‘I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes off you,’ said Mac, pausing at the steps to the projection booth. ‘I’d be showing off, grandstanding. I would make sure you were mesmerized by my every word. I’d be like a panther – a caged one – pacing. It probably wouldn’t be good for either of us. I’d have to have you, and often, and it would be as clear as day. I’m not sure the other students would like it and it would be really distracting for all concerned.’
‘Probably best I’m not on it, then,’ I said, faux-haughty, ‘don’t want to distract anyone.’
‘Have another devil’s spawn,’ Mac laughed, bastardizing his second favourite line, and of course I would eat cherries again. He turned to go up the steps then turned back. ‘Hey, I’ve got to go to London in a week’s time to do a talk at the British Film Institute. Can you bunk off? Come with me?’
‘Oh my God, yes! I’d love to.’ I leapt up, excited, like a child. ‘A road trip! Will we drive?’
‘Yes, we’ll drive. I know somewhere cheap to park in Hammersmith, then we’ll get the tube into town.’
‘Oh yes!’ I was so excited. ‘So there and back in one day?’
‘No, I thought we’d stay the night in a hotel.’
‘A hotel! Oh, Mac.’ I was aware I sounded unbelievably childish but I couldn’t give a monkey’s. I was absolutely thrilled.
‘You’ll come with me, then?’
‘Of course I will!’ Oh, this was going to be absolutely fantastic. A night away in London, with Mac, this was pure female wish fulfilment. I felt like all the silk-pyjama-clad Witches rolled into one when Jack Nicholson rode into town in a thunderstorm – not everything had to be given a feminist slant and jotted down in a notebook, you know. And I decided to distract Mac there and then by taking him by the hand and leading him into the projection room. We could celebrate our upcoming trip by doing it up against one of the projectors.
Mac waited for me in the car park. The boot of his MG was open, and as I walked towards it I saw his battered brown bowling bag waiting for mine. He looked like Ryan O’Neal in Love Story. He was wearing a preppy chambray shirt with a beige jumper over the top and jumbo-cord trousers. It was a bit chilly, despite the season, but I’d gone for a Baby in Dirty Dancing look, if you were to say I looked like anyone: rolled-up jeans shorts, a sleeveless little seersucker camisole top and white plimsolls. I was cold but I hoped I looked cute.
It was eight in the morning, before most people were up. I’d been lucky to hitch a lift in with a maths nerd going straight to the library to work on a dissertation; unlucky that he’d spent most of the journey talking about it. The sun was pale in the sky and yet to emit any heat.
‘Ready to go?’ Mac asked me.
‘Ready to go.’
I threw my carpet bag in the boot and we set off. We drove past the hitching point and it was blessedly empty, just a couple of joggers with their backs to us, and Mac pressed the Play button on his cassette player.
‘Not this rubbish again!’ I scoffed.
‘A different kind of rubbish,’ he said. ‘John Denver. You’ll appreciate it when you’re older.’
‘Ugh, I won’t! I can’t stand country music! It’s cheesy and sappy and just terrible!’
‘Oh, the ignorance of youth,’ Mac smiled. ‘There’s quiet, absolute beauty in this music, especially the stuff from the seventies … I’m going to go and just stand on one of those ranches one of these days, my foot up on a fence, looking across cowboy country …’
‘You keep saying that,’ I said, bored. ‘Why don’t you go and do that with Helen?’
Mac indicated and turned left out of the campus. ‘She likes Paris.’
I had brought some spicy Nik Naks and some mints, a bottle of water to wash it all down with; I’d eaten everything before we’d left the A46. It was raining now, Mac’s wipers were lulling me into a hypnotic trance; John Denver was leaving on a jet plane – I hoped he’d stay wherever he’d buggered off to and never come back. But I was happy – I was with Mac.
After we’d been on the M40 a while, I noticed Mac was a slightly nervous driver. He left a massive gap between him and the car in front, he checked his mirror constantly; he nervously touched at his neck with his right hand, now and again, like he was feeling for a pulse. I examined him, curious. He was nothing like the humming, tootling-along-happily driver of my dad, or the ball-breaking, shouty driver of Steven from Home who constantly tailgated and swerved across lanes without indicating.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked Mac.
