by Lindsey Kelk
‘Fucking Adele,’ I muttered, speeding down the road and out into the middle of nowhere.
16
‘On your next breath in, sweep your arms up over your head and then, as you breathe out, sweep your arms down as you fold over and plant your hands on the floor in front of you.’
I felt a sharp pull somewhere between my shoulder blades but I didn’t dare stand back up to stretch it out.
‘Breathing in, send your left leg back in a lunge and then, on your next outward breath, send your right leg back to meet it in plank.’
‘Mum?’
‘Adam?’
‘I think I’m broken.’
‘Breathing in, pull your hips up and back and drive your heels down into the floor in downward-facing dog,’ she replied. I looked up between my elbows to see her pacing around the living room, barefoot, concentrating hard on her script. ‘Don’t worry if your heels don’t touch the floor, concentrate on the exchange of energy between you and the ground. Feel it channelling up through your hands and feet as you push them away from each other, creating length down your spine and space in your hips.’
‘No really.’ I collapsed onto the floor, hugging my arms around each other, stretching out whatever I had tweaked. ‘I’m broken.’
‘Oh dear.’ She dropped her piece of paper on the settee and knelt down beside my rubber mat. ‘What hurts?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, rolling upright. ‘You were very good though, I was really into it before I fell over.’
‘Adam, five breaths into your first sun salutation and you’re lying crippled on the floor.’ She pressed her thumbs into my back and dug them in. ‘Does that help?’
‘It hurts – if that helps?’ I replied, pulling away. Before she started training as a yoga teacher, she had qualified as a massage therapist, but as her number one test subject, I had to admit, she wasn’t that good at it. She’d done much better when she learned how to speak Russian. And strip a car engine. And play the flute. She didn’t get so far with becoming a tattoo artist but that could have been my fault. I had to draw the human-guinea-pig line somewhere. There weren’t many things left on this earth that my mum hadn’t given her best shot and I’d always admired her for it. Liv asked her why she wanted to try so many different hobbies once and she looked so shocked, as though everyone juggled motorcycle lessons with cheese-making class and figure skating.
‘All this time I’ve put into getting my teaching qualification and honestly, I’m starting to think yoga isn’t for me.’ She hopped up to her feet, turned off the supposedly calming CD and flung the curtains open, flooding the room with mid-morning sunlight. ‘I’m not certain I’m getting anything out of it.’
‘Anything else in mind?’ I asked, following her into the kitchen and helping myself to a biscuit out the barrel.
‘I read about this CrossFit thing that’s opening in Newark,’ she said. ‘I quite like the look of that. It seems more active than yoga, more involved. The yoga community round here isn’t that inspiring, to tell you the truth – it’s not like it was in India.’
I crunched on the biscuit and immediately regretted it. I didn’t know what was in it, but I knew what wasn’t and that was flavour of any kind. I’d have given my right nut for a Twix.
‘I bet,’ I replied, opening the bin and letting the dry crumbs of the world’s most disappointing biscuit fall out of my mouth. ‘But CrossFit is intense, Mum. Loads of weightlifting and hard-core cardio. Do you really think it’s a good idea?’
‘Maybe not for your dad,’ she gave me the lifted eyebrow that suggested I should not challenge her further, ‘but I’m fit as a fiddle. Fitter than you, I bet.’
‘I reckon you are,’ I laughed. She stirred a spoonful of pale green powder into a glass of water and handed it to me. I downed it as quickly as I could, trying not to smell or taste whatever mank she’d added. ‘I’ve been slacking since I got back from Mexico. We should start running again.’
‘Are you still running with Liv?’ she asked, sipping her own green slime happily. ‘I’m sure she’ll be keen to get wedding dress ready. That’s what all the magazines say, anyway.’
‘Hmm,’ I replied. ‘Something like that.’
