Until Next Weekend

by Rachel Marks

  Emma shrugs. ‘I don’t think so. I mean …’

  But just as it feels she might be about to lower those walls, just an inch, Harley comes running over and starts tugging on her sleeve. ‘Mummy, can we go to the park now, please? I’ve been waiting ages.’

  I put my hand on his head. ‘One minute, buddy. Just go and build me a quick sandcastle, will you?’

  He looks at his mum for an alternative answer but when he doesn’t get one, he sidles over to the sandpit.

  ‘Is Harley’s dad in the picture?’ I ask, pretending that I don’t already know that he’s not.

  Emma shakes her head. ‘He buggered off when Harley was three and hasn’t seen him since.’

  I look at Harley – now happily digging a hole in the sand – and I wonder if he feels it, or if he’s lucky enough to be too young for it to really sting. That feeling that your dad doesn’t want to know you. Doesn’t miss you like you miss him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. He wasn’t worth having around anyway. But it could be why Harley gets angry sometimes. He worshipped his dad for some strange reason. I’ve never been able to compete.’

  The hurt is clear in Emma’s tone and I want to explain to her that Harley’s longing for his dad is not a negative reflection on her, but I’m not sure how without revealing too much of myself.

  ‘Mimi mentioned you’ve had a tricky couple of years. Is everything OK now? Is there anything we can support you with?’ I drop in, as tactfully as possible.

  Emma snorts. ‘Mimi’s told you about her messed-up little sister, has she?’

  ‘No. Not at all. I just mean, single parent, it’s not easy. It’s perfectly natural to need a little help sometimes.’

  Emma shakes her head. ‘We’re fine. We don’t need any help. I’ll make sure Harley stays out of trouble.’ Then she shouts across to Harley, ‘Come on, mate, let’s go.’

  Harley comes running out of the sand and I watch them leave, knowing I’ve unwittingly pushed Emma even further into her shell and wishing I could find a way to encourage her to let me in.

  ‘So who is this Mimi?’

  This phone conversation with Kate started with an exchange about something trivial. So trivial in fact that I can’t even remember what it was. Most of our conversations go like this, like peeling back the layers of an onion before we get to the core – the real reason one of us called the other. On this occasion, it was Kate that called me, and I can see now that it was to quiz me about the woman the boys told her helped them with their homework and went with them to mindfulness class.

  ‘She’s a friend.’

  ‘A friend?’ She says it like she would’ve said ‘You only had two?’ when I used to get home late from work.

  ‘Yes. I can imagine it seems hard to comprehend that a woman could cope with just being friends with me and not want to jump my bones.’

  ‘I was thinking more the other way round.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong. We are just friends.’

  ‘So you haven’t slept with her then?’

  I feel backed into a corner. Although the irony isn’t lost on me that she’s the one planning on marrying another man. ‘Well, yes, I have, but it was only once. We’re not sleeping together any more.’

  Kate laughs, but it’s filled with bitterness. ‘God, it must’ve been bad then.’

  I’m not sure why but I feel strangely protective of Mimi, and slightly angry towards Kate.

  ‘If you must know, it was great. But we decided we’d both rather have a friendship than meaningless sex.’

  Because I want you.

  ‘Well, I’m glad the sex was so good.’

  And, all of a sudden, it occurs to me that Kate isn’t being judgemental, she’s jealous. And, however hard I try not to get carried away, I feel a rush of hope.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m not having a good day.’ I hear Kate swallow something and I’m fairly sure it’ll be wine. The only time Kate is truly open with me these days is when she’s been drinking.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I mean, it’s stupid.’

  Your life with Jerry isn’t as perfect as you thought? You’re having doubts?

  ‘You know you can tell me anything.’

  There’s a pause and I can hear her taking another sip of her drink. I imagine her running her finger around the rim of her wine glass, like she always does when holding one, as if the repetitive nature of the act helps her to clarify her thoughts. ‘Jerry got me an interview at his work.’

