The Confusion of Karen Carpenter

by Jonathan Harvey

  I scour the menu, pretending to understand it, but it may as well be in a foreign language to me because— Oh, it’s in Chinese. Thought I needed reading glasses then. Kevin tells me to skip to the back, where everything is listed in English. Again, even now, it may as well be in a foreign language, as I don’t really know my duck rolls from my chow meins. I know what I like; I just never know what it’s called. Kevin sees my glazed look and offers to order for both of us. Who said chivalry was dead? Or is it in fact sexist? He rattles off a list to the hyper waitress, then tells me I’m in for a treat.

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone what I was up to today,’ he offers up with a grimace, like he’s doing something naughty.

  ‘No, neither did I,’ I offer back.

  ‘Just wasn’t sure about the “Hey, I’m meeting up with Connor’s teacher” thing. Wasn’t sure it was . . .’

  ‘Professional?’

  He shrugs. ‘Guess so. And to the casual onlooker it might sound like a date.’ He grimaces again.

  ‘Oh, I know. Can you imagine?’ I laugh like that would be the most absurd thing in the world. I cover my disappointment well. He laughs.

  ‘And you know . . . Toni . . .’ He lets her name hang in the air.

  ‘Yeah. Toni . . .’ I let it hang in the air too. ‘You must miss her terribly.’

  He nods. Is he choked? He looks choked.

  ‘Yeah, it’s just . . . completely weird. It’s knocked me sideways. This wasn’t where I’d planned to be at thirty-five.’

  He’s younger than me, but I know how he feels.

  ‘Well, I know how that feels,’ I say. ‘My big long-term relationship . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I heard.’

  He heard? How did he hear?

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Toni’s cousin’s Claire?’

  ‘Custard Claire?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh. Did she go to the funeral?’

  He nods.

  ‘I didn’t see her at the wake.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t there that long.’ He rightly points out. ‘She told me about . . .’ his voice drifts off. ‘She’s got a mouth on her. Not that she was . . .’

  I nod. He knows. It’s a small world at Fountain Woods. We’re interrupted from our mutual ‘who’d’ve thought we’d be single again in our mid-thirties?’ chat by a porcelain decanter of sake arriving. I sip some from what is more or less a thimble and am hit by a warmth that seeps through me like rain into roots and makes me relax. Or it would do if my – sorry about this – bum wasn’t becoming so itchy. It feels like my cheeks are being welded together.

  Kevin starts talking about Toni. And her illness (cancer). And how she bore it (bravely). And how Connor has coped (valiantly). And what he’s done with his emotions (hidden them). And what he’s going to do with the rest of his life (he doesn’t know).

  And then he drops the humdinger.

  He says, ‘Connor’s not my son.’

  My eyes must be like saucers. Kevin appears to blush. I see a rashy redness creep suddenly across his neck. I don’t know what to say.

  He continues, ‘I can’t have kids. Bit of a Jaffa. We were going to adopt, but then Toni fell pregnant.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ my eyes tell him.

  ‘Which is when I found out she’d been having an affair with someone from her work.’

  Oh God, the poor thing.

  ‘We worked through it. Everyone said I was mad, but I loved her, you know?’

  Blimey. Even when he’s baring his soul and telling me some brutally hideous things, all I can think is, God, his voice is really sexy.

  He sighs. ‘Jamie, Connor’s real dad—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re his real dad. Changed his nappies, took him out for—’

  He cuts in, ‘He didn’t really wanna know. Till Toni got ill. Since then he’s been all over Connor like a rash.’

  ‘That must be awful.’

  Just like the increasingly burny sensation in my seat. Er . . .

  ‘Scared I’m losing him, you know?’

  I nod. I do know. Well, I can imagine.

  ‘Jaysus. Sorry. First time we’ve talked properly and I’m banging on about my baggage.’