Down at the bottom of the garden, Dad gave me a wave from one of his flowerbeds. Rocking his overall, his hat and gloves, he brandished his trowel with pride. While Mum went back and forth on her hobbies Dad was forever faithful to his one true love: the garden. Growing up, we’d moved around a lot. My dad had been a medical officer in the RAF but when he was injured in a car crash he took early retirement and moved up here, to be closer to my mum’s parents. Over the last twelve years he had developed quite the green thumb, and while I wasn’t much of a garden man myself, I had to admit, he’d done an amazing job. There wasn’t a plant he couldn’t bring to life and he had even taken on the task of landscaping Chris’s garden when he bought the old rectory at the other end of the village. I wondered idly if Chris was angry about leaving London now that Cass wanted to stop working. He’d moved up here so she wouldn’t have to change jobs – the schools in London weren’t safe, he had said – and now here he was, stuck with a two-hour commute from his office and a great big country house in a village he’d never been that keen on, even when we came to visit as kids.
‘You can’t tell your mother something like this and then expect her to wait patiently without any questions,’ Mum said while Dad went back to work. ‘What’s the plan? Are you going to ask her? Chris says you’ve already got a ring.’
‘I was going to give her Nannan’s ring,’ I choked, running another glass of water. ‘If that’s all right.’
‘It’s more than all right,’ she replied, a small sad smile lighting up her face, even though her eyes still filled up at any mention of her mother. It had already been seven years but we’d been close, the three of us. ‘Nannan would have loved Liv.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know.’ I sipped my clean water slowly. ‘Not about her loving Liv, I’m sure she would have. More about, well, the whole thing.’
Mum finished her green potion with a gasp and ran the glass under the tap until it was clean. She hated the dishwasher, said it wasted energy. Hence why Dad waited for her to go out to whatever class she was in before he ran it and pretended he’d done the washing up.
‘What whole thing?’ she asked. ‘Proposing? I wouldn’t worry too much about it, all you’ve got to do is ask the question, love.’
‘Not the proposing, the whole thing,’ I mumbled into my chest. ‘The whole getting married thing.’
My mum was a small woman but that didn’t make her any less terrifying and the Krav Maga class and shooting lessons I knew she had under her belt were absolutely nothing compared with the look on her face.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded, hands on her hips. ‘Are you having cold feet, Adam Floyd?’
‘Might be,’ I said. I was close to the door. She was smaller and faster but I was much bigger than she was and, worst-case scenario, I could always push her over. ‘Don’t know.’
‘I wonder what went wrong with the two of you, sometimes,’ she said, picking up a tea towel and whipping it across the backs of my legs. ‘Your brother did exactly the same thing, you realize?’
I did not realize.
‘Chris had cold feet? Before proposing to Cassie?’
‘Oh yes, he came round here, all het up, crying and talking about how he thought he’d made a mistake buying the ring,’ she nodded. ‘How he didn’t know if he could do it and what if he wasn’t good enough for her. It was all very dramatic.’
This was entirely brand-new information. I couldn’t imagine Chris thinking he wasn’t good enough for anyone. He once said he’d pass on Kate Upton because she didn’t seem like she’d have a lot to offer in the conversation department.
‘I don’t think there’s a single man who doesn’t go through this,’ she said, picking bits of carpet off her leggings. ‘At least, not one who was serious abou
t making the commitment in the first place. In a way, I think it’s a good thing. It means you’re really thinking about what you’re taking on.’
‘What else did Chris say?’ I asked. I just couldn’t picture it. My big brother, insecure and crying to his mum? What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and watch through the window.
‘It doesn’t matter what Chris said, it matters what you’re going to do.’ She had an end-of-conversation look in her eye and I knew not to push it. ‘Have you said anything to Olivia?’
Hmm. Given the look on her delicate, pointed face, I didn’t want to get myself into any more trouble than I really had to, but even now, after all my years of practice, I found it so hard to keep things from my mum. I was going to have to tell her the truth.
‘We’re having a break from each other at the moment – she wanted a break,’ I said. There. I’d pulled off the plaster and underneath it was only the small scab of a lie. Liv had asked for a break. After I had. But still, semantics … ‘So I haven’t talked to her this week.’