  I feel my breathing becoming more strained. Before having the boys, Kate worked for a graphic design company as an illustrator, drawing logos. She loved it, but she was always adamant that once she had children, she wanted to be a stay-at-home mum and that even once they started school it was a non-negotiable that she be there to take the boys to school, pick them up, go on school trips, watch assemblies, et cetera, so she chose to do a bit of freelance work from home. And I was fine with that. Yes, it meant we struggled for money, but it was important to both of us that she be there for the boys. It was what we chose together for our family. How dare Jerry think he can waltz in and question it?

  ‘What about the illustration? I thought you wanted to work from home? He’s not forcing you to get a job, is he? If you need more money, we can sort something together.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just with Finn starting school full-time I’ve been feeling a bit lonely sometimes. I wanted something where I could socialize a bit, something I felt passionate about, where I could meet like-minded people. He found this admin role that I could do in school hours. He was trying to be helpful.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Why couldn’t he have just been being an arse?

  ‘But admin for an insurance company? Something I felt passionate about? Does he know me at all?’

  This conversation is like being on a rollercoaster, one minute I’m hurtling towards the ground and the next it feels like I’m on the top of the world.

  ‘Do you know what he got me for Christmas?’ Kate continues, the wine clearly loosening her tongue. ‘A mixer. I mean, seriously, me, baking? It cost a fortune and it just sits unused on the side.’

  I feel almost manic – the thought that Kate might be realizing Jerry isn’t right for her causing my heart to thump in my chest. I daren’t speak in case she stops talking or I say something that changes her mind.

  ‘I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t be talking to you about all this. I bet I sound like an ungrateful cow, don’t I?’

  ‘No, God, no. I’m with you. Working for an insurance company? Shoot me now. And a bloody mixer? He might as well have bought you a pair of rubber gloves.’

  Kate laughs. ‘He thought it would make it easier when I bake with the kids.’

  ‘What, once a year for the Comic Relief cake sale?’

  Kate laughs again, but when she starts speaking, her tone is sad. ‘I know his heart’s in the right place but sometimes I just wish he knew me a bit better, like …’

  She stops herself before she says any more but she doesn’t need to finish her sentence. We both know exactly what she’s thinking and I just pray that she realizes how significant it is, that she doesn’t just brush it off as her being silly or tipsy.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry for being a bitch about Mimi,’ she continues. ‘It just felt odd hearing that there was some other woman spending time with the boys when I’m not there. I suppose it gave me a tiny insight into what it must be like for you with Jerry. And I’m sorry. It’s quite hard, isn’t it?’

  Isn’t she the master of understatement?

  ‘Yeah. It is.’

  ‘Anyway, it meant a lot that you’d done such valuable stuff with them. Thank you.’

  ‘You don’t need to thank me. That’s my job. I’m their dad. I’m supposed to do things like that with them. I’m sorry I’ve not been the best since we split up, and probably before that, but I promise I’m going to be bett
er from now on.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Just be you, Noah. The real you. Because when you’re not drinking yourself into a ditch or sprinting in the opposite direction, you really are wonderful.’

  As she says it, a feeling of desperation runs through me. It feels like I’m racing against a ticking clock. Like a bomb is about to explode if I don’t figure out a way to defuse it. I’ve got just over four weeks. I have to make things right. I have to change our ending.

  ‘Look, I better go,’ Kate continues. ‘Jerry will be serving up our dinner any minute now.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you in a week and a half. And Kate?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The words form in my mouth and I nearly manage to spit them out, to send them flying across the ether to her, but I can’t quite do it. ‘Nothing. Have a good evening.’

  ‘You too. Bye, Noah.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We walk up and down the aisles of B&Q like a married couple. I’ve already told Mimi that I think we should just go for Brilliant White and be done with it, but she’s determined to get me to branch out.

  ‘It’s a fresh start. A blank canvas. Come on, you could choose anything.’

  I stop at a tin of bright yellow paint. ‘Let’s go for this. Finn’s favourite colour.’

  Mimi screws up her face.

