by Maria Goodin
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but just then my phone buzzes. I dig it out of my back pocket with a sense of relief. But it’s not Michael. It’s a message from Josh.
Wot time r u back?
I reply quickly, mumbling an apology to Libby.
Hour tops. Why?
He responds straight away.
Wot dissolves superglue?
“What the hell?” I sigh.
“Everything okay?” asks Libby.
“Yeah, sorry, just Josh,” I tell her vaguely, typing back.
What’s it on?
“God, it’s just one thing after another,” I say, shaking my head.
“Teenagers, eh?” Libby quips.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I sigh.
Skin, Josh replies. I’m glued to Sam.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter. “I’m really sorry, do you mind if I make a quick call?”
“Of course not.”
We stop walking and she diplomatically turns to study the narrowboats moored at the edge of the water, while I wait for Josh to pick up. I’m half expecting him to answer in a state of panic, but instead I’m immediately met by the sound of the two boys laughing as if this is the funniest thing ever.
“We’ve glued our arms together!” Josh shouts breathlessly.
“How the hell…?”
“I don’t know. We were just seeing what would happen.”
“You were just seeing what would happen if you put superglue on your arms and stuck them together?”
“It was an experiment. We didn’t think it would dry that fast. Or stick so hard.”
“What are you doing with superglue?”
“Making a model airplane. Sam’s mum bought it for him. We think she was probably drunk and forgot he’s not, like, seven anymore.”
I hear Sam burst into laughter, which seems inappropriate, but having never had an alcoholic mother, who am I to judge how he handles it?
“And this model airplane kit for seven-year-olds came with superglue?” I ask, sceptically.
“Well, no, but the glue it came with was taking too long to dry and it wasn’t very strong, so…”
“So you thought you’d try superglue. Because it’s very strong and dries very fast. It sounds like you already had the answer to your experiment right there, Josh.”
“I’m not saying there was a whole lot of logic in this, Dad,” he says, making Sam laugh even louder.
“Well, how much of you is stuck together?”
“Like, a quarter of our forearms.”
“What?!”
“No, not a quarter, I dunno, like, a bit.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Josh.”
“What do we do? It said use nail varnish remover on YouTube, but we don’t have any.”
“Funnily enough, no. Have you soaked it?”
“In what?”
“Water. And soap.”
“No, ’cause it just said use nail varnish—”
“Look, put your arms in some hot, soapy water for ten minutes or so and if it still doesn’t come off, then walk down to Tesco and get some nail varnish remover.”
“We can’t go to Tesco, we’re stuck together!”
“Well tough! You shouldn’t have been such morons!”
“Oh my God,” he groans dramatically, as if this was somehow my fault.
“Look,” I sigh, “I’ll be back in an hour, then I’ll go out to Tesco if I need to, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Thank you!” I hear Sam shout just as I end the call.
“Everything okay?” asks Libby, turning to me.
“My idiot son and his idiot best friend have somehow superglued their arms together,” I explain, returning my phone to my pocket.
Libby clamps her hand over her mouth, looking both horrified and amused.
I shake my head despairingly, but smile. I’m slightly worried my evening will end with a lengthy wait in A&E, but I can also see the funny side.
“Kids,” I sigh, as we resume walking side by side.
“The teenage years must be extremely challenging,” she says.
“Every year’s extremely challenging.”
She laughs as if I’m joking.
“I think it’s a lot easier now, actually, than it used to be.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, the early years were…” I search for the word, but nothing really sums it up adequately, “hard.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
We fall silent for a while, the last sixteen years like a gaping chasm between us. Where to even begin?
Libby fiddles with her necklace.
“So, is Hellie…?”
“Haven’t heard from her in years. She moved to the States when Josh was three.”
“And she’s never kept in contact with him?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Wow.”
“Wow indeed.” I make no attempt to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“I mean, I heard on the grapevine that she left, but I had no idea it was quite so… er…”
“Final?”
“Right.”
“She wasn’t really on board from the start, to be honest. Not long after Josh was born, this guy she knew offered her a bit of modelling work in the US, and then it seemed to turn into promotion work or acting or something and… I don’t know. She came and went. And then she just… went.”
“And so, what, you brought him up on your own?”
“God, no, I couldn’t have done it on my own. My dad was there to help for a few years, but, well, then he couldn’t anymore. But my sister did a lot, and so did Michael. I don’t know what I would have done without them.”
“But I mean you didn’t, you know, you didn’t meet anyone?”
“What, a woman?”
“Well, last thing I knew that was your gender of preference.”
I laugh and so does she.
“Yeah, well, it still is. But, no, I’m not with anyone, if that’s what you’re asking. I haven’t had much time for all that and… I don’t know. That’s probably a lousy excuse. I mean, there have been people, here and there, you know…”
“Yes, so I gathered,” she says with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at me.
