by Adele Parks
Pip wished that it was one of her other senses that was as acute. It would be useful to hear more than she did. She wasn’t certain whether it was a sign of age or some sort of allergy but last night, as she’d kissed Chloe at bedtime and they’d both recited their usual, ‘Night night, don’t let the bed bugs bite’ (a bit of nonsense from Pip’s own childhood), Pip could have sworn that Chloe said, ‘Night night, don’t let the red Uggs bite.’ Pip admitting as much had made Chloe laugh raucously, in a way that Pip treasured, but even so! Pip couldn’t help fearing that it was distinctly, and regrettably, middle-aged that her hearing was becoming unreliable. She already wore glasses (well, lenses), she’d done so since she was a teenager. Her sense of taste wasn’t up to much. She had little interest in food and would often forget to eat at all until her stomach rudely rumbled. If she could take a pill that would provide all the necessary proteins and nutrients to keep her alive, then she would do so. Her lack of interest in food meant that she was a hopeless cook, guilty of resorting to ready-made meals more times than she liked to think about, let alone admit to. Her taste buds had very low expectations and yet she still managed to disappoint them.
This left her with the sense of touch.
Ohhh.
The word Touch stirred such an uncomfortable mix of emotions for Pip nowadays that she barely dared consider the word. It set off a spiral of associated thoughts that were bittersweet. Touching, stroking, caressing, feeling, holding.
Having.
She supposed touch had been the other sense that she used to heavily rely upon, the sense she had most enjoyed. Put simply, Pip liked to touch and be touched. She was definitely what was known as a tactile person, however unfashionable such a thing had become in this age of cool reserve. Pip was known for her big, hearty hugs (that were surprisingly robust and reassuringly comforting for a woman so willowy), she used to have a habit of gently laying her hand on a person’s arm when she wanted to tell them something important or when they were telling her something important, she liked to ruffle kids’ hair, sprinkle loud raspberries on babies’ chubby thighs and kiss the cheeks of friends and family, not just the air in the vicinity of their cheeks. But Pip no longer did any of the above as much as she used to, as much as she’d like to.
It wasn’t just the fact that she and the majority of her friends had children of school age now (there were no longer as many babies in her life), it was also the fact that being a tactile person needed a certain amount of self-confidence. A self-confidence that Pip used to be famed for but had now bled away. You had to believe that someone might want to be on the receiving end of one of your hugs before you could effectively bestow it and, frankly, Pip wasn’t sure. After all, Dylan hadn’t wanted to be on the receiving end of her hugs, or any other intimacy she could offer. He’d preferred the company of that slut. Pip knew that referring to Dylan’s mistress as that slut was infantile and clichéd but still she couldn’t help herself. In fact, it had taken her two years to be so refined, in the early days she’d called the woman things that would make a sailor blush. It was some sort of vent for her pitiful, impotent fury. Slut was one of the kindest things she’d called her rival. Not that the women he fled to God-knows-where with was Pip’s only rival, not if you categorise rivals as women Dylan slept with. There had been a trail of women who fitted that description. Pip tended to focus on the one he left the country with, although, considering Dylan’s attention span, it was very likely that that slut had been replaced by another slut by now. Pip couldn’t decide whether she hoped so or not. She didn’t want Dylan to find his happily-ever-after with that slut but then being the ex ex held no cachet. It didn’t bear thinking about.
The truth was, besides all the friendly hugging, and hair ruffling and baby kissing, the intimacy Pip missed most was sex. Pip thought she was probably quite good at sex. Besides the fact that she had been told as much by old boyfriends (admittedly a long, long time ago), she enjoyed it enormously and, in her experience, the things a person enjoys tend to be the things that person excels at. Pip hadn’t had any sex for nearly three years. She hadn’t had good sex (the caring, caress-packed variety) for longer still. She missed the thought, the anticipation, the act and the afterglow of having sex with her husband, the man she thought was her life partner.
Of course she knew she no longer had a husband.
She’d been on her own for two and a half years now. Two and a half years and yet every time she thought about the fact that she was no longer Dylan’s wife she felt a whole new wave of anguish, regret and deep, deep sorrow wash over her. When would that fade? People kept reassuring her that time healed and they urged her to ‘get back out there’ but it was easier said than done. Pip knew it was wrong, pointless and illogical, Pip knew that Dylan had cheated on her, bullied her and deserted her, she knew he was unreliable with regard to his responsibilities to Chloe and yet she still missed him.
She missed the way he liked to throw lavish dinner parties on a Saturday night for their friends, she loved the sense of fun and indulgence such festivities inevitably created. She missed his sense of humour which was intelligent and demanding (although occasionally could be a tiny bit sharp, some might say cruel), she missed his ambitious and stylish plans for their home and their garden (a home and garden that now belonged to someone else), she missed him sneakily grabbing her arse whenever she walked past him or stood close to his side, even if they were out in public. She missed the smell of his aftershave, mingled with the smell of his leather jacket. She missed sex. Pip ran her cool fingers up and down her own forearm, not a substitute for the matter on her mind but a comfort.
