The Confusion of Karen Carpenter

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘Why would you wanna do that?’

  ‘Because I spoke to Dad.’

  She gasps. ‘I told him not to ring here.’

  ‘I know. He told me.’

  She pales. She looks more shocked, come to think of it, than when she found me tied up in the rocking chair all those years ago. Her legs seem to go weak and she lowers herself into the kitchen chair next to mine.

  ‘Oh God,’ she groans. ‘So he knows?’

  I nod. ‘Why did you lie to him, Mum? It makes me feel weird. It makes me feel . . . I don’t know. Telling lies about me like that, it’s . . .’

  ‘Not as bad as when you told your whole class I’d died in a freak tornado at Rhyl Sun Centre.’

  ‘I was about ten. You’re fifty-eight.’

  ‘Next birthday!’ she says quickly. ‘Next birthday,’ she repeats, softer now.

  ‘I know things haven’t been easy for me, Mum, and I’m dead grateful you came and stayed, but I want Meredith to move in now. I need the rent money or else I’ll be homeless.’

  Mum nods. Her eyes are miles away. Is she realizing how much she has hurt me?

  ‘I’ll go tonight,’ she says, nodding more, as if she’s had a bit of a convo with herself and this is the decision she and her eighteen other personalities have come to.

  ‘Why have you been putting off the inevitable, Mum?’

  ‘The inevitable?’

  ‘Going home to Dad. I think he’s really upset now he knows you’ve been telling porkies.’

  Mum starts chewing her bottom lip. It’s quite a babyish move and doesn’t suit her.

  ‘I’ve never once been suicidal.’

  She doesn’t look too sure. ‘I see it more than you.’

  ‘Mum, I think I’d know. Suicidal thoughts, they go on in your head. You don’t . . . wear them like clothes, for other folk to clock.’

  She looks at me. ‘I’m sorry I lied to you, Karen, and I’m sorry I lied to your dad.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t really lied to me, so . . .’

  ‘No, I have. Quite a bit, actually. See, I don’t really go to Zumba.’

  ‘Your top’s inside out.’

  ‘Is it?’ She looks. ‘So it is.’

  ‘So you’ve obviously got changed for something.’

  She nods. ‘Jorgen.’

  This throws me.

  ‘Borgen?’ I ask.

  ‘No, not Borgen, Jorgen.’

  ‘But isn’t that programme you watch called Borgen?’

  Mum nods. ‘But Jorgen’s the reason I watched Borgen in the first place.’

  ‘Jorgen’s your reason for Borgen?’

  She nods.

  ‘And who the hell is Borgen?’

  ‘Jorgen!’

  ‘Jorgen.’

  ‘Jorgen . . . is my lover. That’s why I don’t want to go back to Liverpool. That’s why I’ve stayed so long.’

  Oh. I’m a bit hurt by that, actually. She’s not been here keeping an eye on me. She’s been here because she’s been going off for secret assignations with this Jorgen Borgen every Friday morgen. Well, every day, actually, though I am quite proud of my rhyme.

  Hang about. My mother is seeing someone? Seeing someone?

  Oh. My. God.

  She is seeing someone.

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Royal Docks. Beckton. I go over on the Docklands Light Railway.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Age isn’t important, Karen.’

  I give her a steely look.

  ‘He’s thirty-five.’

  ‘He’s thirty-five? He’s younger than me? How did you meet?’

  ‘Online. A website – silvermummies.com.’

  I think I have just about heard it all now.

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Dunno. Six months? Bit longer?’

  ‘You knew him before Michael . . .’

  ‘Yes. Karen, don’t make this about you. I did want to see you were OK. You’ve been through a terrible thing, a massive shock, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say my main reason for being here has been to see sweet Jorgen.’

  ‘Sweet Jorgen?’

  She nods, and stands, and touches my shoulder. ‘I’ll go and pack.’

  I nod. She leaves the room. I sit there, and the only thing I can think is . . .

  For God’s sake, even my mum is getting more sex than me.

  I am incredulous. Silvermummies.com? I dread to think.

  I feel awful. I feel awkward. I want her to go, but I feel bad about making her go back to Dad now, when she hasn’t really worked out what she wants, I assume. I trot upstairs and try and do some light-hearted damage limitation, helping her pack, telling her how grateful I am for her being here when I needed it. Even if most of the time she was getting her end away with her very own slice of Danish bacon.

