State We're In

by Parks, Adele

  Dean raises his eyebrows with scepticism. ‘Go on then. I like a game.’

  ‘Fight Club.’

  He lets out an abrupt short laugh and nods. ‘The first rule of Fight Club is—’

  ‘You do not talk about Fight Club.’

  Dean looks impressed. ‘You’ve seen it?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t tempted, not even to see Brad Pitt’s half-naked, hot body. I know the rule because every man I’ve ever dated has quoted it to me as though it’s some sort of profound truth.’ I grin. Dean nods again; this time his nod communicates understanding, perhaps contentment. Men are an alien species. I was offended when he implied I am predictable, but men are different; Dean is clearly pleased that he’s part of the right club.

  ‘OK. Lucky guess. What are my other favourite films?’ he challenges.

  ‘Hmmm. Let me think. I wonder, are you a Pulp Fiction, The Godfather, Braveheart and Apocalypse Now sort of guy? Someone who thinks of themselves as a bit cool. Or might you prefer The Terminator, Lord of the Rings and The Matrix? A proper lad’s lad.’

  ‘That’s not fair. You’ve named about twenty films to cover your options,’ objects Dean.

  ‘Am I wrong?’ I smile. If there’s one thing I know, it is popular boy-culture. I’ve had lots and lots of conversations like this. Too many.

  ‘No, you’re spot on. But a real pro would make me choose between the various renditions.’

  ‘Well, with the interminable Terminators … Snoring. Boring. Most people pick two, Judgment Day, but I think you might prefer the first one, when Arnie is a bad cyborg.’

  Dean raises his fine eyebrow but doesn’t comment. ‘And the Rocky movies?’

  ‘All five are the same, so I don’t care.’

  ‘No they are not.’ He makes a face to indicate mock offence.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure they are, although you should know when I make this pronouncement that I haven’t actually seen them. Your favourite Lord of the Rings is The Two Towers because of the massive battle scene, and as far as you are concerned, nothing ever touched the original Matrix.’

  Dean laughs out loud; his laugh rings through the cabin. I am suddenly aware that I haven’t heard him laugh until now. He throws out charming (not always convincing) smiles and grins often enough, and makes sounds that approximate a laugh, sounds that certainly indicate he’s amused, but his out-and-out laugh is something different altogether. It’s a wonderful laugh that rings with tones reminiscent of heady nights out dancing and drinking wildly. I’m reminded of the occasions I’ve received a bouquet of flowers and plunged my face into the blooms to breathe in their scent. This particular laugh of Dean’s offers promise; it is earnest and reliable. I feel strangely proud to have been the catalyst. His laugh catches the attention of other passengers too; they throw aggravated or jealous glances our way. I stare them down. I don’t care about these other passengers, who yawn and snooze their way across the Atlantic, not bothering to swap a word; I’d almost forgotten they existed. But I do care about Dean Taylor.

  I don’t mean I care care for him. In a romantic or deep way. Although again, obviously, that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing ever. After all, he is a very sexy, challenging and hot guy, and there was that thing outside the loos, the sexual chemistry thing, but there’s more. Beyond the obviously attractive thing, there’s a sadness about him that’s gripping too. I know exactly what’s going on here. I’ve been here often enough. If it wasn’t for Martin and my plan to stop the wedding, I’d be in danger of really falling for Dean. Extreme danger. But there is Martin and a plan, so I’m fine. Just fine.

  The point is, the other passengers, with their disapproving looks, can go to hell. We are not doing anything wrong; it isn’t as though we’ve joined the mile-high club under the blanket.

  Where did that thought come from? I mean, I wouldn’t.

  Well, probably not.

  No, of course I wouldn’t. I’m flying towards Martin. Martin, Martin, Martin. I say his name over and over again in an attempt to remain focused. If I seem confused or flighty, it’s worth remembering that I’ve drunk quite a lot of free champagne on this journey. Besides, I haven’t been in the habit of thinking about Martin for five years now, and I have been very much in the habit of considering quickies with hot, available strangers.

  ‘Have you noticed no one ever asks about five favourite books?’ comments Dean.

  ‘Not on a date, at least. Not that we’re on a date,’ I hurriedly add.

