Life Without Me

by Anna Legat

  ‘Don’t tell me you also knew Tony first,’ I teased, trying to avert my eyes from her.

  ‘But I did!’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘I wish I was! We go back a long way, Tony and I. I know Tony like the back of my hand. At least, I thought I knew the bastard –’

  ‘How on earth do you know Tony anyway?!’

  Paula shrugged. ‘There was this escort place – not a brothel! A respectable, high-class establishment frequented by influential people who needed intelligent company as much as they needed an occasional recreational fuck with no strings attached. You know the type: married to a boring old bag well past child-bearing age?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, look in the mirror.’ Paula was charmingly disarming. She really needn’t wonder why she had no friends.

  I wouldn’t rise to her insults. ‘So you had a career in prostitution?’

  She winced at the word prostitution. ‘I was sort of experimenting with sex, out of curiosity more than anything else. I was only eighteen – what did I know? I thought I could make a living out of selling my body. It was the only commodity I had after my own family had turned me out …’

  ‘Bollocks!’ I had to protest. ‘Your body is your own business, but what has all of that stuff to do with Tony?’

  ‘I met Tony there.’

  ‘In the brothel?’ So Paula and Tony had met through the sex trade!

  ‘Escort agency!’

  ‘Of course! It’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it?’ I quipped. ‘We seem to sleep with the same men. Hey, as long as it stays in the family.’

  ‘He wasn’t a client, you daft girl! I didn’t sleep with him. He was a boy for rent and I couldn’t afford him. But I fell in love with him – we were so alike … I told him, but I wasn’t a viable proposition for him – we were friends, good friends, and he didn’t want to soil what we had. He trusted me, and that alone was a huge compliment, coming from Tony! Tony doesn’t trust anyone. I was the only one he trusted.’ She thrust her Wimbledon-equipped chest forward and I nodded appreciatively, encouraging her to go on. She didn’t need much encouragement.

  ‘We used to talk a lot, Tony and I, the two musketeers!’ I thought there were three of them, but didn’t dare to point that out to my sister, who was galloping on her high horse into more revelations. ‘We laughed at those old bastards with bloated guts and tiny dicks …’ She paused for a smile at those comforting memories. ‘When I came back to Bristol, I tracked him down. He was a big-shot lawyer by then, but he didn’t change. Not really, not physically, not in any other way. He was still Tony – a lone wolf. I still loved him, and I told him so, again. That was when he told me about you! That was my cherry on top. It was bloody unbelievable! Was Rob not enough for you?!’

  ‘It was just a meaningless fling,’ I assured her.

  ‘Not to Tony. He told me. He could still tell me a secret, and he did the very first day we met after so many years. He told me, and I remember his exact words. He said: “ You know, Paula, if I ever loved anyone, if I ever knew what it was to love someone, it is Georgie. It’s her. How daft is that? The bloody stubborn, opinionated, tits out, bare-knuckles Georgie. No one has ever come close. ” He told me that – in so many words.’

  ‘You’re such a fantasist, Paula! You’ll never come down to earth! And let’s face it, the chance of that happening now that you’re –’ I stopped halfway through the sentence. I shouldn’t be antagonising poor Paula, but I charged on, on the defensive, in denial! I didn’t want to hear it. Frankly, I just didn’t want to be seduced by Tony all over again: I didn’t want to believe he was capable of any feelings, especially for me. I had enough trouble fending off my feelings for him. It had taken considerable skill to convince myself about his callousness, for God’s sake! It was so much easier to think him evil and the author of my misfortune. It was easier to shove him into the I don’t care box. I didn’t want to be obligated to care about him. There were enough people affected by my demise, people I should really worry about. Tony wasn’t going to join that league – I couldn’t allow that. I wouldn’t allow that! I was hell-bent on weeding Tony out of my life… well, whatever was left of it.

  ‘I’ve no reason to flatter you, believe me,’ Paula snorted. ‘Anyway, he also mentioned that love was a highly overrated thing, hardly worth following through, if you must know the minute details.’

