by Ruth Mancini
“Catherine, you said it yourself, that day remember, up on the heath? That you didn’t know who you were anymore. That you were lost.”
“Well, now I’m found.” She grinned at me. To her credit she wasn’t defensive, just highly persuasive, like a saleswoman selling me some useless item that I didn’t need or want, and trying to convince me that I did. “Look Lizzie, he loves me, he really does. He’s so sorry about what happened, you wouldn’t believe. He’s promised to make it up to me. You’ve seen what he’s like now. He nearly lost me for good, and he knows it.”
“Oh he’s trying really hard, I’ll give him that.” I turned and elbowed a cup off the kitchen counter. It bounced on the floor and cracked in half. I swore loudly and bent down to pick it up.
“Look,” she said. “Just give him a chance. Please Lizzie. For me. If things go wrong again you can say “I told you so.” But he isn’t the only one who’s changed. I’ve changed too. I’m stronger, and he knows that. If he gets in a mood, I don’t have to react the way I used to. I’ll tell him straight, any more of this and I’m out the door. I was part of the reason he behaved the way he did. I was too weak, too much of a victim.”
“Oh please,” I sighed. “You’ll be telling me you walked into doors next.”
“It’s true!” Catherine stopped loading the dishwasher and grabbed my arm. “It takes two to tango, Lizzie. If I had been less of a doormat, less of a pushover, it may have all happened differently. Next time he gets into a mood, I will stand up to him, fight back.”
“Yeah, good luck with that,” I muttered and went off to my room.
A moment later, Catherine appeared in the doorway. “Can you honestly say, with your hand on your heart that you don’t like him at all?”
I sat on my bed and thought about how happy the last couple of months had been, Catherine and I both busy all day pursuing our careers, Martin turning up in the evenings with Chinese takeaways for all three of us, bringing flowers for us both, tenderly re-potting an orchid that I had knocked off the windowsill one evening. I remembered him on his hands and knees, carefully clearing up all the scattered soil from Lynne’s cream carpet, scooping it up in his hands so that it wouldn’t get ground in. Martin popping round after work with a bottle of wine, asking both me and Catherine about our day, showing real interest in the people I worked with, laughing at our jokes. Martin fixing the plumbing in the bathroom when the toilet stopped flushing, without having to be asked.
It was true that he was making an effort. And not just with Catherine. He included me in everything, asked if I wanted to come too when they went out for a drink or a meal. Things had definitely changed and not just for Catherine, but for me, also. I was no longer the enemy, the one that might take Catherine away from him, or help her see the light. He acted as if I was his friend now and it was hard, very hard to hate him.
“A man hits you once, he’ll hit you again,” I warned her.
“That’s just a cliché,” Catherine said.
“Well, clichés are clichés for a reason.”
“That’s a cliché too,” said Catherine. “It’s like ‘All men are potential rapists.’”
“No it’s not. And what was said was actually ‘All men are rapists.’ That’s a feminist doctrine. What I am saying is statistics. I’m not trying to be Germaine Greer here, I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I won’t be,” pleaded Catherine. “Things are different now. I can see now where I’ve been going wrong. It’s almost as if I was...” she tailed off.
“Asking for it?” I suggested.
“Well, sort of.”
“Are you serious? You’re saying you wanted him to hit you?”
“Not consciously, no. But maybe on some level, yes, I did. There was a part of me that thought that it proved how much he loved me, that he would get that passionate, that jealous.”
“But, that’s absurd!”
“And maybe there is another part of me that thought that was all I deserved.” Without warning, Catherine’s face started to crumple. I patted the bed beside me. Catherine came and sat down and I put my arms around her.
“Why on earth would you think that?”
Catherine shrugged and wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose my dad was quite moody too. Not like yours, not violent or anything. But I grew up watching the way my mum tiptoed around him and deferred to him...” She paused. “Then I meet Martin and… it’s like that’s how I expect it to be. It’s like a dance, and we both know the steps. When he gets moody, I cower and shrink inside myself, instead of standing up for myself. And he disrespects me for that. And so it goes on.”
