He kisses my nose and says, ‘Thank you, my darling.’
She’s back from school, eating an apple in front of the TV. ‘Hey, bug. Can you turn that off for a moment,’ I say. ‘I’ve got something important to ask you.’
She turns the dial, and the only sound is the crunching of apple in her mouth. She swallows. ‘What?’
I take a deep breath, my heart hammering between my ears. ‘Your dad … he’s asked …’ I bite my lip. ‘Grace, your dad’s asked me to marry him, and I wanted to check with you if—’
I don’t have a chance to finish my question. She’s hugging me around the ribs, her thin arms squeezing the air out of my lungs. She’s got so tall lately, her head nearly level with my shoulders.
‘Yes,’ she’s saying, ‘Yes, please!’
We’re both laughing and crying. ‘Wow,’ I tell her, holding out my still-shaking hands. ‘That was the scariest thing I’ve ever done!’
‘Let’s tell him now,’ she says. ‘You can phone him.’
And as she drags me over to the door, I realise that I’m going to be her mom for real, and the three of us can start over as a proper family.
Part Three
THIRTY
Sam, March 1988
Two crazy years. Behind him, endless miles of tarmac, white lines running together, leading to the next gig. Towns and cities where he had to be reminded where he was before he stepped onto the stage to greet the crowd. Hello, Birmingham … Cambridge … Reading … Leeds. Hours that dragged like sulky children while he languished in anonymous hotel rooms, or on the plush tour bus. No more fighting for knee space with a couple of Fender amps and a telecaster. He wouldn’t say it to anyone, but he missed being squashed together elbow to elbow. There seemed to be more jokes in the rattling Transit van, more laughter.
It was harder than he’d ever imagined to keep singing night after night, the strength it took, the stamina. The sheer weight of oxygen moving through his body was like being an athlete, a long-distance runner. So he did what was expected of him: took a hit when his bones ached and his mind felt numb.
And then, the following year, America. The USA tour was a whole different circus. More miles to cover, more venues to play, coast to coast. Their new single made it high in the Billboard charts, and the States opened to them as if they’d pressed a magic button. Sometimes, standing on a stage in some American city, he’d wonder if Cat was in the audience.
He’s exhausted. He’s forgotten what it’s like to stay in one place, to sleep in his own bed. He’s anxious to get back to writing for the next album. It took years to create the music for the first one; he put his whole life into that record. But now he has to get something ready for recording and pressing in a matter of months. The thought is terrifying.
They’ll be working with Lucas Jones again. Lucas transformed their original material for the first album, nudging them into something more commercial. The changes didn’t sit well with Sam. But every time he began to debate the way the album was shaping up, Marcus would take him to one side. ‘Lucas knows what he’s doing. You’ve signed a contract. Let it go. Enjoy the process.’
May 1988
Daisy leans over Sam’s bare chest, propping herself on her forearms. Her breasts are squashed against him in a distracting fashion. But he can tell from her expression that he needs to concentrate on what she’s saying. ‘Can I sing on the next album?’ She pouts. ‘You promised.’
‘I didn’t promise, babe.’ He clears his throat. ‘Sorry. But I don’t think your voice is … right.’
‘But you said I was made to be a star. I thought you’d make it happen for me. You could if you wanted to.’
‘Daisy,’ he sighs. ‘We talked about this before. You need to do some work on your voice. Maybe take singing lessons. I’ll pay.’
She frowns and shifts her weight, her elbows digging into his ribs. ‘Are you writing songs about us? About me? For the new album?’
‘I’m struggling to write anything at the moment,’ he says. ‘I need to come up with something different. Something more upbeat. Not love songs this time.’
She tilts her head to one side, narrowing her eyes. ‘That’s not fair. I’ve been waiting my turn.’
‘Your turn?’
‘Yes – she got her songs, didn’t she? The mystery woman. Whoever the hell she was you wrote those songs about. All those romantic ones.’
His body tenses, his skin suddenly hot. He’s aware of the weight of her pressing down on him, restricting his breath. He shifts so that she slips to one side, under his arm. ‘Daisy, I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘So you admit she exists – that they’re about her? Not me?’
