Eventually Daniel resorted to the old trick of taking his mobile to the toilet, phoning Andy, and requesting a ring-back five minutes later, which he’d be able to pass off as an emergency.
The ruse worked, with Daniel just managing to say, ‘Locked out? . . . You’re joking . . . OK, I’ll be right there,’ with a straight face, while Andy sang into his ear an impromptu song about Nick’s designs on Daniel’s body.
Within four days, Daniel had concluded that Matt, Andy and Nick, in their own different ways, were all somehow pitiable. Though Matt and Andy were doing what they wanted to be doing – in fact, doing what they had always done – the fun now seemed to have gone out of it. What had been exciting in their twenties, and what Daniel had often feared leaving behind too early, suddenly had overtones of habit and compulsion. All three guys had a drug of choice – casual sex, alcohol or self-pity – that had once been a hobby but was now a crutch. Though they would never admit it, Daniel suspected they were all a little bored, but had got so used to pursuing their respective passions that they could no longer remember how to do anything else.
Daniel had been afraid that making the final commitment to a woman – agreeing to have a baby – would condemn him to a life ruled by routine and habit. He now saw that perhaps this was what happened anyway, regardless of whether you were alone or in a couple. The choice was between your own habits and negotiated joint habits. The latter might have its frustrations, but at least it kept you alive, kept you sane, and kept you moving forwards.
Daniel suddenly saw how the choice was easier than he thought. He didn’t need any more time. He wanted to be with Erin, right then. He didn’t want to wait another minute. He loved her, he needed her, he wanted to have children with her, he wanted to grow old with her. Life without Erin would be empty and pointless. There was nothing further to think about.
It was after eleven o’clock. Erin would be in bed. But for this, she wouldn’t mind being woken up. She had waited years for him to reach this point; he shouldn’t make her wait a moment longer. He’d get straight in a cab.
There are moments in life when a mist lifts, and the future suddenly seems navigable and habitable and clear and good. He had to share this feeling with her while it was fresh. She’d understand. She’d look in his eyes, and she’d see that all reservations and doubts had evaporated. He wouldn’t even have to explain. It had taken him more than a month of thought to reach this point, but she’d understand what had happened in an instant. She knew him, she really knew him, so she’d know this. He’d go through the door, run up the stairs and slip straight into bed with her, up against the hot, private warmth of her skin. It was time for babies. It was time for the next thing. Together.
Carol and Matt
one who’d turn up in a public place
Matt was having difficulty concentrating. He was supposed to be coming up with ideas for the Torquay Tit-a-thon piece, but his heart wasn’t in it. All he’d done in the two hours he’d been sitting at his desk was tinker with his email, without actually sending or receiving anything of any importance or interest. Someone sitting ten yards away had sent him a jibe about the not entirely heterosexual cut of the T-shirt he was wearing, and he had passed a good half-hour trying to think of a riposte. In the end he resorted to ‘I can see you picking your nose’, which compensated with accuracy for what it lacked in wit. Feeling pleased with himself, he then sent it again, copied to everyone in the office. That would teach people to criticise his clothes.
The sudden piercing buzz from his phone gave him a start. He had temporarily forgotten who he was, where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. More than an hour had passed since the nose-picking email, but he had no awareness of how he had filled the time. His mind was utterly blank, in a manner that can only be achieved by office workers and zen masters.
‘It’s your mother,’ said Yvonne, the receptionist. ‘You want the call?’
‘I’m busy,’ said Matt. ‘Say I’m in a meeting. Actually, no. I’ll take it.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Yvonne, which Matt assumed constituted mockery of some kind, but he didn’t quite know how. He didn’t really know why he was taking the call, either. He had a vague inkling it might be because he was curious to hear what she had to say, but that seemed unlikely. Surely things couldn’t have come so far.
‘Hello, darling!’ trilled Carol. She sounded happy. She sounded as if she liked him. Matt was stumped. Everything she had done since arriving at his apartment had taken him by surprise.
‘How are you?’ she said.
‘Fine. Fine.’
‘What are you up to today?’
‘Just working.’
‘Of course. Of course. What about this evening?’
‘Oh, there’s a party I have to go to. It’s the launch of a new aftershave.’
‘The what?’
‘The launch of a new aftershave.’
‘The what of a new aftershave?’
‘The launch. Of a new aftershave.’
‘You’ve lost me.’ Carol often found with Matt that his words individually all had a comprehensible meaning, but he put them together in an order that simply baffled her. She must have been mishearing him. The launch? Of an aftershave?
‘What do you mean, I’ve lost you?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’
‘How many times do you want me to say it?’
‘Did you really say, "launch"?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s a party. A PR thing. When there’s a new product, they have PR launches where press people are invited.’
‘Why?’
‘For publicity. Mum, I’m busy. I don’t have time to explain the twenty-first century to you right now.’
‘Well, can I come?’
‘Come where?’
‘To the party.’
‘Er, no. That’s not really how it works.’
‘Where’s it happening?’
‘At a club on Leicester Square.’