“So how do you change that?”
“You both have to learn new ways of being, of dealing with things.”
“But what if he doesn’t want to? What if he doesn’t know any other way to be? What if he’s just one of these men who like to be in control? Like the sort of blokes that whistle and leer at you in the street; they do it to unbalance you, to show they’ve got all the power.”
“Martin’s not like that.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Neither of us spoke for a while. There was something else. I was thinking about the time that Martin had kissed me, but I couldn’t tell Catherine about that. Seven years of friendship with Marion and Julia had taught me that that kind of honesty never comes out well for the woman. And what if I’d got it wrong? I ran over it again in my mind. All he’d done was kiss me on the cheek. Maybe it was genuine compassion; he was just feeling sorry for me, because I’d woken up screaming. Maybe he was just trying to be a friend. Maybe that’s all he was ever trying to be. It was a long time ago. Maybe I’d read it all wrong.
“I love him Lizzie,” Catherine said, eventually. “I’ve never loved anyone else. It’s always been him, for me. Just like it was always Larsen for you.”
“Yeah, well, look how that ended up,” I reminded her.
“Oh Lizzie, that was your doing. It was always you he wanted, you know that. But he knew he was going to lose you and he feathered his nest. Blokes like Larsen, they’ll make sure they’re never on their own for long. But you … you’ve gone to the opposite extreme. Because you’re looking for perfection. And you’re not going to find it, Lizzie. It doesn’t exist. We’re humans; we’re all flawed. Maybe you just need to accept that and get on with letting someone love you too.”
I sighed. “I haven’t gone through all the pain of breaking up with Larsen just to go out and make the same mistakes all over again,” I told her. “I want to get it right this time.”
“I know. And I understand that. But if you don’t get your nose out of the map soon and start driving, you’re never going to know if you’re getting it right or not.”
I smiled. “I will. When I find what I’m looking for.”
“Plenty of fish in the sea,” she added, smiling too.
“Yes. But most of them are either mackerel or herring.”
Catherine looked confused.
“D.H. Lawrence,” I admitted. “If you’re not a mackerel or a herring then there are not that many good fish in the sea. Look… I’m not looking for perfection, but I just know what I want. I need someone who is going to love me in the right way, someone who knows who he is and is happy with that, and doesn’t need a mirror-image to know he exists. Someone who can respect who I am, and is happy with that too; a man who would do anything for me, but who wouldn’t suffocate me either; someone who would wait for me if I needed to go away, and not have to replace me with someone else because he couldn’t be alone; he’d laugh when I broke things, and hold me when I cried, and he would always be there if I needed him.”
“Honey,” said Catherine. “You want your dad.”
It was my turn to cry. Catherine put her arms round me and held me tight.
A few minutes later there was a knock at the door.
“Okay,” I conceded. I wiped my eyes and stood up. “I give in. Maybe you’re right about Martin. Wh
at do I know? But I swear, Catherine, if he lays a finger on you again…”
“I know. Absolutely. Believe me, he’ll be gone.”
I opened the front door. Zara was on the doorstep, wearing a new cashmere coat, a pair of Jimmy Choos and a new tea-cosy hat.
“Blimey Zara, where did you get all the gear?”
“Harvey Nicks,” said Zara, beaming. She lifted up one foot and twirled her gold strappy ankle. “You like?”
“Wow. Yes. I do. But how much did they set you back?”
Zara sniggered into her hand and whispered in my ear.
“What! £400? Where did you get that kind of money?”
“Oh, relax,” said Zara. “I put it on my card.”
“And the coat?”
“Come on, Lizzie, a girl’s got to look good,” said Zara. “James absolutely loves them.”
“I bet he does,” I said. “You look stunning. But I thought we were going for a walk?”
