by Parks, Adele
Jo considered. ‘How long would that have taken?’
‘What?’
‘It might have just been an issue of time rather than indifference. You’d have had to leave the hospital to get a print. Maybe he didn’t want to waste any more time by letting you out of his sight.’
Dean thought about her suggestion. It was possible but not probable. Still, it was possible. He smiled at her. ‘Do you think you can teach me that trick of yours?’
‘What trick?’
‘The one where you insist on seeing the best in people?’
‘I could try.’
Dean let the possibility seep into his brain. He’d previously been impervious to any suggestion that he might be able to think better thoughts or believe in more advantageous, pleasing scenarios. Was it achievable? ‘Hey, there was one big thing.’
‘What was that?’
‘I found out I have two more sisters.’
‘Really?’ Dean knew that Jo was stuck for words. He appreciated the fact that she didn’t assume he’d see this as delightful news, especially as she probably did think a bigger family was a bonus. She had the sensitivity to understand that he might be a little more cautious. ‘Will you get in touch with them?’
‘Maybe. But I’m not sure how much we’ll have in common.’ Dean didn’t want to get his hopes up. ‘They’re kids really. One is still a student, the other is in her early twenties.’
‘How old is your father?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Less than sixty.’
‘Youngish, then. I don’t imagine he is ready to go.’
‘No, I don’t imagine he is. For once he must want to stay. How ironic.’ Dean tried to gather the determination not to be dragged down by the facts. Mentally he had to shrug this off, he had to. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether it even matters any more. Whatever he said, it couldn’t have changed anything. An explanation as to why he left wouldn’t give me back a normal and stable home. An explanation wouldn’t allow me to be a different man.’
Jo gasped. ‘Thank God. I wouldn’t want you to be any other man.’
Well that was good, then. ‘It was a fool’s errand, a wasted journey.’
‘No it wasn’t, it had a purpose.’
Dean read her urgent and insistent gaze. ‘We met.’
‘Exactly. It was fate, and don’t say you don’t believe in fate.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Dean, kissing her. He didn’t believe in fate, but he’d always valued opportunities. He was relieved that she hadn’t tried to pacify him with ill-informed consolations. She did not suggest that his father must love him deep down; she did not presume to know more about the situation than he did. She simply listened, quietly and carefully. He put an end to the discussion, but for no better reason than he wanted to kiss her, more and more and more.
As Dean ran his hands over her waist, her hip bones, her thighs, he began to wonder. Could he make the leap? He was self-aware enough to know that if he were ever to draw up his own to-do list, a list requiring him to move outside his comfort zone, to confront his fears and add a new dimension to his already successful, action-packed, adventurous – although somewhat insular – life, there would be just two things written on it:
Tell someone about my mother
Fall in love
The only two things he’d never tried.
Dean watched as Jo reluctantly climbed out of bed, searched around for something to wear and then went to the kitchen to forage for a drink. She settled on his scruffy sweat pants and a saggy T-shirt, her sexy red dress long since discarded, a crumpled heap by the bed. Other than the light from the hall and the skyline, the room was dark. Dean was losing sense of time, but a glance at the bedside clock informed him that it was nearly midnight. The day had scurried away on a breeze of endless smiles, laughter and conversation. He spent a few minutes enjoying it for a second time, then Jo returned to the bedroom carrying two mugs.
‘I unearthed some tea bags from the back of your cupboard, but we’ve used up all the milk so we’ll have to drink it black.’ She handed him a mug. ‘Careful, it’s boiling and I don’t want you blistering your tongue.’ Her smile was at once concerned and wanton. It was an irresistible combination; they both were aware of what she wanted from his tongue. She tentatively perched on the edge of the bed. Dean was already familiar enough with her to know when she wanted to say something but was struggling to find the right words. ‘So, my flight home is tomorrow evening.’
‘Right.’
‘Then you’ll finally have time to food-shop.’
