Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  ‘Hi, Rachel. It’s Hector. How are you today?’

  I’m smiling as I’m talking. ‘Hiya, Hec. I’m really well. Been to work, which was OK.’

  ‘That’s good. How’s your neck?’

  ‘Swan-like and elegant, thanks. Surely you knew that?’

  ‘But you describe it so well, I can almost see it.’

  ‘Is that why you rang me then? So I can describe various parts of me down the phone to you to help you build up a clear mental image?’

  ‘No need. Every part of you is burned into my memory.’

  OMIGOD.

  ‘Oh, well, not every part, obviously. I mean, I haven’t actually seen every part, so I would have to imagine . . . No, no, I don’t mean that I’ve been imagining you with nothing . . . Which is not to say that I wouldn’t like to . . . Um, I mean, what I’m trying to say is that I know exactly what you . . .’ He stops. Finally. ‘Shall I come in again?’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Give me a minute.’ And he hangs up.

  I’m doing that staring at the phone thing again. Except this time it’s not so much with puzzlement, but more with a soppy fond smile on my face. Hector is so cute, even when he makes no sense. Especially when he makes no sense.

  Ooh, the phone’s ringing again. I’ll leave it to ring a few times before answering, and use the time to get comfy on the sofa.

  After it’s rung five times, I press the answer key. ‘Hello?’ I’m doing a breathy, puffed-out voice.

  ‘Hi, Rachel, it’s Hector.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Hec, how lovely to hear from you. I’ve only just got in – heard the phone ringing from the hall.’

  ‘Oh really?’ He’s grinning. ‘So where were you?’

  ‘I was at my Circus Skills course in the Community Centre. We did unicycle today.’

  He chuckles. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Well, once you’ve learned how to climb on to something that has no brake and can’t stand on its own, then balance on one wheel by pedalling rapidly backwards and forwards, steer using a combination of your body weight and the left and right pedals while flailing your arms wildly around in the air, worked out how to stop and got over the terrifying feeling that a crucial part of it is missing, there’s nothing to it.’

  ‘Yeah. I picked it up in about twenty minutes flat.’

  ‘As long as that? We’re doing trapeze next week. That’s a whole hour.’

  ‘Is that wise, in your condition?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s fine. The doctor said some moderate exercise would be beneficial.’

  ‘So, something like a nice walk in the park, a little slow dancing perhaps, slicing through the air at fifty miles an hour clinging to a two-foot-wide bar suspended forty feet above the ground, or a gentle bike ride?’

  ‘Yes, he said any of those would be good.’

  He laughs again and I snuggle down further on the sofa, enjoying the sound. Then he clears his throat meaningfully, as if to change the mood of the call. It works.

  ‘Actually, Rach, I’m ringing for a bit of a favour.’

  ‘Oh. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well the thing is, it’s my mum’s birthday today. She would have been seventy.’

  ‘Oh, oh no.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I think you should have a celebration. Just a small one. To remember her life, and birthdays gone past.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Look, I know I didn’t know her, but I do know my mum would want people to smile and laugh when they remember her, not sit around all glum and miserable. What was she like about birthdays?’

  ‘Well, she liked them, I think. She had one every year, without fail.’

  ‘Seriously, Hector. I mean, did she ever let a birthday, yours or hers or Glenn’s or your dad’s, or anyone’s, go by without doing something?’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘You’re right. She would probably want some kind of party, even if it’s just a little one.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Even if it’s just a party for two.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything more lovely than her two boys getting together and having a few—’

  ‘I meant me and you, Rachel.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What do you think? I rang you because somehow it feels as though you are involved in this. I mean, I know you never knew her and I didn’t really know you when she died, but I spoke to you that day, and then you left that message on my machine and came to the funeral – sort of – I just know that . . . I’d like to spend the time with you. It will help to take my mind off things.’

  Can you hear the change in his voice? The intensity, the gravellyness? And his breath is really booming down the line, as if he’s got his lips right up close to the mouthpiece. What does that say to you?

