‘Any man can be an abuser,’ I tell Joshua.
He sighs. ‘And God forbid we question that, right?’ he says.
My hackles go up.
‘Are you saying that it’s wrong?’ I say. ‘Are you actually, underneath all the front, just another man who thinks that all the men he knows are exceptions?’
‘I don’t think all the men that I know are exceptions,’ he says. ‘But Leo. I don’t believe it of Leo.’
‘Well, your belief has nothing to do with anything. April’s face was bruised. She made up a weak story. Leo contradicted that story. She called for help in the middle of the night. Even my mom says that there’s no other story that makes sense.’
‘So now your mom, who walked out on you, is an expert on human behaviour?’
‘She did her best,’ I say. ‘She wasn’t well.’ I am surprised, on some level, to find myself defending my mother. ‘But I suppose you also don’t believe that women have the right to mental illness?’
‘I don’t understand how this conversation has got so out of control when I actually basically agree with you,’ says Joshua.
I don’t understand it either, because the worst is, we agree more than he realises. I also can’t believe that Leo could do this. And I also think my mom didn’t do enough to return to me. But as soon as Joshua takes that view, I feel myself polarise, like a teenager. I don’t understand why I’m doing it, but I know that if I keep it up, I’ll kill this relationship.
‘I’m sorry,’ I manage to say. ‘You’re actually right about everything.’ I mean it sincerely but as soon as I say it, I can hear that I sound sarcastic.
‘No, you don’t have to be like that,’ says Joshua. ‘We can disagree, and that is okay.’
I sigh. ‘I know that,’ I say, trying hard to make my voice match the way I am feeling. ‘I really do. But I also really think that you are right. About Leo, and my mom. I actually agree with you. I don’t know why I am fighting.’
‘I’m not saying Leo is definitely innocent,’ says Joshua, suddenly backtracking.
‘I know.’
‘And I’m not saying your mom didn’t try her best.’
‘No, you are saying that. But you’re right.’ The conversation is exhausting me, and when another call comes through, I grab the excuse. ‘Joshua, I better take this call holding – it’s the whisky people,’ I say.
‘Okay, but are we good?’
‘Yeah, yeah, we’re good,’ I say, and hang up.
I take the call. It’s Joel, my editor at the whisky magazine.
‘Mary, do you have a moment?’ he says.
‘Sure, Joel, for you, always,’ I say. This is one of my best clients, and oldest. He has a plummy accent, like he’s balancing some whisky in his mouth at all times, and is often wryly amusing. I like talking to him.
‘So, I had a weird email yesterday,’ he says. ‘From someone who says that your reviews aren’t genuine.’
I feel myself freeze.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, this chap says that you must be making things up, because he doesn’t think that the new Kamiki tastes like freshly mown lawn.’
‘Joel, people will always disagree,’ I say, relieved that this is all he has.
‘Absolutely,’ says Joel. ‘And I tasted the whisky and of course, you have it spot on. Spot on.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, perhaps more vehemently than necessary. ‘The grassy notes in the Kamiki are totally unarguable.’
‘This person seems to think that because nobody else has picked it up, it can’t be true. That you make things up. The word “fiction” was used.’
‘Now, Joel,’ I say, ‘I don’t think either of us wants me to be the sort of reviewer who just reads other reviews and regurgitates them.’
‘Of course not,’ says Joel.
I’m a bit confused by the call. Surely this isn’t the first time someone has had a different opinion? I ask him.
‘There was just something about the tone,’ says Joel. ‘And that it was anonymous. Normally these bleating betties use their names.’
‘Are there lots?’ I ask, genuinely curious.
‘Oh, a number. But you’re never wrong. There’s just something about this mail. I don’t know, I felt I should warn you.’
‘About what?’ I say.
‘I’m not really sure,’ says Joel, sounding as confused as he is making me feel. ‘There’s a tone of menace.’
