by Maria Goodin
“You’ll just mow them down in your Audi.”
“Damn right I will.”
“Tarquin and Geraldine?”
“Well, I don’t know. What do posh people call their kids these days?”
“I have no idea. Josh used to have a Sebastian in his class at primary school. And a Portia.”
“Oh, Portia. Good one. Portia and Sebastian it is then.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
Libby chuckles.
“God, listen to me,” she sighs, “you must think I’m a right sell-out, abandoning all those ambitions for a quiet life in the suburbs. It’s certainly what my mother thinks, anyway. The idea that I’m actually marrying a man – enslaving myself to him – is bad enough, but the fact that we’re planning a nice wedding and planning on buying a house… all materialistic, capitalist blah blah blah.”
“But I thought you said she was in a house now?”
“Ah, well, that’s an interesting point, the irony of which is not lost on me, but apparently is on her. But it’s different, you see, because she rents her house with two artists and a lesbian reiki master, and apparently it was their destiny to come together, and it’s a communal living arrangement, and they grow their own organic chard…”
“Ah, well, for a minute I thought she was being hypocritical, but if she grows her own chard…”
“Yeah, that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”
I notice she’s slapping her paint on a bit more vigorously, and it’s clear that she’s outgrown the unquestioning adoration she once had for Harmonie. I can relate to the disappointment and anger at finding out your parents were never perfect like you thought, that they were just human all along. It’s a universal rite of passage. Josh used to tell me I was the best daddy in the world. Now he rolls his eyes at me every day in distain, each of my flaws and weaknesses magnified by his critical teenage eye.
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting a bit of security in life,” I tell Libby, wanting to reassure her. “I know it was hard for you growing up. You never had much—”
“That’s not actually why I’m marrying Will,” she says, eyeing me like I’ve just accused her of being a gold-digger.
“No, God, I didn’t think… I mean, I know that. I just meant you shouldn’t let your mum make you feel guilty—”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, okay, it just sounded—”
“Well, I mean I do, obviously, because it all goes against my upbringing and she tries to make me feel guilty. But, unfortunately, I didn’t fall in love with some lentil-eating cloth-weaver – although Lord knows she tried to introduce me to enough of them – I fell in love with Will.”
I feel a stab of jealousy, followed by a flash of anger with myself. What the hell is the matter with me?! She’s not mine anymore. She’s not mine!
“Well, that’s good,” I say firmly, concentrating hard on the strokes of my brush, the white gradually covering over the brickwork, “that’s good that you’re… that you found someone who makes you happy. That’s all that really matters.”
I’m struck by how much I mean it, how much I want her happiness. She deserves it. She deserves the love, the family, the security that she always craved, and if that happens to come with a few nice things, then all the better. And no one should ever make her feel bad about it.
“If Will makes you happy, then it sounds like you’ve found what’s right for you,” I tell her.
She dips her brush in the paint pot and stirs it around again and again. I watch her out the corner of my eye. She looks lost in thought.
“Well, exactly,” she mutters, stirring slowly, “I mean, that’s what really matters.”
She keeps stirring for so long that I wonder what to say. Does she look sad?
I’m about to ask if she’s okay when she looks up, a smile plastered back on her face.
“Your tea’s getting cold,” she says.
We talk more about our families, our jobs, the changes in Timpton. It feels strange, having an adult conversation with her. We used to talk excitedly about our hopes, dreams and ambitions. Now she’s trying to explain Will’s plan to get an off-set mortgage and we’re lamenting the arrival of a Wetherspoon’s in the town. As we fill each other in on the details of our lives, it all seems so far from what we had once envisaged when we were young and the world was full of possibilities.
She asks about Michael, but I’m careful what I say, protective of his privacy. We also touch briefly on Tom and Max, but there’s not much to say there. I’m not going to tell her about my plan. I don’t want her knowing she was just the first step in my strategy to move on from the past, the first person on my list of people to go and see.
In the moments of silence, memories of our shared past flood my mind. Some of them are innocent and some are intimate. Either way, it doesn’t feel right to bring them up between us like some kind of shared secret, not when she’s engaged to someone else. Besides, she might not remember. Relationship-wise, she moved on years ago to something far more serious, far more grown-up than anything we ever had. It’s just me that got stuck.
But it’s okay. Because the more we talk about where we are now, the more I’m assured that this is not the same Libby I used to know. This isn’t the girl I held in my arms, the one who was so full of life and dreams and a thirst of knowledge. This is a grown woman, with stresses and responsibilities just like me. We’re totally different people to who we were back then, and it’s good to realise this. It’s helping me let go. Whatever fantasy I’ve been entertaining all these years, I’m reminded that it’s just that: a fantasy.
Finally, we meet Josh towards the end of the wall. He hasn’t covered much ground, but at least it’s something.
“Oh my God, my back’s killing me,” he groans, stretching out.
“You’re the young one! You shouldn’t be complaining,” teases Libby.
“Yeah, stop whinging,” I tell him, flicking my paintbrush out and slapping a bit of white paint on his arm.
