‘Seems I can’t,’ I said. ‘As she’ll just turn up anyway.’
‘But you’re a grown-up now; you could cut yourself off from her if you wanted.’
‘I could,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘but I keep hoping my real mother will come back.’
‘She used to be a good one?’
‘Yes, she did. A long time ago.’
‘I’m sorry she thinks she’s Marilyn Monroe,’ repeated Mac.
‘Well, nobody’s perfect,’ I said, with a wink, mimicking the last line of the film and lightening the mood to a shade I was happy with. ‘What’s next on The List?’
‘The Witches of Eastwick,’ said Mac. He got up and headed for the projection room to retrieve the reels.
‘Ooh, I love that,’ I said. I’d seen it last year. ‘How exciting.’
‘But I haven’t got the print of it yet. It’ll have to be next term.’
Next term, next term … I hated the way my life was divided into Term Time and Hell; life interspersed with a slow death. I only existed for the terms; all those other weeks were just a waste of time, space to be filled, somehow, before I could live again. Slave to the calendar, with alarming regularity it plotted against me, reducing me to a surly, aggrieved lump just waiting, waiting, waiting. I soaked up every minute of the rest of that spring term, often willing time to pause, just for a second, so I could hold it in my hand and squeeze it so tightly it couldn’t escape.
And then the Easter holidays crept up, like one of the slugs on our damp living-room floor in Leamington. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to crawl back to Dad and Marilyn to have to wait, wait, wait all over again. I begged Mac to meet me in the holidays again, anywhere he liked, but, one afternoon in his flat, he told me he was going on a trip with Helen. A trip! Where? To Paris. Romantic bloody Paris, for three whole weeks. I was incensed, I kicked out, I lashed out, I screamed at him that we should be going to Paris, not him and her, that I couldn’t live without him in the weeks apart, that I simply couldn’t bear it, and he should feel like that too, and why didn’t he? Why didn’t he? Why was he going on a trip?
He tried to joke and say he had wanted to go to America, to cowboy country, but he had been overruled by his Francophile wife. This didn’t help me. I kicked off again. I said he should say he didn’t want to go, lose his passport, invent a conference somewhere or something. I wanted to say I loved him, but I didn’t dare. I told him I hated him. And then, when I was contrite, I sat in the corner of his room, near the standard lamp and in a very small, meek voice begged him to forgive me for my outburst and made him promise me we could carry on after the holidays, just as we were. That’s all I wanted, just to carry on.
While Mac and Helen were traipsing around iconic Paris landscapes in matching Alain Delon trench coats, I decided to get myself a holiday job, to get me out of the house if nothing else. I got a job in Boots developing photos and I thought as it was a job based on photography, it might be kind of interesting, but it was far from interesting or glamorous. How glamorous is developing photos of screeching babies in paddling pools, dumb families standing in front of castles eating ice creams and a bloke sitting in the front of a dirty lorry doing a thumbs-up? There were no arty black-and-white shots, no art at all – just banal family life and, once, a whole series of pictures of the junctions of the M25, taken from inside a car. The only exciting moment was when a photo emerged of a naked man slapping a woman dressed in a maid’s outfit with a swing ball racket, and, as she looked like she wasn’t enjoying it, my boss called the police.
The summer term was like a beacon on my horizon. A hot ball of happy fire waiting for me in the distance. Day by day I flew towards it, like Icarus. Summer was my time, anyway. My happy season. I loved the sun on my face, feeling hot; wearing fewer clothes. Last summer had been magical, lying in Mac’s bed, the heavily leaved branch languidly swiping against his open window in a soft breeze. And we could meet in the summer holidays again, couldn’t we? Surely there would be no trip that could take up all those weeks? I had all sorts of plans. The first of which, when we arrived back on 23 April, was persuading Mac to come with me to the lido at Finchworth.
‘Really? Do we have to?’ he complained.
‘Summer’ had arrived early; the first Saturday of term was blisteringly hot and students were stripping off down by Tocil Lake and dangling their feet in the water, or strolling round campus in shorts and T-shirts and sandals. I wanted to go to the lido and lie by the pool. Feel the sun on my back. And I wanted Mac there with me.
‘You never want to leave campus! You’re such a stick-in-the-mud.’