“Uh, no, Rachel, she’s just a friend.”
Libby smiles sceptically.
“A friend I might have given the wrong impression to,” I add with a guilty smile, and Libby laughs.
I’d forgotten how much she laughed, how much she smiled, and how that always made me want to smile, too. I was thrown by our first couple of meetings; her cold reserve and sharpness. But I can see now that her warmth is still there. She’s not so different, after all. Plus, I suspect the drink has loosened her up a bit. If I wasn’t worrying about my conjoined son and my mentally unstable best friend, I might even start to relax around her.
“So, what about you?” I dare to ask. “How did you meet…?”
“Will. Erm… we met at work – not the job I just left, another one. An insurance company. He’s the head of finance, so…”
She stops there as if this is everything I need to know about Will. I have an image of a corporate guy in a smart suit ordering people around. He’d be pretty rich, wouldn’t he, if he’s head of finance? I never imagined Libby ending up with someone like that. Wasn’t that everything she stood against? But then I guess that was a long time ago. And even back then she was confused and contradictory about her values.
I want to ask more about Will, but at the same time I don’t want to know. I’m happy for her. She deserves love, stability, security. But it’s strangely hard, thinking of her with someone else, even after all this time.
“So, you said you were working for an advertising agency?” I ask, slightly confused by what she does exactly. “On the creative side?”
“Umm… well, yes,” she says, sheepishly, “but not being particularly creative, unless you call arranging bisc
uits into nice patterns on a plate creative. I was just doing secretarial stuff. It was just a temporary job. As was the job at the insurance company. Except there I got to stand behind reception all day and wear a weird uniform that made me look creepily like an overgrown school girl.”
“Hopefully that’s not what attracted Will.”
She laughs. “Hopefully not. But I… umm… I’m still, actually, working out what I want to do.”
I nod, thinking this makes sense in so many ways. Behind the confident, determined exterior, she was always conflicted, muddled, lost. And it sounds like in some ways she still is.
“Well, it can be hard, finding your path in life. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” I say, cringing at my own words. I meant to sound reassuring, but instead I think I just sound patronising.
“I kind of thought by this age I’d have already figured it out. I did have a plan, once. I started an archaeology degree, but, I don’t know, I struggled a bit at uni. I found it hard, trying to integrate. When you haven’t been to school, haven’t been used to groups of people your own age… I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go back one day.”
“Well, you’ve still got your whole life ahead of you, really. There’s lots of time to make changes and choices. I don’t see myself hanging round here forever, doing what I’m doing. I’d like to move to the Peak District before too long, renovate my great-great-grandad’s cottage, work less, enjoy the outdoor life a bit more.”
“So, don’t you want… I don’t know, don’t you want to meet someone maybe, settle down, have more kids…?”
“Christ no,” I laugh. “I mean, meet someone, maybe, but kids? No. No way.”
“Has it been that bad?” Libby laughs.
“No. No, it’s just been…”
I look out at the water, the evening sun bouncing off the surface in shimmering, golden sparkles. In my mind’s eye, I see that hospital, the strobe lights, the plastic seats. I need to prepare you, Mr Lewis. We’re doing everything we can, but he’s in a critical condition…
“…it’s been challenging, like I said.”
“So, you’re done,” Libby states.
“Yeah, I’m done. Definitely. I mean, this one has literally glued himself to his mate, so…”
Libby laughs. “Yes, I see your point.”
“Don’t let me put you off, though. They’re not all as crazy as mine.”
“Oh, you won’t put me off. I can’t wait to have kids.”
“You want to start a family soon?” It feels way too personal a question for this stage in our… whatever this is. But she was the one who put it out there.
“Absolutely. Wedding vows out the way and then…”
“And then down to business, eh?”
“You could put it that way,” she laughs.
“You still want to have four of the little buggers?”
She shakes her head at the memory, cringing. “Er… no, maybe not four. A couple will do fine. God, I must have terrified you, with all my talk about marriage and kids the minute we were old enough!”
“Well, a little maybe,” I concede, and we both laugh.
“I’ve always thought it was kind of ironic,” she says, “that I was so keen to have kids, but you were the one who ended up having one.”
“Yeah,” I nod, “I’ve thought that too. But it wasn’t really a choice.”
“No, but clearly you’ve made a good job of it.”
“Again, he’s glued himself to his mate.”
“Understood. But who was the first person he called? You. And I could tell from the way you spoke to him that you two have a good relationship.”
“Did you get that from the fact I called him a moron and then hung up on him?”
“Absolutely.”
We come to a halt, both of us staring towards the bridge where we once made up, and then only weeks later went our separate ways. I can’t believe we’ve wandered this far. I glance discreetly at Libby’s profile. She looks confused, like me, to suddenly find herself here.
“So many memories…” she mutters.
I don’t respond. I don’t know how to. Sometimes you stop, look at your life, and wonder who the hell you are and how the hell you got here. It’s mind-blowing beyond words.
