‘You’re only as young as the man that you feel,’ she said, as she readjusted her bra straps to pull her breasts higher.
‘I don’t want to know anything about anyone who’s feeling you.’
‘You don’t wither up and die inside because time has robbed you of a bit of youth, you know.’ She sounded upset and I felt ashamed, although I’d never admit it to her. ‘Well, you do wither a bit,’ she added wryly. ‘Dry as bone these days.’ If she was someone else’s mother I would think she was fun and quirky – certainly that’s what my friends said about her – but it’s easy to want what you don’t have, when you’re watching the glossy trailer and you don’t really know what you’re in for.
Mum paid for both of us, which instantly made me suspicious; she was always looking for opportunities to be treated by her daughter. I think she thought I was meant to be making up for the treats I had as a kid, but they were few and far between, and consisted of shopping trips or theatre visits to see wildly inappropriate plays about sex and death. Even back then, my treats were hers. The room was dark and a trestle table had been set up to one side as a makeshift bar. The tall, skinny guy manning it was wearing a fluorescent-green string vest and matching headband.
‘We’ve got coconut water and aloe juice and plain old tap water,’ he announced as we approached.
‘I’ll have aloe, please,’ said Mum. He handed her a bottle.
‘Yeah, me too,’ I said. Mum opened hers and threw back a third of it. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘It’s good for you.’
‘Since when do you do what’s good for you?’ Mum ignored the dig and gestured for me to drink up.
‘It’s about balance. Have the good and you can indulge in the not so good.’ I opened the bottle; even in the dim light I could make out stringy bits floating in the murky liquid. I let my brain override my body to take a sip, and then chastised my brain for its folly.
‘Mum, this tastes like swamp.’ Mum rolled her eyes.
‘You’re full of crap. When was the last time you had swamp water?’
‘I’ve never had swamp water. I wouldn’t drink swamp water. That’s the point.’ Mum let her head loll backwards.
‘Please,’ she sighed, ‘let go a little.’ Without introduction, a song with a heavy bassline started. Mum began to shake her hips from side to side, almost in time. ‘Chill out,’ she shouted above the din, and it occurred to me that instructing someone to chill out produces exactly the opposite effect. She wiggled towards the centre of the room where a small group of people were dancing. Everyone seemed to have checked their inhibitions in at the cloakroom – limbs were flying everywhere. I weighed up how much damage I would do to our already injured relationship if I snuck out and did the latte bonding alone.
‘Hey, girl,’ said the barman, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Sorry,’ he said, whatever he saw in my expression making him repentant. ‘I inherited a lot of misogynistic vocabulary from my father.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said.
‘What?!’ he shouted.
‘It’s OK,’ I yelled.
‘That your mum?’ He nodded towards the dance floor. My mother was doing knee raises, thrusting her chest out with each lift of a leg. I nodded. He handed me a glow stick. I was unsure if it was celebratory or in commiseration, but it seemed rude to leave after this generosity. I carried it to the edge of the growing group and shuffled tentatively to the music – one long song, the same unrepentant beat accompanied by a variety of electro-based melodies. Everyone continued to dance around me, each person lost in their own experience. For all her talk of bonding, Mum didn’t pay any attention to what I was doing. After a few minutes, it became clear to me that I would feel less out of place if I committed to the weirdness. I tried to remember the times I went clubbing in my twenties, to recreate the sense of abandonment that comes with youth. I moved my body in an unselfconscious, unplanned way. It felt good, better than I remembered, because I wasn’t worrying about whether a man was admiring me or what how I moved said about me as a person. I don’t know how long we danced for – I didn’t ask, I didn’t care. It occurred to me that not caring was a lot of fun, and so in a funny way I had bonded with my mother.
‘How was it for you?’ said Mum when we were outside afterwards. I lifted my fringe and dabbed at my forehead with my sleeve.
‘Good,’ I conceded. ‘Felt like a bit of an idiot but, I don’t know, alive maybe?’ Mum cheered and held her hand up until I relented and gave her a high five.
