As for Alfred, well, he was there for me, day and night. I hugged him more than ever before and kept him close, talking to him incessantly, as if he could understand my problems. As I negotiated those dark moments of the soul, I also reminded myself of my responsibility to look after him. He’d always been more my cat – my boy – than Helen’s. That was presumably why she hadn’t even suggested taking him with her, thank goodness. Honestly, if she’d tried, after everything else, I think I’d have totally lost it with her.
By the time Helen made contact to let me know she was pregnant with the new guy’s baby, a few months after she’d run into his arms, I’d encased my heart in an icy coat of armour. I still felt the force of the blow, though, especially when she admitted it was planned.
She’d always said she hadn’t wanted kids when we were together. It turned out she just hadn’t wanted them with me.
They have two little ones now: a boy called Euan and a girl called Gwen.
How perfect.
I’ve heard people say the signs are always there when your partner is having an affair, but honestly, I was clueless. I still can’t spot them looking back. Mind you, my mind was elsewhere for months prior to Helen leaving me. I can’t remember how I spent vast swathes of that time after Mum and Dad’s funeral.
I was walking around in a daze, on autopilot, while my brain battled desperately to come to terms with how both of my parents could really be gone.
Forever.
So what about this Prince Charming who swept Helen off her feet?
He’s no one special, apart from to her. His name’s Adrian and he’s a university lecturer in Edinburgh, where they both now live. Physics is his subject, apparently. I’ve only met him very briefly a couple of times. He seems incredibly dull to me, but I was never going to like the bloke who stole my wife.
They went to secondary school together, going out for a year or so towards the end of their time there. They fell out of touch and then the magic of bloody social media brought them back together.
Helen had been chatting with him online for a few months – and then they secretly met up while he was attending a work conference in Manchester. I imagine several further clandestine meetings took place before she made the decision to leave me for him, although I never asked for further details. I couldn’t see the point: knowing the ins and outs of the deception would have only added to my misery.
For the same reason, I never asked her to clarify how and why she thought she’d fallen out of love with me. Perhaps I should have. Everything had seemed fine to me when evidently it wasn’t. It might have been useful information in a self-knowledge sense. But then again, I’m not convinced the act of falling in or out of love with another person is the kind of thing one can easily explain.
Did I fight to keep her? No, not really. I didn’t have the strength. Plus I knew Helen, or at least I thought I did, and in my experience she wasn’t someone to change her mind once made up. Ironically, of course, that’s exactly what she did do with regards to our marriage, but let’s not split hairs.
When she asked for a divorce so she could marry him, I wasn’t surprised. By that point I was glad of an option to cut her out of my life once and for all, so I didn’t stand in the way, and once that was done, so were we. I haven’t heard a peep from Helen in ages and I can’t see that changing now.
It’s good that she’s far away in Scotland. I wouldn’t want her to be nearby, as there would always be a danger of bumping into her with him or the kids – and that would only serve to reopen the wound. It’s pretty much healed now, I reckon, although I do still have my maudlin moments from time to time, especially when late nights and alcohol are involved. There will always be a scar.
I think the part of me that fell in love with Helen as a hopeful, happy young man is gone forever. I truly believed she was my soulmate. Now I doubt such a thing even exists.
And yet, saying all that, if I’m totally honest and I put myself back in the head of the person I was at the start of our journey, we really were a good fit: best friends with an intense romantic and sexual attraction. At that point, we felt perfect for each other. The problem is that over a period of time, people change. And if they don’t change in the same way or at the same pace, how can their connection stay the same?
As much as I resent the Helen who abandoned me when I needed her most, the same doesn’t apply when I think back to our joyous early years together. Those memories remain untainted. They still make me smile.
Maybe there is hope for me to find love again one day, then. That’s the positive way of looking at things, which is how I’m supposed to be thinking these days.
Not that I’m in a rush to find love. Hence why I’ve never got involved in online dating and so on.
I suspect Meg planting the seed that Nora might be interested in me is purely wishful thinking on my cousin’s part. I mean, why would a pretty professional like Nora be interested in a balding barber? We’re from different worlds. What would we have to talk about? And apart from her being out of my league looks-wise, I’m not even sure she’s my type. No, it’s nonsense. I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time thinking about it.
‘Meow.’ Alfred brings me back into the moment by bounding into the room and on to my knee.
‘Oh, hello. Where’ve you been?’
He stares at me before starting to knead my trousers with his front paws. His claws would hurt if I was wearing jogging pants or something similarly thin; fortunately I’m in jeans so don’t feel it.
I press my fingers into the fur on the top of his stripy head and give him a massage in return, which gets him purring like a lawn mower.
‘We don’t need a woman to make our life complete, do we, mate?’ I say.
He responds by circling around on my lap and then flopping down into a curled-up ball.
‘I’ll take that as a no.’
CHAPTER 19
‘Evening, Doreen. How are you today?’
‘All the better for seeing you, Liam. Are you sure you don’t mind doing this for me?’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t be here if I did, would I?’
‘Well, it’s very kind of you.’