“It took me a really long time to get over you,” she says, quietly.
The intimacy of her statement shocks me. I feel a stab in my chest. Do you want to know how long it took to get over you? I want to ask her. But I still don’t think I know the answer to that question.
I can smell smoke. There’s another barbecue going on somewhere nearby. Music emanates from one of the narrowboats, and the tinkle of conversation carries on the air.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come here,” says Libby, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Here?” I ask, thinking she means this exact spot.
“Back to Timpton. When I left, I never thought I’d come back. And now I don’t really know what I’m doing here.” She shakes her head, sadly. “I don’t know what I’m doing anywhere, really. I mean, God, look at you, you’ve done so much. You have a teenage son, your own business, your own place…”
“Me? I’m just muddling through, working all hours, trying to meet the bills. You’re getting married,” I remind her, “I’m guessing you’re gonna buy a nice house in the suburbs, have two point four kids… I mean, six years together, that’s something.”
She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced.
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
She looks up at the sky.
“Things are just never quite as you imagine they’re going to be, are they?”
I study her face, suddenly so sad, so different from just a few moments ago.
“But you are… I mean, you’re happy, aren’t you?” I ask, confused, willing the answer to be yes.
But just then my phone buzzes.
I watch her, waiting for an answer.
“Don’t you have to check that?” she asks.
Irritated by the interruption, I pull my phone from my back pocket. It’s Michael. I can’t believe his timing.
Am ok. Run out of meds. Mix up at Dr. Need to sleep. Text U tomorrow.
I stuff my phone back in my jeans and look to Libby again, but somehow, in that split second she’s manage to plaster a smile back on her face.
“I had way too much to drink this evening,” she laughs. “I’m not used to it. Do you mind if we head back?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, and I smile despite the fact I suddenly feel unsettled.
We start to retrace our steps, and I’m just about to steer the conversation back to where we were, when my phone rings. I never turn my phone off or refuse to answer it. Not after that night Josh got sick and I missed the calls. But sometimes I just wish I could be uncontactable.
“God, I’m so sorry,” I tut, looking at the screen, “it’s my sister, I have to take it.”
I answer the call, weary now of all the disturbances.
“What?” I ask abruptly.
“It’s Dad,” she says, “he’s in a bad way. Can you get over here?”
“Where’s Brenda?”
“She’s not back yet. Her niece’s wedding, remember?”
“Can’t you handle it, whatever it is?”
“Would I be fucking calling you if I could?”
I sigh and run my hand over my head.
“Twenty minutes,” I agree, thinking Josh is just going to have to wait.
I hang up.
“Wow, you’re really in demand,” quips Libby.
I rub my eyes.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
One evening. One friggin’ evening to myself, is that too much to ask? Not even an evening – an hour! I mean, it’s not like I really wanted to come, but still, the idea that I could go out for an hour and be left in peace… Heaven forbid!
As Libby and I walk back to the pub at an accelerated pace, I try to remind myself that this is just life. E
veryone has responsibilities. Everyone has pressures. Idiotic kids, unstable friends, sick parents, demanding sisters… I don’t want to feel annoyed with them. And I don’t want to feel resentful. So I clench my fists at my sides and try to take a deep breath.
And I tell myself not to feel angry. Because anger has never served me well.
Chapter 12
Anger
I remember shouting at her: “You weren’t there, you have no idea what it was like!”
“I know I wasn’t there! I can’t know what it was like. But maybe if you talked to someone—”
“I’m talking to you!”
“This isn’t talking, Jamie, this is shouting!”
I paced restlessly in circles. I kicked at one of the metal lamp posts that dotted the canal path near the marina, gently at first and then harder, giving it a boot that sent a sharp pain shooting through my toes and up my calf.
Libby stood by, wringing her hands, watching me anxiously. I hated the fact that she looked so anguished. I didn’t want to raise my voice. I didn’t want to be like this. But for weeks now this feeling inside – this churning fear, and anger, and hyperactivity – had taken over me. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop. And there was only one thing that ever seemed to take the edge off.
“You’re drinking too much,” said Libby, “it’s not right. You need to stop.”
“I’m not drinking too much.”
“Yes, you are. And it’s not helping. I’m going to speak to your parents, Jamie—”
“You aren’t going to say a word to my parents!” I snapped, glaring at her. I heard my own voice, loud and angry, echoing against the water’s surface and the surrounding woodland. Was that really me, shouting at Libby like that?
Her eyes were wide and startled for a moment, before regaining their steeliness.
“It’s not like they don’t know, Jamie!”
“Well, then you don’t need to talk to them!”
She sighed and rubbed her forehead, strands of long hair falling around her face.
“I’m worried about you,” she said more gently, holding her hands out imploringly. “This is so unlike you. And I don’t know what to do. You’re scaring me.”