  ‘You could . . . tell Dad I really am mad, if that helps. Then he won’t suspect.’

  And she freezes with a mauve cardigan, not dropping it into her case. ‘Your dad?’

  I nod. ‘Yes. When you go home. You can tell him I was completely mental. I could phone him now and say I’ve . . . I’ve . . . been sectioned, if you like. Then he won’t suspect a thing.’

  ‘Karen, I’m not going back to Liverpool. I’m not going back to your dad. When I leave here, I’m going to stay with Jorgen.’

  ‘And what will you tell my dad?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve not decided yet.’

  ‘Well, what do I tell him, if he rings here?’

  She shrugs. ‘Tell him I’ve gone to stay with Auntie Doreen in Chadwell Heath if you like.’

  ‘But Mum!’

  She drops the cardy into the case now. Finally. ‘What?’

  ‘That means I’ve got to lie to him.’

  ‘Well, by all means tell him the truth, if that makes you happy.’

  ‘Making Dad unhappy isn’t really where I get my kicks. Unlike some.’

  Mum looks at me. ‘And what about my happiness? What about me, Karen?’

  ‘I think you take care of that just fine as it is, actually, Mum.’

  ‘If we learned anything from what happened with Michael, it’s that life’s too short. If you’re unhappy, get out. It’s never, ever too late to start again.’

  I am flummoxed and amazed.

  ‘So what, y-you’re leaving my dad?’ I gabber, incredulous.

  ‘Karen, I’ve been living in London for the best part of two months now. This shouldn’t be front-page news to you.’

  At the doorstep she tells me she’s very proud of how I’ve coped. She tells me she’ll call every day, and she reiterates her hope that I’m not a rug-munching lezzer. Then she heads off into the night and I suddenly feel hollow.

  Why is life full of all these surprises? I think I’ve just about got a handle on things and then fate turns round and slaps me in the face and tells me to think a-bloody-gain.

  Which I am now having to do.

  I just can’t ring my dad, much as I’m tempted. It’s not up to me to tell him Mum’s with a Danish bloke who’s even younger than me. That’s her call. What if it doesn’t last? She might go back to Dad and I’d have caused him all that pain for nothing.

  I go and run a bath, but don’t check the temperature of the water. When I dip my hand in to test it, it’s freezing. With Mum’s departure, the boiler has gone again.

  Oh well, maybe Meredith can mend it. I bet she’s really practical around the house.

  I call her.

  She moves in the next night.

  A postcard arrives on Thursday morning.

  Dear Kagsy,

  Sorry for the radio silence. I’m in Canada!! At the last minute my boss asked me to go with her to the Banff TV Festival, so I’m here in the Rockies! And, oh my God, it’s gorgeous! And guess what! I’ve met someone! He’s gorgeous and funny and daft and . . . did I mention gorgeous? And loaded? Well, he’s not loaded, but he works. So he has an income. So he sometimes picks up the tab for dinne
r. He works in telly too (met at Fest), so we’ve stayed on for a few more days to take in the sights. Back next week. Hope you meet him soon. Sorry if you’ve been ringing non-stop. Phone fucked so have new number. ARRRGGHH!

  Love you,

  Wendy xxx

  Even Wendy has a boyfriend. Appears everyone’s having a great time except me. And my dad. And Meredith.

  Though to be fair, Meredith and I are having a laugh living together, and she has a car, which means I now get a lift to school and it doesn’t take half as long as I thought it would. So I can arrive a lot less hassled and take more things than I need to school if I fancy it.

  She makes a really healthy breakfast in the morning of porridge (her own recipe) and blueberries, and some sort of weird shakey smoothie thing, so maybe I’ll start being a little healthier now too.

  She does marking till about nine each night and then we watch telly for an hour or so, bitching about anyone who comes onscreen, making each other laugh.

  Life, for the time being, is sweet.

  I feel I should phone my dad, though. At least to see he’s OK. I know I will have to lie and break it to him gently that Mum has ‘gone to stay with Auntie Doreen in Chadwell Heath’, but it’s her lie, not mine. I will word it in such a way that I can tell myself I’m being honest: ‘She says she’s gone to Auntie Doreen’s. Why don’t you ring her mobile?’