“I know,” said Zara. “But I didn’t go home last night. I was with James.”
“Do you want to borrow some trainers?”
“Hey,” said Zara. “Shall we go shopping instead? I saw this really gorgeous Prada handbag in Beauty and Accessories, that would really go with my new dress.” She opened her coat. She was wearing a beautiful red and black mini dress. “Let’s go back there,” she chattered excitedly. “They’ve got jewellery to die for. And we can get our makeup done!”
I eyed Zara suspiciously. “How can you afford a Prada handbag? You don’t earn that sort of money. I mean, how much did that dress cost?”
“Oh come on, Lizzie, stop being such a killjoy,” laughed Zara. “You only live once.”
“That’s right,” said Catherine from behind me.
“The Universe will provide,” said Zara. “Isn’t that right, Catherine?”
“It’s true,” I heard Catherine say again from behind me.
“Oh, all right, then,” I agreed, feeling like a bit of a spoilsport. “I guess we could.”
We took the tube to Knightsbridge. I would normally have enjoyed the walk, across Hyde Park, but it was clear that Zara wasn’t going to be able to do that in six inch heels and that she wasn’t going to swap them for my old trainers.
The tube was packed and we had to stand. Zara chattered incessantly about James, as the train bumped and twisted, and threw us around. I clung onto the hand strap rail and tried to keep up.
“It’s amazing,” said Zara, who looked like she was suspended from the ceiling. “The sex is just amazing!”
A woman in the seat opposite looked up abruptly from her magazine.
“You seem really happy,” I observed.
“Oh, God, Lizzie, he just does it for me,” she whispered loudly, whilst dangling seductively from the handrail. “I feel like, well… invincible!”
“You’re not…”
“What?”
“Taking drugs or anything?”
“What?” Zara threw back her head and started laughing. “Of course not!”
“It’s just…you seem different. Really… well, confident.” I sounded jealous. I didn’t want to be.
“I know,” said Zara. “I feel like I can do anything. And it’s all because of James. I’ve got so much energy. We barely slept last night.”
“Shhh,” I laughed, looking around the busy carriage. “Enough about the sex, Zara. So, come on then, tell me about him. Where does he live?”
“Kilburn. In a house.”
“In a house,” I repeated. “What kind of house? Who does he live with?”
“I don’t know. It’s just sort of an address he uses. There are several people there. He’s from Ireland.”
“Well, that’s the bit I knew already,” I said. “So what else have you found out about him? Which part of Ireland is he from?”
“The North,” said Zara. “Belfast, I think.”
“And what’s he doing here?” I asked.
“He’s learning to fly, he’s going to be a pilot. How sexy is that?”
“I thought he said he was a builder?”
“He is,” said Zara. “As well.”
“So where’s he studying?”
“Oh. Yeah. The London School of…something. I forget.”
“Well, where’s he working?”
“On a building site. He’s building a house. He’s very good with his hands, you know.” Zara grinned and lifted her eyebrows.
“It all seems a bit sketchy,” I said. “What do you actually talk about?”
“Not much,” giggled Zara. “He’s a man of action rather than words.”
We came out of the tube station and waited to cross the road. On the corner, a black man selling flags wolf-whistled as we passed.
“Get lost,” I hissed.
“Hello, darling,” said Zara at the same time.
“Zara!” I grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”
Zara was still smiling back at the man, who was calling after her, trying to say something to her. I dragged her away.
“Don’t encourage him,” I admonished her.
“He liked me,” she pouted. “And he was sexy.”
“Zara, don’t take it personally; you’re probably the hundredth woman he’s whistled at today.”
I felt a bit mean, trying to bring her down like that. But Zara merely smiled a Mona Lisa type smile, tossed her head and her cashmere coat, and swaggered off down Knightsbridge, wiggling her hips as she went, looking for all the world just like a movie star.