  ‘That sounds more like the Tony I know. Still –’

  Before I had a chance to further contemplate the meaning – and reliability – of Paula’s revelation, Etienne emerged on the scene. He caught Tony’s eye straight away, but Tony stayed put. He waited for the boy to come to him. Power games were his favourite pastime. He needed to stay in control, even if his trousers were bursting with a raging erection. Poor, delusional man!

  The boy chatted to the barman; slowly his eyes travelled to Tony’s table. He saw him despite the shadows, recognised him and stiffened. I don’t believe it was the sexual kind of stiffening. The boy was afraid of Tony, not aroused by him. Nevertheless, he composed himself quickly and walked to Tony’s table with a swagger.

  ‘You need me?’

  There was more than a sexual undertone to his question. Etienne was teasing Tony, establishing his new client’s dependency on him.

  ‘Sit down, Etienne,’ Tony said calmly. There was a tiny glint of amusement in his eyes. Etienne saw it too, so he promptly dropped his seductive poise and slumped down in the chair next to Tony, the one only minutes ago vacated by the naked ghost of my sister.

  ‘It’s cold here,’ he said.

  ‘I do need you,’ Tony ignored his observations about the room temperature. ‘I need you to come to my house at six tonight, precisely at six.’

  ‘I can’t, not tonight. We can go now if you like. We don’t have to be quick, but I will have to be gone by five. That gives us plenty of time, I’d think.’

  ‘Six o’clock tonight, I said. There’s a grand in it for you.’

  Etienne’s eyes lit up with greed. He was thinking, weighing up his options. ‘It’s a family occasion. A birthday – my gran’s.’

  ‘Gran will have to wait.’

  ‘I’m happy to go with you now, but not later!’ Etienne looked baffled. What did it matter to the randy old fool if they got on with it now or at six in the evening? Was he going to get harder by six? Was the Viagra kicking in at six and not a minute earlier? The boy’s eyes narrowed. Or was this some sort of premeditated group orgy? Gang rape of a young man by a bunch of twisted old bastards waving antique pistols in his face?

  ‘It’s now or, I’m afraid, I’ll have to give it a miss on this occasion.’

  Tony smiled, ‘Very businesslike. You’ll go far, Etienne, but there won’t be another occasion and I don’t need you now. I need you at six p.m. tonight. There’s a grand in it for you. No sex involved. Just an errand to run for me. You’ll be back to your sweet old granny by eight. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘What sort of errand?’

  ‘You’ll need to drive somewhere, and back.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Then why don’t you ask someone else? A courier?’

  ‘I trust you. I know enough about you to be able to trust you. Consider that a privilege. Or you can consider it a threat: I know enough about you to make your life hell, if you prefer it that way …’

  ‘Just to drive somewhere?’

  ‘I assume you can drive?’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘So?’

  Etienne’s lips were dry. His juicy pink tongue ran over them like an artist’s brush. ‘I’ll be there. A thousand pounds payable in advance?’

  ‘Two hundred now, eight hundred on completion.’

  Rob brought Olivia home! Like a pimply teenager with raging testosterone, he finally decided to turn his wet dreams into reality and get the girlfriend officially domiciled in his bedroom – our bedroom. Except that in their middle-ag
ed world the starting point would be in the kitchen. And Olivia was there, to make the Sunday roast – on a Saturday! She had come equipped with orange Sainsbury’s carrier bags bulging with goodness. Rob carried a few of them himself. They had gone shopping together! What could be more intimate than joint grocery shopping on Saturday morning? What could have more of the ‘when two become one’?

  I shuddered. Even though, in my spiritually enhanced mind, I wished Rob every happiness in his new life sans me, I still couldn’t find it within myself to rejoice. The kids shared my sentiment. They both looked mortified when, at the stroke of one, that cuddly blonde epitome of domesticity waddled into our kitchen laden with shopping bags.

  ‘This is Olivia Pickles, my … my work colleague,’ Rob staggered through the preliminaries, sounding very unconvincing. Uncharitably, I contemplated the chances of Olivia being related to Eric Pickles. That gave me a modicum of consolation. ‘She’s offered – very kindly – to help with our dinner today.’