Dean didn’t know how to reply. He hadn’t really given much thought to tomorrow, or the day after, or the one after that; it wasn’t his habit. However, it now started to dawn on him that he might need to make it his habit. If he was hoping to have a relationship with Jo then planning would be required as she lived a continent away. He was pretty sure he was hoping to have a relationship with her. It was clear she was hoping to have a relationship with him; he wasn’t being especially vain, but women invariably wanted a relationship with him, and Jo had done nothing to hide her enthusiasm about relationships in general, him in particular. There would be complications, of course. He’d need to look into that Skyping business he’d recently read about, and his phone bills would no doubt go through the roof. He wondered whether he had any more European business trips planned. It didn’t really matter; he could afford a couple of flights anyway, and he had a mountain of air miles that he could use. It would be a start.
He had a vague sense that they ought to talk about the logistics, about the future.
‘I was wondering whether …’ He coughed, surprisingly unsure of exactly how to phrase it. ‘Whether we should swap phone numbers,’ he concluded. It was woefully inadequate and he was aware of as much. He looked at Jo, concerned that she might find him lacking. It was strange to suddenly be so unsure around a woman.
‘Definitely. Actually, I’ve just updated the contacts in your phone. I’ve already plugged in my phone number, but mine is a company phone and I guess they’ll soon realise I have it and insist I give it back. I’ll need to set up a new email account too. And because people are always losing their phones, I’ve jotted down my sister’s numbers on that notepad by the fridge. And, erm, her address, you know, in case you wanted to write the traditional way, or send flowers.’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘I left my parents’ number and address as well, although God knows who lives there now. I want you to be able to reach me, and losing touch is so easily done when there’s no fixed abode.’
Dean burst out laughing. His laugh hit the wall and ricocheted around the room. He loved this woman’s honesty. Who else would expose themselves in such a way? She’d left herself open, emotionally naked, so much more daring than physical nudity. She’d put herself at his mercy; she’d done so because she trusted him. Jo grinned back at him. Her grin pushed through her blush; she was blushing as she too was considering who would expose themselves in such a way. Dean shook his head in wonder. Even if keeping in touch was going to be a logistical nightmare, he was sure she was worth it. He kissed her again, a long and lingering kiss.
‘So what shall we do tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Don’t you have to work? It’s Monday.’
‘I’ll bunk off, say I’m ill.’
‘Won’t you get into trouble? What if someone finds out?’
‘Well, I’ll take holiday, then.’
‘You’d use up your leave to go souvenir shopping with your new girlfriend?’
‘So, you’re my girlfriend, are you?’
Jo hesitated. ‘Well, love interest, then.’
‘Love interest,’ Dean mocked gently. ‘Where do you find these phrases?’
‘Do you know, you can be objectionable? What would you like to call me?’
‘Actually, I’m OK with girlfriend or love interest,’ he admitted. ‘Although I am a bit worried about souvenir shopping.’ Jo grinned back; it was a face-splitting smile. She ya
nked off the T-shirt and wriggled out of his sweat pants and clambered back under the covers. Dean realised that she’d needed to be fortified by tea and clothes to have that conversation; now she relaxed and smudged back into him. They lay silently for minutes, and he brushed his hand over her silky hair; it felt good.
‘You know what I was just thinking about?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Your mum.’
‘Oh.’
‘I mean, OK, you are at a dead end in your relationship with your dad—’
‘Literally.’
‘Oh yes, sorry.’ Jo looked as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over her lack of tact. She rushed on. ‘But what about your mum?’
‘It’s too late for a relationship with my mother.’
‘Don’t say that. Tell me more about her.’
Jo turned her sun-kissed – or, more likely considering their location, wind-kissed – face towards Dean. She looked vivid and healthy. She possessed a luminosity that he hadn’t seen in her before. She had an air of excitement around her, the sort of excitement that comes with experimentation. She was experimenting with life and there was nothing finer. Dean knew this from his very many adrenalin rushes. He decided he too needed to take the plunge. The dim, warm room that smelt of sex cocooned him, her brilliance lit his way.