Later, back at the flat, we ate dinner and sat watching the news on TV. Martin was there, on the sofa with Catherine. Zara was curled up in the armchair. She was much quieter now and seemed withdrawn. I guessed she was tired now after her night of passion.
“Look at that,” said Catherine. “Isn’t it awful?”
A bomb had exploded in Warrington, Cheshire, killing a 3-year-old boy and injuring fifty people.
“That’s got to be a revenge attack,” said Martin
“Revenge? For what?” said Catherine.
“That’s the second IRA bomb attack in Warrington,” said Martin. “They bombed a gasworks there last month, don’t your remember?”
“Why are they taking revenge?”
“Because of the arrests,” I said. “The police arrested three people. IRA.”
“God, that’s awful,” said Catherine, again. “Right in the middle of a busy shopping centre. Poor little boy. Poor parents.”
“It’s so sad,” I agreed.
“I thought there were peace talks,” said Catherine. “I thought this was all going to stop?”
“It’s not going to happen unless there’s a ceasefire,” said Martin. “This isn’t going to help.”
“Did they ever catch the people who bombed the Baltic Exchange?”
“No. This is the IRA you’re talking about.”
“What do you mean?” asked Zara, suddenly entering the conversation.
“Well, they’re a paramilitary organisation. They’re highly organised. You’ve got Jerry Adams and Martin McGuinness and people like that, the political wing, legitimising it, doing all the talking, the public face. But the men behind the scenes, well… you’d never meet them. You’d never know if you were talking to one. Even here in London.”
“It could even be James, Zara,” I joked. “He might be IRA.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, think about it,” I said. “You don’t know anything about him, other than that he’s James and he’s from Kilburn...”
“James of Kilburn,” interrupted Martin. “Hmmm. It’s definitely a smokescreen.”
“…and that he is taking flying lessons.”
“There you are,” said Martin. “Trainee suicide bomber.”
“The IRA don’t have suicide bombers, do they?” asked Catherine.
“So, why do you think he’s a terrorist?” Zara persisted.
I studied her face. She looked alarmed. “We don’t, Zara. We were just teasi
ng.”
Zara was silent.
“Ah, but think about it,” said Martin, “He wouldn’t tell you his surname. And we’ve never met him.”
“Lizzie and Catherine have.”
“Yeah, we did. Once,” said Catherine.
“Is he Catholic or Proddy?” Martin asked.
“I don’t know.” Zara looked really worried. Her confidence of earlier that day had evaporated and the anxious frown and shadowy eyes had returned.
“Does he talk like this?” said Martin in an impressive Belfast drawl. “Or like this?” he said in a softer, Southern accent.
“The first one.”
“There you are then.”
“What?” said Zara. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
“You can’t tell if someone is IRA by their accent,” I said. “He’s just teasing. Shh, Martin,” I said. “She’s getting really worried.”
Martin laughed, then checked himself, gave Zara a strange look and sank back into his seat.
In late April, we were all invited over to Zara’s for dinner. It was a warm evening, unusually so for the time of year. Somebody had been working on Zara's front garden. It smelled pleasantly of warm earth and cut grass. The habitually tangled mass of overgrown privet bushes had been chopped back to reveal a square patch of lawn, and a pile of dead weeds lay under the fence.
Shelley opened the front door and let us in on her way out to work. “Night shift,” she said, wrinkling up her nose.
“Oh well,” I said. “At least mostly everyone will be sleeping.”
“Or dying,” she said, opening the gate.
Tim was in the kitchen, seated at the old wooden table. He was chopping onions. He looked up as we came in, put down his knife and disappeared wordlessly into the old walk-in pantry behind the antique gas stove. He re-emerged a moment later with three chipped wine glasses, which he placed on the table in front of us.
“Where's Zara?” I asked.
“Up there,” he said. “Working. As usual.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I’ll just go and get her.”
“Bet she doesn’t come down,” said Tim.
I ran up the stairs and poked my head round Zara's door. She was sitting at her desk, scribbling away furiously, a book open on her knee.