  Before I can answer, our hyper waitress zooms over like she’s on roller skates and practically throws ten plates of food at us, as if she’s doing it against the clock. She then drops a fork next to my empty bowl like I’ve asked her for a kidney. (I don’t even remember asking for it.) Kevin tells me to try the soft-shell crab. I do. Although it looks unappealing on the plate, like a crab dipped in batter, I bite into it and it is indeed soft and . . . mouthwateringly good.

  We both ‘ooh and ‘aah’ our way through our first mouthfuls. I want to ask him more about Connor and Jamie and Toni, but . . . I can’t.

  I’m stinging. I’m sorry to be graphic, but as the temperature has risen, so my bum has got more sore and stinging and—

  Take your mind off it. Concentrate on the food, Karen. This food is great. Kevin is great. This day should be the greatest of the year so far. I look at my crab and will myself to block out the pain. Right. Move the fork to your mouth. Pop it in said mouth. Chew. Simple.

  I do it.

  I did it.

  I will do it again.

  And it’s just as I’m taking another bite of this gorgeous bit of soft, dead crustacean that I notice a shadow covering the table. Must be someone standing in the street, peering in or reading the menu displayed in the window. I look up. The person standing there has his face hidden by the menu he is reading. He has his hands in his pockets. The pockets of a German Colditz-style coat. My mouth goes dry. I feel my heart rate quicken. The crab shakes on my fork as my hand spasms with shock. I look back to see if Kevin has noticed my sudden metamorphosis into shaky scaredy lady, but he’s too busy dunking his crab in some glutinous dip. I look back to the window, trying to compose myself, but I just see the edge of the coat whipping away out of view. Like the window is a stage and a caped actor has slipped into the wings. It was him. I know it was him. What are the chances that he would just happen to be here when I was on a date? Here of all places? Of all the streets in the whole of London he just happens to be here, outside this tiny restaurant, right at the same time as me? It doesn’t make sense.

  No, it doesn’t. Because let’s face it, it probably wasn’t even him. Loads of fellas wear German Army coats these days.

  Or do they? I look at Kevin’s leather jacket tented over the back of his chair. Kevin is talking away, but it may as well be white noise I’m so distracted.

  Nobody dresses like a Nazi these days, surely? Except for Prince Harry, and even then that was only for a fancy-dress party.

  And this coat was the exact same colour as Michael’s.

  I tell myself I am going mad. I am seeing things. I didn’t even get a look at his face.

  Kevin senses something’s up. I know this because he says, ‘Is something up?’

  I fluster a bit and then say I have to go to the little girls’ room. I snake through the maze of tables, but with every twist of my body I emit a different kind of an ‘ooh’ and an ‘aah’ because now actually moving is painful. Something serious is happening in my jeans, and not in a good way.

  What I discover in the toilets is not the chafinjury I anticipated. It’s much, much worse than that. I discover that not only are my butt cheeks glued together with red wax, but my thong is glued in the middle of it as well. I try pulling at the wax, but it’s too painful. I can’t rip it off. What the hell did she use on me? A mixture of wax and superglue? I’m panicking now. I probably have to go to A&E. This is possibly an emergency. Despite never having seen a ‘wax in the crack’ storyline on Casualty, I know that I can’t sort this problem myself. I pull my jeans back on and push out of the cubicle. I wash my hands at the sink and look at my reflection in the mirror. And hate myself, because I know what I am going to do next. I dry my hands on an irritatingly weak dryer – may as well just pu
t them in front of a panting dog for all the good it does – then push back into the restaurant. Kevin’s smiling over as I snake my way back.

  ‘I ordered more sake. Hope that’s OK,’ he says with a wink.

  Right. In for a penny, in for a pound. I blurt it out. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to go.’

  He looks alarmed.

  ‘Jeez, are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I just . . . I’m not sure this was such a good idea. I’m sorry.’

  Why did I say that? It was a genius idea.

  But I can’t tell him the truth.

  I had a Brazilian this morning and my arse cheeks have moulded together. I now have to hotfoot it to A&E to be chiselled apart. Lovely meeting you.