“Hey!” he cries. He hastily swipes back at me with his own paintbrush, but I dodge him. Somehow he ends up painting his own elbow.
“Ah, man!” he cries, and I laugh.
“Boys, boys,” chides Libby.
Josh goes for me again, a bit more aggressively this time, and daubs paint on my wrist.
“Whoa, it’s a draw,” I tell him, holding my hands up in surrender.
“Thank you so much for your help,” Libby interrupts, “I really do appreciate you both giving up your Sunday morning.”
“No problem,” I tell her, “we weren’t doing anything. In fact, our Sunday mornings have just become free, so any more help you need…”
I stare purposefully at Josh, who rolls his eyes slightly. He recently decided to quit kickboxing, something we’ve been doing together every Sunday morning for the past two years, and I’m not happy about it. It’s a big, bad world out there and I’ve had him doing everything from karate to judo to taekwondo since he was eight years old. But he gets bored, impatient, restless. I worry that he’s inherited his mother’s inability to stick with anything.
“Well, I need to start painting the sky next, which is really easy,” Libby says with a cheeky smile, “so if you ever fancy trying your hand with a bit of blue…”
The playful tone to her voice suggests she’s joking, but I can tell there’s also a little bit of desperation in there. She’s not seriously expecting us to give up more of our time, but clearly she feels a little overwhelmed by this project. The problem is that I was only joking, too. I wasn’t really expecting to come back. I was just trying to get Josh to reconsider his Sunday-morning options, using a little reverse psychology. In fact, the idea of coming back suddenly fills me with turmoil. Because the truth is that I’ve enjoyed working alongside Libby today. Far too much. And whatever I might tell myself about how getting to know the older, changed version of her is helping me move on, it’s not. It’s really,
really not.
“Umm… yeah,” I shrug, feeling cornered, “I’m sure we can help again. Oh, but, unless…” I look to Josh hopefully, “was there something else we needed to do next Sunday?”
Surely, he’s got to think kickboxing is better than this, I think. Surely. But, of course, he’s not going to let me win. He’d rather drag himself out of bed at nine o’clock every weekend than let me back him into a corner.
“No,” he says, pointedly, “we’re totally free next Sunday.”
“Are you sure there’s not something—”
“Nope. Totally free.”
The charged glare we exchange would be imperceptible to anyone else.
I look to Libby and manage to muster a smile. “Count us in.”
“Oh, that would be great!” she grins. “I promise it’s nothing harder than today. I’ll do all the detailing afterwards, I just need you to slap on a few different hues of blue.”
I take in her brown eyes sparkling with relief, her warm smile, the streak of white paint in her hair… Oh God, what have I got myself into?
At eleven o’clock that evening, I’m sprawled on the sofa, illuminated only by the light of the television. I was looking forward to catching up with the latest episode of The Walking Dead, but I don’t think I’ve heard a word of it. Hollow-eyed zombies parade in front of my vision as I stare blankly at the screen.
I can’t decide whether this morning was a step in the right direction or a disaster. I mean, this is what I wanted, wasn’t it? To build bridges with Libby, to know she’s okay, to feel forgiven. I never dreamed that we’d be able to laugh together again, that we’d build something of a friendship. But I also wanted to let go of her, of the pull I had towards the past. Instead, my memories have been reawakened. They race through my mind more vibrantly, more clearly and with more feeling than ever before.
Really, when I think about it, though, this was bound to happen. Seeing her again was always going to stir up feelings. Perhaps I’m just confused as to what those feelings are. Perhaps I think they’re something they’re not. Yeah, I think I just underestimated the effect seeing her again would have. I think I’m just muddling up my feelings now with my feelings from the past. I think it’ll be fine. I think it’ll all settle down. I think the more I see her, the easier it will get. Or perhaps I should see less of her. Maybe I shouldn’t see her at all. In fact, I think what I really need to do is get back in the game, get out there, start dating again…
“What are you doing?”
I look up with a start to find Josh standing in the doorway, wearing tracksuit bottoms and his bed T-shirt.
“Just watching TV,” I tell him, but when I glance at the screen, I find the programme’s finished, and all that’s showing is the TV menu.
“Why are you lying in the dark with your arms wrapped over your face?”
“Was I?”
Josh wanders over to the sofa, muttering something about me being a weirdo, before grabbing my ankles and pulling them off the sofa. He slumps down next to me.
“Aren’t you meant to be in bed?” I ask him.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Everything okay?”
He gazes blankly at the screen.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
He sighs quietly.
“Did you ever…” he begins and then falters, “…did you ever fall for someone that it would have been better not to have fallen for? Like, you wish you didn’t like them because it’s way too complicated, but you just can’t help it?”
I unwittingly let out a stifled laugh, struck by the irony of his question. A couple of weeks ago, the answer would have been a resounding no. I’ve strictly avoided complications where matters of the heart have been concerned. Any relationships I’ve had have been simple, straightforward, brief. I haven’t “fallen” for anyone.
But now here I am, going around in circles, trying to convince myself that I don’t feel whatever it is I feel for my soon-to-be-married ex-girlfriend. “Complicated” doesn’t even begin to sum it up.