‘I’m so glad, because I need to tell you your dad’s got dementia.’ For a minute I thought she meant my real dad – bio-dad, the seed provider – and I wondered why she had chosen this time to tell me about him. There had always been questions I knew she had the answers to, but I thought she would start with the colour of his eyes or something. ‘When the police visited about the gardening, peeping-Tom thing, they suggested we go to his doctor.’ I realized she was speaking about Eddie, and I felt disappointed before I remembered to be upset. ‘He’s been especially annoying recently …’ Mum rambled. ‘I thought it was just old age, and it is old age in a way. You know Grandma Gladys wasn’t his real mum, and his dad died when he was little, so he had no idea if it was in his genes.’
‘No, I didn’t know that Grandma Gladys wasn’t his real mum, no one ever told me. You never really tell me anything.’ I was angry, the kind of intense but unfocused rage I felt throughout my childhood.
‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I, Eddie’s not well and he needs more help than I can give him.’
‘It’s not a good time, Mum.’
‘Why, what’s going on?’ I didn’t trust that she wanted to know in order to offer me support; she was assessing how much my problems would impinge upon my usefulness.
‘It doesn’t matter. What do you need?’
‘I was thinking we could do a schedule, to check up on him.’ My mother knew nothing of schedules; I think it might have been the first time I’d heard her speak the word. ‘I’m heading over there now – come with me and we can tell him what we’re planning.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got an appointment,’ I said. ‘But tell him I’ll see him soon.’ I kissed her on the cheek and walked towards the tube.
‘When’s soon?’ said Mum, trotting along beside me. ‘Tomorrow? I thought maybe you could take Sundays.’ I stopped, looking again at her in her outfit, inappropriate for anything.
‘I’ve got a lot on. Let’s talk early next week.’ By that time everything could be different.
When I met with the estate agent Tim, a nephew of one of Frank’s clients, I felt like a fool shaking his hand. There was me in my sweaty leggings and there was him, at least a decade younger, in his slick office with his suit and tie. It made me speak in an unnatural, pinched voice that I hoped would convey assuredness.
‘We’ll walk,’ he said. ‘It’s not far.’ As we made our way through the litter-strewn pavements, it became clear that my attire was well suited to my new neighbourhood. It was what I imagined many people think of when they speak of London – dirty, loud and very crowded. In the same city as my compact family home, but a world away.
‘They’ve nearly finished work on the tube station,’ said Tim. ‘It’s up and coming. In a few years it will be the new Shoreditch.’
‘Meaning it’s currently the old Shoreditch,’ I said.
‘You’re getting in at the right time,’ he offered.
‘I think that only works for buying. I don’t know that I’ll be here that long.’ I swerved to avoid what was left of a kebab on the pavement.
‘It’s a twelve-month lease but we can put in a break clause,’ said Tim. I assume he thought that would be reassuring. We reached a gated block and Tim pressed some buttons on a keypad. It took some effort for him to open the door. ‘Just needs some oil,’ he said as it groaned open. We stepped into a small courtyard; a child’s bike and an armchair had been abandoned in one corner. ‘As you see, it’s very safe,’ said Tim. I wondered what we ne
eded to be kept safe from. A woman stood in the doorway of one of the ground-floor flats having an expletive-laced conversation on her phone. I threw her a friendly new-neighbour smile and she frowned. I couldn’t tell if it was aimed at me or the lucky person she was speaking to. ‘The lift is broken but the exercise is good,’ said Tim, as he led the way up a dark stairwell. Why did they always smell of urine? Surely being in the stairwell meant you were close to home?
I wanted Frank with me; he would make it an occasion, or at least less of a nightmare. He told me he couldn’t get away – Sonya’s uncle had died and they were going to visit the family. He wouldn’t hear of delaying the move. He told me there would never be a good time but we both agreed it was better that he go away with her for the weekend, to avoid arousing suspicion. It meant he wasn’t available to text or speak to me, and without his contact I felt adrift. It shocked me how quickly I had got used to the security he gave me. ‘Here we are,’ said Tim. He was placing the key into the door at the end of the third-floor walkway. The windows were so smeared and cloudy I couldn’t see what was hidden behind them, but pressed against one was a row of terracotta pots, remnants from a time when the place had been offered some love.