‘I don’t like swimming pools,’ said Mac.
‘You don’t have to go in.’
‘I’ll get splashed.’
‘Now you sound like a baby. We don’t have to go near the edge.’ I saw Mac give a small shudder. ‘You’re such a wuss! Come on! Let’s go. It’s far enough away that no one will see us there and I’ll be in a bikini and wearing heart-shaped sunglasses like Lolita.’ I was reading it, bored of the books on my course. ‘And I’ll pack plenty of snacks. Please!’
‘I don’t swim,’ Mac said.
‘You don’t need to,’ I’d replied. ‘We’ll just lie there. It will be … sexy.’
I did have a certain image of this encounter in my mind: me looking all cute in my tie-side bikini, Mac rubbing carrot oil into my back, the sun dazzling our eyes and making us both look gorgeous.
‘OK,’ Mac finally conceded. ‘I’ll come, but I will just lie there.’
We drove there in Mac’s red MG, breezing past a busy hitching point with me cowering in the passenger seat, my head low to avoid detection. He fished a tape from his glovebox and put some God-awful music on his tape player. Glen Campbell or some other old fart. Country music; I was not impressed.
‘What do you mean this is shit?’ Mac laughed. We had the top down and his hair was flip-flapping across his forehead; mine was unrestrainable. ‘“Rhinestone Cowboy” is one of the best songs ever written.’
‘It’s shit,’ I shouted above the rushing air. ‘Can’t we have Radio One on?’
‘My car, my music,’ said Mac, ‘and I shall brainwash you. If you hear this stuff enough you’ll come to appreciate how genius it is.’
‘Doubt it.’ I pouted.
I’d brought my stripy towel and Mac had a terrible Arsenal one, which luckily most of his body covered when he lay down. As we walked into the lido, nice and early, he’d eyed the surface of the water suspiciously, so we claimed a spot at the back of the paved area to the right of the pool, where the concrete sloped upwards giving us a nice incline to lie on. It was hot. Gorgeous.
We lay there for ages, my canvas bag to one side, a selection of snacks laid out. We’d already had an apple each and some Kia-Ora. It was boiling hot and I could feel my skin burning under its sheen of carrot.
I sat up.
‘I’m going for a quick dip. Are you sure I can’t tempt you in?’
‘I’m sure,’ said Mac. He was on his front reading Film as Film, a film studies textbook. Typical Mac! Why couldn’t he bring a Harold Robbins like everyone else? Actually, I had Tess of the d’Urbervilles in the bottom of my bag, the book I was supposed to be reading, but I wasn’t getting it out.
The water was freezing; ‘bracing’ was a good word for it. I planned to slither in, all mermaid-like – I could see Mac had one eye on me, from above his book – but it was too cold for such an aesthetically pleasing entry. I decided to toe-it down the steps and then plomp in at the last moment. More Ethel Merman than pretty mermaid.
Five lengths were required just to feel even sub-human again. Mac wasn’t looking at me now, but there was someone in the pool I knew. Damn, the boy in the Smiths T-shirt, the philosophy student who’d tried to snog me in the union in the first term of the first year. He was diving for a pair of goggles with some girl. Laughing. Pushing his thick hair back with a wet hand. I hoped he didn’t recognize me behind my heart-shaped gla
sses; he was not someone I saw around all that much. I turned my back on him and swam to the side, determined not to worry about it.
‘Hey, water baby?’ Mac said as I plonked down next to him. I remembered his words about all the lost water babies and wondered if he realized what he’d said. ‘Good?’
‘Lovely,’ I said.
I lay on my back, enjoying the feeling of the water droplets on my body evaporating in the sun. We had the whole, glorious day here together, in the heat, and it was fabulous not to be hidden away in Mac’s room. I really should get him out of his comfort zone more often, I thought. It would probably get chilly about four, but glorious freak days like today – a slice of summer in April – had to be made the most of.
‘Ah, heaven,’ I exhaled. ‘It’s so nice here,’ and because Mac was still absorbed in his book and I wasn’t sure if he’d even hear me or not, I said, ‘My mother works in a leisure centre. She screws the lifeguards.’
‘Oh?’ said Mac, his face looming into view and blocking my sun. I’d got his attention, then. OK, now I would have to talk about her.