  That kind of thing.

  I pick up the landline in my bedroom, which is when I realize Meredith’s already using the phone downstairs. She doesn’t realize I’m listening in. And I’m not. I’ve every intention of putting the receiver down, but then I hear her say, ‘Oh, she’s definitely giving me the come-on, mate.’

  I hear another woman, on the other end of the phone, doing a kind of ‘put out’ harrumph. I wonder which one of Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mitch or Titch it might be.

  ‘But I thought she was straight.’

  ‘She is straight,’ says Meredith, ‘but so’s spaghetti till you boil it.’

  I freeze.

  ‘She’s all over me like a rash. I’m not blind. I can read the signs. And, oh yeah, we might just be acting like best mates now, but you watch. I give it a week. She’s putty in my hands.’

  Another harrumph on the end of the line.

  I feel like harrumphing myself. Loudly. But instead I gently replace the receiver.

  And then seethe.

  And seethe some more.

  Meredith clearly thinks I’m going to be her next girlfriend. I am her spaghetti in human form, or so she thinks.

  And in case you were under any misapprehensions, I have nothing in common with spaghetti, or anything else that stops being straight at some point in its life and turns into something else. Something lebian.

  Oh God. What have I let myself in for?

  THIRTEEN

  OK, so I’ve made a bit of a boo-boo. I have invited into my house someone who fancies me and, what’s more, is misreading signs that I fancy her. This could be mortifying, except for the one bit of light at the end of the tunnel, which is this: I will never sleep with her. So it’s fine really, although I’m currently spending an inordinate amount of time fretting about what exactly it is I’ve done and which particular behaviours I’ve displayed that have led Meredith to the conviction that this lady is for turning.

  Was it something I did the day we stayed in watching Mildred Pierce? We sat pretty close on the settee. Did I unknowingly rub my thigh against hers? Or was it the fact that I was talking about my pegunda? Surely that wouldn’t be seen as a come-on, would it? It certainly wouldn’t be my first choice of conversation if I went on a date.

  ‘Yup, I’ll have the steak Diane and then I simply have to tell you about my hairy/hairless pegunda.’

  No, that’s not my style, and I doubt the morals and integrity of women for whom it would be.

  Is it something to do with the way we’ve been getting on so well? Which we have, I’ve got to be honest. But I’ve not noticed her being especially flirty, and I certainly haven’t been playing with my hair and sending out telepathic love vibes about wishing I could experience the delights of love in the old-fashioned sapphic way.

  Maybe it’s the T-shirt I wore last week, with the words ‘Make me your bitch, Meredith!’

  Actually, I made that up. I don’t own such a T-shirt. I’m just at a complete loss as to what it is I might have done that has led her on. And in the absence of any such thang – yes, thang – I decide that I am now living with a lesbian – sorry, lebian – version of Annie Wilkes from Misery. I fear that any day now she is going to pounce. Let’s just hope there’s not a sudden snowstorm and we’re cut off from the outside world and she breaks my leg with a hammer and starves me to death until I sign official documents that say I will live as a lebian with her for the rest of my life.

  I wish I could talk to Wendy about it, but Wendy has joined that club that everyone else has joined bar me – the Loved-Up Club. And when you’re a new member of the Loved-Up Club, nobody else matters.

  I can’t discuss it with Mum because a) she’s in the Loved-Up Club (Danish branch) for the time being, and b) she’d more than likely say something along the lines of ‘I told you so.’ Which she didn’t exactly, but she did seem to be of the opinion ‘Where there’s lesbians, there’s trouble.’

  I can’t tell anyone at school because they all know Meredith and she’s a popular member of staff, and they might be of the opinion that as a newly single nearly middle-aged person, I should maybe, just maybe, throw caution to the wind and embark on a relationship with her as she is so fantastic. She is fantastic. I really do like her. I just don’t want to have to explore her pegunda, thank you very much. If I am, let’s say, going to kiss someone, I want to feel stubble on their face. I’m not into rough sex (although I have to say, I’ve not really tried it), but I think the roughness of a mans body against a woman’s is what I enjoy physically about sex. I’m sure I’m more than capable of developing a crush on a woman, but more than that – actually falling in love and holding hands and finding everything they do completely adorable to the point where you want to take off all their clothes because you’re going to find every single inch of them as adorable as their personality – well, I completely get that with blokes, but not with women. And that doesn’t make me weird; it makes me heterosexual.