  Again I say, ‘Sorry,’ and head for the door. He’s up out of his seat, following.

  ‘Well, let me walk you to your—’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Sorry,’ and I leg it out onto the street, more mortified than I have ever been in my life. That, teamed with the now excruciating pain, means this is not one of my best days.

  Outside on the street, I see a pink polka-dot hankie there on the ground beneath the menu display. I bend – ouch – grab it and run.

  If I head for Charing Cross Road, I’m sure I can find a cab.

  SIXTEEN

  From: Kevin O’Keefe Kevok75@hotmail.co.uk

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Seaweed?

  Hi Karen,

  So go on, then, what happened? Did I have seaweed in my teeth? LOL. Listen, I’m sorry you had to get off. And thinking back, I’m sorry all I did was bang on about Toni and Connor. Probably not what you needed to hear on a Saturday afternoon in the town of China. I’m really, really sorry to have put you through all that, but it was nice to see you anyway.

  Ah, I feel like I really messed up. Story of my life. Oh well.

  You take it easy,

  Kevin x

  Oh God. He thinks it’s all his fault. Of course he does. I feel dreadful.

  From: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  To: Kevin O’Keefe Kevok75@hotmail.co.uk

  Subject: Food Poisoning

  Dear Kevin,

  I’m so, so, so, so sorry about this. You didn’t have seaweed stuck in your teeth, and you weren’t boring me or freaking me out telling me aboutToni and the Jamie/Connor situation. The truth of the matter is, and it’s not very ladylike, but as we were sitting there, I started to feel poorly and the next thing I knew I had to run to the toilet to throw up. I had a dodgy croque-monsieur for brunch, and thought it tasted odd at the time, but I was so hungry I devoured it. More fool me! When I came out of the loo, I just knew I had to get to my bed and that’s why I scarpered.

  I really can’t apologize enough and am of course mortified, but I truly thought I was going to throw up over you. I’ve been ill ever since, but I’m sure it will pass. I don’t know if you noticed I was a bit distracted during the meal, but that’s the reason why. Nothing else! It’s all a bit of a mess because I was having such a nice time. Anyway, I’m more than happy to do it all over again – without eating a dodgy croque first – whenever you fancy it. Just let me know.

  In the meantime I will of course treat what you told me about Connor and Jamie in the strictest confidence, but it’s probably just as well I know, as I imagine it’s a lot for him to take in at the moment and he’s probably a bit all over the place. No one else needs to know at school, I wouldn’t have thought, but it’s good that I can keep an eye out for him and make sure he’s coping OK. I hope that makes sense? I may be making no sense, of course, as I think I’m a bit delirious after the food poisoning. It’s really wiped me out.

  Anyway, let me know how you’re fixed.

  All best, and sorry again,

  Karen x

  From: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  To: Wendy Wolverhampton WWolverhampton@wendy.com

  Subject: Help

  Hi love,

  I’ve tried calling you a few times, but you’re just going to answerphone. Are you back yet? I’ve not heard from you in ages (well, it feels like ages) and was just wondering how you were and how your new love life was going with what’s-his-name. Actually, what is his name? I don’t think you’ve said. Is he gorgeous? Is he treating you like a princess? (Kate, not Di. I hope he isn’t treating you like Di. That would be a travesty and you’d end up with an eating disorder and do Panorama programmes going, ‘There were three of us in that marriage,’ etc., and look all mad down the camera with too much kohl.) I hope it’s going OK, anyway.

  You’re not going to believe what happened to me today. I had a sort of date with that sexy guy whose wife died and has a kid in my class? The Irish one? God, he’s gorgeous, but I screwed up royally by ending up in A&E. Long story, but the upshot is, I have good grounds to sue my local beauty salon, only I won’t because the woman who runs it, and who has shit aesthetician skills – word to the wise: apparently, you’re not supposed to squat on all fours during a Brazilian with your arse exposed – is the mother of one of my kids who has a vendetta against me and I don’t want to rock the boat. Anyway, let’s just say I now have lots of soothing creams to apply to a certain private area of my body, and I’ve been sitting on and gaining comfort from a bag of frozen peas for the last hour. The Irish guy (let’s call him Kevin, for that is his name) must think I’m completely bonkers.