‘Yeah,’ I said, closing my eyes behind my sunglasses. ‘A kid nearly drowned a few days before I started in the first year because she was out the back doing one of them and he wasn’t at his post. I mean, really? Silly cow! Talk about inappropriate! She’s one of these women who’s just got to have attention the whole time, who just has to be adored. And she takes it way too far, she just can’t help herself!’
I opened my eyes. Mac’s face wasn’t there now. I sat up. He was staring out across the water, rubbing his fingers together. The sun in his face. A passing kid splashed water on to his arm and he didn’t move a muscle. He looked anxious, unsettled.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked. He was bothered, wasn’t he, by me talking about an age-inappropriate, cross-rank relationship? He was having an unprecedented attack of conscience about us, here outside of his comfort zone, at the pool. He hated what we were doing, suddenly. But that wasn’t us! Marilyn shagging a lifeguard was nothing to do with us.
‘I’d like to go back to campus now,’ he said. ‘It’s not as hot as I thought it would be.’ He rubbed at the arm that had been splashed; his wet hairs were standing on end, like trees in a plantation.
‘We haven’t been here very long,’ I said. ‘And it’s boiling!’
‘I know, but I’d like to go.’ He was looking at a boy, in the water, doing handstands over and over. Behind him was the philosophy student from Warwick, just emerging from another dive. Is that who Mac was really looking at? Had he recognized him, too? Is that why he wanted to go? I caught Smiths Boy’s eye – briefly but damningly – and he looked away.
‘We haven’t even eaten any of my snacks,’ I said with a pout, but I too was now feeling a shadow of unease over us.
‘We can eat them back in my flat.’
Smiths Boy looked over again, for longer this time. He drew his hand up to his forehead in a visor gesture, to get a better look, maybe. The sun was in his eyes. We needed to get out of here.
‘OK,’ I said, and I began gathering up our things. The sausage rolls we hadn’t yet eaten, the kettle chips, the bottle of cloudy lemonade I had laid out so cheerfully. I shoved them all into my stripy canvas bag. The bottle fell open, fizzing everywhere; I mopped at it with my towel, fearing ants. I rolled up my towel and put it under my arm. Mac was already standing there with his when I got to my feet.
‘Let’s go home and go to bed, Midlands girl,’ he said, not looking at the water, and we walked quickly out of there, the splashing and shrieks echoing behind us in the warm April sunshine.
NOW
Chapter 14
I have a surprise tonight. Julian turns up as I am leaving work, the collar turned up on his coat, his shoes brown and shiny and a sheepish grin on his face. He’s had a – minor, he puts it – row with Sam and wants to ask if I’ll cook him dinner, seeing as he’s having the night off. I grin, too, and hug him tight to me, breathing in the charcoal wool of his heavy coat and his end-of-the-day aftershave. I’m really pleased to see him.
‘What did you row about?’ I ask Julian as I turn up my own collar – my black Love Story Ali MacGraw pea coat – James would appreciate it – and we brave the bitter January wind that spitefully slices through us as we walk home. Julian still has a room at my house, in case he ever needs to come back. His Foo Fighters and Kelly Brook posters are still on the walls; his Spurs duvet is still on the bed; there will always be room at the house for Julian.
‘Me failing – in one very small instance – to pull my weight around the house.’ Julian shrugs.
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘What did you not do?’
‘Unload the dishwasher.’
I laugh. ‘She’s a good girl, that Sam. It’s right she brings you up on these things.’
I link my arm through his and am pleased he is old enough to not be fiercely embarrassed by this; I’m also happy to cook something for him, but it means I won’t be able to go to the hospital tonight and that makes me a little anxious, especially after Mac’s operation. Will he wonder where I am? Will he be disappointed? And how would anyone know?
‘How’s work going?’ I ask Julian. I still worry about my son being in the City environment. I know first-hand those City boys can turn out to be not such great men, but I feel I’ve done a pretty good job in steering him towards Good Man territory. He is courteous, he aims to be respectful; he has integrity. Julian seems to have broken the template Felix and Christian laid out before him. Despite the occasional dishwasher lapse, he’s a really great kid.
‘Good. Great, actually. There might be a small promotion on the cards.’