  I’m picturing him sitting in his office, or on his sofa at home, hair all messy, tie askew, shirt crumpled and untucked, clutching the phone to his ear, thinking about me. No, I mean, thinking about his mum.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to spend this time with Glenn?’

  ‘Huh? Not likely. I’m still pretty angry with him about this woman, and I haven’t had a chance to speak to him about it yet, so it would affect how I was feeling. I’d be all aggressive and hostile, instead of warm and slushy. Plus, he’s got Jake and Sarah with him – he’ll just spend the evening with them. I hope, anyway.’

  ‘All right then. Why don’t you come round here for a drink later, and we can break open a birthday cake?’

  He sighs deeply. ‘That would be wonderful, Rachel. You’ll be saving me from being on my own in this horribly empty house.’

  He says he’ll be round about seven, when he leaves work. That gives me about an hour and a half to get to Sainsbury’s and back.

  It’s 25 October, so naturally the store is decked out with Christmas garlands, twinkling trees and inflatable reindeer, and there’s a CD playing that is probably called Best Classic Christmas Hits EVER! I grab a couple of bottles, one of wine and one of wine flavoured water, and head off to the bakery for a birthday cake. Incredibly there’s one there that says ‘Happy Birthday Mum’ on it, so I grab that one and head home.

  I’m back now, and have you ever seen me move so fast? I’m unpacking the cake and wine and frantically tidying the place up as I go. It’s not too bad, but I have just had two weeks of not being able to move much, so there’s a few things here and there to pick up. Mostly clothes. And dirty cups and plates. And magazines. And some empty crisp packets. And videos. And the post.

  As I’m tidying, I’m going over in my head the conversation that Hector and I have just had. It’s very exciting that we’re having our first proper arranged date, even if it’s only in my flat. Every other time we’ve seen each other, it’s been to support me in a crisis, or to support him in a crisis. So far, our relationship has been disturbingly like two friends, supporting each other in crises. But this one is different. It’s pre-arranged and there’s alcohol and cake, which makes it a party. A party for two. He said so himself.

  But hang on. Isn’t this just another crisis? His mum’s birthday. He’s feeling down, doesn’t want to spend the evening alone in his empty house so he rings me for a bit of distraction. I stop mid-dust and straighten up. ‘Take my mind off things,’ he’d said, as the reason why he wanted to spend the evening with me. Oh crap. We’re just friends, aren’t we?

  This is another new experience for me. This year is peppered with them. I have never had a male ‘just good friend’ before. Every bloke I’ve known, apart from family, of course, has pretty much wanted to have sex with me. I’m not assuming, or guessing – they tell me, sometimes straight out. Once I could see it in the guy’s face. ‘Will you have sex with me?’ was written in black felt pen across his forehead.

  So there’s Nick, who did want to, and followed the norm as far as that, but no furth
er, and now there’s Hector, who apparently doesn’t even want to. Doesn’t even fancy me. I expect the fact that I’m carrying another man’s child is putting him off a bit. Oh God, not again. For the second time in three months, I am falling for a guy who’s not interested.

  When the flat looks presentable, I bring the wine, two wine glasses and a candle to the coffee table. Then I take the candle back to the kitchen and put it away in the cupboard. It’s not appropriate if he just sees me as a friend. We can sit under the electric light and swap stories about previous loves.

  How fair is this that twice in the space of three months I have got the hots for someone who is not interested? After all those years of irritating blokes who had the hots for me long after I stopped being interested. Mum would probably say it was ironic. Actually, I think I would have said that first, and she would agree.

  So I’m curled up on the sofa, everything’s ready. I’m looking repeatedly towards the front door, which is ridiculous. He’s not going to suddenly appear there – he’s got to ring the buzzer and come through the external door first. But I am imagining his tall form filling the doorway, those brown eyes crinkling with a smile as he walks towards me and puts his arms round me . . .

  I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa. We can move forward two hours, unless you want to spend two hours watching me sleep.