Last time we spoke, my neighbour asked me if I knew a reliable plumber. When I asked why, she said she needed someone to redo the silicone seal around her bath, which is something I’ve done myself loads of times. So rather than letting her fork out for such a simple job, I told her I’d do it.
It’ll only take me half an hour and, since I’ve got to know Doreen better of late, I’ve started to feel quite protective and fond of her. Weird, I know, considering how long we’ve been neighbours and the fact she still can’t get my name right, but I’m not overanalysing it.
‘What’s that amazing smell?’ I ask. ‘Have you been baking?’
She winks. ‘There’s no getting anything past you, is there? It’s a chocolate cake. It was my Bob’s favourite. He always used to say it was the best chocolate cake in the world. I thought you might enjoy a slice or two and a nice cup of tea while you’re busy.’
‘Now we’re talking. By the way, that film you gave me, I watched it the other night and thought it was brilliant. Thanks again for that.’
I haven’t really watched it. I can’t, thanks to my broken DVD player, but I figure a white lie is appropriate here, which Doreen’s beaming smile confirms. ‘I’m so glad you liked it,’ she says.
I head to the bathroom and get to work removing the old strip of silicone from around her bath. It is in a poor state, more black than white and already coming away in places, so it doesn’t take me long to tear away with the help of a sharp knife and screwdriver.
I give the area a good clean down before patting it dry with some kitchen towel. Next, trusty sealant gun in hand, I squeeze out a thin, bright white bead all the way along between the bath and the tiles, before standing back to admire my handiwork. Hmm, not bad for the first pass. I fill a couple of obvious gaps and then lay the gun asid
e, dipping my forefinger in the small glass pot I prepared earlier. It’s filled with a fifty/fifty mix of washing-up liquid and water – a top tip passed down to me by my dad – which allows me to work the bead into a neat, consistent strip with one or two gentle smoothing motions.
A couple of minutes later, I’m done. Easy as that. It’s a job I’ve always found strangely relaxing and enjoyable; with the right technique, a professional-looking result is pretty easy to achieve.
It’s up to Doreen’s standards, anyway. At my request, she comes in to inspect what I’ve done and squeals with joy at what she sees.
‘Wow. That looks so much better, Liam. And you’ve only been busy for a few minutes. It had been annoying me for ages like it was. I preferred to shower rather than bathe because it looked so mouldy and unhygienic. Now I can enjoy a good soak again.’
‘Well, not right away,’ I say. ‘You need to leave it to dry for a while yet – twenty-four hours if possible; definitely at least twelve. After that, it’s all yours.’
She leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘I appreciate this so much. You’re an absolute champ. Now come and have that tea and cake I’ve made for you, and you can let me know how much I owe you.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. You don’t owe me anything, Doreen. I had the silicone already and it’s hardly taken me any time. The worst part of the job is usually removing the old seal, but that came away easily on this occasion. It’s my pleasure to help. Besides, you already baked a cake for me. If it tastes half as good as it smells, I’ll be more than happy with that.’
On my way out of the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of a smiling face I barely recognise as my own. ‘Who are you?’ I mouth silently at my reflection.
The cake is in fact every bit as delicious as I hoped. ‘Goodness me,’ I tell her, sitting on the floral beige fabric sofa in her lounge, which is a mirror-version of my own. ‘Bob wasn’t wrong when he told you how good this was. It could in fact be the best chocolate cake in the world. I can’t remember ever having a better one.’
We chat for a while about various bits and bobs. Eventually, Doreen mentions having spotted the article in the Evening News about me and my haircuts for the homeless. She digs out her copy from under a pile of other papers and magazines on a shelf under the coffee table and shows it to me, like I might not have seen it already.
‘It’s very good of you to do that,’ she says, ‘but don’t they, um … Aren’t they a little bit, er, you know … whiffy? It’s not like they get to wash very often, is it?’
Her question makes me smile. I love how direct and honest people can become when they get older. It’s refreshing in a society where so many folks’ true feelings are often hidden away behind politeness or social awkwardness.
‘You must be annoyed, though,’ she adds before I’ve had a chance to answer.
‘Sorry, I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Annoyed about what?’
‘Them getting your name wrong throughout the article,’ she replies. ‘They keep referring to you as Luke instead of Liam. I was thinking of phoning the paper to let them know.’
I can’t help smiling at this point. ‘Oh, Doreen,’ I say, taking her delicate little hand in mine. ‘I hate to break it to you this way, but my name is Luke. I’m not sure where you got Liam from. You used it so often, I got to the point where I didn’t know how to tell you any more.’
She gasps, holding her other hand up to her mouth. ‘No! Really? How embarrassing.’ Her cheeks flush and then she starts to chuckle. ‘Dear me. What must you think of me, Luke? Oh, that sounds strange. You don’t look like a Luke to me after all this time. I’m going to have to keep saying it: Luke, Luke, Luke. So where did I get Liam from?’
I shrug. ‘Don’t worry about it, honestly. I always found it funny.’
She cuts another fat slice of chocolate cake and plonks it on my plate before I can resist. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ she says. ‘More tea?’