We had to step over a pile of mail to get in. The air smelled rotten. Tim saw me react. ‘It needs some airing,’ he said, unable to upsell the stench. ‘The living room,’ he said, striding to the end of the hall. The room was filled with furniture for a home twice its size – a huge suedette sofa flanked by chintzy side tables; a glass dining-room table, nearly invisible under piles of newspapers and yellowing bills. ‘It’s getting cleared out this afternoon,’ said Tim, ‘but you get the idea. And check out the view.’ He held back the heavy velvet curtain; the window revealed a burnt-out pub. ‘No noise from next door any more, and if you look behind it …’ Between the high-rises I could just make out Canary Wharf.
‘Nice,’ I said. Satisfied with my response, Tim let the curtain fall.
‘Shall we see the rest?’ he asked.
‘You know, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘We’re taking it. I just wanted a quick look.’ I retreated to the hallway and out through the open front door. When I got to the stairwell I started to race. The woman was still standing in her doorway and watched me suspiciously as I sped to the exit. I tried to pull the gate open but it wouldn’t budge. I gripped the handle with both hands and threw my weight backwards; my shoulder jarred as it rattled but didn’t give. I tried again, this time grunting with the effort.
‘You have to press here,’ said Tim from behind me. Leaving a respectful distance, he reached his arm past me and pressed a blue button on the left-hand wall. I heard a click and the gate sprang open. On the pavement, Tim handed me the key. ‘Frank sorted the deposit and stuff, so come whenever you’re ready. Like I say, it will be clear by the end of today.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, clutching the keys until their sharp edges dug into my palm.
‘Excited?’ asked Tim.
‘I will be,’ I said.
When Dylan and I first visited our house, it was the fourteenth property we had seen together. Our list of wants had grown smaller and smaller with each viewing, and by the time we arrived at Mayview Road it consisted of something with a roof that we could afford. The agent was much like Tim; they must make them in a factory somewhere. He was doing a lot of work to mentally prep us – promises of good structure and talk of planning permissions. He needn’t have bothered – as soon as he pushed open the door, I knew I wanted it. It wasn’t big, it wasn’t modern, and in many ways it was no different from the thirteen properties we had seen before it, but I knew it was home. As the agent blathered on about original features, Dylan had slipped his arm around my waist and whispered, ‘There’s space for a pram in this hall.’ He was joking and also not joking, as was his way, broaching things lightly, giving me plenty of space to back away from it. I didn’t though; I smiled at him because at the time he felt like home too.
The rest of the weekend, I was almost overpowered by the knowledge that it was our last – our last as we were. I moved more slowly and chose each word carefully. I was so consumed with paranoia I believed that the wrong phrase or syntax would alert them. I think they were aware of something. Dylan had softened; he made the corny joke about his morning client being a maniac behind the wheel. After a couple of days ensconced in her room, Ruby had started to use the common areas again. She and her sister curled up on the sofa together and watched a marathon of a show called Ex on the Beach. It didn’t look appropriate but I was glad they were spending time together. I sat there for a while, but I found myself staring at them and not at the TV. I couldn’t stop looking at the scar on Chloe’s forehead, from back when she fell off her bike the first time she tried to ride without stabilizers, and that one strand of Ruby’s hair that grows in another direction to the rest. I was sickened by the thought that my actions could mean I wouldn’t see every moment, wouldn’t be there for all the next changes and new scars. When people say they stay together for the kids, they don’t mean to protect them or to provide them with stability; they mean to see them, whenever they need to. I was sad, not because of all the hurt I would cause them, but because I wanted them to have everything, and they wouldn’t, because to get what you want, you always have to give something up.