‘Wow. That’s fantastic, Julian!’ I may not understand Futures but I understand promotion, not that it’s happened to me for a long time. I’ve been stuck in my role at work for years now. I have become a plodder, a coaster. I know I should do something about it, but it requires confidence I simply don’t have in the tank. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’
I withdraw my arm from the crook of his and instead scope it tightly round his back and snuggle him into me. I am desperate to kiss his soft, pale cheek but I know that’s probably a step too far. I adore him. He has brought me nothing but joy. He was a dream baby, a heavenly juxtaposition to Felix, who was far from a dream father; a cute toddler – there were no terrible twos to speak of – no flinging himself to the floor of Sainsbury’s, nothing like that; he was a cute, sensitive small boy, who always made me laugh with the disarmingly funny things he said. He also survived Christian. Cold, hard Christian who was all over him when we first met, who said he would protect him, do the whole swooping-in hero bit and then was cold, ignored him, saw him as a pest, a pain, an obstacle between us. He made him stand in the corner of the room, his face to the wall, for ‘disrespect’, for looking at him ‘like that’ (how else would you look at someone who was telling you over and over how stupid and useless you were?), but it was when that happened one too many times I – finally – became a lioness. Julian was standing in the corner of the kitchen, his face to the wall, when that knife glinted on the table and I thought I might kill Christian.
‘How are you, Mum?’ Julian asks. He has a concerned look on his lovely face. It’s often there when he looks at me, when it should be the other way round.
‘I’m good, thank you.’
‘Sure?’ He asked me this question every morning in the refuge. Was I OK, was I sure? Each day that passed when I said ‘Yes’ I meant it a tiny bit more and each day that passed when I looked at his lovely face I knew he was better, too. We survived. Together. I’m just sorry it took so long, and I’m even more sorry for letting Christian happen to us in the first place.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ I consider telling Julian about Mac but I worry about the light in which the story will paint me, how bad I might look, when my track record with men is already so terrible. Mac is a part of my life Julian knows nothing about.
‘Good. So, what shall we have?’
‘To eat? Sausages, mash and beans?’ I’ve never been much of a cook. I tried to be, when I was married; my husband and breadwinner (Lord, did he go on about that. There was never so much bacon brought home by anyone, ever) said it was only fair, after he’d ‘worked so hard for us’ (my work never counted) that I provide him with a ‘decent dinner at the end of the day’. I studied Oliver, Stein, Kerridge, Ramsey and Blanc – all books that arrived on the doorstep via Amazon, ordered by Christian – but something always went wrong, or even if it miraculously didn’t, Christian would find something somewhere to complain about. The satisfying fact I was a terrible cook was another wooden spoon with which to beat me.
‘Some things never change, Mum!’ says Julian. He’d loved it when I’d reverted to sausage and mash, after Christian had gone. ‘How’s Becky?’
Julian adores Becky. When he was little she was round our house a lot, and always bringing Julian something. He missed her when I wasn’t allowed to see her any more and he is thrilled she’s back in my life, not that he’s seen her yet. How can he, when I barely have? It’s just so difficult. I don’t know if I can expect her to get over what happened; I don’t know if I can either. When you’ve chucked a cherished possession down the stairs and it shatters into a million pieces, how can you put it together again?
‘She’s good, thanks.’ Despite our night out – a good start, and our first since bumping into each other again – I don’t really know. Not yet. But I hope to. It’s up to me now.
‘That’s good.’
Such a nice, polite boy. He has turned out well, all things considered (and what a lot of things there were to consider, and to consider still. I’m so sorry, Julian), and the ferocity of my love for him will never dwindle, whatever bastards come our way. I squeeze Julian again. And wonder again where Mac’s son is. I hope I hear from redoubtable, globetrotting Perrie Turque soon, with news.
We have our sausage and mash, the overdone beans that formed a crust round the edge of the microwave dish, the sausages that are on the wrong side of cremated, and then Julian gets a call from Sam which he takes in the other room and there is a lot of chuckling and giggling and he comes back in the kitchen and says they’ve made up and do I mind if he goes? I am a little disappointed, but pleased for him and say ‘no’, I don’t mind. And I think, At least I can go and see Mac now.
You, Me and The Movies Page 18