  No, please don’t. I went out with someone who did that once. It’s surprising how a face held motionless ten inches above your own for four hours can seriously interrupt your sleep pattern.

  So two hours later, half past nine and the phone’s ringing. It’s woken me up and my head snaps up from where it was lolling on the sofa. My chin is wet with drool and strands of hair are stuck to my cheeks. I’m glad Hector hasn’t repeated his trick in my dream and materialized in the doorway.

  I lean forward and pick up the phone, confusion filling me. ‘‘Lo?’

  ‘Hello? Rachel? It’s Hector.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Rachel, I am so sorry. I’ve been in a meeting with Rupert de Witter since I spoke to you and it took much longer than I expected. He’s single at the moment, so he’s got nowhere else to be . . .’

  Suddenly I’m completely awake. ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘What do you mean? The meeting? It was just some bank guys and Rupert de Witter. He’s the director of —’

  ‘I know who he is. He’s my boss.’

  There’s a silence. ‘You work at . . .?’

  ‘Horizon Holidays, yes. Why were you in a meeting with him?’

  ‘Well, he’s asked my company to fit a new computer system for him, that’s all. We were mates at school, so he’s given me the job. Plus, I’m the best, of course. We had to meet-up today to discuss the applications and what sort of thing he wanted from the set-up . . .’

  ‘Oh, right. Well. What a coincidence.’

  ‘It’s a small world.’

  ‘You know, people say that but really it isn’t.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Rachel, I’m so sorry for being late. Can I make it up to you? I’ve got the birthday cake. I could still bring it over, and we can . . .’

  ‘Oh, look, Hector, I’m sorry, I’m really tired.’ You’re surprised, aren’t you? You know first hand how much I was looking forward to seeing him tonight, and yet here I am, putting him off. But I am trying to sound really casual, like a friend. Not like someone who’s gagging to see him. ‘Can we do it another night? Do you mind?’

  Look out of the window, up the street and go along the first right turn you come to. Recognize that car? The big silver Mercedes, with the air conditioning. Yes, that’s how close he is to my flat when he pulls the car over to the side. Oh, look at that, there’s a bunch of freesias lying on the passenger seat.

  When the car has stopped, he leans forward and puts his head on the steering wheel. ‘Of course. You must be exhausted. You get off to bed, and maybe I’ll speak to you soon.’

  Back to me at my flat. I’m sitting there like stone on the sofa. He hasn’t even tried to talk me round. That’s that then. He definitely just wants to be friends and nothing more. And when I think back to the time we’ve spent together, all the gestures of affection have been really platonic. Little tiny kisses on my cheek; a hand held in the hospital, smiles and winks that any friend might give to a friend who’s secretly pregnant.

  ‘Right. Night then. And happy birthday to your mum.’

  ‘Thanks, Rachel. Night.’

  In his car, Hector clicks off the phone, then tosses it carelessly on to the passenger seat, where it lands on the flowers with a rustle of Cellophane. He pushes his hands into his hair and leans forward again, as if trying to soothe a bad headache. If we go back an hour to the drawn-out meeting with Rupert de Witter and the finance people, you can see him there sitting forward on the very edge of his seat, repeatedly looking at the clock on the wall, straightening the papers in front of him, fidgeting with his tie and saying things like, ‘So, if we could move on.’ Rupert, you can see, is nodding and agreeing with Hector. ‘OK, next point,’ but then within moments he’s laughing at some story he’s telling about his decorator. He and Hector look like negative images of each other, don’t they? Hector, clearly and concisely going through his presentation in bullet-point form, getting his entire input done in less than an hour and a half so he could get away quickly; then Rupert, entertaining everyone by getting off the point and telling long rambling anecdotes about his painter’s mother getting stuck for fifteen minutes under a desk in Furniture Village before anyone noticed.

  So here he is now, looking pleasingly fucked off in his car twenty seconds around the corner from the flat. He makes a ‘Nnnnhhh’ sound from frustration, bangs his palms once on the steering wheel, then pushes the car into first gear and swings it round across the road, back the way he’s just come.