‘Yeah, they’re about someone I met in America. I haven’t seen her for years. It’s over. Long over.’ He scratches his chin. ‘Look. I need to get up … things to do.’
He rolls away and pushes his feet to the floor.
‘But you must have still been thinking of her when we met,’ she persists, ‘if you wrote them just before …’
‘No. I wrote them a long time ago, then put them away in a drawer. I only got them out to work on because I knew … I knew they had something I needed.’
‘Well, she’d better not make an appearance now.’ He hears Daisy’s sulky voice at his back. ‘She’ll have me to contend with.’
He stands up in one quick movement and grabs his shirt and jeans, tugging them on. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Daisy.’ He looks down at her, luscious and creamy as a Botticelli angel. ‘I told you, I haven’t seen her for years. It’s pointless to get jealous of someone in my past.’
‘I can’t help it,’ she wails. ‘I can’t even listen to the songs. They make me so mad. I can’t stand that you’ve written them about someone else. They’re so beautiful … Why can’t you write something like that about me?’
He shoves his feet into his trainers, and paces up and down beside the bed. Her words have released a darkness, and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, making the insides of his lids flare with colour. ‘Please don’t go on about this. I can’t write a song to order … You know that isn’t how it works.’
‘Baby.’ Tears glisten in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, okay? I’m so crazy about you. It makes me lose my mind sometimes. Come back to bed …’
He knows he should sit down, hold her in his arms, reassure her with gentle words and kisses, but there’s a knot in his throat stopping speech. He closes his eyes against a sudden sickening lurch of vertigo. He can’t go to Daisy. He doesn’t even want to touch her. He strides out of the room, grabs his jacket and leaves the flat, ignoring her yells for him to come back.
June 1988
The one scheduled break from studio time is for the Lambs to play a concert at Wembley Stadium held in honour of Nelson Mandela. They are one of many bands and singers booked for the event. Eleven hours of music has been planned, to be televised around the world: two stages, seventy-five thousand people in the audience.
A breeze blows across the packed stadium, but the heat from the crowd rises like mist from a river. The sound of their collective breathing makes the hairs rise on Sam’s arms. He’s never played a crowd so huge. Adrenalin hums through him, pulsing in his twitching fingers and trembling legs. Big names have already taken to the stage, including Al Green himself.
Backstage, as well as the roadies and security, there’s a crowd of hangers-on and performers drinking and smoking and watching front of house through gaps in the fluttering banners. Daisy is one of them, in a purple leather catsuit, her plastic identity tag swinging around her navel. She won’t stop going on about singing backing vocals. He remembers Cat trying to hum a song about aeroplanes. She knew she couldn’t sing; she laughed about it. That big, wicked laugh that rumbled up from her belly.
Jesus. He runs his fingers over his scalp. He’s got to focus. He’s about to step onto the biggest stage of his life. So why does he want to crawl into a hole and cry? He can’t tell anyone how he feels:
the treacly blackness that consumes him, dragging him down and down until he thinks he’ll never scrabble back to the surface. Only a hit of chemicals lifts the weight of exhaustion that exists inside him. He remembers how George once called him a spoilt brat; if he starts whining about how miserable success is making him, the insult would be justified. He has to keep going. One step at a time. One song at a time.
‘Right, we’re up next!’ He makes an effort to sound upbeat. The whole band depends on him for their energy.
They’re on. Arranged on stage, they’re dwarfed by the massive set. Behind them, a picture of Mandela’s face rears big as a house. Huge banners with African drawings rustle in the breeze. Beyond the lights, Sam stares out at a rippling landscape of heads and waving arms. Fear swallows him whole. Then he hears the click of George’s sticks, a metronome reminding him of his heartbeat, and he grabs the mic and twists it off the stand. The crowd roars its appreciation. His ribs expand, his throat opens and his voice takes flight. He leaps down onto the lower stage and thrusts his arm into the air. Thousands of arms follow, thousands of voices echoing his.
