf of his wife, a woman I already despised for having a life that I had wondered, however briefly, whether I wanted for myself.
I should have hidden that anger; I had no right to berate him, but I believed that it no longer mattered how he saw me, so I had a mouthful of alcohol before asking, ‘Anything else you failed to mention? Kids, dog?’
‘One. A boy. Kid, that is.’ When he said the word ‘married’ I had pictured someone young, undemanding; an a
ccessory, not really a woman yet. Not a mother, someone who made up part of a family. ‘Lionel. It’s a family name. I call him Leo.’
‘Fuck,’ I said, and placed my face in my hands. I stayed there for several seconds, feeling the heat of my breath against my palms. I knew I looked strange but I thought I might look even odder crying.
‘Are you ready for food?’ I heard the waitress say. It was like she had a special gift for interrupting at terrible moments. I uncovered my face and she gazed at me. Her dramatically false lashes made her lids look heavy, exacerbating the bland expression that suggested she would rather be somewhere else. Well, that made two of us.
‘We’ll share the brisket,’ said Frank. ‘And can we also have some fondant potatoes and two portions of greens.’
‘I won’t eat a whole portion of greens,’ I said when we were alone again.
‘But you’ll feel better with them on the table.’ I didn’t argue because he was right. I hated that he was right. He told me about a meal he had eaten earlier in the week, a business dinner at a Japanese restaurant I had read about online. He told me he let the client order and they chose the most exotic dish on the menu. ‘When my chicken arrived, I could see him envying every mouthful. He spent so long chewing on his bat lungs or whatever he had selected, he could only nod in agreement to whatever I was suggesting.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked. ‘I mean, I’m not upset but I do feel a bit stupid.’ I was upset, very upset. More than I had any right to be.
‘Don’t feel stupid. I didn’t say anything for the same reason you didn’t.’ We looked at each other. I noticed our breathing was in sync.
‘Which is?’
‘We wanted it to be real.’ It was real. I knew it was real. I had the proof in my wash basket. If it wasn’t real, why had he taken up residency in my head, and why did I feel so stupidly disappointed? I cleared my throat.
‘It’s not a problem,’ I said. ‘I had too much to drink. Got carried away. I really only wanted to meet to apologize, for imposing.’
‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘What? Apologizing?’
‘Not being honest about how you feel.’ He was very still. I laughed but he refused to free me from the awkwardness by joining me. When did I stop being honest about how I feel? It was probably a frigid Sunday afternoon, sitting by the shore at Southend-on-Sea with my mother. She had bought me a hot chocolate from a chintzy cafe; it was so thick there were mouthfuls that were chewable. She still smoked back then, and the acrid smell of her cigarette fought with the cocoa for my attention. Mum slipped her free hand around my shoulder and I snuggled against her, more for warmth than to return the affection.
‘Just you and me. We don’t need anyone else,’ she whispered.
I paused because I thought maybe we did need someone else. Someone to stay up with Mum when she listened to sad music after I had gone to bed, or someone strong who could help me when sometimes I couldn’t get her up in the morning. But I was worried that if I said this it would mean no more Sunday visits to the beach or gloopy chocolate drinks, so I said, ‘No.’
‘How do I feel? If you’re so sure I’m not being honest.’ Frank moved his wine, so that the path between us was completely unobscured.
‘Disappointed, a bit hurt. Intrigued. Excited, I would guess, because that’s how I feel.’ If he doubted that my emotions were aligned with his, he didn’t show it.
‘What are we doing?’ I asked. He smiled. I shook my head. ‘No, no. Strike that from the record. This isn’t a romcom. This is my life and my family and my husband and your wife. This is ridiculous.’ I threw myself back against the leather upholstery. He held his hands up.
‘You’re right. It’s ridiculous. It’s ridiculous how much I like you.’ He had stopped smiling. I could run, I thought. I could slide clumsily out from the seat and flee. I was a kid at the top of a slide trying to choose between the awkwardness of a retreat and the horror of the descent.
‘I like things to be clear and upfront, and I want us to be open about what we plan to do.’ Something about how he said these words made my face flush.
The world’s least empathetic waitress interrupted us with a plate at least a foot wide, loaded with fragrant rare meat.
‘I’ll be back with your sides,’ she said, as though it were a threat. We sat in silence until she returned. As she tried to find space for the bowls, I contemplated how I had made everything so messy. Frank continued to look at me, his deep-brown eyes revealing nothing of what he was thinking.