‘Did this person threaten me?’ I ask.
‘Oh no, no, no,’ he says. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just menacing. Here, let me read it.’
There’s a pause, and I hear Joel muttering to himself as he finds the mail.
‘Ah, here it is. First thing, the email address is WhiskyFan100 at Gmail. And no name. That’s unusual for a start.’ He pauses. ‘Here we are. He says, “I feel I should draw your attention to the fact that your reviewer, Mary Wilson, frequently submits fictionalised reviews to your esteemed publication. Her recent review of the Kamiki, for example, is clearly made up. The analogy with freshly mown grass is, in particular, ridiculous, and in most likelihood, she glanced out and saw some grass being mown as she wrote.”’
I freeze again. That’s exactly what happened.
‘Then,’ says Joel, unaware of my reaction, ‘he says, “I am sure you would not want to find yourself in court on a charge of fraud as the result of the actions of a freelance employee.” That’s the bit I found threatening.’
‘It certainly isn’t friendly,’ I say. ‘But totally baseless, of course.’
‘Of course,’ says Joel. He snorts. ‘God, imagine!’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘thanks for letting me know.’ I wonder if I should ask him to send me the mail, but that might seem like I am guilty. Which, of course, I am.
‘Wonderful,’ says Joel, clearly relieved to have delivered this blow. ‘Your latest batch will be delivered soon. Keep up the great work.’
‘Of course,’ I say, vowing that this month I will actually taste the bloody things.
After the call, I know that I should phone Joshua back. But for the first time since I met him, that idea just makes me feel tired. I don’t want to start bickering about April, or my mother, or my father, or any of the other areas of my life that suddenly seem far more complicated than necessary. The complications in my life were supposed to end when Travis died, but now I’m knee-deep in them.
Chapter 37
As I am trying to will myself to get back to work, a message pings through. It’s from Linda. I’m not sure she’s ever contacted me directly before.
Can you chat? she asks. I like that she checked before phoning me, and I really don’t feel like working, so I say, ‘Sure’ and two minutes later we’re chatting. After the initial pleasantries, she comes straight to the point.
‘Am I right that you and April have become quite good friends?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say, trying not to think too carefully about whether that is currently still true.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘I’m worried about her.’
‘Oh?’
Maybe Linda has also seen something. Or heard something.
‘So, I messaged her last week to get the recipe for that salmon she made, and she ignored it.’
‘Oh,’ I say, disappointed. Firstly, she didn’t make the salmon, the caterers did, so that would be a hard message for her to answer. Secondly, this is hardly the type of earth-shattering worry that I was hoping for. ‘That’s odd,’ I add.
‘Then I phoned, and she didn’t answer,’ says Linda.
‘Mmm.’ This is just April embarrassed about the catering. Maybe I should just tell Linda.
‘Then I messaged again,’ says Linda. ‘And that’s when it got strange.’
‘Oh?’ Linda seems to need constant reassurance to get the story out.
‘She phoned back immediately, only she didn’t really. She bum-dialled or something. And the background sounds were . . . were . . . disturbing.�
�
‘What did you hear?’
‘I heard April’s voice yelling, “You arsehole”, and the sound of something breaking, and then someone screamed, and then I heard Zach, I think, yell, “No!” and then there was the sound of people moving and then the phone cut off.’
‘God,’ I say. ‘And did she ever call back?’
‘No, even though I messaged and said that I thought she’d just bum-dialled me and was everything okay. Mary, is she all right?’
I sigh. ‘I’m not really sure, Linda,’ I say.
I feel bad telling Linda anything personal about April, like I’m breaking some sort of friendship code, but I need to talk about it, and Linda has almost been dragged in now, so I tell her. I tell her from the beginning, all the strange things, all my worries, and right up to how April and I aren’t talking.
‘Oh dear,’ says Linda when I finish. ‘This is very worrying, isn’t it?’