“Yeah, it’s a bit crap when that happens, isn’t it?” I sigh.
“It’s not exactly convenient,” he confirms.
“No, well, love isn’t very convenient,” I tell him, wearily. I almost add and that’s why I tend to avoid it, but I don’t want to inflict my cynicism onto him. I’m well aware that what I do isn’t healthy. Hence why I set out to “fix” myself, starting with finding Libby and putting her in the past. Talk about digging yourself deeper.
I study Josh’s profile in the blue glare of the television. He looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his teenage shoulders. I wonder why he doesn’t just come out and say it: that he likes Chloe but he doesn’t know how to handle it. However, despite his need to share every single inane, superficial aspect of his life on social media, Josh can still be fiercely private when it comes to his genuine thoughts and feelings.
“So what’s so complicated with… with this person, anyway?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I dunno. Everything. We’re already friends and I don’t want to put my feelings out there and risk ruining our friendship, but at the same time I really like them, and I think they feel the same but… I dunno, maybe it would be better to leave things as they are.”
I remember the feeling of being fifteen, knowing I liked Libby but being too scared to tell her, wondering if I’d lose our friendship if I declared my feelings. I was glad I went for it though. So glad. Thinking this is a useful parallel, I share it with Josh, grasping the rare opportunity to impart some parental wisdom. He knows my relationship with his mother was just a one-off thing, that there’s nothing useful I can offer him there in terms of relationship advice. But maybe there’s something he can learn from my past experience with Libby.
“So how long were you two together for then?” he asks.
“Just over a year. ”
“So were you, like, you know…?”
“No,” I say adamantly, “we weren’t. Because we were too young and not ready—”
“I was going to say were you in love with her,” Josh hastily interrupts.
“Oh. Right. Well… yeah.”
“How did you know?”
I shrug. “I dunno. I just knew. Why? D’you think you’re in love?”
I hope I’m not pushing my luck here. I don’t want him to clam up or, even worse, flee for his room. I can see this is tough for him, but, selfishly, part of me wants to string this out. This closeness, this sharing of confidences – it’s precious, and becoming rarer year on year.
He sticks his lower lip out and shrugs slowly, studying his bare feet, wiggling his toes. “Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, I think about them, like, non-stop. I mean, literally, they are, like, all I seem to be able to think about… Does that count as being in love?”
“God, I hope not,” I mutter.
“Huh?”
“I mean, not necessarily,” I correct myself hastily. “You can find yourself constantly thinking about someone for all kinds of reasons, can’t you? Like, maybe they intrigue you, or… I don’t know… you have a weird obsession of some kind—”
“What? I don’t have some weird obsession!” he protests, eyeing me like I’ve lost my mind.
“I’m not saying you do. I just don’t believe that thinking about someone all the time in itself means you’re in love with them,” I tell him. And myself.
“Yeah, I guess,” he says thoughtfully. “But still. I think I am.”
“Well, why would that be such a bad thing?”
He lets his head slump back against the sofa cushion. “Well, it’s just not a simple situation, Dad.”
“No. It rarely is.”
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us lost in thought.
“So, you think I should just go for it?” he pipes up. “Just admit how I feel?”
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Total and utter humiliation?”
“Or,
they feel the same way and… bam.”
“Bam?”
“Yeah. Bam.”
“What’s bam?”
“You know. Cupid’s arrow. The big L. Destinies colliding…”
He rolls his eyes at me. I’m relieved to see a smile back on his face.
“Seriously, if you never take a risk you’ll never know, will you?”
I say it as if it’s a no-brainer, the simplest thing in the world, but I know full well I’m being a complete hypocrite. When it comes to matters of the heart, I stopped taking risks a long time ago. But if my son realises I’m a lying fraud, he doesn’t show it.
Josh nods thoughtfully, stands up and stretches. “I’m going to bed.”
I watch him go, knowing it’s late and he must sleep but regretting that our moment of closeness has ended.
He stops in the doorway and turns around. “You don’t, like, still have a thing for Libby or anything, do you?” he asks, tentatively.
“God, no!” I hear myself say a bit too quickly. “Why would you say that?”
“I just wondered. Like, ’cause of the way you were talking and laughing and stuff. I’ve just never really seen you like that with a woman before.”
“Well, to be fair, you don’t see me around that many women,” I say.
He scratches at his messed-up hair. “I guess.”
He heads out of the room.
“The big L,” he chuckles quietly. “Oh my God, no wonder you’re single.”
When he’s gone, I put my arms back over my face.
No, I don’t have a “thing” for her, I think, annoyed by his insinuation. What I have is a bit of confusion. A bit of a mix-up in the wiring between my thoughts and my feelings. A bit of a tendency to retreat into the safety of the past. A bit of a hangover from earlier times.
What I absolutely, categorically, definitely do not have for Libby is a “thing”.
Chapter 14
Denial
I remember a guy I didn’t know sitting down next to me at the bar, slapping his hand on my shoulder and yelling something in my ear.