  ‘But it doesn’t come into conversation in the same way as movies do.’

  ‘Books are so much more personal than films.’

  ‘They are, aren’t they? I wonder why that is.’

  I have thought about this before. ‘I think it’s because the relationship you have with a book is like a private dialogue, while watching a movie is more like an open conversation.’

  ‘You’re right. Sometimes it’s just too hard, too personal to explain why you like a book.’

  I pause, then add, ‘More personal than the fact that you know I want to stop my ex marrying another woman?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So what are your favourite books?’

  Dean considers. The silence sits comfortably between us this time and I don’t rush him. ‘If I had to pick five, which is hard because I like tons of books, then I’d pick Rudyard Kipling’s Kim, Dickens’s Great Expectations, Harry Potter—’

  ‘All seven?’

  ‘I’ll take the first and the last, and The Kite Runner.’

  ‘OK, I’m impressed.’

  ‘You thought I only read graphic novels, didn’t you?’

  I had thought that. ‘Do you want to hear mine?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I’m startled, but before I can take offence, he adds, ‘But I would like to hear about the five best moments of your life.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow, I’ve never been asked that before. I’ve never thought about it before.’

  I wonder why he’s asked this. Is it because he has a longing to crawl inside my soul? Unlikely. He’s a man. Is he is simply passing the time of day? Possibly. This might be something he asks everyone he meets, a sort of party piece. I once came across a guy who knew the periodic table musical hall song by heart and he insisted on singing it to everyone he met. I literally came across him, even though this was his party piece; the thought depresses me. I heard him recite his song endlessly. It’s surprising how often the words ‘There’s antimony, arsenic, aluminium, selenium, And hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium’ still come to my mind, always bobbing about in a catchy little rhythm. Most likely Dean’s question about my memories is simply the equivalent. Still, I give it due thought.

  ‘I know what I am supposed to say.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Something along the lines of the moment I graduated, the moment I got my first job, when I went skinny-dipping in Lake Garda—’

  ‘You’ve been skinny-dipping in Lake Garda?’ Dean raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Once.’ I flush slightly. ‘I know that’s the sort of thing I’m supposed to say, but memory isn’t like that, is it? Well, at least not for me.’

  ‘So how is it for you?’

  ‘My memories of good times are very blurry. They’re very old.’ I don’t like the way that came out; it doesn’t sound true enough. I try to be clearer. ‘There have been lots of good times, don’t worry about that,’ I add apologetically. ‘It’s just hard to be specific, to rank and record. I have impressions and feelings of periods of time rather than exact days. Mostly my best memories are connected with my childhood. My childhood is golden.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You rarely hear that.’

  I laugh. He’s always joking. Everyone had a golden childhood, right? Adulthood is the bitch. ‘I can’t remember it raini
ng, or at least hardly ever. I remember it as an endless series of picnics on the common or sometimes further afield.’ I close my eyes and sink back into the plush chair. ‘I remember the sensations clearly. The feel of the tartan rug we sat on – itchy but warm from the sun. The sound of a bee buzzing past my ear and the taste of biting into a salted tomato salad. The juice squirting round my mouth, the pips and flesh slithering down my throat. I remember visiting castles, energetically yomping up the hills to reach the ruins before my brother or sister did. I can still smell the mud and fresh grass.’ I rush on as something else wonderful comes to mind, ‘And I remember picking raspberries with my family. We’d drive out of Wimbledon to some Surrey farm or other. We’d fill punnet after punnet with far more than we needed; the ones in the bottom of the punnets would be squashed because of our greed, but then we’d go home and make jam. I remember the punchy ruby and amethyst colours and my mum’s yellow gingham apron. I must have been very young when she wore that, because I remember one day needing comfort – although I don’t remember why: a fall maybe, or a spat with one of my siblings – and I pushed my head against her body and I only reached her apron-clad belly. I surreptitiously wiped my nose on it.’