‘You broke up?’ Mum looked destroyed. She grabbed the kitchen top with one hand and pressed the other against her chest as though she was worried it might cave in. I watched closely from my position near the door, edging closer to my getaway and grabbing an apple out of the fruit bowl just in case I needed a missile. ‘Oh, Adam, no. That’s awful. You’re kidding me? What happened?’
‘We haven’t broken up.’ I don’t think, I added in my head. ‘It was after her dad’s party – she said she needed some time to work out what she’s doing.’
‘Well, I can’t blame the poor girl for that.’ She recovered herself slightly, still keeping a firm grip on the kitchen top, just in case. ‘I can’t say she looked terribly happy about having all that responsibility dropped on her.’
Assured that I was at least somewhat safe, I took a bite out of my Granny Smith-slash-projectile.
‘But she loves being a vet,’ I said, confused. ‘Why would that freak her out?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Adam. Maybe because her dad just changed her entire life without asking her? It was clear from the look on her face she didn’t have a clue what was going on,’ she suggested. ‘And whether she wants to be a vet forever or not, imagine how hard it must be to have someone make a decision like that for you, without asking.’
Well, when she put it like that …
‘I imagine it’s not unlike deciding to spend the rest of your life with another person,’ she went on. ‘It’s a good thing and you’re happy about it, but it’s scary, isn’t it? It’s a forever thing, and we human beings aren’t very good at processing forever things, are we?’
I chomped on my apple and shook my head slowly.
‘No?’
‘No,’ she confirmed. ‘And something big like this happens, people tend to go one of two ways. Either they try to keep hold of everything they can in their life or they try to change it all. It’s about control, Adam. She’s probably trying to find some control in it all. Just like you.’
My mum always had a way of making things make sense. This wasn’t all about me. I’d always been a big fan of running away, that was how I controlled things. By turning my back, moving as fast as I could and never staying in one place too long. I’d gone backpacking for a year after my A levels and then snuck in another two years after I finished my law degree before Dad convinced me to take the BPTC to become a barrister. Both times I was avoiding the fact that I’d chosen a career I didn’t really want because people had told me I’d be good at it. It was only when I started working on carpentry projects in my spare time that I realized I didn’t have to keep running, that I could actually work towards something I cared about instead.
What if Liv had only gone to vet school because her dad expected her to? What if she didn’t really want to be a vet at all? She’d never said anything, but then, I’d never asked. I bowed my head, feeling so stupid. I should have realized all this myself. I shouldn’t need my mum to explain how my girlfriend was feeling.
‘All you can do is be there for her. Don’t try to fix anything or tell her what to do, just listen to her,’ Mum said, reaching up on her bare tiptoes to pull a red and black tartan tin out of the top cupboard. She opened it up and revealed three packets of contraband shortbread biscuits. ‘Take one of these and don’t tell your father,’ she instructed. ‘Nothing sorts your head out like a cup of tea and a biscuit.’
I did as I was told and took one of the packets before she could squirrel them away again behind tubs of flour and gravy browning.
‘Have a think, let her take the time she needs.’ Mum came over to give me a hug, the top of her grey curly head only just coming halfway up my chest, then held out her hand for my apple core. ‘But don’t give up on her, Adam. She’s a good girl and she loves you. I’ve never seen you as happy with anyone else, you’re made for each other.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, looking down at the biscuits and felt a wave of shame wash over my cheeks. ‘She does make me happy.’
‘Then work it out.’ She dropped the apple core in the bin and waved at Dad down the garden. ‘Will you stay for lunch?’
‘Can’t. I’ve got to go, I’m meeting a client later and I need to sort some stuff out.’ A gorgeous, six-foot-tall brunette client, I added to myself, feeling guilty about the thoughts I’d had about Jane when Liv was struggling through so much on her own. I pecked Mum on the cheek and waved the biscuits in the air. ‘Tell Dad I’ll see him later.’
‘Always on the go,’ she said, following me out the door in bare feet and stopping before she reached the concrete. ‘Will we see you before the christening?’