33
08:10. MOVE DAY. I’d been calling it ‘moving-on day’ in the conversations I’d had with Bettina in my head. I got the suitcase out from under the bed. We only had one big suitcase; when we went away as a family we’d share. In a hurried call, Frank had explained when he was leaving and asked me to join him the same day. He said I should bring what I would need for a week; we would sort out the rest later. Usually I’m great at packing – I utilize every corner and fill every shoe with a pair of socks – but I couldn’t order my mind, let alone my underwear, and threw items in indiscriminately until the case was full.
08:35. I dragged the case to the living room, and left it by the door as I sat on the sofa to wait. I entertained a thousand different visions in which Dylan returned home early and I had to explain what I was doing. In some I continued the deception and he carried my bag outside, helping me to leave. In others I confessed.
08:45. I wrote Dylan a note, an apology. I tried to explain what had happened even though I wasn’t sure myself.
09:05. I heaved my case into the back of the people carrier. The driver eyed me in the wing mirror and muttered something about an old back injury. In the rear of the car I read the address from my phone even though I knew it by heart. I didn’t want room for mistakes. I talked too much to the driver, but he didn’t seem to mind. He told me about his three sons and his daughter. He was worried about the girl; she wasn’t paying attention in school. I lied and told him it would get easier.
09:27. I arrived at my new home. It was bigger than I remembered. My footsteps echoed. I learned that part-furnished meant the suedette sofa, two grubby mattresses, and a chest of drawers with one functioning drawer.
09:30. I found some Jif Lemon and an old sponge under the sink. I scrubbed every surface. When I was done the sponge was black.
10:53. I didn’t want to call Frank. He might be with her. He wouldn’t leave her until she was OK or at least calm. I decided to give them some time. I owed her that.
10:55. I regretted not bringing food or bedclothes; I thought maybe Frank would. I pictured his wife holding on to his belt loops as he tried to walk out of the glossy red door. I didn’t know what she looked like, so I pictured her as Carol Vorderman.
11:05. My phone rang; it was Dylan. I didn’t pick up. He rang again. I turned it off.
11:30. I walked to the high street. A street market took up most of the pavement, pedestrians bumping into each other like ants in the remaining space. I was walking too slowly; the other occupants jostled and overtook me. Vendors shouted from their posts but I couldn’t make out the words.
11:47. I bought a set of bedsheets, some fruit and a bunch of wilting lilies. The w
eight of them made me feel lighter. I felt like I was building our home.
12:05. I dragged the sofa to the other side of the lounge, which made the room look smaller. I tried to push it back but it felt heavier and I broke a nail. I filed the nail with the jagged edge of a tooth. I abandoned the sofa in the centre of the room. Then I sat on it and cried.
12:28. I ate most of the fruit.
12:51. I started to panic about Frank not calling and then remembered my phone was off. I switched it back on and the alerts startled me. Three voicemails from Dylan. I listened to him say my name before deleting them all.
14:15. I decided to go to his house. I thought perhaps she was in denial and wouldn’t let him leave. Maybe she was refusing to accept I was real. I thought I should go and be there for him because we were a team now.
14:30. I stood outside the tube station but couldn’t go in. When a man in skinny jeans handed me a fifty-pence piece I knew I had to move. I walked until I came to a supermarket – a Sainsbury’s – the same one I used at home. I walked up and down the aisles, all of them, even the one with dog food. Nothing seemed right. At the drinks aisle, I was paralysed again. What do you get for an occasion that’s both a celebration and a death? I chose a Shiraz.
16:05. Back at the flat, I left the door open to try and release the chemical citrus smell that still lingered. Also, I didn’t want to be shut in there alone. From where I had dragged the sofa, I could see the front door. I sat and stared at the building opposite. I thought about how to greet Frank; it would be disrespectful to be too happy. We would have a cuddle; we might have a cry. The day would be about endings and we’d begin again tomorrow.
17:10. I had six unread messages from Dylan. The last one was displayed on my home screen. It read, ‘WHY?’ I called Frank; I had to call him. The call went to voicemail. He told me to leave a message in a breezy, confident tone. I tried again. When I heard the silence that indicated I was being diverted, I hung up and redialled. I tried a third time. No rings – straight to voicemail.
More Than a Mum Page 23