‘Yes, fine.’
I wondered again about him hating being away from campus. Was he driving further and further from his comfort zone? His ‘happy place’? ‘What’s your talk at the BFI about?’
‘Japanese cinema and its influence on modern British cinema.’ Mac tucked a nervous thumb under the seat belt across his chest, as though making sure it was there.
‘Ooh, heavy.’
‘No, good fun actually.’
‘When did you write that? Your speech?’
‘While you were sleeping. Last week sometime, no big deal.’ I knew Mac could run up something like that in about five minutes.
‘Are you nervous?’
‘No!’
He was now, though, I think. Driving. I decided to not concentrate on what he was doing, but look out of the window. There was a steep bank to our left, rising upwards, with cows on it. I counted them. It started to rain more heavily. A song came on the stereo. Still John Denver. Something about sunshine, something about him giving someone a day like today, if he could – soppy and sappy as hell, but it was actually quite beautiful, after a while. I gazed at the fields and the cows and realized I was crying, just a little. It must have been all those violins, hamming it up in the background. After the song finished the rhythmic swish-swish of the wipers sent me to sleep.
When we arrived on the outskirts of London the sun was out and everything looked bright and brilliant. Mac found the little NCP car park he’d mentioned and squeezed the MG into the tiniest, lowest-ceilinged space I’d ever seen; I had to climb over to the driver’s side to expel myself, like toothpaste from a tube.
We walked to Hammersmith tube station and got on a packed train to central London. Mac was due at the BFI at half two and I was going to sit in Bar Italia, ten minutes away on Frith Street, and drink fancy coffee and look out for famous people while I waited for him. I begged to be allowed to sit in on his talk but Mac said no, he’d be too sidetracked.
‘But it would make you grandstand,’ I said. ‘Be your best you.’
‘I need to concentrate,’ was all he said.
We changed on to the Central Line and hung off the straps like lemurs. It was hot down there; I liked it. Humid, warm air buffeted in from the next carriage via grimy, lowered ventilation windows. It looked out of control, the next carriage – from across the rocking junction. A hurtling fairground ride unimpressing stony-faced riders; a mirror image of the people in our own carriage – brightly lit, mostly silent, staring ahead. Mac and I, in high contrast, grinned at each other. We were in a happy London bubble, although now and again Mac rubbed his fingers together and looked anxious. I was thrilled, giddy; a little sweaty. I couldn’t wait for the afternoon to begin.
We got off at Tottenham Court Road. Mac would go to the BFI in Stephen Street; I would walk to Soho, clutching my brand-new A to Z, but first I accompanied Mac to Stephen Street and kissed him outside the Film Institute building, challenging someone to see us. He was uncomfortable and told me to stop it.
‘Treat it like campus round here,’ he said. ‘Anyone coming in might know I’m married.’
I felt surprised. I had mentioned Helen in the car but only as a passing annoyance. She didn’t feature in our lives. Apart from the photo in his wallet, which she’d probably tucked there herself – there was no evidence of Helen in Mac’s life on campus – so why was he bringing her up here, on a colourful, bustling Soho street, where I had never been so full of life and
excitement? And full of us. When he is mine and only mine? Married? I hated the word. It was everything I despised.
Mac looked around. Behind us, three people trickled into the building. ‘You need to go now,’ he said and I was indignant and a bit pissed off but off I trotted into the crowds to find Bar Italia and to wait.
Three coffees and two Italian layer cakes later, I was sitting with a curved china cup and an empty plate at a Formica bench, chatting to a girl in her late twenties who said she was trying to make it as an actress. She had just been for a casting; she was beautiful and looked like Patsy Kensit. Behind us, a nonchalant Gaggia coffee machine hissed and steamed; above us an aloof retro ceiling fan whirred.
Mac sauntered in. He was smiling.
‘You found it, then,’ he said, coming to stand next to me. He had a spot of colour on each cheek.
‘Yeah. Did it go well?’ I was looking at Mac but Mac was looking at Patsy. She really was very beautiful.
‘Very well. I think they liked me.’
‘Never mind that, did they like your talk?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘I’m just going,’ said the girl. ‘Lovely talking to you,’ she said to me. She slid from her stool and slipped out of the café, Mac watching her leave.