‘She was once a very beautiful woman, certainly on the outside. She had to have been to have hooked Eddie Taylor, who from all accounts – even my mother’s reluctant one – was quite a catch. I can’t remember far enough back to know with any conviction whether she ever glowed on the inside. I suppose that it’s quite possible that she did, once upon a time. I don’t know. If so, he snuffed out any lightness or beauty that she may have possessed. When he slammed the door closed, we all fell into darkness. I suppose it’s equally possible that they were both always irredeemably bad, and like had simply drawn to like. I hardly know which would be worse.’
‘I don’t understand why there was no support, why nobody else stepped in. Weren’t there any other relatives? Someone who could have taken you in or at least helped out before things got so dire?’
‘My mother was an only child and she lost her parents not long after she married Eddie. I suppose I have to recognise how hard it must have been for her when Eddie left. She was isolated. Drinking was a comfort and a substitute for company. There was a great-aunt at one point. I don’t know what happened there. Maybe she died, or maybe my mother drove her away. She did that to a lot of people.’
‘What about your paternal grandparents?’
‘They bailed on us too. I don’t know why. I don’t know whether they were ashamed of their son’s behaviour or whether they backed him; maybe they loathed my mother. Or perhaps two young kids were simply too much work. Our relationship had degenerated into two parcels each a year, Christmas and birthdays, by the time we were taken into care. They visited the children’s home that first night, of course. They had to – the social services called them – but I can’t remember them visiting again.’
‘It doesn’t sound like your mother had much help.’
‘No, she didn’t. Eddie must have known that when he left us for the rich bitch. A woman who ultimately was so in love with her husband, so bound up with her own family ties, that she didn’t even want my father.’ Dean could not hide the bitterness.
‘When did you last see your mum?’
‘Years ago, Jo.’
‘When?’
‘I was fourteen.’
‘Oh, Dean, I think you should call her.’ Jo looked animated. She was awash with the radiance of the newly in love. She didn’t believe any hurdle was insurmountable; she didn’t believe there was a hurt that could not be forgiven, a wound that could not be patched.
‘I can’t,’ said Dean flatly.
‘Of course you can. Don’t be stubborn. I bet she’s dying to hear from you.’
‘No.’
‘Just pick up the phone.’ Jo grabbed the handset of his landline and was holding it out towards him. It was unlikely that he knew his mother’s number off by heart, but she was too excited and animated to consider such practicalities. ‘Things are always salvageable. Think back to the last time you visited her; really, was it that bad?’
‘I remember it very clearly.’
With horrible clarity he remembered the interior of the little red Toyota that the social worker drove. It was an old car but she kept it clean; it smelt of pine air freshener and there were always imperial mints in the glove compartment. The social worker invariably offered them; Zoe would accept, Dean would refuse. He didn’t want anything from the social services, not even a sodding mint, and he wasn’t going to co-operate by allowing her to think she could make him feel even a tiny bit better, as if a mint could do that anyway. On the infrequent and chaperoned visits to their mother’s, he’d keep his hand on the door handle for the entire journey. The moment the car started to slow, as it pulled up outside his mother’s tiny council flat, he’d hastily fling open the door and jump out. He remembered doing exactly the same thing that last time they’d visited.
His mother had moved to Epping by then, into a scruffy, insignificant place. She’d drunk away their house in Clapham and everything in it. She was lucky: at least this new flat had a minute, neglected outside area, although the reality was no one felt comfortable describing the scruffy patch as a garden. She got this perk on account of her having children; the idea was for their time there to be made as pleasant as possible. Dean remembered thinking that they’d need more than a few shrubs and a thin covering of scorched grass to make the visits bearable. That last time he’d noticed that the outside space had been cemented over, suggesting that even the council had given up on the fairy tale that he and Zoe would ever benefit from the fresh air. He’d noticed that weeds had already sprung up through cracks in the cement and he’d almost admired their tenacity. There was a lean-to shelter bolted on to the outside of his mother’s ground-floor flat, a dubious home improvement that was the legacy of a previous tenant; the roof was made of corrugated plastic, which had yellowed with age. Dean could see piles of junk stacked inside, waist-high towers of cardboard boxes and cheap weekly magazines. He also remembered that there was a cracked plastic sledge propped up against the back wall – he’d wondered who it belonged to; he knew it had never belonged to him – and there was the inevitable upturned supermarket shopping trolley. He’d thought, well, at least she’s eating, but in the next moment he realised that the trolley was just as likely to have been used to bring home booze. In the garden there was a skeletal Christmas tree. It was May. It had probably belonged to one of the neighbours. His mother hadn’t celebrated Christmas for years.