  ‘You said I could choose anything.’

  ‘But it’d be like living in a tub of butter.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’

  Mimi guides me towards the ‘Neutrals’ section, which is basically just lots of shades of white, as I originally suggested.

  ‘I like this one,’ Mimi says, picking up a tin and holding it out to me.

  ‘Strong White, seriously? So it’s better to be strong than brilliant, is it?’

  ‘In the paint world, yes, it seems it is. I promise, this is going to look great.’

  I look at the price label under the space on the shelf where the pot of paint was. ‘Thirty pounds? For a small pot of paint? Is it made of crushed plutonium or something?’

  Mimi laughs. ‘Why plutonium? Why not gold or diamonds?’

  I laugh too. ‘It was the first thing that came into my mind. Random, I know.’

  ‘Right, well, let’s take two tins to start with. We can always come back and get some more if we need it, but it should cover the kitchen, the lounge and the hallway. Your flat’s not that big.’

  ‘What about the bedroom?’

  ‘Oh no, I was thinking a deep red for that.’ Mimi’s eyes twinkle when she’s teasing me. I can imagine she was the kid at school who could always get away with being cheeky because she was adorable with it.

  ‘Like the Red Room of Pain? Fifty Shades?’

  ‘I don’t know. If that’s what Kate’s into?’

  ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘I was thinking romantic. You were the one that had to take it somewhere dirty.’

  I grab another pot of Strong White and we take the paint over to the cashier. Once we’re home, Mimi rummages around in her bag, locating an oversized shirt, already covered in splatters of paint, which she puts on over the top of her T-shirt, and then she pulls two paintbrushes out of her bag, handing one to me. I put it on the side, slip my jeans off and pull my T-shirt over my head.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mimi looks at me as if I’ve just stripped off in the middle of Tesco.

  ‘I don’t have any painting clothes so I’m going to paint in my pants. I’m sorry, is that going to be too erotic for you?’

  Mimi looks me up and down. ‘No, definitely not.’

  ‘Good.’ I use a knife to pop open the tin of paint, grab the paintbrush and we both get to work.

  Mimi’s right. There is something quite therapeutic about the task of painting, the way it’s mindless and repetitive, the way it immediately makes the room look better, brighter. We listen to the radio. Occasionally, I catch Mimi singing along, but she’s too quiet for me to really tell what her voice is like. At the odd song, I stop painting and dance around the lounge, Mimi pretending to be disgusted, but I can tell that, quietly, she’s impressed by my killer moves.

  Before we know it, it’s seven o’clock and Mimi wraps up her brush and collapses onto the sofa. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

  I finish the last edge of the wall, wrap up my brush and put it next to hers. ‘Bacon butties?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  I go into the kitchen and plop some bacon in a pan. As I cook, I google local bars with a karaoke night on my phone and fortunately find one within walking distance. When I’ve finished making us both the best ever bacon butties – the key is in adding maple syrup to the bacon right at the end and using both ketchup and mayonnaise on the bread (I may not be the next Gordon Ramsey, Jerry, but try beating that) – I take them through to Mimi and hand one over.

  ‘Right, eat up. I’m taking you out to say thank you.’

  ‘Where?’ Mimi says before stuffing a load of food into her mouth.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  As we arrive at the bar, I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest. I’ve always liked surprising people. Every year, on Kate’s birthday, I’d think up somewhere new to take her. One year, I did a treasure hunt around Bristol, hiding clues around the city that eventually led her to The Ox – a swish restaurant she’d always wanted to go to. Another year I took her paintballing, one time we did quad bike racing, one year we went to the circus. For her twenty-fifth birthday I arranged with her parents for them to have the kids for the weekend and I took her to Paris. It always made me so happy to see her face when she realized what we were doing, to watch her enjoyment at trying out something or somewhere new. And I feel something of the same emotion right now.

  That is until we go down the stairs into a dingy room with some woman stood on the stage, mic in hand, caterwauling in the guise of Mariah Carey, and Mimi looks at me as if she is planning how she is going to kill me.