‘Very,’ I say, trying not to get annoyed by her calmly stated understatement.
‘If we were American, we could stage an intervention,’ she says, and I laugh.
‘We’re not American,’ I say. ‘Would we even know what to do? Like, what does it even mean?’
‘I think you get the person alone and tell them that dammit you’re going to help whether they like it or not and then drag them off to get help.’
‘Where would we drag her?’
‘Not sure. A lawyer? A shelter? A polygraph?’ We both start to giggle, and I feel awful but also relieved that I am sharing this burden.
‘Maybe we should,’ I say suddenly. ‘Not the dragging part. But we have a lunch, and we say we’re worried, and we offer to take her in and offer any support she needs.’
Linda is silent for a while. ‘We might lose her friendship altogether, though. Like, if we’re wrong and he doesn’t hurt her? Or even if we’re right, and she’s not ready to face it? And then no one will be there for her.’
‘But she’ll know we care.’
I am suddenly all for this. As it stands, April and I aren’t speaking. So what harm can this actually do? I say as much to Linda.
‘Okay,’ says Linda. ‘I’m in.’
We agree on a date, and when we get off the call, I message April.
I miss you. Lunch on Friday?
I feel bad, tricking her, but from what I understand, that’s how you intervene. Trickery.
The message goes through, but it’s some time before April responds. I think perhaps this will not work; that April wants nothing more to do with me. I wonder if this is because I have guessed the truth, or because I have it wrong, or because she feels abandoned by me. Either way, I admit to a tiny flicker of relief. If April will not see me when I have reached out, I’m off the hook. You can’t force a grown woman to act if she isn’t ready to.
But I’m not off the hook.
April responds, and says: I miss you too. Lunch sounds good.
We agree on a place, and I let Linda know.
Chapter 38
I’m dreading the lunch with April, but also quite excited. I seldom go out for lunch, because of Django, but I’ve arranged for my mother to fetch him, and they are both absolutely delighted about the idea. For so many years, I have thought, ‘If only I had a mother’ at various points of my life, with the big things and the small. And now I do have a mother, and Django has a grandmother, and I want to say that I was wrong about how much difference it makes, but I wasn’t. It makes all the difference.
Once I’ve set that up, I need to deal with the other thing that’s been on my mind. I call my dad.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been quiet,’ I say.
‘Lord, but haven’t you had a lot on your mind,’ he says, and for a moment I think he knows about April. ‘I thought you needed a bit of space to get to know your mom. Without me whispering in your ear.’
I can’t help smiling.
‘You’re always welcome to whisper in my ear,’ I say.
‘Even though I lied?’ he says.
‘I understand why you did it,’ I say.
There’s a small silence.
Then he speaks, and there’s something strange in his voice. ‘D’you like her, then?’ he asks.
I try to unpack the strangeness. Is he scared that I won’t like her? Or is he scared that I’ll like her so much that I replace him?
‘It’s weird,’ I say. ‘Having a mom is weird.’
‘Good weird, I hope?’ he says.
‘Mostly, I guess,’ I say. ‘But you’ll always be the one who was there for me, Dad.’
‘Thank you, sweet,’ he says. ‘But you’re allowed to let your mom in, you know. It won’t be a betrayal of me.’ This is so spot-on that I realise that my father would never have thought of this for himself.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Have you and her been talking about me?’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Aren’t you our daughter?’
‘But . . . But . . .’ I hadn’t imagined that my father had had much to do with my mother, other than to hand over my details. ‘Like, when?’
‘Lord, is it now a crime for a man to have dinner with his wife?’
‘She’s not your wife,’ I say automatically.
‘Well, actually,’ he says, ‘as a point of fact, she is. I asked a lawyer. She didn’t die, and we didn’t divorce, and I didn’t go to court to have the marriage annulled or something. So she’s my wife.’
I’m not sure, but there’s a note of satisfaction in his voice, like he’s pulled off quite a clever trick.