Pip stared out of the window and watched as stations began to whizz in and out of sight. They were all similar to look at (grey, grubby, boasting nothing more exciting than faded posters advertising West End shows or the latest bestselling novel). The stations could not distract her. She glanced around the carriage. Other than the large man she’d sat next to, and a scattering of serious-looking commuters, the carriage was populated with a cluster of anxious, middle-aged women. They were a group, this much was signalled by the fact that they were all wearing a uniform of loud, long-sleeved shirts in a floral print and bright chunky necklaces, the sort of necklace that is often given to a mum on Mother’s Day by a child who watches makeover programmes. The floral shirts were currently fashionable and indeed they worked well on women of a certain age. The bright colours implied they’d made an effort, and the generous length covered the bulges that belied the fact that the effort hadn’t been enough.
These women endlessly checked that their bags were secure, that they had their tickets with them and that they knew which tube line they’d need once they arrived at Waterloo. It was obvious that they were unused to travel and intimidated by the idea of a trip into the country’s capital. They were probably planning on visiting a gallery (one of the free ones, nothing too modern) and then wandering around Harrods’ food hall for a few hours. Chances were that they’d only been persuaded to make the journey because their bossy teenage children had muttered that they needed to ‘get a life’, or maybe they were keen for something new to talk about with their husbands at the tea table. If they still had husbands.
Pip knew these women without having to be introduced to them, as they were a prevalent breed. She at once pitied them and feared them and she wondered whether she was one of them. True, she was ten or even twenty years younger than them, but while she might not have been cut from the same cloth, she thought there was a real chance that she’d since been sewn into the same pattern. She was surrounded by women who were permanently well-intentioned and therefore plagued with endless worry as to whether they were doing the right thing. The combination was unintentionally (but irrevocably) irritating. The worry was etched in their foreheads and engraved in their weary eyes, which had seen the best and worst of life. Their bosoms were low and slack but, still, their intentions were worn loud and clear, on the sleeve where hearts used to be kept, until they were
broken.
Pip wondered whether she ought to move seats. Of course she should. She could so easily stand up and wander along the train until she found a seat that she did not have to share with a loud and large chap or a view of the lav but Pip was reluctant to do so. She did not want to draw attention to herself. She did not want to admit that she’d picked the wrong seat in the first place. This was, of course, ridiculous and she knew it. As though anyone would notice if she changed seats. As though anyone cared what she did. Pip briefly chided herself, then stood up and shuffled along the aisle into the next carriage where she sat down on one of those seats designed for three, facing another seat designed for three.
‘You couldn’t stand the smell either, eh?’ asked the man sitting opposite her.
Pip looked up, startled that anyone should decide to strike up a conversation on a London commuter train. She swiftly concluded that the man must be an out-of-towner, otherwise he would be aware of the unwritten (but clearly understood) code which dictated that strangers never spoke to one another on public transport, not unless the matter up for discussion was one of life and death, and even then seasoned commuters knew to proceed with caution. Could this man be drunk so early in the day? It was the only excuse.
Pip didn’t know whether she ought to answer or not but found there wasn’t any need to because the man didn’t wait for her response, he ploughed on regardless.
‘I don’t know why people can’t at least close the door after them. It’s so inconsiderate, let alone unhygienic. Would they pee on the floor in their bathroom at home and then leave the door wide open so that everyone could see the evidence?’ He shook his head in disgusted disbelief.
‘Erm, no. I suppose not,’ muttered Pip.
She briefly considered whether the man was likely to be a school teacher. School teachers often felt the impulse, and the right, to express their opinions, plus that thing he’d said about whether people would pee on their own bathroom floors was just the sort of thing a teacher would say. She clearly remembered her own teachers asking, ‘Would you put your feet on the table at home, Philippa Foxton?’ ‘Would you swing on your chair at home, Philippa Foxton?’ Pip wondered whether she could move seats again. The last thing she wanted was to have to make small talk with a stranger for the entire thirty-five-minute journey, especially the sort of small talk that she imagined teachers preferred, talk about league tables and degeneration of the standard of the current exam system. Pip froze whenever she thought about league tables (or MMR vaccinations, or the effect of pylons on a child’s health). She relied heavily on Steph for guidance on all that sort of thing.
Pip was much better at the fun parts of parenting. She loved playing with Chloe and never got bored of dressing up dolls, making dens, sculpting play dough, threading beads. Not that she was simply the ‘fun parent’, for one thing this would assume Dylan was the disciplinarian parent and he wasn’t. He was the absent parent, which meant she was the everything-she-could-be parent. Besides being a great playmate, Pip was very competent about ensuring regular bedtimes, regular exercise and, despite her lazy habits when it came to preparing her own food, she tried to offer her daughter a balanced diet. She policed teeth brushing, hair brushing, tidying of the bedroom and completion of homework. She also answered the difficult questions – ‘Where do we come from?’ and ‘Where has Daddy gone?’ Both had been handled with the sort of sensitivity that reassured Chloe that her world was safe and fine even when Pip sometimes doubted that this was the case. Pip and her daughter laughed together, stropped together and played together. They worked well together. Pip was supremely competent at everything to do with being a parent in their home but was less able when any sort of official bodies came into their private arena. It was another instance of her lack of confidence. She found it difficult to be discerning or definitive when faced with the sea of sometimes contradictory advice that washed up at every mother’s feet.