  ‘I’m not singing,’ she says, shaking her head vehemently.

  ‘Have a few drinks. See how you feel then.’

  ‘Nope, no way, nada, never, not happening.’

  ‘Don’t beat around the bush. Tell me what you really think.’

  Mimi surveys the room, the crowd cheering far more enthusiastically than the performance deserves. Then she leans into me slightly. ‘Thank you, though. It was a lovely thought.’

  Finally. The recognition I deserve.

  ‘It’s OK. Come on, let’s go and get a drink.’

  We walk to the bar and Mimi orders a cocktail (at nine pounds a pop) and I get the feeling it’s a subtle attempt at payback. I order a JD and Coke and then hand over the cash, feeling a little sick at the thought of the forty-five minutes I had to spend dealing with the woes of four-year-olds in order to earn it.

  We find a table in the corner, far enough away from the speakers that we can just about manage to have a conversation by shouting into each other’s ears. I still miss quite a lot of what she says and there are a few of those awkward moments when I’ve pretended to hear, but then it’s evident from the fact she’s staring at me that she’s asked me a question and I have no idea what the answer is supposed to be. If I’d known she wasn’t going to sing, it would’ve been easier to go to a normal bar where our attempts at conversation wouldn’t have to compete with a bunch of X-Factor rejects.

  The conversation’s not exactly deep – to be fair I miss half of it – so instead we get through the drinks pretty quick and by the time it gets to last orders, we’re both what could only be described as rat-faced. Mimi excuses herself to go to the toilet, and my inebriated body walks up to the guy sorting the karaoke and manages to persuade him to put Mimi’s name down for the last song. I know nothing about her musical taste so I scan the menu in the hope something jumps out at me. It does, although I’m not sure it’s for the right reasons. I point it out to the guy and he jots it down in a notebook. Rushing back to our table, I wrap my hand around my gl
ass and try to look relaxed.

  When Mimi walks towards me, smiling and carefree, it suddenly dawns on me that this might not have been my best idea.

  ‘Right, shall we drink up and go?’ She sits down beside me, picks up her vodka and Coke (thank God she moved on from cocktails after the first one) and downs the last of it.

  I sip my drink slowly, stalling for time. ‘Yeah, won’t be a minute.’

  The current song finishes, a tall, lanky white guy’s attempt at ‘Rapper’s Delight’ and he hands the mic back to the compere.

  ‘Now, sadly, we’ve reached the last song of the night.’

  The pissed crowd let out a loud groan.

  ‘But it’s a corker. So, everyone, put your hands together for Mimi Thomas with “ Let it Go ”.’

  The crowd erupt into rapturous applause and Mimi gives me daggers.

  ‘“ Let it Go ”? Seriously? Do I look like a six-year-old girl?’

  ‘It was the first song that jumped out at me. The kids sing it in the car. Go on, it’ll be fun. I want to hear you sing.’

  Mimi pushes herself further back into her seat. ‘No way.’

  The compere searches the room. ‘Mimi Thomas, are you out there?’

  ‘Go on, it’s an experience. You’ll enjoy it once you get started.’

  ‘There will be no getting started, Noah. If you think it’s such fun, why don’t you go and do it?’

  ‘Come out, Mimi, come out, wherever you are. Otherwise I’m going to have to sing it and that won’t be pretty,’ the compere shouts into the mic. He doesn’t seem to have grasped the idea that a microphone amplifies the sound of your voice, taking away the need to project quite so strongly. Then he spots me. ‘Ah, there you are. It was you that put your name down.’ He looks down at the name and looks at me, his expression suggesting he’s not sure whether to openly question it or whether he might offend someone in the process of gender reassignment. ‘Come on then, mate.’

  When I stand on the stage, I’m confronted with a mass of confused faces. The music starts up and I’m not sure what’s worse – the fact I’m going to have to sing a song from Frozen to a crowd of strangers or that they all think I’m identifying as a woman despite the fact my face is covered in a fairly thick layer of designer stubble.