‘Right,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he says.
And then, because we seem to have both said what we needed to, we say goodbye. I’m left feeling uneasy, but I can’t put my finger on why.
I arrive at the lunch early, and I am not surprised that I am first. April is always late, and Linda and I have agreed that she will only arrive after April. With April’s unpredictability, this has posed a bit of a challenge, so Linda will wait in her car until I message her. I send her a message now: Arrived. No April.
No surprises then, answers Linda. Then another message: Will wait for message.
I order a mineral water and spend the time while I wait catching up on social media. I try not to get sucked into it when I am supposed to be working so there is something quite fun about having this empty time, where I can click on whatever nonsense I want to. I’m reading an article about Prince Harry and Meghan, and whether they are protecting their rights or betraying their legacy, when April sits down at the table. But I haven’t seen her approach, so I can’t subtly send the message to Linda.
‘You’re reading about the royals, aren’t you?’ says April.
I laugh. ‘How did you know?’ I say.
‘You get a particular look on your face,’ she says. ‘It’s weird. Like you literally have an expression that is reserved for reading royal scandal. And then you have a different, angry face when you’re reading gender politics stuff. That one’s a bit scary.’
‘That’s hilarious,’ I say. I feel warm, and I realise how much I have missed April. I consider sending Linda a message telling her to forget it. But I can’t. We have to do this.
‘I just need to quickly send a message,’ I say, and I send Linda a message saying, Here.
April is not curious; I am sure she assumes that it is Django-related. She also checks her phone, and then puts it on the table next to her, as she always does.
‘I’ve missed you,’ I say, reaching across the table for her hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have anything to apologise for,’ she says. ‘I’ve thought about it, and I realised that you were just worried.’
She’s going to carry on, and I wonder if she will admit that I was right to be worried or say that I was wrong anyway. I want to know, but Linda arrives at that moment. She must have sprinted from her car.
I take a deep breath. ‘Linda’s joining us, April,’ I say, like I’ve been rehearsing in my he
ad all morning. ‘We’re both worried about you.’
April glances from Linda to me, a look of horror on her face that Linda doesn’t seem to notice because she’s pulling out her chair and fussing about her jacket and bag, and whether she can leave them on the floor or will they be stolen. April’s eyes meet mine, and I feel like I’ve completely betrayed her.
‘Linda phoned me,’ I say. ‘Linda phoned me after she overheard you on the phone. I wouldn’t have said anything otherwise, but we care about you too much to pretend we haven’t noticed anything.’
‘I see,’ says April, and I can’t read her voice. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful for that?’
‘No,’ I say, as the waiter arrives with a board of the day’s specials. We go through the business of ordering, and I am relieved that April does order, because that must mean she’s not intending to leave.
When the waiter goes, Linda says, ‘I didn’t know what to do, April. And I know how close you and Mary are, so I called her.’
‘I see,’ says April. She looks to me. ‘So exactly what story have you two put together in your busy little heads?’
I am regretting this so much.
‘April, if Leo is hurting you, we want to help you,’ I say. ‘We think that he is, and we don’t think it’s okay. We understand that you might feel powerless, and we understand that it’s hard to talk about, but we love you and we are here to help.’
‘I see,’ says April. ‘Anything to add, Linda?’
Linda looks as sideswiped as I feel, almost on the verge of tears. Interventions never look this hard on TV. She just shakes her head.
I am sure that April is going to get up and walk away, order or no order. This, I think, is the end of this friendship, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. But something unexpected happens. It’s hard to describe, but it’s like April’s face starts to melt. First, she takes off the sunglasses that were perched on her head and puts them down carefully. Then, her face seems to crumble – it goes from perfect suburban housewife to hot-mess-emotional-wreck in the time it takes me to take one sip of my water. Tears are running down her face, and she’s sort of gasping like she can’t breathe. I hastily put my water down and grab her hand.
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