When Chloe was first born, Pip was fully able to join in on the aspects of the post-natal club she thought worthwhile and yet she felt happy to reject the overly fussy, paranoid parts. She thought pumping her breast milk to measure the fluid ounces before she fed them to her baby was a ridiculous suggestion and would not do it, no matter how many of the other new mums told her that it was essential to know how much milk Chloe had digested. She was also certain it was unnecessary to play the sounds of frolicking dolphins to your baby to aid sleep or to develop cognitive reasoning. But now she was never quite so sure about anything and frequently asked advice on matters to do with parenting. How should she best treat Chloe’s verruca? Should she insist Chloe continue her piano lessons, even though she professed to hate them and seemed to have no ear? Would it be a good idea to watch Disney movies in French? Pip’s breathing speeded up as these thoughts whizzed around her head. Being a parent was such a huge responsibility. She’d been at it for eight years now, and while there were aspects that she’d obviously become comfortable with, each day seemed to present a cluster of new challenges. How would she manage to protect her daughter until she reached adulthood? Not that the job ended there, not if her own mother’s fretting was anything to go by. The problem was Pip so often felt out of her depth and, more specifically, alone.
She glanced at the man travelling opposite her. He had slightly tanned, lucent skin with a sprinkling of dark freckles on his cheekbones. He probably was a teacher, she decided. He probably did know about learning French by ear. He certainly looked a bit like a teacher. He was wearing chinos, rather than jeans, but a casual jacket rather than a suit. Pip thought his outfit definitely ruled out lawyer, city trader or bank manager. Besides, his hair was quite long and still held a colour (dark brown); all the lawyers and bankers she knew were balding or grey or both. He was tall and thin, although his broad shoulders ensured that he was lean, not lanky. He clearly had not shaved that morning but rather than making him look scruffy, the slight shadow made him look earnest and industrious. He’d picked up a newspaper and was holding it open but he was still looking at Pip as though keen to continue chatting. Maybe it would be OK to ask this stranger, who was opinionated about the train loos, whether he thought there was any merit in watching Disney DVDs in French.
‘Are you a teacher?’ she blurted, almost demanded.
The man looked surprised and faintly amused. ‘No, are you?’ he replied politely.
‘No,’ replied Pip. It was at this point she saw the flaw in her conversation-opener: it was unusual to the point of making her appear slightly crazy.
She hurriedly reached for her handbag and searched for her novel. She carried a large bag full of things that she carted around ‘just in case’. Carrying an umbrella, Elastoplasts, Savlon cream, hand sanitiser, her address book, a sewing kit, tissues, a tin holding an assortment of paper clips, elastic bands and biros, the London A-Z, nail clippers and a small bottle of lavender essence was an attempt to make her feel more secure. She weighed herself down with this stuff in a futile effort to ward off disasters; in fact, all it did was give her a bad back. Once Pip located her novel, she started to read it, holding it high to her face in an effort to block out the curious gaze of the loo man, who was not a teacher.
God, she was pathetic. Pip swore and muttered to herself. She was so incompetent! She was apparently incapable of simply mixing in the real world! Why had she made that assumption about a complete stranger on the strength of one throwaway comment? And how could she think that opening gambit might be suitable? Even if he was a teacher, why would he be interested in talking to her about her child’s education? Her problem was she had an overactive imagination, her mother must have thrown manure at her head when she was a kid. It was clear she didn’t get out enough, and no wonder considering the embarrassment she caused herself when she actually was out and about. What did she know about this stranger? Other than he had really attractive eyes (light brown with flecks of green). Thoughtful eyes, ones that seemed considerate and trustworthy. Oh. My. God. There she went again. Making ass
umptions. It was pathetic. She knew nothing about this man (except that he wasn’t a teacher). Just because his eyes were attractive (damned attractive, exceptionally so) it didn’t mean that he was considerate or trustworthy. In fact the opposite was more likely to be the case, if her experience was anything to go by.
That had always been another one of her problems, she was too ready to think the best of someone. Too ready to fall for a handsome face. His was a handsome face, very strong jawline and an interesting little scar just above his right eye. She wondered where that had come from. Perhaps he’d sustained an injury while carrying out some heroic act, like wresting an old lady’s bag back from some thug or jumping into a river to save a drowning puppy. Stop it! Pip tried to rein in her thoughts. Seriously, she pitied poor Chloe for being lumbered with her as a mum. She was like a kid herself, she was hopeless! She didn’t understand why her friends still talked to her. She understood why Dylan had left her.