‘You’re spoiling me, Doreen, but go on then. I’ll need something to wash down all this delicious cake, won’t I?’ I wink. ‘It’s as well I’m not watching my figure at the moment.’
As I’m eating some more cake, she nearly makes me choke on it with a particularly blunt serving of directness. ‘I was wrong about more than your name, wasn’t I? I used to think you were an arrogant misery guts who considered yourself better than the rest of us. But now I can see that’s not true at all. You’re a teddy bear beneath that brash exterior. I don’t know what changed to bring out your softer, kinder side, but it’s a huge improvement.’
Cackling, she adds: ‘Your face! It’s true, though. So maybe it’s fitting that I got your name wrong until now. I prefer Luke over Liam one hundred per cent.’
At work the next day, my usually chatty regular Connor shows up, although I can tell something is wrong as soon he enters the barbershop.
He gives me a weak nod and, without saying anything, takes a seat to wait his turn behind a couple of other guys who arrived before him.
Puzzled, as he tends to greet me by name and usually has something to say for himself straight off the bat, I turn away from the wispy blond hair of the heavy smoker currently in the hot seat, and address him directly. ‘Morning, Connor. How are you today?’
‘It’s afternoon now,’ he says in barely more than a whisper. ‘Five past twelve.’
This is a typical Connor comment, but it’s delivered with none of the regular uptight energy and focus. Typically, he reminds me of a coiled spring, but today he’s behaving more like a toy robot whose batteries are about to die.
He’s unshaven for the first time in memory and, when he undoes his coat, I’m surprised to see that his usual sky-blue shirt is covered in creases rather than neatly pressed.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask him.
He shuffles in his seat before replying. ‘I just need a haircut.’
I don’t press him any further for the time being. I assume, based on the countless occasions he’s been in previously, that he’ll start talking soon enough.
‘What are we doing today, Connor?’ I ask when his turn in the chair comes around, fixing the gown in place over him.
‘Whatever you think’s best,’ he replies with zero enthusiasm.
‘Not too short on top, like last time?’
‘Fine.’
Wow. Monosyllabic answers like this aren’t what I’ve come to expect from Connor at all. Something most certainly is going on. I think back to our last conversation and recall him mentioning that his mother was ill. I hope she’s not taken a turn for the worse.
I start work in silence, hoping he might say something unprompted. But when that doesn’t happen, I come out with it. ‘How’s your mum getting on, Connor? I remember you said she had the flu last time you were in.’
He looks straight ahead into the mirror, face reddening and eyes steely. ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘No problem. Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.’
Is he keeping quiet because of the other man who walked in after him, currently glued to his smartphone? Possibly, but that’s never stopped Connor from chatting before. I doubt that guy’s even listening. Whatever he’s looking at on his mobile appears to have his undivided attention.
Could Connor’s mum have been taken into hospital? Flu can be nasty, especially for the elderly and those with underlying health issues. I’ve no idea of her age – I don’t even know her name – but based on various things he’s told me, I’ve always got the impression she’s older rather than younger and probably had him late. As for his father, I’ve no idea. He’s never mentioned him to me, so I assume he’s not on the scene, for whatever reason.
Who have I become? In days gone by I’d have relished the peace and quiet, instead of the usual chitter-chatter, while cutting Connor’s hair. Now I’m behaving like his counsellor. I can’t help myself.
I try to coax him out of his shell another way, by talking about something else. ‘Las
t time you were in, do you remember we spoke about a homeless man I’d seen reading a book?’
Connor nods but still doesn’t look at me, not even via our reflections in the mirror.
‘Something you said to me that day struck a chord. You asked when I thought this man would have last had a haircut. You said you wouldn’t feel human without being able to get one. Does that ring a bell?’
‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘I have an excellent memory. It’s very unusual for me to forget things.’ This sounds more like the Connor I know, although his words are still lacking their usual conviction, delivered in an uncharacteristic mumble.
‘Well, it inspired me, that comment of yours, particularly the bit about not feeling human. It gave me the idea to start running free haircut sessions for the homeless – to help them to feel more human; to give them a reminder of normality and their old lives before living on the streets. I held the second session earlier this week, on Monday, and it proved really popular.’
Connor nods a few times as I talk about this, going on to explain about the articles in the Evening News and Big Issue North, although he doesn’t say much.
‘So, anyway,’ I conclude. ‘Thanks for giving me the idea.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says in a quiet voice. I notice his eyes silently scanning the long counter that runs along the bottom of the mirror in front of us, upon which rest the various tools of my trade. ‘I assume you thoroughly clean everything afterwards.’
‘Absolutely,’ I reply. ‘You’ve nothing whatsoever to worry about there, Connor. Trust me.’
‘Good.’
To my dismay, he falls silent again after this, rather than moving on to talk about his mother. I’m out of ideas and, before I know it, I’m showing him the back of his hair with the hand mirror. ‘How’s that looking?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘What about the top? Short enough or a little more off?’
I ready the scissors, expecting him to say something’s not quite right, but he simply nods and repeats that it’s fine.
How to Save a Life Page 15