THIRTY-ONE
Cat, June 1988
I look in the mirror, brushing my hair back from my face, applying mascara. We’re having a registry office wedding, and then a small reception in a restaurant nearby. I’m wearing a silk dress in dove grey that Dougie picked out. It’s not my style, but he was adamant that I should develop a more sophisticated look now I’m to be a married woman.
He’s giving me away, as Dad isn’t here.
I lean forward and slide a pair of pearl drops through my ear lobes. I don’t look like me at all. Maybe that’s good.
I go down the stairs – the same ones Elizabeth fell down – and I’m blinded for a second by sunshine streaming through the glass over the front door. I stumble, lost inside that liquid gold, and clutch the banister tightly, my breath caught in my throat.
Sounds from the TV reach me. I follow the noise and find Grace lying on her tummy on the floor, the cat, which she’s named Fat Mog, stretched out next to her, tail twitching. On screen there’s a band singing in front of a huge crowd. ‘What are you watching?’ I ask.
‘It’s a pop festival,’ she tells me. ‘They’re trying to make South Africa free. Wet Wet Wet were on. And it’s that man’s birthday – you know, the man in prison there.’
‘Nelson Mandela?’
‘Yup.’ She sits up and scoops the cat into her lap. ‘That’s him.’
‘Well, sweetheart, I’m sorry, but we have to switch it off now. We don’t want to be late for Dad.’
The tabby struggles out of her arms and stalks off, tail in the air. Grace doesn’t seem to notice; she’s looking at me with an anxious expression. ‘Cat … you know you’re marrying Dad? But I can’t … I can’t call you Mum, because,’ her lips tremble, ‘because I already have a real mum, even if she’s dead.’ To my horror, tears spill from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks.
I stare at her, stunned by her words. She thinks she’s betraying her mom by accepting me as her stepmom? ‘Hey, don’t cry, sweetheart.’ I crouch to wipe her tears away. ‘I’ll never replace your real mom. I know that.’
She nods gratefully, and presses her face against me, sniffing.
‘Listen, bug, you can call me whatever you like,’ I tell her. ‘Stinky Pants or Big Ears …’
She laughs.
‘That’s better! But seriously, Grace, don’t worry. Of course, if you ever change your mind, I’d be thrilled to hear you call me Mom. But if it doesn’t feel right, that’s okay too.’
On screen, Lenny Henry is doing a Michael Jackson impersonation.
‘Cab’s due in five minutes,’ I say, standing to look at my watch. I nod at the set. ‘You’d better turn that off now. Go get your dress on.’
Upstairs, I knock on the spare-room door. Daniel and Mom have flown over for the wedding, and Daniel has gone ahead with Leo to the registry office. Mom looks up. ‘My goodness …’ She dabs the corners of her eyes with a lace hanky. ‘You look real beautiful, Catrin.’ She takes my hands in hers and squeezes. ‘I’m happy for you. He’s a gentleman. I can rest easy knowing this one will take care of you. And the little girl seems nice. But of course, you can have your own baby now.’
I let go of her hands. I think of Grace’s tearful face. I can’t call you Mum. ‘We haven’t discussed that, Mom.’
Mom rolls her eyes. ‘You’re not so young any more. Let me tell you, the years pass mighty fast. Leo can provide for you. He’s a top surgeon. There’s no need to be cautious about,’ she lowers her voice, ‘money.’
‘It’s not money I was thinking about.’
But she’s still speaking. ‘Lucky that your relationship with that young drifter never came to anything,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t be living in a house like this, I’m sure.’
I frown. ‘I don’t want to talk about that, Mom.’
She leans towards me, the scent of roses overpowering, and touches my arm. ‘Though actually, luck didn’t come into it. I was looking out for you. A mother always knows what’s best for her child.’
A prickle of cold runs across my skin. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
The sharpness of my voice makes her take a step back. ‘Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything.’
‘No.’ I make an effort to calm my voice. ‘No. Tell me, Mom. Please.’
‘His letters,’ she says, keeping her eyes on my reaction.
‘Letters?’ The word crashes through my head like a runaway steer. I stare at her. ‘He didn’t write any …’
She looks wary now. She nods. ‘Well, yes, he did. A few, anyways.’