  ‘I’ve heard of your dad’s many cooking disasters in recent days,’ she chirped in helpfully, clearly oblivious of the stir her entrance into our kitchen had created. ‘I thought the least I could do was come to the rescue. If you don’t mind?’

  The cat, most certainly, didn’t mind. As much as he was a timid creature and never came within stroking distance of me (my refusal to feed the creature may have had something to do with it), he immediately recognised Olivia as a kindred spirit: an indulgent, cat-owning spinster. Intrigued by the smell of raw red meat in the house, he descended from his high pedestal in the lounge and entered the kitchen. He peered at her hopefully. Olivia had made an instant impression: with a purr of seductive foreplay, the feline began its rare ritual of rubbing himself against her legs.

  Emma and Mark gaped wide-mouthed and speechless.

  ‘It was a bit of a surprise for your dad, too!’ She smiled and two enchanting dimples formed in her chubby cheeks. ‘I called him to collect me from the shop. He thought he was just helping, you know, my car broke down or something. Imagine his surprise when I asked him to bring me here.’

  ‘You’re not the first one,’ Mark mumbled under his breath. Rob shot him a warning glance, but it was too late.

  ‘The other day we had this other “auntie” pop over, but she didn’t look like she could cook. I’d say you’re an improvement,’ Emma added cruelly.

  Paula shook with indignation. I found that vindicating, considering that only a few minutes earlier she had been gloating and basking in Rob’s premature betrayal of the memory of me.

  ‘Ah, your Auntie Paula!’ Olivia was impervious to the insults. She was either too stupid to realise they were insults, or she didn’t give a monkey’s. Rob looked like he hoped it was the former.

  ‘I’m useless at cooking. You remember that cheese on toast the other day, and the fireman?’ he said to Emma.

  ‘I remember your cheese on toast; I don’t remember any firemen,’ she replied sharply.

  Olivia was unpacking the shopping: a blood-red joint of beef made it straight to the roasting pan which Rob had produced out of nowhere, astonishing me with his in-depth knowledge of our kitchen cupboard topography. The cat let out something closely resembling a yodel. While working salt and crushed garlic into the meat, Olivia said, ‘I’m very sorry about your mum and I do hope she gets out of it unscathed, somehow … I’m not trying to take her place – I wouldn’t dream of that! I’m just trying to help your dad. Give you lot one square meal in a week. It must’ve been one hell of a week for all of you. Eating was, I’m sure, the last thing on your minds.’

  ‘And the first thing on hers!’ Paula commented. ‘Who the hell is this woman?’ she asked me. ‘Do you know her? Did you know about her? Surely, you don’t believe she’s just a “work colleague”! Or is that what they call themselves these days?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Husband snatchers, who else! Watch out, that’s exactly what she is!’

  ‘And that’s coming from you!’ The meaningful elevation of my right eyebrow went unnoticed by my sister. ‘Of course I know Olivia,’ I lied. ‘She works with Rob. It’s true what he said.’

  ‘You’re either very stupid or very arrogant,’ Paula retorted. ‘They’re having a thing. Are you blind?’

  ‘That may explain why he rejected your blunt advances …’

  ‘You’re such a bitch!’ Paula hissed.

  I was undeterred. ‘Watch closely and learn. This is what men like – a bit of meat on the bone.’

  Olivia was working her meat as if she were a masseur. She was rubbing oil into it, her fingers glistening as they slid up and down, and into every crevice. Rob watched, mesmerised. I dare not imagine what he was thinking those clever little chorizos could do to him.

  Emma watched, too, her face twisted in horror. ‘My stomach,’ she said, grimacing, ‘is still a bit tender. I don’t think I can bear the sight of red meat.’

  Olivia peered at Emma’s skinny frame. She said nothing but her eyes said, ‘Pity!’

  Rob explained, ‘Poor Emma, she threw up last night. All over …’

  ‘I’ll go to my room,’ Emma interrupted the delivery of further details.

  Mark fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘I’m not hungry either. I was thinking of visiting Mum.’