He’d run down the path before Zoe had even unfastened her seat belt. The social worker thought it was keenness to see his mother. It wasn’t; he just wanted to check the state of his mother and the flat before Zoe was confronted with either. Just a fraction of a minute was usually enough to work out if Diane was drunk or sober, if the flat was just a pigsty or a distinct health hazard. He always hated pushing open the back door. His mother was not the sort of woman who got much company. That much was betrayed by her eternally grubby cardigan, her lack of make-up and her self-conscious stance. The air in the rooms was always stale, smeared with sweat and cigarette smoke.
‘She’s dead, Jo.’
Silence. There were no words.
‘She killed herself. A cocktail of sleeping pills, vodka and her own vomit. There’s some question whether it was intentional or not. It doesn’t matter, does it? I was the one who found her, on that last visit.’
She often forgot to lock the back door, too drunk to care, too poor for anyone to want to steal anything from her. He’d pushed open the door with the vigour and force of a fourteen-year-old boy. It had cracked against her head as she lay sprawled on the floor. He’d smelt her vomit and her death instantly.
‘No.’ Jo reached out for Dean’s hand and brought it to her lips.
She gently kissed his fingers as he fought the memory of trying to use his too thin, too young body to block Zoe’s view. His shoulders simply hadn’t been broad enough.
‘I almost missed her at first, as weak and pathetic as she’d been. Almost.’ Dean looked embarrassed to admit as much. ‘Then there was more ferocious and extreme anger, but eventually I got past blaming her and hating her. I recognised that she was simply helpless and hopeless. I blamed my father more. Loathed him. But he’s dying now too.’
‘So it’s all over,’ suggested Jo. Was Dean free to love now he could stop hating?
‘It might have been until he told me that there was a particular bitch he left us for, and she’s become the villain of the story. Now I find that even as a grown man, I’m still angry. Ever since my father mentioned this woman, I’ve been consumed with such hatred. I hate someone I’ve never met; someone I didn’t know existed until this week. It’s not civilised. It’s—’
He broke off, unable to say the words ‘It’s unfair’ without sounding like a child. He allowed Jo to slowly kiss his shoulder, his neck and his jaw while he tried to barricade the memory of Zoe’s hysterical screams as he scooped her up and carried her away from the back door; she’d kicked and sobbed, punched out, not at him but at the unreasonable cruelty. He let Jo gently, tenderly kiss his chest, his belly and his cock. He let her climb on top of him and make love to him as he tried to block out the vision of a fly settled on his mother’s cold blue vomit-smeared lips.
And he let her see him cry.
Afterwards, when they were spent, they lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling, holding hands; they were too clammy with exertion to spoon. Dean’s eyelids felt like lead as he started to drift into what promised to be a deep sleep. He was exhausted by his own memories and emotions, but in some ways he felt lighter, safer; more free than he had ever been before.
Jo wasn’t as close to sleep. Her mind was racing. The more details she heard about Dean’s childhood, the more respect and admiration she felt for him and the more grateful she felt for her own easy start in life. Of course she was still shocked and confused about her parents’ revelations, but she’d put that part of her life on hold for now; their fairy tale falling apart didn’t compare to the nightmare Dean had endured or, more importantly still, to the relationship she and Dean were forging. She was beginning to realise that the past wasn’t what mattered; what was important was what would happen next.