‘A few?’ The room tilts. ‘Wait. How did you know they were from him?’
‘You said he’d be writing. They had an English postmark.’ Her voice is almost confiding.
‘He wrote me letters?’ I feel sick. ‘He wrote to me and you … what? What did you do with them?’
She’s wary again. She pats at her hair. ‘I burnt them.’
‘No.’ A small sob breaks free from my throat. ‘How could you do that? It wasn’t your right. It wasn’t your right to do that.’
‘He was no good.’ She puts her chin in the air. ‘I could see it, even if you couldn’t.’ She reaches out her hand to me, and I flinch back from it. ‘You were blinded by his charm, Catrin. I don’t blame you.’
‘What did he say in his letters?’
‘Oh, I don’t rightly remember …’
‘You must remember something. Tell me. You owe me that.’
‘Well. My goodness. I guess it was the usual sort of thing. Promises. Talk about love. And I do recall he sent some kind of poem. About the ocean.’
A strangled wail punctures the air. The noise is coming from me. I sink onto the bed and lean forward onto my knees. Sam! Inside, I’m crying his name.
Mom is still talking. A white noise crackles around my head. I put my hands onto the bedspread either side of me to feel the texture, pinching a fold hard between my fingers. I’m fighting to make sense of what she’s telling me. Sam wrote to me. He didn’t forget me. He kept his promise.
But it’s too late.
I stare up at her. Her words resolve themselves out of the crackling. ‘Now, Catrin, don’t go making a scene. It was for the best.’ She puts a hand to her throat. ‘Lordy, I don’t understand you – it was so long ago.’ She looks hurt. There’s a prim tightness to her lips. ‘You’re getting married to Leo,’ she says, as if I’ve forgotten.
What would she say if I told her that the poem she read is now a hit song played on the radio? There’s no point. None of it matters any more.
It’s too late. The words thunder through me over and over. Too late. Too late.
I have a sudden urge to get up and run – run past her and out of the house. And go where? I think. Where can I go?
Then Grace is in the room, bouncing with excitement. ‘Taxi’s outside.’ Her cheeks are flushed. She’s wearing a dress i
n the same dove grey as mine, with a pink sash around her waist.
I get up on shaky legs. ‘Thank you, bug,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s go. We don’t want to keep Daddy waiting, do we?’
I don’t look at my mother as Grace slips her hand into mine.
I won’t remember the details of my marriage vows later. Everything is a blur. As I stand next to Leo in front of the registrar with my posy of daisies, I feel like I’m coming down with flu. I’m dizzy enough that I think I might faint right there. I squeeze the stalks of the flowers hard, my knuckles flaring white. ‘You look beautiful,’ Leo mouths. The registrar, a woman in a dark suit, is speaking. I tell myself to breathe, focus. Repeat her words. Smile.
Afterwards, my lips must feel cold to Leo, but he’s smiling and laughing, his arm around my waist. Grace throws handfuls of confetti when we are outside on the steps. I blink in the hazy sunshine, ducking under the shower of paper.
It takes a long time to get to the restaurant. Our cab is stuck in a jam. The others are following behind in a different taxi. Our car nudges along at a stop-start pace. Music drifts out of the cabbie’s radio. Applause, and then another song. ‘There’s a concert in honour of Mandela, apparently,’ Leo tells me. ‘I think it’s being broadcast live.’
Our driver nods. ‘Terrible traffic all day. Don’t know why we got to interfere with what’s going on in another country. They can sort themselves out, can’t they?’
Leo raises his eyebrows at me. I raise mine back.
A new song begins, and my heart jumps. First time I saw you, beside the ocean blue … The audience roar in appreciation. His voice floats over the airwaves, soft and intimate. Remember us kissing slow on the Avenue … My body is cold, then hot, my pulse leaping under my skin.
I lurch forward. ‘Turn it off,’ I tell the driver. ‘Please.’ Sliding the partition window shut with trembling fingers, I sit back, hoping Leo can’t hear the thunder of my heart, sense the shock ricocheting through my body.
The Bench Page 17