The christening. Gus’s christening. The christening where Liv and I were supposed to be godparents.
‘Shit, it’s this Sunday, isn’t it?’ I hit myself in the forehead with the shortbread and made a face. They were so much harder than I’d expected.
‘It is, and language,’ Mum reprimanded as Dad started a slow and steady walk down the garden without his stick. ‘Now for Christ’s sake get gone before he comes in and sees those bloody biscuits.’
‘Language!’ I shouted back, jogging out towards the car. ‘I’ll talk to you before Sunday, promise.’
‘And talk to Liv,’ she replied. ‘Please.’
‘I will,’ I promised. But first things first, I thought, opening up the Land Rover and chucking the shortbread in the back seat. I had to go, I was meeting a client.
‘Afternoon, slacker.’
Jane knocked on the door of the workshop, only to find me leaning back in my battered old armchair, legs up on the workbench, engaged in a particularly aggressive game of Injustice on my phone, looking as cool as I could manage. It could have been worse; she could have turned up ten minutes earlier and found me wearing a pair of pink Marigolds and scrubbing the shit out of the bathroom. I had no idea how it got so dirty, I was hardly even in there and every time I was, it felt like I was there to clean something. How could a room designed to clean people get so filthy, so quickly?
‘Hi.’ I turned off the game without even bothering to check my score. This was intense. ‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ she nodded, loitering around the doorway. ‘Some tit tried to cut me up when I was turning off the A1 but apart from that, I’m fine.’
‘Should I hunt him down and kill him?’ I asked.
‘Only if it’s not too much trouble,’ she replied with her widest smile. ‘I’ll get my Uzi out the boot and we’ll be off, yeah?’
‘Sorted,’ I nodded, hands in my pockets, shoulders scrunched up around my ears. I wasn’t sure of the etiquette.
Ultimately, I was working for her and usually I met my clients with a polite handshake, possibly a half hug if we knew each other and we were being dead modern but this was new ground. We were definitely flirting – but was it sexless work flirting or one-too-many-drinks-and-oops-that’s-my-penis flirting? Jane wasn’t dressed like a woman who was trying to get lucky, although I imag
ined she didn’t have to try terribly hard. She was wearing the same skintight jeans and leather as she’d worn on Tuesday, teamed with a plain blue T-shirt and black ankle boots. Nothing overtly ‘come and get it’ about that.
‘So where’s my bar?’ she asked, searching the workshop. ‘Is it not done yet?’
‘Not quite.’ I straightened the collar of my shirt. Red and black checked, clean, ironed, but not too try hard. ‘There’s just the cutting and the sanding and the planing and the building. And you know, that’s usually easier to do once the timber has arrived.’
‘I see.’
Maybe her hair looked a bit shinier than it had on Tuesday and perhaps her eyes looked a bit darker, as though she was wearing make-up. But that could have been the light, I wasn’t sure. ‘How about a tour of the workshop, then?’
‘It’s a short tour,’ I said, surveying my kingdom. ‘Workbench, tools, vice, mini fridge, Danger Mouse DVDs, lathe.’
‘It’s nice,’ she nodded appreciatively. ‘I like it. What’s that?’
‘Plane,’ I replied, picking up my smallest bench lathe and turning it around in my hands. ‘It’s for smoothing out surfaces.’
‘And what’s that?’ she pointed to the tool bench by the wall.
‘Another plane,’ I said, giving it a trusty tap. ‘This has a higher pitch than the other, we call it York Pitch.’
‘Why?’ Jane asked, picking up a chisel and knocking the handle back and forth against the palm of her hand. ‘Is it from York or did a man called York invent it?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ I admitted. ‘But I’ll be using it on your bar. The higher angle is better for cherry wood.’
‘Why?’ she walked over, her heels tapping against the concrete floor and crouching down until she was eyelevel with the plane.
‘It just is,’ I said. ‘I studied this for a year in college and three years as an apprentice and I don’t think I ever asked as many questions as you just have.’