‘I can get to Leicester Square. It’s on the Tube.’
‘I know you can get there, Mum, but you’re not invited. This isn’t like a normal party. You don’t just turn up with your friends and family. There’s a guest list, and you have to reply, and they tick your name off as you go in. You’d hate it anyway. It isn’t really a party. It’s just work. I shouldn’t have said it was a party.’
‘So are you going for fun, or because you have to?’
‘Because I have to.’
‘What – you’ll be in trouble if you don’t go? With your boss?’
‘Mum, I’m busy. There are things you just have to do. I’ll see you later. I’ll be late. Don’t make dinner for me.’
‘OK.’
‘Bye.’
Bye.’
He had to get rid of her. This wasn’t healthy. The most worrying aspect of all was that he was beginning to get used to her. If he reached the point where it felt normal to be living with his mother, he’d have to either kill himself or grow a beard and take up bird-watching.
Carol put down the phone and looked dolefully around the flat. She was feeling at something of a loose end. Then she caught sight of the skirting-boards.
She filled a bucket with soapy water and plucked a fresh J-cloth from the ten-pack she had bought on her first day at the flat. She put on her rubber gloves, knelt and began work beside the front door. While scrubbing the grey skirting-boards, which turned out to be white, as she had suspected, she found that she could not get her mind off Matt’s party. She had learnt more about him in the last two days than she had in the previous decade, but there was still some way to go. A party, where she’d be able to watch him unobserved, and see how he interacted with women, presented a fascinating opportunity.
If she went, if she just turned up at Leicester Square, what was the worst thing that could happen? Maybe she wouldn’t find the place. Maybe they wouldn’t let her in.
Neither of those was so bad. It would make for a fun trip. It would be better than sitting alone all evening in Matt’s soulless, bookless flat, with its TV so big and complicated that it took three remote controls to operate it. By the time Matt had finished explaining to her how to change the channel, she’d already forgotten how to switch it on. Certain kinds of information simply refused to take root in her brain. Besides, the screen was so large, she felt sure it would give her a headache.
She tried to think of an excuse for why she might just happen to be passing through Leicester Square at the appropriate time. Nothing plausible came to mind, but how she explained it away to Matt was not yet the issue. She could worry about that later. The priority now was finding the party, and trying to get in.
Normally, she would never have dreamt of doing such a thing, but this week, the notion of normality didn’t apply. Her job for the week was to find out more about her son, and this was a precious opportunity. The only reason for not going was fear.
She had never tried to gatecrash a party in her whole life, and she could only think of one person who might have done. She picked up her phone and scrolled to Helen’s number. She had promised herself she wouldn’t phone the others, but this wasn’t about encouragement or moral support, or for any comparisons of success and failure – this was for practical advice. She needed help.
‘Helen? It’s Carol,’ she said, her voice high and hesitant.
‘Carol! Are you in?’
‘I’m in. It was easy. What about you?’
‘Not so easy,’ said Helen. ‘But I’m here. He hasn’t kicked me out yet.’
‘Have you heard from Gillian?’
‘I texted her. She’s in, too.’
‘Three out of three!’ said Carol. ‘How amazing! And are things going well with you?’
‘Turns out he lives in a gay commune, and told Larry about it years ago. So I haven’t been bored.’
‘Heavens! Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Helen. ‘How are things going with you?’
‘Strange. Matt’s how I always knew he was, but up close it all seems a lot worse.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘His flat’s filthy. You should see the skirting-boards.’
‘If Paul’s skirting-boards were my biggest worry, I’d be a happy woman.’
‘I was ringing to ask your advice. I’m anxious about Matt’s . . . well, his taste in women seems a bit . . . sordid. How bad would it be for me to follow him to a party tonight? Without him knowing. To see how he behaves. To find out . . . you know . . . the scale of the problem.’
‘Do it.’
‘You think?’
‘You have to go. We’re never going to do this again, are we?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘So we might as well do it properly. We’ve come this far – there’s no point in being half-hearted, is there?’
‘Maybe not.’
‘Of course not. Do it, Carol. You have to go.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I’ve got to dash. Paul’s taking me for lunch.’
‘How lovely.’
‘Mmm. We’ll see.’
‘Helen? Before you go . . .’
‘What?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me . . . how to get in.’
‘Get in where?’
‘To the party. Matt’s party.’
‘Just go.’
‘But I’m not invited.’
‘Oh! You’re asking me how to gatecrash?’
‘I mean . . . I’m sure you’ve never . . . I don’t mean to be rude . . . I just thought you might know how.’
‘Of course I have. Who hasn’t?’
‘Er . . . me.’
‘Carol. You’re a woman. It’s the easiest thing in the world. You smile; you flutter your eyelashes; you walk in. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I promise. Have to go. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
Carol hung up and immediately phoned Gillian, who was even more adamant that Carol should follow Matt to the party. ‘If he’s a pervert, you need to know about it,’ was how she summed up the issue, which wasn’t exactly soothing but did help ginger her into action.