‘Eyes front!’ I said, nudging him. ‘So, what sort of people were there?’
‘All sorts of people. Young, old, in the middle. What have you been doing?’
‘Drinking coffee, chatting to actresses. Looking at old boxers.’ There was a large photo of Rocky Marciano behind the bar. ‘Yeah, I could get used to London life.’
‘Shall we go out to dinner tonight?’
‘Out? I thought just coming down to London at all would take it out of you!’ I cried, but I could see that he was high on his speech, positively buzzing, and I was buzzing too. ‘But yes, I would absolutely love to.’
He stepped towards me and weaved his hands under the hem of my cropped top, then slid them round to my back, where he let them overlap; I could feel his fingers lacing together, pulling me in close.
‘I’ll show you the best night of your life, kid,’ he said.
NOW
Chapter 16
On Saturday morning, James is waiting outside the hospital in driving rain, hanging off a black umbrella so massive it could easily shelter a family of five.
‘Nice day for it,’ he says as I approach. It has rained since Thursday. The last two evenings I’ve turned up at St Katherine’s like a saturated poodle. And there’s never a nice day for visiting Marilyn, I think. ‘My car’s in the car park. I’m living dangerously and didn’t get a ticket.’
‘You rebel,’ I say. I pull my charity-shop Burberry trench coat round me and wish I’d worn something more sensible, with a hood. My own umbrella is not quite inside out, but almost, and its spikes have already proven Bond-movie deadly.
‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Kramer vs. Kramer?’ asks James, looking at my raincoat, and I laugh.
‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s, definitely.’ I prefer the aesthetics of Holly Golightly to Meryl Streep’s tug-of-love divorcee. I aspire to extrovert socialite and can’t relate to deserting wife and mother. I’m not sure Audrey Hepburn’s trench coat had a little tear at the back, though, mended with iron-on tape.
James’s car is dark grey and quite small; I have no idea what make. It’s very clean inside; unlike my tip. After my marriage ended I almost revelled in scuzzing up my little Golf again. Eating chocolate bars and dropping the wrappers. Getting it muddy. My mess, my life. I’m not sure I would let someone like James in it, though.
I feel nervous, putting my seat belt on, and wonder again why I’m doing this; I could be on the train by now, with a revolting pack of sandwiches and a fizzy drink, and all that time to myself to avoid thinking about Marilyn.
‘OK?’ asks James, when we are ready to go. He’s got one of those pine tree air fresheners dangling from his rear-view mirror. It rocks back and forth as he reverses out of the parking space.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, though my stomach is in knots. I feel trapped, I want to get out. I’m reminded of all those terrible car journeys when I looked at my husband in profile and thought, I can’t do this. The only thing to do now is start prattling on about nothing and James gives me the cue.
‘Off we go, then,’ he says, indicating left. ‘Duty visit!’ It’s never been a duty with Mac, I think. Visiting him. Though often a worry. He’s remained pale and sleepy the past two nights; James and I have reluctantly exchanged concerned looks over the bed.
I take my cue. ‘My mother’s been in this home for four years,’ I say. ‘It’s called The Cedars.’ OK, this is interesting, I think. I’m talking about her when I didn’t even want to think about her. I must be desperate to unravel the knots in my gut. All right, I’ll go with it. ‘I presume that’s because it has cedars in the grounds. I don’t know. I wouldn’t know a cedar if it came up and bit me on the bum.’ James laughs. He has a nice profile. It’s friendly. ‘She’s seventy-three. She has kidney problems and rheumatoid arthritis that’s always flaring up. Often she has trouble walking so is bedbound a lot of the time. I go to The Cedars as infrequently as I can get away with. I hate going there, in fact. It’s a depressing place and she’s a depressing mother – I’m afraid I’ve got nothing good to say about her.’ Just a lot of bad. I’m sorry. I may as well carry on. ‘She was just one of those mothers. Mothers who should never have had kids, who just weren’t cut out for it. Sorry, I’m waffling; I don’t know where all that came from.’ I do know; it came from a desire to distract myself from the fact I’m stuck on a two-and-a-half-hour car journey with an almost complete stranger. And we haven’t even got on to the South Circular yet. I’d better shut up or it will all come out.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says James, his eyes on the road. ‘Relationships with parents are tough. I had one of those dads.’