  I know what Wendy would say, if I could get hold of her. She’d tell me to sit down with Meredith and talk to her about it – explain gently that I really like her as a friend, but that I am straight to the core and there’s no chance of us being anything other than friends. She would probably tell me to throw in the line ‘Look, if I was going to sleep with a woman, it would be you, but I’m straight, Meredith, honest to God.’ Then I tell myself that a line like that might offer up false hope.

  I also know, in the absence of Wendy or not, I will probably never have that conversation with Meredith anyway, as I would find it the height of mortification, and so I decide on a plan of action for how to deal with the situation. I will not tell her I don’t fancy her. I will show her.

  And how will I show her?

  Well, not, as you might imagine, by vomiting profusely every time I see her and going, ‘Oh my God, you repulse me. I’m so glad I’m not a lebian/lesbian.’ Or by throwing bricks at the telly every time Sophie comes on in Coronation Street and going, ‘God, the thought of it knocks me sick. Did you get that, Meredith? Lebianism/lesbianism repulses me.’

  I wouldn’t be that crass.

  Instead I will demonstrate my lack of interest in Meredith by completely avoiding her as much as is humanly possible.

  Result!

  I put this plan into action by getting up early each morning to go to the gym. (Meredith is impressed. Oh God, I hope she doesn’t think I am doing this for her benefit – trying to be like her and get all sporty and wear trainers.) I love my local gym because it’s got a really good Jacuzzi. So I go down there, slip into my swimsuit, do three lengths of the pool and then have ha
lf an hour in the Jacuzzi watching the breakfast news. I go straight from the gym to school; then after school I have decided I am going to go to the pictures each night. So actually I am turning Meredith’s obsession with me to my own advantage. I am going to get healthy (Jacuzzis have got to be healthy. Healthier than sitting drinking in a pub anyway) and cultured (as movies expand the mind). In fact this whole Meredith thing could be the making of me.

  At Wednesday’s departmental meeting I decide to tackle the fact that I think Mungo is mildly embarrassed about his revelations the other week.

  ‘Mungo?’ I say tentatively, as we read through a report that Bashir’s social worker has written on what she has discovered at his auntie’s place. ‘I just want to say . . . what we discussed . . . I don’t want you to be embarrassed about what you told me, and I haven’t told a soul.’

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  He nods. ‘I knew I could trust you, Karen.’

  ‘Well, I’m very hard to shock.’

  Again, drench my flaming pantaloons with a 1970s soda siphon. I lie!

  ‘Actually, I was telling Fionnula we’d . . . talked and she was wondering if you were free this weekend to come over for a spot of supper. She makes an amazing spinach pie.’

  Spinach pie. Heavens.

  ‘Just us and a couple of pals from Woking.’

  Woking. Heavens.

  ‘It’d be really relaxed.’

  There’s something about the way he says ‘really relaxed’ that has me imagining Demis Roussos on the stereo, a bunch of car keys in a bowl on the coffee table and the hands of strangers creeping up my inner thigh.

  ‘Oh God, that sounds really nice,’ I say, with disappointment in my voice as I continue, ‘but I’m a bit tied up this weekend.’

  Doing precisely nothing.

  ‘Well, the weekend after, then.’

  ‘You have spinach pie two weekends on the trot?’ I say. Why, I had no idea.

  But Mungo nods. ‘Every Saturday. It’s a date, then?’

  I gulp and nod. I can’t get out of it.

  Though a week on Saturday I might just develop a bout of twenty-four-hour flu.

  ‘Can’t wait!’

  I must, I really must do something about joining one of those sexy websites, or even a dating website. Then, a week on Saturday, I might have a viable alternative to joining in with Mungo and Fionnula’s unorthodox lifestyle, I tell myself as I wolf down some muesli on Friday morning. It’s ten past six and I’m whacked already. These early starts to avoid Meredith are really catching up with me. Still, I’ll be in my favourite Jacuzzi in about twenty minutes. It’ll be worth it then.