Carol looked through her clothes for a vaguely celebratory outfit, but was surprised to discover that she had barely brought a single thing with her that wasn’t brown or beige. Her wardrobe for the week wasn’t so much autumnal as positively muddy. After several attempts, checking herself each time in a huge full-length mirror that she found in Matt’s bedroom, she finally settled on a biscuit-coloured linen suit jazzed up with a lilac scarf.
* * *
It was many years since Carol had been to Leicester Square. The area had become far glitzier and cleaner since her last visit, but at the cost of no longer seeming real. The buildings looked more like lurid façades designed to hide something than actual three-dimensional structures. The place reminded her of women who react to getting older by slapping on more and more make-up.
Tourists surged around in waves, mostly looking a little bemused, perhaps wondering what it was they were supposed to be looking at. Carol did a circuit of the square and was surprised to find there was only one place that appeared to be a nightclub. A vertical banner hung over the entrance, saying DYNAMITE. Huddles of smartly dressed people were arriving, being ticked off a list at the door by a primly pretty girl wearing a tight black T-shirt bearing the slogan, ‘It’s Dynamite’.
This was clearly the venue. It had never occurred to her that finding the party would be so easy. As she had set off from Matt’s home, she hadn’t really thought she’d find what she was looking for. The trip was only really intended as a harmless jaunt to get her out of the flat. Now here she was, faced with the opportunity of actually going in.
Her first instinct was to turn round and head straight back, but she reminded herself that this was a special week. For the moment, she was not really herself. Just temporarily, she was a stronger, braver self, in pursuit of a higher purpose for which the usual niceties and weaknesses had to be laid aside.
She smiled at the bouncers, who didn’t smile back – they looked as if they didn’t know how – and strode with her best impersonation of self-confidence towards the woman with the clipboard.
‘I’m here with Matt Walker,’ said Carol. ‘I’m his guest. He’s the editor of . . .’ (she had trouble making herself say it) ‘of . . . BALLS! magazine.’
The woman ran her finger down her list and stopped at Matt’s name.
’There’s no plus one,’ she said.
Carol had to think on her feet. She had no idea what this meant, but the word ‘no’ in the woman’s answer seemed like a good enough clue.
‘Well there should be. That’s the thing. His PR–or his PA – his P-something was supposed to ring up today and do that. I was promised that there would definitely be a plus with the one and that it would be me. I’m his mother. Carol Walker. I can show you some identification. I’ve got a library card in here somewhere. It’s the same surname. It’s very important. Because I’m supposed to be writing an article. It’s for publicity. It’s a publicity article. About the aftershave. About Dynamite. And I’m supposed to come here and write about how the aftershave is . . . is setting sail. An older woman’s perspective. Comparing aftershave now to what men used to wear when I was young. How men impress women through the ages. That kind of thing. And it’s going to be illustrated with lots of publicity pictures of the aftershave. And lots of . . . of . . . young girls with big bosoms . . . holding the aftershave.’
The woman appeared to be having difficulty keeping a straight face. Carol, who felt confident she was demonstrating considerable expertise on the subject of contemporary journalism, had no idea why.
‘In you go,’ said the woman, with a wave of her clipboard.
‘Oh, thank you so much. You’re very kind.’
‘Enjoy it.’
‘I’m sure I will.�
�
As Carol walked away, she heard what sounded a little like an eruption of laughter behind her, but she thought it was only dignified to walk away without looking back.
She went through a pair of double doors and down a short staircase with leather-covered banisters, lights embedded in the floor and no carpet. Through another pair of doors, she walked into a cacophony of sound that hit her like a bucket of water in the face. The room was filled with people who were all, self-evidently, from the same tribe, a tribe that Carol had never previously come across. These were people whose clothes shrieked MONEY! or POWER! or BREASTS!, or all three. Even the hair (male and female) looked expensive, swirled and sculpted in ways that weren’t designed to survive a night in bed. If anyone in this room suffered from self-doubt, they had checked it in at the door with their coat.
These were Matt’s people. This was his world. Carol had never seen anything like it. Her efforts to dig out her very best outfit and blow dry her hair so carefully suddenly seemed a little futile. She didn’t feel intimidated, though. In fact, she felt comfortably invisible. The place was so strange that she had the sensation of walking through a sort of televisual hologram. These people just did not seem real. The idea of one of them noticing her or talking to her seemed as unlikely as someone in EastEnders poking their head out of the TV to demand that Carol put on the kettle.
In an attempt to dispel this unsettling sensation, Carol took a glass from the laden tray of a passing waiter. The waiter didn’t look at her or say anything, but the drink was real enough. She could feel it in her hand, cold and moist with condensation. She tasted it, and it really was a drink, a genuine liquid that she could taste and swallow, but of what sort she had no idea. It was sweet and alcoholic, though the ingredients were unfathomable. Even the colour was impossible to discern in the dim swirl of blue-tinted half-light.
In a contented state of dream-like curiosity, Carol wandered happily around the party, watching the show. Whatever this drink was, it was good. Before she knew it, she was lunging at another waiter, trading her empty glass for a full one.
Otherhood Page 11