  But hey, maybe I am, because during the little I managed of our meal (have you ever had soft-shell crab? Hot), I am pretty sure I saw Michael looking in on the restaurant. What do you make of that? I hope he’s not going to start stalking me. Anyway . . .

  Please give me a shout. Would love to hear your voice. I’ve not even told you about Mum and her Danish toy boy (cringe. She’s practically old enough to be his grandmother. It’s disgusting) or my new lodger’s crush on me. (She thinks she can turn me. She’s no Reese Witherspoon.)

  Got to dash. This bag of peas is melting and I need to see if frozen oven chips work just as well.

  Love you,

  Kags xxxx

  From: Wendy Wolverhampton WWolverhampton@wendy.com

  To: Karen CarpenterKCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Re: Help

  Love, it’s me.

  My God, are you OK? That’s awful. I’ve had loads of Brazilians and never experienced anything like that before. Sue the bitch! The reason you can’t get hold of me is I’m in Mauritius. Jake came here on a research trip for a documentary he’s making about a murder, so I took some holiday and have joined him. Oh, the luxury. I lie on the beach all day and these divine guys come every hour to clean your sunglasses or offer you cubes of melon on a glass tray. I’m finally reading Fifty Shades of Grey and it’s depressing me. Is this how far feminism has brought us? Have you read it?

  Listen, re: Michael. I’m sure this is really normal. It was probably just someone who looked like him. You’re bound to see him everywhere. I’m sure it happens a lot after this sort of thing. Just don’t beat yourself up about it, love.

  Maybe what you need is a holiday. Oh God, Kags, Jake is So Lovely. We talk about everything and anything, and he’s so funny and articulate. His daughter’s not very pleased we’re together, but you can’t have everything. She sounds like a bitch, actually. Refuses to meet me; says I’m trying to take the place of her dead mother. Who died, like, twenty years ago!!! Get over it already!!!! She thinks I’m a gold-digger. (Jake’s loaded. Did I say?) Jake’s in AA, so my liver has taken quite a rest on this trip. He’s amazing. I think he could be the one. A few people assume he’s my dad when we’re out together, but you know what? Fuck the lot of them. Age is just a number, right? So please don’t be too harsh on Val. She’s your mother; she deserves some respect.

  Love you. Soz, got to go – Jake wants a game of chess.

  Mwah,

  W x

  Chess? Chess? Wendy doesn’t play chess. Strip poker and Twister are much more
her thing.

  From: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  To: Wendy Wolverhampton WWolverhampton@wendy.com

  Subject: Re: Re: Help

  I don’t think I made myself clear/explained. Michael came to see me, Friday evening. Too long to go into now, but he apologized and said it was all about his depression. It was a bit weird, and I wasn’t as angry with him as I thought I’d be. He’s had his hair done like Weller again and he smelt funny.

  How old is Jake?

  I’m really jealous about Mauritius.

  Kxx

  From: Wendy Wolverhampton WWolverhampton@wendy.com

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Help

  He’s seventy-two.

  Karen, I’m going to ring you.

  Stay strong,

  W x

  The phone rings. I ignore it because another email pings into my inbox.

  From: Fionnula Brookes FionnulaB69@freeserve.co.uk

  To: Karen Carpenter KCarpenter@fountainwoods.org.uk

  Subject: Can’t wait!

  Hi Karen,

  Fionnula here, Mungo’s wife.

  Karen, I’m so thrilled you’re going to be joining us on Saturday for our little soirée. It’s a very casual affair and I just know it’s going to be wonderful. Especially with you here as guest of honour!