  I giggle at the memory. I open my eyes to check that Dean is still listening and I haven’t lost him. He’s staring at me with a deep and obvious intensity, clearly drinking in every word. I am torn between feeling flattered and wondering whether I have something smeared on my face. People rarely find one another this interesting.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘What are your happiest childhood memories?’ Dean snaps his gaze away from mine immediately. All of a sudden he looks exhausted, ashen and deflated. His eyes are vast chambers but I sense the doors are locked. I once visited a pet rescue centre with a friend. All the dogs looked distant and isolated even when they were sharing a cage, even when they were licking your hand. Dean wears a similar look. I try to pull him back. ‘Have you ever given it any thought?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t have any happy childhood memories,’ he says flatly.

  ‘None?’ I can’t imagine how this can be the case. Surely he’s exaggerating. ‘There must be one.’

  ‘No. There really isn’t.’

  21

  Clara

  Clara had packed her suitcase with a prevailing air of calm and organisation – that bit hadn’t been tricky; she was an efficient and practised packer – and then she’d booked into a wonderful just-out-of-town (let’s-pretend-it’s-the-country) spa, the one that she had visited twice a year for eight years. Normally she spent exactly four days and three nights there, just after Christmas and immediately before their summer break. For those four days she rigidly would follow a low-cal, low-carb diet, have a daily massage, an early-morning swim and a pre-lunch walk and attend an evening yoga class. She’d read a lot in the hours in between and have her nails painted. This time she booked a one-week stay. She told the receptionist that she would not be following any of the diets on offer and that she didn’t need a manicure. She had no plans after that.

  Clara sat on the bed and wondered whether she could possibly summon the energy to join the pre-lunch walk around the beautiful and extensive grounds. She really ought to. Fresh air and deep breaths were what she needed right now, but she found she was frozen to the spot. Her tiny body seemed at once leaden and frail.

  What had she done? She had left Tim. After all this time. She was no longer a wife. Well, technically she was, she supposed, but she was separated from her husband and so the world would no longer see her as one. Of course the world was blind; Clara had not been a wife for years.

  Clara had sat, ramrod straight, all morning on the bed in her small but smart room. Her back ached, and she wanted to lie down, but when she checked her bedside clock (one of those awful electric things with bright red intrusive digits), it was eleven thirty-five a.m.; after eleven it was too late to pretend it was a lie-in and too early for a nap. Naps were for the afternoon, and only then on holidays. Besides, she feared that if she lay down, she might never get up again, as she had held herself up for such a very long time and always done the proper thing; well, at least up until walking out on her husband. She wondered whether she was capable of holding herself up for even a day longer, even a minute.

  What was she going to do next? Money was not her problem. She was certain that Tim would be elegant and generous; he wouldn’t want a fuss. But how would she fill her time? She was far too old for a career; that went without saying. Besides, what would she do? She wasn’t qualified for anything and she had no experience. Clara had never had a career; she’d barely had a job. She’d left school at eighteen with three A levels; although her father said home economics really didn’t count, she had disagreed. The thought of it, the delicious thought of disagreeing with any man, let alone her father, momentarily cheered Clara; it took some effort to remember that she had once been a rebel of sorts. The quiet sort, but even so there had been fight in her, there was dissent. She’d enrolled at college to do a BTEC in catering and business studies, because back then, long ago, she’d harboured dreams of running her own catering company. It hadn’t happened, obviously. She’d met Tim on her first bout of Christmas holiday work experience and he’d derailed her.

  The firm that she was working for had been supplying canapés for a reception at the bank where Tim was employed. Most of the braying bankers had treated the waitresses as though they were invisible, genderless robots; never making eye contact or saying thank you. Tim had been the exception. He had flirted with Clara all evening, practically following her around as she distributed mushroom and Stilton tarts. By the end of the party, she’d given him her number. They’d had a brief but intense relationship and were married within a year of that meeting; she was pregnant within a couple of months of the wedding bells chiming. They’d both agreed she didn’t really need to work. Even a relatively junior salary in the City could keep them comfortably.

  Her mother had asked her, ‘What’s the rush?’ Clara couldn’t quite remember now, but she had been engulfed by a sense of urgency at the time. Perhaps she was fed up of her father bossing her about; all fathers were imposing, controlling and demanding in those days and it was tiresome. Or perhaps she’d simply been flattered that Tim had pursued her with such force and certainty. It had taken her many years to understand what had motivated his vigour and determination; he’d thought she might be a cure at best, a cover at least. Neither of them had understood what he was; it had taken Eddie Taylor to make it clear.