  The next morning, I’m opening the fridge and I’m stunned to find a brown envelope addressed to me on the shelf next to the margarine. I take it out and stare at it. How the hell did that get in there? Cosmo is weaving in and out of my feet, prrrping.

  ‘What do you reckon, Cos? Super-efficient postman, or what?’

  ‘Prrrp.’

  ‘Right, OK, I’m doing it, don’t worry.’ There’s a plastic airtight container in the fridge that holds the rest of the cat food from the tin that I opened yesterday evening. I take it out of the fridge and pull back the lid, then get a spoon from the drawer.

  Would you say that the smell of cat food is one of the most repulsive stinks in the world? It’s a thick, meaty aroma that you can almost see rising in greasy tendrils from the repulsive glistening chunks squatting at the bottom of the bowl. Suddenly without warning, I start shovelling the cold, meaty mass into my mouth as fast as I can, not chewing, just swallowing and shovelling, over and over, like a robot. It slides over the back of my tongue and down my throat slick and easy.

  Suddenly, I reach the end of that particular road, just as I had with the cucumbers. I drop the spoon and the bowl in horror, much to the relief of the starving Cosmo who instantly starts to tuck into the spilled food. As I watch him, the wet lip-smacking noises he is making with the meat start to grate loudly on my ears and in that moment I become sickeningly aware of the soft, mushy lumps stuck between my teeth. My mouth floods with saliva and my throat and stomach constrict violently, sending me running for the toilet, where I am the most sick I have ever been in my life. The sight of the recently consumed cat food lumps floating around the toilet bowl brings on convulsion after convulsion until my eyes are streaming and my stomach muscles are screaming.

  It’s another giant leap away from the perfectly honed and maintained poise I have spent twenty-four years working on.

  After a long, long shower and a ten-minute session with the toothbrush I feel cleaner and refreshed and about ready to head off to work. Just as I’m glancing around the kitchen, I notice the brown envelope from the fridge, still lying there on the side. I pick it up and this time I open it straight away. It’s an
appointment at the hospital for the ultrasound scan the midwife mentioned. Tuesday, fourteenth November, at half past two. Almost three weeks away. According to the letter, I need to drink two litres of water in the two hours preceding the appointment. I burp and unfortunately it tastes of salmon and beef chunks in gravy. Quickly I grab a glass and pour some water down my throat. Yet more time to be craved off work. Never mind – I can’t wait to see little Plum on that screen.

  As I walk into the Telesales room twenty minutes later, I notice a sudden hush, accompanied by the hurried movement of people, who are giving the impression they were grouped together moments earlier, returning to their desks. I glance around the room and notice that just about everyone has got their head determinedly down, focusing intently on their work. Even Val barely looks up when I arrive at my desk. The clock is showing two minutes to nine. This is unheard of, everyone, bar none – well, except me – starting early.

  ‘Hi, Val. What’s going on?’ I ask, hanging my jacket over my chair.

  ‘Don’t be silly, of course not.’ She hesitates and then says, ‘I mean, nothing. What do you mean?’

  I blink at her. ‘Well, everyone starting early, heads down, not looking up. It all went quiet when I came in. What’s everyone talking about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Oh, look, a call . . .’

  She busies herself answering the call. I look around the room. Even Chrissie is already working, scrolling through the South of France. There’s one noticeable exception, though. Paris, the new station eight, is absent, her terminal off, the screen dark and grey.

  There are clues here that, if you look at me standing there stationary by my desk looking confused, I haven’t got a hope in hell of working out. I could show you where Paris has gone, and I could explain what everyone was talking about before I came in, but I think that if I have to be left to puzzle it out myself, so should you be.

  So I give up and get on with setting up my desk for the day. Headset plugged in; computer on; turret switched to ‘O’. Aren’t I naughty, to be making an outgoing call before I’ve even taken my first call? It’s 9.01.