He could be a spy, I thought, except what would a spy want with a thirty-something, mid-level marketing manager and mother of two. I laughed out loud – at myself, at my situation, and said to Frank, ‘My plan is to eat.’ He picked up his knife and fork, and we both started on the beef. It was almost effortless to eat. I had the thought that everything could be like that with Frank – easy and delicious.
16
‘I LIKE YOUR HAIR like that,’ Frank said. ‘You have an elegant neck.’ I had forgotten about my hair. I touched it and could tell that it had become flat. My first instinct was to comment on this, but instead I thanked him and asked how the book was going.
‘Well, I think – it’s almost impossible to tell. It’s selling but I’m concerned that people aren’t getting the core message.’
‘Who cares, if they buy it?’ I asked.
‘I care,’ said Frank.
‘You can afford to care,’ I said. The wine had gone to my tongue. Frank laughed.
‘You’re great,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘And right. And I’m grateful for that. I appreciate what I have. It wasn’t always the case.’
‘Go on,’ I said. Frank told me that, growing up in West London, he wasn’t special – far from it. He was born in the middle of seven siblings; his mother would often need two or three attempts to get his name correct when she addressed him. They ate out once a year, on holiday at a caravan site in Wales. He always had sausage and chips, even though they ate it all the time at home, because he was so fearful of being disappointed.
‘I was chubby until I was about fifteen. Quiet too. I had a couple of friends, but if they weren’t around I was happy to be alone and read my books,’ said Frank. ‘Then one day one of the most popular lads on the estate asked me to come and play pool after school. It was completely out of the blue; I figured he knew my older brother or something. We got round the corner and three of his friends were waiting to kick the shit out of me.’ I gasped. I felt protective of this former version of Frank.
‘Why?’ I whispered.
‘Why not?’ said Frank. ‘Because they could. Because I let them. Then I got home and my mum smacked me round the head for getting blood on my shirt.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. I didn’t have the best time at school. Some of the older girls tried to make life hard for me, and being trapped with an army of bored teenagers isn’t always the most positive place for a skinny, ginger kid; but no blood was shed.
‘Don’t be. It made me. From that day I knew I had a choice about how people saw me and what I became. I decided that my kids weren’t going to go to school with thugs or become one, and I wasn’t going to let anyone get the best of me. I started reading personal-development books, began training and …’ He shrugged then, a humble signifier of all he had become with this discipline.
‘I’ve been trying to think of how I can get ahead at work, and all I need is to get my head kicked in.’
‘Let’s try something less grim. I do have a client for you. This wasn’t an elaborate ruse to see you again … not entirely.’
‘OK, well, thank you.’
‘Do you want some more information?’
‘I’m sure they’re fine. Anyone’s fine at this stage.’
‘You have to want the best for yourself. You deserve it.’
Both Dylan and Frank seemed so sure of what I deserved, but life had already shown me that it doesn’t play fair. When I was thirteen
I had my one and only fight with Eddie. I went to a sleepover at my friend Frederica Hughes’s house, except I didn’t. We went to a party hosted by a boy who lived in the next town over. Frederica drank half a bottle of cider and fell asleep in a chrysanthemum bush. The buses had stopped running and I only had the earnings from my morning paper round in my pocket. After administering water and coffee, I knew I needed a reliable adult and I only knew one. I called Eddie and begged him to pick us up; twenty minutes later he arrived in his patched-up Skoda. Usually I would be embarrassed to be seen near it, but I flew into the passenger seat before remembering Frederica, and leading him back to the garden to get her. When he entered, teenagers fled like gazelles from a lion. Eddie scooped up Frederica and carried her out to the car, where he deposited her on the back seat and she lay face down on the pilling fabric. As we drove to her house, Eddie lectured me on underage drinking and lying and other daughterly sins. I responded minimally, which only made him deliver his words with more fervour, occasionally slamming his hand against the steering wheel to emphasize a point. Finally, as we turned into Frederica’s road, he said, ‘What were you thinking?’
‘You don’t get to tell me what to do,’ I said. ‘You left.’
‘Your mother was being … unreasonable,’ he said, his words now measured.
‘Yeah well, you get what you deserve,’ I retorted. He slammed on the brake, causing Frederica to roll from her perch and into the foot well.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said, eyes facing the road. ‘Get out.’
Eddie didn’t deserve my mother’s verbal assaults or my teenage angst, but he got it. What did I deserve? My reliable, loyal husband or Frank?
We finished our meal, sharing our histories between bites, steering clear of the most obvious aspect of our past and present. His stories weren’t unique but the way he looked at them was. When he talked about his decision not to go to university, it wasn’t with regret the way others did, the way Dylan did. He owned the decision as part of his journey.
More Than a Mum Page 11