  Eddie Taylor. She soothed his pain. He set her on fire. Even now, as an old woman, his name caused an instant swell of lust to flood through her body. It was pitiful. It was pitiless. After the girls were born, Clara and Tim’s sex life had stumbled. To be honest, at the time she’d been quite grateful that he wasn’t bothering her; so many of her girlfriends struggled to juggle the demands of tiny babies and husbands who threw tantrums as though they were children themselves if they felt pushed out or neglected. Clara had thought Tim was the perfect gentleman, but then the sexless weeks turned into months, months stretched on for years. He’d barely touched her throughout her twenties; it was a sad, lonely time. Clara didn’t tell a soul about their marital problems. Tim was such a good husband in every other way; an attentive father, a good provider. She hadn’t understood it. He seemed to like spending time with her and the children, talking to them, playing with them, laughing with them, being with her. Except in that way. She’d been far too embarrassed to tell anyone. People didn’t talk about things then. Not the way they did now.

  One of her friends had watched her shrink, disintegrate under the neglect, and suggested she brush up on her typing skills, perhaps learn shorthand and get a job. It was the late seventies and women were wearing their skirts short and their hair long; working was seen as fun and fashionable. They didn’t need the money – everyone agreed on that – but she did need the company, her closest friends would
admit as much. Tim had encouraged her, been as supportive as ever. He’d helped her pick out a new wardrobe: flares and hot pants, tops that tied just under her breasts. They both thought that sexy, hip clothes were required for a junior secretary to the head of comedy at the BBC.

  She’d met Eddie Taylor within the first thirty minutes of arriving at the Beeb; she’d known instantly that she was done for. He’d looked at her and in one glance he’d flattened her, razed her semblance of propriety and exposed her as an animal. She’d never experienced anything like it before or since. His glance had detonated a riot of conflicting emotions. Effervescent shards of delight blew away all sense of the decorum she’d previously lived by; the devastating notion that decency was shattered sent a splinter to her heart. Her body betrayed her. She trembled. She wasn’t sure if it was anticipation or fear.

  His eyes were unreasonable. The Ministry of War ought to have commandeered them as a weapon, because every woman he ever met was left defenceless under his gaze. Blue, sky blue, sparkling with possibility, irresponsibility and lust. No girl had so much as a moderate chance at apathy. He was physically magnificent. He had dark, brooding looks, like a hero in a gothic novel. He was big and brutal. He was raw and rude. Far too attractive for his own good, or anyone else’s come to that. He was broad, muscular, athletic. Clara didn’t understand at first; she couldn’t explain why her body leant towards his when he walked into a room, why she sagged when he walked out of it. She had never experienced sexual attraction before. She had no idea of the benefits. She had no idea how it would feel to be the recipient of his attentions, and then to be bereft.

  She resisted him for three months. He told her no woman had ever held out so long. Once they had slept together, it seemed to her that she’d never resist anything ever again. He crawled up under her skin, he consumed her. She was at his mercy.

  But he had none.

  Clara sighed at the too raw memory and glanced at the clock again. Eleven thirty-nine. The minutes crept by. She watched the gaudy digits for an eternity, until the clock reported that it was eleven forty. She sighed deeply and summoned every scrap of energy she had hidden in the depths of her body to push herself to her feet. She wandered to the window and glanced out; she could see one or two of the keener guests gathering near the lawn for the walk. They had sticks and water bottles, although Clara knew from experience that such aids were unnecessary; it wasn’t a hike, just an hour’s stroll to enhance appetites. Still, she envied the walkers as they exuded purpose. Clara had her walking shoes with her, but where would she find the energy to change into them and then participate? She wanted to cry. The window was surprisingly grimy, and the dirt seemed to create a barrier between Clara and the energetic, outdoorsy types. She felt she was drowning in a damp mist. She could not focus or concentrate. It was probably shock. She ought to eat something. She should ring for some room service. But she couldn’t remember how to do that exactly. She didn’t know what words she would use.