‘What, not cut out for kids?’ I ask.
‘Yep.’ He indicated, tick-tock, tick-tock, to overtake a white van. It’s going to take us ages to even get out of London, I think. The traffic is diabolical. I should be letting the train take the strain. I shouldn’t be in this car. ‘And one of those that beat you up.’
‘Oh God, really? I’m so sorry.’ James’s face hasn’t changed; his eyes are still on the road. He still looks friendly. I don’t know what to say. Violence wasn’t an item in the catalogue of my parents’ many parenting failures. I got the odd slap on the back of the leg with a giant hair roller, of course; who didn’t? I got screeched at plenty of times, often by a half-dressed harridan whose spittle landed on my cheek. And sometimes Dad slurred benign nonsense at me before falling over on the kitchen floor, which wasn’t that great. But nobody laid a finger on me. I can’t imagine having a dad who beat you up.
‘Well, yeah, it’s OK,’ says James. Eyes on the road, face forward. ‘I’ve had a shitload of therapy. My mother did the evening shift in Budgens to pay for the sessions. Moira, that was her name. American. She wore a different coloured scarf every time and sensible shoes. I talked and talked it all out and still thank my wonderful Mum for the chance to, as it helped me a lot. These days I don’t think about it too much; you don’t exactly want something like that becoming the thing that defines your whole life, do you?’
‘No,’ I say. I have experience of this. Trying not to let past experiences define your life. A nightmare parent. How the shape of my mother has threatened to become the shape of me. But I’m not Marilyn. I’ve spent the best part of my life trying not to be her and I hope I’ve been pretty successful at it. I’m not a narcissist. I like to think my relationship with Julian is a fantastic one, and far from toxic. We’re OK, despite my recurring guilt about his childhood; I’m a good mum, despite once having allowed the horrors of Christian. Patterns don’t have to be repeated, I think. You can just use a different fabric. ‘So, is that what you do, not think about it too much?’
‘He whacked me with the belt of a
circular saw.’
‘Are you joking?’ James still hasn’t looked at me. He’s mirroring, signalling, manoeuvring like he hasn’t just told me his father used to beat him with the belt of a saw.
‘Nope, I’m not joking.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Yeah. He didn’t like geeks, apparently.’ And James actually laughs.
‘Were you a geek?’
‘I’ve always been a geek,’ says James. ‘Stamp collector, maths boffin, chemistry-set maestro. My dad even thought the Guinness Book of Records was for geeks and to be despised. Now I’m geeky about the energy performance of houses, amongst other things.’
‘Oh, mine’s good,’ I interject. ‘Great insulation and a solar panel.’ I don’t need to lighten the mood, though, as James is already light, and talking in breezy tones like this is all just a frothy coffee. ‘When my little brother came along my mum couldn’t bear it any longer. I was ten. He hadn’t been planned, I don’t think – the last thing she wanted was another victim. She knew she would be beaten, I would be beaten and Ollie would probably be beaten too. Another one on the conveyor belt of abuse. Or circular-saw belt, I should say.’ He laughs, I don’t join in. ‘We left in the middle of the night. She was in her dressing gown, we were barefoot and in our pyjamas. All she kept saying after was that she’d left him the best pillowcases and she wished she hadn’t.’
‘Where did you go?’ I ask.
‘Kent,’ he says. ‘To my Auntie June’s. Mum drove Dad’s automatic for the very first time all the way from Macclesfield. She tucked her left leg under her right so she wouldn’t forget she mustn’t use it.’
‘Wow,’ I say. I think of the women’s refuge, the Erin Martin Women in Need, to be specific. Julian and I had a blue room with a single bed, a pull-out metal camp bed and a kettle. We were there for two weeks – just me and him, both each other’s world when the rest of it was too fragile and frightening to consider – until the court order came through and we could move back to my house. The refuge wasn’t far from home, geographically – not like Macclesfield to Kent – but a million light years away from the prison Christian had made it.
You, Me and The Movies Page 20