  Visiting Chi, you mean, a nasty little voice whispered in my head. I suppressed it. Whatever their motivation, I was proud of my children. Their affections couldn’t be bought cheaply: certainly not with a joint of meat and a few Brussels sprouts.

  ‘Why don’t we all go and visit Mum after dinner?’

  Rob’s mobile beeped. I was surprised he had it on. So was Paula. What happened to the texts she had sent to him – her cries for help? Why had he chosen to ignore them?

  ‘What do you say? Should we eat first?’ Rob continued, unfazed by the beep.

  ‘Dad, it’s your phone,’ Emma said from the staircase. ‘You’ve got a message.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rob fumbled through his deep pockets. He found the gadget, gazed at it mystified for a few seconds. ‘I keep it on now that … well, a phone call can come from the hospital any time …’ He coughed. ‘Right, there! What do you know? There is a message. Two messages! How do I … let me see …’ He must have pressed the right button. ‘God,’ his head shook as he inhaled sharply. ‘It’s from Paula. I must go. Sorry, it may be nothing, but –’

  At last! I was rid of Paula. She accompanied Rob to her flat to witness the discovery of her body and take careful notes of his reactions. Deep down, she believed there was a sliver of hope that she could be revived. I knew otherwise, but she still had to find out for herself. At least there would now be the spectacle of shock, of grief, friends and enemies remembering this bright but short-lived star – all the things and theatrics Paula held dear. I thought the least I could do was to afford her some privacy in this trying moment. I followed my son to my hospital bedside.

  Indeed, he made it as far as my room, but he wasn’t really there to hold my limp hand. His head swivelled round and round as he searched for Chi. Every time steps resonated on the linoleum of the long, brightly lit corridor, he was up from the chair, poking his head out, looking for her.

  The hospital was busy, as you would expect it to be at the weekend: grapes-and-biscuits-laden visitors threaded uncertain navigation routes amongst hospital wards, looking lost and frightened, peering into rooms, checking bed occupants, sighing with silent relief to find their loved ones still in one piece and holding on to life. Others weren’t so lucky … Next door to me, a woman shrilled. It was either a rat or someone had died. I thought I should check. In a six-bed room, the middle bed on the right was empty. The shrilling woman had thrown herself across it, cuddling a crumpled pillow, whilst other patients watched in silence.

  ‘Oh God … he’s gone …’ She lifted her head from the pillow and gazed around the room, looking for an explanation. ‘When did it happen? The hospital never called –’

  A skinny man with deep-set eyes an
d sunken cheeks spoke from the bed by the window: ‘They’ve taken Ross for a scan. Keep your voice down, madam, I’m trying to read.’ And he picked up a newspaper – the Guardian, I noted; a level-headed and sensible man, then, whose word could be relied upon.

  The woman peeled herself off the bed and stormed out of the room, calling for the nurse. ‘Why are we not informed? There aren’t any communication channels –’

  I heard her shrilling some more, but this time in the nurses’ station. In the relative sanctity of my room, Mark patted my hand and said, ‘Mum, have you seen that Vietnamese nurse today at all? Her name is Chi.’ It was nice of him to share, I thought, it was a sign of growing trust between us.

  ‘I’d better tell you before you find out from someone else: I’m in love with her. I don’t know if you ever felt that way …’ It was a good question, I had to give it to him. Had I ever felt that way? Had I ever been in love? Can you be in love and in control at the same time? Because if you can’t, then, well … I had never lost control. I had always known when to pull back or when to push on. But, I thought, I cared. I cared, and that would have to do for now.

  ‘It’s an odd feeling. It won’t let you sleep at night because you’re anxious not to lose them. You know? Like when you wake up in the morning, will they still be there? I’m shit-scared of losing her. She’s so tiny and so elusive. I suppose you’d say all Vietnamese are tiny and elusive, but she’s the only Vietnamese person I know. The only one I love. I must take care of her. I wish you were conscious at least, so I could introduce her to you.’ He kept patting my hand mechanically as he was breaking out his news to me, and breaking out in a cold sweat as well. ‘But you know her already. You do! She’s that little nurse that comes here every day to check on you. Yep, that’s her: the love of my life. Chi – it means a twig in Vietnamese –’